Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

...and the hatred makes me strong
and my survival is their failure,

and my happiness would kill them
so I shove joy like a knife
into my own heart over and over

and I force myself toward pleasure,
and I love this November life
where I run like a train
deeper and deeper
into the land of my enemies.

"Reasons to Survive November" by Tony Hoagland

There were direct flights from Paris to Gotham, but Jason chose New York. More anonymity that way. He doubted anyone would be looking for him, certainly not Bruce. If he hadn't found Jason when it mattered, Jason doubted he would succeed now he wasn't even looking. After all, Jason Todd had been dead for over five years.

But better safe than sorry. Jason had plans, and those plans involved hitting the wasps nest that called itself Gotham with a crowbar until it shattered. Bruce would come looking then, and the Joker, and pretty much every rogue and wannabe crime lord that had spent the last decades thriving on police corruption and Bruce's utter lack of follow-through when dealing with criminals. They would all come looking, and Jason would be there, waiting. A ticking bomb ready to blow.

It had worked for Jason. His death had been slow and excruciating but ultimately necessary. A lesson he needed to learn. A lesson Gotham would learn, too. She could not rely on Batman to save her. Batman didn't have what it took. He had the tools and the knowledge, but he lacked the mettle. You couldn't clean a sewer without getting your hands dirty, and when it came down to it, Bruce Wayne was just another rich boy who had never needed to clean a mess in his life. He had never needed to dirty his hands and never would.

Jason was a different story. He was born dirty, grew up dirty, and even when he was living in Bruce's dream mansion, deep down, he had always known that it would not last, that someone like him would die dirty, too. And he had.

Jason did not fear doing what needed to be done. He would not lose sleep over it. If anything, he would sleep better. The Lazarus Pit still burned through his veins like molten lava where blood ought to be. It hurt, and the only thing that lessened the pain was killing. Some days it took all of Jason's willpower not to get his guns out and start shooting everything and everyone around him.

If Jason let it, the fire of the pit would consume him and everyone near. But Jason refused to be the pit's slave. If killing was the only out from the madness of it, then at least he would make sure that those who died at his hands deserved it. If the price of self-control was pain, so be it. When he killed, he'd do it knowing that the targets were his choice and his alone. And as it happened, Jason knew a lot of people in need of killing. Quite the convenient coincidence.

Thus, here Jason was, on his way to New York, under a fake name with a false passport and one true aim: to clean Gotham. Whatever it took.

He cleared customs without issue, proof of the high quality of the documents Talia had provided. The rest was easy. He stole a car, drove to Bludhaven, and found his weapons waiting in the agreed location. Another of Talia's gifts.

Whoever she had assigned to bring the stuff had too much fun booby-trapping the place, and it took Jason almost two hours before he could get to the cache. The moment his fingers closed on the grip of his gun he relaxed for the first time since entering the airport in Paris. Those hours on the plane had been a nightmare. It wasn't that Jason needed weapons to kill or defend himself—Bruce's initial training followed by his years in the League of Assassins had ensured that—but Jason missed having them close.

His love for guns was further proof of how much he'd changed, how different he was from the Jason who died in Ethiopia. As a child growing up in Crime Alley, guns had been the ubiquitous enemy that could and would kill you if you were stupid enough to mess with the gangs or too slow to duck when you heard shots. Later, working as Robin, guns were the tools of criminals and rogues, instruments of death and destruction. Bruce taught him to use them, but the focus of his lessons had been in disarming, evading and dismantling guns, rendering them harmless. More than anything, Bruce taught him to distrust them.

The love was Talia's teaching, and Jason had been such a good student. During his years training with the League, guns and explosives became just more tools in his arsenal, as easy to use as batarangs, and more effective.

Jason took the guns apart, making sure no more nasty surprises were waiting and then put them back together. The cold, hard metal felt familiar under his fingers. He used to think being Robin gave him magic, but guns had their own kind of magic, too. One just needed to know how to wield it. No one would stop him now. He'd use everything Bruce taught him, and everything he'd learned since. Lessons paid for with fire and pain and blood. Lessons paid in death. The best kind of lessons, the ones Jason would never forget, for they haunted him even in sleep.

He found a second bag hidden in a far corner and snorted when he saw its contents. Wads of fifty and hundred dollar bills, carefully stacked next to each other, and on top of them a red helmet with a small note clinging to it:

Cross the line.

It wasn't signed. It needn't be.

'Punish him,' the echo of Talia's words rang in his ears, followed by the Joker's laughter, 'Prepare yourself for a severe spanking, young man.' The world took a greener hue all around him, and Jason had to force himself to breathe in and out, slowly, carefully, counting every breath, holding it for three seconds before releasing it again.

It took a moment for the green to fade, and with it, the echoes of the voices in his head and the memories they brought. He willed his fingers to unclench and with precise, calculated moves concealed two knives and four different handguns into his clothes. He finished inspecting the supplies, careful to keep his mind in the now, the smell of gun oil, the texture of the cash under his fingers, the sound of the zipper as he closed the bags, the weight of them as he hefted and carried them into the car. Easy, mundane details to remind himself where he was and push away shadows that were no more.

He made the short drive from Bludhaven to Gotham with his mind still carefully blank. Meditation had been one of the hardest skills for him to master, much harder than weapons and explosive training. Bruce and Talia had both, at one point or another, tried and failed to teach it to him. Jason had always struggled, unable to sit still or quiet his thoughts long enough. It had been Ducra who introduced him to the art of moving meditation and though it had taken him time to master it, in the end he had.

Even after he left the All Caste, his training completed, meditating became something Jason could not do without: those precious minutes of blessed quiet, when he could mute the voices in his head and just exist. Sometimes, he wished he could do it forever, find that quiet place and stay in there until death came for him one final time. Maybe one day he would, but not before he killed the Joker, not until he fixed Gotham, and never before Bruce Wayne learned that Jason Todd was alive and saw the man Jason had become while Bruce was too busy replacing him.

His fragile peace of mind shattered when he saw the shape of Wayne tower pierce through the fog covering Gotham. The same ubiquitous W stamped and embroidered in every item in the manor: the silverware, the china, the bed sheets, the towels, even those stupid handkerchieves Alfie forced him to carry.

"Fuck you!" Jason growled at the tower. "Fuck you!" he repeated, and he didn't know if he was talking to the ghost of Bruce Wayne or to the stupid child Jason had been, who had actually believed that having that pretentious W embroidered in his school uniform made him one of the Waynes. Well, he fucking knew better now, didn't he?

The green taint of the pit came back and this time Jason didn't bother to fight it. He almost welcomed it. He'd take anger over self-pity any day. So what if Bruce had played him? Bruce was one hell of an actor, and Jason had been half-starved, desperate and lonely when Bruce found him. He fell hook, line and sinker.

Jason concentrated on navigating through Gotham streets, ignoring the pompous W towering over the city. Maybe he should blow up the tower, too. Wouldn't that be fun? He parked the car in a dark, hidden corner of Park Row, fully aware that come nightfall all that would remain of it was an untraceable number of spare parts circulating through Gotham's black market.

He got out, glad to stretch his legs, and breathed in the polluted air of a city with more inhabitants than space. After visiting places like Paris and Singapore, Gotham seemed grimmer and darker than he remembered. It smelled fouler, too. The stink of rotting trash the city seldom bothered to collect, clogged sewers and piss. It was such an ugly city, and yet Jason could not find it in his heart to hate her.

It didn't matter how far away he'd traveled, how many glamorous places he'd seen. They weren't home. Jason was a Gothamite born and bred, and despite her ugliness, Gotham was his in ways no other place would ever be. Being back felt right. Not good. But right.

Standing there, in the middle of Park Row, new memories came back. Things he had not been aware he was missing, erased by death or the Lazarus Pit. The warmth of his mother's hand as she pulled him close to her whenever they went out in the streets. The pathetically overwhelming joy of finding shelter from the cold and the snow in a hidden corner of an abandoned building, hoping that it would be warm enough to survive another week of winter. The self-satisfaction of pickpocketing a wallet with four brand new fifty dollar bills, fresh from the bank, the corners so crisp and perfect Jason could not believe they were real. God, it had seemed like a fortune back then, he had thought himself rich.

An indulgent smile tugged at the corner of Jason's lips at the silly memory. Life before Bruce had been hard and yet so simple. Other memories pushed forward, of lush chairs and huge fireplaces, feather soft beds and silk sheets, of jumping from rooftops in the darkness of the night, laughter and the closest thing he'd ever had to love. Jason stomped them. He would much rather remember his piss-poor days on the streets of Crime Alley than a single night of comfort surrounded by Bruce's lies. Bruce, who had hurried to bury the mistake Jason had been, and wasted no time in replacing him with a better educated, more malleable Robin.

He breathed in the stink of Crime Alley. This was where Jason belonged, this was his world. Believing otherwise had been folly. If there was one thing he'd learned fighting his way out of the grave, it was that nothing in life was free. You had to fight for everything, and even when you won, you still had to pay. Well, dying and coming back to life made him greedy. Jason wanted. All the things he never had: money and power, respect, justice, revenge. And he did not want or need anyone to give him those things; he would take them for himself.

More than anything, Jason wanted to win, and when he did, no child born in Crime Alley would ever again have to worry about abusive assholes and corrupt systems that hurt and used instead of protecting and giving. And if winning that war came with a price, Jason would gladly pay it so that others didn't need to.

It was still early in the day and Crime Alley was almost empty. The prostitutes and the pimps, the addicts and the dealers, the small and big criminals would wait for nightfall. And Batman would too.

Jason's heart beat faster. Soon a new era would begin, and the name people in the streets feared and revered would no longer be Batman.

Chapter Text

Batman despised the place, but it was still part of his nightly patrol. Crime Alley had taken too much from him, and he was loath to give it more. There was a part of him, small after so many years pushing it down where it belonged, that wished to avoid the place altogether, but weakness was something Batman could not afford. It was a luxury reserved exclusively for Bruce Wayne. He could avoid Crime Alley if he wished. The pain of Bruce's parents' death or his first encounter with Jason would not keep Batman away. Those were Bruce's weaknesses and fears, not Batman's. He would no more listen to the crying orphan than he would to the mourning father. Justice came first. Crime Alley would not take from others what it had stolen from Bruce.

So Batman forced himself to patrol the Alley, to stop crime when he saw it, again and again and again. A Sisyphean task. After years of trying and failing even he had been forced to accept not defeat—as long as he drew breath he would fight that war—but an impasse. No one in Gotham controlled Crime Alley, not even Batman. The Switzerland of the underworld, Leslie called it on her more sarcastic days.

For decades Crime Alley had been unclaimed territory. No single gang or mob boss had ever been strong enough to keep the Alley for long, and over time it had become neutral. A place where all gangs and criminals big or small could do business regardless of affiliation. A place where Batman patrolled and stopped crime and yet, despite his best efforts, crime continued.

Criminals came and went. He put away those that grew too ambitious or brutal, but others filled in the power gap. Even Gotham's more unique rogues used Crime Alley for recruiting henchmen and cannon fodder. Some even temporarily based their operations there, but none of them tried to claim it, and thus Crime Alley remained its own small paradise for drug dealers, thieves, corrupt cops and prostitutes. A dark mirror on which all of Gotham's sins and vices were reflected.

Batman did not realize how much he had come to rely on that unspoken rule of Gotham's underworld until it was broken. It was Commissioner Gordon who first made him aware of the change.

"There's a new player in town," Jim said in lieu of a greeting, when Batman landed on the rooftop they used for their meetings. It was a moonless night, with an overcast sky that did not let the stars shine through. Despite the darkness, the buildings and street lamps gave off enough ambient light that Batman could easily see the tight lines of exhaustion marring Jim's face without having to activate the night vision in his cowl.

"Name?" Batman asked, a sense of foreboding pinging his senses. He should have been aware of any new players in town before they could catch Jim's attention.

"They're calling him Red Hood," Jim said, handing him a rather thin manila folder. "We only have sketches so far and even those have been hard to get."

"Any relation to the Joker?" Batman asked, accepting the folder. It wasn't like the Joker to become sentimental over an old alias, especially one from before his transformation. Still, Batman couldn't think of anyone crazy or stupid enough to claim a name that belonged to the Joker without his approval.

"Not that we can tell," Jim said. "Not flashy enough to be Joker's work, even by proxy. We don't know how long he's been active. He's remained under the radar till now. It appears he's been operating in Crime Alley for a while. Almost no security cameras there, though. Difficult to gauge."

Batman flipped the folder open and studied the sketch. Not helpful at all. The man's head was completely covered by some sort of helmet which went all the way down to his neck. The sketch was black and white, but it was probably a safe bet to assume it was red, given the name. The helmet did not leave any openings for mouth or nose, only for the eyes, and even those were covered by protective lenses.

"You sure they are male?" It would be easy to assume that a man hid under the helmet's sharp lines, but it needn't be true.

"Yes, our witness confirmed it," Jim said.

"What else did they say?" Batman asked, flipping to the next page. They were crime scene photos. Photos of headless corpses. He leafed faster through the pages, and it was more of the same. Different corpses, different crime scenes, all headless. He checked the names of the victims and startled. "These are Falcone's and Maroni's enforcers. Vladimir's too."

"Yes, so far all the victims we've found have been mobsters. High in the hierarchy, too," Jim confirmed. "We don't know much more than that. Only one witness until now, and he died in the hospital from his wounds. We haven't found anyone else willing to talk. Mostly, we just find headless corpses."

"The beginning of a gang war?" Batman speculated, already playing through different scenarios. They would need to increase patrol frequency, and he would have to call Clark and let him know he wouldn't be dealing with League business for a while. He could not leave his children to deal with a brewing gang war by themselves. Damn it, this was the last thing Gotham needed right now.

"He's a completely new player," Jim said. "In the last week, he's killed members from every gang operating in Crime Alley."

"What? Every gang in Gotham?" Batman asked, and though his tone did not change, he meant it as a joke.

"Yes." Jim sounded exhausted. "He's claiming Crime Alley as his territory."

"Fantastic," Batman grunted. "The gangs will go after him. If we don't find him and put him in jail soon, he'll be a corpse in a matter of weeks and the collateral damage will be immense. We need to stop him."

Jim huffed and shook his head. "We're too late. It's already begun. Vladimir and Mikhail went after him yesterday. Coordinated effort. Thirty men total. They're all dead, including Vladimir and Mikhail. Some of the heads were left in duffle bags in the bedrooms of Falcone and Maroni that we know of, maybe others too. They were asleep when it happened and didn't wake up. The security didn't notice anyone entering and didn't think anything was amiss until they saw the heads the next morning."

"They reported it?" Chopped-off heads or not, the mob did not like to involve the police in its territorial disputes.

"No, our undercover agents did. The gangs are spooked. This isn't your normal underworld criminal wannabe pushing for power. He is acting solo as far as we have been able to tell and that's not slowing him down at all. That type of skill, I'd say he is one of yours," Jim said.

"Commissioner," Batman allowed an edge of anger to color his voice, "I thought we were past this."

"Not yours as in Bats," Jim hurried to say. "Yours as in metahuman, but the wrong kind. The ones that use their power to kill and not help."

Batman wanted to snarl that neither he nor his children were metas, nor did they need metas to clean up Gotham's messes, but he bit down the retort. He knew what civilians and criminals believed. As if skill, training and intelligence were not enough to overcome any and all obstacles. It irked Batman, but he knew better than to correct their assumptions. It made his opponents fear him more, and fear was a great deterrent and an even greater advantage when it came to an actual fight.

"I'd say we have the next rogue on our hands," Jim went on, "except I don't think this one is crazy. Too neat. Too effective. Not enough chaos. Usually, I would count that a blessing, but I have a bad hunch about this one."

"I will look into it," Batman promised and tucked the file beneath his cape before he jumped off the building, grapple in hand.

Batman despised going unprepared into unknown situations if it could be avoided. A new player in Gotham, skilled enough to fly under the Bats' radar while killing so many was not someone who should be underestimated.

He went to Crime Alley because he would have gone anyway, but he took care not to change his routine otherwise. He paid a bit more attention to the comings and goings in the Alley, but other than stopping some muggings and robberies, he did not go out of his way to find out more.

Sooner or later he would have to start asking questions, but not immediately. This Red Hood had gone to great lengths to remain undetected by the Bats, and Batman did not wish to show his hand too early. Let Red Hood believe that he was still safe. By the time Batman confronted him, the tune playing would be a different one.

"Did you know about this?" he asked, knowing that Oracle had been listening as she always did.

"Not until tonight. I knew something was brewing in the underground, players changing, territories shifting, the usual noise. Nothing that caught my attention," Oracle answered.

"He killed thirty men last night. That should have caught your attention. It should have caught our attention," Batman growled. He trusted Oracle to keep him apprised of such developments. If she could not deliver, he would have to search for alternatives.

"We were all busy in Miller Harbor, stopping the shipment coming in for Black Mask. It was all hands on deck. Your order," Oracle pointed out in a tight voice. "Damn it! They played us," she added almost as soon. "The tip-off came from one of the Russians, I told you that. We assumed they were trying to damage Black Mask's operations by ratting him out, but it wasn't about that at all."

"Not only about that," Batman corrected her. "Us stopping that shipment was going to be a nice side effect one way or the other, but I agree with your assessment: Keeping us away from Crime Alley so that they could eliminate Red Hood without interference was probably their primary objective."

"That turned out so well for them," Oracle deadpanned.

"Very," Batman said, angered at the pointless loss of life. Given what they now knew it seemed like an act of self-defense, but if Red Hood was good enough to kill thirty men so quietly that not even the press got wind of it, then he would have been skilled enough to incapacitate them and deliver them to the police. And they still did not know what he might have done to make Vladimir and his brother go after him with such force. These things did not happen without provocation.

They had all learned a painful lesson during the War Games. The collateral damage of gang wars was not worth the benefits. Those thirty men had friends and families and children who would now seek revenge. Violence bred violence and it would continue to escalate unless someone put a stop to it. Batman was that someone. It was his mission and his curse and his calling. He would not allow some wannabe newcomer to sow chaos in his city without retribution.

"Yesterday we were busy," he acknowledged, "but before then, surely something came up."

"I told you. Nothing," Oracle said. "Even the police didn't know. Yes, they found some of those headless corpses, but until yesterday it looked like typical in-fighting, one lieutenant killed and his counterpart in another gang dying in the exact same way." She paused. "You've been patrolling the Alley, if you didn't notice anything, how should I? There are barely any cameras there and the police seldom go."

Batman knew those things. If anyone was to blame, it was him for not noticing it sooner. But blame did not help him. He needed to know what went wrong with their system to fix it. Obviously, patrolling alone did not work. He had not noticed anything amiss. Or maybe he had? It had been too quiet during the last days, now that he thought about it: fewer pimps beating their girls, fewer drug deals, fewer violent muggings. Fewer everything.

He had assumed that—no, he hadn't thought at all. He'd taken it at face value, a small respite in an everlasting war. It had been so gradual that he hadn't noticed the change in pattern, but looking back, he realized that it'd been going on for weeks. The Narrows and the Bowery had taken most of his time. His patrols to Crime Alley becoming shorter and shorter without a conscious decision on his part, not because he was skirting his duties but because there had been little crime for Batman to stop.

Oracle was right. That should have caught his notice. The failure was his, not hers. Batman might not know who hid behind that helmet yet, but that would change soon.

That evening and a good part of the next day went to research. He had Oracle run a face recognition program on all camera footage available during the last four weeks, not just Crime Alley. If the Hood was leaving heads in duffle bags in the houses of Maroni and Falcone, then it meant he ventured outside Park Row. They might have better luck with video feeds from other parts of the city, which were better covered.

Then he called everyone in to explain the situation. He did not want his children patrolling unaware with a new unpredictable player out there, especially one who had no qualms about killing when cornered.

"Have any of you noticed anything different during the last weeks?" he asked them.

Damian's expression hardened, becoming more blank than usual. Batman wanted to reassure him, but he knew that Damian would not welcome it in front of the others. Remembering how poorly he'd managed his conversation with Oracle, he added for everyone's benefit, "I'm not saying you should have. I didn't."

The barely-there ease of tension in Tim's shoulders and the pleased if surprised look on Dick's face proved that the small confession was the right thing to do to put his children at ease. It was not always easy to do. As Batman, he did not like to admit weaknesses, but here, in the cave, with the cowl off and his children unmasked faces watching him expectantly, the usually clear lines between Batman and Bruce Wayne became blurred.

"Very quiet," Cassandra said, though she usually tended to be the last to talk. "I thought weather?"

"Tt," Damian huffed with his usual scorn. "Speak for yourself. Father and I have been sedulous in our pursuit of criminals."

"In Crime Alley?" Cassandra asked, her expression unchanged.

Damian frowned. His eyes darted to him and back again, but Batman did not come to his help. The boy's shoulders slumped slightly as he was forced to admit what Bruce had already noticed, "No. The Alley has been unusually quiet."

"Very quiet," Cassandra repeated, and this time she allowed her lips to twitch a bit, enough for Damian to know she was laughing at him.

"Something else?" Batman asked, interrupting before Damian could reply, escalating things further, not that Cassandra would let it happen. Unlike Tim, who was unable to ignore Damian's attitude, Cassandra was good at defusing arguments with Damian by simply refusing to engage.

"Some of the street girls have left the Bowery to go work in Crime Alley," Tim said.

"Have you no shame, Drake?" Damian's nose twitched with disgust. "We need not know about your filthy proclivities here."

"Don't be such a child, Itty Bitty. Street girls know more about what goes on in Gotham and its underworld than any of us ever could," Tim said. "You are much too little to be allowed to talk to them, but the rest of us are not under such constraints."

"Tim, enough," Batman said, letting some of the anger show in his voice. Tim should know better than to let himself be goaded by a child. He was older and should have better self-control. "Do you know why they are moving to Crime Alley? And when did you first notice?"

Anger flashed through Tim's eyes but it was gone so fast Batman doubted anyone but him had noticed it. When he spoke again, Tim's voice was calm and even, devoid of emotions, a news anchor reporting, "Three of my usual informants from the Narrows and the Bowery disappeared about two weeks ago. At first, I assumed they might have been busy with work, nothing unusual. After two weeks without seeing them, I started to worry. I investigated further and learned they had moved to Crime Alley."

"Were they forced?" Dick asked. "Crime Alley is not kind to prostitutes. Only the really desperate ones go there, or the ones who are given no choice."

"That was my initial hypothesis," Tim said, "which is why I went to talk to them. The switch was voluntary, or so they claimed."

"Their reasons?" Batman asked. Two weeks. If it was somehow related to Red Hood, it meant he must have been active for much longer than Batman had originally assumed. Prostitutes did not change pimps that easily or that quickly unless, "Are their old pimps still alive?"

"I don't know. They didn't want to talk," Tim explained. "They assured me they had left without being forced. A new player, growing his share of the sex business in Gotham by offering girls a higher percentage of the profits and better protection against abusive johns. They even get tested twice a year and the pimp carries the costs." Tim shrugged. "It's a much better deal than what they had, or what anyone else is offering street girls in Gotham."

"And this new player's name?"

Tim looked over Batman's shoulder, not meeting his eyes. "They refused to tell."

"Tsh, I thought you went to these whores to get information," Damian goaded, "and yet you failed to find out the most important thing. I assume that you—"

"One of their employment conditions is not to sell information on the guy," Tim went on, speaking over Damian. "They were afraid to break the rules. That much was clear. I didn't think it necessary to press."

"Your ignorance never ceases to—"

"Damian, drop it," Dick cut him off. "Tim had no reason to think it was important. If we were going to learn the name of every new pimp who tried to make it work in Gotham and Bludhaven, we would need a dedicated database." He turned to Tim. "Will they give you a name if you lean on them a bit more?"

"Maybe." Tim's expression closed. "If he killed all those people as Gordon seems to think, I'm not sure we should put the girls at risk by scaring them into talking."

"We will not have to scare them into anything. They are whores, Drake," Damian said, rolling his eyes. "You give them enough money and they will sell their own mothers."

"Oh, shut up!" Steph said. "What do you know? You haven't talked to a sex worker in your life. They're people and they have fears. And this Red Hood sounds like someone to be afraid of. Surely there are other ways to get that name."

"Robin and I will go to Crime Alley tonight," Batman said, cutting the argument short. "We will talk to the prostitutes and see what information they are willing to give." He met Tim's eyes and added, "We will be careful."

It would be a good learning opportunity for Damian. He needed to interact more with people in the streets. Tim was right, Damian was sheltered. His childhood had been hard, but in a different way to the other Robins. He did not know what life in the streets was like. At his age, Dick, Stephanie and even Tim had all understood the workings of Gotham underworld much better. And Jason—Batman cut that train of thought before it could go any further. It was not relevant.

Right now the only important thing was finding out more about Red Hood. Using the opportunity to help Damian understand the lives of those less privileged than him was an added benefit.

"Are you sure that's wise?" Tim asked, giving Damian a sideway glance.

"I'm perfectly capable of making low-life scum talk," Damian said haughtily, proving Tim's skepticism justified even though he did not seem aware of it. It hardened Batman's resolve: Damian needed to see that his attitude would not get him what he wanted. Only then would he learn better.

Dick sighed, but did not say anything. Steph and Tim's displeasure was all too evident. Only Cassandra and himself remained unmoved.

Tim eyed Damian for a moment, before turning to Batman. "I can give you the names I know, but please don't tell anyone I sent you. It will set my network back months."

"Don't worry," Batman said to Tim. "We won't." He did not particularly approve of the network Tim cultivated, but he understood its usefulness.

"As if we would want anyone to know we are in any way acquainted with you," Damian mumbled.

"Number five, the uniform kinda gives it away," Steph said. "So try and be polite. Not that you know what that means."

"I know what it means, I just don't bother with those who are unworthy," Damian countered. "If you find me impolite that might be the reason."

Cassandra grabbed Stephanie's wrist, stopping her, and said. "Come. Patrol. Gotham more than just Crime Alley."

"Yes," Batman said, thankful for the intervention. "See that things stay quiet at Robinson Park and surroundings. Nightwing, go to the Harbor and keep an eye on it. Black Mask should be trying to get another big shipment soon, after we intercepted the last one. We need more details on it. Red Robin, take the Narrows. See if you can find out more from other girls who are thinking about switching but haven't yet. They might be more willing to talk. If Red Hood is the one behind it and he is actively recruiting girls, word must be out."

They each nodded, putting on their masks and getting ready in a flurry of silent movement.

"Robin, you are with me," Batman said, pulling his own cowl down and checking his utility belt. The Batmobile blinked twice and the doors swung open. He and Damian jumped in and as the engine roared with power, the anticipation. A new player.

Red Hood would learn soon enough that killing in Gotham had consequences. The city was Batman's to protect and he did not allow criminals to mess with it.

He left the Batmobile in a secluded dead-end street and took to the roofs. As soon as they were up, Robin launched ahead, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, running at full speed and leaping into the air with a childish joy he never displayed in day-to-day life. The small pang of not-quite-regret was entirely Bruce's, and Batman pushed it away with ease. Talia and Ra's had not been the best caretakers. They had wanted a weapon more than a child, and it was Bruce's job to undo that upbringing. Batman's part, though, was taking the weapon Damian was, and training it to protect and not kill.

Things were improving, though. Damian was starting to change, and Robin's sharp edges were slightly blunter than at the beginning. Most of that had been Dick's work, but in the last years since his return, Batman too aided Robin in unlearning some of the League's indoctrination. Today should help. Damian was not without compassion, he just had trouble empathizing without some point of reference that made it real or relatable to him. Talia and Ra's had kept him purposely isolated and living at the manor while being home-schooled did not do much to improve that situation.

Maybe it was time to think about sending him to school. He was still as deadly as he had been when he first arrived in Gotham, but there was no longer a risk of him murdering his schoolmates if provoked. Tonight would be a good test. Patrolling the city from the rooftops and only coming down to fight criminals made it hard to remember (or in Damian's case to learn) that there were good humans down there too. They were the reason they did this. It was about helping and protecting innocents, about making Gotham a better place for those who lived in it.

Hookers' Corner, as the place was called, had started in the intersection between Park Row and Summit. As violence grew and corruption and gangs gained more power, what had originally been just a small corner grew as well. By the time Park Row became better known as Crime Alley, that corner extended to four blocks filled with people of all ages and genders lingering in the shadows of the ill illuminated streets, exposing more flesh than Gotham's winter allowed for, selling their bodies for a couple of dollars to buy a warm meal or their next fix.

Batman did not often patrol there. Non-violent crime was not something he bothered with. Every now and then, he would stop a client or a pimp from going too far if he happened to be near, but bitter experience had shown him that even that much interference was unwelcome. Over the years, most Gothamites had come to accept and even respect Batman, but in Crime Alley he was just feared or hated. Even the ones he tried to protect were wary of him.

'They need to eat, you know,' Jason had explained once with that natural understanding he had of life in Crime Alley. 'Most of them would rather get a beating than go hungry for two weeks. Depends on the beating, I suppose. But when you put their pimps in jail, others will force them to leave and they will lose their spot.' Yet, no matter how much he understood Jason's rationale, he could not stop himself from stepping in when someone was being hurt. Thus, for the most part, he stayed clear of Hookers' Corner.

"You should do the initial talking," he said to Robin. "Batman will scare them. It's your role as Robin to make them trust you and open up. If you are unable to make them talk to you, I will step in. Otherwise, it's your call. Clear?"

"Yes, Batman," Robin said, standing taller. "I will not fail."

"Are you sure letting Robin go down there alone is the right move here?" Oracle asked in his ear, after Robin jumped down, landing in between the girls with a flourish.

They scattered away, startled by the sudden interruption. Some of them looked up immediately, wariness on their faces. Batman crouched down and remained hidden among the shadows of the roof. After a moment, when it became apparent that Robin was alone, most of the girls relaxed and moved closer to him. But some of them kept looking warily around them and then up, still afraid.

"He needs to learn this," Batman grunted after a moment. "It's an important skill." Giving others hope, making them trust him, was an important part of the Robin persona, ever since Dick had created it. Jason and Tim had both been very good at it, especially Jason. For all his brashness and hard edges, he had a way to make those scared or in need open up to him and trust him. It did not not come as easy to Damian, but the only way to improve was to try.

"It is, I'm just not sure it's one he can master," Oracle said.

"He's young. He will learn," Batman said. Damian was extremely competitive, a remnant of his upbringing in the League. He would not accept failure at anything Tim or Dick could do. Batman trusted Damian's ability to succeed if he put his mind to it and the stakes were high enough. "Today is as good a day as any to start."

He ignored Oracle's disbelieving snort and focused his attention on Robin and any potential danger coming his way. He'd lost enough to Crime Alley.

Chapter Text

The thing about Bruce and his countless Robins was that they didn't expect outsiders to know who they were or how they worked. For all of Bruce's paranoia, he trusted those in-the-know as much as he ever trusted anyone. And though Jason knew for a fact that Bruce had plans to counter Nightwing or even Alfred turning on him—mind magics and chemical mind control had been a thing even back when Jason was alive the first time—he had no active plans against Jason. Jason was dead and dead people told no tales.

Thus, avoiding Bruce, Dick and all of Jason's various replacements during the first few months of his return was easy enough. Jason only needed to follow some of the gossip rags and monitor the right hashtags to know what Brucie Wayne and his assortment of children—natural or not—were up to in order to get a rough idea of who would be patrolling when. The rest was just deduction, observation and insight into Bruce's patrol schedule paranoia. Anything that could resemble a pattern would be automatically dismissed. Batman's apparently random and arbitrary appearances were meticulously thought-through. Most people would not see it, but the forced unpredictability was a pattern in itself if you knew what to look for.

Jason knew what to look for.

It was just a matter of setting up hidden cameras on strategic rooftops for a couple of weeks to get a sense of the comings and goings of the current Bats and their rotation. And voila, soon he had a clear idea of who would be patrolling where at any given time. The fact that after Jason kicked the bucket, Bruce started collecting children like other people collected stamps made it even easier. Bruce had opinions about where his Robins were allowed to patrol alone, and Jason doubted those had changed. Even Nightwing complied with Bruce's paranoid hangups when he operated in Gotham. Jason still remembered the screaming matches that used to cause, not that it ever changed anything. For all his bark, Golden Boy had never truly dared defy the old man's rules, not the ones that mattered anyway.

Jason had no trouble avoiding Bruce and his flock of robins. Getting a feeling for Gotham's underground had been more difficult. Things had changed in the five years Jason had been gone. Black Mask was a new player who had managed to consolidate many of the gangs' territories. The old crime families were still holding the line, but barely. They'd lost power since Jason's death. After some digging he learned that a huge gang war had broken out a couple of years ago, wiping out some of the biggest players and weakening the others.

Jason almost smiled when he found out. That had been his idea. An offhand comment back when Jason still believed in Bruce and his ability to transform Gotham for the better, something along the lines of, 'Life would be easier if a gang war broke out and all these assholes would kill each other. I might have time to do my fucking homework then.' Bruce had started to admonish him for his language, but had stopped mid-sentence to say, 'Huh, Jay-lad, that's not a bad idea.'

They had worked at it for a while, on and off, but in the end Bruce shelved the plans, claiming the collateral damage and loss of life would be too high. A part of Jason had secretly thought that the collateral might be worth it, but back then he had not been confident enough to contradict Bruce so he never said it out loud.

