Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Jason Todd knew he had a few screws loose in his head. Contrary to the unwanted opinions of Bruce Wayne, otherwise known as Monsieur I Have a Full Grown Tree Up My Ass, Jason wasn’t delusional.

He knew it wasn’t normal: the compulsive twitch of his hands against imaginary restraints when he heard something tick, the fluorescent green in his eyes, the restlessness that never left him, not really. 

Jason would blow things up on a whim sometimes just to watch the world burn, enthralled with the lick of flames and coiling smoke strangling the city skyline. He’d think of another explosion - the one that changed everything - and palm his detonator with relish. This time, he’d think to himself, I’m in control. And for at least a little while, the fire from that damned warehouse, prickling beneath his skin like lit cigarette buds, would dwindle and turn to ash. 

The bad nights were more numerous than Jason liked to acknowledge. He’d startle awake with the clown’s laughter ringing in his ears, and lose time to its echo. He’d choke on dirt that wasn’t there. He’d gasp and wheeze and still never fill his lungs with enough air. The walls would tighten around him like a coffin.

Other times he felt like a hermit crab in a shell a couple sizes too big, dimly aware of trembling and the dried blood stuck beneath his fingernails. 

Sleeplessness was routine. Talia had forced his pieces back together, and fervent training and the All Caste had filled some of the holes, but most things, no matter how hard you tried, couldn’t be fixed. The wounds stopped bleeding and scabbed over, but when they peeled they left a scar. Jason hadn’t been unblemished since he was three and Willis had slugged him with a drunken fist for the first time. 

Those initial months after his over-glorified dip in the Lazarus Pit, he’d spent a good chunk of his time fucking up the room Talia had given him. The blank walls and unused furniture made up an impersonal space that at first seemed uninhabited, but he’d transformed that room into some sort of pathetic safe haven. The sheets were a coarse, practical cotton in stark relief to the velvet lining funeral homes. On one of the walls, he’d carved a massive lopsided penis just to witness Talia’s careful composure crack. On the bedside table, he’d placed small trinkets and distorted figures he’d carved out of wood. Jason cut up the rich maroon curtains with a serrated knife; he’d been angry. 

He was always angry those first few months. He’d been angry his whole life, but the Pit was different. It seethed and throbbed in his veins like venom, it sang a vicious tune in his ear, it made him want to curl inward until he stopped being and it made him want to stretch until he snapped and everyone knew he was there. It was vomit and bile lingering at the back of your throat. It was a deep cancerous ache that didn’t leave, a desperate need to hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt, stop hurting. He’d tear at things, make himself bleed, and still, tenacious green tendrils would wrap their sickening shadows around every thought, whisper long forgotten promises made anew only to be broken again. It never left, and wasn’t that ironic, that everyone and everything that Jason's ever cared about had abandoned him except the poison he never wanted, except the shards of glass digging into his cerebrum. 

He’d had his room in the League, a place to cry and rip at his fraying ends until he felt empty. Within its confines, he’d tamed the Pit, or at least tried, until it spent its time dozing instead of prowling around in his subconscious ready to lash out. 

The place was his, at least for a little while until the League had erased all signs of him and it was like he’d never been there. Robin had been his too, until it wasn’t. Maybe it’d never been his at all. 

Then he just had Talia, with her tight-lipped smile hiding secrets and a teacup of freshly boiled Jasmine to offer him on bad nights. 

After he’d left, it’d been the Outlaws. His team. Roy and Kori. 

Now, years later, Jason didn’t even have that. They were all gone more often than not.

But the tea, he could brew on his own.  

And Bruce, the self-righteous asshole, knew nothing about Jason but the broken remembrances of a “good soldier” that had died in Ethiopia. He’d peer at Jason with his steel blue eyes brimming with unbearable pity and not really see him at all. "Oh, boohoo Jason. You need help. Let's get you a nice cushy mattress in Arkham right across the hall from the clown himself. Then you can come home once you're all better."  

No, fucking thank you. 

Yes, Jason’s head was an ass over tits dumpster fire. But for once in his life, Batman could mind his own goddamn business.

“Tt. Hood, what are you doing here?”

Jason almost groaned out loud as he heard the familiar, disdainful voice behind him. 

He turned with a grimace to face Robin Number… Five? Everyone was getting their own Replacement nowadays. His rifle, slung across his shoulder with practiced ease, shifted with him off the doorway his target was gonna exit from three buildings away.  Damian Wayne, or Al Ghul, depending on which parent you chose to acknowledge, attempted to loom over him with a scowl.

Apparently, the kid had slipped onto the roof at some point during Jason’s silent, enthusiastic cursing of Bruce Wayne. The Red Hood let out a string of colorful curses at himself for not paying attention to his surroundings. Sniper 101. Talia would have sneered at him much like her beloved demon son was right now. 

“Better question, kid,” Jason sighed. He re-orientated himself, positioning the rifle back towards the empty space soon to be occupied by Unfortunate Victim’s head. ETA five minutes. “What the hell are you doing here? Slip off without Bat’s permission? I can’t help but notice you’re on your own tonight.” 

Damian shifted warily at the corner of his eye. It appeared that the kid was attempting murder through the intensity of his glare alone. Honestly, the resemblance to his father was uncanny. 

“My business is something that an imbecile like yourself should not concern yourself with.” 

The kid snarled. Snarled. Who the hell actually snarled? What was Bruce teaching this kid? 

“And I’m not stupid.” Robin said with a pointed look at Jason’s rifle. “Who’s the victim tonight? Some nameless thug that injured your fragile masculinity?”

At that comment, Jason couldn’t help but snicker. Damian was similar to both his parents in many ways, but the kid’s bark was like his mother’s. And kind of like Dick Grayson. Or maybe it was Alfred, the saint, and his influences. Robin certainly didn’t get accented snark from an emotionally constipated man dressed in a bat suit.

“Look, Robin,” Jason tried with resignation. The words tasted bitter on his tongue. “As much as I’m enjoying this reunion, no matter what you try, by the end of tonight, there’s gonna be a pool of brain guts on that rooftop. This guy is a thieving, homicidal rapist who sells drugs in schoolyards and I will gladly end his fucking waste of a life. So to save us both some trouble, I suggest you wander back where you came from and pretend you never saw me.” 

The kid scoffed. “Father would disapprove if I let you murder someone.” 

“And if he didn’t, would you care?” He challenged. 

Robin didn’t reply, instead shifting closer. Jason guessed the… ten… eleven… thirteen-year-old (Hell, how old was the kid again?) was hoping to disarm him discreetly. The Red Hood exhaled carefully. ETA three minutes. Up ahead, he spotted a flicker of movement in one of the windows below. Shadows moving upward. Then the door opened, and the first figure stepped out carefully onto damp cement. A dozen men later, and if his source was right, the target would follow and arrogantly leave the protective circle to flick his cigarette onto the grimy street below. Just behind him, Damian was getting ready to move. 

Jesus, just his luck to get Bat interference the one time he really couldn’t afford it.  

The kid still hadn’t replied. Jason wondered if he’d stumped him.

Ha. ETA two minutes. 

The Red Hood cocked his rifle back and slammed the butt of his gun into Damian’s abdomen before letting it fall to the ground. Robin let out a breathless oof, staggering back and falling harshly onto the cement. It took the kid only a second to get back on his feet, but that was long enough for Jason to get into a defensible position. 

With one of his snarls (seriously though, snarls?), Damian lunged. Jason ducked the first brutal kick, then twisted to the side to avoid a jab to the ribs. He swerved around, avoided and blocked and grinned sharply under his hood until Robin was the one at the edge, then backed away with an irritated grunt when the kid leaped into a truly Grayson-like handspring. He only narrowly dodged the next furious hit, this time aimed at his shoulder. From the whistle of air, Jason guessed there’d been enough force behind the blow to shatter his collarbone. He raised an eyebrow. “Father” would certainly disapprove of that. 

Robin made use of the momentary advantage to send a sweeping kick that put the Red Hood off balance. Jason sprung away with a series of flips to get some breathing room. He’d never be as spry as Dickhead, but he could hold his own. 

He relaxed into a looser stance, feet shoulders width apart and elbows angled outward. Robin really was good, and while Jason might’ve gotten the upper hand eventually as it was, he was on a time crunch. A serious, gotta-go-or-squander-three-months-of-work type of time crunch. The Red Hood drew his favorite knife, the one Talia gave him the night he left for Gotham. Robin swore in Arabic as a glint of silver streaked dangerously close to his neck. With renewed vigor, Jason forced the kid on the defensive. He took a chance to glance over at the rooftop several adjacent buildings away. Just in time to glimpse the 5’8 half-Latino, half-caucasian striding outside with a cigarette hanging from his lips. 

Shit. The Red Hood had to finish this now. 

Time to get creative. 

Jason scanned his surroundings. Rusting pipes branching out from a panel. Loose rubble abandoned precariously close to the edge. Cracks spreading on the cement from too many days expanding in the scorching heat of Gotham’s summer sun. He let himself be cornered, allowing the barrage of blows to direct him toward a broken burgundy brick. Then, crouching down and forcing Damian back with a low kick aimed at the groin, the Red Hood exchanged his knife for the piece of rubble and hit the kid on the back of the head. He winced in apology as Robin crumpled to the ground. 

