Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He didn’t realize the direction he was walking until it was too late. The door was already open and his mouth had just begun to form the words. The empty bed glared at him accusingly, and Bruce felt vaguely sick. 

The warm spring sunlight was pouring through the windows, and he knew that it would smell of petrichor and the sweet scent of Martha Wayne’s roses, that lay around the manor, and the one’s under this room would be shaded by the tree his son would climb down when he thought he wasn’t looking. 

‘Good morning, Jaylad,’ he had almost said, expecting a headful of dark curls and ocean blue eyes—the bright teal of the Caribbean Sea; the vivid imagery of a bright Robin smile that Bruce knew— he—spent hours perfecting, now haunted him, a joyful response that brought a smile to his face now made his heart break. 

Good Morning, B.

Old homework was still on the desk, a stray pencil that he would once tuck behind his ear like a professor now lay abandoned on top of it. There was a small stack of books on his nightstand, looking precious, as if it was threatening to fall over. A framed picture was on top of Pride and Prejudice (his favorite—), that he must’ve placed back on top every night. The thought that would have once made his heart warm, now made him want to hurl up his breakfast. That is, if he had eaten any. 

The ocean-eyed boy smiled crookedly, leaning into Bruce, who in the photo had a hand on his shoulder, and was smiling as well. Now, he would never be able to put a hand on his shoulder again. The picture was relatively recent, his face still looked the same as it last did; in his mind’s eye, the red hoodie he was wearing dripped with blood, his pale skin was suddenly too pale, and his freckles looked like cracks on his broken face. Nonononono.

The picture was from when Ja— he had asked if he could maybe take his name for high school. He had been so hesitant, quickly backtracking, but Bruce had hugged him and said I think that’s an excellent idea. Alfred had taken it to commemorate the occasion, and Bruce knew that he had personally written Bruce and Jason Wayne on the back.

The paperwork hadn’t even had time to finalize.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, remembering the boy who used to live there, who was too young to not be there still. Out of the corner of his eye he could still see him laughing. The laughter morphed into something else, and he remembered how he was too late, how he was so close, close enough to feel his son’s last breath, his bright eyes dim, the unspoken words that he knew he was thinking because he knew him. Knew his son, and was too late to save him. I knew you would come, his son’s eyes spoke, a small smile on his face. And he then died.

Sheila Haywood outlived his son long enough to say he tried to save her, long enough to hear how he had died a hero—like there was any doubt. 

Alfred came to force him to eat, move, and breathe. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours, or days. Without him there, he couldn’t tell how long it had been, no patrol to look forward to, where he would declare how Robin gives me magic!. Without him, he was without any joy because now he was gone.

Bruce didn’t remember the last time he cried—maybe it had been when his parents had died? Now it seemed like he couldn’t stop. The tears rolled hot and heavy now his cheeks, eyes quickly filling up with more. 

I’m so sorry I failed you, Jaylad, he thought, the light reflecting his face on the glass of the frame, and picture-him and picture-Jason smiled mockingly back.

It had been two days since Jason Todd died.

It had been raining. Bruce’s hair was wet, but the water on his face was not from the weather. 

He stared at the cave: damp, and dark, and empty—like his heart was nowadays, ripped right from his chest. 

He had stopped patrol short again. 

He couldn’t bear to walk the same rooftops he had with his son, now that Jason was not there. He couldn’t bring himself to wage another battle in an endless war. If there had been a chance to save Gotham, it was gone and futile without his light, his Jaylad, there to guide him.

He glanced at the now-empty case where his son used to keep his uniform when he wasn’t wearing it. The cave felt empty without its bright colors. The cave felt wrong without a reminder of his existence. It was like he was never there at all. 

“Alfred!…?” He called, uptitling his voice slightly at the end to make it more like a question; he didn’t need to deal with cold coffee tomorrow morning—and it wasn’t cold as in iced, but cold as in lukewarm-sat-out-on-the-kitchen-counter-for-hours-unattended cold. With two—with one child (and, oh, how wrong that felt, because in his heart he would always count Jason—), he’d learned better than to leave drinks abandoned for mischievous boys to test their latest prank idea on.

So.

“Alfred?” He called again, with less urgency. 

“You called, Master Bruce?” Alfred appeared behind him and his heart jumped to his throat. Was this how criminals faced by Batman felt? He pitied them. It was bad enough in the bright fluorescents of the cave.

“Uh—er—,” he grasped for the right words. Alfred looked more haggard than he had ever, suddenly making Bruce remember his age. New gray hairs seemed to have appeared over the past few nights, and his eyes looked suspiciously red. Even after his parents had died, he didn’t believe he had been anything but a rock, a soothing presence for him to lean on.

“Do you know whatever happened to Jay—Jason’s old uniform?”

“The one he died in, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked pointedly, raising a single eyebrow in judgment. 

“Hn.” He grunted in affirmation, even though he wanted to duct his head in shame and say ‘never mind’. But he didn’t, as his son deserved to be remembered.

“Sir, I advise you to reconsider,” Alfred tried in vain. “Young Master Jason…”

“He wouldn’t want you to do that to yourself.”

Bruce snapped around, how dare he presume to know what his son would’ve wanted—he breathed: in, out. In, out. 

Alfred was like a grandfather to Jason, they had had a special bond. But what he didn’t understand was this wasn’t about him, or the mission. This was about Jason. About his failure to save him. How he wouldn’t be forgotten.

“Get me the suit.” He grunted. “Please.”

Maybe it was the brokenness to his tone that made Alfred get the ruined uniform. It was bloody and torn in places, and it made Bruce suck in his breath. Because for a second—

Dark hair. Freckles. Laughter. A smirk.

“This is the best day of my life!”

The bluest of blues, ocean hues, the Caribbean Sea—

“Robin gives me magic!”

—Because for a second he was alive, flipping around the cave, the bright colors popping out amongst the dark and dreary landscape. 

…And because after a second he was gone. 

“Thank you, Alfred,” he said, stoic even to his own ears. He carefully picked up the uniform like it was the broken body of the boy who once wore it. “I’ll take it from here.”

The butler hesitated for a second, before he returned back up to the Manor. 

(“Race ya!” He had said, smiling. “The last one upstairs doesn’t get an extra slice of Alfie’s pie!”

“Oh, we mustn’t have that, Jaylad.” He had chuckled. “But with stakes like those don’t expect me to go too easy on you,”

“Don't worry, old man—just don’t expect me to go easy on you, now.”

“Of course.”)

Slowly, almost ceremonially, he hung the suit on the dummy; if he closed his eyes, he was just closing the end of a bad day before he and Jason went upstairs for Alfred’s hot chocolate and a good book. 

If. Almost.

“I miss you, son.” He whispered, trailing his hands over the glass case that now enclosed it. He paused, before getting a metal plack and attaching it to the memorial. 

Jason Todd was etched on it like a grave marker. 

He reached for a Batarang, and gripped it tightly. His hand was bleeding. He didn’t care. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.  

Painstakingly he formed the letters, tears falling down his cheeks. The coppery taste reminded him of blood. 

A  

A little boy wearing a red hoodie.

G

Three of the Batmobile’s tires were missing.

O

He hit him with a tire iron. 

O

He took him to get food.

D  

Then he took him home.

S

He called him ‘dad’ once.

O

He told him he wasn’t his father, and didn’t want to deal with his ‘teenage rebellion’.

Did he deserve to call him his son?

No. The word was harsh and cruel, and true true true. 

Jason was his greatest failure. His greatest grievance. Maybe more so than his parents because now he had the power to stop it—and he failed. 

The letters: LDIER 

Came after that. 

Not: N 

Because he didn’t deserve it. 

JASON TODD
A GOOD SOLDIER

It read. 

But really, he was so much more. 

He should have been, should have seen, so much more.

But now he couldn’t, wouldn’t ever; because:

It had been two weeks since Jason Todd died. 

“Again.” Bruce said. 

Timothy Drake—the new Robin, threw another punch at the simulation. Jason was the Robin Tim wouldn’t be: passionate, reckless, angry. Magic.

“Better, but you're leaving an opening on your left side. Don’t be reckless, analyze the situation first. Ask yourself: does it require this dramatic a blow? Movies are always over-doing fight scenes, many don’t need that flashiness. Again, Tim.” 

“Like this, Bruce?” He made a point of pausing before jumping into the simulated gang, noting who the leader was, who were the heavy hitters, who was the weak point, and who to hit first to cause the most damage.

“Better.” 

Reset: new simulation, new situation. Who were the leaders, heavy hitters, and weak points? Where to start. Again, again, again. Better. 

 Again.

  Again.

   Again.

    Good.

He smiled, a Robin smile at that; and it was so familiar it ached. In another time, a different black haired, blue eyed, malnourished boy would be the one smirking, sweaty and proud. Robin. 

For a second he saw him: the boy raised an eyebrow, the new kid’s got talent, he said. Think he can beat me?  

No one can beat you, Jay, Bruce thought; but then he blinked, and Jason was gone. In his place, Tim blinked up at him. “You okay, Bruce?” He asked. No, he wanted to say. I’ll never be ‘okay’ now that my son is dead. But instead, he grunted noncommittally. “Again.” He said. 

He would not lose another Robin. 

It had been two months since Jason Todd died.

Bruce paused outside the kitchen, his son’s voices filling his ears. While he knew logically that he shouldn’t eavesdrop, all conscience was thrown to the wind when he himself was mentioned. 

“I do not understand why Father hovers so,” Damian said questioningly. Bruce didn’t dare glance to see who he was talking to. 

“Look, Little D,” Dick started, ignoring Damian’s sounds of disapproval. Ah, so that was who he was confiding in. Of course, that made sense. “He’s just glad you're back. Not all come back from the dead. Not all Robins.” 

Bruce froze, the reminder hitting him like a punch to the face. 

Black hair, blue eyes, a Robin smile. 

“—Gives me magic!”  

He felt like he was underwater, drowning. The noise above the surface muted, the young (too young—) voice slipping threw his hands like sand. He could barely hear the present, or recognize it from the past. 

Focus B, the voice in his head spoke. It even sounded like his son. 

“Tt. I know that, Richard. But Brown did—if her dismal stint were to be counted at all.” It was the son that came back, the Robin that came back, that pulled his head above the surface. 

(Still, like sharks scenting blood in the water, the dark thoughts struck him: sometimes I want Jason to come back instead. The son of my heart, not of my blood. He felt guilty afterwards. Disgusted by himself. But it didn’t make him want Jason to be there any less, it made him want to see Dick there with Jason. Jason, whose loss still felt like an open wound, Damian’s only a festering infection. But infection can be cured. Some wounds are just scars.)