For all his protests, it seemed Bruce tried it anyway. The beginning of the gang war as newspapers described it was too similar to what the two of them had plotted for it to be a mere coincidence. The only logical explanation was that Bruce had started it, and then in typical Bruce fashion got cold feet and interfered before the war could run to its natural end. Figures.

Well, it just proved that Jason's current plans for Gotham were better. A gang war would never have been the end. Other players would come, like Black Mask had, to fill the power vacuum and a couple of months later, Gotham would be exactly where it began.

Jason wasn't going to repeat Bruce's mistakes. No one could save Gotham. Not the way Bruce wanted or Jason had hoped for when he was still a naive child. Destroying gangs would not change anything. Crime would find a way to keep resurfacing like a fucking hydra, and Arkham—Bruce's placebo solution for all monsters in Gotham—was not the answer.

Jason was not Hercules. He couldn't kill that hydra and he didn't want to. What he wanted was to control it, tame it if you will. He didn't delude himself into thinking that his plans were right or just. They were not. And maybe the fucking hydra would rear up its many heads and kill Jason before he could get close, but Jason wasn't afraid of death. The good thing about having died once was that contrary to everybody else, Jason knew with the utmost certainty that death sucked way less than life did. He didn't fear it. He'd die again in a heartbeat if that was how the dice rolled. He didn't give a fuck.

Dying had changed him. Not death itself, but what came after: waking up in a coffin six feet under, earth choking him, his body broken, his mind gone, instinct the only thing left to him and the will to go on, to fight, to not give in, even when he didn't remember what he was fighting for. And then… the Lazarus Pit, burning him from the inside, lighting up the darkness in his mind and soul and turning the black nothingness of oblivion into a nightmarish green. Surviving that too.

All that pain, and fear, and loss. For what? To find out Bruce had replaced him like a pair of shoes gone out of fashion? Worse yet, that he had not even bothered to avenge him? The Joker still lived. Still used Arkham like a cheap one-night motel he could check out from whenever the fuck he pleased. He was still there, in Gotham, living, breathing, killing, laughing, while Jason couldn't even make it through one day without the green anger of the pit burning him from the inside.

Yeah, that had hurt. More than the crowbar or the explosion. More than Sheila's betrayal. What had truly fucked him up was realizing how little his life had meant to anyone. What a fucking waste it all had been.

Jason had gotten a second chance, which was more than anyone else ever did. He didn't know how or why. He didn't care, but he was going to ride it for all it was worth. His second go at the merry-go-round would mean more than the first one did. He was gonna change Gotham or die trying. And if Bruce didn't like how Jason went about it, he could go fuck himself. Or let the Joker do it for him.

One thing was certain. Jason would not go gentle into that good night. Never again.

He used those first weeks of surveillance to set up different safe houses and transfer funds from overseas—some Talia had provided and others he had earned for himself. He re-familiarized himself with Gotham's rooftops. New buildings had been built while others had been torn down. The city had changed since his death, even Crime Alley itself, though maybe an outsider wouldn't notice the differences. Jason was no outsider.

He needed to relearn Gotham until he knew her better than he knew himself. He had no intention of confronting Bruce before the gaps in his mental map of the city had been closed. Bruce would be dangerous as it was and when push came to shove he'd have his flock of Robins watching his back. Jason wasn't going to give the Bats the advantage of the terrain on top of it. When the first confrontation took place, as it inevitably would, Jason would be ready.

God, the look of surprise behind Bruce's mask when he realized that not only could Red Hood fight him on his own turf, but beat him, too? Delicious. Just imagining it was a balm on Jason's soul. When the nightmares and the burning in his veins became too much, the days when life seemed more a curse than a blessing and Jason was haunted by the wish to end it all and let some other sucker deal with the fucked-up shit in the world… on those days, it was not his mission that gave him strength to keep going, it was not Gotham or Crime Alley or the good he could do there. No, on those days, it was imagining Bruce's reaction that made him stand up from bed, move, eat, breathe… be.

Jason wanted Bruce to know. He wanted Bruce to see the ghost of the boy he had so easily discarded take shape in front of him. He wanted Bruce to die from the guilt of it. The worst days, when sunlight was tainted green and all other colors in the world faded to nothing, Jason wanted to be the one to do it. The one to erase Batman as though he'd never existed. An eye for an eye.

But Jason was in no hurry. He'd waited this long. He could wait a couple of months longer. He didn't want Batman to disappear too soon, not without Bruce seeing firsthand what Gotham could become, what Bruce could have made happen years ago, had he had the stomach.

The Russians and their moronic attempt to kill him shortened Jason's original plans by a couple of weeks. He would have preferred to wait a while longer before inviting Bruce to play, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

Vladimir and Mikhail came after him. Worse yet, they started by going after his girls, and Jason could not let that slide. So he killed them. Took them out one by one, thirty bullets, thirty dead thugs. And that was that. He didn't even break a sweat. Had Jason been anyone else, he'd probably be dead. But against someone trained by Batman, the League of Assassins' best and meanest and Ducra? They should have stayed in bed.

He cut off the heads and left them in the beds of Gotham's most prominent mob bosses. Waste not, want not. He was ahead of schedule, but not terribly so, and the messages needed to be delivered. A warning to the mob not to mess with Red Hood. A little taste of things to come. And for Batman, an offer he couldn't refuse. 'I'm in your territory. Come and get me.'

Bruce would not let that one go. Gordon would come crying wolf to him, and Bruce would look at the evidence, add two and two and get five: another crazy rogue entering his turf. And if there was one thing Bruce couldn't abide was crazy rogues in his turf. He'd gather his little Bats, warn them of the danger, and then he'd go to Crime Alley to ask his questions, and he would keep digging until he got his answers.

Yeah, the heads were the beginning. And like clockwork, two evenings after Jason went all Godfather on Gotham's mob, Batman came.

The first call came from Honey, who was one of the oldest working women in Hookers' Corner and unofficially in charge of the younger girls.

"Boss," she said, when Jason picked up the phone, "Robin's here. He's askin' questions. We ain't telling him nothin'," she hurried to say. "Just callin' cause you said to warn you if the Bats popped up askin' about you."

"That's fine," Jason said, heart beating with anticipation. At last. "Play dumb, and don't tell him anything."

"Tell him what, Boss?" Honey said, her voice higher and sultrier, the kind of voice that would make most men slot a woman in the category 'big tits, small brain.' Even Bruce wasn't quite immune to that effect. He had a tendency to underestimate how clever people working the streets had to be in order to survive. It wasn't that Bruce didn't think them intelligent, but he put a lot of weight in formal education. One of the reasons why he and Dickface had fought so hard when Golden Boy ditched college.

"That's my girl. Keep him distracted for a bit, would you?" Jason said.

"Sure thing, Boss," Honey answered and hung up.

Jason did not go to Hookers' Corner. Batman would be on the lookout for him and though Jason could evade him, there was no point in tempting fate. He grappled to the roof of a building one block over, which gave him a clear view of Honey's usual spot. It was far enough that Bruce would not be able to hear Jason. He zoomed in on Hookers' Corner with the camera in the lenses of his hood and saw Batman lurking on the rooftop of one of the lower buildings, just one jump away from street level.

He scanned the surroundings further but didn't find any other suspicious heat signatures. It seemed as if Bruce was keeping to his standard MO: Batman and Robin together while the other Bat wannabes covered the parts of the city he didn't get to.

Down on the streets, Robin was talking to the girls just as when Jason still worked with Bruce. It had been one of the things Jason had liked most about being Robin: talking to the victims, to those affected by crime and tragedy, finding ways to help them, giving them hope.

It didn't seem as if Replacement the Second was any good at it, though. Body language accounted for a lot, and it was hilarious how whenever Honey and Lucy leaned closer, Robin became stiffer and stiffer, moving slightly back. Bruce's little brat of a son didn't speak to hookers all that often, it seemed. He was so green it hurt. Neither the al Ghuls nor Bruce would have known or bothered to teach him how to do it right. That had been a skill Jason had brought in when Bruce plucked him from Crime Alley, and it had come handy quite often.

A second call flashed inside the hood, surprising him a little. It was Lyle, a runaway teenager who usually hung out in an abandoned old wooden house at the edge of Park Row with more holes than wood in the roof and walls. The house was in such a bad shape that other than Lyle no one ever bothered to use it and few dared go inside. Back when Jason lived in the streets, the house had already seemed as if one more blow of wind would make it fall apart and yet it still was there.

"Yes," Jason said, picking up the call.

"Uh… Red… Red Hood?" Lyle asked, sounding nervous.

"Yes," Jason replied, the voice modulator distorting the tone and making the slight exasperation sound like anger.

"Right, uh… Man, uh… Look, I didn't wanna bother you," Lyle stammered. "I know you said, this was for emergencies, but, man, Batman is here. You said to let you know."

"Where are you?" Jason asked, frowning. A quick check showed him that Batman was still hiding on the rooftop over Hookers' Corner very much alone. Jason did not see Lyle anywhere near him.

"By the old house," Lyle said.

"Don't waste my time, Lyle. Batman is not there," Jason snapped.

"N-Not Batman Batman, but his car, man. It's totally here. Parked in the dead-end street next to the house. Such a sweet ride." He stopped, and then stammered, "Not that… uh… not that your bike isn't hot. Your bike is way hotter, but like for a car, that thing is totally out there. Uh, I mean, not that I think that Batman is—"

Jason took pity on him. "It's a sweet ride, Lyle, I agree with you. Anyone with eyes would." His attention drifted back to Bruce as he spoke. He was still hiding in the shadows. Beneath him, Replacement the Second was successfully alienating all the girls he spoke to. If Jason could see it through a pixelated camera image from one block away, Bruce, who was probably listening in on the conversation must know it, too. Soon enough he would jump down to damage control.

The girls wouldn't talk. Despite Bruce's best efforts, people in the Alley distrusted Batman. Always had. Everyone had a cousin, or a father, or a brother, or a friend, or the friend of a friend, who ended up either in jail or in the hospital because of Batman. And though Red Hood was new and in certain ways crueler, people in Crime Alley understood and respected his brand of cruelty. Batman's less fatal version catered to justice and law, two things people in the slums didn't trust. Justice and law in Gotham only served the rich, and everyone born on the wrong side of the city damn well knew it.

"What do you want me to do?" Lyle asked. "Should I keep an eye on it? Tell you when the Bat comes back?"

Jason swallowed a snort. "He'll spot you from miles away. Just stay clear and—" Jason stopped, an idea taking shape in his mind. It was crazy. Utterly crazy. High-risk, low-reward crazy. The opposite of Jason's stay-below-the-radar approach to the Bat situation. He shouldn't do it. Oh, fuck it, he so was going to do it. "Actually, can I borrow your car jack?"

"Uh… sure, man. You can totally keep it, if you want. Man, I owe you my life." A forced chuckle followed.

"I just need to borrow it for a while," Jason reassured him, aware jacking cars was half of Lyle's income.

"Uh… you're gonna jack a car?" Lyle asked, sounding disbelieving. "Isn't that like a bit too small for the Red Hood? Just saying, man, you own the fucking Alley. Jacking cars is… what losers like me do."

"Not just a car," Jason said. "The Batmobile." A smile crept up his face, taking him by surprise. He hadn't smiled or laughed since he came back from the dead. His skin crawled whenever he heard laughter, and even smiles made him want to pull out one of his guns and shoot people in the face. Another thing the Joker stole from him. As if taking his life had not been enough. He'd taken away his joy, too.

"Fuck, man! That's insane!" Lyle gasped. "Holy shit! That's… are you sure? Uh… you don't want me to help, right? Cause… dude, you saved my life, but Batman… He puts people in the hospital. I don't have the money. Uh… but like if you want me … I'll… uh… I'll—"

"I don't need your help. I'll be there in two. Get me the tools and stay away from the car. I don't want you triggering its alarms by mistake."

"You've got it!" Lyle exhaled audibly, his voice filled with relief. "I'm your man. I'll get the tools. Anything you need. And I'll stay way away, no need to worry."

Jason's lips quivered with amusement as he killed the call. He dialed Honey's number, and saw her move away from Robin into a distant corner while one of the other girls stayed with him.

"We haven't talked, Boss!" She whispered as she picked up. "And we won't! Don't know where Batman picked this Robin. All British and shit. Way he talks, he thinks he's god's gift to women. He ain't fuckin' payin' us enough to put up with his shit. If he were old enough to fuck, I'd charge him the triple asshole rate."

Jason's tentative smile deepened. "Can you keep him busy for an hour? Batman, too, when he comes, which he will. I'll pay you the triple asshole rate for every minute past the half hour mark you manage to keep them there. Make stuff up if you've gotta."

"You've got it, Boss. I'm great at fakin' it," she said, going back to that girly, sultry voice of hers.

"Clock ticking from now," Jason said. "The instant you lose them, call me. No delays." His smile died thinking of a potential encounter with Bruce.

"Sure thing, Boss," Honey said before Jason cut the call. She walked back towards Robin and her body language changed as she did, becoming more inviting and open. Jason almost felt bad for the brat. Almost.

With one final look towards Bruce's hiding place, he grappled away. Stealing the Batmobile's tires had put him on Bruce's path that first time. It seemed poetic for this second chapter in their lives to start the same way. Except, this time around, Jason intended to finish the job.

Chapter Text

"I can show you one of Red Hood's digs, if you make it worth my while," the woman said, leaning closer as she spoke. Robin stiffened further, but he didn't cede ground again, allowing his personal space to shrink. "One of my regulars has worked some gigs for Hood and after a good fuckin' he loves to brag. I ain't sayin' you'll find the Hood there. That one doesn't stay put in one place long, but it's worth a checkin', ain't it, sweet cheeks?"

"I'm Robin, you may address me as that and nothing else. If you make me repeat myself one more time, I shall make you regret it," Robin snarled.

"Stay calm, Robin," Batman said from his vantage point on the rooftop. "Antagonizing her won't help." As lessons went, this might not be shaping up to be a good one. Although Robin had been talking to the girls for some time, it didn't seem as though he was gaining the understanding Batman had hoped. Red Robin or Nightwing would have been better choices.

Robin clenched his fists, a reaction that showed how close he was to actually snapping. Slowly, he released his breath, and yes, Batman would have to talk to him about that, too. For all of his precision and deadliness when fighting, his tells when interacting with others were too many. Another thing they needed to work on.

"Give me the address," Robin demanded.

The women chuckled. "Oh, sweet pie, you are a funny one, ain't you? This is Crime Alley, baby doll. You want shit? You gotta pay for it and tip for the smell, too. A bit of green goes a long way."

"Of course. Far be it from your ilk to give freely what you can sell." The disdain was clear in his voice. Much too clear.

The woman's smile widened. "America first, baby doll. I'm a patriotic girl, I am. Show me some presidents and we've got a deal. And there better be some Benjamins in there. Jackson and Lincoln don't get my juices going, if you catch my drift."

"Tt, your drift is beyond blatant."

The woman extended her hand, palm up, her smile unwavering.

Robin grunted, but he gave her the money. It was the fourth time he'd paid her tonight. She was taking advantage of Robin's ignorance, but Batman couldn't blame her for it. Robin was mismanaging the situation. This was a learning experience, Batman reminded himself. It would not do for him to interfere too early.

"Now, the address," Robin insisted, placing two one-hundred-dollar bills in the woman's hand.

"How about I show you where it is," she said, making the money disappear. "Wouldn't want a nice boy like you to get lost around here. The neighborhood ain't what it used to be."

"I can take care of myself," Robin snarled. "I paid for the address. Release the information at once."

"Oh, don't be like that, sweet pie. I can distract the men guardin' the entrance while you snoop around," she offered. "A bit of extra money never hurts, and you've been so kind to me already. A girl's gotta keep her friends comin' back for more."

Something was off. Instincts which had kept him alive through almost two decades of crime fighting flared in warning. It took Batman a moment to place what bothered him. The woman's smile was off. It lacked fear.

Red Hood killed people. By now everyone on the streets had to know it. No one with an ounce of survival instinct would agree to take Robin to the warehouse of a known crime lord while offering themselves as bait. Some might take the money, if they were desperate enough, but only in exchange for the address. To willingly accompany Robin? No. Just no.

It didn't add up. The whole encounter didn't add up. It should have been hard for Damian to extract information, especially if the women had a standing gag-order issued by her pimp as Tim told them.

Robin's approach had been faulty from the start. Batman kept expecting the girls to snap at his offensive, belittling tone. It was something Jason taught him: people in the slums had their pride, too. Yet, despite their initial anger, the girls became subservient and agreeable the moment Robin gave them cash the first time, behaving exactly like Robin had said they would: cheap sellers of information without any kind of principles or backbone.

Batman had believed it, too, at first. Money was a powerful motivator, especially for those who didn't have it. These women already sold their bodies to total strangers every night. What was information compared to that? Yes, greed might have loosened their tongues, but it would not have erased their survival instincts.

They were playing Robin. It was a set-up.

"Robin, we're done," Batman grunted into the comm. "We need to leave."

"Batman, she intends to lead us to—" Robin started, but Batman interrupted him with a barked, "Now, Robin!" He shot a grapple line to the next rooftop and jumped, trusting Robin would follow.

A click of metal on concrete seconds later and Robin was there. "Did something happen? I was about to get information from her," he protested.

"No, you were not. She was a distraction." Batman opened the line to Oracle while they ran. "Oracle, report," he ordered.

"CCTV cameras and police radio don't show any suspicious activity. Nightwing is still at the harbor, gathering information on Black Mask's shipments," Oracle reported. "Black Bat and Spoiler stopped two robberies and a rape attempt. Red Robin is currently hunting down more of his contacts to gather information on Red Hood, but so far he's managed to confirm that Red Hood is the one luring sex workers to Crime Alley."

"That is faulty," Robin protested. "The women I talked to told me that—"

"They were lying," Batman cut him off. Oracle's report only intensified his nagging sense of foreboding. He ran and jumped from roof to roof, Robin close behind. The streets were almost empty, as was typical for this time of the night. Every now and then, the laughter of young people out late rose from the streets below, but it was all within acceptable parameters.

He hurried further, glad to have Robin close by where he could ensure his safety. Laughter and loud voices rose from behind the crumbling house where he'd parked the Batmobile. He stopped. The cowl's thermal vision showed five people lurking close to the Batmobile. Unprofessional, undisciplined; an obvious bait. Even from the distance, he could hear a loud voice saying, "Holy shit, Batman is gonna flip," while the others snickered.

Robin pulled out his sword and moved closer, covering Batman's back. He, too, must have realized it was a trap.

A good one, too. No matter how hard he looked, he couldn't detect anyone else nearby. No heat signatures, no movement. Nothing. If it was an ambush, and he was sure it was, he could not anticipate where Red Hood and his men were hiding. He signaled Robin to stay put and cover him, but Robin shook his head, pointing at himself and then the roof of the old house.

His first instinct was to say no. He would not allow Robin to go alone into what could be a dangerous trap, but he stopped and forced himself to think through the alternatives. The roof of the house would not support Batman's weight. But it wouldn't support anybody else's either. No one was hiding there. It was too damaged. He studied Robin carefully. The boy was light enough he could probably manage it, and training would compensate for the rest. It would give them the advantage of high ground.

He nodded and signaled for Robin to take the roof while he approached from street level. If it was a trap, he'd prefer to be the one triggering it. Robin nodded and they separated.

With the shadows as cover, he ran silently around the house to where the figures were. Less than a minute later four of the men were unconscious and Batman was slamming the fifth against the wall. He was more a boy than a man, around Red Robin's age, but that didn't surprise Batman. Most of the gangs in Crime Alley picked high school dropouts and older teens to fill in their ranks. Anyone who preferred a quick dollar over honest work.

"Don't kill me! Please don't kill me!" the boy pleaded, trembling with fear. The rancid smell of fresh piss filled the air as he spoke. "It wasn't us! I swear it wasn't us. It was already like that when we arrived. Please don't kill me. We didn't do it." He broke out in sobs and snot ran down his nose.

"Do what?" Batman growled, resisting the urge to slam him against the wall once more. The boy was terrified. It was one thing for rogues and criminals to fear Batman, but seeing the way this boy recoiled from him soured Batman's already poor mood further. He wasn't the monster here.

"Batman," Robin said in a strained voice, landing next to him, "We have a situation."

Batman turned, tension coiling tighter in his gut, expecting Red Hood and his men to appear from the shadows. No one was there. The street was still empty. The dim light of a far away lamp illuminated the prone figures of the men he'd incapacitated. Lying unconscious on the ground, they seemed terribly young.

Beyond them, gleaming under the street lights, was the Batmobile. Its tires were missing. All four of them. He dropped the boy to the ground and moved closer, as if pulled by a magnet. He wouldn't have been able to stop himself if he'd tried.

The tires were missing.

His tight control over Bruce Wayne's feelings slipped. The shadows seemed to dance around him, taking the shape of a fearless ragged boy much too thin for his age. The wind's howling in the night was like laughter, shrill and loud. A Joker's laugh. A small body, mangled and burned and broken almost beyond recognition. So light, so very light in Batman's arms. A contrast to the unbearable weight of Batman's failure. His failure. Not Bruce Wayne's. His. Batman had failed Robin. The intensity of the pain capsized him. He might have fallen to his knees like he did in Ethiopia, but Oracle's voice snapped him back into the present.

"How the hell did they do that?" she cursed in his ear. "I'm seeing the images through the cameras in the cowl, but all sensors are telling me the Batmobile is in perfect working order. They didn't even trigger the proximity alarm."

He clung to the voice, letting the clipped, professional tone anchor him into the present. He assessed the damage to the Batmobile methodically, emotionlessly. A piece of a puzzle he needed to put together. A data point that would open new venues of investigation.

The tires were missing. The words 'REPLACE THAT, ASSHOLE!' had been sprayed from fender to step bumper in bright red letters. A red helmet doodle had been tagged over the windshield of the Batmobile, blocking the driver's view. On the screen he called up, all sensors' lights were green. How? It should have been impossible.

He knelt and peered beneath the frame of the car. A small box clung to the metal, a tiny red LED dot blinked in it.

"Is that a bomb?" Oracle asked.

Batman zoomed in on the object, activating the night vision mode in the cameras. It looked like a bomb, but he didn't quite know what–

"Oh, you brilliant bastard, whoever the hell you are," Oracle said, sounding much too admiring for Batman's taste.

"You know what it is?"

"What it is, it's a problem. We have a mole, Batman. There's no way someone without access to the Batmobile's schematics could have come up with something like this. Not on the fly. This has been months in the making," she said. "I need to examine it more closely, but it's probably looping the sensor data and feeding wrong information into the system. The computer believes everything is fine, because that's what the sensors are telling it. For that to work they needed to know the schematics to access the right cables. Not to mention the coding for the Batmobile, which is not standard. And they still needed to come close enough to place the device without the proximity alarms going off. If I weren't seeing it with my own eyes, I'd say it's impossible. There's no way those kids you knocked down could hack the system. Never in a million years. The kid wasn't lying; someone else did it. Someone good. Really good. Trouble on the horizon good."

"Yes," Batman said, "that's becoming clear." He studied the letters again and dragged a finger over the painting. It smeared his glove red. "Still fresh. He can't be that far off."

'REPLACE THAT, ASSHOLE!'

Was it a challenge? A threat? It wasn't a simple graffiti tag, but a message. A message for Batman. Replace what? The tires, obviously, but Batman couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it, some deeper meaning he was not seeing yet. Some kind of inside joke? It would be the kind of thing Joker would do, but this wasn't Joker's work. Gordon was right about that. Too neat. Not enough of an audience.

Except there had been an audience, hadn't there? Batman turned, zeroing on the last boy of the group. The boy gulped and scrambled back. He tried to make a run for it, but a swift kick from Robin sent him sprawling into the ground once more.

"Tt, I told you to cease attempting to escape," Robin said disdainfully while the boy coughed and clutched his stomach, groaning in pain.

Batman loomed over the boy, playing with the shadows so his frame would seem even larger. He deepened his voice into a menacing growl, the kind that scared even members of the Justice League into compliance. "Who told you to come here?"

"N-no one told us. I swear. I-I... Look, we didn't do it. I'm sorry. It wasn't us," he sobbed, almost hysterical. Not the kind of mindset needed to get coherent answers.

Batman grabbed his hair and twisted his head up, forcing the boy to look into the black lenses of the cowl. "If I believed for a second you were the one behind it, you'd be in much more pain than you are right now. Answer the question. Who told you to come here?"

"No one, no one! I swear. Someone posted pictures of the Batmobile without tires on Instagram and I recognized the old house in the background. I live just around the corner." He pointed to the top of one of the run-down apartment buildings two blocks away. "Me and the others were gaming, and Mike said we should check it out to see if it was true. That's it." His sobs became louder. "Please don't kill me. Please. I'm sorry we came. I'm sorry."

"God damn it!" Oracle swore through the comms. "He's telling the truth. The pictures were posted on Instagram about ten minutes ago. Damn it! It's already gone viral. You need to get out of there now. These idiots also posted pictures before you arrived, tagging the address, and I'm sure more morons will come to check it out soon. You can't beat them all. Well, you probably could, but I wouldn't recommend it."

"Marvelous," Robin said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Just what was missing to complete this day. All the imbeciles in Gotham heading our way. We should get rid of this one before the others arrive." He drew his katana and caressed the boy's face with the edge of it.

The boy whimpered, trembling so hard that only Robin's perfect control of his sword stopped him from cutting the skin. The boy closed his eyes tightly and Batman could hear the faint mumbling of a prayer. Robin was only playing with him, but the boy couldn't know that.

Batman took pity on him. "This won't hurt," he told him, and swiftly jabbed his fingers into the pressure points of the boy's neck, rendering him unconscious.

"Tt, effective," Robin commented. He poked the empty wheel hubs of the Batmobile with the tip of his sword, the jarring clang of metal scratching metal loud in the suddenly quiet alley. "How are we going to get the Batmobile back home?"

Right, practicalities. The rest would have to wait. "Oracle, tell Agent A to send the Batplane with the necessary equipment to tow the Batmobile into the hanger."

"Way ahead of you," Oracle replied. "Orders were dispatched the moment I saw this disaster. ETA eleven minutes. Nightwing and Red Robin are on their way, too."

"Good," Batman said. "Robin, check the place for clues or any indication of who might have been here earlier. The house, too."

"Yes, Batman."

Robin disappeared into the shadows, and Bruce turned his attention back to Oracle, "Trace back the source of the original post and take the pictures down. The sooner, the better".

"Working on it," she said. "The pictures have gone viral. It's going to be hard to take them down. I have backdoors into Instagram, Twitter and Facebook, but if we use them for this, they'll close the security gap. It'll slow us down next time we need to do background checks using their data."

"Regard it as a challenge," Batman said drily. "Next time, you'll find new ways. Get them off the net now. Do whatever you must."

"Aye, aye, Captain," she said, and Batman relaxed slightly. They would be able to limit the damage for now. Later, they would work at finding who managed to slip past their security so easily, and how.

Slowly, he walked around the car, sidestepping the bodies of the unconscious boys, searching for any type of clue. He filmed the surroundings and took pictures sending them directly to Oracle.

He heard distant voices, coming closer. Probably the curious onlookers Oracle had warned about. He grappled up the nearest building and followed the raucous sounds. Another bunch of teenagers with more time than brains. He dropped three feet in front of them and they screamed and scrambled back, terrified by his sudden appearance.

"Run," Batman growled in a low menacing voice. They did.

"That was mean," Oracle murmured. "Fun to watch, but mean."

"Nice is not among the soft skills anyone associates with Batman. ETA on the Batplane?"

"Two more minutes."

"Good. I don't feel like scaring more kids tonight. I'll have Agent A check the unconscious ones," he said. At least two of them probably had broken bones. At the time, Batman was sure they were part of the ambush and didn't bother to pull his punches.

He would find a way to cover the hospital bills without burdening the parents. It was the least he could do. But that was something he could sort out later. Now, they needed to get out of here.

When the soft purr of the Batplane's engines caught his attention, Batman headed back to the car, relief washing through him.

Red Hood would have to wait. But once Batman caught him, he would pay dearly for what he'd done. This was personal, and when the time came Batman would reciprocate in kind.

He was still in the Batplane when the call came.

"Superman, did something happen?" Batman asked in a tight voice. He'd warned Clark that he needed time to focus on Gotham. It wasn't like Clark to call with Justice League business unless it was pressing. The last thing Batman needed right now was pressing Justice League business.

"That's what I called to ask," Clark said. "Did someone really steal the tires off the Batmobile? It's all over the Internet. Perry wants an article on it, if you can believe it."

He fought down the urge to hit something. Fantastic, if even Metropolis' newspapers were in on it, the Gotham press was going to have a field day with the news. When he got his hands on Red Hood he was going to personally break a dozen of his bones before throwing him in Arkham for a long, long time.

"Are you calling because you want a scoop?" Sometimes Batman took petty pleasure in being an ass to Clark.

"I'm calling because you're my friend and I was worried," Clark said, in that eternal wholesome tone of his. "If that's too much for you to handle then tell yourself I'm calling because if the news was true, we would need to reassess the security systems of the Justice League as some of our planes and bases use similar technology. If someone was able to bypass your security, they pose a threat to more than just Gotham."

"We have it under control," Batman growled.

"Bruce, I'm not trying to—"

"Field names, Superman," Batman said. God, Clark was worse than his children.

"Right, of course. This line is secure, you know," Clark reminded him.

"And until half an hour ago, we all would have agreed the Batmobile was secure, too." Clark ought to have been able to come to the same conclusion. Then again, this was a guy who thought a pair of glasses was an appropriate disguise.

"Oh, it's true then. Gosh, you're going to be even worse about security than you were before, aren't you?"

"It's not paranoia if someone can steal the tires of the Batmobile without triggering any alarms," he said, not bothering to hide the exasperation in his voice. Clark was much too trusting. It was a discussion the two of them had had on many occasions. Then again, if you were an alien with meta powers and only the one weakness maybe you could afford carelessness. Batman didn't have the luxury. When he made mistakes, his children died.

"Do you need me to—"

"We have it under control," Batman growled. "When and if there's something worth reporting, I will call you, Superman. Until then, stay out of Gotham and my business."

"Of course," Clark agreed cheerfully, as impervious to Batman's anger as he was to bullets. It had taken Batman years to come to terms with the fact that getting angry at Clark was a wasted effort. Clark didn't even seem to notice, or if he did, it never changed his attitude or puppy-like willingness to help. It was best to let him be. "Well, if you need anything," Clark went on undeterred, "you know where to find me."

"Yes, Superman, I know."

"Excellent," Clark said. "On a different note. Do you want to give me a quote for the Planet?"

Batman cut the line.

"It was meant as a joke, you know," Oracle said over the speakers.

"It's not funny," Batman grunted. "How far along are you into taking those pictures off the net?" The fallout from the press would be easier to handle if there were no pictures to go along with the story.

"Still working on it. I've managed to delete all the ones online, but some people have generated offline copies they keep reposting. The first memes are starting to appear."

"Maybe it would be easier to let things follow its course, Master Bruce," Alfred said from the copilot seat. "After a day or two the press will move on to some new scandal and things will die out."

"He's right," Oracle said over the comms. "We have enough dirt on enough people to ensure the press finds a better scandal sooner than they normally would."

Batman forced himself to take a deep, even breath and release it slowly, consciously relaxing the muscles in his shoulders and arms. He eased his grip on the control wheel and said, "Take the pictures down. The rest we'll have to do anyway. And you need to come to the cave to revise our security protocols. I want to know who is feeding Red Hood information."

"You suspect he's gained access to our systems," Alfred asked, turning sharply towards him.

"Is there another explanation for what he did? Not just the tires. Working in Gotham as he's been doing without any of us so much as seeing him? He has to have access to our patrol routes."

"That's preposterous!" Damian said. "Are you certain, father? Grandfather and mother always admired and cursed the tight security of all your computers. Surely you would have noticed if something was amiss."

"I obviously didn't." Batman regretted the sharpness of his tone as soon as the words were out.

Damian straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, which was Damian's ingrained response when he believed he'd earned a punishment. Others would have flinched, but flinching only got you more pain in the League of Assassins. Batman had never asked how Ra's had trained Damian; he hadn't needed to. Talia giving up Damian for Bruce to raise was a tale in itself. She only would have done it if Ra's training and plans for the child were more than she could stomach, and Talia could stomach a lot.

"I did not intend to doubt you, Father," Damian said with an empty tone.

"Nothing to worry about, Damian," Batman reassured him, allowing some of Bruce's speech patterns to pass through, softening the words. Inside the plane, with only Alfred nearby, he could allow the lines to blur.

"I'll go over everything. I've started doing it already," Oracle said. "No system is perfect, but ours is as close as it gets. The only way he might have gained access is through social engineering."

"Drake is probably to blame. He's in New York more than he's in Gotham. He might have let something slip," Damian said, a sneer on his face.

"I'd sooner suspect you than I would Tim," Oracle snapped. "You're the one with the assassins' connections, and from what we've seen of this guy, he operates like an assassin or at least employs one."