“Ouch, kid.” 

Jason dropped the brick, and returned his knife to its holster. He hurried into position. By some miracle, Frank Salados, the arrogant bastard, was still out in the open. Apparently, he’d wanted a few more drags out of his cigarette before he disposed of it. The Red Hood had cut it close. Terrifyingly close. He breathed. His fingers, shaking with adrenaline, steadied. He cocked back the hammer of his rifle. Aimed the scope of the gun. Jason rested his finger on the trigger with an inhale like one of his instructors had taught him. An exhale. Fire. 

The bullet reached its target within Salados’ head. The men and women around him exploded into panic, milling about in a mass like an upset anthill. Another mob boss, an old-timer by the name of Ted Bones, was hurriedly escorted out of the line of fire. One of the guards, a blonde in his late twenties with the misfortune of acne scars and a receding hairline, would scope out the surrounding buildings for the sniper. He’d see nothing but an empty skyline. A moment later, another wearily proclaimed the boss dead after his futile search for a pulse. 

Robin, an hour later, would regain consciousness safely tucked in a hospital bed in the Batcave. His head throbbed. Alfred, with furrowed eyebrows and a heavy continence, would pass him a glass of water. The Red Hood, the butler would go on to explain after inquiry, had called in Damian’s location, his statement to Oracle brief and expressionless. When Batman had arrived, he’d found more than just Damian. An empty cartridge had been hastily abandoned at the edge of the roof, and three buildings west, a blood splatter remained. 

---

Back in one of his safe houses, a musty apartment with a kitchen sink that had a grudge against working properly, Jason sat in a living room with peeling, piss-colored wallpaper. He fidgeted with a pistol, dismantled it. Put it back together. Absentmindedly wondered if he was quick enough at it to qualify for a Guinness World Record. Probably not. Jason was good, but he’d never been the best. 

Maybe being ranked as world’s most dead inside undead shouldn’t be alive living person would be more fitting. Then again, resurrection was a lot more common these days. Except Jason liked to think he deserved the title for being OG zombie hero. Not that he was a hero anymore, at least by conventional standards. 

With a wry twist to his lips, Jason found himself rummaging through his utility belt until he found a polishing cloth and tools he didn’t even know he was looking for. Might as well clean the pistol parts resting in each hand too. 

He sank deeper into the sofa, an ugly black tattered thing that reminded him of a bat. Cause of course it did. This particular safehouse was unfrequented enough that doing so released a cloud of dust. It settled in the air, and Jason had to stifle a sneeze. His eyes were watering now, and his day had been shit enough, he couldn’t be sure if the cause was the dust or something else far less corporeal. 

His trigger finger twitched, slower than the rest of him when it came to knowing when the job was done.

His dismantled gun had fallen onto his lap, and at some point, he’d dropped his tools too. Fuck. 

Jason bit his lip (a bad habit Ducra hated). 

He missed Ducra. He missed Roy. He missed Kori. He was alone.

He wished Talia was here, with her exotic perfume and jasmine tea, her whetted accent, the sheen of her swords as she polished them impassively across from him. Jason closed his eyes and forced his fingers still. Without much effort, he could envision the body from earlier that night collapsing onto the pavement like a marionette with its strings cut. The blood splatter had been minimal, more so than most. Frank Salados had been egotistical scum, a quickly advancing leader in the mob. The clinical hole in his head would stop him from hurting anyone ever again.

He’d deserved worse. The Pit agreed, giddy at the prospect of it. 

Jason’s trigger finger twitched again, this time more violently. 

He opened his eyes, blinked away the green.

One of his tools, a small steel screwdriver, had rolled partly beneath the sofa. He reached for it. 

---

The next morning, Jason awoke to dim sunlight with a start. He’d had a dream, echoes of running and crunching bones and a gun clutched desperately in a clammy hand. He couldn’t remember. 

His wrinkled bed sheets were damp with sweat. His entire body ached. He forced himself to stand anyway and tottered toward the low rise cabinet he'd haphazardly shoved against the wall a forever ago. A glance at his cell phone told him it was just after 8. He’d slept through the night. A gift from God, if there ever was one, not that those hours had been especially restful. 

Rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes, Jason exited the room and entered the hallway. Similar to the rest of the apartment, it boasted blank walls and absent furniture. Its only distinguishing feature was a little square painting hanging at one end of the passage with the ink signature at its corner blotted out. The canvas, with its abstract streaks of earthy green and gold, had been there the first time he used the apartment, an imprint left behind by previous inhabitants, and it’d remain there for eternity if he had anything to say about it. Jason figured those who came after him could puzzle its story out like he had. 

He smiled at the painting, didn’t really mean it, then walked past toward the kitchen. The pantry was far from well-stocked, but a while back, he'd stayed at the apartment for a little more than a week. There was a stale box of Cheerios somewhere if he could find it. 

It was in the first cabinet he opened, the only item there. He grabbed a handful out of the bag and wrinkled his nose as he chewed on it. It was stale. Jason would have to buy breakfast today. Maybe go grocery shopping. He wouldn’t mind settling somewhere for a little while. 

He shut the cabinet. Its hinges screamed in protest. Unwittingly, Jason was reminded of Dick Grayson. 

---

"Jesus Christ, Goldie. How many cereal boxes can a guy have before he buys out the entire grocery aisle?" 

Jason stared with no small amount of horror. 

They were in Dick's apartment, only the second visit in the last year since Bruce had taken him in, and the entire ordeal had been awkward. That was an understatement. Extremely, I’m-gonna-cry awkward? Curl up in a ball and die? 

Neither of them knew each other well, uncertain of what to say or to do. Jason felt like a rock that was trying… and failing miserably to contort into the right shape and fit through a cookie cutter.

"Well, Jaybird," Dick rubbed the back of his neck. "I like cereal."

Jason snorted at that, craning his neck up to stare skeptically at his predecessor. Even now, at thirteen, Jason was a lot shorter than Dick Grayson. When he'd complained about it once, Alfred had told him something about malnutrition and not eating enough and how he'd likely never be very tall. The old man had looked so upset about it, Jason had never brought it up again.

"Yeah, ok. I like cereal just fine myself," Jason said, remembering the lucky charms his mom would get him the month of his birthday. 

After a brief pause, he considered the stocked cabinet once again. "But I think there's a lot more than liking going on here, Dickiebird. You have a raging hard-on for this shit."

There was a second where Dick just stared at him, then, with a strangled gasp, the older boy burst into laughter. Jason was used to the first Robin being all gallant and kind-hearted and professional like all the other heroes boasted, with his stupid perfect face. Sometimes, if he was unlucky, he'd catch a glimpse of angry Grayson too after the guy had another argument with Bruce. But right then, the Dick Grayson in front of him, laughing at one of Jason's stupid ass comments, was completely unfamiliar to him.

Jason warily cracked a grin, and when Dick eventually stopped laughing, the awkwardness from before had subsided. 

"So other than a weird-ass infatuation with cereal, what does the great Nightwing do out of costume?" Jason, always more comfortable with his back pressed up against something solid, leaned against the kitchen wall.

"For one thing, there's really nothing "great" about me, Jason. And as for the cereal thing, it's not weird, and you really should curb your profanity before Alfred actually follows through on his threat to wash your mouth out with a bar of soap."

"As Leslie would say," Jason smirked. He cleared his throat, attempted an imitation of the surly doctor with her rapidly greying blonde hair. "Dick Grayson, in order to recover, you must first overcome denial. This cereal addiction will ruin your life. Acknowledge the problem before," Jason gestured dramatically and lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper,"...it's too late."

Dick flashed a silly grin at him. The expression looked more genuine than Jason had ever seen it. It was crooked compared to Dick's practiced smiles for the press, left lip curling upward a little higher than the right one.

Dick leaned back against the kitchen counter across from him. "I think Leslie Thompson would object to being a therapist. Not quite the same type of doctor."

"Well... Good thing I'm no doc. Sure as hell is close enough to me."

The two of them shifted in place. The awkwardness was back. 

Dick abruptly perked up. “I just remembered something!” He exclaimed as he scooted past Jason to the fridge. 

Jason raised a brow. "Please don't say you have more cereal in there."

Dick's grin grew broader. With ridiculous flourish, he opened the freezer and gestured toward a large container. Jason stared suspiciously as the older boy presented it to him, before, with a sudden shift in demeanor, his eyes brightened in recognition. 

"Is that Neapolitan ice cream?!" The younger boy, now smiling without reservation, stepped forward to snatch the carton out of Dick's hands.

"Alfred said it was your favorite," The older boy's smile turned wry. "From your reaction, I can tell that he's right."

Jason was beaming. "Can we have it now?"

"If you want."

---

Dick and Jason watched the baseball game on the screen. Well, they weren’t really watching. The dry commentator and cheering crowd was more background noise if anything. 

Dick, now wearing one of the hoodies he had scattered on the floor, held the ice cream carton loosely. Together with Jason, who sat on his right, they'd already finished half the gallon. Alfred was gonna kill him, maybe come by to offer him poisoned tea. 

"This is-"

Gulp. 