“Of course Steph counted, Dami.” A pause, a second too long and a second too silent. He knew what was coming. The black haired boy that only he could see smirked as if to ask: who? Me?

“Did I ever tell you about Jason?” That name, oh, that name. It hadn’t been spoken aloud in so long (too long—) but somehow it was always still at the tip of his tongue. Jason. Jaylad. His son. 

The ghost perpetually next to him looked up in recognition. Soft dark curls spilling over his forehead, like he was glancing up from his book. Teal blue eyes smiling for him, and freckles making him look younger than he already was. Who? Me? His sarcastic voice asked. 

“Tt, Todd was a failure. He was reckless and got himself killed.” A sharp intake of breath. Bruce wasn’t sure if it was him, Dick, or both. Regardless, Dick spoke first. 

“Don’t you dare say that about him, Damian. You understand?” He paused, keeping his temper under control. He doubted Baby Assassin School taught unspoken rules like respect for the dead. And despite the progress since he’d come, ‘old habits die hard’ as the saying goes.

In. Out. Repeat. 

“Jason was the best of us. He was passionate about the things and the people that he loved. In some ways, he was a lot like you.”

“I am nothing like—” Dick’s glare shut him up. “I am sure Todd was a… formidable warrior,” he managed. 

(‘A Good Soldier’ was engraved under his name. Cold and not right. Too impersonal for the son that he mourned. Mourns. Still.

He couldn’t bring himself to change it.) 

“He was more than a warrior, Dami. He was my brother. My brother, who I failed. I won’t fail another brother.” 

Damian was silent for a moment. No protests at the childish nickname (which meant ‘my blood’ in his mother language, Bruce knew. He was pretty sure Dick didn’t.). 

His son that came back opened his mouth to reply. 

Bruce left before he heard his response. It was a private conversation that wouldn’t be appreciated being overheard by either of his strong spirited sons. Besides, he could always check the security cameras later. 

Now, a different dark haired, light eyed, dead boy haunted him more than an incomplete conversation. A different dark haired, light eyed, dead boy that did not return. He meant to go to his office to complete the paperwork that “Brucie Wayne” needed to sign now and that Tim was taking a step back from the company. 

Instead, he found himself in the cave, his own tired face reflecting back at him through the bullet-proof glass. A plaque under it bore the name he missed so much. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cool exterior. 

“I’m sorry, Jaylad.” He said. 

“I miss you, son.” 

It had been two years since Jason Todd died. 

It was a tomb of his own making.

The room was frozen in time. The warm sunlight shone on freshly-dusted shelves, and if one was none the wiser, one might think someone still lived there. Someone alive anyway. 

Because dead as he may be, Jason still was a part of it. The desk was organized and homework laid upon it, no different than it had been before he left. Sometimes he still saw him; a dark mop of curly hair and a shit-eating grin, teal eyes sparkling with mischief. 

I’m busy, old man, he would say. What'd ya want? He would be exasperated in a sarcastic sort of way, a way only Bruce and Alfred could read as fond. Only him now, he supposed. 

Bruce closed his eyes. He could feel the unshed tears behind them. The chest ached, and his throat raw, no different than it had been the hours after Jason’s death, which he had spent heartbroken, crying and angry at himself. 

He wanted to hit something now. Someone. Just for the release it would give him; the way to let out the simmering hurt beneath the surface on some unsuspecting criminal who deserved it. The knowledge that he could do something— 

He couldn’t anymore. 

So, instead, he picked up the dustpan and silently closed the door. Maybe then, he wouldn’t see the ghost in the corner of the room, looking no different than he had been. 

“I’ll be back soon, Jaylad.” He said, even though the boy never really left him. He wanted to go down to the cave and suit up. 

Instead, he went to the cave and looked at the case that held the Robin suit that he normally kept obscured behind a false wall. Today was just one of those days, one of those days where he felt every bit as worthless as he was in those cursed warehouse’s ruins, clutching his son’s lifeless body like a crutch, the only thing that kept him holding on.

He glanced at the remains of that same suit now, and if he closed his eyes, Bruce could still hear that joyous voice. 

Good morning, B. 

A choked half-sob escaped him. 

It had been two decades since Jason Todd died. 

Chapter Text

Thinking back, Jason didn’t remember much about his journey back from the great beyond. One second, he was dead, desiccated, all that fun stuff. The next? 

He wasn’t.

Jason opened his eyes. His head hurt, the phantom pain of a crowbar hitting against him still. The last thing he remembered— tell the big man I said… hello. 

Check your surroundings, a calm voice told him. What do you see, Robin? 

Padded white, enclosing him. It was too tight. Where was he? This had to be one of the Jaker’s tricks, a new form torture. 

“Batman!!??” He called, nearly biting back a ‘ Bruce ’. Was the sick fuck watching him, smiling as he screamed. Was his mother —was Sheila? 

Batman is coming, part of him thought. My dad will save me. 

No one is coming to save yo u. A different part of him whispered. 

He ignored it. 

Check your surroundings. What do you see, Robin? 

A coffin. Oh God , he was buried alive. He was not buried in costume . The lack of the familiar presence of the broken domino mask digging into his skin attested to that. Shit . Did he know, then? Batman’s identity? All that for nothing and now Bruce would probably be so mad. He was going to kick him out before he ran away, but now? Now that he ruined everything ? 

Fuck it, that was a problem for Future Jason. Now, he just had to get out . 

How long had he been unconscious for? How much air did he have left before he suffocated? Focus, Robin , he reminded himself. Compartmentalize . 

He pushed against the lid in a desperate attempt to escape. “C'mon—c’mon—c’mon—c’mon—c’mon—c’mon— c’mon —!” He was half sobbing by the end, he hated how his voice shook. He pounded on the lid, pushing. Pushing. Was he really six feet underground? 

Find another way, Robin. The voice in his head told him. Mindlessly, he listened. He painfully wrenched his hand into his pocket. He was in an expensive suit. He didn’t think about it. 

“Something—gotta have—something…” 

On his person there were no keepsakes of his alter ego, no batarangs. No tools. No equipment of any kind would ever tell you that this boy, in this pine box, was the teenaged hero who fought alongside the Dark Knight. 

No —he couldn’t breathe —

“Calm… calm down… not enough air… calm…” he reminded himself forcefully. If he wasn't getting any help from his life as Robin; then that left Jason to fall upon instincts. All the training that he had had received since he was but a young boy. Not Batman’s, but the kind that kept him alive in the streets. 

He dug his nails into the hardwood, as some part of him came to the realization that this wasn’t some sick trick. But this was real. Part of him was relieved that he didn’t ruin everything, that Batman simply had no room for sentimentality of any kind when it came to protecting his greatest secret. 

Most of him hated it, though. The blood—red as a Robin red-breast—dripped down his hands, sticky and warm as he ripped out his fingernails and repeated the action again again again . 

He had to get out —

He needed to get out — 

The wood splintered. He knew it should hurt, and it did, but now the dirt was tumbling down down down — 

It forced him to become that part of him that quelled on panic… 

…And pushed to survive. 

Batman had put sensors on the coffin, Jason would later learn. But unfortunately for all, they were designed to go off if someone broke in…

…not if someone broke out. 

Meanwhile…

Talia al Ghul was many things: an assassin, a seductress, a villain. A mother. 

Many would call her heartless, but she knew it wasn't so as she blinked back the tears threatening to fall from her green, green eyes. It was easier, normally, to forget about it. But today was the anniversary of her son’s death. A thousand times over, she’d rather be dead—rather her Beloved, her son’s father dead—than her son. 

He had died hating her guts, and they never had a chance to fix their relationship. Even after leaving him when he was ten, she had been there still, watching. Never engaging. She hated it. 

Then he died, by the Heretic’s hand. She had never hated her father more. She would kill him. She hadn’t yet. But she would make him beg for the thing he most feared before she did it, she wanted him to want death, and then regret it as he lay dying. 

But then he came back, and it was the happiest moment of her life. That was, until he died again. Damian had been in his twenties when he died for the second time. He didn’t come back.

Her Beloved had generously granted her ‘visitation rights’ to Gotham on the week anniversary of their son’s death, in order for her to see his grave and mourn him properly without sneaking about. She never saw him there, she wondered if he avoided it on purpose, if so, for her, or some other reason? She chose to ignore it. 

The scent of flowers now filled her expensive car. There were no flowers in her car now, but there had been. There had been a storm brewing when she visited that evening, and now the storm persisted in full. It was fitting, she supposed. Talia half-wondered if her son would draw it—the pouring rain coming in sheets, the swirling foliage and gray gray clouds. He had enjoyed drawing from nature, hadn’t he? Yes; yes, he had. 

Distracted as she was, Talia didn’t see the suit-wearing dirty boy wander mindlessly into the road, looking like he just crawled out of the earth after his own funeral. That is, until it was too late. She skied in a desperate attempt to miss him—perhaps too plied with alcohol and knocked around from rough housing after some sort of event?—she didn’t skid enough. 

THUNK .

It was a miscalculation the assassin normally couldn’t afford to miss. Even at her worst, she still had to be at her best. 

Slowly, Talia pulled on an expensive jacket over her dark blouse, and stepped into the storm. Hopefully the boy wasn’t dead, as she didn’t have the time nor bring the supplies to properly hide a body. Especially from her Beloved. 

She turned the bloodied boy over so she could see his face and gasped in a sharp intake of breath. It wasn’t from his broken face—a swollen eye, split lip, clearly tortured—that caused it, far from it, as she had seen and done worse damage herself, rather his features. 

Features that she recognized belonging to a boy more than forty years dead. 

Well, that would explain his injuries. While Talia didn’t know the details, she knew enough to know it was brutal. 

How ? The question lingered in her mind for a moment before she shoved it to the back of her thoughts. First, he needed medical attention. 

Pulling out her burner phone, the dark haired woman called nine-one-one. 

“Thank you for calling Gotham General Hospital. For immediate medical assistance please press one and we will send an ambulance to your loca—” Talia pressed one and cut off the AI voice. 

“H-hello…?” She asked, putting a scared tilt to her tone. 

As they loaded the boy into the ambulance, despite the fact that he appeared to have been nearly beaten to death, one of the EMT’s said to Jason, “you’re one lucky kid.” 

Jason kept saying just one thing: “Bruce…”

Talia’s heart broke a little then. This may be her Beloved’s prodigal son, but she told the Hospital staff she was his mother, just so she could stay. 

“He kept asking for ‘Bruce’. Did he say who that was?” 

“Yeah, just before he went under. He said it was his father.” 

“Excuse me miss…” the doctor trailed off. 

“Head.” She said, naming her favored alias. “Talia Head.” 