"Enough," Batman growled, before Damian could reply. "If we start distrusting each other, then he's won already. We will check all possibilities and then discuss what to do. Oracle, tell the others to wrap up their patrols and come back to the cave."

Chapter Text

The gathering was subdued. Under different circumstances, Tim would have at least enjoyed the schadenfreude of Damian I'm-the-only-true Wayne failing so spectacularly at his task. As things stood, he was too worried about the security breach to enjoy it.

His own investigation had been more successful than the brat's, and despite the pettiness of the gesture he couldn't help the smirk he sent Damian's way after Batman said, "Excellent intel, Red Robin," once Tim had finished his initial report.

The usual rush of pride that accompanied the scarce occasions in which Batman complimented their work out loud was there, but even better was the sour, angry look on the demon brat's face.

"We already suspected Red Hood was the one luring the whores away," Damian grumbled in a low angry voice. "I don't see how having it confirmed helps us all that much."

Tim pretended to ignore him and added. "Another of my sources informed me that he's not only going after working girls. He's wooing drug dealers, too. Higher share of profits, resources to grow their network, new drugs. Interestingly, the position comes with caveats. He's forbidden them to sell drugs near schools or to anyone younger than fourteen. Rumor has it he's killed three dealers who disobeyed that order."

"That's an odd hang-up to have, if you want to be a drug lord in Gotham," Dick commented.

"It screams personal. He might have lost someone to drugs who was too young. A brother or a sister?" Tim paced as he spoke, unable to keep still. "My sources all agree he's Gotham born and bred. Perfect Crime Alley accent, right down to the slang. And he knows things that you don't learn from the outside. Knows the players and the places. Talks to some of the old-timers like he knows them. Not the kind of thing you can learn to fake easily. It's why many of the street girls and boys and some of the dealers are flocking towards him. Most of them tolerate Black Mask, because he's filling the vacuum after the gang war, but they know he's not from the Alley."

Dick snorted. "None of the underworld leaders are from the Alley. The Alley is good for cannon fodder, but when it comes down to it, all gang leaders and higher ups are from other parts of Gotham."

"Well, they sure are all rooting for the home boy," Tim said. "And he's winning their loyalty. I don't mean buying it, but winning it. Most of the information I got, I got from outsiders. My contacts from Crime Alley only agreed to give me the bare bones, and even that little took much more convincing that it should have with the kind of money I was waving around."

"Well, yeah, they would root for him," Steph said, "but come on… that children protection act? Most would think him weak for it, and that's not something they wouldn't take advantage of."

"Yes," Tim agreed, "and some thought he was soft at first, but he's been very successful putting those worries to rest. He killed the dealers who disobeyed him and brought their chopped off heads to the next meeting as a cautionary tale. It left an impression," Tim finished drily.

"That would certainly do it," Steph said, a frown on her face. "And what's with him and beheading people anyway? There are less messy ways to kill."

"The beheading has been done postmortem," Tim shrugged. "That reduces the blood spatter quite a lot. Also heads are easier to carry around than whole bodies, I'm assuming. And historically beheading enemies and using their heads to warn others off has been a common thread through history. The Romans—"

"Tim!" Dick snapped. "Focus!"

"Yes, Drake, focus." Far be it from Damian to let such an easy opportunity slide. "No one wants to listen to your drivel."

"Look, you little twerp—"

"Children," Batman interrupted.

Tim swallowed his retort, hating the smug, triumphant tilt of Damian's chin. There had been more he'd wanted to add, but he remained quiet. If he opened his mouth, he'd end up saying things he'd later regret and they would have nothing to do with Red Hood.

"Well, at least Red Hood's less of a scumbag than our usual scum," Steph pointed out with a weak chuckle, doing her best to fill up the tense silence. "Silver lining, right?"

"He's murdering people. People with family and friends, who will sooner or later seek retribution," Batman snarled, anger and frustration pouring from him in waves.

Yup, murder was Bruce's line in the sand, the one act he could never ignore or forget. Tim understood where he came from, but this time he couldn't help the little voice in his head telling him that Steph wasn't completely wrong. They could have worse people trying to stake a claim over the criminal element in the Alley.

"At least he has some morals, no matter how questionable," Tim commented, feeling more in control again. "Better than nothing. The way he's been operating and how fast he's been gaining territory speaks of someone who's clever and resourceful. Dangerously so. I'd much rather he leave children out of it than not. I'm not saying we shouldn't stop him. But, well, count our blessings, right?"

"Tt, we don't need blessings! Some of us understand the implicit dangers of uncontrolled assassins roaming free." Damian sided with Bruce like the little frustrated-wanna-be Batman he was.

"Well, if someone would know the implicit dangers of uncontrolled assassins roaming free, it'd be you," Tim said sweetly.

"Red Robin," Batman said warningly.

Tim shrugged. It was easier to let the rebuke slide this time. Bruce would favor Damian, just like he would favor Dick. Tim knew this. Most days he didn't even mind, others… well. He could always go to the Titans when Gotham got to be too much.

"Whatever his reasons and motives, the key thing is that Red Hood is gaining territory fast," Tim continued. He just needed to finish his report and then he could go back to his apartment. "Black Mask is beyond enraged at this point. He's put a bounty on Red Hood of one million dollars."

"How did we not know about this?" Batman asked.

"The bounty thing is new. It came out this week. Red Hood intercepted a drug shipment from Black Mask, the second one this month." Tim turned to Dick. "Remember that shipment two weeks ago, the one filled with empty containers? We assumed our intel was bad and Black Mask had managed to give us the slip. Well, turns out the intel was good. Red Hood got there first."

"Damn it, if we had had that evidence we would have put a bunch of Black Mask's people in jail," Dick cursed. "Now the drugs are still out there and we have Black Mask and Red Hood to worry about."

"I'd worry more about the missing cargo in Red Hood's hands than about the missed opportunities to jail some perps," Barbara said. "There were arms in that shipment, not just drugs. Black Mask was acting as middle man for those, but if Red Hood got them, chances are good there are some pretty nasty pieces running through Gotham's underground right now."

"Gang war?" Cass asked, in that quiet, clipped way of hers.

"Probably," Batman said, a frown on his face. "Explains the bounty, too. If Black Mask was the middle man for the guns and failed to deliver them, there are some dangerous people not too pleased with him right now. He must be worried about what Red Hood is planning to do with the cargo. The man has proven that he's ambitious and ruthless."

"None of this helps," Damian snapped. "Red Robin's intel still doesn't tell us who Red Hood is or how he managed to steal the tires off the Batmobile. Even an ambitious new comer, no matter how skilled, should not have been able to do that. Those are the questions we should seek answers for."

Tim succeeded in masking his anger at the little shit's attempt to undermine the quality of his information again. "You're wrong," he corrected the brat. "The important question is not who or how, but why." Damian might be good at many things —especially killing people and being an arrogant little twerp— but if those were the questions that worried him, he was miles away from being that good a detective. "This is a guy who has gone out of his way to stay off our radar, quite successfully, too. And all of a sudden he willingly jumps right in the middle of it. Why? Why now? What changed? Why the tires of the Batmobile? What does he have to gain by doing that?" Tim just couldn't make sense of it. "If he was the Joker or even Two Face, maybe. Those guys like Batman's attention, crave it even, but they would have gotten it in a more bloody way."

"Chopping off heads seems pretty bloody to me," Steph countered.

"Yes, but that wasn't about us. That was a warning to the crime families in Gotham," Tim reminded her. "We only found out because Gordon has undercover agents working with them. Neither Falcone nor Maroni reported the security breach. I mean, technically, no one has reported Vladimir and his thirty odd men missing. If it weren't for our connection to the GCPD, we wouldn't know he was out there. And yet, he goes out of his way to jack the Batmobile's tires and leaves a message for Batman on it. Replace what?" He looked at the red letters sprayed on the towed car before turning to Bruce. "What does it mean?"

Bruce's eyes traveled from the car to the glass case containing Jason's old Robin suit before focusing back on the vandalized Batmobile. "I don't know," he grunted, but there was something off in his tone like maybe he did know, but didn't want to share the intel with them. Typical Batman.

"You sure about that? It must mean something," Tim insisted. "This guy is too clever. That's a message if I've ever seen one, and it's addressed to you."

"Yeah, well," Dick jumped in, "insane people can be clever too."

"Huh," Tim huffed, unconvinced. "He doesn't seem all that insane to me. Power hungry, sure. Insane, not so much. Why the tires? It's not like he can do much with them. They're custom-made."

"We'll figure it out sooner or later," Dick said cheerfully.

"It better be sooner," Batman said. "I don't like unknowns in Gotham. The city is our territory and we protect it."

As it turned out, Tim was wrong. Red Hood could do quite a lot with the Batmobile's tires.

"Bruce, we have a problem," Tim said, entering into Bruce's office at Wayne Tower. Linda, Bruce's current secretary, waved him in without a protest. Bruce's schedule, when he bothered to make an appearance at Wayne Enterprises, was never set in stone as Bruce's carefully cultivated public image had him disappearing at a moment's notice as soon as he got 'bored.'

"Tim, so good for you to join us," Bruce said, grinning widely at him. He turned to Leon, the Vice President of European Sales and said, "We can discuss this in detail next time I'm here, say, in three or four weeks?"

Leon looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. "Mr. Wayne, we need to act sooner than that."

"Oh, do we?" Bruce's confused expression was poetry in itself. The total disconnect between Bruce's different personas never ceased to amaze Tim. "Oh, well… that's… uh… I know!" Bruce brightened. "Send the papers to Tim," he said, clapping Tim on the shoulder with a genial smile. "He'll talk me through the key points at home and I'll decide on it. Unless you want to decide, Tim? Just tell me what to sign and I will."

"I'll do that," Leon said, trying to look cheerful and failing. "I'll schedule an appointment with your secretary," he informed Tim, while gathering the paperwork.

"Yes, please, I should have a free slot tomorrow at 4 pm. Lisa will coordinate it." Tim accompanied Leon to the door and closed it behind him. "You're cruel to him," he admonished Bruce.

"He's always trying to get my opinion on things." Bruce rolled his eyes. "He's the only one who ever does. He should know better than to corner me with paperwork. Everyone else knows not to bug me."

"Everyone else is convinced that you don't bother to read your emails and that Lucius and I are the ones behind every decision in WE," Tim pointed out. "Leon saw you bargain Etienne Lamorien into the ground when no one else could. He's convinced there's a good business man hidden behind your careless attitude and he wants to be the one to dig him out."

"Bothersome," Bruce said. "He's too good to cut loose, but maybe a transfer to Asia would open new opportunities for his career, don't you think?"

"As long as you're the one to sell it to him. Look," Tim said, remembering the purpose of his visit, "we have bigger problems than Leon's perceptiveness. Red Hood is auctioning the tires of the Batmobile on the darknet."

Bruce straightened in his chair, instantly losing the soft edges of his socialite persona. It wasn't quite Batman looking back at Tim, but he was lurking in the shadows, not far away.

"Barbara told you first?"

"Oh, no, I—Timothy Drake-Wayne—have been invited to participate in the auction. Well, our R&D department has been invited and as head of R&D the invitation was addressed to me personally." Tim handed the glossy, expensive looking invitation over to Bruce. "A unique opportunity to advance the technology of Wayne Enterprises beyond today and into the future," he quoted the header in a mocking tone.

"The QR code at the bottom?" Bruce asked, skimming over the invitation.

"A link to a video of a rather busty blonde wearing very little apart from some extremely high heels, shooting the tires with a very big machine gun. Then, a sexy brunette librarian, showing off most of her impressive breasts, prowls in and explains why the tires didn't break or lose air pressure, speculates about possible scientific theories behind the tech and goes on about why reverse engineering it might have fantastic military applications." Tim shrugs. "It's not a bad sales pitch, and I'm sure the delivery will have the majority of R&D guys in the world drooling with desire for more than just the tires. Red Hood sure knows how to catch people's attention."

"That he does," Bruce grunted, and there was more Batman in his voice than he would normally let slip while out of costume. "You think he's sent this information to other companies as well?"

"It's supposed to be an auction." Tim shrugged. "The more, the merrier."

Bruce's cell rang—he never silenced it when he was out as Bruce, another way to perpetuate his image of an entitled socialite with more money than brains. Tim was surprised when, after a brief look at the caller ID he decided to answer it. Bruce playing make-believe for the employees of WE was one thing. Bruce actually letting himself be distracted when they had important matters to discuss was another.

"Olli," Bruce said as a way of greeting, "It's great to hear your voice. How are you doing?" The Brucie charm oozed from him.

Bruce could be such an ass. That was a sure way to annoy Oliver Queen if there was one, and Bruce knew it. Then again, it explained why he'd answered. Potential JL business took priority.

Bruce's smile lost some of its wider edges as Queen spoke and by the time Bruce said, "I see. Thank you for the heads up. I'll get in touch later," there was nothing of Brucie left in his demeanor.

He killed the call with a tap of his finger and put the phone away, a frown on his face. "You were right," he said, turning to Tim. "Queen Industries received a similar offer."

"Well, that's not good. Queen is one thing, but if Luthor gets invited, he's going to throw his money around."

"Yes," Bruce said, absently, probably already running through contingency plans and potential scenarios.

"We can't let Luthor get his hands on that tech, Bruce. Not him, and not the government," Tim pointed out needlessly. He wanted to hit something, preferably Red Hood's smarmy helmet and then his junk. What a fucking mess!

Bruce's cell rang again and both Tim and Bruce tensed. It was Alfred's ringtone and he would never bother to call unless the situation was dire.

"Yes, Alfred, did something happen?" Bruce asked, pushing the speaker button so that Tim could hear too. "You're on speaker. Only Tim's here. It's safe to speak."

"Good morning, Master Timothy," Alfred said. "Master Bruce, you have received an invitation to participate in an auction."

"For the tires of the Batmobile?" Tim guessed.

"I see," Alfred said. "Did they send one to WE as well?"

"Yes, our R&D department received one," Tim answered.

"R&D? How odd," Alfred said. "This one is addressed to Master Wayne, pointing out the unique opportunity of retrofitting a Lamborghini with the tires of the Batmobile. It promises that a technical explanation will be delivered with the purchase, so that a skilled mechanic can make it happen. Then, it goes on about the exclusive and unique opportunity of owning a technology usually reserved for superheroes. How for the right amount of money one could almost become one. It's something that ought to appeal to Master Bruce."

And it would. Tim was impressed. Socialite Brucie Wayne would love the opportunity to brag about having the tires of the Batmobile on one of his cars, especially in a city like Gotham. And damn, if Red Hood was sending invitations to the auction to WE and Queen Enterprises and probably Luthor Corp and who knows how many other companies, chances were, he was sending them to every idiot in the one percent bracket with more money than brains, too. And there were quite a lot of those. Fuck, it was going to be a bidding war between greedy tech companies and trust funds morons.

The worst part was that Red Hood would earn probably two or three million per tire, if not more. Ten times what they were worth. The way he was marketing them, it was going to be the type of crazy hype that had people throwing money at things because they wanted to own them and not because they cared about the actual value.

"We were wrong. This guy is not from Crime Alley. He comes from money," Tim said to Bruce. "Or at least understands how it flows in ways people in the Alley never would. That type of approach speaks of someone deeply familiar with the idiocy of rich people and companies with big budgets." He pinched the bride of his nose and groaned, realizing something else. "Bruce, if he gets the kind of money he'll get out of those tires, every thug and criminal wannabe is going to try to steal them again."

"I'm not worried about thugs and criminal wannabes, Tim," Bruce said. "They wouldn't be able to bypass our security. I want to know how he did it. And I want those tires back. I don't want them in Luthor's hands or the military's."

"We could outbid them, if we wanted to," Tim said. "We'll need to get Barbara to look into it, but the auction is going to be anonymous. No one would know."

"Red Hood would know," Bruce said. "Do we want him to know how much Wayne Enterprises is willing to pay for that tech?"

"Master Bruce, as much as I despair at unnecessary excesses," Alfred said over the phone, "throwing away a couple of million dollars on a whim so that you could drive a sports car with the Batmobile's tires on it would not be out of character."

"Yes, Brucie could certainly get away with that, but he would brag about it to everyone who wanted to listen and many who don't," Bruce pointed out, speaking of himself in third person without missing a beat.

"And that would be bad because?" Tim raised an inquiring eyebrow. "It's not like anyone in Gotham would even blink. And if Batman happens to take the tires back one night when Brucie is out partying, well… shit happens."

"Maybe." Bruce tapped his fingers against the table, a distant look in his eyes, going through possibilities. "We'll discuss it tonight. When is the auction?"

"In two weeks," Tim said, at the same time Alfred answered, "On the twenty-second at 3 pm EST."

"Thank you, Alfred. I'll see you later tonight." Bruce hung up. He opened and closed the invitation, a frown on his face. "Send all details to Barbara," he told Tim. "Maybe she can stop it from taking place or at least can track the connection back to our elusive thief. I want him behind bars."

Chapter Text

Jason couldn't stop imagining Bruce's face when he found the car. It must have been hilarious. He'd have loved to watch Bruce's reaction to finding his tires gone, but stealing them had been risky enough. Waiting for the fallout would've been beyond stupid. He didn't need Bruce catching him red handed. Been there, done that.

His plans for Gotham were bigger than a simple desire to piss off Bruce Fucking Wayne and he wasn't going to jeopardize them for a silly prank. There was a fine line between risk and stupidity, not that Jason minded it often. Still, he liked to think that he'd grown up some during the last years. Talia wouldn't have accepted anything else.

Silly prank or not, seeing those tires stored in his safe house warmed Jason's soul. Not to mention the avalanche of memes the pictures of the tireless Batmobile had sparked. Jason sent his favorites to Talia and she'd actually broken her Al Ghul dignity to send some of her own favorites back.

Lyle had outdone himself when he told Jason he should take pictures and post them on Instagram. Jason would've never thought of it himself, and what a waste it would have been.

Someone, probably Jason's replacement—Dickhead and Bruce were good with computers, but they had never been that good—kept hacking their way into all sorts of social media sites to erase the pictures and memes, and while Jason himself wouldn't have been able to stop them—something he hated to admit—he knew someone who could and had.

He'd hired Blue Moon to keep the pictures fresh and coming despite the Bat's best efforts, and the little asshole sure was earning every cent Jason sent their way and then some. Which reminded him he had a call to make.

"Red, my murder-boy, how are you today? Killed anyone yet?" Even through the electronic waves distorting the voice, Jason could hear Blue Moon's bouncy cheerfulness loud and clear.

It was a sad state of affairs when hearing that stupid greeting almost brought a smile to his lips. Obviously, Jason had been alone far too long and needed to get a pet or something. Maybe a rabid raccoon?

"I told you I was docking two grand from your next payment if you called me that again," he said, putting an anger in his voice he wasn't actually feeling, but anger came easy to him nowadays, both fake and real.

"Oh, don't be like that, murder-boy," Blue Moon said. "You know you're my favorite."

"You're a cutthroat cybercriminal; you don't have favorites," Jason pointed out.

"Don't be silly. Cutthroat cybercriminals totally have favorites, and luckily, you happen to be mine," they said with a chuckle. Listening to banter through a voice scrambler that took away all inflections and pitches leaving only an artificial voice behind was so eerie, like talking to some version of robot Marvin on antidepressants.

"You bring me the best jobs," Blue Moon went on, "and I get to feel all proud of myself even. Like that one time I hacked that kiddy porn site for you and got to see you murder all the assholes running it. It's not everyday I get my cash and a clean conscience afterwards. One could get addicted to that shit."

"I'm sure you'll manage to go cold turkey at the drop of a hat," Jason said.

"Oh, murder-boy, you're so mean to me." They sighed dramatically. The scrambler made them sound like some panting stalker, which was probably what Blue Moon was aiming for. "I've always liked them cruel. Anyways, as a token of my deep, undying love, I have some intel for you."

"Shoot," Jason said.

"Nah, I'll leave the killing to you, but I found out who is trying to get Batman's pictures off the net so badly."

"Who?"

"Very elusive character, doesn't really move in my circles, but once a hacker always a hacker, and they've got a reputation. Goes by Oracle. Rumor has it they work with the Justice League," Blue Moon said. "Batman sure knows how to pick them."

That was debatable. He'd picked Jason, and look how that turned out. "Could they get into your system?" he asked.

"Oh, come on, murder-boy, there's no need to be rude," Blue Moon said. "They've been trying, though, and believe me, it's the most fun I've had in ages. It's a matter of pride now. I'm seeing this through to the end. It's not everyday I get to pull out the big guns."

"Right," Jason replied, dubiously.

"Anyways, when are you delivering the goods to the buyer? And more importantly, how much are they paying you?" Blue Moon asked. "The darknet is crazy with this whole affair. There're lots of people who want to get their dirty little hands on that sweet tech. So, if you can ditch whoever hired you for the original hit, there's lots of money to be made."

"The goods?" Jason asked, dumbfounded. What were they talking about?

"Duh, the Batmobile's tires! The Russians alone are willing to pay at least two million and they only want one," Blue Moon said. "So, if whoever hired you doesn't require all four, keeping the other three and selling them would be a great deal."

"The Russians?" Vladimir and Mikhail and all their main goons were dead. It'd be years before the Russians could recover from that. If they ever did. But if one of the remaining idiots thought they could lure Jason into a trap, he'd be happy to oblige them.

"Well, not officially," Blue Moon explained, "but anyone who's anyone knows that the Russian government is the one behind that alias. So, what of it? Can you sell one or two on the side?"

The Russian government? At some point Jason had lost track of the conversation without realizing it.

Oh.

Those Russians.

The tires of the fucking Batmobile. Of course.

"I can sell the four," Jason said slowly, starting to grasp the potential. He hadn't done it for the money or even for the media attention. It had been about Bruce, about them. Forcing Bruce to remember what he'd clearly forgotten.

No, it hadn't been about the money, but it certainly wouldn't hurt and it felt right. Something Jason owed the hungry child he'd been, the one who saw the Batmobile that fateful night and instead of fearing the Batman dared to cross him. And wasn't that what Jason was doing?

Bruce had set Jason's memory aside and never looked back: not to avenge him, not even to mourn him. He hadn't even spared enough pocket change for an obituary in the Gotham newspapers. Jason had looked, had wanted to know what Bruce had to say about his life and death. And the answer was: nothing. Not a fucking thing. He didn't even fucking bother to invite his fellow rich assholes to throw dirt over Jason's coffin.

The only person in all of Gotham who gave a fuck about Jason's death was Vicky Vale, and how sad was that. At least she'd bothered to write a gossip article as soon as she found out he'd died: "Wayne's failed experiment." An apt title. Bruce hadn't been available for a comment of course, but he'd probably thought every fucking word of it was true.

So why not sell the tires? What if the technology fell into the wrong hands? He didn't owe Bruce shit. Bruce betrayed him first.

Let him keep his perfect, well-bred sons. The golden boy, the replacement and the fucking spare. Jason didn't need Bruce. Those years as Robin had been a small respite, but in the end the truth was he was on his own. He'd always been on his own. And why should Bruce's betrayal hurt less than Willis' belt did? Jason could do without fathers; too bad it'd taken him so long to realize that. Hell, in hindsight, he could've done without mothers, too.

He didn't owe them shit.

"You know what," he told Blue Moon, "I want to sell them all. Not just to the Russians, to everyone. The highest bidder."

"An auction!" Blue Moon gasped. "Murder-boy, that's brilliant! Oh, I know just how to organize it. I'll get the best buyers' list ever. R&D departments, the military of every government with enough GDP to mean shit. You name them, I've got them."

Jason almost wanted to smile at their enthusiasm. Then he remembered every rich asshole he'd ever met during those never-ending Wayne Galas. Remembered how they looked down at him, the slum kid with the weird accent. Remembered the way they threw money around at charities, not because they cared about the poor but because it would look good or give them a tax discount.

Jason had always felt the urge to rob them silly and never acted on it because he cared too much about Bruce and Alfred's opinion. But good things came to those who waited, and Jason had been such a patient little boy.

"You do those, I've my own list to work through. May the one with the biggest account win," he said. "Arrange everything. Usual commission. I'll get in touch with you by the end of next week."

"Will do, murder-boy. See, this is why you're my favorite."

Jason relished putting it all together. The videos had been his idea but the girls were the ones behind the execution. Honey helped pick the costumes and the girls for the job with the critical eye of someone who'd been working the streets of Gotham since she was twelve and had somehow made it to forty a bit worse for wear but still swinging. That took skill.

"You let me take care of it, Boss," she said. "Ain't nothin' I don't know about makin' men think with their cocks. It opens wallets better than magic." So Jason bowed to her expertise and let her take care of it.

The results were smoking hot. Even Jason's pants got a bit tighter while watching and his libido was nothing to write home about on an average day.

The rest was boring, at least for Jason. Blue Moon and Oracle were holding an epic battle across the darknet that made the battle for Minas Tirith look like a kindergarten squabble, or so Blue Moon claimed. It was hard to judge, because half the time Jason couldn't tell if Blue Moon was about to put a hit or a ring on Oracle.

It wasn't as if Jason had room to complain. He kept swinging like the pendulum of a grandfather clock between fuck Batman and what the fuck will I do if Luthor actually outbids him. Deliver the tires to Luthor, that was what. Jason knew it, but he hated that it was a question at all, even if the answer was clear.

Not that he needed to worry in the end. Bruce offered four times more money than all the other bidders put together. Jason had known it would end like that. Sort of. Maybe. He certainly couldn't deny that unwelcome sense of relief when he found out the tech would remain in Bruce's hands. He needed to do something to wipe away those last dregs of misplaced loyalty that still clung to him.

In any case, it was deeply satisfying to know he forced Bruce Fucking Wayne to cough up over sixty million dollars to get something back that was his to begin with. The fact that he'd done it while wearing his Brucie mask made it even sweeter. Of all of Bruce's many personas, Jason had disliked Brucie the most.

It reminded him a bit too much of all those rich assholes that would squander 500 dollars on a bottle of champagne just to shake it and pour it on the floor like morons, while a family in Crime Alley had to slave away for a month to make those same 500 just to meet rent. Back then, even without the influence of the pit, the injustice rankled. These days... well... best not dwell on it too much, lest the world took on that dreaded green hue again.

And Brucie was one of those assholes. As a child, rescued from starvation on the streets, Jason had believed the fairy tale of Prince Wayne, trying to rescue Gotham by donating money during the day and wearing the Cowl of Batman during the night. Jason had idolized Bruce, had never even dared think about questioning him or his methods.

It'd taken dying and coming back to understand that Brucie was the lie Bruce told the world, but the charity of the Waynes and the justice of Batman were the lies Bruce told himself. And they were all the more ugly because Bruce believed them.

"Have Wayne transfer the money to the agreed account," he told Blue Moon. "And then move it as fast as you can. Oracle is going to be on you like a dog after a bitch in heat. The Justice League will want to know who's behind this. I don't want them to know shit."

"Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, murder-boy," Blue Moon said. "I've been dealing with Oracle snooping for weeks now. You cannot even begin to imagine what they did to try and hack into my auction. It was annoying as fuck and brilliant and beautiful and just shy of perfect. But not perfect enough. I sure hope you bring me more of these cases. I'm gonna miss the excitement after this one is over."

"I'll make sure to keep you busy," Jason promised. "If this Oracle is working for Batman and the Justice League, I'm sure our paths will cross again. And I'm counting on you to help me burn the world so it can rise from its ashes, my dear."

"Oh, so poetic, murder-boy. One could start getting ideas," they laughed. "And because you make my toes curl, I have a little present for you."

"Do tell," Jason asked, curious despite himself.

"If you stare too long into the abyss, the abyss stares back," Blue Moon said. "And Oracle, well, they've definitely been staring too long. The thing about dogs and bitches in heat is that they get so distracted by the prospect of sticking it in that they lose perspective. And Oracle has been absolutely gagging to get in my system."

Jason tensed, heart skipping a beat. Had Blue Moon found out who Batman was? The idea of that secret being in hands Jason couldn't control scared him. Why should it, though? He was done with Bruce. So what if Batman was discovered? It had nothing to do with Jason. As far as the world was concerned, Jason Todd was dead, and that was good. None of it would impact him or his plans. On the contrary, it would keep Bruce busy and a distracted Batman was the best Batman. And yet, despite all the reasons why it shouldn't matter if Blue Moon knew the truth, the idea of it chilled him.

"What did you find out?" He couldn't quite suppress the low growl in his voice.

"Nothing much," Blue Moon said. "They're good. But while they were busy trying to snoop where they shouldn't have, I left some booby traps that allowed me to snoop back. Oracle stopped me before I got in too far, which was a surprise in itself, and that little hole in their security was closed faster than you can say 'damn', but in the meantime I found out that Oracle has access to all CCTV cameras in Gotham as well as to all police files and systems."

"If they are working for Batman, that's not a surprise." Batman and the commissioner had always been close. With or without Oracle, Jason's default assumption was that what the GCPD knew, Batman knew.

"No, but since you're my favorite murder boy, and you've brought me so much joy and profit—let's not forget the profit—I thought to even the playing field a bit," they said. "You're playing in Gotham. It wouldn't do for Oracle to get lucky and give Batman the head-ups when you're not expecting him."

"If you live in Gotham long enough, you learn to always expect Batman," Jason pointed out.

"He's not the Spanish Inquisition, is he?" Blue Moon snorted at their own joke, before going on. "Anyways, back to business, I couldn't hack into Oracle's system, but cops are another matter. The backdoors Oracle opened into the CCTV system and the GCPD were all too obvious once I knew what to look for. And because I like you, my access is your access. I have also programmed a mean little virus that will cause CCTV cameras to temporarily glitch if they recognize the Red Hood mask. Other cameras will glitch at random too in different parts of the city whenever that happens. It wouldn't do for them to be able to find you by tracking the glitching cameras, after all."

"That's..." Jason was temporarily speechless. It was brilliant. He would have found a way to stay hidden. He already had before, but Batman hadn't known he was out there then. This was better and all the more so for how unexpected it was. "How much do you want for it?"

"It's a present, murder-boy. Surely you've gotten some of those in the past," Blue Moon sounded outraged, even through the voice scrambler.

"Not many," Jason answered. "And sooner or later the price tag followed. Better to know the cost up front." Jason wished he'd known the price up front when Bruce took him in. Maybe he wouldn't have been so naive as to fall hook, line and sinker for the fairy tale Bruce spun.

"You need better friends."

Jason huffed. "There are no friendships in this line of business and you know it."

"So cynical. Fair enough," Blue Moon said. "I liked the challenge of going up against Oracle and the commission from the tires' sales was generous enough that I felt compelled to show my appreciation. It doesn't happen too often, I grant you, but there's an exception to every rule. Anyways, with Batman and the Justice League after you, you'll need someone in your corner and I love the idea of sticking it to those holier-than-thou, goody two-shoes."

"Careful, my dear," Jason said. "It sounds as if you're discovering a moral code hidden in the darkest, dustiest corners of your soul. Those things tend to get in the way of profit."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Absolutely," Jason agreed. "You know me too well."

"I'm willing to give my dirty moral code a spin. See how it feels. Enjoy it while it lasts and stop checking the mouth of my horse, or I might get offended. Say 'thank you, Blue Moon, you're the best thing that ever happened to me' and then take the gift and shut up. Why do I have to explain this to you?"

"Thank you, Blue Moon, you're the best thing that ever happened to me," Jason repeated mockingly. "Where can I pick up my gift and how do I use it?"

"Now you're asking the right questions."

Word got out in the underworld that he'd managed to get one over Batman, and if chopping off the heads of those that stood in his way didn't impress all of his enemies, getting one over Batman certainly did.

Black Mask reduced his incursions into Jason's territory and let him be. At least for the time being. Jason's spies told him the man was leaving Red Hood to Batman, convinced that the Dark Knight would go after him now that Red Hood had challenged him.

That wasn't how Bruce operated, though. Bruce was probably putting all his little birds on a quest to get as much intel on Red Hood as possible. But as long as Red Hood didn't pose a major threat to the citizens of Gotham, Bruce would continue to wait and wait. For more evidence, for the right moment, for flying unicorns. Jason only needed to make sure that that moment never materialized.

It was the reason why assholes like Garzonas could get away with raping and killing right under Batman's nose. It was the reason Joker was still alive, even though he murdered one of Bruce's own. The reason why Gotham hadn't changed despite decades of Batman's patrols and Wayne's wasted charity money.

Jason had an advantage that Black Mask and the other criminals didn't. He knew how Bruce operated, he understood his motivations and his weaknesses. He'd become obsessed with Red Hood, with finding every little piece of information he could. Jason intended to use that.

He didn't survive homelessness in Gotham by being picky, but by being clever. When you were starving, a half rotten apple was better than no apple at all. You cut off the rot and enjoyed the rest. Bruce was weak and soft and in certain ways as rotten as Gotham itself. But only in certain ways. Beyond the weakness and the softness there was still an untouched core, hard and unyielding. Jason just needed to carve it out and feast on it.

Waste not, want not.

Chapter Text

Tim should have stayed in the penthouse. The tension in the Manor was an ugly, ubiquitous thing that spread into every corner of the house like a disease.