"-really good, Goldie. Cause like, you know Bruce and Alfie. They’re so strict about diet. They’re always going on about shit like…” Jason gestured grandly with his spoon, deepened his voice, and put on his best Batglare. “Eat some more, Jason. You need to be healthy. You need more vegetables on that plate. Dessert later. Eat more!” 

There was a brief pause as Dick snorted and Jason swallowed some more ice cream, then, "It's cool and all since Alfie's food is the best, and there's so much of it, but… ice cream.”

Dick nodded very seriously. 

“My mom loved strawberry and I liked chocolate but vanilla was cheaper. And then we found out there’s Neapolitan which has all three and a fancy name that reminds me of that French dude. You know, Bruce has shit taste in ice cream. Honestly, those random chunks of stale chocolate are nasty…” 

The kid prattled on, dramatic and cute and Dick adored and made agreeable noises at the right moments. 

The second Robin turned to face his predecessor. "But hey, what about you? You haven't really," he wrinkled his nose, "said anything."

Dick was smirking. Almost instinctively, he leaned over to ruffle the kid’s hair. Over the next two years, Jason would get so used to it, he’d relent in silent suffering. 

This time around, Jason just ducked out of the way with a scowl. Dick's grin was blinding as he finally spoke. "Holy Batman. If I knew ice cream could get you rambling like a drunk who can't hold his beer, I would've fattened you up with junk food forever ago."

Jason looked like a disgruntled puppy. Dick would later admit to himself that he hadn’t truly accepted the kid as family until that moment. 

"Dick," His little brother cried. "I can hold my beer!!!"

...

"... Not even gonna ask."

Chapter Text

---

The Red Hood clutched at a protruding brick with leather-clad hands, bracing himself against the wall as he knocked on the window pane. It was a dubious balancing act, the type of thing that had always come more naturally to Dickhead Grayson. He was accordingly relieved when the window swiftly opened to reveal a familiar middle-aged woman. She ushered him in with paranoia dancing in her pale eyes, and once Jason had crawled inside, wide shoulders brushing against the steel frame, she hurriedly drew the curtains closed.

Marina Salados was the gracious widow of Frank Salados as of last night. She'd been essential in providing him with solid intel to bring the man down permanently, and now, the Red Hood was dropping by for one last visit to ensure her safety. 

None could know of her involvement, or she'd have all sorts of scumbags coming after her. And while Frank had been a danger to her, an alcoholic and abusive son of a bitch with a sadistic side, Marina was an attractive woman, with full hips and satin lips, her startling gaze a rare grey color. As Salados' trophy wife, she’d been coveted by many of Frank’s lessers, men now desperate to fill the power vacuum his death had left behind. Without his reputation to keep her protected from all the other Gothamite bastards, Marina was just as, if not more vulnerable. 

"Do you have it, Red?" Marina demanded. There was a tremor to her frigid voice. Her lips, usually pink from lipstick the color of cherry blossoms, were pale from being pursed so tightly. There were new worry lines pronounced by her furrowed brows, and in the thirty-six hours or so since Jason had last seen her, it seemed the woman had aged years. She was relieved. Frank was gone. But beneath her iced exterior,  Jason could sense the fear tainting every tense line in her body. She was waiting for the other shoe to drop, expecting it even. Her life depended on a mob boss with just as brutal of a reputation as her husband.  If the Red Hood had been the merciless shark he liked to posture as, he would’ve taken his chance to bite. 

But he didn’t. 

If there was one thing the Red Hood prided himself for, it was that he kept his promises. He'd seen too many broken the twenty-one-years he'd spent (alive) on Earth, and he'd be damned if he was the one to break another. 

Jason reached into the largest compartment hooked to his utility belt, and wordlessly handed her his fabrication of the past week. While his skills with a computer were nowhere near on par with Oracle and smartass Replacement if the rumors were true, the Red Hood had a deft hand at forgery. For a dead man walking, the talent had come in handy over the years and he’d only grown to perfect it. Jason had fake aliases for every occassion, and now, condensed into a German passport, driver’s license, and a carefully folded stack of documents, Marina Salados had a new identity of her own. 

She skimmed the bundle skeptically. Jason knew better than anyone that Gothamites didn't trust easy. 

"Is this really all I need? I can use this to book a ticket and get the hell out of this godforsaken city?" Marina challenged. She was a broken woman forged into an imposing figure, hiding scars underneath her dress and nursing a fractured arm that never healed properly. She was one of Gotham’s many victims, beat down and defiled by a hard life and an all-encompassing hopelessness. She’d earned the right to be weak and tired and should’ve been dead, but instead she was looking up at him with roaring defiance, daring him to try and cheat her of a future even as her fingers trembled. 

She’d risked everything, a series of high-stake choices that could get her killed or worse. She’d seen something in him, enough to trust a little, enough to ask for his help. And no matter how much he puzzled over it, Jason didn’t know why she’d done it.

She’d put faith in an imposing figure with a mask. 

And what he did to deserve that, he’d never know. 

People - Bruce - always made choices he didn’t understand.   

A moment passed. Another. Jason scrutinized her and she did the same. He searched her grey eyes, the supposed window to the soul as the Roman orator, Cicero, had said all those years ago. He saw terror first, then anticipation, and then, in the storm of Marina’s gaze, Jason recognized something that he no longer saw in his own eyes. 

Hope. 

The Red Hood wanted to trust her too.

Hesitation, common sense really, froze him in place, but inadvertenty, Jason found himself reaching for the release button on the side of his helmet. The infamous red hood came off with a soundless hiss of air. He peeled off the domino mask underneath. 

As his hands fell loosely to the side, he addressed Marina bare face to bare face for the first time. 

“I keep my promises. It’s all there.” 

Marina startled. She met his solemn, almost luminescent blue-green gaze.  Patchy stubble and tight skin revealed the Red Hood to be far younger than the dumbfounded woman had expected. He had a boxer’s nose, broken too many times to count, but he was handsome in a ruggish way with an angular jaw and a keen sharpness to his features. He looked like one of the young men laughing after hours with mirth lighting each divot of their face, but the scars, small nicks and bumps and a nasty gash on the side of his neck, spoke of hidden tragedy. The streak of white hair amongst a messy nest of raven locks was the vigilante’s most striking feature other than his strange eyes. 

The Red Hood, adored by the street rats in Crime Alley, spoken of with fondness by the call girls on Belmont Corner, incited in terrified whispers and nightmarish accounts by the mob, was really just a boy. 

She skimmed over the documents one more time, then looked her savior in the eye. 

"Tell me about myself.” 

---  

An hour later, as the Red Hood offered a final goodbye to the woman he’d trusted so irrevocably, Jason could imagine Talia hissing in his ear.

“Idiot, careless child,” she would say. “You think a mob boss’s wife won’t use your identity against you?”

“Whatever, Tals,” he replied. 

“You truly didn’t need to do that.” She continued. 

“I wanted to.” 

It was the truth. 

---

Jason was expecting it, but only in the distant sort of way you know there’s a final at the end of the year.  And so, like the test that’s suddenly end of this week and not next April, when Batman came, the Red Hood was caught off guard even though he wasn’t surprised.

His heart skipped a beat as a heavy-handed gauntlet grabbed him roughly by the arm. Batman, tense with fury and damning disappointment, dragged the Red Hood to the end of an alleyway. Blocking all exits, he loomed like the foul spectre of King Hamlet pointing an accusing finger. Jason’s adam’s apple bobbed. With a derisive laugh, he met the stony gaze of a man he’d considered family once. Back then, a different time, Jason had to crane upwards to glimpse the pointed ends of Batman’s mask. Now, he was tall enough to look the man in the eye. 

Despite numerous side effects like psychotic breakdowns, homicidal urges, and the tendency to be loopy off drugs and painfully aware while on them, his generous height was at least one thing he could thank the Lazarus Pit for. 

Still not worth it.

 Ra’s Al Ghul’s glowing green ass of a pool was a glorified medical advertisement. The ad boasted conquering death as if it was a good thing, and at the end, the side-note warning label was a quintillion negative consequences long. Jason wondered if he could write a review on one of the dark web’s conspiracy websites.

Damn Pit wouldn’t get a single star. 

0/10 would not recommend. 

He digressed. 

“Did you want help removing the stick from your a-” 

Batman cut him off.  “Frank Salados. I want to know why. You haven’t- No one has died because of you  in months. I thought…” 

Jason considered throwing his hands up in the air in frustration, but that would put the bastard on guard. He’d had a long four days since spilling Frankie’s brains on a rooftop, dealing with the power vacuum left behind, and was sure that it showed. He could feel sweat damping his forehead and clinging to his matted hair, and when he’d looked in the mirror earlier before leaving the apartment, he’d looked like a pale slug scraped off a garbage bin. Jason, not for the first time, thanked God that his helmet covered his entire face. 

“Took you long enough to hunt me down for that.”

He smiled - too much teeth.

“And don’t worry, I’ve off-ed a couple shitfaces other than Salados in the last few months. I guess I should be proud you didn’t notice.”  

It was a lie. He’d been dealing in intel more than corpses lately. 

Batman flinched at the admission like Jason had fisted him right in the gut.  “You should’ve brought whatever evidence you had on Salados to me. I could’ve helped. He should be behind bars.” 

The Red Hood scoffed. 

“Sorry, old man.  I’m pretty happy with the rotting-six-feet-under outcome.” 