“Miss Head, your son appears to be beaten nearly to death, suffers severe smoke inhalation, and looks like he, frankly, crawled out of a grave. Can you tell us how that came about?” 

“Do you need to know this to treat him?” She asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Well, no, but—” the doctor stumbled, and Talia took the opportunity to cut him off. 

“Then I suggest you mind your own business.” There was a dangerous quality to her tone that got the doctor to stop asking. Still, before he walked away he asked, with a hint of smugness that got the assassin to pause, “one more thing, Miss Head. Who is ‘Bruce’? Your son was asking for him.” Ah, so he was testing her. 

“As you very well know, my Beloved is his father. He is unavailable at this time.” 

The doctor gulped, and walked away. 

Once his vitals had stabilized, and visitors were permitted, Talia walked towards his room, high heels clicking against the floor. One-thirty-one…

“…Miss Head, you should be warned…” 

One-thirty-two…

“Your son is stuck in a vegetative state…”

One-thirty-three…

“And our doctors believe there is a chance he may never regain higher thinking skills.” 

She paused at room one-thirty-four. “If there is a chance he may not, there is also a chance that he may ,” she said. “I will be taking my son home with me as soon as his health permits it.” 

“Of course, ma’am. I just wanted to warn you that he is unresponsive.” 

“ Of course , Doctor,” she said. “I completely understand. Now, may I go and see my son.” She phased it like a question but her tone made it clear that it was not. 

When he finally nodded affirmatively, internally Talia sniffed. This was why she preferred her personal healers loyal to her. It made everything so much easier. 

Still, Talia opened the door with the laminated sign: occupied. Patient 172. Head, Rayan. Hung under the room number. The alias ‘Rayan’ was so her Beloved wouldn’t become suspicious towards a boy with such similar descriptions. It was the name she had once  considered for her Damian—it had Arabic origins, but was easily pronounced so that even American school teachers would not mess it up. It meant something along the lines of “door of heaven” which seemed fitting, given the boy’s story as well.  

Soft morning sunlight poured in through the sterilized windows, and onto the propped up hospital bed that held a small dark haired youth. 

“ Jason …” she said, ignoring the doctor behind her—it didn’t matter what he heard as he would be dealt with later. Now, it was more important for Jason to hear something familiar. While she never knew the boy, she inexplicably had formed a bond with him. The sight of him so small against the pillow, so weak and pale but alive , sent shivers down her spine. 

“ Habibi .” Talia spoke, and he looked no different than before. She wasn’t surprised by the lack of recognition, but resigned. “I am glad you are well.” 

She needed to leave soon. Her Beloved would get suspicious if he got so much a hint of her whereabouts, and her father was no better. There was only so much her people could do. 

But first, there was Jason. 

“Do you have any idea what you have done ?! Do you ?!” Ra’s al Ghul demanded. He was many things, depending on who you asked. Terrorist. Villain. Machiavellian puppet master. 

Immortal . 

And she was his daughter. 

“I did—what—needed to—be done— ! ” Talia managed from her chokehold. 

“You have defied me ! You are a traitor to your own blood! If you were anyone else— anyone else —” 

“I’d be dead .” She guessed, looking at the ground. “Death would be a blessing! Death would be a welcome gift! I’d do more than take your life ! ” Her father ranted—raved. He was nearly rabid—, and Talia feared that she would not be spared from his full wrath. 

“You have no inkling of what you’ve created— what you have unleashed! ” 

“ You have set free a curse upon this world! ” 

Earlier…

“ Dug himself out of a buried coffin ?” Her father asked skeptically.

“So it would seem . He was in a vegetative state. Institutionalized until he was well enough for me to take him.” Talia admitted. She needed this to go right. 

“DNA confirms—” 

“He is not a clone . Matches blood samples we were able to obtain.” She paused.

“ He is Jason Todd .” 

There was a moment of silence, the calm before the storm as her father watched their private healers walk with him. The afternoon was beautiful, with blue blue sky and warm fluffy clouds. Neatly trimmed shrubbery and grass was a healthy green and their mansion stood tall. 

Then, “I want to know how he cheated death . Sift through every inch of dirt he has walked over. Do that for me.” And you can keep him for now, was left unsaid but implied. Internally, Talia smirked. 

“ Eliminate or silence all of the intermediaries who have knowledge of him. And Talia—” 

“ The Detective will not learn of this.” 

“No father. Of course not.” 

This time she had won. 

“ Interesting . What do we know?” Talia glanced at her father, who was watching her Jason, catatonic as he was, beating his skilled operatives. A hint of what felt like pride warmed her chest, before she barred any emotion that her father would use against her. 

It was her monthly report of her search for the ex-Robin’s miraculous revival. She had truly searched, but it was a mystery for the ages, one she could not unravel. If her father knew that though, she doubted that her Jason would be welcome once it was clear he was not an asset so much as a hindrance. 

“Half dead, massive trauma, flash burns from an explosion . Found wandering a road in a suit and tie , covered in soil , hands indicated that he—” she cut herself off from her report—which consisted of her framing already known information in a different way. Quite difficult, when trying to stop an immortal from catching on—as the sound of fighting interrupted her. He had retained his skills from his time as her Beloved’s sidekick, no doubt. 

“…He’s got skills .” 

“Show me.” Her father demanded. Ra’s al Ghul didn’t ask . 

“Understood.” Then, he walked away. It was only a matter of time before he came back, but now that meant Jason could stay. That was all she had wanted from this encounter. 

“His physical conditioning isn’t the issue. He’s reached the level of a professional athlete .” The private doctor paused. “It’s his mental capacity .” 

“He’s not improving.” Talia was reminded for a second of the doctor at Gotham General. And our doctors believe there is a chance he may never regain higher thinking skills , he had claimed. She had denied it, and she now denied it still. 

“ Look at him. How can you say that?” 

“Stop! This drill is over!” He said into the intercom, ignoring her question for a moment before answering. “You look at him, he’s not responsive to any human contact except when attacked, then some form of muscle memory kicks in.” 

“He eats , he covers himself when he’s cold , but seems to have no sense of the world. It’s an autistic effect brought upon by his brain damage .” 

“By now , I’d have hoped that his brain would have begun utilizing other undamaged cells and he’s become more cognizant .” 

“He’s not getting better.” Each word from his mouth cut like knives upon her skin. Each word out of his mouth was wrong wrong wrong . 

“You’re wrong.” She finally spoke, the words refusing to stay silent. She remembered his glints of recognition when she brought up names and places. He was her Beloved’s son, and she finally understood how he saw his adoptees. Jason was just as much her son as Damian was, even if not in blood. And her sons could do the impossible. 

“You're in denial.” 

She punched him. Hard. “And you will watch your tongue if you want to keep it.” She threatened, before storming down to the training arena where Jason was and slamming open the doors. The assassins stopped and stood back a respectful distance, and left Jason standing alone in the open area. He looked so small. 

She slapped him. Not hard, hardly a blow, just to prove her point; and yet, and yet—it hurt her more than it would hurt him. She regretted it, but she was angry. The tears welled in her eyes as she screamed. “He never fights back when it’s me! Explain that! Never when it’s me!” 

He was silent, and Talia turned to the boy still standing behind her. 

“I apologize, habibi .” 

“He misses you. Honestly , I can tell.” The sunset was lovely, and the cliffside view exquisite. Talia sat near the edge overlooking the sea with Jason next to her. He stared ahead, at nothing, but she swore his eyes flickered over just a little bit; like she swore they did when she entered a room. Recognition . 

“Since he lost you, he’s changed . He’s become… unforgiving . I know that most probably don’t see that quality in him… but you know.” The breeze ruffled both her long locks and his shorter ones. It didn’t matter if it had been one year or many, no one who knew him before could disagree with her statement. The death of his second son had permanently scared him, more than perhaps… Damian’s had ever. Part of her hurt admitting that, but the other part felt more at peace than she had in years on the seaside cliff under the sunset next to her Beloved’s prodigal son. And maybe her’s as well. 

“I know it too.” While Jason could never replace Damian in her heart… perhaps there was room for two. She touched his shoulder comfortingly. 

“I think you , and Dick Grayson before you, gave him light .” 

“Gave him hope .” 

That he could never replicate after you were gone , was left unsaid. 

“He feels responsible for you. Your loss is his failure . He misses you.” 

“Jason…?” She asked hesitantly, as when she looked at his face, bathed in the last daylight hours sun, she saw a lone tear fall down his face. 

“ Jason .” Then, she wrapped her arms around his side in a sort of half-hug. 

Yes, there was room in her heart for two. 

“Two of the caretakers at the cemetery finally ’fessed up that the grave had been disturbed .” One of her men reported. It was the most lucidive report in months, and that was unfortunate to say the least. 

“He was dead and buried .” She confirmed what she already knew. Her father was getting more and more impatient. 

“It looks that way. And we still don’t know what happened to change that.” 

Yes, her father was getting very impatient indeed. 

“Father, he has grown stronger and he is still a master combatant .” She argued at her bi-monthly report. 

“He is stronger because he has eaten . And his ‘battle skills’ are simply like a muscle that tenses when stabbed . He is and forever will be, an unthinking, emotionless shell .” Talia hid a grimace, it seems he had heard the good doctor’s report. She would have killed him when she had the chance. She would kill him still, even if he was just doing his job, if his meddling meant Jason’s second demise. 

“He has never spoken, never healed.” 

“This ends. Now .” He declared. Demanded. 

“Father—” she protested in vain. 

“It has been well over a year, and you have nothing . No clue, no inkling of how this boy came to be in this state .” He was exaggerating, but she chose not to point that out. Instead, she argued: “we are continuing to search. I have operatives in nearly every —” 

“ And , no one can tell why the greatest investigative mind I have ever encountered in my centuries walking this earth, hasn’t the slightest notion that his adopted son is no longer dead ! ” Her father interrupted angrily. “I sought answers from you and all I received in return was obsession! ” 

“He is getting better and in time we will learn the truth. If not from research , then from Jason himself!” Talia snapped back. This was going downhill quickly, to put it in a metaphor. She worried for him. 

“This mute, brain-damaged weapon of meat and bone will tell you nothing! Not today, not a decade from now!” 

“Do you think I am stupid? Do you think I do not know what this is truly about?” Did he know she cared for Jason as she did Damian? Was her father upset over that? Talia did not know. She tried to keep her face blank, not betraying any emotion. 

“He won’t love you.” Her father’s words were like a slap to her cheek, only not so gentle as the one she regrettably gave Jason. No, while ‘he’ could be anybody she knew who her father meant. Her Beloved. Jason and Damian’s father. She felt her careful mask fall. 