Bruce was hiding something; Tim was sure of it. But every time he tried to bring it up, Bruce brushed him off. Typical. Dick was no better. Standoffish and distracted. They were all under stress. It didn't mean anything. Tim's mom and dad had been the same. Worse, really. They'd ignored Tim all the time, with or without stress.

Damian didn't help matters. Not that Tim expected him to. The only thing Tim expected from Damian was a knife in the back. The little gremlin kept insisting that Tim was responsible for the security breach and no one told him to shut up and grow up already.

Bruce and Dick didn't believe the little monster. He'd been working with them for years before Damian came along. Tim had proven his loyalty again and again. They couldn't believe Damian. They trusted Tim. They had to. Tim knew it, but it was hard to hold on to that belief when no one spoke up to defend him. Except for Steph that one time, but she wasn't around all that often.

This god awful mess needed to end already so that he could go back to New York and the Titans. At least they appreciated him. Tim missed his team.

He was out of luck, though. The hookers and the dealers in the Alley weren't talking. Even the ones Tim had worked with before refused to discuss Red Hood. Outside Crime Alley people were growing reluctant to cross the guy as well. Not after he'd proven that he could get one over on Batman and walk away scot-free.

Everyone was expecting Batman to retaliate, but no one was willing to help. Getting a bit of money on the side by selling information was one thing. Openly siding with the Bats was another. The Gotham underground knew a war was brewing and they wanted no part in it.

Barbara's attempt at foiling Red Hood hadn't borne fruits either. The pictures of the tireless Batmobile continued to pop up everywhere despite her best efforts. At some point even Bruce had accepted there was nothing they could do.

A well timed leak about the mayor's latest affair with a barely legal girl, complete with photos of her recent high school graduation, had distracted the press for a while. Until the news got out that a secret auction for the Batmobile's tires was taking place and bidding for a single wheel would start at two million. People went crazy. The news was prime click bait and the press ran with it.

The damage was done. Even those who hadn't been invited suddenly wanted in on the auction and the bidding war exploded. Having to pay for a technology that was actually theirs hurt. It should've been patented by Fox and Wayne Enterprises years ago, but neither Bruce nor Lucius could risk a link between Batman and Wayne Enterprises. Nor did they want the tech to get out as it would once the patent had been filed.

Now it was too damn late. Patenting it before the tires got out on the market would blow Bruce's cover completely. They had to swallow their pride and play by Red Hood's rules. Brucie was offering so much money on this that they were confident even Luthor wouldn't come close. And he didn't. Still, there was a certain sense of relief, of a bullet being dodged, when the final confirmation came.

And suddenly they had a whole different challenge on their hands. Bruce wanted to catch Red Hood or at least one of his minions during the delivery. The guy wasn't stupid, though. The money had to be paid upfront to a bank account overseas. They tried to play hard ball, but Red Hood's contact made it clear that they could either pay and trust they would get the merchandise afterwards, or they could stop wasting everyone's time and the seller would pick the next highest bidder. Delivery would take place 72 hours after the money had been wired and not a second before.

Bruce paid. And the waiting game began.

The front gate bell rang while they were having dinner.

"A UPS delivery van," Alfred said, after checking the video feed on his mobile. "Did anyone order something online and forgot to address the parcel correctly?" His tone was so mild Tim knew there would be hell to pay for whoever forgot Alfred's order that all online purchases were to be sent to Wayne Enterprises.

"Pennyworth, if you're going to embark on another lengthy lecture about the security risks of having random drivers coming to the Manor, I insist that you spare me," Damian said, smashing Tim's secret hope that he was the culprit.

"Barbara will have to double check the Internet child proofing at the Manor, if Damian is managing to get behind the parental control again," Tim said sweetly. He wasn't about to let such a golden opportunity pass by, even if the brat wasn't to blame.

Cass's quick grip on Damian's shoulder stopped the little beast from launching himself at Tim. Too bad, really, Tim wouldn't have minded bruising the little gremlin's ribs during the ensuing kerfuffle. Totally unintentionally, of course.

"Children," Bruce cut in, "behave. Alfred, please ask what they want."

Alfred pressed the mic button on the app—a useful little surveillance program Barbara had developed with some extra Bat approved security—and the communicator at the gate activated.

"How may I help you, Sir?" Alfred asked.

"I have a delivery for Jason Todd," the driver said over the speaker. "It requires a verified signature by Mr. Bruce Wayne."

Alfred's grip slipped and he fumbled with the phone before catching it. Tim's eyes darted to Bruce, whose face had drained of color.

"Let them in." It was Batman's voice.

"Master Bruce," Alfred protested, "we cannot allow a stranger into the premises. UPS should have sent a delivery notification beforehand and—"

"Let. Them. In." His voice brooked no arguments.

"As you wish, Sir," Alfred said, resigned. He pressed the mic and told the driver, "Please follow the road all the way up past the main door. Then take a right turn and continue until you reach the service entrance." He typed a code and the gates opened. The smooth mechanical sound came over the speakers, followed by the van's engine starting.

Bruce wiped his lips with the cloth serviette and placed it on the table next to his plate. Tim regarded his own half eaten roast beef longingly. No matter what the package held, Tim doubted they would be finishing dinner any time soon.

The aftermath of Jason's death had almost destroyed Bruce. Tim had worked hard to put the pieces back together. Trained, bled, fought… He might not have done a perfect job, but they were all still here. Alive. Batman hadn't succumbed to his demons. Gotham was safe. The mantle of Robin didn't die with Jason. The legacy continued. That had been Tim's work, and even though Jason's ghost still haunted the Manor and the cave, though Bruce wasn't the man he'd been before, they all had managed to heal. Whatever the parcel contained would rip those wounds wide open and undo five years of work.

They followed Alfred to the kitchen, and for once Alfred didn't protest, probably aware that it would be useless. The silence grew heavier and thicker. Even Dick, who tended to joke at the worst possible moment, remained subdued.

They'd been waiting silently for a couple of minutes when the lights of the approaching van appeared on the side of the road.

"Master Bruce, if you would please let me handle this," Alfred said, and somehow made it clear that it wasn't a request. Bruce nodded and stayed behind as Alfred descended the stairs and spoke with the driver. Tim couldn't hear what was said. There was some kind of disagreement, before the driver finally seemed to give in—people always did when Alfred really put an effort—and handed him a small mobile device which Alfred signed with a digital pen.

The driver walked to the rear part of the van and opened it. He pulled out a big square box, roughly three feet across, made of thin, pale, pine wood, and put it on the stone path on the far side of the road. Three more boxes followed.

As soon as the driver left, they all shuffled forward, curiosity getting the better of them.

Alfred sighed. "Masters, please, do try to stay away until we have ruled out any major risks. Miss Cassandra, would you please be so kind as to bring the scanning kit? We need to ensure that no explosives or chemicals are present before we open the boxes."

"I'll bring it," Cass said, disappearing into the house as silent as a shadow.

Tim slunk forward while Alfred wasn't looking and checked the delivery label. The boxes were addressed to Jason Todd, c/o Bruce Wayne, with the Manor's address written on it. He almost choked when he read the sender's address: Robert Locksley, 816 Park Row, Gotham City.

His eyes darted to Bruce, who was glaring at the boxes as if he wanted them to catch fire. Dick was pacing back and forth on the other side of the road, Alfred's pointed stare stopping him from coming any closer. The demon brat was still on the kitchen's entrance, arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently and looking as constipated as ever.

Cass came back with the scanning kit and a crowbar. Clever. They would've needed one of those anyway. She offered them to Bruce, who stepped back as if burned. She tilted her head, studying Bruce in an almost bird-like manner.

"I check?" she offered.

"No," Bruce said. He took the scanning kit and the crowbar as if they were loaded guns. "Stay away, all of you. Tim, that goes for you as well."

Busted. Alfred's attention shifted from Dick to Tim and his eyes narrowed. Double busted. Tim hurried back to the house.

The scans came back negative, not only for chemicals and explosives but also for tracking or listening devices.

"Don't come closer," Bruce ordered. He pried the wooden lid open with the crowbar and pulled out a forest worth of filling paper before coming to an abrupt end and staying stock still.

"Bomb?" Cass asked, echoing Tim's fear.

"No," Bruce said, voice distant. "The wheels. One of them. The others are probably—" he signaled towards the unopened boxes.

"Dear me," Alfred gasped, and his face crumbled with grief.

Tim suppressed the urge to go to him. Alfred had never been that physical and it wasn't as though Tim was any good at expressing affection. He wished Dick would hug the old man, but Dick looked as if he was about to throw up himself.

"That is excellent, father," Damian said, moving towards the boxes, and failing to read the rising tension around him. The little gremlin had never been good when it came to understanding human emotions—probably that stunted emotional growth from years under Ra's. Tim couldn't bring himself to care. "Red Hood kept his word. It seems that his sense of honor extends beyond protecting children from drugs. Rather refreshing for a thug."

"Why send them to Jason and not directly to Bruce?" Tim asked. That didn't make sense.

"He knows," Bruce said. "He's letting us know that he knows."

"Knows what?" the demon brat asked. Ra's probably smashed his head against a wall when he was still a baby. It was the only possible explanation. Tim sympathized with Ra's … a lot.

"About me. About Batman. Jason… we met because he tried to steal the wheels off the Batmobile," Bruce told them. "I came before he was done and stopped him. When I learned he was homeless and starving, I helped him find a shelter. It didn't … the shelter was a scam. They forced children to steal. Jason helped me put an end to it. Afterwards I offered to take him in. To become Robin."

That was a new piece of information that Tim didn't possess. Somehow it drove home how utterly lacking Tim himself had always been. He had to follow Batman for months, forcing himself upon him to get Batman to even acknowledge him. And two encounters with Jason was all it took for Bruce to have wanted him? It shouldn't hurt as much as it did. Tim's own parents hadn't wanted him either. Why would Bruce be different?

Tim looked at the boxes again and frowned. If Red Hood knew about Bruce, why not use that information against them? He could've neutralized Batman with that, or at least tried to. He certainly could've blackmailed them. Why sit on that kind of intel and do nothing? And how was he connected to Jason? There had to be a connection. Tim was sure of it. That was the missing piece of the puzzle.

Dick snarled—actually snarled. Loud enough that it startled Tim, interrupting his train of thought. "This guy is messing with us! This is a repeat of what happened with Riddler, Hush and Clayface."

Yeah, Dick was probably right. That had been a mess. Clayface pretending to be a resurrected Jason had done a number on all of them. Especially on Bruce, who had wanted so desperately to believe it. And to this day, they didn't know what had happened to Jason's corpse. His grave was empty. The body taken to make them believe Jason had been put in the Lazarus Pit and brought back to life. At least Bruce had been able to recognize the impostor for who he was: Clayface.

But there were so many unanswered questions left. Riddler, Hush and Clayface had seemed unaware of the connection between Bruce Wayne and Batman, and yet they had stolen Jason's corpse. When Batman had questioned Nigma about Robin's missing body—not mentioning Jason's name—the man had laughed. "Riddle me this, Batman. If you have two boxes, two coffins, two cats and two robins. How do you pick the right one?" They never got their answer.

"Jason is a weakness," Bruce said. "The rogues know it. They use it."

"Yes, but Red Hood's a new player. Where did he get that information?" Tim wondered out loud.

"If you possessed the required intelligence, Drake, the answer would be glaringly obvious. Tt, good that no one expects much from you, you'd only disappoint."

Tim was going to kill that boy one day. "Then enlighten us, Itty Bitty."

"Red Hood is a lowlife criminal from Crime Alley. Father just informed us that Todd was one, too. The two of them probably knew each other. Like calls to like. Todd was a subpar Robin just like you. He might have betrayed our secrets before getting himself killed with his willful disobedience."

"Damian! Enough!" Bruce growled at the same time as Dick snapped, "Shut up!" more angry at Damian badmouthing Jason's memory than they'd ever been at the brat trying to kill Tim. Would you look at that? There were limits to what Dick and Bruce would let Damian get away with after all. Hurting Tim just didn't make the cut.

It might not have been on Tim's behalf, but he still took great pleasure in seeing the little monster shrink in on himself at the harsh tone. Reprimands from Dick hurt twice as much as Bruce's—you knew you'd really screwed up when Dick lost his cheerful attitude and snarled at you. A double serving of Dick and Bruce's disappointment directed at Damian was a gift from heaven as far as Tim was concerned. With some luck, even Alfred would find subtle ways to make Damian's life less than pleasant over the next few days.

You did not talk about Jason Todd in the Manor. The demon brat would have to learn that.

And yet... there was some merit to Damian's idea, as much as it pained Tim to admit it, and he doubted the others would be rational enough to see it.

"I don't believe Jason would've told anyone about the connection between Bruce and Batman. He was Robin. None of us would ever betray that secret. However... Itty Bitty isn't completely wrong." Throwing up in his mouth would have been better than admitting that out loud, but needs must.

"Most homeless kids have a network," Tim went on, purposely not looking at Damian. If the brat smirked at him, he would end him, Bruce be damned. "Some of them probably knew he ended up being adopted by Bruce Wayne. I remember that time. The press had a field day with it. It was all Gotham talked about for months. You know how everyone in this city loves Wayne gossip. If Jason had friends, they would've known where he ended up. Eight Sixteen Park Row? That's Jason's birthday and birthplace. If Red Hood was his friend, this might be a way for him to acknowledge that."

"He was alone when I met him. He had no one," Bruce said.

"Alone doesn't mean friendless, Bruce," Tim said. "This is Jason we're talking about. He made friends everywhere. He had connections on the streets. People talked to him and accepted him. Jason was great at gathering information. You've told me the stories." Not that Bruce mentioned Jason much, but when he did... It had been a difficult legacy to live up to. "That doesn't happen without friends or allies of some kind. And yes, being from Crime Alley certainly helped, but that's not all it takes."

"What're you saying?" Dick asked, which was a step up from telling him to shut up. Jason was a tricky subject.

"That maybe Red Hood used to be one of those homeless kids that knew Jason. Or one of the other boys from the shelter where Bruce put him first. Jason might have bragged about stealing the tires. I would have." Tim paced, trying to make sense of it all. "If that's the case, Red Hood might know that Bruce adopted Jason without knowing that Bruce is Batman. If they were friends, Brucie winning the auction gave him a chance to acknowledge Jason's memory. It's something we ought to check."

"Master Jason never mentioned any friends," Alfred said.

"He used to visit the Alley after school sometimes," Tim said. "He gave the kids there part of his pocket money. He always hurried back to school afterwards to be there when you picked him up."

"I wasn't aware of that," Alfred said.

"He was good at hiding it," Tim told him.

"And you would know how?" Dick asked.

Tim hated the warmth in his cheeks. "I used to follow him every now and then."

"Of course," Bruce said, a slightly amused tilt to his lips.

Tim felt quite proud of that, even if it was at his expense. He'd thought it would take weeks to get Bruce out of the mood this whole mess had put him in.

"It seems a bit of a stretch," Dick said. "Red Hood being some long lost friend of Jason. Why come out now? Where has he been all these years?"

"Growing up?" Tim shrugged. "For all that Gotham respects us Robins, I doubt anyone in the underworld would have cared to listen to some fifteen-year-old boy. If he's around Jason's age, he was probably running errands and learning the ways of the mob before he was old enough to move up the ladder. He'd be in his early twenties now. Still too young to get respect, but no longer a kid. That counts for something and the mask hides his real age."

"Your theory has one big hole," Bruce said. "Red Hood operates like an assassin. He has League training. This is no common boy from Crime Alley. This whole thing smells like Ra's. He, too, was involved in the debacle with Clayface."

"Grandfather would never—" Damian started, but Bruce cut him off.

"Your grandfather has the resources and the knowledge to do something like this." Bruce paced back and forth as he spoke. "He knows who I am. Talia knew Jason. She knew the story of how we met. She would've known to use this. Has your mother contacted you recently?" he asked Damian.

Ouch. Tim hated the little shit, but that had to have hurt.

"Tt, of course not, father," Damian protested, straightening his back, trying and failing to look taller. "I would have notified you immediately. She and I are no longer in touch. I have chosen you and your methods." Laying it on, little sycophant. "She does not approve of my choice."

"I didn't mean to doubt you," Bruce backpadeled, probably noticing a little too late how his words came across. "But this stinks of Al Ghul and despite you being here they've been suspiciously distant during the last years."

"Mother respects my choice," Damian insisted. "That's the reason why she has stayed away from Gotham. This Red Hood has no connection to the League, I'm certain of it." There was a brief pause before he suggested in a lower voice, "We could ask her. She would not lie to us."

That kid had some serious delusions. Tim had infiltrated the League. He knew how they operated. Talia wouldn't hesitate for a second to lie to Bruce if it served her purposes. She wouldn't even blink.

"No," Bruce said. "We'll figure it out on our own."

What a surprising statement. Not. Tim suppressed a sigh. At this rate, it'd be months before he was able to go back to New York and the Titans.

"I'll conduct further tests on the wheels and see if we can get something from the plates of the delivery van," Bruce went on. "Oracle should try to dig up what she can on the other children from the shelter, see what became of them." He paused, looking at the boxes. "She should do a background check on Robert Locksley, too. We might find something useful."

"You know that's a fake name, right?" It seemed obvious to Tim and it should to Bruce as well, but none of them were thinking clearly. "Robert Locksley? Robin Hood?"

"I'm aware, yes," Bruce said. "But creating a fake identity requires paperwork. We won't leave any avenue of investigation untouched. You and Lucius should continue working on the upgrades to the Batmobile's security system. Dick, ask about Red Hood in Blüdhaven. Most gangs in Gotham have some sort of an arm over there or at least try to establish one."

"Me?" Cassandra asked.

"Keep up patrols with Spoiler. Robin and I will do the same to lighten Red Robin's workload."

"I can manage," Tim protested.

"The upgrades have priority. Some of the criminals will try to go for the Batmobile again, and I want to discourage them from trying. The average thug might not be able to bypass our systems, but I don't want them even daring to dream that one day they might. This is the last time something like this happens, understood?"

"Sure." Of course they would do their best. They had done their best last time. It just hadn't been good enough.

Chapter Text

Exhaustion weighed on Bruce. It clung to his bones, impossible to shake, a sporadic visitor that had taken up permanent residence without permission. The sleepless nights hadn't bothered him so much when he was younger.

It was times like this when he envied Clark. Not his super powers or his speed and strength, not even the ability to fly. But staying a couple of minutes in the sunlight and feeling the aches and exhaustion melt away? Bruce wouldn't mind that one at all, even if he'd never admit it out loud.

'You're growing weak,' Batman's voice whispered in the back of his mind. Bruce ignored it. He was self-aware enough to know that he and Batman were one and the same, that Batman's voice was his voice, even if some days it didn't feel like it. Tonight was one of those nights. The divide, painful and glaring, where no divide should be.

A canyon named Jason.

How could something that had happened so long ago still hurt so much? Wasn't time supposed to heal all wounds? Wasn't five years, seven months and three weeks enough? Batman thought so. Bruce… well… he'd lost hope that Jason's death would ever cease hurting.

Seeing Dick, Tim, Damian, Cass… even Stephanie. They'd all grown so much, become such incredible people that it stole Bruce's breath away. And then there was Jason… who never got the opportunity to grow up at all. So much talent and potential, gone. Stolen. Destroyed for a laugh. Bruce would never get to know the man Jason would have become. If he'd just…. There was no point thinking about would-have-beens. The past was the past.

He stopped in front of Jason's door. His feet having taken him there on their own volition. He knew the carvings on that dark wood by heart. Countless nights he'd come here, haunted by memories of his son, the echo of his laughter in the corridors of the manor. Even these days, when the house was filled with children and their raucous yelling more often than not, the silence where Jason's laughter should have been haunted him.

Five years and he still couldn't open that door. Five years and he still couldn't face the memories hidden in that room. His son's room, filled with Jason's school things, his clothes, his books, his toys. A life stopped after it'd barely begun. Gone. Destroyed. It was easier to let the door stay closed. Leave the memories buried. The pain pushed aside and ignored until it became background noise. A constant companion, like the exhaustion. An obstacle to overcome.

Batman couldn't afford such weakness, and Bruce had made an art of turning his pain and fear into the fuel on which Batman thrived.

He'd dedicated his life to becoming Batman. Batman was all he knew how to be. His calling. His cross to bear. A burden he willingly chose. He sacrificed relationships and love and friendships for Batman, fooling the world into thinking Bruce a vapid, shallow billionaire because that belief protected Batman.

Batman came first. Always.

Dick had understood that. It was not Bruce who Dick had wanted, but Batman and the opportunity he offered Dick to avenge his parents' death. To stop others from suffering the same fate. Bruce hadn't minded it. He, too, chose Batman over Bruce again and again.

And then Jason happened. Jason with his uncanny ability to look beyond Batman's mask. Jason, who saw the Batmobile and stole its tires. Who saw Batman and despite being barely fifty pounds wet, small and skinny and practically starving, went after him with a tire iron. Absolutely fearless.

Jason had not been impressed by Batman at all. Even after Batman bought Jason food, Jason made it clear that he was there for the free burgers, nothing else.

Talking to Jason, learning about the harshness of his life, the choices he had to make everyday to survive, had reminded Bruce that Batman was the right choice, that the sacrifices were worth it. It had also made Bruce want to take Jason home with him and give the boy the shelter and care he deserved.

For the first time since Bruce became Batman, he wanted something Batman didn't. Batman refused to entrust their secret to some street-thug-wannabe they barely knew, even if he was only a child. Bruce… Bruce could not conceive letting Jason go back to his drafty shelter to continue stealing just so he could have something to eat. Not when the Manor with its dozen empty rooms seemed like a mausoleum without Dick there to fill it's emptiness.

Batman's voice insisted that bringing Jason to an orphanage or a shelter would be the best solution. Bruce wanted to bring him home, even if it meant telling Jason who Batman was.

Batman won. Batman always won.

They placed the boy in Ma Gunn's School for Boys. Bruce hated it, but he had to admit that Batman's voice was right. It was the best compromise. They couldn't trust a boy they had just met, a boy with a criminal background, with a secret that had the power to destroy the work of a lifetime. A secret that their numerous enemies would be willing to pay almost any money for. A secret they would torture and kill for. Trusting the boy—placing that burden on him—would be folly.

That should have been it, but life had other designs. Just a few weeks later, Jason sought them out again, bringing Batman all the evidence he needed to expose the school's criminal activities and put a stop to it. Bruce was appalled that a place which was supposed to be a shelter for children in need was being misused to turn those children into criminals. Appalled that Batman had unwillingly condemned Jason to further abuse, when all Bruce had ever wanted was to protect the boy and deliver him from a life in which the only choice left to him was to become a criminal.

The part of Bruce that was Batman had been impressed at Jason's skill, at his resourcefulness and creativity. More importantly though, Batman had been forced to accept that despite his upbringing, when giving the opportunity Jason chose justice over crime.

If before Batman had only seen a potential criminal, another angry teenager who would grow up to become a blight of the city, he suddenly recognized the potential Bruce had seen that first night. Jason just needed someone to guide him. To give him a chance. To show him that crime wasn't the answer, that there were other options open to him.

When it was over, when Ma Gunn and her accomplices were brought to justice and the other children were placed with new foster parents, Bruce offered Jason a home and Batman gave him Robin.

As time passed, however, it became clear that unlike Dick, who had wanted Batman first and Bruce not at all, Jason wanted Bruce and the things he had to offer as much as he wanted Batman. Maybe even more. A place to sleep, food, books, school. A home.

A father.

It was such a novelty to be wanted for himself. To see himself through Jason's eyes: Someone wanted. Someone needed. Someone loved. Not because he was Batman like Dick, or out of a sense of duty like Alfred, but simply for being Bruce.

He found himself doing things he'd never done before just because Jason asked it of him. They went to baseball games and to the theater. They did sightseeing and visited bookshops and libraries together. Jason took such joy in being able to do those things—having Bruce there to do those things with him—that Bruce couldn't find it in himself to deny him. Not when he, too, was rediscovering the sense of joy and ease of heart that he'd forgotten after his parents' death.

It was so easy to ask Jason to become his son, not just his ward. With Dick, Bruce would never have dared. It was easy to skip patrol when Jason was sick, or when he had to study for a test and asked Bruce for help. It was easy to ignore Batman's fading voice and put Jason's happiness and wellbeing first.

It made Bruce happy. And proud. And for the first time ever he didn't need to hide it. He could tell everyone how brilliant Jason was. He could brag to Clark and Diana, but also to any reporter who asked. And some who didn't.

Jason loved being Robin, but he loved being Jason, too, Bruce Wayne's adopted son. As the years passed, Bruce began to learn how to like being Bruce Wayne as well, Jason's father. How to like being more than just Batman.

The more time they spent together, the more Bruce grew to like his own skin, without the crutch of the mask. Batman's voice became harsher and more demanding, and when Bruce didn't listen, it turned on Jason. In hindsight he should have predicted the outcome.

Robin and Batman began to fight about everything: which cases to pursue, how to gather the information, tactics, witness accounts, conclusions. The more involved Bruce became in Jason's life, the more unforgiving and demanding Batman was towards Robin.

For the first time since he created Batman, Bruce wished he could set the mantle aside. Being Robin was changing Jason. His son had always been cocky, the type to jump first and ask questions later, but as he grew older and became more confident, that attitude grew tenfold. His sweet boy became angrier and meaner. More violent.

Bruce had failed Dick already. The growing distance between the two of them made that clear. He didn't want to fail Jason, too. Batman wanted to bench Jason until he calmed down. Bruce wanted him to stop being Robin altogether.

It was something he'd wanted for Dick, too, even if it took a bullet for his worry to finally silence Batman's protests. It was easier with Jason. Bruce and Batman both wanted the same thing, even if their reasons differed.

Jason didn't understand. Bruce failed to explain it well, to convince him. Just like he'd failed to explain it to Dick. He handled the thing with Garzonas wrong. In hindsight it was easy to see. And then Sheila appeared and Bruce knew he'd lost. He'd never be able to compete against Jason's mother.

Batman took pleasure in rubbing that in. Bruce had allowed himself to become weak for nothing. Jason didn't need him. Not when there were better options available. He could never compete against Jason's natural mother, just like he couldn't compete with the memory of Dick's parents. Neither Jason nor Dick needed or wanted Bruce. It was Batman they wanted, and when Bruce took Robin away from them and with it their access to Batman, both of them ran away and left Bruce.

Dick had run to New York with the Titans, and Jason….

The memory of Jason's torn body, bloodied and broken and lifeless was not something he would ever forget. Jason had been so light in Bruce's arms, so small. He'd been just a child still. His child. He shouldn't have died. Certainly not at Joker's hand.

'We should have killed him,' Batman whispered, and Bruce agreed. If it hadn't been for Clark's interference they would have. He would have learned to live with Joker's blood on his hands, just like he learned to live with Jason's.

But there was a difference between killing Joker in instant retaliation and killing him years later, calculated and cold blooded. By the time Clark stopped paying attention, Bruce knew that it was too late. If he killed Joker then, if he took the time and care to plan his death with all of Batman's resources, he would never stop. Joker's death would be an appetizer in an all-you-can-eat buffet that would start in Arkham and end only when all monsters in the world were gone or Batman was killed by one them. Whichever came first.

He hoped that Clark was right. That Jason wouldn't have wanted such an end for him. That if there was a heaven and Jason was there watching over Bruce, he forgave Bruce's failures as a father and his failures as Batman.

Tim came into his life and forced him to keep going, and then Dick came back and Damian and Cass. Somehow, life went on, and Bruce learned to endure it; some days even to enjoy it—though he didn't trust that feeling. Happiness was not meant for him. He'd been happy as a child, and his parents were taken away from him. He'd been happy with Jason, and Jason, too, had been taken away.

Bruce would not make the same mistake again. Not when the price was the lives of his children. The discord between Batman and him was gone. The temporary divide in their purpose, erased. There was a reason why he'd created Batman and Bruce would never allow himself to ever again forget it.

The guilt remained, even though intellectually he knew there was little he could have done. Jason died because Bruce grew comfortable, because he put himself before Batman, because somehow along the way he started to believe that there might be more to life than just the cowl and the sacrifices it demanded from him.

He would not make that mistake again.

That scumbag of a thug, who dared to use Jason's death—his suffering—to distract Batman while he took over Gotham's underground, would soon learn that Batman wasn't so easily fooled.

Bruce wouldn't allow it. He would not let the memory of his son become a weapon in someone else's hand. Batman's approval traveled like a warm current up his spine.

Bruce let his head rest on the wooden door and closed his eyes, firming his resolve. They would get to the bottom of this and whoever was behind it would pay. They would pay dearly. Bruce owed Jason that much. And this time he would not fail his son.

The next couple of weeks were a nightmare. Everyone knew Brucie had won the auction and he had to make several appearances and hog the front pages showing off his new toy. It was expected.

Club visits and exclusive parties. A couple of public escapades with two models who were just about Dick's age. Because the moment he had two beautiful young women as old as his oldest son hanging from his arms, people stopped caring about the money and the Batmobile's wheels to speculate about his tantalizing sex life. Bruce had been playing this game for decades. He knew the spiel.

He agreed to an interview with Vicky Vale, which ended with Brucie going down on her and fucking her from behind in the garage against the hub of the Lamborghini he'd retrofitted with the Batmobile's wheels. The sex was fantastic and Bruce hated every second of it.

The scalding article Vicky had written afterwards was proof that she'd probably hated it, too, even if Brucie made sure she came four times before having Alfred call her a taxi to drive her home. He didn't regret it. It was important that Vicky hated Brucie as much as she desired him. She'd proven in the past too clever a woman, and had come more than once much too close to discovering the truth behind Batman. The only way Bruce could ensure that she didn't, was by clouding her judgment with that unhealthy mix of hate and desire that stopped her from being rational when it came to him or the Waynes.

During those weeks of constant partying and bragging, common thieves tried to jack the Lamborghini more than once. The price tag on those wheels was something most couldn't resist. The alarms they had put in place stopped three of the attempts and at some point, Bruce ended up calling one of Wayne Enterprise's drivers to chauffeur him around to ensure the car was protected.

Those failed attempts helped strengthen their alibi. By the time they made their move—Dick clad all in black making sure that no one could identify him—and stole not just the wheels but the car itself, all of Gotham high society had a betting pool going about how long it would take for someone to steal Brucie's fancy new toy.

Bruce felt almost guilty for forcing the insurance to pay for the theft, but not doing so would have been much more suspicious. In the end, the whole ordeal wasn't that expensive. Just two million insurance premium and he'd ended up getting back all Red Hood stole from him: the wheels and the money.

The petty part of him, the part he only let out when he put on his most obnoxious Brucie mask, wanted to take the Batmobile out with all its original tires back in place and park it in the middle of Crime Alley with the "REPLACE THAT, ASSHOLE" message Red Hood had tagged crossed out and the words "DONE" in its place.

But that was Bruce speaking, not Batman. Batman wanted more than to succumb to a childish game of one-upmanship with Red Hood. He wanted Red Hood's budding criminal empire destroyed and the man put away in Arkham or Blackgate for good. And what Batman wanted, Batman got.

Chapter Text

Jason gasped, unable to draw breath. The water was everywhere. He fought against the current, but it dragged him down. His chest burned. Desperation overtook him and he breathed in. The water rushed in, filling his lungs. It burned everything it touched.

One thought slammed into him. The first in the void that was his broken mind: he was dying. This was what dying felt like. The pain. The burning. The choking.

He remembered it.

The memories flooded through him, washing him away, drowning him with their intensity. Hundreds, thousands, millions of memories, small and big, meaningful and superfluous. Long past and painfully fresh. They burned like the water did. His mind. His lungs. His mouth. His throat. Everything burned. His skin peeled away, bubbling and burning as the water became acid, muscles and blood and tissue melting away.

Laughter.

Green. So much green. Green water. Green hair. Green laughter. Loud. Shrill. A crowbar coming down. Again and again and again. Green. He opened his mouth to scream and more water rushed in. The memories clawed at him, cutting, ripping, shredding. The pit was a hungry monster eating him alive. He couldn't escape it. Maybe it had already devoured him and Jason was drowning inside the monster's belly, slowly being digested by the acid in his guts. Being unmade.

He couldn't breathe.

Laughter.

He fought. Though everything hurt. He fought. A bomb. Gotham was burning too. A clock ticking down. Jason was never going to make it. He wasn't strong enough. He wasn't good enough.

He fought anyway. Impossibly, he managed to break the surface, gasping for breath. Pieces of charred flesh still clung to his bones. It rotted and fell off as he swam towards the shore. A girl stood there, waiting. She stared at him, head tilted to the side as she watched him struggle. Impassive. She didn't offer help. Jason didn't expect her to. No one ever helped. He swam towards her anyway. Or tried to.

He wanted to reach her. Needed to reach her. If he made it to the shore he would finally be able to rest.

Her teeth were black and rotting. Flies came out of her mouth when she smiled. Her eyes were black holes that swallowed all light, leaving her surrounded by an ever growing void. She was the most beautiful creature Jason had ever seen.

She was still there when he made it to the shore. Waiting for him. Patient. Eternal. She crouched at the edge of the Pit and placed her hand on Jason's forehead. Small. Fragile. A child's hand with skeletal fingers as cold as ice. Where she touched him the burning ceased.