He slowly and sardonically raised an eyebrow even though the asshole couldn’t see it. 

“Piece of shit beat his wife, and as a side job to being a fucking mob boss, he helped run a human trafficking ring.” 

“That doesn’t-”

Jason cut him off, maybe raised his voice a little. 

“Frankie deserved it.” 

Bruce looked so fucking sad.

Jason hated him. He hated him. He did . 

“We don’t decide that.” The Bat sounded tired. It was an old argument, after all. How dare you play judge, jury, executioner, Jason. Oh my god, you’ve crossed a line. Yada, yada, fuck you. 

Jason waited for the inevitable with resignation. Instead, the asshole said, “I know the abuse reminded you of Willis, but Frank Salados deserved a trial. The choice wasn’t yours to make.” 

Jason saw green. Bruce had no fucking right bringing that up. It’d never been about Willis. How could the bastard just assume-

His hand shook with the urge to knock out teeth.  

“He deserved the bullet in the head, and I’m glad to be the one who put it there.” He seethed, grinned disingenuously when Batman took a step back at the words. The Pit was oozing and a part of Jason balked at it. 

“I really don’t know how you don’t get it .  Your way doesn’t work. He would’ve bribed and blackmailed, and next thing you know he’s scot free and out on the streets again. Maybe one day, things escalate and he beats his wife to death. Another innocent to join Frank’s graveyard of victims. A killer is still alive. And your justice has fucking failed again!” 

Like it failed me . Jason thought but didn’t say. 

He wondered why he bothered defending himself anymore. Bruce had a black and white view of the world, and nothing the Red Hood could say would justify his actions. Jason would always be irredeemable and wrong. Bruce’s Jason had died in a warehouse, twisted beyond recognition. Still, some traitorous, childish part of him, the mangled thing that had managed to survive even the grave, couldn’t help but hope.  

But no, that wasn’t right. He’d learned not to hope, had that curse bred out of him. 

Batman being here just left him a little unsteady, a little more unsure of himself. Cause that’s what the asshole always did. 

“Can I just go?” Jason asked. He was tired. “Or are you planning on locking me up?”

At that, the man was silent. He backed off,  a wordless answer, and let Jason loose into the alleyway. The Red Hood tried to walk away. Instead, he stopped a few feet from Batman and waited. Waited for a fist ready to drag him to Arkham, or an angry word filled with empty promises, or a pang in his chest as Jason bitterly watched the man turn his back and leave again.  

Batman did none of that. He just looked at him, stiff and sad. Maybe that was worse. 

“Hood,” He said gruffly. A pause, then hesitantly, he repeated himself, this time as Bruce, the man behind the mask. His voice crackled like tires traveling down a gravel road. “Jason.”

Come home, Bruce’s broad frame cried out silently: uncertain shoulders and placating hands and lips drawn into a fine line. It terrified him. 

 Once, Jason could’ve read the man like an Austen or Dickens novel, but over the years, time, change, and distance had turned the Bat into a near stranger. Jason hated it, but he hated times like this one even more, when the man's cues were just as easy to read as they used to be, like it was almost back then again, with Jason naive and impossibly happy.

He considered leaving, again, if only to save himself from whatever this was. He was sick of living and sick of lectures, but at least those things were familiar. 

He stayed.

Bruce stepped forward. The man really was exhausted. Jason wondered if he’d been sleeping well then reminded himself he didn’t care. 

 “You-“ Bruce stopped, tried again.

“How are you?” 

Jason blinked. For the first time, over the course of three years of explosive encounters, the two of them were engaging in small talk?

"Fine." he replied shortly, and felt a little gleeful when Bruce shifted awkwardly in place. 

"Robin has a concussion. If you hit any harder..." 

“That’s why I didn’t hit any harder.” Jason gritted his teeth.  

Bruce said nothing, then in some sort of twisted acceptance (what the hell, Bruce? I hurt your actual, biological son), the man just nodded and stayed in his spot a few feet across from him. 

The tension between them that always lurked beneath the surface corkscrewed into open air - suffocating. Jason couldn’t find his footing. The uneasy peace of this interaction was so foreign, his fingers itched for something to grasp out of habit. He wanted to bare his teeth, say something hurtful, drive Bruce off the wall just so they could bloody their fists and shout at each other, the standard since Jason crawled out of his grave for some godforsaken reason. 

Instead, the fight sagged out of him. Jason was tired. So fucking tired of fighting with Bruce and the rest of the Bats, of fighting with everyone, even himself, of sleepless nights and uncontrollable shaking, of the body that didn’t feel like his own sometimes. He’d wake up thinking he was still a fifteen-year-old kid with gangly limbs, and choke on the crushing weight of reality. 

Bruce closed the distance between them and placed his hand on Jason’s shoulder. It felt too heavy. It felt wrong. 

Jason wasn’t Bruce’s son anymore. The fearless boy who’d crouched on the rooftops of Gotham decked out in red and green with an R emblazoned across his chest was gone. Bruce’s son, who’d smiled and trusted people, had died with him. The Joker had clipped his wings and plucked all his feathers, and out of the sky, Robin had plummeted to a death of fire and brimstone. His body had crawled through worms and damp dirt alive, but sometimes, Jason thinks the rest of him stayed in that coffin. 

Something within him snapped. He shrugged the hand off his shoulder, ignored his palpitating heart and the stupid part of him that yearned for Bruce to hold him again. 

“Don’t fucking touch me.” He sneered, breathing too fast. His shoulder tingled with the ghost of Bruce’s touch, and Jason thinks he would’ve preferred if Batman had hurt him, dislocated his limbs, broken his arm into particles of dust. 

Bruce took a step back, looking even more deflated than before. He said something, but Jason was already spinning on his heel. He aimed his grapple gun, shot off into the air.  

Away

AwaY

awAy

The pulse in his head chanted. 

Chapter Text

---

Jason jolted awake.

Before fully understanding why, he was untangling himself from his sheets and tumbling out of bed. Something was buzzing, steady as a metronome. The burner phone, his brain supplied a moment later. It’d never gone off before. 

Following the noise to its source, he found the damn thing tucked in the inside pocket of his leather jacket. Jason barely remembered putting it there. It’d been an eon ago. 

Only one person had this particular phone number. Confused, he answered. 

“Talia?” He rasped. Jason licked chapped lips and cleared his throat. He tried again. “Talia? What’s up?” 

There was heavy silence. Jason’s chest tightened with growing unease. His knuckles turned white as he clutched the phone tighter. Talia didn’t call. She showed up in the middle of the night and raised a sophisticated brow as he gaped and had cardiac arrest. Did she need help? Was she in danger? Was she dying? Already dead? Why the hell wasn’t she answering? 

“In Gotham, it is three in the afternoon,” Talia scolded. “ I believed you more disciplined than this. A warrior awakens at the crack of dawn.” 

Every syllable was enunciated carefully. Precise as always, thank god. She’d be slurring her words at least a little if she was bleeding out somewhere. 

“Patrol ran late.” Jason offered dryly and tried to mask his relief. Probably failed miserably. 

He needed Talia, not that he’d ever admit it to her face.

Jason bit his lip, played a game of probability in his head. Talia would respond with a scoff, a scathing remark, or there was the 0.001% chance she’d accept the excuse and be understanding. 

Right on cue, there was a scoff on the other end, and Jason smirked despite himself. Talia Al Ghul. World’s Most Unsympathetic Bitch. Second to Ducra, of course. Jason was a fucking nutcase for thinking that fondly. 

He eased marginally into the edge of his mattress. Even if Talia seemed fine, Jason had thought it’d take the world ending for her to call him. Something was wrong. She wanted to use him and he was willing to be used. She’d been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. Damian was facing impending doom and for some reason, Jason was supposed to deal with it. Her sister was trying to kill her. Again. Ra’s was doing something batshit insane. Oh pretty please, Jason, be a darling and pass on a super important message to my Beloved. I’m dying. You’re dying. The Joker escaped from Arkham. A disaster of epic proportions just occurred.  

It could be anything, really, except a social call. Talia didn’t do those. 

Jason said as much.

“As delighted as I am to hear your voice, you’re not calling me up for the hell of it. What’s going on, Tals?”

“Jason-” Talia started then hesitated. 

Hesitated . Well, that was ominous. 

“Talia?”

“I need your assistance. I need someone I can trust.” 

I trust you, was implied. Alarm bells went off in Jason‘s head. A couple of years ago, he would’ve preened at the words. He would’ve done whatever Talia wanted, a dog starved for affection and praise and lunging for scraps.

“Stop with the underhanded tactics, Tals. If you want my help, you better let me know what I’m signing up for.” 

Her reply was affectionate. Proud even. 

“You’ve grown, Jason.” 

And fuck, he hadn't expected and didn't know what to do with that . Panicking a little inside, he bit out, “Stop trying to butter me up.” 

“I’m merely stating the truth.” 

And Jason, damn him, almost believed her. He felt warm. 

“I’ve been told that you had an encounter with Damian. How is he?” 

“Your brat has a concussion. Also, have you been stalking me? Jesus.” 

The woman fucking tittered, and Jason could imagine it. That reserved mockery of a laugh as she muffled the sound with her fingertips. It sounded genuine. 

“The League is always watching.”