“If you are able to perform a miracle and restore this boy to everything he was and then with every hair in place return him to The Detective —”

“—it will not make him love you .” 

Talia hadn’t even been thinking of her Beloved when she made her decisions. Maybe at first, but now? No. Did that make her selfish? Selfish to want to keep Jason to herself? Perhaps. She didn’t regret it. Still, it stung, like an open wound she didn’t even know was still there. 

Still, her father continued shaming her. “At best he would be grateful. But that emotion does not run through him.” He said, moving his pointer finger up and down condensing like one would a misbehaving child. “All The Batman would want to know is why you kept Jason from him for so long.” 

Talia felt her features twist into something akin to a scowl. Still, he continued like some of her worst nightmares unfolded. “This has been a drain on resources, and it has kept you from focusing on work of value.” He said. “I am sending him away. He will be cared for, and kept. Protected and sheltered. Out of respect for his mentor… and his present caretaker.” While her father was a man of honor, she wasn’t sure he wasn’t just sending her Jason away to be killed. Perhaps quickly—out of respect. She wouldn’t let it happen. 

“He is leaving in the morning.” He said, as if in response to her traitorous thoughts. He was typing in a code, and Talia noted the sequence. 

“Now, if you will forgive me, daughter, I am weak… and that time… it has come again…” as he descended the stairwell to the Pits a half-baked idea began to form in her mind. 

“He will leave tonight .” She said, head held high. 

Dearest Jason, if you are reading this then we have succeeded. 

Centuries ago my father discovered these pools, these fountains of youth, and for their ability to rejuvenate, they were dubbed THE LAZARUS PITS. 

Since taking possession of them, he and he alone has bathed in their waters. 

He is arguably immortal. And for that reason, he took great interest in you. 

I had other reasons. 

Despite my search for the answers, you remain a MYSTERY. 

You were dead, Jason. Murdered. Buried. And mourned. 

But you returned to this world. A miracle. And then you wandered into my view. 

Fate is commanding your life in a way that I can barely fathom. I judge what I have done as not so much intervening on fate’s behalf, but as stepping out of its way. 

You are MEANT for something, Jason. 

Only time will tell what that is. 

But you should know, more than any other reason—

I have done this for LOVE. 

And I hope that will guide you into what you will become. 

Chapter Text

Then…  

Jason was running. He did not know why. 

How did he get here?

There was a dark haired woman holding his hand, guiding him as they ran away from a manor in the distance. 

It was night. 

“Do not seek him out.” She instructed him. Seek who? 

“Go to the Himalayas, and climb until you see a waterfall,” she told him. “It is not truly a waterfall and you will be able to walk through it into the sanctuary of a group called the All-Caste .” 

“Tell Ducra that Talia sent you to be trained. You will be safe there, habibi .” A million questions swirled through his head. Who was she? Who were these people? Who did she think he was? And most importantly: where is B?  

Check your surroundings. What do you see, Robin? His father’s calming voice instructed him. 

Jason glanced around, the constant motion of his legs still running made some of the scenery blur. They were nearly at the cliff's edge, he could see now. 

“And Jason?” The green-eyed woman asked, speaking his given name instead of whatever pet name he had called him earlier, clearing up any confusion of mistaken identity. 

“If you do plan to return,” she said slowly, finally pausing long enough to give him a backpack. The darkened atmosphere made it difficult to discern the exact color. Maybe some sort of grayish-blue? 

“I fear I must warn you that not everything may be as it seems.” 

“Trust no one, habibi .” 

Then, the woman pushed him.

He could feel himself falling down down down as she hurled him off the cliff—

—And into thrashing waves of water below. Maybe it was just the wind, howling still in his ears, but he swore that she whispered: 

I’m sorry. 

“ WHERE IS HE?! ” Talia’s father demanded angrily, shaking his fist. Droplets of lingering pale-green Lazarus water dripped from his face. He was wearing an extravagant green bathrobe, having emerged straight from the Pit after its ‘contamination’. 

Ra’s al Ghul, the Demon’s Head, stalked across the small make-shift interrogation room, snarling, leaning dangerously close to her face. She could feel the tickle of his warm breath upon her warm caramel skin, and smell its foul odor. He bared his teeth like a crazed animal, running rabid. 

“ Where?! ” 

She turned her head away slightly in distaste, looking at the wall—square rectangular wooden panels lined the rich yellow walls, and on wooden walls were ones of gold. “I will tell you Jason's location in twenty-four hours, father. You may pick up his trail… but I doubt it.” It was enough time for him to safely reach the sanctuary of the All-Caste, where her father dared not go. 

“Unless you are wrong about him, Talia.” 

“I am not.” 

“Oh, so that is your assessment? ! ” Again, he shook his fist at her, and she glanced at him seemingly bored. How far her father had fallen, she thought sadly. 

Rather than lingering on tragic thoughts, she instead remembered how she and her Jason had succeeded in escaping her father’s deranged grasp, and now her Jason was safe with the All-Caste. 

“Are you certain that the Pit has not driven him mad?! ” Ra’s demanded like an unruly child, crossing his arms and scowling; looking down on her. 

“It did not.” She repeated, pushing her thoughts away. While her father may be no mind reader, one could never be too careful. 

“Perhaps not tonight or even tomorrow . It takes weeks , months , decades! ” He raved, casting doubt. But no, her Jason was strong , like his brother, her first son, Damian. 

“You have no conception of the power you are trifling with ! ” He continued; Talia’s master poker face gave away nothing to her true thoughts. “You searched long and hard for an answer to this boy's resurrection. It seems not to be a ruse , or an act of science .” 

“This Jason Todd is an unknown entity . We do not know what force has returned him from beyond.” Her Jason may be unknown to her father, but she knew him well. She knew what made him cry and what made him smile. He was hers , she realized possessively. Her son to care and nurture. Her father knew nothing . 

Still, her father continued; while not quite accusatory in nature, filled with guilt tripping dread: “And you have just empowered him with the nature of the Pit.”

“I have given him back his life .” She protested, annoyed. 

“No. You have unleashed a pestilence .” He said stubbornly, back to hers. “I live from the Pit . And I know what burns in my heart .” 

Though she did not turn to face him, Talia knew her father’s eyes were now boring into the back of her skull. Just for a moment, however, as the six-sense drilled into her from a young age assured her that he was walking towards the door now, interrogation over. 

Still, her features displayed only a hint of shock and fear for but a moment, before resorting back to her indifferent emotional mask. Now, it would be time for her punishment. And if Ra’s decades on Earth taught him anything, it would be some creativity . 

I hope you are well, habibi , she thought, in what may be her last breath. 

…Should her father be that merciful. 

Now…  

“Essence…?” Jason asked inquiringly, from under the tree in the Thousand Acres of All. He turned his head to face her. “I was thinking of… leaving.” He said lamely. Her face went through a series of shocked-heartbroken-indifferent micro expressions, and he quickly clarified. 

“Just for a little bit!” Jason reassured her. “Afraid you’ll miss me too much?” He then teased, to lighten the mood, before the conversation was enveloped by goodbyes . 

“I want to see how my…” family, he wanted to say, but feared implying that the All-Caste were less. Instead, he ventured: “…Father and brother are doing. Maybe thank Talia too, while I’m at it. What do you think?” 

Her dark eyes widened for a second, and if it weren’t for his Robin training he would have surely missed it. “Your… asking for my opinion?” She asked. “And if I say ‘no’ would you still stay despite my selfishness?” 

“Maybe,” Jason hesitated. “Probably. I think so, anyway. I mean, I’d like to see Alfie and Bruce and Dick and possibly Talia too, but… if you wanted me to stay…?” 

“No,” Essence said after a moment, definitely. “I realize now that I am selfish for wanting to keep you from your family, Jay. I was being unreasonable, and insecure. But please, remember that the All-Caste is your family too. A second home.” 

“Thanks, Es…” he paused, picking up some loose dirt and watching it run through his fingers, making a small coned pyramid under his hand. “Maybe you’ll visit me, back in Gotham? If, y’know, B still wants me after… after Eth—everything.” 

“He would be a fool not to want you, Jason Todd.” She said very seriously. “You are smart and brave and cunning and kind . You are the type of person that makes a sad person smile.” 

“Essie…” 

“From what you tell me, your father is no fool. You will return to your father and brother, and they will be happy to have you. If not, they will surely be evil enough to perish by my blade. Don’t let your insecurities make you a fool when you are not.” 

“And Jay?” She furthered, “ don’t call me ‘Essie’.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” He said with a two-fingered salute as she giggled. 

Leaning in, the white-haired girl kissed him, just as passionately as the first time. Essence was a storm, was a hurricane, and her kisses brought him right to the eye. The calmest part of the storm, where he felt like he was understood despite all his issues, despite his past. Made him feel that despite it all, he was still lovable. Something even B couldn’t fully commit to— you are not my son, and I don’t have to deal with your teenage rebellion! —but something he hoped would change in the future. Some selfish part of him wanted to believe that dying would break B’s stubborn nature and make him see. But he was Robin, Batman’s light, and he knew that some things were impossible. 

But still, he was Robin and he knew how to soar, learned to fly again even after he clipped his wings. 

( But he was Robin, a fallen bird, and knew when the sun called to Icarus, and when it again called to him. 

Icarus drowned, wings irreparably ruined. 

Would he be the same? ) 

“Goodbye,” she murmured, as she broke her lips from his; instead standing up and hugging him when he followed her repositioning. “Please don’t forget me.” She whispered into his shoulder, thanks to the Lazarus Pits properties reversing his childhood malnutrition, he was an inch taller than her. 

Essence didn’t say please very often, and for her to say it twice meant a lot. 

“Never,” he swore. For the first time in a while, he felt alive again, and not just a ghost came back to haunt. 

“Never.”

“You will always have a place here,” Ducra told him, words not dissimilar to that of her daughter’s a few minutes earlier when he and Essence had this same conversation. Had said goodbye . 

“I know,” Jason acknowledged. “But I have people…” he didn’t say family , didn’t say home , as that would be insulting—it implied that he did not think of the All-Caste as family or here as his home, which, frankly, wasn’t true. Long before he’d been here, had he learned that family didn’t mean your biological relatives (fuck you, Sheila;) and that home was not so much a place than a person—person s . 

“People I haven’t seen in a while… who probably don’t even know I’m alive…” the last part was said more hesitantly, more like an afterthought; like it hadn’t been gnawing away at the back of his mind since he got here. Since he replaced them. Who knew how B was doing knowing he failed another family member. Not that he did, of course. Jason didn’t blame Bruce fore his own sh*tty decisions, but he also knew Bruce well enough to understand he may not see it so clearly. 