"Not yet," she said, and pushed him down into the green water. She laughed. It was the Joker's laugh.

Jason woke up drenched in sweat, gasping for air, tangled among the bed sheets. The cloying taste of the Pit's water fresh in his mouth. Bile rose up and he was barely able to roll over before nausea overtook him. He retched, emptying what little he'd bothered to eat before falling in bed the night before.

"Fucking hell," he grunted, and let his head fall on the sweaty pillow. The clock on the side table marked 9:23 am. No wonder he felt like shit. Not even four hours of sleep. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out.

Fucking nightmares.

The smell of puke and sweat was disgusting. He wanted nothing more than to stand up and take a shower, but didn't have enough energy left to leave the bed. He laid there, weak and defenseless, angry at himself and his inability to fucking get over it already.

He'd died. Big deal. Hundreds of people died and life went on. At least Jason had gotten another chance. That was more than almost everyone else could claim. He'd seen first hand what some of the street girls put up with before he got rid of their pimps for good. Hell, Jason's own mother had survived more than one beating in her time. What the Joker had done to Jason had sucked and he was pissed as hell that Bruce hadn’t bothered to stop that monster from doing it to others, but it'd happened five fucking years ago. Jason's subconscious needed to move on.

He breathed in and out slowly, like Ducra taught him, pushing back the last remains of the nightmare. It was difficult at first, but over the years Jason had learned to master his emotions or at least work with and around them. He fell into the welcome trance of meditation and the tension dissolved as he centered his scattered thoughts.

When he opened his eyes again, almost an hour had passed. He felt calmer and his limbs were no longer trembling. It was easier to muster enough strength to stand up and deal with the mess in his bed. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep again. He was as rested as he would be that day.

After cleaning, airing the room and taking a shower he felt better. He still looked tired, but nothing a pair of sunglasses couldn't hide. He shaved and checked the roots of his fringe critically. The white was starting to show.

The memory of those skeletal fingers touching his forehead almost lovingly, tangling between the strands of hair there before pushing him down surged back. Jason shuddered, ignored it, and concentrated on the mirror instead.

He'd have to dye his hair soon, but if he messed it up just right, the white roots of his fringe would remain hidden a while longer. It wasn't so much vanity as pure practicality. A young man with such a distinct streak of white hair tended to stay in people's memories more than an average dark haired guy would. Jason didn't want his day-persona to draw attention.

Emilio Ortega was a down-on-his-luck student trying to fend for himself in the hopes of a better life. He took some courses at the community college, even if he didn't have time to socialize much with his fellow students because he had to work to survive. The same sob-story more than half of his peers had: one absentee father and a mother who had been killed during the Joker’s last escapade. Maybe he should've chosen a different rogue for the backstory, but staying close to the truth never hurt and it explained the hate he failed to hide whenever the Joker was mentioned.

Emilio had no close friends and Jason liked it that way. He was just a mask, not even a particularly good one, but he allowed Jason to move freely around Gotham during the day. He could pass muster whenever the police got overzealous trying to show their might by forcing people to identify themselves. Something they only did during the day in Park Row. Far be it for the police to dare enter the Alley at night, when it might have made a difference.

He still felt jittery, so he put on some sweatpants and a t-shirt and went for a jog. Park Row lacked the beautiful paths that wound through the gardens at Wayne Manor, carefully attended by the most exclusive gardening company in Gotham under Alfred's watchful eye. It didn't have the breathtaking view of the mountain trails near the All-Caste. The air was filled with pollution and the asphalt had no give under his feet, but the street was Jason's in a way nothing had ever been before. Bought and paid for with the blood on his hands and the stains on his soul.

It was easy to fall into a rhythm, letting his mind drift as he ran. It wiped clean the last dregs of the nightmare. When he was done, he decided to stop at Mary's, a small cafe tucked away near Merchant Street almost at the end of Park Row, still Crime Alley, but so close to the Bowery that outsiders not as aware of the invisible borders in the city, might have considered it a part of it.

A new memory hit him the moment his hand closed on the doorknob of the cafe. He'd come here with his mother for his seventh birthday. The memory was crisp and sharp as if it had happened yesterday. His father had been in jail, but somehow his mom had managed to get enough money to treat him to Mary's. Jason remembered his excitement when his plate came—two chili dogs just for himself. He thought he was going to burst, but he'd insisted he was big enough to eat them both. Afterwards they’d gone to the local library and she had gotten him his first library card. His heart filled with warmth at the memory and he stored it away carefully.

It made him wonder what else he'd forgotten? What else would he remember? Had his love for chili dogs and books started on that day or had his mom bought him the chili dogs and got him a library card because he already liked them? He didn't remember, but maybe one day he would.

He ordered the chili dogs again, even though he wasn't particularly hungry. It felt important to honor the new memory, treat it like the gift it was. He picked a far corner of the cafe, with his back to the wall and a clear view of the door and the windows and waited for the food to come.

Jason's faulty memory hadn't done credit to the chili dogs in this place.

"Oh, god!" He moaned after taking that first glorious bite. "These are to die for," he said to the waitress, because the day Jason let an opportunity pass him by to use his own terrible demise as a cheap pun might as well be the day he died for good.

The woman, an old lady in her late sixties or maybe early seventies, chuckled. "Thank you. It's a family recipe. Glad you approve."

Jason peered at the name tag on her chest, and saw Mary written there. "You the owner?"

"Yeah," she said. "My mother set it up. She was a Mary, too. Named me Mary so that I could take over from her."

"Some tough, intelligent women in your family to have made it here so long," Jason pointed out.

It was meant as a compliment, but Mary's smile dropped as if Jason had sucker-punched her. "It's not too bad, once you get the hang of it."

The bell by the door chimed as it was kicked open. Two men in their late thirties or early forties entered. Jason didn't need any training to know what they wanted. They might have worn other faces back when he was a child, but he recognized their kind.

Mary must have seen something in Jason's face, for she shook her head subtly at him, before heading towards the men with a friendly smile pasted on her face.

"Mr. Lenard, it's good to see you again," she said, and if it wasn't because reading body language was a skill he'd honed under his father's fists and his mother's 'it's all right, baby, I'm fine, daddy didn't mean to hurt me' to perfection, he probably would have believed Mary's words.

Jason forced himself to to stay still. Emilio Ortega couldn't fight his way out of this. It would ruin everything. The few other patrons in the place ignored the newcomers, too, concentrating on their own meals as much as they could. Conversations had stopped, though, and an uncomfortable silence weighed the atmosphere down like thunder clouds gathering before a storm.

"You've got my money?" one of the men asked, probably Mr. Lenard.

Jason glanced up, committing his face to memory. White; brown hair with gray already showing at the temples; a bit on the bulky side, which was equal part muscle and fat; a twisted sadistic grin on his face. A man who enjoyed his job and what little power it brought him.

"Yes, I'll get it for you," Mary answered. "Just a minute."

"Hurry it up," Lenard said. "We don't have all day."

Mary disappeared through a small side door, leaving the men behind. The silence stretched uncomfortably. None of the other guests spoke. Even a couple of teenagers, who'd been laughing loudly when Jason came in, were now typing furiously on their phones, ignoring each other and what was going on around them with a focus that could only be fake.

"Who are you glaring at?" Lenard barked at Jason.

The words startled him. He hadn't realized he'd been so obvious, but he hadn't purposely ignored what was going on like the other customers did. And maybe he'd been glaring. These men pissed him off. This was Jason's territory; they had no business being here.

But he wasn't Red Hood right now. He was Emilio Ortega, a piss-poor student who only wanted to keep his nose clean and stay out of trouble until graduation in the hopes of getting a job far, far away from Gotham.

He wasn't Red Hood.

He forced himself to look down at his half eaten chili dog, even though every instinct was screaming at him to keep the enemy in sight. "Nothing," he mumbled, not looking up, the word coming out like a fingernail pulled out with a plier. Just about as painful, too.

"Mind your own business or we'll mind it for you," Lenard growled, taking a step closer.

Jason didn't tense, didn't look up, didn't tell the man to go fuck himself. He was Emilio Ortega and Emilio didn't know how to throw the dull table knife lying next to his right hand with enough precision that it'd bury itself into Lenard's right eye socket, killing him. Emilio didn't know how to twist Lenard's partner’s arm, breaking it at the elbow before the man could even think of pulling out the gun he was carrying. Emilio wouldn't take pleasure in the screams of pain that would follow, wouldn't know to follow suit by slamming his knee into the man's nose before snapping his neck, ending the fight before it truly began.

Emilio would stay quiet and meek as Lenard approach him, would not think about the hundred different ways he could kill the man, would most definitely not slam his fork into the meaty, hairy hand that was taking his untouched chili dog, the one he'd intended to take home for dinner later that night. Emilio would do nothing, like the other guests did nothing, like Mary did nothing, like the police did nothing, like everyone else in Park Row and Gotham did nothing.

"Hey, Benny," the fucking asshole mumbled, mouth filled with Jason's chili dog. "This's some good stuff. Want some?" And then he picked Jason's half eaten chili dog and offered it to his partner.

"Do I look like a bum to you?" Benny snapped, batting the hand away.

The chili dog fell to the floor, spilling sauce everywhere. Jason saw it roll as if in slow motion. It stopped a couple of inches away from his sneakers.

Jason looked up. Oh, the two of them were walking corpses. They just didn't know it yet. Inside him the whispers of the Pit faded. The burning pain inside his soul eased from a roaring, all-consuming inferno to the soft heat of the spring sun kissing one's face after months of winter. Jason's almost moaned as the coiled tension in his muscles melted away.

Soon. He'd kill them soon. The absolute certainty of it was enough to silence the voices.

Lenard-the-corpse took a step back. The sudden flare of fear in his eyes was deliciously sweet. Jason savored it. It'd be a slow, painful death, too. None of those execution style shots to the head. Jason would take his time, making it last, basking in the screams as the life drained away from them drop by drop.

"Mr. Lenard, here is your—"

From his peripheral vision, Jason noticed Mary stopping at the door, a thick envelope in her hand. She took in the scene and plastered a smile on her face, no less determined for how fake it was. "Here's what you came for. I can pack you a lunch bag if you're hungry."

Lenard-the-corpse blinked and his eyes narrowed. There was still fear there, plain to see, but it was turning into anger now. That was it. It was written all over him. Whatever he'd seen in Jason's face had scared him, but no one could afford fear in Crime Alley. Fear got you killed. Little Lenard was going to pull his gun and shoot Jason. Or try to.

Jason leaned back on his chair, eyes fixed on the man. He let the corners of his lips stretch into a smile until his teeth showed. A clown's smile.

Go ahead, little Lenard. Give it your best shot. I dare you.

"Come on, Len," Benny said, his eyes on Jason, too. "We don't have time for this. We have to finish our rounds."

"Benny," Lenard growled.

"Len, let's go," Benny insisted, putting a hand on the man's shoulder.

"You got lucky, punk," Lenard growled at Jason. "Pray we don't meet again."

"Worry not, Mr. Lenard," Jason said, voice calm and even. "I'll be sure to pray."

The man tensed, but when his buddy pulled him back he allowed himself to be dragged. He snapped the envelope from Mary's hand and pushed her. She stumbled, but managed to catch herself against one of the empty tables. Her eyes darted to Jason, almost desperate and she shook her head.

The door closed behind Benny and Lenard. The wood was the most beautiful shade of green Jason had ever seen, the color of new leaves filled with young chlorophyll which had not yet had enough time to darken under the harshness of life. The green was everywhere. Breathtaking. Jason wanted to bathe in it. Drown in it. Die in it.

'Not yet.'

He breathed in. Counted to five. Breathed out. Counted to seven. The green was still everywhere. Identify one smell. He breathed in. Concentrated. There it was, that pervasive smell of old grease being used again and again, reheated, cleaned, used again. Jason swallowed and breathed out. Identify one sound: the scrape of metal on the floor as the teens on the corner table stood up and left. Their voices loud and cheerful. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Just another day in Park Row. One texture. He spread his fingers over the table. The wood was old and scratched over, warm under the sunlight that filtered through the window. The varnish was gone in most places, and the sensitive cups of Jason's fingers kept catching against the half-lifted flaky spots.

The hardest part still to come. Find one color.

Not green.

He wished he had his helmet. Red. His helmet was bright red. He tried to remember the color. What did it look like? He glanced across the room. The other guests were leaving, too.

Mary was sweeping the fallen chili dog into a dustpan. The thick sauce smeared the floor like blood. Red. It was red. The colors came back at once, red, grey, white, blue, brown, yellow. Different hues and nuances, bright and dull, dark and light. And with them the pain returned. But it was a familiar pain, not quite a friend but an acquaintance. Jason welcomed it back. A small price to pay. Better than the exhilarating, addicting freedom of the Pit's influence. He'd seen what the desire to flee the pain had done to his mother and though Jason couldn't blame her for it, he'd never allow himself to become Catherine.

The next breath came easier. And the one after that easier still.

"Here." Mary's voice cut through his exercise, but Jason didn't flinch or attack. She put another plate of chili dogs in front of him and a pint of ice tea. "On the house. You're new around here, aren't you?"

Jason shrugged. "Not really. Used to live here when I was a kid. Mom got a better job and we moved out when I was twelve." He stuck to Emilio's story. "She died last year. The Joker. I couldn't afford the rent in Upper East by myself. Not even sharing. So I’m back."

"Well, you've gotta sharpen those survival instincts quick, boy, or you're gonna get yourself killed," Mary said. "Park Row ain't kind on idiots."

Jason snorted. "Park Row ain't kind on anyone."

"Well, you haven't forgotten everything. Might survive yet. Len and Benny ain't a bad sort, you got lucky there," Mary said. "You glare like that at the wrong sort and you'll get a bullet in your head for your troubles."

"Who do they work for? Red Hood?" They sure as hell didn't work for him, and Jason was spitting mad that someone was double dipping in a place under his protection.

Mary glanced around, but the other customers were gone, only Jason remained. "No, they ain't Hood's men."

"I thought Park Row belonged to Hood." If someone was making a move on his territory and Jason hadn't heard about it more heads were going to roll.

"Eat your food and don't ask so many questions, boy," Mary said, the smile gone from her face. "You've forgotten how things work around here." She eyed him critically. "Your mom did you a favor taking you out, and it was stupid of you to come back. Mouthy boy like you, who doesn't belong to one of the gangs, is just asking for a beating. You should tread carefully or you'll get one."

"I can take care of myself," Jason mumbled.

Mary snorted. "You're just lucky the Hood has things under control now. Word is he doesn't force boys like you to join him unless they ask. A year ago and one gang or another would've made a move on you. They were always on the lookout for new muscle, and no wasn't a word they took kindly to."

"That's me, Mr. Lucky," Jason said sarcastically. "How come those two are harassing you, if Hood has everything under control. Ain't you under his protection?"

Mary leveled an unimpressed glare at him. "You and your questions. Curiosity killed the cat, boy."

For all her protests, Jason knew she was going to talk. It was written all over her. Jason just needed to push a bit harder. That was one part of being Robin he'd always excelled at. Even Golden Boy hadn't been as good at it as Jason was.

"Sorry," he said, lowering his eyes and shrinking on himself. He wasn't a small kid anymore, but it didn't matter. You spent your childhood learning how to avoid a thrashing and you got good at reading body language and projecting 'please I didn't mean it, I just can't help myself.' Not that it ever stopped Willis. Or maybe it did. Maybe without that skill the beatings would've been worse. "I didn't mean to pry. I just—my dad had a small business and men were always coming to threaten him if he didn't pay them. Until he left and never came back. Seeing them brought memories back."

Mary sighed. "Eat your food, boy. This ain't that. Hood is at least good for something. Before he came, businesses in Park Row had to pay Falcone, Maroni, the Russians and Black Mask. Damn leeches. All of them asking for money, and none stopping the others from asking more. First time the Hood came, I thought, well, what we just needed, another leech. Got surprised when he went and ran the others off for good. First time in fifty years working in Park Row, one of them crime lords takes seriously the protection part of the deal instead of the racket part."

Jason took a bite of his new chili dog and hummed in appreciation. Yup, he took the protection part seriously and it was good to know people noticed it. "So why do you pay them, if they ain't Hood's men? It sure didn't look like they'd take no for an answer either."

"They're Smitty's men," she said.

Loan sharks, then. That explained that.

Mary laughed, half-broken. "Yeah, you probably think I'm stupid, don't you? It's written all over your face. Getting involved with Smitty. No one in their right mind would be so silly."

"I didn't say—"

"You didn't have to say it, boy. No one has to say it, but they all think it." Mary looked at the door. Away from him. The place was still empty apart from Jason. She rubbed a hand on her skirt, a nervous gesture. "I used to think it, too," she whispered, like a confession. "Only addicts could be so stupid as to go to Smitty. I was wrong, of course. It's not addicts who go. It's desperate people. And Park Row is filled with those. I wasn't always—" she stopped.

Jason took an empty glass, poured her some of the ice tea and pushed it towards her. She sat down and took it. Her hands were trembling, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Jason wondered if anyone had ever asked for the story. Probably not. People in the Alley all had their demons. It was hard enough to deal with your own; no one had time for other people's tragedies.

"My mother left me this cafe. Not a single debt. Yeah, we had to pay for protection, but who doesn't. All debt free. I should've sold it all and left this god forsaken city. Never looked back." She didn't drink the ice tea, just turned the glass in her hands, around and around. "But I was young and in love, and pregnant with my own girl. I'm fourth generation Gotham. My grandmother was a Mary, my mother and me. This place is history. My family's history. Selling it never even crossed my mind. Leaving never crossed my mind. I even had some savings at the bank. My little Mary grew and she wanted to open another cafe in the Diamond District."

She laughed, wet and broken. "A Mary's in the Diamond District. Imagine that. I thought she was crazy, but she was set on the idea. Had a book filled with recipes for foodies, she said. They pay crazy prices over there, she said. It was tight, but we ran the numbers and it seemed as it would work. Should've known it wouldn't. There ain't happy endings in Park Row. The earthquake hit and all those dreams were as broken as the city. My Robert died and it was just Mary and I. We had to use the savings to repair this place.

"The insurance only covered so much and all those promises of help by the city and the Waynes were never meant for people like us. Upper East and West End, Old Gotham and the Diamond District. They all got the money for repairs. But the Bowery, the Narrows and Park Row—we almost got nothing. We weren't hit as bad, mind, and that was for the best. Look what happened to the New Bowery."

Yeah, Jason knew what happened to the New Bowery. They were hit bad. Really bad. Razed to the ground. The city couldn't afford the repairs and the Wayne Foundation stepped in. They filled the place with new, state of the art, earthquake-proof buildings. Gorgeous and modern. A dream come true. Except for the part that not a single person who'd lived there before could afford to pay the fucking rent of the new places. They were pushed farther North, to the parts of the Bowery and the Narrows that had remained more or less intact, while the South part became the New Bowery. As unaffordable as the Upper East Side or the Diamond District.

The sad part was that Bruce probably didn't know. Jason would bet his favorite sidearm that the man signed on the repairs and slept like a baby, thinking he'd done the people in Gotham a fucking favor. And he had, to all those lawyers and managers working in the Diamond District and the Upper Side, who suddenly had gorgeous apartments with a direct view to the Gotham river. Yeah, a happy ending all around, but only for those who already had a happy beginning.

"It wasn't so bad," Mary continued. "Money was scarce, and fewer people could afford to eat out, but we've never been too expensive and there're regulars who've been coming here for decades. Everything got a little tighter for a while, but we were making do, and even the gangs were busy rebuilding so they didn't bother us as much. After a year, things started looking up again. Not enough that my girl's dream of a second Mary's would come true—that one died with the earthquake—but enough to get by."

Mary stayed silent for a while, and Jason didn't press. This was always the hardest part, having the patience to wait. Jason remembered his mom sobbing silently on her bed, with Willis passed out from too much drink next to her. Staying back and still and small when all he wanted to do was hug her was hard, but moving closer before she opened her arms and beckoned him in made her flinch and cry harder. Jason hated that even more.

He waited.

Mary looked up. She wiped away the silent tears on her face and pasted a smile on her lips, thin and painful and wrong. "Scarecrow happened. Broke out again." She looked down at the glass of ice tea in her hands as she turned it and turned it. "Just another Thursday in Gotham. My Mary was out, some new movie she wanted to watch with friends. They were on their way back when the gas was released. It got to her. She panicked, ran into oncoming traffic. The next time I saw her, she was filled with tubes and in a coma.

"We'd stopped paying the health insurance because we couldn't afford it after the earthquake. It was meant to be temporary, only for a year or two." She snorted. "The medical bills started growing and growing. What I was to do? She was my daughter. My Mary. My child. I paid. And when the money ran out I went to the bank and mortgaged the house. And I prayed my Mary would heal soon. But when Park Row prays..."

"... only the devil answers," Jason finished for her. Yeah, he knew that one.

"That money ran out, too. There was always another procedure, maybe another chance she would wake up. I tried to get a second credit, but they wouldn't give me one, not when the house was already more the bank's than mine and I was too old to ever pay it back. I went to the Wayne Foundation, applied to their Rogue relief program. Got 20 grand for my trouble. More than nothing. Not nearly enough. So I went to Smitty. He gave me the money, no questions asked. No credit check. No paperwork." She shrugged. "I knew I'd never be able to pay it back. Everyone who goes to Smitty knows that. You go to Smitty and you become Smitty's. My Mary died two months later. And here I am, just waiting to join her and my Robert one day.

"In the meantime, the bank gets its money, Red Hood gets his money and Smitty gets the rest. I don't need much for myself. And once I'm gone, they can all fight each other for who gets to pick my bones. It's not like there's anyone left to care. So if you come here again and you see Lenard and Benny, you let them be, boy, they're just doing their jobs, just like I'm doing mine. Smitty is a vulture, but he helped me when no one else in this city would and if it weren't for him, my Mary would've died two months earlier than she did.

"I'd have sold my soul for one more day with her. And I did. I got two months out of the deal. A bargain. The devil answered my prayer all right, but at least he answered. More than God ever did. I don't regret it. So next time you see them around you mind your own business. Keep your head down and your opinions to yourself, or you won't survive long in this part of town, boy."

"I shouldn't have pried," Jason said. "My apologies."

"They sure grow them polite in the Upper Side," Mary snorted. "See that you get yourself a good job and leave Park Row behind, boy. Your mom worked hard to get you a better lot in life. Don't waste it."

Jason looked at her. "Yeah, my mother worked real hard to give me a second life. Died for her trouble, too." Not a single lie in that statement. Jason was so proud of himself. "I'm not gonna waste it."

Mary leveled an appraising look at him. "I almost believe you."

"Almost?" Jason asked, surprised despite himself.

Mary shook her head, some of her easy amusement back. "This is Park Row, boy. You trust people, you wake up poorer than you were when you went to bed. And the ones who make you want to believe them are usually the worst."

Well, she had lived in the Alley for over sixty years. Jason gave her his best Emilio smile. Easy going and harmless. "I'll take the almost then."

"There's something about you I can't pin," Mary said. "Be careful around here. Park Row is like a hyena that thrives on kindness. It'll rip it from your bones until you've nothing left. Leave before she swallows it all. A man with no kindness left in him is just another monster, and we already have enough of those around."

The words struck him. The truth of them. Great advice, but much too late. Jason's kindness was long gone. All he had left was spite and determination. The Joker had beaten the kindness off him, laughing like a hyena while he did it. He'd broken Jason, and though Jason had put himself back together glueing the shards of his mind with Pit's water and rage, there was no kindness left. Just broken glass, and teeth and claws, a monster lurking in the darkness, always waiting for someone to rip apart.

"I'll keep it in mind. It's getting late and I have classes," he lied. Something about Mary unsettled him. She saw too much. She reminded him of Alfred. "Could you please pack this to go?" He pointed to the chili dogs.

"Of course." She took the food with her, and by the time she came back, three women walked in, greeting Mary like old friends. Jason recognized two of them. They worked for him at Hooker's Corner, the third one he'd never seen, a neighbor or a friend, maybe even a roommate. It was none of his business. Jason took the doggy bag and left.

He walked back to his apartment at an easy pace. Even after Blue Moon's commission he still had almost 60 million of extra cash lying around overseas thanks to Brucie. How many debts could he buy back from Smitty for that amount? Jason hummed, thinking it over, mind busy playing with the possibilities.

No, there was no kindness left in him, but kindness would only wilt and die in Park Row, like a plant without sunlight. This was a place of monsters. A place where you sold your soul for the right to live and called it a bargain. And if all that was left for his people in this world was to sell their souls, then the least Jason could do for them was make sure that they got what they paid for before the devil came collecting.

Park Row was filled with hungry monsters, but Jason had a Pit's worth of hunger inside of him and he would devour them all.

Chapter Text

Father was displeased with him. Not quite a novel situation. After some consideration, Damian had managed to ascertain that his ill-worded comment about Jason Todd was likely the cause for Father's… disapproval. And yet, when Drake had shamelessly stolen Damian's idea, using that blasted Drakeness of his to word it better, no one had reprimanded him.

Oh, how Damian despised him! If he could just… defeat Drake once and for all. Irrevocably prove to Father how much worthier Damian was. Back in the League, he would just have killed the nuisance and rid himself of the competition. Regretfully, Father's code made overthrowing Drake more… challenging.

'You should have succeeded when you first tried. But alas, you have always been such a disappointment,' the ghost of Grandfather's voice whispered.

It mattered not. Killing Drake back then would only have weakened Damian's position in the household. He understood that much now. Neither Father nor Richard would have ever forgiven him. Damian needed to defeat Drake the same way Father defeated his many enemies. Cleanly. Unmistakably. Thoroughly. Proving himself superior without having to kill. As the blood son of Batman should. 'Paltry excuses, boy.'

Titus's pained whine snapped him out of his reverie. Damian eased his grip on the dog's fur and petted him in apology, enjoying the rough texture of Titus's fur against the palm of his hand. It was… soothing.

Animals were uncomplicated. If you treated them well, they accepted you. No demands. No tests. No tasks. No need to constantly prove your worth to them. Even words were… unnecessary. There was no need to constantly analyze and second-guess if the chosen words would be… right.

Not that Damian cared how his words affected others. The opinions of the worthless meant nothing to him. Except that… Father and Richard were not worthless. And yet, Damian had… displeased them without meaning to. Drake knew how to wield words… better. He—

Titus licked Damian's face and barked, tail wagging softly. "You are right, Titus. I should not waste mental energy on third-rate individuals." He scratched Titus's left ear and smiled at him. His heart swelled with warmth as Titus barked again, excited and pleased with Damian's attention. "Do you want to go for a walk?" he asked just to see the excitement mount further.

Titus barked twice and ran towards the stairs, stopping shortly to check if Damian was following. The happy warmth Titus always brought expanded inside his chest and took root. No one was there to judge. There was no risk in… letting down his guard and indulging… for a moment at least. Titus will not hurt him, not like humans will.

The gardens of the Manor were lush and beautiful. Bushes of blooming red roses bordered the winding paths, and carefully maintained topiaries stood tall near the archways that separated the different areas. Among the deep green the hydrangeas bloomed in an explosion of color ranging from soft pink to a bluish purple so deep and vibrant that the flowers seemed hand painted. Damian had spent hours trying to recreate the same color with his oils to no avail.

Damian breathed in, relishing the clean air and the soft caress of the sunlight against his skin. Even the sun was softer in Gotham, nothing to do with the punishing, burning heat of the desert. A sun that did not kill.

Titus ran towards a little pond on the East side of the garden, filled with water lilies. It was one of Damian's favorite spots. He liked to sit on the marble edge shaded by the weeping willow and feed the wild ducks and Canada geese that had chosen the Manor to spend spring and summer. He enjoyed taking out his sketchbook to paint the little goslings—not so little anymore—trailing after their mother while listening to the steady burble of water falling from the Greek statues in the middle of the pond.

Today, however, Damian ignored the pond and its beckoning shadow and walked further away, leaving the tended part of the garden behind. Titus sniffed at the edge of the pond for a while before running to join Damian, as pleased to explore the woods as he was to chase the ducks. The only thing he seemed to care about was that Damian was near.

The farther they walked the thicker and wilder the woods became. The canopy of leaves still let plenty of light shine through, making it easy for Damian to find his way. He debated whether to call Jon. They were deep enough in the woods that Jon could fly in without Father noticing. He had done it before, though not too often. It was not a behavior Damian liked to… encourage.

The temptation was disquietingly hard to resist. Jon was annoying at the best of times, but he… understood people in ways Damian had difficulties with. Not truly surprising, most people were stupid and inane just like Jon. Likely the reason why Jon got along so well with everyone. Still, if Damian called him, Jon might tell him how to make up for displeasing Father and Richard with his careless words. 'You should apologize.'

Never mind, Damian already knew what Jon would say. Useless advice. Apologies were for weaklings.

Once Damian had proven his usefulness in battle once more, Father and Richard would both… move on and… forget? their displeasure. Grandfather would have demanded Damian be punished. He had no tolerance for failure. Father and Richard were… kinder. It had been highly confusing at first how… forgiving they both were.

Titus barked and ran off once he spotted the clearing. This was Damian's second favorite place in the whole Manor, right after the Cave. He had discovered it a year ago, while he and Titus explored the woods together. Damian liked to come here to be by himself. Another… luxury he had not had in the League.

There had always been someone watching over him, overseeing his training, reporting to Grandfather or to Mother. Even bathing was something that servants had done for him. At first, he had thought Pennyworth remiss in his duties, though Damian had known better than to complain. It had been so… bizarre to have time for himself. Time not filled with constant training, studying and fighting. Time to do… nothing. To be… alone.

Damian frowned when Titus started to roll in the grass. "Tt, a bit more dignity would not be remiss, Titus, you are a Wayne."

Titus ignored him, but Damian did not find it in his heart to reprimand him when it was obvious he was enjoying himself so much. As long as there were no other witnesses a little harmless infraction could be ignored.

Damian left Titus to his fun and climbed up the branch of an old oak tree, which gave him a perfect view of the clearing. He reclined against the thick trunk and took out his sketchbook and pencils. He drew Titus rolling around in the grass, long legs in the air, body contorting this way and that. Nothing too fancy, just black lines coming together quickly to capture the moment. The lolling tongue, the wagging tail, that expression of pure doggy bliss.

He had barely finished the sketch when Napoleon came to demand food. For such a little thing, Napoleon was absolutely fearless and quite aggressive when denied. A true honor to his name's sake.

"Fear not, Napoleon, I have not forgotten your rations." Damian placed the nuts he had brought with him on the tree branch.

Napoleon eyed him warily, but as usual the little squirrel's greed over ruled his caution. He barely hesitated as he jumped forward, taking the nuts with his front paws and eating them as fast as he could. Damian smiled when he heard the familiar click-clack sound. He was proud that by now Napoleon trusted him enough to eat in front of him instead of taking the nuts and running away. It made sketching his beady little black eyes and the grey bushy tail much easier.

He had done quite a few sketches, when Napoleon stopped mid-motion, stuffed one more nut in his mouth and jumped away, running as fast as he could. Damian frowned. It had been some time since Napoleon had run from him. Usually he stayed until all the nuts were gone. Titus, who had been dozing at the foot of the oak tree, woke up too. His ears perked up as he sniffed the air, looking into the same direction Napoleon had, body tense.

Damian put away his pencil and sketchbook and crouched up on the tree branch, using the thick curtain of oak leaves as cover. He drew out his knife and waited. A moment later he heard it, too. Broken branches and approaching footsteps. Titus barked and stood up, tail wagging. Damian relaxed slightly, trusting his dog's judgment.

Two minutes later Richard walked into the clearing holding his mobile phone, concentrating more on the screen than on his surroundings. Titus barked and ran up to Richard, his tail wagging so hard that his whole body undulated with it. So undignified. Grandfather would never have allowed such friendly behavior in his guard dogs. Damian found that he cared less than he ought to about such things.

"Hey, boy, there you are!" Richard laughed, putting his mobile away to scratch Titus behind his ears. He crouched down and allowed Titus to lick his face. "Do you know where Dami is?"

Richard had been looking for him. That was… gratifying. Nonetheless, it did not explain how he had found Damian's secret spot. Only Jon knew about this place.

Titus, the traitor, barked and ran towards the oak tree where Damian was hiding. Luckily, Richard was not particularly proficient in understanding the dog's body language. "You didn't run away, did you?" As if a dog trained by Damian would dare to misbehave so egregiously.

Damian waited for Richard to come closer, knife still in hand. His heart fluttered in anticipation. He stood utterly still, breathing quietly in and out as he centered himself. This was a unique opportunity to prove his worth as Robin. To show Richard that he had chosen wisely when he stripped the mantle from Drake to give it to Damian.

Titus continued to bark. He lowered his head to the ground, leaving his hind legs raised while his tail swung from left to right in a blur. A clear invitation to play. Richard chuckled softly, a warm soft rumble that Damian did not hear too often these days. He clutched the knife tighter… and waited. Almost there.

Richard knelt in front of Titus. "Who's a good boy? Yes, you are. Such a good boy." Damian abhorred the infantile voice people used when talking to animals. Luckily, Father and Pennyworth were not prone to such ludicrous behavior. Richard on the other hand….