“Do you have any idea how creepy that sounds?”

As usual, the woman ignored him. 

“I commend you for dealing with Frank Salados. Despicable man.” 

Jason groaned. “Talia. The thing you need help with?” 

A sigh. 

“There’s a dangerous man in Gotham.”

“Wow. Someone dangerous? In Gotham? How surprising-“ 

“Curb your tongue.”

“Sorry,” he said and didn’t mean it one bit. 

“He was one of mine once. He had talent, and I trained him much like I trained you. He found murder… a cheerful pastime and offered me strange gifts. It was disgusting. I cast him out,” Talia sneered. The warmth Jason had felt dried up. Overexposure turning tan lines into sun burns. 

“He hated my Beloved. I believe he has plans to destroy Batman and all things dear to him. Damian is in danger. You need to eliminate the threat. Permanently. I know your father won’t.” 

“He’s not my father.” He said vehemently, and felt like a snowstorm inside, cold and too small and empty and too full. 

Jason suddenly wanted to break something. Throw the phone against a wall. Crush it beneath his boot. 

“You need to protect Damian.” 

“I don’t need to do anything!” 

There was a furious beat throbbing at Jason’s temple. 

Fuck you, he wanted to scream. Fuck. You. How could you ask me for this?

“Enough.” Talia’s voice was ice. “Bruce Wayne is a man we both care for as equally as we disdain. Why do you continue this charade? I’ve coddled you long enough.” 

“This has nothing to do with me,” he said, just as coldly. His jaw trembled with an undercurrent of emotion. “If you care so much, protect them yourself.” 

“I can’t,” and there was something raw in Talia’s voice that made him pause. “There is something amiss with the League. I find myself alone in a sea of masked faces I do not trust, waiting for an ally’s knife to twist in the small of my back. My father needs me. I won’t abandon him.” 

Jason smiled bitterly. Of course. 

“This guy of yours,” he said dully. He understood now. It was painfully clear, like a batarang to the neck. 

Talia always, without fail, chose her father above all else. Bruce and Damian and Jason didn’t stand a chance. “How bad is he?”

“Worse than the Joker,” and god, why was the monster in everything. “But with skills the clown knows not.” 

Jason’s heart stuttered. “Why the hell would I get involved with that?” 

“For Bruce Wayne and my son and Richard Grayson,” she said. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Jason snorted, derisive and pained.

“For me then. Please.” 

He gritted his teeth, twisted the sheets on the bed into knots as tight as the ones in his gut. 

“Fine .”

“Thank you,” was her stupidly passive response. He wished he could see her face, analyze those micro expressions that were rarely present in her voice. 

Jason winced as a strangled, hysterical laugh crawled out of his clenched throat. He swallowed. 

“Kiss my ass, Talia.” 

The call ended with a quiet click. 

Later, when Jason wandered into the kitchen, he found a flash drive on the countertop. 

Talia had just assumed he would agree. She really was a bitch sometimes. 

—-

Jason was at a grocery store. For food. Which was probably important. Even though the only thing he really wanted was sleep cause patrol the night before had sucked the undead life out of him. It’d been the ultimate worst of combinations: falling on his ass, having a run-in with the Bat himself, and to top it all off, getting body-slammed off a building by an overweight bodyguard (it’d only been two stories but it still hurt like a bitch). Not to mention Talia’s unashamed request that he put his ass on the line for Bruce fucking Wayne and his twerp of a son. Which he’d agreed too.

Ah, fuck. 

If Jason hadn’t felt like asscrack before, with all the gangs restless and all the thugs making grabs for a promotion now that Salados was gone, he definitely did after that shit.  

But whatever. Sleep could wait. 

And besides, Jason knew what he needed. He even had vague ideas of where everything was. He just had to concentrate.

Instead of wandering about the store aimlessly like he was doing instead.

Should’ve brought a goddamn grocery list.

---

“Do you need any help?”

Jason started, looked to the right and down to find an absurdly short, elderly Asian woman peering up at him with narrowed eyes. By the question, he’d expected some disgruntled employee, but instead, with no uniform and a gallon of milk in hand, it was just another customer. She had deep-set wrinkles, a permanent scowl, and winding down her back was a simple white-haired braid. Jason was horrified to find himself reminded of Ducra. 

A civilian version of Ducra.

At a grocery store. 

It was both a laughable and terrifying concept. 

After a really long pause in which Jason was supposed to answer but didn’t (cause huh?), the woman repeated the question with an expectant glare. Jason finally woke up his brain.  “Um… Nah, I’m just looking around.”  

The woman shook her head at the response, like a bobblehead or maybe like a whip depending on how threatening a person found Ducra and her civilian doppelgänger by association. Then, rather scathingly, the elder laughed. “Looking around? You are seeing but not looking at anything.  Are you sure you need no help? Help not running into old women, perhaps?” 

Jason blinked, and came to the embarrassing realization that he’d been pushing his cart toward the condiments aisle and by extension toward the lady. 

Ducra 2.0? 

Who, it seemed, also talked like Ducra.

Except with a different accent.

Singaporean, maybe? 

This was bizarre.

And lying down sounded nice. 

Jason shook himself out of his thoughts, greeted by Ducra 2.0’s unimpressed raised eyebrow, and sheepishly offered, “Sorry, I’m a little distracted.”

“Couldn’t tell.” 

At the dry response, Jason’s lip twitched upward. A syllogism: 1) He liked the lady 2) He was tired 3) He found himself elaborating even though he really didn’t need to.

“I guess I haven’t been sleeping well.”

 That was an understatement. 

“It’s been especially rough this past week.” 

Another understatement.

Ducra 2.0 looked so… disapproving? 

What is happening , he thought, more than a little confused. 

The real Ducra would’ve burst into uncontrollable laughter if she were still alive. Evil laughter. She always did find it disturbingly funny when Jason fumbled around.

As for the civilian Ducra in front of him, she chose that moment to do something even more bizarre.

“Your cart is empty,” she said with a deep scowl. “Idiot boys need food and rest to grow strong. Hurry along home after this.” 

Then, almost dramatically as if it pained her, the woman set her gallon of milk on the ground, took out a pen and a scrap of paper, and wrote him out a whole ass-fucking grocery list. 

And helped him find the stuff on that list. 

Before he knew what was happening, she’d paid for his groceries and ushered him out the door with an angry “get some rest, idiot boy.” 

Gotham never failed to surprise him. 

---

The Red Hood was itching to hit something. More so than usual. 

To conclude his absolutely terrible week so far cause apparently, he wasn’t allowed even one good night, the Replacement (little shit) was blessing Jason’s comically unfortunate life with his presence at Jason’s stakeout. 

It’d been an encounter between a pair of bristling street cats. A hackles-raised argument summarized as “mine… mine... no , mine!”

Even with his night ruined, Jason had resisted the urge to slug or shoot the teen (Really, the kid’s unbroken nose should thank him for being merciful). And Drake, as tense as a tripwire, had lowered his stupid bo staff. 

They’d been wary and this close to murder (well, no. Perfect Timmy didn’t kill people.), and then the two had calmed down enough to realize they were investigating the same case and were not, in fact, stalking the other. 

To be fair, it’s not like Tim Drake had a good track record with stalking. It was natural for Jason to be suspicious. 

It’d been a battle of wills after that, both too stubborn to leave, and neither stupid enough to force the other to leave lest the commotion give away their presence to the operation below. 

Then finally, with twin grimaces, they’d settled into reluctant compromise and let the other stay. 

Which…

Well, the cooperation was surprising, given their history. 

Once and a while , Red Robin would shift awkwardly, and every time he did so, Jason was pissed to sense Drake’s searching gaze pierce the small of his back. The close observation made him feel like a lab rat, or an amoeba being studied under a microscope by a biologist. It made his fingers twitch uneasily on the dual revolvers strapped to each thigh which made the kid more nervous too, and really, Timothy Jackson Drake was fucking aggravating. 

Why was Ra’s so impressed with him again?

Oh yeah. 

He was real smart. 

Except for right now. 

Cause the Replacement clearly had something to say, but he wasn’t talking. And Jason was half tempted to leave right then so he didn’t have to deal with it at all. 

Bats, he scoffed. He’d already had two infuriating encounters recently, and that was too fucking many, but Fate had grinned down at him and thought third time’s the charm. 

He threw a metaphorical middle finger at divinity, if it existed. He’d been dead and couldn’t remember the afterlife, so he didn’t think it did. 

Focusing again, Jason frowned down upon the ant hill of workers infesting a once abandoned lot. There were around fifty or so men and women cataloging supplies, loading them up into boxes, and then loading those boxes into a dozen or so white cargo trucks. The operation would be your average, legal warehouse job, if not for the late hour and the shit they were packing. Contained in benign-looking teddy bears with bedraggled brown fur and lopsided red bow ties, pouches of heroin were shoved inside along with the stuffing. And the workers wore dark clothes, each tattooed on their right shoulder with an inelegant S adorned by pinchers and a stinger.  Armed with the usual machine guns and knives, they were lower members of the White Scorpion, a gang with a bastard figurehead called Ramoji. 

The Red Hood was tracking one guy in particular, a teenager whose fidgety continence and youthful features made him stick out like a sore thumb from the crowd. The teen, a homeless kid called Scotty by the other street rats, was fifteen, with fair hair, dark eyes, and the hard-earned title of “dumbass completely in over his head.”