“And someone I need to thank.” He decided finally, remembering the woman— Talia —who had, in a way, given him life , and showed him to the All-Caste. 

Ducra nodded, as though she knew that he would respond that way; which, honestly, she probably did. “Come back soon, Brat.” 

Jason smiled, a Robin smile. 

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

Jason, still dressed in the clothes he wore during his time with the All-Caste, looked at the half-exploded manor and grounds in front of him; the breeze blowing in his hair. It would be his birthday soon, he realized; even though he didn’t know his real age. Physically, at least, he was fairly certain that due to the Pit’s effects, it was still a week—more or less—from his fifteenth year. Mentally? Emotionally? Damn it all to hell. 

“What happened here?” He muttered to himself, the rebuilding process didn’t yet hide the property damage. The extensive property damage. Was Talia okay?  

Green grass now was closer to yellow, blue sky now grayish, and the tell-tale sign of singed wood was a dead give away of an explosion. Only the meditative methods that he learned kept him from violently flinching at the small reminder of his death. 

Jason bit his lip and gathered his courage. Talia, who he—once his memories started to untangle themselves—vaguely recognized as Talia al Ghul from his father’s files on her. But, she had saved him from… Well, he wasn’t totally sure, but still. She deserved a thank you . 

(The part of him that had apparently learned basic Arabic when brain dead had told him that the pet name she had called him meant “dear one” used amongst lovers… and family .) 

Slowly, Jason planned his approach to the al Ghul estate. Partially destroyed as it was, there were still a number of assassins guarding it. From his place at the far side of the property—already an accomplishment in itself—there were still much much further to the mansion than a mad dash to the front could manage. Which brought him to his next set of problems: how should he enter? There wasn’t anything that he could easily monitor from afar that gave him anything useful, such as floor plans might have been. 

After debating how to distract the dedicated al Ghul minions—using from tips from how to plan your mission 101 training sessions—he decided to go for the good old “pull the alarm” approach, so that he could make a run for the half-burned villa while they were half way around the property looking for intruders. Sure, they would leave a few, but Jason liked his odds with one-v-three over one-v-untold-number-of-assailants. Besides, he was Robin: hardly counted as just ‘one’. 

Painstakingly careful, he snuck around to the far side, and purposefully tripped multiple “hidden” motion sensors. That way, it would look like there were many intruders, and that they were confident enough that they didn’t care who knew about their attack—which would make the new Captain of the Guard (after the last had a rather unfortunate accident making them have to amputate their sword-arm. While he was a good enough planner to—hopefully—avoid being executed for his newfound uselessness, they still needed to require a new active leader.) nervous enough to send the majority of their troops.

Jason had staked out the fortress long enough to know that the explosion—that occurred sometime before he had gotten there—to know that most of the previous empire was burned away, though how years of connections could all evaporate in just a few minutes was questionable. That meant that the quality of assassins had diminished and Jason liked his odds more. Ha! And to think Dickface thought he couldn’t do surveillance! Looks can be deceiving, after all. He was Robin , not some two-bit thug!  

Sure enough, the Captain and most of the others followed. Jason caught him saying that they were “dangerous, but arrogant”, and that “despite appearances, they may be sneaking about after such a challenge as that” (in Arabic, of course, which made him grateful to Talia for having him learn it. B always did think he was good with languages—especially after picking up Portuguese real quick to stop that bust a few years ago). 

Then, after laying a few traps to keep up the ruse, he slunk back to the front of the property, making quick work of the remaining soldiers (newbies, the lot of them). 

Then, in a moment of Robin-esqe nerve, he walked right up to the half seared front door and had the gall to knock the ornate brass knocker. Despite walking into a vipers nest of assassins that he may or may not (look, she was vague, okay?) had been warned against…

…He grinned. 

“I’d like to request an audience with Talia al Ghul.” Jason said to the (presumable) assassin that answered the door, feeling right out of an Austen book. 

The ninja, who despite their face being covered, looked surprised. While reading body language wasn’t his best talent, his kinetics skills still were easily passable. “Who are you?” They asked Jason, all but holding a knife and/or katana threateningly. 

“An old friend,” he said easily, pulling off his hood to show the white streak in his hair. The light made the Pit green glow in his teal eyes. 

Figuratively the ninja’s eyes widened in shock. “ Defiler .” They said accusingly. “Come. I will take you to the Demon’s Head.” The odd phrasing settled wrong for him, but he ignored it. There were plenty of reasonable explanations. Don’t jump to conclusions, Robin.  

( I fear I must warn you that not everything may be as it seems.

Trust no one, habibi . )

The assassin led him into a gilded room, where the woman who saved him sat upon a throne, an arrogant smirk on her lips. For a moment, she was but a stranger. 

“ Talia ,” he breathed, looking up. It seemed as though this were the only room untainted by whatever explosion had occurred. Or the only one completely repaired. 

Talia glanced at him assessingly, before a glint of recognition sparked. Her green green eyes were nearly the same shade his own were in the right lighting. 

“Jason Todd.” She spoke. “My beloved’s second son.” She added after a moment, dismissing the ninja who he didn’t really realize was still behind him. 

“Yeah, I guess so.” He acknowledged, looking up at her. He knew it was respectful or whatever, but it kinda made his neck ache. That, and Robins weren’t exactly the epitome of respect for their elders . 

“Why have you returned, boy?” She asked, likely confused. Last time, she had told him to specifically not return, which was fair given what he knew about her crazy father who was quite processive of the very Pits he ‘defiled’. 

“I just wanted to say ‘thanks’ before I returned to Gotham…” Jason said hesitantly, feeling stupid. He didn’t break her gaze. 

After a moment of thought, the woman spoke. “ Jason ,” she said softly, almost pitifully. “There is something you must know, if you plan to return.” 

“Is B okay?” He asked, imagining the grief that would consume him at another family member dying. Or at the very least, he would likely see his Robin dying as some sort of failure on his part. Batman didn’t deal with failure—especially to save someone he could—well. 

“Is Dick?” While Dick and him were never close, and had gotten off on the wrong foot, they had been getting better towards the… end . He remembered a ski trip, and smiles and laughter. Here’s my number, he said. Call me if you ever just need to bitch about B, or talk at all.

“Your father and brother,” she sneered slightly at that, “are fine . Better than ‘fine’ even. Please, before you go, there is something you must see.” 

Jason hesitated, but coincided. Talia had saved him, why would she betray him now? Still, he kept himself guarded. One could never be too careful in his experience, he thought grimly, thinking of Sheila. 

“Okay,” he nodded. “Show me then.” 

In response, the daughter of the Demon waved her hand, and two assassins guided him away. 

Minutes ago, he had learned the truth. And to say the least, it was not sitting well with him. Smash. Jason banged his fist against the expensive glass mirror in the room the al Ghul’s servants had led him into to wait while they gathered the… information . 

“Sir ! Are you all right? ! ” One of them called now. Whoever was on watch now was more talkative than the one who answered the door originally. No! Jason wanted to scream. I’m not alright ! My dad betrayed and replaced me! He kept his mouth closed, no amount of All-Caste training could make him trust his voice not to waver. To show weakness . 

“ Sir?! I’m going to have to use my spare key if you do not answer!” Fuck you, Jason thought. 

“ Sir, this is my last warning! ” The masculine voice called. Let them come in, he thought. He was itching for a fight. 

“Oh, for god’s sake, Henri, open the damn door ! ” He heard another voice come forward. Good, the more the merrier.  

The place, he knew, was a mess. The expensive furniture was thrashed, and papers were littered on the ground. Old newspapers stating things he’d rather not think about, and Jason didn’t need to be a Ro—a genius to know he looked crazed. He was a little. 

“Good lord.” One muttered shell shocked. 

“You little son of a bi— ! ” The other— Henri? —said, getting cut off. Jason chuckled darkly at that. He really was. 

“The hell’s the matter with you?! You on drugs?! You think you can—” the voice belonging to the second guy started grabbing him, only to be cut off. Oh, you have no idea how fucked up I am, he said mentally as he knocked his head backwards; a trick from his—his past . 

Turning the situation around, he punched the guy and then, for good measure, kneed him as well. One could never be too careful with assassins. Albeit worse, inexperienced ones. Too easy, his hurt and pain and anger were still bubbling at the surface ready to break — 

“No, please —I won’t—just go—I won’t call the Demon’s Head—just leave me—” the guard pleaded helplessly. Really, was it that hard for the al Ghul’s to find good help these days? Maybe whatever exploded earlier killed off their competent ones, leaving only, well, this . 

Jason wound up for a punch, ignoring him. And quickly knocked him out, spraying blood. He grabbed him by his uniform and held him up. He could feel a tear beginning to fall down his face. He squeezed his eyes shut trying to forget the deja vu of memories flooding his head, drowning him. 

He collapsed on the floor, letting the first guy fall down and bleed red, red, red like a Robin red-breast on the rich wooden floors. 

“ AAAAAAH! ” He cried, hugging his knees to his chest like a little boy, waiting for his father to comfort him. Waiting for Bruce , because more often than not Willis Todd was the reason for it. Always was B the comforting presence, never the opposite—until now .

Now , that at his feet, standing out amongst the broken glass, blood, and scattered papers, was a newspaper loudly declaring that— that —

BATMAN RETURNS JOKER TO POLICE CUSTODY . 

It was dated after his death. 

“Alive.” He thought viciously, thinking back to the article that broke his heart to read. 

Alive . He murdered him. Murdered . Him . And he leaves him alive . 

Alive to hurt , kill, and maim . To rob more people of their friends. Their family. Their mothers . Fathers . 

Sons . 

He was dead. Dead. He had felt guilty for moving on from his life with B, when really B had moved on from him first. He had fucking died —and—and— 

Now, he just had to get training, training to get his revenge. It went against everything he learned from the All-Caste and yet it was the only thing he could think of to fill the void in his heart. He hated how much that made him like his fa—like Batman. But Batman was a hypocrite that could never understand Gotham like he did. The sickness. The horrors. The hope —

But, Jason was still a child, part of him knew. If not in the sense that he was naïve as much as the sense that—that this was his father and— and — 

He had to know what he did to him. 

How he left him. 

How it felt . 

He would have memorized the autopsy report, so that he wouldn’t make another failure Robin. A Robin that died . 

But he was here now. On this Earth. 

He came back—they don’t know why. 

But Jason thought he did. It’s obvious . He came back to do what needed to be done . 

Essence was wrong: 

He was just a ghost whose purpose was to come back and haunt. 

Chapter Text

Jason woke up with a crick in his neck, due to crying himself to sleep on the hardwood floor. He wanted to say he had nightmares, he wanted to say he was angry . But all that he was blackness and the feeling of hopelessness ranging to loneliness. 