There! The moment Damian had been waiting for. He jumped down from the tree, knife drawn, aiming from Richard's extended upper arm. Richard rolled away and kicked back, before Damian could draw blood. Damian barely managed to sidestep the blow, surprised by the odd angle. Richard came up from his roll, fists raised, eyes narrowed, body poised for a fight.

"What the fucking hell, Damian?" His voice rumbled with anger and adrenaline.

Titus's friendly bark turned into a warning growl. His hackles rose and his fangs and front teeth gleamed in the sunlight, sharp and dangerous.

"It's all right, Titus. Calm yourself," Damian ordered. He had not anticipated Titus turning on Richard to defend Damian. He should have. Dogs were loyal beings. Titus even more so; Damian had trained him well.

Damian sheathed his knife. "We will have to postpone this sparring session until a time where Titus it's not present." A true pity.

"A sparring session?" Richard asked. He still sounded angry. "You jumped me. With a knife. What the hell?"

"Tt, you really should not let down your guard like that," Damian pointed out. "It's unbecoming."

"Unbecom—" Richard took a deep breath and closed his eyes, before exhaling slowly. His anger was taking longer to abate than Damian would have expected.

Had he misjudged the situation somehow? "It was my intention to prove to you that my fighting techniques have been further perfected since coming to live in the Manor," Damian clarified. Jon had pointed out on occasion that people lacked the acumen to follow Damian's logic. Usually that did not bother him, but Richard was important enough to merit an explanation.

"By jumping at me with a knife?" Richard pinched the bridge of his nose. He had done that often, back when he was Batman. "Of course. Of course." He snorted, and whatever anger he still held dissipated. Tt, Jon's advice could be sage on rare occasions.

"Dami, we don't attack people with knives." He sounded a tad exasperated, but no longer angry.

"I only intended to draw first blood. It would have been a very shallow cut," Damian explained further. "Just to show you how much I have improved." Obviously, he had not improved enough. Richard still managed to evade him, in spite of Damian having the element of surprise.

'The problem lies not with the task, Damian, but with you. Greatness should be in your blood, and yet…,' Grandfather's voice whispered in the back of his head.

Damian balled his hands into fists. He needed to become better. He was the son of Batman, the grandson of the Demon's Head. Failure was not an acceptable outcome.

"Hey, look at me," Richard said, stepping closer and raising Damian's chin with his fingers until their eyes met.

Another failure. 'You're an Al Ghul, boy. Act like it! Look me in the eye when I speak to you!'

Damian clenched his fists harder, until his fingernails dug into the palms of his hands. The pain was a welcome distraction. Richard's eyes were very blue. If Damian concentrated, he could see the ridges in the irises rising like tiny mountains around the black crater of his pupils.

Richard let go of his chin and tapped his index finger against Damian's nose twice. "I said look, not glare," he added with a smile.

"Tt, I'm not glaring." He took a step back, glad that Richard had let go of his chin. Titus moved closer and pressed against Damian's leg, nosing at his left fist with a small whine. Damian loosened his fingers and petted Titus's forehead, smoothing the short fur. The soothing motion calmed him down further.

"To-may-toe. To-mah-toe," Richard sang. "Dami, listen," he went back to his serious voice. "You don't need to show me how much you've improved. I know it. I see it. Okay? Life isn't a—"

"Constant test," Damian finished together with him. "I have not forgotten your lectures, Richard."

"It's not a lecture," Richard protested. "You need to chill, Dami. You're still a child. Enjoy it."

He did not see what there was to enjoy about being a child. Everyone thought they knew better, even when it was clear that they did not. Besides, Damian did not feel like a child. He had met other children before, at Richard's insistence: they were loud and inane and obnoxious. Damian had not even been allowed to fight them, which had made the whole experience even more unbearable.

Jon was the only child Damian could tolerate. He was loud and inane, too, but he was not obnoxious, and he did not mind when Damian sparred with him. Likely because his superpowers offered him an unmerited advantage that guaranteed his victory. Damian had yet to convince Father to lend him kryptonite. It was a matter of time, though, and then Damian would finally have the necessary tools to triumph.

Richard must have read the disbelief on Damian's face, for he laughed. "Okay, maybe that's asking too much. This is a nice place." He changed the topic. Very Richard. "How did you find it?"

Nice was not a word Damian would have used. The clearing was… acceptable. Sunny and green, surrounded by old oak trees with thick trunks that were perfect for climbing. The grass was mossy and soft and there was enough light for spatters of wild flowers to grow. Bumblebees and butterflies hovered around them, an ideal distraction for Titus. Damian liked sketching them, too.

"By chance." It was a truthful answer. Even if it left unsaid that Damian had been coming here for over a year now. "How did you find it? The woods surrounding the Manor are not that small."

Richard pulled out his phone and grinned. "I tracked the GPS signal in Titus's collar. Alfred told me you were out with him."

Clever. Damian would have to make sure to take Titus's collar off next time he intended to invite Jon over. It would not do for Father to learn about their unsupervised meetings.

"Did something happen? I was not aware you were coming to the Manor today. I would have waited otherwise." Though Richard's visits were becoming more frequent of late.

"No, just this Red Hood thing." Richard shrugged, lips turning down in displeasure. He started to pace. "Bruce is being his usual self, and you need me here. I worry."

"You needn't worry, Richard," Damian reassured him. "Father and I do not require your assistance. We are more than capable of handling the situation on our own." Though, it was… pleasant that Richard was visiting more often. Perhaps Damian need not be so hasty in turning down the proffered help. "Nonetheless, Father would undoubtedly appreciate collaborating with you."

Richard paused. "You think so?"

That sliver of insecurity angered Damian. "You have been Batman before, Richard, do not allow yourself to forget it! Father would be a fool not to embrace the opportunity to work with you, and Father isn't a fool."

"Oh, Dami. You say the sweetest things." The following tackle-hug was easy enough to anticipate. Damian had experience dealing with Richard's odd antics.

He could have easily stepped aside to avoid the indignity, but… indulging Richard’s more egregious habits was… an acceptable compromise. Hugging was still an odd concept to Damian. Before Richard, no one had ever hugged him. Even Mother, who as a woman was prone to certain displays of affection, had only ever kissed Damian's forehead. Or caressed his cheek. 'Habibi, my sweet child.'.

A pang of loss and pain swept through him. It mattered not. Mother belonged to the past. 'You shall stay with your father, Habibi. Do not try to go back to the League. Stay here and obey him. Do him proud. Promise me, Habibi.' Damian intended to keep his word. He would not fail Mother.

He put his arms awkwardly around Richard and tried to reciprocate the hug as best he could. He did not particularly enjoy it, but he did not dislike it either. Perhaps Richard had been right in his assessment that Damian just needed to… practice more. Luckily, it was not a habit in which Father or Pennyworth partook. Only Richard required that he improve himself in this peculiar skill set.

He counted to ten in his head. It was the minimum amount of time Richard required a hug to last. Experience had taught him that interrupting Richard before the ten seconds were up would mean having to endure a second hug. "That is enough, Richard. Do control yourself, please."

Richard laughed, warm and happy. The laugh alone made enduring hugs acceptable. "That was a really good one, Dami. You're getting the hang of it."

Damian preened. "It's a simple enough custom, Richard." He'd rather fight Killer Croc without his sword and one arm tied behind his back, but hugs… pleased Richard.

Richard mussed his hair and Damian spluttered with outrage, swatting the hand away. Richard laughed harder. Damian's fingers ached for his sketchbook. He wanted to capture that laugh: the way the corners of Richard's eyes crinkled, the warmth in their blue depths, how his whole face transformed with happiness. Something to look at whenever he missed Richard. A laugh Damian had put there.

"Come sit with me for a bit," Richard said, after his laughter died down. He was still smiling. "I wanted to talk to you, yeah?"

Right. Richard had been looking for him. Damian glanced around until he located Titus, who had wandered off to the far side of the clearing and was sniffing the ground. He had likely found some mouse hole. He enjoyed those best.

Richard sat down on the ground and kicked off his shoes. His socks followed soon after. He pressed his naked feet in the mossy grass and wriggled his toes with a happy sigh. Damian picked a big protruding root to sit on, rather than risking the indignity of grass stains or worse yet, a wet bottom. That was not an experience he was keen on repeating.

It… pleased Damian that Richard sought him out. It had been months since the two of them had spent time together. After Father's return, Richard went back to Blüdhaven and his visits became rarer and rarer. He only came for missions or when Father required his assistance with difficult cases.

Damian… missed him sometimes, but knew better than to admit to such weakness. Richard had his own life, and Damian was not a small child in need of pampering. Besides, he did not want to incur Father's wrath by implying his training methods were in any way lacking.

"This is a really nice place," Richard repeated. "Too bad I didn't find it when I was still living here. It never even occurred to me to explore the woods." He was babbling. Not uncommon, but not a good sign either. Richard was prone to rambling when he was nervous.

"Is something the matter?" Damian asked again, giving Richard the opening he was seeking. They would be here all afternoon otherwise. Richard could talk for hours if left to his own devices.

"No, nothing bad. I just—" He paused, and turned until he was looking directly at Damian. Not just a conversation then, but a reprimand. Damian tried to remain outwardly calm, despite his mounting anxiety.

"Look, I wanted to talk to you about Tim," Richard finally said.

Drake. Of course. How silly of Damian to think that Richard would seek him out for no reason. Of course it was about Drake. "I don't know which lies Drake has been spouting, but it's been a year since I last attacked him. I promised you I would cease, and I have kept my word as befits a Wayne. If he claims otherwise, then—"

"Hey, no, Tim hasn't complained. This isn't about that, okay?" Richard reassured him. Damian did not believe him. Why would he want to talk about Drake unless Drake had somehow convinced him to interfere on his behalf? Drake was disgustingly good at twisting words in ways that made others see things like he wanted them to.

"What is it about then?" The sooner they settled this, the better.

"Dami, you need to lay off a bit, okay? This thing with Red Hood is hard. I know Bruce isn't at his best right now, and—"

"Father's fighting is as excellent as ever," Damian protested. "I haven't noticed an instance in which he has not been up to par. Last night we captured a ring of smugglers who worked for Falcone." Regretfully, it had been one of Drake's informants who had provided that information, but still… He and Father had been the ones to put an end to their criminal activities, delivering the men to the police for further processing. Overall, a satisfactory outing.

Richard's ensuing smile was slightly off. "Oh, Bruce's fighting is always up to par. It's not his fighting I worry about. Besides, this isn't about Bruce. It's about you and Tim. We don't know how Red Hood managed to bypass our security. Babs is working on figuring it out, but we do know that Tim isn't responsible. You know it, too."

"I know no such a thing!" Damian protested.

"Come on, Dami, don't be like that," Richard said. "You do know it. Tim's not a traitor, and you claiming otherwise doesn't reflect badly on him, it reflects badly on you."

"Why? Why would it reflect badly on me?" When Drake ridiculed Damian in front of others, calling him Itty Bitty and dismissing his ideas—if he was not outright stealing them—it made Damian look bad. But when Damian tried to do the same, it never worked. It was unfair!

He could and would defeat Drake in a fight... there was no doubt about it. But with words...? Even Father and Richard had noticed how unskilled Damian was with them. They always interfered on Damian's behalf... ordering Drake to leave Damian alone, as though he was some weak, pathetic worm who couldn't fend for himself.

If at least they were allowed to spar against each other, then Damian could show Father and Richard how superior he was. But Father had forbidden the two of them from sparring. Drake was undoubtedly behind it; he must have manipulated Father into protecting him. Oh, how Damian hated him!

"Because it isn't true," Richard said. He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly, before looking at Damian again. "How would you feel if someone said that Titus is an undisciplined dog that runs off with the first stranger that offers him a treat?"

"Is Drake claiming that? Because that's a lie! Titus would never do such a thing."

"Tim isn't saying that," Richard reassured him. "It was just an example. When someone says something so obviously wrong, then—"

"It reflects badly on them. Right." Damian frowned. "But what if it's true?"

"It's not true, Dami. Tim would never do that, just like you wouldn't," Richard insisted. "We're a family. Families stick together."

In the League they did not. Mara had always been trying to oust Damian from his position as heir. Aunt Nyssa would have killed Mother a hundred of times over, if Mother had been any less skilled. But none of them would have turned on Grandfather; that was true enough.

"Tt, I suppose he would not betray Father," Damian allowed. Drake had… gone to great lengths to bring Father back from the past. He had turned his back on Richard to do it, but Richard was not the head of the family. Treachery between siblings was customary, even if Father did not encourage it the way Grandfather would have.

"Exactly," Richard said, and smiled. "We'll get to the bottom of this, but you need to stop blaming Tim for it, okay? We can't be fighting each other if we want to win this one."

"Tt." Damian did not like it. "Acceptable. But I don't trust him."

Richard tapped the tip's Damian's nose twice and laughed. "Well, god didn't create the world in one day. I still have some work to do here."

Damian ducked his head to hide the answering smile threatening to break free.

Richard checked his watch. "It's already past noon. Let's grab a quick lunch with Alfred and then I'll take you to the zoo."

Damian's head snapped up, not caring if Richard saw the smile on his face. "The zoo? Yes! Yes! We don't need to grab lunch first. They sell adequate food there. Their newest baby elephant just turned one month last week. When Father adopted her, the caretaker said he'd let me pet her once she had reached that age."

"Bruce adopted an elephant?" Richard asked in disbelief.

"It's symbolic. Just to give the zoo the necessary resources for Zitka's care. I checked if we could bring her to the Manor, but we lack the conditions to recreate a proper habitat."

Richard's eyes widened. "Zitka? They named her Zitka?"

"Father did," Damian said with a scowl. "I wanted to name her Cleopatra, but Father said it had to be Zitka. Since he was the one officially adopting her, he got to choose and would not be moved from his decision. Cleopatra would have been a more appropriate name."

Richard's face softened. "Zitka's perfect. I can't believe Bruce didn't tell me. Scratch that, of course I can. I just can't believe he remembered. Did I ever tell you that when I lived in the circus we had an elephant named Zitka? I was the only child around and sometimes it felt as though she was my best friend."

Damian could indeed imagine it. "Animals are great friends. Zitka is an appropriate enough name, I suppose. We could go now, and you could meet her?" Damian offered, filled with hope. "The caretakers know me. We could even stay after the zoo closes and help them feed the animals."

Richard stood up and offered Damian a hand. "That sounds like an excellent plan. Let's do just that."

Damian threw his arms around Richard in one of those hugs Richard enjoyed so much. Richard's arms closed around him immediately, warm and strong and safe. This time, Damian did not count the seconds until it was time to let go. It felt right. Just being there felt right. The hug could have lasted forever.

They spent the following weeks chasing their tails. Not quite, but almost. In spite of numerous leads to various criminal activities, none of them were related to Red Hood. Nonetheless, it was deeply satisfying to see the criminal element of Gotham shrivel and die underneath Father's and Damian's combined efforts.

Well, not die—Father still had his rules—but definitely shrivel. They intercepted two of Black Mask's shipments, dismantled a human trafficking ring with connections to Cobblepot—even though they could not quite gather enough evidence to put him in jail—and further disrupted Falcone's attempts to regain his territory.

Damian felt… accomplished. Father's displeasure with him abated as weeks passed, and they fell back into that easy camaraderie which distinguished Batman and Robin. It was almost… nice?

Richard's visits grew in frequency, to the point where he spent more time in the Manor than he did in Blüdhaven. Although that was likely because of Zitka. He had taken an instant liking to the little elephant and the two of them visited the zoo almost every week. Damian thought that perhaps, if he played his cards rights, he could convince Richard to let Jon come once. Father still did not approve of metas in Gotham, but surely an exception could be made. And while before the zookeepers had… tolerated Damian because he was the key to Father's financial resources, they truly liked Richard. The favoritism was blatant, but Damian did not mind. Thanks to Richard's charms they were now allowed into some enclosures Damian had been forbidden from entering before. Life was… good.

Almost.

Drake was… still Drake. Disgustingly useful in ways Damian could not compete against. Not yet at least. He had even offered Father to help with Wayne Enterprises, hoping to further grow his value the way Drake did, but Father had refused, claiming Damian needed to finish school first. A feeble excuse meant to placate him. After all, Drake had not finished his schooling either.

Worse yet, most of the intel they had came from Drake and his blasted network of whores and criminals. Men and women who should all be in jail instead of roaming free. Yet, somehow Drake made it sound as if consorting with low-life scum, the ones Father barely tolerated and Grandfather would have killed on sight, was something to be proud of. And Father, who despised criminals, praised him for it. Another example of that that blasted Drakeness at work.

And now, the final stroke: Red Hood. All of them had been uselessly searching for the elusive rogue, pooling resources, doing extra hours, going through surveillance videos, listening in on conversations, interrogating witnesses. Father, Richard, Gordon, Cain, Brown, Damian himself. All of them. And yet, it was Drake who managed to locate him.

He swallowed the urge to scream at the unfairness of it. Why couldn't Damian be the one who managed to please Father? At least once. 'The problem lies not with the task, Damian, but with you.'

"Are you sure, Red Robin?" Father asked.

"Absolutely," Drake gloated. "I followed up on the lead immediately. Put up some surveillance around the building. Double-checked everything. It's him."

"You should have informed me first, instead of going in by yourself," Father reprimanded him. Yes!

"I wanted to make sure the information was reliable," Drake explained. "I don't trust Fat Joe. Everyone else is keeping mum when it comes to Red Hood. And Fat Joe comes out of the blue wanting to sell intel? Hella suspicious."

"Trap?" Cain asked.

"Probably," Drake said. "You've seen the surveillance by now. There's no one else in there other than him. I still have a bad feeling about this one, though."

"That's because you are a coward," Damian spat, unable to help himself. "You can stay behind if you wish, Batman and I will take care of Red Hood."

"None of that," Father said. "We're all going together. I agree with Red Robin's assessment. This is likely a trap, but it's the best chance we have to capture Red Hood. We'll just have to be extra careful."

Damian’s grip on his knife tightened. The carvings on the handle pressed into his skin, hard and unyielding. The contrast between the polished ivory, smooth as hard silk, and the rough carvings was... distracting. Damian clenched and unclenched his hand, concentrating on the textures. It made standing there while Father praised Drake more… bearable.

Drake eyed him with suspicion. His eyes darted to Damian's hand for an instant before they focused back on Father, dismissing him. 'Unworthy,' Grandfather's voice whispered. Damian gripped his knife hard enough to hurt. It felt good.

"We should make our move tonight, before Red Hood changes location again," Drake suggested. "Fat Joe said he doesn't stay put in one place for long."

"Duh," Brown said, the brainless cretin. "He's made a bunch of enemies, powerful, super-duper trigger happy enemies. I wouldn't stay put either."

"Children, focus." Father's tone was demanding, but also indulgent.

Damian had often advised him that he should enforce more respect from the others, but Father had not deemed it necessary. A pity. Grandfather would have been sharp and unforgiving, never indulgent. Of course, Grandfather would never have allowed Brown or Cain to have a voice in his strategy councils. Even Mother had never been present. Women let emotions rule their decisions, something Grandfather did not tolerate.

"We'll surround the warehouse but stay out of sight until we know for certain that Red Hood is inside," Father outlined the plan. "Once we've captured him, Nightwing and I will interrogate him to find out how he managed to breach our security. Red Robin, you'll gather all the evidence you can, including computers, for us to go over later. Black Bat, Spoiler and Robin will guard the three entrances, making sure we're not interrupted. Understood?"

A cacophony of yeah, yes, yup and sure thing followed. Only Damian answered with the proper, "Yes, Batman," that such a situation required.

Father did not seem perturbed by the lack of discipline. "Nightwing, you'll take the East side of the building. Red Robin, keep an eye on the West entrance. Black Bat, Spoiler, you'll cover the Northern part." Father looked at Cain when he issued his order, ignoring Brown completely. Why they even allowed that brainless idiot into the Cave was still a mystery. Likely Drake's work somehow. He seemed to be the only one who could stand her.

"Robin, you're with me." Damian straightened and moved closer to Father. He smirked at Drake, taking pride in the knowledge that Father no longer sought out Drake's aid during battle but preferred Damian's company instead.

Drake's lips thinned. Damian was sure that behind the white lenses of his mask, his eyes were narrowed in anger. Damian grinned at him, victorious. Drake clenched his fists and turned around sharply, his cape billowing behind him. He mounted his bike and drove off, ignoring Richard's call to wait for him.

Excellent. Both Father and Richard had witnessed yet another bout of indiscipline and perhaps this time they would act upon it. Damian just needed to prove himself in the battle against Red Hood. Father would then undoubtedly recognize Damian's superior skills and hopefully decide he was the better heir.

The ride towards Red Hood's lair was silent, but not unpleasantly so. Neither Father nor Damian were prone to unnecessary chatter. Words were… overrated. Father's fingers clenched and unclenched against the steering wheel as he focused on the road, ignoring Damian completely.

"We will capture Red Hood tonight, Batman," Damian said. "I will not fail you."

Father turned his head to look at Damian. The corners of his lips twitched slightly. "I know. You're to stay behind until I give the order, understood? Don't take any unnecessary risks. This man is dangerous."

"I'm not a child, Batman. I'm perfectly capable of taking down one brainless thug," he said.

"Never underestimate an enemy you've yet to confront," Father admonished him.

"Yes, Batman," he said in a low voice. Such an amateur mistake. And Father had seen it.

Father's lips curled up into something that would have passed for a smile, had he not been wearing the cowl. His right hand abandoned the steering wheel and clasped Damian's shoulder, pressing once before letting go. Damian's chest swelled with pride. Words were truly unnecessary. That small gesture was more than enough.

Damian looked through the window of the Batmobile not wanting Father to see his smile. He watched the dark streets of Gotham blur past, so different from the desert planes of his childhood. He liked it here… more. Fulfilling Mother's task to remain with Father and never go back to the League had proven remarkably easy. Perhaps easier than it should have been.

Father parked the car and activated its additional security. They had learned a thing or two from their last encounter with Red Hood. He double-checked that all sensors were on before leaving. The two of them moved to their assigned position. Soon after, the others checked in confirming they too were in place. Then, the waiting game began.

Damian was beginning to hope that perhaps Drake's intel had been wrong after all. That would be… magnificent. They had been waiting for over two hours now. He shifted slightly, but did not complain about the long wait or join in Drake and Brown's useless chatter. Regretfully, even Richard had fallen prey to the childish behavior.

He glanced at Father. It did not seem as though he was about to put a stop to it. Damian frowned, displeased. If Father was willing to indulge such childish and inappropriate antics, it was not Damian's place to offer criticism. He remained quiet.

"Silence," Cain said a few minutes later. Damian had not been expecting help from that quarter. "Red Hood. North corner. ETA four minutes."

Tt, that explained it. Adrenaline surged through Damian. Finally! This was his moment. Now, he could show Father that he—

"Robin, Spoiler, Red Robin, stay on the roof and don't engage," Father ordered, destroying Damian's hopes. He wanted to protest, but Drake beat him to it.

"Batman, we don't know his fighting abilities. We should engage together."

Damian had to swallow his own objections. It would not do for Father to think that he was as undisciplined as Drake.

"That's why we need you as back up," Father explained. Grandfather would not have bothered; his word was law. "Nightwing, Black Bat and myself should be enough to subdue him. We'll wait until he's entered. The three of you guard the exits."

"Understood," Richard said while Cain hummed her approval.

It was not a bad plan. Given Red Hood's reputation, the fight would prove brutal. Red Hood carried guns and liked to use them. Containing the damage to the warehouse would minimize potential civilian casualties. Not many people were out at this time of the night, but the warehouse was in the Narrows, surrounded by buildings filled with civilians. Most lights were already out, but here and there Damian could still see illuminated windows and silhouettes moving around. Father cared about such things.

Red Hood entered the warehouse without so much as a glance at his surroundings. That confidence would be his downfall. Not that there was much he could do to stop them. Father and Cain alone would be enough to subdue five of him. With Richard added to the mix the man did not stand a chance. He would finally get his due for the ridicule he had subjected Batman to.

Father waited a minute after Red Hood entered the building before giving the signal to engage. Batman, Nightwing and Black Bat grappled down to the ground as silent as shadows. The warehouse had no windows or roof access, only three doors located at different sides. It made a stealthy entrance impossible. But with Batman, Nightwing and Black Bat working together, stealth was not necessary. They each took one of the entries, ready to break in on Batman's signal. "On three," Father's voice came through the com. "One. Two. Three!"

From his angle Damian could not see Nightwing or Black Bat, but he watched Father closely. Batman took the door down with a single kick. The cheap wood splintered next to the lock and the door slammed open. Father entered, disappearing from view. Gunshots rang out almost immediately, and Damian's heart skipped a beat. Surely Father and Richard had managed to dodge. They had fought armed goons before. Even a simpering twit like Brown knew how to avoid getting shot.

Luckily, Batman's line to Robin was still open, and Damian could hear some of what was happening inside. "It's over Red Hood. Give yourself up," Batman said. Father always liked to offer criminals an out, not that they ever took it.

"The whole cavalry." Red Hood's mocking voice came through the line. "Well, not the whole cavalry it seems. Finally managed to find a babysitter instead of bringing the kids to work, did you? That's considerate; I won't have to pull my punches."

Damian bristled. He was not a kid. Red Hood should count himself lucky that Father ordered Damian to stay behind. His sword was feared among criminals. He took great pleasure leaving those lawless scum bleeding and broken, not dead—Father would not have approved—but mangled beyond what a simple hospital visit would heal.

"None of that now," Red Hood said. Another gunshot resonated. Nightwing cursed on the coms, but there was no pain in his voice. At least Damian thought there wasn't. Perhaps if he—No, Father had given a clear order. Damian would not disobey.

Broken glass. Two more gunshots. What sounded like wood breaking. A table? Boxes? Nightwing cursed again and Father grunted. Where was Black Bat? Between her and Father, the fight with Red Hood should have been long over. A quick glance at the time showed him that less than two minutes had passed. Perhaps not enough time to have the situation under control. Damian hated the wait; every second felt like an eternity.

"Black Bat." Father's voice came over the com in a low whisper, "take the left and flush him out. Nightwing, watch the right." Cain hummed and Richard gave a mocking, "Roger."

Silence. Not even the faint sounds of Father's breath. Damian tried to discern footsteps or any other kind of noise, but the line remained stubbornly quiet. Suddenly, the warehouse shook with the deafening bang of an explosion. Damian jumped, taken aback. The roof under him quivered in sympathy under the power of the blast. White, thick smoke poured out of the warehouse's doors. Over the coms he could hear Father, Richard and Cain coughing. "Don't come in...," Father's rough voice ordered in between coughing fits. "Some kind of chemical. We don't know what—." His voice trailed off, becoming weaker as he spoke. Another coughing fit followed by the loud thud of a body falling to the floor. Then… silence.

No. No! Damian grappled down, sword drawn. "Robin, stay in position! We don't know the danger yet," Drake called over the com, but Damian did not have to obey his orders. Of course Drake would put his own safety before Richard's and Father's. Coward!

"Robin!" Brown's voice came next. "Damn it, stay outside! I'm going in. My mask can filter the air. You don't have that protection."

Damian vibrated with anger. As if Spoiler could fight Red Hood! No, Damian would be the one to save Richard and Father. He would not stay behind and allow those two to steal the credit and made him look like a fool. The thick cloud of white smoke pouring out of the door impaired the view into the warehouse. Damian hesitated. He would not be of much help if he—

"Robin! Stay outside! That's an order!" Drake's voice snarled over the com.

"I don't follow the orders of cowards!" Damian snapped back. He wrapped his cape around his nose and mouth a couple of times and tucked the loose end underneath. That would have to do. One last deep breath of clean air, and then he stepped in.

Oracle joined Drake's pleas for Robin to go back outside. Useless cowards, the bunch of them. Damian cut the coms. He did not need their pathetic excuses distracting him.

The smoke was everywhere, rendering the night vision of his lenses useless. "Batman! Nightwing!" Damian called. If Red Hood had harmed them Damian would kill him, Father's rule be damned. He tried to listen for a cough or some kind of noise. But all he could hear was the soft hiss of smoke coming out of some pipe or canister.

The flashlight in his utility belt was bright enough to pierce through the smoke for a couple of feet. The place was filled with crates and boxes, stacked on top of each other. Many had been toppled to the ground. Damian coughed as he moved forward, climbing through the crates, searching for Richard and Father.

Where would they be? He looked back, trying to find the door in order to retrace Father's steps, but he couldn't see it any longer, not with the smoke surrounding everything. The flashlight wavered in his hand as he coughed again and again. The smoke was starting to get to his lungs, despite the cape protecting his face.

"Well, if it's not the little baby bat. I thought daddy left you at home tonight," Red Hood's voice mocked him. Damian spun around, sword raised. No one was there.

"Show yourself, coward!" Damian demanded.

Boxes crashed to the floor from a completely different direction. Damian spun again and lost his footing, stumbling to the ground. The flashlight fell from his finger and rolled away. He coughed as a wave of nausea overtook him. He tried to stand up, but another wave of nausea rolled over him. He crashed against the floor coughing. A dull, metallic sound echoed nearby. His sword… falling from increasingly numb fingers. He tried to make his body react… but all he could do was cough.

Heavy footsteps came closer, close enough that Damian could make out the heavy leather boots they belonged to. Military issue?

"Stay away from him," Brown's voice came from afar.

"Ah, one of you is clever enough to wear a proper face mask. I'm impressed, Aubergine," Red Hood said, as he crouched next to Damian. If he could just reach his knife…. His fingers refused to obey. "Someone got all the brains in the family."

"Step aside!" Drake's voice this time. Muffled. Damian needed to move… he couldn't… Drake and Brown were the only ones left. They could… get rid of Damian and blame it on Red Hood. Father would never suspect. Damian needed to… Another cough.

He couldn't breathe. Useless tears welled up in his eyes. Useless. He was useless. Defenseless. Pathetic. Unworthy.

"We could fight it out, and see who comes out on top," Red Hood offered. Fingers dug at Damian's makeshift face mask and pulled the cloth of the cape down, destroying what little protection it still offered. Damian tried to stop the hand, but his limbs would not obey. His vision darkened and he choked on the thick smoke.

Red Hood's voice came in and out, like a badly tuned radio. "… the two of you… a while … don't have that much time. Especially the kid." Damian missed the next part, wrecked by another coughing fit. "… not a deal-breaker… my counteroffer…" He coughed again and wheezed for air. His lungs burned.

Drake's annoying voice caught his attention. He sounded far away as he answered, "You've got a deal."

Drake was the traitor! Drake and Brown both! He had known it! Damian needed to stand up… fight. Save Richard… His right hand twitched. "Hush, none of that now," Red Hood whispered, shoving Damian's sword out of reach.

The last thing Damian heard before blankness overtook him, was Red Hood's pleased voice when he told Drake, "Pleasure doing business with you, Red Robin."

Traitor.

Chapter Text

Jason hefted Robin's unconscious body with his left hand, and kept his gun aimed at Spoiler. The deal had been with Red Robin, and he didn't put it past the chick to attack him while his back was turned. If Essence and Talia had taught him anything it was to never underestimate a woman trained to kick ass. Besides, he had an inkling that the risk to Spoiler would be further incentive for Red Robin to stay put.

"What're you doing?" Red Robin stepped forward, bo-staff ready to attack.

Jason thumbed off the safety of his gun, letting the click do half the talking for him. "The kid's insurance. I don't want you forgetting our little deal and jumping at me. Bats have notoriously bad memories."

"We agreed to let you leave. Taking Robin isn't part of it."

"It's not like I want the brat." Jason snorted. "Look, we both know that if I really wanted him dead, he'd be dead by now. Y'all know it. Tick-tock, Red Robin, tick-tock. We have masks filtering the toxins, Batman and Co. don't. Keep stalling and the kid's gonna bite it. Your choice."

Red Robin twitched, hands clenching tighter around the bo-staff. He looked at Spoiler, some silent exchange taking place between them, before his attention turned to Jason. "I can't let you take him. Non-negotiable."

Fuck, he was right. Letting Jason take the brat was a bit too much to ask. Jason wouldn't have done it either, back when he was dancing to Batman's tune. It went against everything they were taught. Fuck it, Jason was the villain in this story. He'd known it. Good people didn't strive to become the kingpin of Crime Alley's underworld no matter how noble their motives. And the moment you took a kid hostage to get out of a sticky situation, you really lost the high ground.

"Fucking fine." He dropped the kid, pulled out his second gun and trained it on Red Robin. He gestured with his other gun to Spoiler. "Yo, Aubergine, stand next to Red Radish over there. I want all my veggies where I can see them. Don't get clever on me."

"Name's Spoiler," the girl growled.

Cute. She was angry at him. Jason loved riling up his opponents. It made half the shit he had to put up with worth it. She'd just made his night.

"Good for you, Veggie Tales. Now go over there and keep your mouth shut. I haven't finished reading Games of Thrones yet and don't want you spoiling it for me."

"She does tend to do that," Red Robin deadpanned.

Props to the kid. Listening to him talk, you'd think he had it all under control. Bruce must be so fucking proud. It made Jason want to hurl. Or shoot. Or both. It was like walking through the looking glass: all that Jason could've been standing right in front of him, judging and finding him lacking. Well, Jason wasn't Robin any more, nor did he want to be. He'd rather die. Oh, wait, he already had.