Two friends of Scotty, a soft-spoken boy named Reilyn and a girl all harsh edges called Khalee, had cautiously approached the Red Hood a while ago. They’d been worried cause “no one in their right mind joined bitch ass pricks like Ramoji” and Scotty, the “stupid shit” as Khalee had kindly put it, “had went and fucking did it.” They’d begged the Red Hood to keep the teen safe. “I can’t lose him,” Reilyn had said, and Jason could tell from his piercing gaze that he meant it. “Don’t let him get killed. Please.”

The Red Hood didn’t even think twice before getting involved, maybe cause he was fifteen too once, and back then, his big dumb decision had gotten him killed. 

Regardless, he’d used the whole fiasco as an excuse to take out “bitch ass prick” Ramoji. It was relevant and everything since The White Scorpions were leading competitors in the race to fill poor Frankie’s place. 

Talia’s psychotic stray could wait on his plans to ruin Batman’s life. Besides, the guy could be more original. Jason had done it first. 

It was just like Jason’s godforsaken luck that the Replacement have the same bright idea. Hood, let’s take them all down the “moral” way! 

And speak of the devil, behind him, Red Robin was shifting around again like a hyperactive infant. Jason prickled, genuinely, actually felt a prickle crawl up his spine, as he was scrutinized by the other vigilante for what felt like the hundredth time. 

“Jesus. Spit it out already, Red,” Jason bit out through gritted teeth. He considered punching the kid’s lights out and dumping his unconscious body in Gotham River, a thought that absolutely delighted the Pit. Instead, he settled for turning around and shooting a glare, hidden by his hood but hopefully getting the message across nonetheless. Jason was mollified when Red Robin jerkily nodded. 

“Since we’re both trying to nail Ramoji, I figured we could exchange intel. Maybe… team up?” The kid sounded a little scared, like Jason might snap and blow off his kneecaps at hearing his voice. It wasn’t was funny. “It’ll be more efficient. Helping each other instead of getting in each other’s way.” 

The Red Hood would rather shoot himself in the foot than help the goddamn Replacement of all people with anything, but as it was, he’d heard the rumor mill when it came to Drake’s “unrivaled other than maybe Batman himself” detective work, and the kid’s intel could be useful. Jason bit his lip. 

“What the hell? Sure, Replacement.”

Red Robin was visibly stupefied for a second before it got hidden beneath an indifferent facade. “What do you have, Hood?” The kid stood up from a crouch  and slowly stretched his legs out.

Jason grimaced. “Not much, honestly. I just tackled this case, and people are smart enough to keep their mouths shut when it comes to mean girl cliques from hell like a gang named after arachnids. However…” The Red Hood paused. His own legs were falling asleep. 

“However...?” Drake prompted. 

“I did manage to gather some background info on Ramoji. Bastard went through a lot of trouble to get his past erased, but with some… coercion,” Jason grinned ferally and was disappointed when Drake didn’t so much as twitch. 

“Death threats, broken bones, and losing a couple fingers goes a long way,” he rattled off. “I got someone loose-lipped.” 

“Turns out a few years back, the great Ramoji was just the brown-nosed cock-sucking assistant to Black Mask. Idiot got cocky and planned a hostile takeover, and no surprise, he got his ass handed to him on a platter. Pissed off Black Mask enough he had to get the hell out of Gotham, and three years ago when Black Mask got his head chopped off by yours truly, Ramoji took the opportunity to come back and start his own thing with heroin distribution. His dope is overpriced shit, but he was quick to snuff out any competition, and now the White Scorpions are the only gang selling H.” 

Jason clenched his fists. “They’ve been selling to Crime Alley kids, and although the shit is diluted, it’s-

The Red Hood paused and squinted.

Something indiscernible had shifted below. They were still loading up the trucks, but something was off about the workers. Skiddish. Anticipating something. A quick glance at Drake showed that he’d noticed too. 

“Something’s off,” the Replacement vocalized, and Jason agreed with a grunt. From the looks of the people below, you’d think hell was gonna break loose.

And then…

They heard the skidding tires before they saw the sleek black car speeding round the corner. Where conversations had floated up to the vigilantes in an indistinguishable mass, there was now a collective silence as the car came to a screeching halt.

“Dramatic entrance,” Red Robin said dryly. 

Jason did not snort. He didn’t . 

Spines ramrod straight and hands clamped unnaturally still to their sides, the workers looked like mannequins posing in a clothing store.

Some of the idiots even flinched when the door opened and the driver, a brisk, dark-haired Caucasian lady tall only with heels, stepped out of the car. 

She opened the back door, and if possible, the workers tensed even more as a man exited the vehicle. Brown-skinned, 5”10, tweedy suit, thin legs, big hands, eyes as dark as charcoal from Jason’s vantage point. Ramoji himself. 

Jason made a strangled noise, and behind him, Drake seemed just as surprised, his eyebrows rising past what was humanly possible. 

“What the fuck,” The Red Hood muttered. The stakeout was supposed to be minor, just a look into how the gang operated at a lower level and a quick check-up on the street kid, Scotty. Jason hadn’t expected to see Ramoji in person until far later in the game. 

Ha. When did anything ever go as expected? 

“Why-“ Drake cut himself off and pressed forward to get a better look. Red Hood was too focused on the shit going down below to acknowledge that Red Robin was now way too close for comfort.

“Do any of you like Batman?” Ramoji said. A rhetorical question that no one dared answer. 

His voice was startlingly deep and well-projected. Guy should’ve pursued opera instead of organized crime.

Except probably not cause even from this far up, Jason could tell that Ramoji smoked. A lot. His voice was as raspy as Louis Armstrong or Ray Charles at their worst.

“I don’t. I want the meddling motherfucker dead.”

 Ramoji’s vehement statement got a reaction from the crowd. Nods of agreement, even what sounded like an angry “Amen.”

Jason knew that three years ago, he would’ve raised a glass in toast to that sentiment. Not anymore. He’d drunk his cup empty long ago. 

“For years, he’s been a thorn in our side. For doing what’s necessary to survive in this godforsaken city, how many of us have been punished and incarcerated and beaten down? How many of you have a father in prison? A mother? How many of you lost years of your own life rotting in a jail cell? Returned to find that your child has aged years and barely remembers you? That was me once, and all because some do-gooder with pointy ears got involved.” 

It was a compelling speech. Ramoji had his groupies hanging on to every word, including Scotty. Jason wondered if they realized the guy had escaped incarceration his whole life, bribing judges and fleeing off the map to islands in Central America. If his children didn’t call him Daddy, it’s cause he’d run away and left them behind. 

“Batman separates family and friends. He takes away our father and our mother and our children and the chance to attend granny’s funeral. He’s a disease festering in Gotham’s underbelly.”

The gang leader grinned conspirically. 

“I present to you, ladies and gentlemen, the cure.” 

Ramoji made a sweeping gesture with his hands. The Replacement was right. Dramatic motherfucker. 

With clinical professionalism, the driver from before opened the trunk. She grabbed hold of something heavy. A body bag. 

Her lips were pinched as she dumped the prone black-clad form hastily onto the pavement, a momentary lapse in her composure, then stepped back. Ramoji crouched down. 

Red Hood leaned forward. So did Red Robin. 

As the body bag was unzipped, there was a sudden flurry of motion as a red and black blur flung itself out into the open. Ramoji was knocked down with a brutal palm strike. The figure, costume and cape wrinkled, fell into an instinctive fighting stance. Restraints fell useless to the ground, cut through by a blade hidden in his boot. 

“What the fuck,” Jason repeated, even more incredulous. 

“Shit,” Drake swore passionately.

Below them, Robin bared his teeth. There was a gash on his forehead, ugly-looking and bleeding into one of his eyes. The kid was swaying on his feet like a drunk. 

Surrounding him, the gang members drew their weapons. 

---

Chapter Text

Like vindictive yellow jackets defending their queen, the swarm of men and women cocked their rifles and shotguns, abuzz and eager to sting.

It was an uncoordinated jumble of limbs and cursing, just the ingrained tendency to react that all real Gothamites had bred into them rather than something born from forethought. The type of chaos Jason usually savored cause he'd caused it -  riddled a deserving crowd with bullets. This time around, he's got nothing to do with it. His heart thrummed an uncomfortable beat in his chest as he zeroed in on the lone figure facing them, clad in green and red and gold. Those used to be his colors. 

Regretting his life choices up till this moment as thoroughly as he felt a crowbar to the ribs, Jason swore. In Russian. And French. And in the Karanga he'd learned during a stunt in Zimbabwe. None of it came off strong enough. 

Drake let off his own creative string of obscenities, and the Red Hood almost whistled appreciatively. He stopped himself. Cause this was Red Robin. Who had willingly named himself after a diner franchise. The Replacement did not deserve props of any kind. 

Jason grimaced. He turned back to the party downstairs. Damian was in the midst of saying something nasty, antagonizing the goons nearest to him as if he wanted them to get trigger happy. 

The Replacement was paling rapidly. 

They both knew if the gang opened fire now, Damian was as good as dead.

And Ramoji, shakily getting to his feet, knew it too. 