Still, It didn’t stop him from getting up and changing into the dark red garb—red like blood—that was laid out on the unused bed. Sometime in the night, a maid must have come and cleared away all the broken glass, stray papers (that were probably neatly filed away back in the black case they arrived in), and—oh god, the bodies . He was pretty sure that they weren’t dead before, that he hadn’t killed them; but they were likely to be killed now for their failure. He wasn’t naïve enough to not understand how the League of Assassins worked.

Blankly, Jason changed into the loose clothing. It was surprisingly comfortable and not scratchy. 

He opened the door. There were no guards this time. Or they were better. Hidden, this time, waiting to strike from behind like a coward—a smart coward. 

He wandered the halls, the layout that he vaguely remembered from the other night. Day. Whenever. Time was blurred for him, and there was no clock, and no calendar in his room. 

After walking for what felt like hours (and after maybe getting utterly and completely lost after taking a wrong turn), he reached the grand golden doors from yesterday—the ones that led into the extravagant throne room. 

He pushed them open, ignoring the assassin guards, as they did him. 

Upon the gilded throne Talia sat regally. She did not need a crown to show she was Queen—or the Demon’s Head, as the case seemed to be. Jason supposed her father was dead; perhaps felled by his daughter's blade. 

“So now you see, boy.” She said, before he could speak. 

“You remain unavenged.” 

You remain unavenged. Echoed through, shaking him to the core. Not only was he ‘unavenged’ as she put it, but his own brother hadn’t even cared about him enough to be at the fucking funeral . All because of his own fa—his own mentor, to boot. 

“Yeah,” he said, unsure how to respond. “But, uh, I was just wondering if maybe… look, Talia, I’m already in your debt. I know. But please consider…” he trailed off uncertainty.

“You wish to be trained?” She asked calmly, in a detached voice like she was bored and was expecting that response. 

“ Please .” He said, gratefully. There were so many other things he could say, could add on. Maybe explain himself and his motives, or ask if she—as his f—old mentor’s ex-lover—had any idea why B would do that. Instead, he was borderline-begging. 

Talia smirked. “But of course, Ibn al Xu'ffasch ,” she said. Son of the Bat . “You are so much like your father. No lethal moves, yes?” Her words were light, and he couldn’t tell for the life of him if she was mocking or serious.  

“I am no one’s son.” Jason said despite his hesitation. 

“Teach me everything .” 

SWOOSH! 

The smooth cutting sound of the katana slicing the muscle of the simulation dummy’s (the intimate dummy, he felt the need to clarify given the al Ghul’s reputation) arm filled the air. Muscles would take more time to heal, hurt like a bitch, and were severely weakening. The tech that was being used was not dissimilar to the one he had as—as the one he had Before , if perhaps a tad more modern (which was a surprise given that the League of Assassins leader was, like, a millenia years old).

“Good job, Todd,” he congratulated himself, the empty training room making it sound louder than it actually was. Talia didn’t come to watch him train, unlike B— some people used to. 

He was sweaty and hot and tired, hair uncomfortably damp and face over-moisturized. His loose assassin garb was only half-dry as testament to the hours he spent trading in the al Ghul Keep. 

He wanted to stop half-way through, his muscles aching, but he needed to be better than he was as— as —Before. He needed to learn how to kill someone in under a minute, not just injure and mildly hurt. Unfortunately, learning magic and finding… family ( better family, he thought as he blinked away tears) at the All-Caste allowed for him to fall behind in his routines—not a bunch of stray batarangs to practice his aim with, and he needed to be in tip-top shape. 

He readjusted his grip on the blade, and pressed start over on the controller. 

“Now do it again, but better.” 

This time, he aimed for the throat. 

In stories, they always omit the lethal parts . The educational tidbits that don’t necessarily serve the tale, but might provide tips to less well-meaning members of the public. Jason was talking about stories that come out of Hollywood , and maybe a documentary or two. When dramatizing a presidential assassination , or explaining how to make a bomb, or how to take down a commercial airliner … 

His opponent managed to get a hit on his face, pushing him down as he spat out blood. 

…they always leave out the steps , omit the key elements. You don’t want someone catching a rerun of The West Wing and getting a leg up on the Secret Service, or learning every component of homemade C-4 by watching the Discovery Channel . 

The man then kicked him with his thick-soled shoe. But Jason refused to fail. 

A parallel can be drawn between this act of conscience on storytellers, and training under Batman . 

Jason forced himself up, and the man’s feeble attempts at a punch was a mere annoyance. No one ever expects the kid to get back up and punch right back. Jason did just that, forcing the other black haired man back down. 

He taught Jason how to fight . How to defend , how to battle , how to disable an opponent. 

But he never taught him how to maim . 

This time, instead of the shoulder, Jason aimed for the throat. This time, it was not a simulation. 

He never taught him how to kill . 

When he was down catching the breath he knocked out of him, Jason took the opportunity to elbow him in the spine. It was playing dirty, but life isn’t fair. 

There’s a difference . 

He felt his expression twist into something akin to grief mixed with anger, when his fist met his opponent’s head, knocking him unconscious. 

If you didn’t believe him, then you should experience the last three weeks he’d lived. 

The blonde haired, skinny, rat-faced piece of shit in-the-corner-over-there man? His name is Egon . He’s German, loves Ska music, drinks disgusting cherry-flavored energy drinks all day and murders people for a living. 

…And he’s teaching Jason how that’s done. 

“Zhat is enough.” He smirked, lifting the bottle to his lips. 

“How vould you finish him?” His accented instructor asked, from where he leaned on the wall watching the fight unfold, sipping the energy drink he liked. 

“Foot to the neck.” He responded, glaring down at the unconscious man he had defeated. 

“Neck is thick . Might not give.” He argued. 

“It would with my full weight behind it.” The Lazarus Pits had cured him from his childhood malnutritionment, and even then, at the right angle if he leaned — “but he’s out , so I could always do the bridge of the nose into his brainpan .” 

“Fair enough.” He said, as he began walking away. Jason followed. “But you stupidly still feel zhe need to go for zhe head and not zhe eyes . You are damaging you knuckles and vasting time.” Egon criticted, “you get angry too easily. Zhen you become an idiot .” 

“Duly noted.” 

As they walked outside, the harsh snowy atmosphere nipped at his nose. Jason was glad he grabbed his red sweatshirt, he realized as he pulled the hood over his head in protection from the cold. 

“You may have broken your ribs. Derek vill escort you into zhe city for an X-Ray . A vet takes care of zome of our patch work.” 

“Thanks, but I think I just bruised a couple.” He said, even though they hurt like a bitch. Despite knowing full well how to recognize injuries, rule number one on the streets was don’t show weakness . Jason thought the same would apply to this. 

“I am not being motherly, you imbecile.” He said, insulted, after he took a good long swig of his drink. “You pay me veekly. If you fight with broken ribs, you puncture any number of organs, then you die and I lose zhe fee.” Yes, because god forbid he actually cared. And technically it was Talia that paid him weekly, but statistics. Besides, didn’t Jason know full well about broken ribs puncturing organs— lungs —and then dying? It would be some kind of sick joke if he knew, which he thankfully didn’t. 

“ Go to town. ” He demanded. A stocky man in a hat, presumably Derek, held open the surprisingly modern car door with a too-friendly smile and a waving gesture, holding out a thicker warmer coat jacket in offering. 

Ninety days earlier. Prague . 

“How long did he spend with the sniper? ” 

“About a month.”

“A month in guns? How were you able to talk him into that? I thought his plan was to try and stand toe-to-toe with The Batman and beat him to death.” 

“Yes, but I convinced him he should be prepared for all eventualities. And that he had no idea what shape his plan might have to take to create this face-off .” Dressed in a rich green coat that brought out her eyes, a feminine voice responded, humoring the first questioner. 

“And he took hold of that idea, huh? Spent five weeks with that chemist too? What, learning toxins? ” The first, in a impecable dark suit with an olive dress shirt and slightly darker tie that brought out his skin tone, soldiered on. He was getting on her nerves.

“Among other things. But now he’s with that psychopath .” She looked out the window so that man wouldn’t see her annoyed expression. 

“And he doesn’t suspect you at all? He can’t see you’re stalling him?” Her men could suspect anything, though that one didn’t care? Good. Still, keeping up the ruse of civility, she continued in response. 

“No. He believes that I agree with him. That he was wronged , and The Batman should pay the ultimate price. ” 

“This is idiocy! Keeping him busy, and helping him get educated in the damn ‘dark arts’ is stupid enough! ” He said disrespectfully, but he made a good point. The League of Assassins needed more useful men like this one, ones that weren’t incompetent and could think of reasons to back up their case. He continued: “but to imagine that on his road to becoming a master death merchant , that the Tin Man is gonna grow a heart and decide not to kill Batman—” 

“That is not the point.” She said, turning her head towards him. “I no longer care for the Detective as my heir . He could torture him all he likes, but I need the boy ignorant of how long he has been dead. To control the environments he learns in, allows for this.” 

“But why not just teach him here ?” He asked. 

“He would get suspicious of me. I need him to be ignorant of that too.” The Demon’s Head responded in turn. 

“I say ‘so what’ … but if it’s such a bother to train him, how about just giving him back to Batman? ” 

The Demon’s Head turned away. It wouldn’t do, to discuss plans with one of dubious loyalties. 

“No, right? Because he’d never leave you alone. He wouldn’t stop until he utterly destroys you and everything you work for; because in his eyes, you ruined his son beyond repair." After a moment he paused, in consideration. “You weren’t lying when you said you no longer care for him. But Talia—the real Talia that is—does. She also cares about the boy. You’re doing this for her… as punishment .” 

“Can she still hear me, right now?” The imposter narrowed the eyes of the body of which he processed. “Give me one reason why I don’t beat you unconscious.” He told his daughter’s lover, not answering his question. “She didn’t care for you, either. She was only using you. Sleeping with you.” 

“I know,” he said. “But I listened to her talk about them. Our relationship was open, I knew she didn’t love me like she did him. But I also know she cared more for the boy than for his father. I can respect that.” 

“As long as you know I only keep you around for information like this—though usually more important.” 

“You think I’d dare speak to you like this otherwise?” He shrugged, but the al Ghul could see his fingers shake in slight fear of the repercussions. 

“As long as we’re clear.”

“ Crystal .”

“Good.” 

Looking back out the window, Ra’s smirked. Everything is going according to plan, daughter. Don’t you agree this is worse than death? He crooned mockingly. Naturally, there was no response; but if she could hear him, he knew that she did. 

“Ve’re here. You can take off the hood. ” In a show of goodwill, he took off the hood. His ribs were in fact broken ( surprise, surprise ) and he wasn’t in the mood for a fight. 