"Here's how this is gonna go," Jason said. "I'm gonna walk out of that door, and you're going to stay exactly where you are until I'm gone. You move, and the deal's off. I shoot and we fight this out for as long as it takes, and believe me, it'll take long enough for your friends to die."

"Get out already," Red Robin snarled.

"Temper, temper, little Radish."

"You're wasting our time talking," Spoiler snarled. "You said it yourself, the clock's ticking. Leave or fight." She looked like she was rooting for the latter.

"Alright, have it your way then." Jason backed away towards the door slowly, sidestepping the crates and boxes with ease, despite the thick smoke obscuring his view.

He kept his guns on them, expecting either Red Robin or Spoiler to try something. God knows back in the day Jason would have. Too head-strong, too proud, too much to prove. Apparently Bruce had gotten himself a less self-sacrificing Robin when he upgraded models. Pity that. Jason wouldn't have minded fighting the upgrade, but a deal was a deal.

"By the way," he called out from the door, "the place will blow up in five minutes. Better get everyone out fast." He activated the self-destruct and ran, relishing Red Robin's and Spoiler's outraged spluttering.

Cry babies. As if Bruce hadn't trained them to get out of much stickier situations before letting them out on the streets. Jason was confident Red Robin and his tag along would manage.

"That was stupid, murder-boy," Blue Moon's mechanical voice resonated inside his helmet.

"Hello to you too," Jason greeted them as he grappled up and away. "Are you spying on me? 'cause I don't like that."

"Boo-hoo, cry me a river," Blue Moon said. "Someone needs to keep an eye on you."

"I'm not paying you to keep an eye on me." He fucking wasn't. They were too expensive to waste on babysitting.

"This is my community service," Blue Moon told him. "Don't you feel privileged?"

"No, I don't. How long have you been spying?" Jason hated the idea of someone watching over his shoulder, but he was self-aware enough to know that there was jack shit he could do to keep Blue Moon away when they got like that.

They got fixated sometimes and sadly had the resources to feed the fixation. As long as no other job consumed their time, Jason would probably have to resign himself to Blue Moon's pestering.

"Spying is such a harsh word," Blue Moon said. "I prefer monitoring. Watching over my investments."

"I'm not an investment! Let alone yours." He had enough of that with Talia. He didn't need someone else thinking that Jason owed them shit. "What have you invested in me anyway?"

"Emotions, murder-boy," Blue Moon said. "You're better than Netflix, like my own private version of Breaking Bad. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find good entertainment in these dark times? Anyways, if you wanted to blow up Batman, it didn't work. They just got the last one out."

Jason checked his watch. One and half minutes to spare. The upgrade continued to impress. "Are they all out?" he asked.

"Yup," Blue Moon answered.

"The computers?"

"Red Robin is trying to get them despite Spoiler's protests," Blue Moon reported. "I'm still hooked in. I can destroy the data if you want."

"Where would be the fun in that?" Jason put a lot of hard work making sure those computers got to Bruce. "You left some presents for Oracle in there, didn't you?"

"Absolutely," Blue Moon cackled. "But, as much as it pains me to admit it, there's a slight, remote, microscopic chance that they might be able to bypass the surprises I left and access the data. If you don't want that, it's best to destroy it now."

"We already moved the money," Jason pointed out. "There's nothing else important there. Let them waste their time working on it. Keep them busy digging up the wrong grave while we plunder the rest of the cemetery."

"Bingo!" Blue Moon hurrahed.

"What?" Jason asked, startling at the sudden shout. He almost lost his footing, too, something that hadn't happened to him since his early Robin days.

"Cemetery and grave for a vertical line," Blue Moon explained, sounding gleeful even through the voice scrambler. "You're constantly cracking death references so I made a bingo card."

Fucking hell. They’d scared the shit out of him. Jason took a calming breath, before jumping to the next building. "I'm not that bad!"

"You're exactly that bad, murder-boy," Blue Moon insisted. "I made the card three days ago and I already have a bingo. Yay!"

Jason was gonna kill them. He stopped himself from saying it out loud at the last second, realizing that 'kill' was probably another square in that bingo card. It'd only give Blue Moon more ammunition. Wait a minute. "Is that why you've been calling me nonstop these last few days?"

"Maybe I wanted to hear your sweet dulcet tones," Blue Moon said, lying piece of shit that they were.

"Of course you did." Out of all the cybercriminals in the world, why did Jason get stuck with the one with a childish sense of humor?

"Anyways," Blue Moon still sounded much too gleeful for Jason's taste. "I did have a legit reason to call you. I got into Smitty's computer. The data is in the FTP server. You'll love him, the guy keeps very thorough records. Are you gonna go into money lending? I've run his numbers. I'm pretty sure you could earn more freelancing as a mercenary."

"I'm not doing this for the money," Jason said.

"Breaking news at 3 a.m. No shit, Sherlock, it took me like three minutes into our first job together to realize you weren't doing it for the money. I told you, working with you is like community service. If I paid taxes, I'd file this as a charitable contribution."

"You're such a giver," Jason deadpanned. "Are you gonna return my last commission payment?"

Blue Moon laughed. "Dream on, murder-boy, dream on. My existence in your life is proof that god loves you and you know it."

"More like the devil," Jason mumbled.

"Well, the devil does give better presents. Everyone knows it."

The bone shaking thunder of a bomb going off resonated through the night. A column of pale grey smoke rose up into the sky, illuminated by the ambient light of the city. Distant sirens started up at once, blaring louder as they drove closer.

"There goes my equipment," Blue Moon mourned. "I'm patching into the cameras outside to see what's going on." After a brief pause they added, "Beautiful work, murder-boy. All other buildings are still standing, only the warehouse is gone."

"Of course the other buildings are still standing," Jason said, offended. "The fire isn't even gonna spread." He'd learn about explosives and demolition from the best. One of the few teachers Talia provided he hadn't felt the urge to kill. A surprisingly wholesome guy for someone with ties to the League of Assassins.

"Well, I know who to call when my neighbor annoys me too much," Blue Moon chuckled. "Anyways, seems like Spoiler is staying behind to do the meet and greet with the cops. Red Robin's leaving by plane. Think you could steal that? With the money we got for the tires, I can't even begin to imagine what we'll get for the plane."

"I'm not stealing the Batjet," Jason said, shutting down that line of thought before Blue Moon got carried away.

Blue Moon snorted. "The Bat Jet. Is that the official name? Do people in Gotham put the word bat in front of everything Batman owns? How big do you think the Bat Cock is?"

"Ha-ha, how funny." Could someone put Jason out of his misery?

Blue Moon cackled, the scrambler making the sound as irritating as ever.

"Are you quite done?" Jason asked. He was confident no one was following him, but he double checked before changing directions towards his current safe house. He'd had to lay low for a couple of days until Bruce calmed down from this latest setback.

At least he now had some competent Lieutenants who could pick up the slack. Jason would give them the heads up and then he'd disappear for a couple of days. Not terrible timing. Finals were coming for Emilio and he had an essay comparing the three Brontë sisters and the different portraits of female independence in the early 19th century.

"You're always so serious," Blue Moon protested. It sent a shiver through Jason's spine. "Laugh a little."

Come on, little Robin, laugh for Uncle J.

He had to concentrate to hear Blue Moon's next words. "I got you some more names in Black Mask's organization, plus background, known addresses, family, friends, social circles, dirty little secrets."

Right. Jason wasn't Robin. He wasn't in Ethiopia anymore. He was Red Hood. He was alive once more despite the Joker's best efforts and when the two of them met again… The whispers of the Pit were like a lover's breath against Jason's ear, soft and enticing. No pain at all, just anticipation. Cleaning Gotham up and killing Joker, the two two things he looked forward to. Then he could die in peace for his second life would have been worth something.

"Are you even listening?" The scrambled voice grew suddenly louder, snapping Jason back into the present.

"Yes, I am. You got me names and addresses. I'll check them later."

"Names and addresses he says." Blue Moon sounded piqued. "I got you everything you might need to kidnap, blackmail, make disappear or kill Black Mask's people as you see fit. Everything."

They meant it, too. For all that Blue Moon was always cheerful and upbeat, Jason was aware they regarded people like characters in a computer game. Some made it till the end and some died in the process. They didn't care what happened with the intel they provided as long as the money got wired. They wouldn't judge. They never did.

"You're the best." Jason meant it. "Pleasure doing business with you, Blue."

"Back at you, Red, back at you."

"Come on, Lío," Aliyah cajoled. She pronounced it Leo, like most English native speakers did. "Pretty pretty please with a cherry on top." Aliyah bated her eyes dramatically. It should have looked ridiculous, and it did. Except that it looked kinda cute, too.

That was Aliyah for you: a mix of uncommon features that should have looked odd and yet somehow worked well together. Freckled bronze skin, with a small nose that rose sharply at the tip. Big round glasses rested on her cheeks, making her brown eyes look almost too big for her face. Her hair was streaked with long colored braids and the color changed every other week to match her fingernails. She was rocking a pale mauve this time.

"No," Jason said, walking past her. "Nó. Niet. Nein. Non. La," he went on when he noticed she was still following him.

"What's the last one?" Aliyah asked, forehead wrinkling with curiosity.

"Also no, in Arabic," Jason said. "I can go on."

"Emilio, come on, you helped Marc," she pointed out.

"And I'm already regretting it," Jason said. It was the fucking truth. You helped one guy in a desperate situation once, and suddenly people started coming to you. No good deed ever went fucking unpunished.

Aliyah hurried her pace, skidding in front of Jason, forcing him to stop. "Help me, Lío. I'll give you my first born."

Jason fake-gagged. "I can barely make ends meet and you want to foist your first born on me? How is that even supposed to be an incentive?"

"Ouch." Aliyah snorted. "Probably true, though. Alright, I'll raise my own first born, but only if you help me. If you don't, we'll end up homeless in a corner in Crime Alley, me and my hungry baby, begging for money, waiting for the next Arkham escapee to put us out of our misery."

She meant it as a joke, but despite the overdramatic delivery there was that little core of truth underneath it. The type of joke only people living in Crime Alley or the Bowery got to make because they got it. They lived it. If they couldn't joke about it, they might as well kill themselves then and there.

"Fucking fine," Jason hissed. "But you owe me, and not your useless first born either."

"Yes! You're the best!" Aliyah twirled and danced on the spot with a natural grace that made those walking by look at her with a smile on their faces.

"I'll need information," Jason warned her. "And there's no guarantee that I'll be able to help."

"But you'll try, right?"

Jason sighed. He was already regretting this. "Yes, I'll try," he mumbled, angry at himself for being so fucking weak. Emilio was supposed to be an invisible alias. People seeking him out for help wasn't part of the deal. "But you keep mum about it," he said. "I don't need more people coming to me."

"My lips are sealed." She pinched her forefinger and thumb together and slid them across her lips, twisting her hand in the end as if to lock them.

Jason narrowed his eyes, trying to convey as much displeasure as he could get away with without looking like the killer Emilio wasn't. He didn't trust her. She looked much too pleased with herself.

"I need--"

Aliyah placed a thick folder on Jason's hands. "Here you go. Marc told me what you needed and I prepared everything. My parents' last tax statements, my own, a CV, all my grades. I don't really have any extracurriculars. I applied to a few stipends but my grades weren't good enough and my parents earn slightly more than what most scholarships based on financial needs accept. I'm not kidding about my firstborn, Lío, if you get me a scholarship he's yours for the asking. I've only been three semesters in college and I have so much debt, I'll probably retire before I finish paying it."

"No first born." Jason leafed through the folder. It seemed to have everything. "You can treat me to chili dogs, though. I'm starving."

"Sure, I'll pay," she said.

Jason felt bad about it. Aliyah needed the money more than he did, but he had a cover to keep. Emilio would totally use any chance he got to squeeze a free meal out of someone.

He took her to Mary's. Jason genuinely liked the food there, and it was cheap enough that it wouldn't hurt Aliyah's budget too much.

"Lío, good to see you," Mary greeted him with her usual smile as soon as they entered. He had become a bit of a regular despite his best intentions. The cafe was at the end of his favorite jogging route and it was an easy meal when Jason didn't feel like cooking. "And you brought a friend. Welcome to Mary's."

"Hi," Aliyah said with a smile, looking around curiously. She lived deep enough in the Bowery that she'd probably never come here. Jason was sure that Aliyah's mother would be angry if she learned that she'd been to Crime Alley. Most mothers were. Aliyah had been a bit nervous the closer they got to Park Row, but Mary's was near enough to the Bowery that she braved it.

They both ordered chili dogs, fries and ice tea, and Jason went through the papers while they waited. He started up his laptop, a custom-made beast that Blue Moon had gotten him. It didn't have any brand name people might recognize and Jason had covered it with stickers to make it look even more silly. If he let it unattended, someone would steal it. This was Crime Alley after all, but most people wouldn't go out of their way to get it, thinking it an old, worthless thing.

Jason didn't worry too much about it falling into the wrong hands, though. It'd be a pain to get a second laptop customized to his standards, but the information wouldn't go anywhere. On top of Blue Moon working their magic on it, Jason had attached a small explosive to the hard drive that would go off if certain key-combinations weren't pressed every couple of minutes once it was turned on. Even Oracle would have a hard time subverting that, let alone some wannabe thief in the Alley.

"My goodness, this tastes awesome." Aliyah moaned, after taking her first bite of the chili dog. Red sauce and melted cheese dripped onto the plate. Aliyah licked her fingers before taking a second bite.

"It does, doesn't it?" Jason grinned.

"Worth risking Crime Alley for." She closed her eyes as she chewed, a blissful expression on her face.

Jason chuckled, his own food untouched as he started typing away.

He had to give it to Bruce, the old man never skimped on Jason's training. The investigative skills, the tricks and resources he taught Jason so that Robin could solve cases, dig up hidden information and recognize patterns came in handy for more than one thing. Finding scholarships and sponsors for stipends was easy compared to solving a five-year-old cold case after some corrupt cop spent months destroying the evidence.

It'd taken him a bit longer when he was doing it for Marc, because Jason had to figure out where to start searching. The second time went faster. He might not be Blue Moon when it came to computer skills, but Talia hadn't ignored that part of his training. Most charities and nonprofits, especially the smaller ones, didn't have the resources to stop someone with Jason's level of skill. A little tweak here, another tweak there, and suddenly they would have an opening for someone with Aliyah's background. Jason didn't feel guilty about it. He killed in cold blood without losing sleep, a little illegal hacking to help a student in need was nothing. His karma was shot to hell anyway, might as well make the most out of it.

"I've emailed you the addresses of the places where you have a good chance of being accepted," he told Aliyah. "You need to send your application by 6 p.m. tonight." Jason would make sure it passed all the hurdles. "Marc told you about that, didn't he? I narrowed down the programs that might accept you, but you do the rest of the work. I'm not your butler. You gotta do your part, too."

Aliyah swallowed and chased the food down with a gulp of her tea. "Yeah, Marc told me." She put out her phone and checked her emails with one hand, swiping and tapping at it at a respectable speed despite her incredibly long mauve fingernails. "That was super fast," she commented, clicking on the links Jason sent her. "Marc said you'd need a couple of days."

"This is no longer my first rodeo, is it?" Jason pointed out.

"Gosh, you're not only disgustingly clever in classes. You're disgustingly clever all the time, aren't you? You sure you don't want that first born?" She wiggled her eyebrows. "I wouldn't mind getting some of that genetic material into the family."

"Are you flirting with me?" Jason asked, taken by surprised.

"Sure. You're not hard on the eyes at all, and you're clever. Though not clever enough, if it took you this long to notice," she said.

Jason opened his mouth and then closed it, at a loss for words. He felt himself blush, which was so fucking annoying it made him wish for a hole to open under his feet and swallow him. Why did this shit happen to him all the time? As if it wasn't bad enough that half his girls kept offering Red Hood a free ride. He really wasn't--Fucking hell, Emilio Ortega had been such a bad idea.

Aliyah giggled. "Oh, my goodness, the look on your face. It's all right, you're not interested. I got it loud and clear."

Jason was going to combust with embarrassment. "It's not--"

"It's not me, it's you," Aliyah interrupted him, still giggling. "I know, Lío. If you're willing to let perfection pass you by, it's obviously you."

"Self-confident much," Jason grumbled, mortified. He hated when people laughed at him, even if it was well-intended. Fucking Joker.

"I've got five older brothers. Self-confidence was a defense mechanism to survive childhood," she stated. "You've no idea how lucky you are to be an only child. Siblings are the worst."

Jason thought of Dick. His screaming matches with Bruce. The patronizing attitude towards Jason, the constant reminder that Jason wasn't good enough. Would never be. It was getting slightly better in the end, and Jason had thought that maybe-- "Yeah, I can only imagine."

"We can still be friends, though," Aliyah said. She wiped her hand on the napkin and offered it to Jason.

Jason looked at it as if it was a snake. He didn't have time for friends. Emilio was supposed to be a loner. He sighed and took the proffered hand gingerly. "Friends."

"Brilliant," she beamed at him, ignoring Jason's obvious reluctance. "How far along are you with the Brontë sisters' essay?"

"You're not copying from me," he warned her.

Aliyah's smile fell slightly and her eyes flashed with anger. "I don't need to copy from you, asshole. Gosh, Marc wasn't kidding when he said you were bad at this friendship thing." She shook the anger off. "Never mind that, we've got your back. Obviously you need all the help you can get."

"I don't need help. I'm perfectly fine by myself," Jason protested.

She huffed. "Keep telling yourself that. Come on, give me your number. We can text to arrange study dates. You might be hot shit at literature and languages, but I totes kick your butt in economics," Aliyah pointed out.

"I'm gonna drop out of that next semester," Jason said. He'd taken the economics elective thinking it might come in handy for Red Hood's business dealings, but the professor could make even Shakespeare sound boring. Listening to him bleat on about balance sheets and cash flow statements was worse than purgatory.

Aliyah picked up a French fry and gestured with it. "You can't let Unibrow scare you away from the beauty of economics. Besides, if you wanna get out of Crime Alley that's where the money is. What're you gonna do with a lit major anyway?"

"Be happy," Jason said, stealing a fry for himself.

"This is Gotham, babe. Only the rich can afford happiness. You gotta be practical," Aliyah countered. "Economics and law are the ticket, Lío. I'm gonna be a kick-ass corporate lawyer, rise like foam in Wayne Enterprises and live in a huge penthouse in the Diamond District. Wait and see."

"Wayne Enterprises? That's your end goal? Sure you don't wanna buy a lottery ticket instead?" Like five thousand other suckers weren't aiming for the same. Even Willis had dreamed about being a security guard for W.E. before he ended up doing dirty jobs for Two Face. Story of half of Gotham's lives.

"Fuck you! I've got what it takes. W.E. is the best employer in town," Aliyah explained as if Jason didn't know it. Everyone knew it. "Their social benefits are awesome. My best friend's father back in primary school got a job there and it paid so well that they moved out of the Bowery to the Upper East. I was so jealous. Don't know what became of her, though. You know how it is. Once you make it out, you never look back."

"Sometimes you're forced to look back." Jason wasn't repeating that same mistake. He was Crime Alley. He'd never again pretend otherwise.

"Oops, sorry. Forgot about your mom." Aliyah cringed. "Like, look, I'm really sorry, I'm super good at putting my foot in it. Forewarned is forearmed. So, about that Brontë essay, what have you got so far? What does Catherine being a mean bitch have to do with feminism in Victorian times anyway?"

"She wasn't a mean bitch," Jason defended Cathy. "She got handed a shitty hand, that's all."

"Come on," Aliyah insisted, "she and Heathcliff were both terrible people and I'm glad they died."

Jason spluttered in outrage. He had a sudden urge to discuss it with her, to share his own interpretation, to hear hers. He wanted to talk about something that wasn't drugs, prostitution, arms dealing, Black Mask or Batman. Something small. Something that was all about himself and not the mask he wore.

"Those are fighting words." Jason closed the lid of his laptop and leaned forward, preparing his arguments like he would if she was Alfred and the two of them were sitting in the Manor's library instead of wolfing down comfort food in a down-on-your-luck hole in Crime Alley.

The night would come soon enough and bring along all of Red Hood's troubles. Right now, this instant, he could indulge in being Jason.

Chapter Text

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Tim knew he'd screwed up. Ordering Damian to stay put was the surest way to make him go into the warehouse. Stupid. Anger seethed in Tim's blood, more at himself than at Damian. This was his fault. All of it. His intel had been faulty.

No. He had warned Bruce it could be a set up. It was all too convenient. Tim told him. They all had known the risks going in. They chose to do it anyway. It wasn't Tim's fault. But it still felt as though it was.

And now Damian had gone into the warehouse, too. No protective gear. No back-up. Because Tim couldn't keep his mouth shut.

That was Tim's fault. If Tim had been Dick or Bruce, Damian would have obeyed him. Tim should have worded it better, not as an order but a request. A plea? Damn it!

Cursing is for gutter trash, Timmy. We're Drakes. I expect better from you.

Cursing felt like another failure. Even if it was just in his head. Even if his mother was long dead and nothing Tim did while she was alive made her stay longer or love him more.

"Go after Damian. Your mask has an air filter," he told Steph. They had to act quickly. But they needed to be cautious. "I'll follow you after I gear up. Don't engage if you can avoid it. We don't—"

"I know," Steph said and grappled down, going into the warehouse like a shadow.

Tim ran to the Redbird and got his filtering mask, the one they used to deal with Poison Ivy's pheromones and Joker's gas. Nothing in their research indicated that Red Hood liked to use chemical weapons. If they'd known—but they didn't. Tim had to stop crying over spilled milk. The past didn't matter. Only the future. Getting everyone out alive.

He rushed back, wind whistling past his ears as he ran and jumped, hoping against hope that he wasn't too late. He dashed into the warehouse, jumping over overturned crates and boxes, trying to find his way through the thick smoke. Steph had activated her locator, and Tim followed the signal.

Six more feet and he would be there. The smoke was impossible to pierce. Tim readied his bo-staff and took the last steps carefully, wary of potential traps. Was Red Hood truly alone in the warehouse? Spoiler's lithe silhouette and blonde hair took shape in front of him as he moved closer and Tim breathed out, relieved. He stepped up next to Steph and froze.

A couple of feet away he could make out Red Hood, crouching next to an unconscious Damian, one of his guns pointed steadily at Steph. The gun didn't shift as Tim's moved closer. Red Hood didn't so much as acknowledge him.

Tim had to get Red Hood's focus away from Steph. "Step aside!" he bellowed, pouring all his anger into the command.

Steph shifted slightly on the balls of her feet, readying herself to jump and attack on Tim's command. The movement so slight that Red Hood wouldn't notice it through the heavy smoke. She had Tim's back. Always. Tim's confidence returned. They might not be Batman and Nightwing, but they didn't need to be. They had this.

"Sure, I'll step aside," Red Hood mocked. "Is that all it takes to make your usual enemies back down? All I hear is the bark, but where's the bite, Red Radish?"

Red Radish? Oh, that bastard. As if he had room to speak. He looked more like a radish than Tim did with that stupid helmet of his. Don't let him provoke you. If you lose control, he wins. Bruce had hammered that lesson into him over and over.

"Step aside or we make you step aside."

Red Hood chuckled. "Oh, so scary. Batman must be so proud. We could fight it out," he offered, "and see who comes out on top, but the two of you will need a while to subdue me, if you manage it at all, that is. Your friends don't have that much time. Especially the kid." He tugged away the cape covering Damian's face as he spoke.

Damian's breath hitched and he coughed weakly. He was alive, but he didn't sound good. Tim had seen Damian take damage. Tim might hate to admit it, but the League's training had turned the boy into a dangerous opponent despite his age. Seeing him so helpless scared Tim.

Bruce would never forgive Tim if he cost Bruce a son. Batman might not survive the loss either. Tim didn't think anyone could pull Bruce back from that ledge a second time.

"People on the streets say you don't kill children," Tim said. It was all Tim had. Red Hood had a reputation. Surely that was important to him.

Red Hood stood up, and something in his demeanor spoke of a barely restrained anger. A violence that hadn't been there before. Tim's words had pierced through Red Hood's armor. Tim just didn't know if it would work in his favor or not.

"And who's gonna stop me if I do? Batman? You?" Red Hood snarled. "What are you gonna do if your little Robin dies? Give me a pat in the back and cart me off to Arkham for being naughty?"

There was something there. Tim just needed to think. "You—People on the street like you." That much was true. "Come willingly and we'll put in a good word for you with the police. You don't have to—"

"Shut up! You're in no position to make bargains. I might not like to kill children, but it's not a deal-breaker." Red Hood released the safety of the gun he had trained on Steph. The dull click made Tim swallow. "Here's my counteroffer, you let me leave and we postpone this fight to another day. I don't have to kill the kid and you don't have to bury him. With some luck, your other friends may live, too."

Batman wouldn't take the deal. Neither would Nightwing. They'd find a way to defuse the situation, save everyone and capture Red Hood while they were at it. But Batman and Nightwing were unconscious as were Black Bat and Robin.

"Do it," Oracle said in Tim's ear.

He glanced at Steph, and she nodded slightly. Whatever he chose, she would follow.

Tim wanted to ram his bo-staff into Red Hood's helmet and shatter that smugness of his. He wanted to beat Red Hood bloody and take him to Blackgate or Arkham never to be seen again. He wanted—He wanted—

"Fine," Tim spat. "You've got a deal."

Red Hood sniggered. "Pleasure doing business with you, Red Robin," he said mockingly.

Tim was going to end him. Someday soon they were going to find him and put him away for good, but right now Tim needed to rescue everyone. If that meant dancing to Red Hood's tune, so be it. The tides would change. Tim just needed to make sure they survived long enough to make it happen.

And when Red Hood was least expecting it, they would come for him.

Five minutes.

They only had five minutes before the place blew up. If Red Hood wasn't lying. Tim had been so stupid. Of course the man couldn't be trusted to keep his word. It was a trap. It'd been a trap from the beginning. All of it. And Tim had let him go. He had no leverage now. Zero. Nothing.

What if Red Hood was lying? What if the place blew up before the five minute mark.

It didn't matter. They would rescue the others or die trying. They risked their lives every night. This was no different. Tim had been doing it since he was thirteen. For Batman. For Gotham. For the Titans. For those who couldn't fight and save themselves.

He and Steph worked together like a well oiled machine. She carried Damian out while Tim took Dick. He'd have preferred to get Cass out first, but it would be easier for Steph to carry her.

"Time," Tim called to Oracle as they ran back into the warehouse.

"Three minutes, twenty-three seconds. If he wasn't lying."

Of course. But there was no time to think or worry. Just to act. He needed to get Bruce out. The smoke was getting heavier. He followed Bruce's signal. Where was he? Tim couldn't see. He had to be close by.

"Found Black Bat," Steph called, her voice much closer than Tim expected.

Boxes toppled over to the floor when Steph hefted Cass into a fireman’s carry. Tim could barely make out the shape of her, and then she was gone, racing towards the exit despite the additional weight. The relentless training designed by Bruce paying off. It always paid off. They didn't need to be metas. Training, skills and technology, that was all they needed.

"You're close," Oracle told him. "Five feet to your right."

Tim almost stumbled over Bruce. His unconscious body was hidden behind some crates he must have been using for cover. Tim pulled Bruce up with a grunt and arranged him over his shoulders, distributing the weight so that Tim could still move.

He ran towards the exit. "Time!" he gasped.

The mask covering his nose and mouth made breathing harder. His lungs burned. Bruce's solid, heavy form on his back made the short distance into an endurance trial. Even without the gas Tim didn't think he could have gotten a full breath.

"Two minutes, forty-three seconds," Oracle called. The door was just there. He could see Steph, running back towards the warehouse to help him carry Bruce.

"Take him." Tim passed Bruce's body over to her. Bruce was heavy, but Steph could haul him the rest of the way. "I'm going back in."

"Red Robin, no!" Steph's knees gave slightly under Batman's weight, but she managed to straighten herself almost immediately.

"I saw the computers on the way in. We need that intel. Go!"

The night had already gone to hell. He didn't want it to be a total bust. They'd been after Red Hood for months, and this was their only clue. They couldn't waste it.

"It's too risky," Steph protested, but she was already carrying Bruce away, too well trained to waste critical time fighting over orders.

"Worth it," Tim said through the com and went back in. "Oracle, count down."

Barbara started counting down the seconds out loud. Two and half minutes left. Tim had this. There had been two laptops hooked to docking stations. He zeroed in on them, retracing his steps and jumping over the crates with ease. Laptops were good. He could carry them more easily than desktops.

Two minutes. He unplugged the laptops, fumbling to find the right buttons. One minute and twenty-two seconds.

What if Red Hood had lied?

Don't think about it. No time.

He ran, leaping over the obstacles. It was harder now with both hands full. More difficult to balance, but not impossible. He was a Bat. Balance was what they did. Dick's training. Bruce's. Lady Shiva's. Even Ra's's. Tim had been doing this for more than four years. Training. Fighting. Training. Fighting. Training. Fighting.

Forty-one seconds left. The shape of the door became visible. Tim ran faster. Steph was there, back to help him. That wonderful idiot. He passed one of the laptops to her without slowing down and the two of them raced to the door.

Faster. Faster. Come on! Thirty-two seconds left when they cleared the door. They ran to the next building, seeking cover, bracing for the explosion. Panting with exertion. Bruce and Dick and Cass safe. Unconscious, but safe. Alive. Damian, too.

The street shook under the force of the blast. Tim threw himself on top of Steph instinctively, covering her to protect her from falling debris. His ears rang with the concussive force of the explosion.

The buildings! He'd forgotten about the neighboring buildings. The people living in them. No. No! The fleeting sense of accomplishment for having secured the data disappeared. Destroyed. Blown away. No. Damn it, no!

Cursing is for gutter rats, Timmy.

Tim stood up on unsteady feet. He didn't want to look and see the apartment buildings destroyed, the families living in them dead or bleeding, trapped in the debris because he'd rather rescue two laptops than warn the people living near the warehouse that they were in danger.

What was wrong with him?

He forced himself to look and—the houses were intact. All of them. Red Hood's safehouse was gone as if it'd never been there. Completely destroyed by the blast, but all the other buildings were still standing.

Tim blinked, holding himself up against the wall. It didn't add up. Nothing made sense.

Red Hood had done this on purpose. You didn't blow up a building without collateral unless you went the extra mile. It was more difficult to control the blast than to let nearby houses be destroyed.

Joker wouldn't have cared. Two Face wouldn't have cared. None of the rogues would have cared. Even Ivy was perfectly fine with collateral. The mob sure as hell wouldn't have cared. Why did Red Hood?

They were looking at this wrong. All of it was wrong. Tim's mind was going a mile a minute. Identifying patterns. Looking for motives. Explanations. He needed to think. He needed to gather all the intel he had and take a moment to think.

"The cops and fire trucks are on their way. People are starting to come out of their houses," Steph said, catching his attention. Practical, practical Steph. "We need to get the others to the cave, see what type of gas it was. Oracle already called Leslie. Agent A is bringing the Batjet." Right, practical things first.

"I'm flying back with Agent A," Tim told her. "You deal with the police."

Tim couldn't shut his brain off. His thoughts kept leaping. Running through options. Discarding them. Trying again. He would be of no use to anyone like that. Not right then. But Tim knew himself well enough by now to recognize the signs.

His subconscious mind was trying to tell him something. Something important. A clue he was still not seeing. Tim just needed to listen.

It had been exactly like this when Bruce disappeared in time. It was like this when he was close to a breakthrough in a case or a tricky R&D project. Tim was close. So close. He could almost taste it. But he needed time for himself, to let his mind work it out.

A couple of days. A week tops. Then he'd have it. He just knew it. And they had Red Hood's laptops now. That might help, too.

Not a bad night. They were all alive. There had been no civilian casualties and they were closer to discovering who Red Hood was than they'd been before.

Not a bad night at all.

"Did you sleep at all?" Tim asked Bruce, when he entered the cave. Bruce looked old, face haggard with worry and exhaustion.

"Good morning, Tim." Bruce ignored the question. "Thank you for coming." As if Tim would have ignored his summon.

"Alfred said you wanted to see me before I left," Tim said stupidly. Of course Bruce knew that.

Tim was exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to go back to bed and sleep some more, but he had some meetings he couldn't skip at WE. He'd just have to power through. Just a couple of hours. Gallons of coffee, a little power nap with his office's door closed and he'd survive the day. It wouldn't be the first time. Or the last.

"We need to talk." Bruce's tone carried a hard edge to it.

Tim tensed. This was about last night then. Couldn't Bruce have waited a day or two? Tim was busy. He had things he needed to do and he—Of course Bruce wasn't going to wait. When did he ever?

"Sure," Tim huffed, too tired to fake enthusiasm.

"Sit." Bruce pointed to the chair next to the main computer.

Definitely one of those conversations then. Tim's stomach churned with apprehension but he did his best to remain calm. He did what he thought was best given the situation and if Bruce had a problem with it, then—

"I've analyzed your report from last night's encounter as well as all recordings from the mission," Bruce spoke.