“Hey, now,” the man shouted hastily with a grunt as he rose to his full height and his underlings came to a standstill. Blood sluggishly dripped down from his nostrils.

“I’m alright. No need to resort to violence.” 

Jason scoffed at the irony of that statement and the Replacement somehow conveyed an eye-roll through his cowl. 

“We need the kid alive."

Ramoji wiped his nose carelessly on the sleeve of a tailored white suit. The bloodstains would never wash out, but the man was so obscenely rich, it didn’t matter. Just another expensive outfit, earned at the cost of a couple of overdoses Under the Bridge downtown, leaving behind women limp and unseeing like Catherine Todd had been. Bastard.

For a moment, Jason imagined wrapping his hands around the man’s neck - squeezing. An overpowering part of him ached to literally jump the gun and shoot a gaping hole through Ramoji’s gut, watch the light fade out of his eyes as he bled out on the pavement and the rest of his suit soaked up crimson. The kind of murder that Jason did in a heartbeat. Unblinking, but he’d itch. He controlled himself, bottled up the irrational rage bubbling up his throat like bile and promised to use it later to make Ramoji suffer. The Red Hood is good at that, swallowing the hard pills with a dry mouth. As much as he liked to make noise, he's also the still fixture on a rooftop, unmoving and focused on the target. He's not one for subtlety, and everyone knows that, but few know how he's capable of lurking in the shadows as an unnoticed assassin to slit your throat. Few know how he can deliberate each step and blend into a crowd with a well-placed laugh and a deceptively benign posture.  Controlled chaos, even if the Bats have always been talented at riling him up until he's just as erratic as they accuse him of being. He clenched his jaw. 

“Don’t you shitheads remember the last dead bird?” Ramoji continued with a leer. Blood sluggishly made its way down from Ramoji's nose to his collar, coating his chin in a maroon goatee.  “I suppose not. Most of you are too… green.” He did a once over of his recruits, pausing on Scotty.  

“Class is in session, kids. Before this Robin, and the blondie, and the one before that, there was this angry little pipsqueak with a Crime Alley accent. Could’ve been one of ours if he didn’t wear a cape. Kid got blown to smithereens by the clown, and let me tell you….” He grimaced. “Bats was a goddamn nightmare. Practically beat every thug he came across within an inch of his life.” 

It was weird hearing it from a crime lord, that Bruce had been distraught after Jason died and not just indifferently searching for Tim Drake to be his substitute. From an outside party, the words almost rung true. He’d heard them before, of course, from Dick during an argument, from Alfie who’d been the first to say “I’m glad you’re alive” instead of a condemnation, from Bruce himself even. But they had an ulterior motive, even Alfred. They looked at him and saw their broken boy and thought maybe if they said things just right and appeased him, they’d get the old Jason back: the loyal soldier, the cheerful brat, the helpful grandson, the one complacent to Bruce’s rules. 

And the real Jason could never be that. Not again. He’d seen the world for what it was, without the pretty Snapchat filters, through mouthfuls of wet dirt, and the slice of a batarang to the throat. You couldn’t cure Gotham’s sickness without getting infected yourself first.  

He could feel Drake’s eyes on him gauging a reaction. Jason refused to give any. 

Below, Ramoji continued. “If we wanna be the ones that finally offed Batman and made it stick, we gotta be more clever than... this.” He gestured at the crowd of them still awkwardly towing their guns. 

“We gotta use Batman’s little boy as bait and play him like a fiddle.” A smile with too many teeth. 

“Now put down your goddamn guns.” His voice darkened.

The Replacement sighed. “Was the monologue really necessary?”  

Jason almost said “Amen” like he would have if this was Roy and Kori with him at a stakeout. Then he remembered who he was talking to and shut his yap right up.  

The gang members did as they were told, lowering or holstering their weaponry. One moron even went the extra mile and dropped his gun on the ground to the disbelieving stares of everyone.

With Damian no longer in immediate danger, Jason looked to Drake for answers. “Where the hell is B? Or Goldie? I thought the kid wasn’t allowed outside without a chaperone. Especially after I kicked his royal ass... what was it... last week?”

Red Robin stared at him. An expression of intense long suffering. Like, “my dog just died and when I tried to bury him, a psycho came by and gnawed on the corpse” type of suffering. Like “this can’t be my life, the universe is conspiring against me” type of suffering. Really, it was impressive. 

Jason would like the kid if he wasn’t so… Replacement. 

“The brat wasn’t supposed to be on patrol at all after the...” Drake’s tone turned accusatory, “nasty concussion that you gave him.”  

Jason let loose a shit-eating grin. 

“Did the whole thing take “Doth mother know you weareth her drapes?” down a notch? Drake, you gotta tell me what his face looked like when he got benched.” 

The kid snorted but tried to hide it with a cursory sweeping glance of the situation below. Jason followed suit. Ramoji was approaching Damian, hands in a faux soothing gesture as if to calm a wild animal (which, Jason conceded, Damian kind of was). 

The Red Hood considered ditching. He’d seen enough today. Damian wasn’t dying yet, and Bruce would probably show up soon. 

Then again, Bruce had been late before. He'd revved his engines and Jason had heard him and accepted what was to come, the digits counting down etching their impression into the back of his eyes. Resigned cause he knew there wasn't enough time.

There was no way Red Robin could deal with this many assholes alone. Jason leaving could be a condemnation for both the baby bats.  

And as much as Jason hated them, he didn’t want them to die. At least not anymore. They were kids roped into Batman's vendetta against crime by association, and the Red Hood, off Pit psychosis, didn’t let kids die on principle.  

He sighed. Moral dilemmas. Life had been easier when he didn’t have them.  

He glanced at the Replacement. Jason could tell from the set of his jaw that the kid had recovered from any initial surprise.  He was plotting - some high-strung, big-brain, Babs-level shit. Jason thought about leaving again before he got roped in. He remained right where he was like an awkward sitting duck. 

Their eyes met. Probably. Jason couldn't really tell since the two of them had enough collective headgear to protect an egg falling off Wayne Tower. 

Either way, something was silently communicated. A steely resolve. Wariness. Worry.

Help . 

If you’re not helping, asshole, stay out of my way or else.  

“What’s the plan?” He grumbled in reluctant reply. 

The kid had the audacity to smile. 

---

“Ow,” was Jason’s response to a bullet embedding in his suit with enough force to bruise his ribs. 

“Why are you here?” was Damian’s grateful response to Jason shielding him from enemy fire. 

They’d entered into the fray the opposite of subtle. The crowd had been too thick to pick them off one by one, so they'd opted for dropping smoke pellets that plunged the area below into darkness.

The dramatics suited Jason just fine, and he'd chuckled through his modulator at the screams that ensued.

Red Robin had deadpanned, “You're like a cartoon villain," and Hood had grinned.

Night vision on, he’d gleefully popped up behind a particularly frantic goon and tapped them on the shoulder. "Looking for someone?" He'd mouthed off. They'd turned, seen the Red Hood, and squeaked "Oh no, not you" before pissing their pants.  Jason's favorite, honestly. 

Earlier during their extremely brief plotting stage, Red Robin had stared pointedly at Hood’s dual pistols.

He'd opened his mouth to disapprove and say something obnoxious before Jason cut him off with hands raised in the universal sign for surrender. “Kids gloves on. Pinky promise I won’t shoot to kill on purpose tonight.” 

The Replacement had winced like he'd sucked on a lemon. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”

Then, because they were lacking in time, the kid had dropped it. 

His concerns were pointless anyway. With the lack of visibility, Jason had switched to aiming for non-fatal areas. He didn’t wanna be responsible for Scotty’s death when he’d already gone through this much trouble to protect him.

And speaking of going through trouble, here Jason was, protecting a different damn kid, who enjoyed being a complete little shit about it. 

“Unhand me,” Damian hissed as Jason led him to safety away from the battle.

“Imbecile!” the entitled kid whined as Jason knocked him to the ground to stop a bullet from tearing through his shoulder. 

“I don’t want your help,” Robin sneered as Jason fired at a line of opponents amassing in front of them. 

If they somehow survived this, Jason swore he’d kill the kid himself. And the Replacement too, for telling Jason to get Damian to safety. 

(“Damian hates me! He won’t listen to me.”

“Kid, I’m pretty sure he hates me more.” 

“...”

"Fine.") 

By the time they reached the cover of the loading trucks, a few bullets had embedded into Jason’s protective vest. 

There was a sharp burning sensation in his leg, like someone had taken a hot poker to it and then a sledgehammer to make certain it stuck. Damian was glaring at him. "There's a bullet in your leg," he said haughtily, as if this whole situation was somehow the Red Hood's fault. 

Ok, maybe the Replacement wasn't all that bad compared to this . 

"No shit, Sherlock," Jason sighed. He prodded at the aforementioned bullet wound, grabbed the gauze he had stowed in his utility belt and did some sloppy first aid that would make Leslie's insides twist like a powdered sugar pretzel.   

There'd been a lot of near misses. A few more bullets and it would’ve been another early ticket to the grave. 

Jason rubbed a hand over his face. Dying a second time for the sake of a mini Al Ghul. Knowing his life (lives?),  he’d probably be unlucky enough to be shoved into the Pit again. 

Ah, yes.

Dying.