“But tell me, vhat iz your story, American?” You don’t wanna know, he thought bitterly. “How does kid have enough money to buy time vith Egon? You rich man’s son? Or you got, vhat’s word? ‘Sponsor’? ” 

Not anymore, but an argument could be made for the latter. “Well, Derek, I’ve always invested wisely.” He replied instead. 

“Ja, you have secrets . Okay. But listen , you have skills. You’re good . Ve’ve been talking .” Jason didn’t like where this was going. “ ‘We’? ” 

“Me and the others. Ve who work for Egon. You should think about taking some vork. Ve have jobs vhere ve could use you.” Jason really didn’t like this. 

“Money is good . Even for you.” Jason could hear him coming up from his left, but he knew he wasn’t coming for him. So, best just to watch . 

WHAK! 

Egon came up from behind, kicking Derek and putting him down. He hit him across the face with his boot. Blood and possibly a tooth flung out of his mouth. Jason would say he spat it , but that implied it was voluntary. It discolored the white snow reddish pinkish. He may have been dead, but Jason didn’t care to check. He was limp and out of commission all the same. 

“You vill have to forgive me. Some of my men vill forget on occasion to refrain from discussions .” He said to Jason, as he looked up from unconscious-Derek. “Jan vill take you back to your room.” Probably the guy coming up behind him , he realized. Externally, he showed no emotion, glancing at the body, seemingly bored. No care for human life. If Derek didn’t get help soon, he would die, Jason knew from… other training. And somehow, he highly doubted that Egon would be so considerate as to pay for his medical bills. Maybe he would have Before, but now Jason could afford to do it either. And it wasn’t just about money. 

Ignoring what would happen to Derek, or Derek’s body, as the blood loss took hold, Jason made his way to the car. Truck. Whatever Egon had driven.

When they finally get back to the car-truck Egon predictably normally took, Egon doesnt go in, and instead, first, starts talking with one of his men. Brown hair, probably caucasian, green jacket. 6”, taller than Egon, but hunched in a respectful manner. Likely ‘Jan’. “ Get him out of here. This idiot brought him through the west entrance . ” Egon says first, in greeting. He whispered it in German . 

He’d been playing possum on how bad his German was. And they don’t know Bruce taught him to read lips when he was twelve. 

Jason had seen the trucks on the way in, the road they traveled on, and he couldn’t be sure… 

… but he heard whimpering . Might have been dogs . But he didn’t think so. 

Jason got into the vehicle and leaned purposefully causal-like so he could look at the mirror, ignoring the “ objects in mirror are closer than they appear ” writing near the bottom. The trucks were orange and white, the type that carries goods in for stores. But he had a sinking feeling that these weren't knicknacks . 

A silent growl, almost animal, formed in the back of his throat. How dare he. 

During the ride “home”, it’s mostly silent. Egon drinks some more of that god awful cherry shit—so nothing new—and Jason tried not to fiddle with the music radio. Or murder Egon right then and there. 

The car-truck itself is oddly modern, as Egon doesn’t seem like the guy to go all out on the newest stuff. Not that he can’t afford it, but it just doesn’t fit. It’s sleekly black with screens and shit. Worn pho-leather seats that are contradictory to how new the car-truck must be. Earliest possible would be earlier this year for its initial release to the general public. It looks like it’s years old. In good condition, but still. 

Later that night, back in his quarters, Jason planned his… well, mission . He didn’t have free rein of the compound, and he was on a curfew . Like a kid. Technically he was a teenager, but still. It’s insulting, even though he knew it probably wasn’t even about his apparent age. Egon framed it more as scheduled military-type discipline, but Jason didn’t quite buy it. 

Egon is an assassin , but he’s obviously got some other trades in play. A hired killer doesn’t need this many men. Absentmindedly, Jason glanced at the window. His watcher was still there, damn it. 

And speaking of his watcher and his ilk, these morons aren’t contract hitters. They’re leg breakers . Growing up on the twisted streets of Gotham’s dingiest, and then later fighting people like them, Jason would know. 

On Fridays, Leon stands guard over him. Jason wasn’t supposed to know he was being watched . But, well, just like Leon isn’t supposed to walk off duty around 2 AM. He didn't quite catch the details but he goes off to see Sofie , either his girlfriend or a hooker. 

In any event, he had two hours before his absence was noticed. All was going according to plan so far, as Jason watched Leon go; and after waiting a few precious minutes just to be safe, he climbed out the window. He was still dressed in his jeans-jacket-red-hoodie combo from earlier. Hood pulled up. 

He followed the road back to the west side. It’s easy. All low-tech here, no surveillance cams . That’s either for expense… or to avoid any evidence . The smell hit him before he saw the building. They’ve been burning leaves to cover the odor, but it doesn’t get the job done. 

One guard. Asleep. He noted, glancing at the guy as he dozed off. He snored quietly, and uncaring of what was happening around him. There was a rifle propped up on the adjacent seat—passengers side, as the man slept in the driver's seat. Obviously this has been easy for them. Never an inkling of trouble. And they don’t seem all that worried about keeping what or whoever's in here locks up too tight. 

Without any trouble, Jason manages to sneak over to the warehouse. It’s different from the one in Ethiopia, but at the same time it’s identical. This one has windows, though. The glass on the window was a single pane . You could break it with a shoe or… 

 God.  

There’s forty-two of them. All under ten years old. Chinese. Maybe Thai. Drugged , but not undernourished.

Kids . 

He’s reminded of dark nights and dirty alleyways. Only the worst of the scum on Earth dealt with children . Suddenly, Jason’s got a new number one on his hit list. 

Slowly, he backed away. “Play it smart, Todd,” he told himself. One of the kids saw him, looked at him with big brown eyes and Jason mouthed ‘ I’ll be back for you ’. He doesn’t think they believed him. He doesn’t blame them—he wouldn’t have either. It’s okay, he just had to prove them wrong. 

It’s snowing, maybe a storm is brewing. It’s late and dark out, but he can still see the lights through his windows, glowing like a lighthouse beacon. 

There. Egon’s office. 

He jumps from his perch. Overconfident. Pushed the window open. No alarms . Beneath the package of cherry soda he sees the filing cabinet. It’s gray, unremarkable. He opens it and shuffles through it, pulling out a file. Handwritten logs. Easy to burn . No computers. 

And all in code . Nothing fancy, but he’s guessing only Egon knows the details. You’d never be able to tell what he’s selling or how much he’s charging. But Jason could tell the numbers he's moving. 

He felt sick. Big numbers. A slave trade . He’s selling children . 

In the background, he heard a truck start up. Jason glanced through the shades on the window, pulling his hood back up. The kids walk mindlessly into the truck. Heads down, like they’re depressed and given up on life. No ten year old should feel like that. Ever . There are only two or three men. Two guards with guns and one supervisor, maybe. They’re on the move. Okay . 

He’d say they need about forty-five minutes to load and secure them all in. Jason was ten minutes from here to their makeshift motor pool . All low-tech. No alarms. Plenty of time . He jumped from the building and ran . 

“ We may have to dope those three big ones again before Dusseldorf. They were getting squirrelly . ” The man on the passenger side said to the driver, in German. 

“ They’ll be fine.” The other said, taking a drag from his cigarette. 

“ I don’t want to have to fight with any of these damn brags on delivery .” Argued the first. “ Fight’s good for the buyer, if they have fight in them it shows they won’t keel over dead . You weren’t there when we showed up with four of them that croaked on us. It was ugly. Macon pulled a gun on… ” the driver trailed off. 

“Wait…” 

“ Th’ hell’s that? ” 

“No one's supposed to be on the road but—” he trailed off, eyes widening in horror as the headlights illuminated the other vehicle; and he took in the wreckage of the other truck. It was on fire, burning. Empty, meant to send a message. “Us.” He finished, scared. 

“Turn!! Turn the truck around!! Now! Now! Now!!” 

Too late. CRACK! Using the gun he stole, the laser went right through his shoulder. “Aaaaah!” He cried as blood and small bits of bone flew out, along with the shattered window glass. 

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!  

Jason rained bullets on them, as they tried fruitlessly to dodge. Coming into view, he pressed the gun to the guy’s head. He had a healed-over scar right next to his eye. It looked precise, maybe a knife wound. Torture? It didn’t matter, as either way, he looked up at him, fear clear in his eyes. “ Jan is bleeding to death from that shoulder wound. ” He said, voice level. The scariest people were sometimes the calmest. 

“ You can either drive , or take a bullet , too. ” He threatened in German. “ I vote for the prior . It’s a nice night for a ride . ” He was wearing a makeshift black half-face mask, and his jeans-jacket-red-hoodie combo. He was holding the gun. It didn’t change the fact that he was still a fourteen-year-old (almost fifteen, but still) kid, and the chances that he would listen without a fight was a toss up. Hopefully with the aftermath of the explosion in the background, he looked badass and evil enough that any discrepancies were just cosmetic errors. 

Fearfully, the guy took the wheel. 

Good, a smart one. 

“They’re two hours late! The entire cargo is with them! I can delay the buyers for—no, d*mn it! Just find them!” Jason heard Egon yell into what was presumably a phone, though he couldn’t see it. It was a perfect opening for his dramatic entrance. 

“ It’s okay. ” He said in German, as he swung open the door. “ I got them. ” He held up the gun. 

CRACK!  

Egon dodged with surprising talent, though maybe not so surprising, seeing as he was supposedly a master. His disgusting energy drink fell out of his hands, halfway drunk already. Good. “ Little bastard . ” He growled as he dodged two more bullets. 

Egon quickly changed tactics, opting for offensive rather than defensive and tackled him to the ground, and out the door. Taken by surprise by his much larger form, the gun flew from Jason’s hand as his body made contact with the icy snow. 

“You ! Zhis is your doing? ! ” 

Quickly taking the opportunity of him being winded, Egon pushed him harshly against a tree; the rough bark scratching uncomfortably against his skin. “Tell me vhat you’ve done! Vhere are zey?! Vhere!” He asked—demanded. 

Jason smirked, a Robin smile, “y’know… your accent gets thicker when you’re pissed. It’s… cute .” He said, despite Egon’s arm against his throat. Tip: get your opponent angry and they get sloppy; thus, you increase your chances of survival. Predictably, his trainer (ex-trainer? He was pretty sure one way or another that the deal was dead and gone) glared and let go of his grip on him, attempting to pash his skull in, and put him in a headlock… with his own head. 