Right. Of course he had. Bruce had woken up from the effects of the sleeping gas before all the others and completely ignored Leslie's order to rest. He'd demanded mission reports from Tim and Steph and then had glued himself to the computers only acknowledging the world when Dick and Cass regained consciousness. He'd made sure they were all right, had sent them to bed, the big hypocrite, and gone back to watching the recordings of the mission and the surveillance tapes obsessively.

At some point Tim had gone to bed, too. He now regretted letting Alfred convince him to stay in the Manor. He should have driven to the penthouse despite the hour. It would have delayed the post-mortem with Bruce until the night, and Tim would have been better rested. Mind sharp instead of muzzy with lack of sleep.

What's the verdict? he wanted to ask, but swallowed the sarcasm with some effort. He settled for a more neutral, "Any new intel?"

"Nothing worth mentioning," Bruce replied.

Tim had gone through the videos himself—not as obsessively as Bruce—but he'd wanted to know if he'd missed something. Tim had been more interested in the recordings from the cowl, curious about Red Hood's fighting style. There was some League training there, but not only that. It was hard to pin, though. Whatever training Red Hood had received, he'd already reached the point in which he took the teachings and made them his. A unique style that incorporated his own personal touch and wasn't a mere copy of someone else's.

One thing was clear, though, the warehouse had been set up as an ambush. The question was if it was an ambush for them or an ambush for intruders in general. Red Hood had many enemies after all.

"You and Spoiler did well last night," Bruce said. "It was a difficult situation and you dealt with it without losing your head. Putting Damian's life first was the right call."

Tim reeled. Was Bruce still under the influence of the drugs? It wasn't like him to say such things out loud.

"I did what I thought was best." Tim suppressed the urge to fidget. Direct praise always made him uncomfortable. Why couldn't Bruce just go back to being his usual taciturn self?

Bruce smiled at him. Oh, no, what the hell was going on? "You took the lead well. I sometimes forget that both you and Dick have so much experience leading your own teams."

Here it comes, Tim thought, when Bruce's face turned serious again. "However, last night made something clear. The situation between you and Damian can't be allowed to continue. I should have addressed it long ago."

Tim felt as if someone had cut off his grappling line mid-jump. Again. A cold, sense of dread traveled up his spine. "What do you mean?" His voice came out weaker than he intended.

"I'm aware that you and he don't get along," Bruce said. Understatement of the century. "I've done my best not to get too involved, assuming it was something you would grow out of given time."

Fuck you, too, Bruce. Tim didn't say anything. What was the point?

"However, it's starting to affect our work, and that I can't allow it to continue," Bruce went on, unperturbed. "If you and Damian had worked together instead of fighting each other, the chances of capturing Red Hood—"

"I told him to stay behind!" Tim protested. "He didn't listen. You can't possibly blame me because he's an arrogant, entitled, little twerp that thinks he knows better." Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Losing his cool in front of Bruce didn't help his case.

"He's twelve," Bruce said, as if that should mean something.

It didn't.

"He's almost thirteen! He's been Robin for close to three years now. You told us there was gas! He should have waited. I told him to wait! If he ignored me, that's on him!" God damn it! Shouting at Bruce wasn't helping his case. Tim needed to calm down.

But he just couldn't.

"I don't blame you," Bruce said, taking the wind from his sails. "What happened isn't your fault." At least something. "Or Damian's." Yes, it damned well was Damian's fault.

"It's a result of my inaction," Bruce continued. "If I hadn't ignored your obvious dislike for each other for so long, none of this would have happened. But I'm no longer willing to look the other way. The two of you need to learn to work together."

No. No. Please, no.

"As soon as Damian has recovered enough to patrol again, the two of you will start going out on missions together."

"No! No way!" Tim reared up. He sent his chair rolling back a couple of feet as he stood up, fists clenched.

"Tim, sit back down." Bruce didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

Tim dragged the chair back, choking on his anger and sat down again. He was about to implode. With fury, with helplessness, with anger. "I'm not working with him!"

"This isn't up for negotiation," Bruce said flatly. "The two of you will patrol together, or you won't patrol at all."

"You can't—" But of course Bruce could. He could bench both of them easily.

Tim needed to make Bruce see reason. "I don't trust him at my back. He doesn't trust me at his. This job requires trust. It won't work."

"Exactly," Bruce said, sounding pleased. "Trust. That's what it comes down to. You need to learn to trust each other. This childish rivalry of yours needs to stop."

The worst part was that Tim understood where Bruce was coming from. Of course he did. Tim always understood. His parents left him to tour the world and Tim understood. Dick gave Robin to Damian, and Tim understood. Bruce was about to destroy what little happiness patrolling brought him, and Tim understood. Understanding it didn't make it hurt less.

"Tim," Bruce said in his I'm-the-voice-of-reason-why-won't-you-listen tone. "You've worked in the past with allies you didn't completely trust. You've even worked with enemies when the occasion called for it. I wouldn't ask this of you if I wasn't convinced you could do it."

Oh, that was so low, but it was working. Tim wanted to make Bruce proud. Of course he did. He wanted to prove himself, show Bruce that he could do everything Bruce demanded.

Everything but work together with Damian.

"Yes, I've done it, but it requires that both parties agree to cooperate, at least for a limited amount of time," Tim pointed out. "Damian isn't going to agree. And even if he tells you that he will, once we're out in the field, he'll do whatever he wants. He won't listen to me, even if his life depends on it. You saw it."

"I'll speak to Damian as soon as he wakes up," Bruce said. "You're older and have more experience. When the two of you are alone, he needs to follow your lead."

There he was again, laying it on thick with the praise. But Tim knew that if he continued to refuse, Bruce would change tactics. Less carrot, more stick.

"I'll make sure Damian understands," Bruce reassured him. "If he disobeys you, the consequences will be the same as if he'd disobeyed me. After all, I'm the one ordering him to work with you." He leaned back on his chair, expectant, waiting for whatever counterarguments Tim might still have.

What was the point? Bruce wouldn't listen to reason. The last sentence said it all, 'I'm the one ordering.'

Tim just wanted out. Out of the conversation. Out of the cave. Out of the Manor. To be alone and calm down before he said or did something he might later regret. And Bruce wouldn't let Tim leave until he got what he wanted.

"I'll do it," Tim spat. "But this is one the worst ideas you've ever had. And when it goes wrong, it'll be your fault. I'm washing my hands of it. I'll work with him—provided you manage to convince him—but that's it. And if he tries to attack me when my back is turned, I'll retaliate. No holds barred."

"I suppose that's all I can ask for now," Bruce agreed.

For now?

Tim bit back an angry retort. It wouldn't help his case. "May I leave?"

He needed out of the cave. Now. Away from Bruce and just—He needed out.

"Of course," Bruce said, but before Tim could stand up and flee, he put his hand on Tim's shoulder and squeezed. "It'll work out, Tim. Trust me."

Tim yanked his shoulder free. "Whatever." He fled.

Tim picked his bike and drove at breakneck speed all the way to the penthouse. The wind rushed past him as he zigzagged in and out of traffic, ignoring the blaring honks and speed limits. But even the adrenaline kick wasn't enough to clear his mind.

Tam and the Board were expecting him at WE. Tim had meetings to attend. Important meetings. Meetings he couldn't afford to skip. It would just give his enemies at WE more fodder. Too young. Not responsible enough. A high school dropout. Nepotism at its finest. What was Bruce thinking? Ha ha, when does Brucie ever think?

Let them talk. Tim couldn't deal with it that day.

He took off his helmet and let it fall on the floor as he walked. He changed into sweatpants, taped his hands and let his frustration loose against one of the punching bags in the training room. Hit. Kick. Jump back. Hit again. Kick. Hit. Kick. Hit. Hit. Hit. Hit. Hit. Again and again and again. Pummeling his anger into the punching bag until he was drenched with sweat, legs, arms and body numb with exhaustion.

When it felt as though his arms were about to fall off of his shoulders, Tim finally stopped, draping himself around the punching bag. He pressed his forehead against the cold, rough texture and panted. Exhaustion clawed at him. Tim closed his eyes, allowing the bag to hold most of his weight, and breathed in and out.

Despite the exercise, he still felt jittery. His mind running like a hamster in a wheel, replaying the conversation with Bruce over and over. Was there anything Tim could have said to make Bruce change his mind?

What was Tim going to do?

He couldn't work with Damian. He couldn't.

A part of him wanted to call Bruce and tell him 'No.' No. No. No. And if Bruce took Red Robin away from him, so be it. But Tim knew he wouldn't. He already lost Robin because of Damian. He wouldn't give the little twerp the satisfaction of taking Red Robin away from him, too. He wouldn't.

Tim gulped down a bottle of water and threw the rest over his head, letting it cool down his overheated body. He picked up his bo-staff and walked to the center of the training room.

He closed his eyes and remained still, breathing in and out steadily, until his mind settled down enough that he could start his favorite kata. Tim readied the staff and took the first step, concentrating on the shift of balance in his body, the way the energy traveled through his center into his arms and then to the staff, until it became an extension of himself. Another part of Tim's body.

As he went through the kata his mind settled down further. The movements required absolute concentration to be executed with the necessary precision. The routine was familiar but not less challenging because of it. Mind, body and bo-staff needed to become a single unit. The world reduced itself to that instant, aligning together into the precise step, the right jump, the perfect strike.

Tim's mind, always running ten steps ahead of him, was forced to slow down and just exist in the moment. There was no room for worry. No thinking about tomorrow, or his ever growing to-do list: Red Hood, Wayne Enterprises, even Damian. None of it mattered. Just Tim and that instant. The perfect harmony of it.

The kata came to an end, and Tim stopped, relishing that perfect inner peace. Then, he moved into the next one, and the next one, working his way through all the forms.

The bell rang, yanking Tim back into the present. He stopped mid-movement and turned to check the monitors: Steph. Tim frowned and looked at the hour, surprised to notice that it was already so late. Right, he'd agreed to help her with one of her college papers.

Tim put the bo-staff aside and rubbed his face, exhausted. He pressed the button to open the main gates and waited. He changed into something more presentable while he waited for her to announce her visit to the concierge and ride all the way up in the elevator.

By the time she made it to his floor, Tim had already finished off two energy drinks and was feeling much more himself.

"Holy shit! What happened to you?" was Steph's greeting. "Is everyone okay? I thought Leslie said they were all in the clear."

"Everyone's fine," Tim replied. "Nothing happened."

Steph huffed, "Right." Her voice oozed disbelief. "Your hair is dripping wet and you reek of sweat." She looked at her watch pointedly. "At 6 p.m. Something obviously happened, Mister Routine."

"Don't call me that!" Tim protested, even though he knew it was useless. "I'm not Mister Routine. Some of us happen to have a time consuming job on top of the whole," he waved with his hands to indicate the super-heroing without having to say it. "If I don't keep to a strict schedule I wouldn't be able to manage all of it." The day didn't have enough hours as it was.

Tim vaguely remembered the time before he became a board member at WE. Life had been so simple then for all that still Tim bemoaned it wasn't. He had had no idea. All he had was school (boring), training (necessary), being Robin (a dream come true) and the Titans (best thing ever). Now, his days were filled with meetings and more meetings, paperwork, conference calls and Excel spreadsheets. Tim was convinced that the tenth circle of hell which Dante never visited was filled with people forced to fulfill Board functions.

"Whatever," Steph said, walking past him. "The point is that you're all sweaty. Ergo you've been training outside that oh-so-important-strict-schedule. Ergo you were here when you should have been at WE. Ergo something happened. Come on, share with the class. I'm going to find out anyway."

Being friends with people trained by Batman was such a pain. Of course Steph was going to take one look at him and know something was up.

Tim sighed. He walked to the kitchen and got himself another energy drink and a mango smoothie for Steph, the one he kept just for her.

"Bruce, in his infinite wisdom," Tim didn't even try to swallow the sarcasm, "said that Damian and I need to work better together."

Steph gaped, smoothing halfway to her lips. "When he woke up from that forced nap, he really woke up. I'm almost afraid to ask. How does he want to do that?"

Tim clenched his hands. "The two of us will be patrolling together," he said, trying to sound neutral.

Steph laughed so hard that she had to hold herself on the kitchen counter. "Oh, my god, I can't breathe," she guffawed.

Tim didn't see what was so funny about it. "Go ahead, laugh at my misery," he groused.

"Bruce pulling a Dumbledore on you is hilarious," Steph said, wiping away tears from her eyes. "Damian's the Snape to your Harry Potter. It's brilliant. I just can't—" she started laughing again.

Tim sighed and sat down, letting his forehead rest on the kitchen counter and waited for her to calm down, feeling even more miserable than before.

"Hey," Steph said, and poked him on the side. "It's not so bad. I know he's terrible to you, but he was terrible to me, too, at the beginning." Her voice was more serious. "I hate to say it, but this isn't the worst idea Bruce has had. Damian needs—"

"What about what I need?" Tim snapped, pushing himself up and walking away. He thought that Steph of all people would understand.

"Oh, Timmy," Steph said and went to him.

He tried to pull away, but she caught his hand and dragged him closer. Tim didn't have the strength to resist. He let himself be pulled into her arms and hid his face against her neck, breathing that fruity perfume she liked mixed with her own unmistakable smell. Hugging her no longer brought that confusing arousal of the past, but it was still nice. Familiar and comforting. He wanted nothing more than to lose himself in that embrace and forget the world for a while.

Steph petted his back and held him like she had hundreds times in the past. "It's going to be okay. Damian's more bark than bite these days. Come on, Timmy, you figured out who Batman was when you were still a toddler. Compared to that, this is a piece of cake."

"I wasn't a toddler," Tim protested, pulling away softly.

She let him go. "Same thing," Steph dismissed his complaint as she always did. "You've fought rogues. You brought Bruce back from the past when we all thought he was dead. You impressed Lady Shiva herself with your skills, and Ra's al Ghul. I could go on and on. What I'm trying to say is that you've faced worse people than some twelve-year-old wanna-be-superhero-cum-ex-assassin and come out on top. Damian shouldn't even be a blip on your radar. Don't let him get to you."

Easier said than done. He lost Robin to Damian, and sometimes it felt like he lost Dick to him, too. Tim knew it wasn't true. But it felt that way. Dick came to Gotham to work with them sometimes, but he spent all of his free time at the Manor, with Damian. Visiting the zoo, training with him, playing with him. When was the last time Dick had done anything together with Tim that wasn't case-related? Tim didn't remember.

And Bruce—well, Bruce didn't count. Bruce's priority would always be Gotham. Everyone else came in second place.

"You're right," he said, just to make her stop lecturing him.

Tim didn't need people telling him to get over things. He already knew it. He told it to himself dozens of times, but it didn't change anything. He still couldn't do it. Like a broken fire alarm you couldn't turn off. It didn't matter that you knew there was no fire. The alarm kept blaring on, impossible to ignore.

Tim couldn't help worrying about Damian. Couldn't help overthinking every single interaction. Couldn't help going over every conversation and fight the two of them had—especially those that happened in front of Bruce or Dick—replaying them to death. A useless litany of 'should have said this, should have reacted like that, should have..., should have..., should have...,' weeks and months after it happened. Knowing that it was useless didn't help. He still did it. Again and again and again.

"It'll be all right," Steph insisted. "At least you get to boss him around. You do get to boss him around, don't you? Bruce will tell Damian that you're in charge, won't he?"

"For all the good that'll do." Tim sighed.

"Oh, don't underestimate Bruce. He can be very creative when he puts his mind to it, and if he really wants the two of you to cooperate then he'll at least—"

"Can we not talk about this anymore?" Tim interrupted her. "Let's just not, all right? You came here to study, so lets do that."

Steph started to protest but then stopped, "Right, of course. Biochemistry is kicking my butt and I need all the help I can get," she said. "Let me get my notebook. And then I need you to explain it to me or I'm going to tank this semester."

"You won't," Tim reassured her. "I've got your back."

"Damn right," she grinned at him and Tim relaxed. Biochemistry he could do. That was easy. And maybe it'd distract him a bit from thinking about Damian.

Chapter Text

Bruce couldn't tear his eyes away from the cot where Damian lay. He watched the steady rise and fall of Damian's chest obsessively, proof that Damian was fine. Alive. He would wake up soon. It was just taking his smaller body longer to flush the chemicals. Bruce had run every test he could think of and then had Leslie come over to run even more tests.

Damian was fine. Bruce didn't lose him.

His children's mortality was the one terror that shattered through Bruce's carefully constructed emotional walls, tearing them down like paper. Not even being in the cave, still wearing the Batman suit, helped. Bruce felt as powerless, as useless, as broken as he did that night in Crime Alley, watching his parents bleed to death in front him, or that dreadful day in Ethiopia, holding Jason's broken and charred body in his arms.

He clasped Damian's small fingers in his hand and squeezed, needing to touch him, to feel him, to know that he was real. His skin was warm and soft, his pulse strong. The steady beep of the monitors confirmed what his own hands were telling him. Damian was alive. In the cave. Safe.

If it weren't for Tim and Stephanie…

If the gas had been lethal.... Bruce could have lost him that night. Bruce closed his eyes and breathed, squeezing Damian's hand tighter.

He disobeyed. I ordered him to stay outside. The thought didn't help.

What did it matter if Batman told him to stay outside? Damian shouldn't have been out there at all. Oh, how Bruce wished he could put a stop to it. Keep Damian away from the streets. From the suit. From the Robin legacy that had already cost Bruce one son.

But that was a battle Dick, Jason, Tim and Stephanie had already fought and won. Damian got to reap the rewards. Bruce would not bench him for getting hurt, no matter how much he wanted to. What was the point? It'd only end up with Damian out there anyway, but without Batman's permission and without his protection. Alone.

All Bruce could do was protect him better. He failed last night. Damian's disobedience wasn't the issue. The failure was Batman's. It shouldn't have been up to Tim and Stephanie to rescue them. If Red Hood had been the Joker... He pushed away the thought, but couldn't quite stop the cold dread that washed over his body at the idea of what Joker would have done if he'd had them at their mercy.

His eyes flew to the glass case. To Jason's costume. He didn't need to read the words he'd engraved to know what they said. A good soldier. A reminder to himself.

He'd let his children become soldiers in his war for justice. That would always be Bruce's burden to carry. He couldn't allow himself to forget it. He let them be a part of it, and if they died in his war, the only one to blame would be Bruce. He needed to train them better, to give them the tools to survive, to make them strong. Even if it meant pushing them beyond their limits. They had to grow strong enough to survive.

Bruce couldn't lose another child.

He stroked Damian's cheek with his knuckles and his chest tightened. He wished he could be a better father to the boy. He wished he could give him the normal childhood Ra's stole from him. But all Bruce could do was undo some of the damage, soften the sharper edges and teach Damian to see the world in a different, hopefully better light.

Damian didn't make it easy. He was the most difficult of all of Bruce's children. Bruce loved him beyond reason, but he wasn't blind to Damian's faults. It was as if someone had taken Bruce and Talia's worst traits and combined them into his little boy: Bruce's perfectionism and Talia's ruthlessness, Bruce's awkwardness around the people he truly loved and Talia's unforgiving, blunt nature, and yet none of Talia's natural charm or even Bruce's fake one.

He reminded Bruce so strongly of the boy Bruce himself had been before he found his calling in Batman. Bruce hoped that like Batman helped him channel his anger to become a better version of himself, so too, would Robin help Damian to cope with that rage Bruce could sense in the boy. Damian needed to learn to use the darkness in him to help instead of hurt.

Forcing Damian and Tim to work together was a gamble, but one Bruce was certain would work out. In that, Damian was like him.

Bruce had hated working with Clark and Diana in the beginning. He'd barely wanted to become a member of the Justice League, preferring to work alone. He distrusted their motives, and only agreed to work with them to learn what he could about them in case he needed to create countermeasures.

A small smile tugged at his lips. Bruce knew better than most that you could take the boy away from the League of Assassins but it'd take a long while to take the teachings of the League out of the boy: trust no one, prove yourself superior, win at all costs. Bruce hadn't been as immune to Ra's teaching as he thought he was. It had taken years of joint missions, of saving each other's lives, of having each other's back, before he started to trust Diana and Clark.

In the end, though, fighting together, facing common enemies, being forced to rely on each other broke through Bruce's walls. It would break through Damian's walls, too.

Another thing in which he and Damian were the same. Damian's friendship with Jon Kent was proof of it. Bruce needed to force Tim and Damian to cooperate so that they could move past that childish rivalry of theirs.

The first months wouldn't be easy, but Bruce was confident that his plan would work. Once Damian stopped actively antagonizing him, Tim would give him a fair chance. Tim had always been very forgiving of those he considered family. Maybe a bit too much. Bruce could only hope that given enough time, Tim might come to think of Damian as a younger brother. They sure had the sibling rivalry down.

"How is he?" Dick's voice snapped Bruce from his musing. Only years of practice stopped him from visibly startling.

"Stable, but no changes yet." Bruce pulled his hand away from Damian, embarrassed that Dick caught him caressing the boy's face.

He turned to Dick, schooling his face into its usual impassive mask. Dick didn't need to see the turmoil of emotions battling inside him. Least of all the fear. "Leslie didn't want to give him anything to wake him up. Said that mixing chemicals would be worse given his age."

"Yeah." Dick stepped closer. "You explained it to me when I woke up yesterday."

"Right." Bruce forgot that. "I wasn't sure if you'd remember it. You were quite out of it."

"I remember." Dick sat on the edge of Damian's cot and threaded his fingers tenderly through the boy's hair. He'd always been much more open when it came to showing his emotions than Bruce ever was. Love, anger, happiness, sadness. Dick made it look so easy.

Bruce's fingers ached to imitate him, but it seemed wrong somehow. Bruce wasn't–Damian wouldn't have approved if he'd been awake. He tensed and flinched whenever Bruce touched him. Jason had been like that, too, at the beginning. But after a while, he learned to trust Bruce, seeking touch and comfort whenever he could. Damian still tensed and straightened up whenever Bruce came too close, and Bruce didn't know how to change it.

"Did you get some rest?" Bruce asked Dick, studying him critically.

"Yeah, surprisingly so." Dick turned to Bruce and scanned him from head to toe. He frowned with displeasure. "I don't need to ask you that. You look like shit."

Bruce's lips twitched. "As candid as usual. I'll probably crash after Damian wakes up."

"You could go to bed now," Dick offered. "I'll stay with him."

Bruce didn't dignify the suggestion with an answer. He would be there when Damian woke up. That was non-negotiable. "It shouldn't be too long now. I'll wait."

"Of course." Dick's easy acquiescence showed that he'd never expected Bruce to comply.

"I'm going to pair up Tim and Damian over the next few weeks," Bruce informed Dick.

Damian might try to convince Dick to interfere on his behalf, and it was best if the two of them presented a united front. He wanted Dick on board.

Dick choked on his breath. "You're going to do what now?"

"You heard me."

"That's just–Alright, no, let me think." Dick put a hand up and closed his eyes. His face scrunched up and cleared and scrunched up again. "Nope," Dick said, opening his eyes, "still don't get it. Why would you do that?"

"They need to learn to work together," Bruce said.

Dick's eyebrows shot up and he gaped, before exhaling, long and suffering. Such drama. Very Dick. "Throwing them at each other isn't going to solve the problem."

"I don't see why not? Damian learned to like Jon after working with him," Bruce reminded Dick.

"Jon isn't Tim. And the two of them don't have the same history." Dick paused. His eyes went to Damian and then to the monitors tracking his heartbeat. "We shouldn't be having this conversation here."

"He's unconscious," Bruce told him.

"It doesn't matter," Dick insisted. "Look, Tim has a right to be angry at Damian, just like he has a right to be angry at me."

"Tim isn't angry at you," Bruce said.

"Yes, he is," Dick insisted. "He barely talks to me unless it's for missions, and I get it, you know, I–when you were gone..." He stops. It's not a topic they have discussed before. "I didn't believe him when he said you weren't dead. I thought he was in denial. Refusing to face the facts. I–"

"It wasn't an easy thing to believe, Dick." Bruce put his hand on Dick's shoulder and squeezed, trying to be reassuring. "I don't blame you for doing what you did. You kept Gotham safe." Gotham and everyone Bruce loved. "I couldn't ask for more."

Dick's eyes widened at that. "I...," he huffed. "Are you sure you aren't under the influence any more?" he teased.

Amusement flashed through Bruce, but he didn't let it show. It was nice to have Dick here. To fall back into their typical banter. Bruce missed him.

"Never mind," Dick went on. "We–Tim and I that is–we were terrible to each other. You were gone. We were both hurting. We said things to each other that we probably both regret, and..." he trailed off and looked at the cot, where Damian lay, attached to the monitors. "Damian was hard to manage without you here. He hadn't been with us that long. I wanted him to have a home in the Manor. With us. I thought it'd be what you'd have wanted."

"Of course it was." Bruce would never turn away a child of his. "You all have a place here."

"After you were gone, Damian tried to kill Tim. More than once," Dick said. "He almost succeeded."

"The League's training is–"

"I know that, but for Tim it was another betrayal. Me and Alfred allowed a boy into the house who actively wanted him dead." Dick sighed. "And he's not wrong. It was a betrayal, but I can't apologize for it, because if I had to do it again, I would."

People always misjudged Dick. They thought him carefree and loving, and he was those things, of course. But underneath all that charm and cheerfulness there had always been a core of ruthlessness that he rarely showed the world. Bruce knew it all too well.

Bruce rubbed his face, tiredly. The long night weighed on him. "They need to move past it," he said.

He'd allowed the rivalry to continue for much too long. "Tim knows the League better now. He lived with them for a while." Something Bruce wasn't very pleased with, even if without that he would still be lost in time. Tim did what he had to do, like they all did. "He understands the League's methods enough to realize why Damian acted the way he did. And Damian isn't the same boy he was when he first came here. They need to realize that they both have changed."

"I don't know." Dick sounded doubtful. "I see your point, but they'll hate it."

"The first thing for them to agree on then." Bruce shrugged.

Dick snorted. "I can't talk to Tim. It'd make everything worse. But I'll speak to Damian. Not tonight. Tomorrow maybe, after he's calmed down enough to actually listen. Your idea might work, but if it fails, it'll fail spectacularly." He paused. "Do you want me to... I could stay in Gotham for a while," Dick offered. "Until this thing with Red Hood settles."

Bruce hid his surprise at the offer. "You're always welcome here, Dick. Alfred will be happy to have you. He worries about you." It'd please Bruce, too.

"Right," Dick snorted, "Alfred." He eyed Bruce knowingly, and Bruce allowed the corner of his lips to twitch. Dick's smile broadened. "Then, I'll stay for a while."

"Excellent," Bruce said, pleased.

"You really are exhausted," Dick pointed out. "Go to bed, Bruce. I'll keep watch."

"I'm fine," Bruce said.

"Alright," Dick agreed, sounding resigned. "Are the videos from yesterday on the Batcomputer?"

"Yes," Bruce replied. "You're not nine any more, Dick. You can call it a computer now."

Dick chuckled. "Branding is important, Bruce. You gotta stick to it."

Bruce shook his head, and looked away to hide his smile. Dick was one of the best things that ever happened to him. He couldn't imagine his life without Dick in it.

Damian didn't take Batman's decree well, to put it mildly. He lost his composure and actually shouted at Batman. 'Stop your tantrum and behave like a grown-up,' Batman had snapped back, hard and unforgiving.

Bruce regretted the words almost immediately. The fact that Damian dared to contradict him was in itself progress. The boy who first came from the League only knew blind obedience.

Damian froze and stopped his shouting at once, but the fear on his face capsized Bruce. Damian masked it quickly, falling back to his, 'Yes, Father,' followed by a 'It's your prerogative to punish me for my failure. If this is your choice, I will not contest it.'

Bruce should have said something then. Made it clear that working with Tim wasn't meant as a punishment, but the argument had been jarring as it was and Bruce was glad that it was finally over. He watched helplessly as Damian left the cave to go hide in his room, stiff and formal. Still afraid, if you knew where to look.

Bruce knew where to look.

His son was afraid of him. The realization broke something in him. Dick and Tim never feared Bruce. Jason had at first, but Bruce had gone out of his way to make him feel welcome, to make him see that Bruce wouldn't hurt him: movie nights, reading books together, going to baseball games, to museums, eating chili dogs and ice cream after patrol, helping Jason with his homework, asking after his friends. Small things that meant so much to the boy.

When had he done any of those things with Damian? Bruce had offered at the beginning, but when Damian said he'd rather use the time to train, Bruce had agreed readily, glad for the excuse to keep away the memories of Jason and their time together, the pain they still brought.

A good soldier. Was that how he saw Damian, too? It made him sick.

Bruce crashed afterwards, the exhaustion of the sleepless night finally catching up with him. He woke up late in the afternoon and made his way downstairs warily, unwilling to confront Damian so soon after their argument.

"Master Bruce, you're looking much more yourself," Alfred greeted him in the kitchen. "Dinner will be ready in three hours. Would you like a little snack while you wait?"

"Yes, please," Bruce said. "How is Damian doing?" he forced himself to ask.

"He and Master Dick have gone to the zoo," Alfred answered him, while he prepared the tea. "I live in fear of the day they bring that elephant home. Taking care of one bovine is already more than I ever thought I would have to do."

Bruce smiled. Damian and his love for animals. That was something that Bruce had done right. Something Damian learned here, with them.

"I spoke to the zoo director. If they let Damian take any animals home, I'll cut off their funding. I doubt they'll cave to his demands. And Dick will keep him controlled."

"At this point, I fear Master Richard wants that elephant more than Master Damian does," Alfred said drily. "Don't count on him to be the voice of reason."

Bruce bit into one of the cucumber sandwiches Alfred put in front of him to hide his smile.

It reminded him that Dick agreed to stay in the Manor for a while. To finally come back home. Bruce had reluctantly accepted Dick's desire for independence, but he much preferred to have all his children close. Blüdhaven was much too far away. Batman couldn't protect him there.

Having Dick home would be a relief. And Dick knew how to handle Damian. Maybe next time Bruce could go with them to the zoo, too? Do things with Damian that weren't just training, sparring and missions. Be a better father.

Bruce would have to think about something to do for Tim as well. There was that new model of electric car coming out soon. Maybe he could get a prototype for Tim? The boy loved flashy, fast cars. Or maybe a new camera?

He could ask Clark for suggestions about famous photographers and have one flown in to Gotham to give Tim one-on-one lessons. It'd been a while since Tim indulged his photography hobby. Tim would love that. An idea to keep in mind. Maybe after the first week of Damian and Tim working together. A little reward for Tim's cooperation.

"That reminds me, Dick will be staying with us for a while," Bruce told Alfred. "You should prepare his room."

"Master Richard's room is always prepared," Alfred said, piqued. Not that anyone other than Bruce would notice.

"Ah, of course. That's good then," Bruce hurried to say.

Alfred gave a little displeased huff. "Do eat more, lad." He put two more cucumber sandwiches and some scones on Bruce's plate and eyed him critically until Bruce started eating them.

They talked about the preparations for the upcoming gala and discussed the latest book Alfred was reading while they shared the tea. The only thing missing was Jason. Sadness washed over Bruce. He wondered if Alfred missed him, too, in these quiet moments between the two of them.

It'd been Jason who first broke through Alfred's stubborn refusal to share a meal with them. Bruce had tried again and again growing up, but Alfred's sense of propriety never allowed it. Dick tried, too, but gave it up after it became clear that Alfred just wasn't going to budge.

Jason absolutely refused to take no for an answer. The memory was bittersweet, still clouded with the pain of Jason's death, but easier to look at as time passed. Jason fought tooth and nail for the right to have Alfred share meals with them. It had been a battle of wills between Alfred's sense of propriety and Jason's utter refusal to treat the old man as a servant.

Jason won. Of course he did. The boy could be as stubborn as a mule when he set his mind to something. Hell or high water could not move him an inch once he set course towards something he truly cared about. Bruce had thought he'd cave like Bruce and Dick had. But Jason went on a hunger strike, saying that if Alfred didn't eat with them, he wasn't eating either.

It took 48 hours for Alfred and Bruce to realize that Jason meant it. Right about the time it dawned on them that a child living on the streets wasn't a stranger to going long periods of time without food. Chances were he could last even longer. The hard-won compromise was that Jason and Bruce would eat at the dinner table like civilized young men and Alfred would serve them, as it was proper, but Alfred would allow Jason to share tea time with him in the kitchen.

Bruce had invited himself to their little arrangement, glad for the possibility to finally share a meal with Alfred. That first time he joined, Alfred sighed and put out a third tea cup in front of Bruce without protest. It became a tradition between the three of them. One that somehow remained even after Jason's death. Something neither Bruce or Alfred had the heart to end after Jason fought so hard to see it happen.

"Master Bruce," Alfred said, "you should let the past rest, my lad."

"I know you can't read minds, Alfred," Bruce said with a small smile.

"Alas, lad, sometimes you don't need to read things to understand them," Alfred replied.

"I was thinking of visiting Jason's grave today," Bruce said. He kept thinking of Jason more and more these days. Something about the case and Red Hood. The tires. Crime Alley. If Jason were still with them, he'd have found out who Red Hood was by now. The boy could work the Alley like none of them could.

But Alfred was right. The past was the past. Bruce needed to think of the future. Protect Gotham. Keep his children safe. Find Red Hood again and stop him once and for all.