The Replacement was still out there, and as much as he’d love to teach Bruce a lesson about how recruiting kids for vigilantism ended in six feet, since it was clear he hadn’t learned the first or even second time, Drake wasn’t joining him and the Brown chick in the Dead Robins Society if Jason was there to prevent it. 

Behind one of the trucks, far from any wayward fire or chance of discovery, he left Damian behind with a pleasant “Stay here, brat, or I’ll find you in the afterlife and kill you again myself.” Then, with a slight limp thanks to the gunshot wound in his left leg, he re-entered the battle. 

He picked off those in the perimeter, fired one man in the shoulder who’d been planning to shoot Red Robin from behind. Drake responded with a nod of acknowledgement, before knocking down a goon with a flick of his bo staff and somersaulting over three men ready to let loose a wave of bullets. He sent one to the ground with a crippling kick to the knee, and the other two, he took down in a series of acrobatics that Hood recognized from Grayson’s repertoire. It tasted something sour. Goldie had clearly spent time he’d never spent on Jason training the other Robins.

Whatever. Dickiebird was a dick. That wasn’t new. 

He shot one man dead center in the knee cap, another in the shoulder as his first victim collapsed to the floor. Mr. Broken Kneecap reached for his gun, which Jason promptly kicked away, the wound in his left calf stretching uncomfortably in response. He gritted his teeth and turned to Mr. Shoulder Wound to knock him out with a blow to the head. A man tried to ambush him from behind, and he responded by twisting the poor guy’s dominant arm and shattering it. Too brutal for the Bats. Not fatal enough for the League. Just right for Jason. 

A few meters away, the Replacement made his way toward him and shouted breathlessly over the commotion. “How’s-” An awkward pause as the kid ducked an unarmed goon’s attempt at a side kick. “Robin?”  

“A pain in my ass, but alive.” Jason replied as he sent a splattering of bullets into a group of goons to the right of him. “Thanks a lot for that, by the way. Demon brat really loved being babysat.” 

At that, Drake curtly nodded, but as the vigilante came nearer, Hood could’ve sworn he saw a self-satisfied smirk on the teenager’s face. A maniacal “sicced the Demon on someone else” expression if there ever was one.

Asshole. 

 --- 

Several minutes later, the White Scorpions were fleeing. Their leader, Ramoji, was long gone, and the few remaining seemed to be following his lead.  

Jason figured that now would be a good time to leave himself, before Bats showed up after finally discovering that the brat went on patrol without him. 

“Wait,” the Replacement called out hesitantly as Jason aimed his grapple gun for the rooftops. 

“We never finished exchanging intel.”

Hood was too damn exhausted for this. He rolled his eyes, offered a sardonic wave goodbye. 

“Don’t sweat it, kid. I won’t hold you to it. Let’s just hope we never team up again.”  

With that, he zipped into the air. As Robin, racing on the rooftops had been exhilarating. Now, the adrenaline worn off for the night, his entire body just ached as he made the painful return to his safe house.

He needed to deal with his leg before it got infected. And that meant alcohol and stitches and probably passing out. Pain killers never really worked after the Pit.  

So much for a boring stake out. 

---

Damian had unsurprisingly not remained where he was, but this was more because he was almost discovered by fleeing gang members using the trucks as getaways, and not because “I’m fine, Drake. I was coming to help you and that dimwit, Todd, dispatch of the brutes.” 

In fact, upon this proclamation of health, Damian swayed then collapsed, hitting his head for the second time in the last few hours. His concussion was probably worse than ever. 

Alfred was not pleased. 

—- 

In Jason’s dream, there were two ghosts.  A Bat and a Bird. One ghost beaming as its feathers ruffled in the wind, the other stoic but content, with membranes and forelimbs outstretched in a dramatic unfurling of fabric. 

They flew - the Dynamic Duo - a routine of grace and congruence, untouched by the grime of their surroundings. The Bat was followed by its Bird, who cawed with joy as it swooped by and occasionally passed its mentor. Washed-out clouds twisted in an open, moonlit sky engulfing them in sheer vastness, and below, Gotham, in all its glory, seethed. Debilitated structures creaked, constructors resigned to see what they’d built topple to the next routine calamity, and shadows, winding insidiously in their alleys of gnawing darkness, whispered stories of shattered bones and empty stomachs. 

Unafraid, the two silhouettes meandered, snuck into each nook and cranny and breathed in the grit and smoke. They flew, far and fast. 

When the time came to rest, the Bat and the Bird crouched like gargoyles in the Gothic parts of town:  immovable objects, an unstoppable force together. The Bird puffed its chest out, heart palpitating, feeling like it owned the world, and the Bat, tempted to curl its wings around its proud little bird, smiled, a little curl of the lip rare and fleeting but there nonetheless.

From their outlook on Wayne Tower, the duo could see everything. 

But not what was to come. 

The sense of weightlessness, of unreasonable bliss, was jolted away and grounded by a loud clatter below. A group of round-bellied, unshaven thugs exited a bar. The Bird grimaced, watched as the door was swung open by the first man with enough force, the rusted hinge stayed jammed at the halfway point, neon lights, heavy bass, and the stench and sound of erotica seeping out the opening. 

One of the men shouted profanities at a scantily-dressed working girl nearby as he exited with the rest of his buddies, but eventually, the weary woman was left alone. Even being an asshole took energy, and sleazy drunkards like the thugs couldn’t be bothered. 

Willis was the same, most of the time, choosing to snore on the beer-stained sofa rather than bloody his fists. Too lazy to hurt Catherine, and too lazy to hurt the Bird.  

With a parting cat call, the men left, and the working girl sneered after them. She discarded her cigarette, and crushed it with the heel of her boot with a heavy sigh. The Bird could sympathize with the misery, thought of its own cigarettes and the hunger pains nicotine seemed to subside. For a moment, it considered leaving its perch on the rickety fire escape and revealing that it was there.

It didn’t have to.

The music and the moans and the everything from the bar had gone quiet. 

In the unsettling silence left behind, the working girl’s neck twisted. It stretched unnaturally upward and forward like a rubber band being pulled taut or like the dried skin you peeled off between toes on a calloused foot. There was a sickening pop, and then craning that neck, the woman was suddenly alert, suddenly watching. 

As they made eye contact, the Bird flinched away.

Her gaze, teal blue, was just like the Bird’s.

Just like Sheila. 

Ignoring the sudden tremor to its wings, the Bird looked around for the Bat but found itself alone. That was okay, it reassured itself. The Bat would come back soon, always did. 

The prostitute, who’d looked so haggard before, started to smile.

Her lips were red. 

Cheap cherry lipstick, maybe, from a nearby corner store, but no, the mouth was too wide and the red a different shade. More like... Crimson. 

Blood was on the floor, coagulated now cause it’d been a few hours, a few days, a few years. 

Breathe, the Bird tried then failed. 

It was on the floor now too, wings and ankles tied. 

At the corner of its eye, the Clown’s purple suit came into view, with green accents, green like that hair, those eyes, like the Pit and its nauseating glow on Talia’s wide-eyed face.

The Bird tried to fly away. 

Failed. 

Polished dress shoes made a squelch as they slipped in a fresh puddle of red.

“Ketchup,” the thing cried out, delighted. “If you live long enough, I’ll buy you an extra large fries to go with it.”

It laughed at the joke, not the high-pitched cackle but the low, savoring chuckle, the one that settled deep in the bones and latched on like a leech. 

A flash of steel. Fear. Anticipation.

The whistle of air as something was swung down hard. 

Then the searing thwack. Something shattering, everything turning white and jagged. The weird sharp ache in the chest making it hard to breathe. 

From somewhere irreparably broken, thick droplets hit the pavement.  

driP

DriP

dRip

They tasted like salt. 

Weakly, the Bird squawked for the Bat. 

Screamed, even, though it didn’t have the energy. 

Bruce? 

Bruce. 

Where?

Please. 

Dad? 

The whimpers, coming from somewhere, maybe from him, were drowned out by laughter. 

--- 

The first thing he knew was pain. 

Radiating pain like a sonar mapping Jason’s body with gritted teeth and winces. Not deep and jagged like the feel of splintered bones. Not overpowering like heat captured in his flesh. Not the biting pinch either, of a serrated knife or a curved sword clipping him at the side or the phantom pain of a batarang slicing his neck. 

He opened his eyes.

A bullet wound then.

Distantly, Jason recognized the hoarseness of his throat, blood and skin caught in his fingernails from digging them into his palms, a damp pillow, a lingering tear on his cheek. 

He ignored it all, and settled instead for inspecting his throbbing left calf. 

The bullet had gone clean through. Missed any important arteries, the only reason he hadn’t bled out. The puncture was on the smaller side, which Jason couldn't help but feel thankful for. It had certainly made stitches easier, and the blood, oozing like drool at the corner of your mouth, had clotted eventually after he'd elevated his leg on a cushion.

Stinking up the room was the familiar scent of blood, like rotten fruit in a dumpster mixed in a cloying vat with post-workout sweat. Discarded on the floor somewhere were his ruined, stained pants and a wad of cotton coated in dried blood. Messy. The bare minimum. He’d been too woozy to do much else. 

Jason relaxed into his bed. The sheets were soaked with sweat. 

It was fine.

---