Idiot . Jason, resident scrawny fourteen-year-old, met his head with his own, but it was too late. While Jason was a smarter fighter, Egon was physically stronger, and managed to grasp hold of his neck and smash his face into the muddy snow-melted ground. “You think you are clever?! You think this is zome game? Rich American punk! Now the tail wags the dog?! The student unseats the master?! ” 

Crouching over his limp body—the air knocked out of him—in order to get closer to him, Egon continued his angered rant. “I teach you—how to throw a few punches—and now you think—you can actually strike at me?! Do you?!” 

His English became more broken, and he was getting to the point where he was more volatile and rabid than anything else. If Jason pushed him too far he would snap, his superior strength then snapping him in a fair fight. Luckily, he never planned to win this fight fairly. “No.” He said. “That’s why I poisoned your energy drink.” Looking up, face smeared with dirt, he plastered a mocking smile on his face. It was harsher than a victorious smile used to be for him, but now it fit. 

Egon’s eyes widened slightly in understanding and horror, before they rolled to the back of his head and he began foaming at the mouth like an animal to be put down. Fitting . He collapsed to his knees, head falling back, before his chest gave in and he lay still. Dead . Not really looking all that peaceful and shit in the aftermath. 

For a moment Jason felt like his chest was caving in. His first kill. It wasn’t anything special, cathartic like killing the Joker would be, but… it was his first kill. It… was premeditated murder. All the teachings he’d had… before… were how to stop people like him now. I can never go back, he realized numbly. Never never never.

Pushing away his thoughts forcefully, Jason dropped the kids off at the British Embassy before he went back for Egon. Technically, he couldn’t drive, but he was a dead kid who B taught to drive the Batmobile at twelve. Hijacking a normal car was child’s play, despite it ending up being surprisingly advanced. Nothing he hadn’t seen before. 

Coming back, he burned everything to the ground. One way to get over your fears is immersion and all that shit. “ No one will know I was there. Me or anyone else.” He said glaring. He wanted to be the one to tell B he was alive, so he could see his face when faced with his greatest failure without it being tainted by him over analyzing it beforehand. He wanted control. 

He wanted his dad .

Chapter Text

Sitting in the beautiful sitting room of the al Ghul complex, Jason sat on an ornate wooden window seat across from Talia, who had poured herself a crystal glass of red wine, red like the red of her enemies fresh blood. She twirled the glass between her fingers, and took a sip. 

After a moment of silence, she spoke. “This is an odd turn. I find you a teacher, and you murder him.” She said it calmly, like they were talking about the weather. In her crème blouse and complimentary brown skirt, she looked like they could be in negotiations about some boring business contract—but his apparent youth and casual clothes he hadn’t changed in, like, a week broke the mirage. 

“‘Murder’ sounds a bit fancy. I didn’t orchestrate whacking him over an inheritance. I spiked his bug juice because he was a dirtbag.” Jason argued. The word honestly made him uncomfortable, made him feel comparable to those who killed people in cold blood. But—but this was different. Right? Too late now, he tried to convince himself figuratively. 

“He was a killer-for-hire who made more money in a single job than most people in the world will see in a lifetime.” Jason continued, though he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. While Talia may be helping him, she was still an assassin. If anything, his little rant was insulting to her. 

Still, he continued, if only to get the nagging voice out of his head. It sounded like himself—but it was happier. Hopeful. Robin. He nearly choked on his drink. “But he still thought he needed extra cash, so he kidnapped children and sold them as sex toys.” 

“Why not just walk away and call the authorities?” Wasn’t she supposed to be on his side? Who was he though? Calling the authorities would be what—what Ro—a Robin would do. But he wasn’t Robin anymore. Couldn’t be, now that he was a cold-blooded killer. Maybe B was right to doubt him about that diplomat’s son. Jason didn’t push him but he watched—no, he let him fall. Jason came from the streets of Crime Alley where everyone was either a part of organized crime, a thug, or dead. He had once thought he escaped that legacy, but now he was practically all of the above. God, he was pathetic. Just a stupid little pity party. 

Before his silence could be noticed and analyzed (Rule number one: don’t show weakness) Jason spoke. “I heard stuff. He had connections to the cops. Had a few politicians who he did work for. He wasn’t gonna get locked up.” —excuses don’t make it right— “but he was greedy. No lieutenants. Just muscle. The operation ran through him.” 

“So, if it was going to end, it had to end with him.” He explained, trying his best to be cold and calculating. “I didn’t ‘murder’ him.” He couldn’t have—he wouldn’t be— “you murder people. I…” Treading on thin ice, Todd. “…put this reptile down.” It was justified. Better one guilty than a thousand innocents. “Don’t tell me the world isn't better off.” Please don’t tell me because if you do I might believe you. I’m already doubting myself. Is what he didn’t say aloud. 

Then, Talia smiled, not happy and carefree like Dick used to, or quiet and reserved but real like Bruce. Not like Alfred, either. This one was cold. Cruel. Calculating. This one was prideful. Jason shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Why are you smiling?” He asked, point blank. 

“You are learning.” She responded. 

A little crookedly, Jason smiled back his not-quite-a-Robin-smile. His eyes were cruel and devoid of emotion, but a hint of his previous snark was still there in his voice. 

“Yeah.” He said. “I suppose I am.” 

“Do you understand?” B asked him. He was in costume, the bats that gave the cave it's ironic namesake swooped around at the edges of his vision. They matched the one on his chest. 

“I get it. He’s a total nut bar.” Robin said, bored. Batman was repeating himself again and again and again. He wanted action, people were dying out there, and all B seemed to care about was how many different ways he can say ‘be careful’. He had the emotional capacity of a brick wall—no offense to brick walls. Honestly, couldn’t he just say ‘I’d miss you, so don’t die’. 

Besides, it wasn’t like he planned to throw himself needlessly into danger. He wasn’t suicidal. And a cartoonish madman was an embarrassing way to go. 

“No. Do not treat this lightly, and don’t write him off as simply being insane. It’s not that simple.” B chastised him, and Robin flushed slightly. It was like he could read his thoughts. “He’s not like the others.” 

Turning back to the Batcomputer, B pulled up a file amid the bajillion other tabs open. Really, he needed to organize his desktop better. “He has no code. No methodology. No goals. You can’t hope to understand him because his desires are fluid. They change.” He paused, to make sure he had his attention, all while not looking up from his keyboard. And he says I’m the dramatic one, Robin thought sarcastically. “He can’t be predicted. He can’t be reasoned with.” 

“And if you’re careless with him…” B warned, and Jason remembered how his predecessor was fired. “…you’ll die.” He said, like the melodramatic child he was. What was this? A cartoon? 

“Do you understand?” B asked, fully turning to him. Robin was sure that if not for the white lenses blocking his eyes, they would be wide with fear. Suddenly he understood. Sure it seemed ridiculously melodramatic but he had grown up on this city’s streets. Had seen the aftermath of fights. Had known how the self-proclaimed Nightwing got shot and how B wifely he was at fault. His new colors were making him cocky. Sloppy. B was right, he’d end up dead. 

With seriousness that he lacked before, Robin looked up solemnly. “I understand.” 

“Good. Because he’s back out there and only we can stop him.” Robin may be trained now, no longer a defenseless kid, but there were others like him. Street kids that no one cared about out who could get maimed and killed just as a sick joke. He would stop that. 

—Stop that—

S t o p  t h a t 

S 

 t

  o

    p

     T

       h

         a

            t 

“Do not treat this lightly, and don’t write him off as simply being insane.” Batman warned, turning to face Robin, who looked up at him with wide eyes. “It’s not that simple.” 

“He’s not like the others.” He argued. “He has no code.” Robin felt his eyes widen slightly behind the domino mask, a new, slightly odd feeling in his face. He resisted the urge to run his fingers along the rim of it. “He can’t be predicted.” 

B’s face didn’t change but his thin line became more a slightly worried frown. If you didn’t know him, you wouldn't be able to tell. But Robin knew Batman like the back of his hand. “He can’t be reasoned with.” B told him, and Robin made sure to note not to try that in his stall-for-Batman quips. “And if you’re careless with him…” he began gravely. 

“…you’ll die.”  

—die— 

D i e 

D 

   i 

     e

I died. 

Jason woke up from his dream—his nightmare—his memory, drenched in cold sweat. It was one of those repeating ones, where right when you think you woke up you’re actually still asleep, living in your own personal hellscape. 

“It’s not real,” he tried to reassure himself. Not anymore. His mind finished for him. 

No matter how far and hard he tried to run from his past, it stuck to him like glue. Training with a new martial arts instructor and suddenly he was using a Robin move to take them down. Hearing the drunken laugh of his bomb tutor and friends at a bar and suddenly he was back at that warehouse. 

Sitting up in his own private quarters at his new poison master’s, he glanced around the scarce room. It was impersonal, but it would work for his purposes. 

What are five things you see? A lamp. A sword. Dried Belladonna berries. A sleek new (burner) phone. His bed. 

What are four things you can touch? His comforter, his pillow, his sweat-soaked night clothes, his stupidly tear-stained face. 

What are three things you can hear? The sound of baby birds chirping, the sound of rain dripping from the roof, his own labored breathing. 

What are two things you can smell? The fresh mountain air and petrichor from the rain (one thing all of Talia’s set-ups had in common was their seclusion from society. He hadn’t seen a big city since Before), and the musty stink of his dirty clothes. 

What is one thing you can taste? He must’ve bit his tongue at some point because the iron taste of blood (that tasted suspiciously mixed with traitorous salty tears) plagued him. 

Calm, he was calm. The basic techniques he learned from his time as Robin, along with a few from his time with the All-Caste calmed him. Today was his last day with the poisoner who made his third grade math teacher the paragon, a role model, for good teaching behavior. 

The bitch was planning on killing her latest fool of a rich spouse and begin on the next unfortunate idiot who fell in love with her looks and fake personality. The next victim in her selfish Black Widow scheme. Some of those men and women had family. Brothers. Sisters. Friends.

If she had gone after horrible people, corrupt politicians or abusive bureaucrats, Jason might’ve respected her, liked her even. But she did business with those types in return for them covering her ass. Instead, she went after people who were like to B’s ‘Brucie’ act (only for them it wasn’t an act: they were simply rich and stupid). She took advantage of them, and in return killed them. It made his stomach turn uneasily. 

A taste of her own medicine might do her some good, give her a new perspective. Unfortunately for her, the only medicine she gave out was poisoned tablets that replaced doctor ordered prescriptions. 

As he dragged himself out of bed, Jason forced himself into the small bathroom to take a shower. It was hot—scorching. It burned. He loved how it made him go numb, icy flames licking figuratively at his cold skin. It helped him forget. 

After a long shower, Jason dressed in his usual clothes—jeans, a t-shirt and hoodie paired with a jacket. His current teacher, Sasha (which was likely just a favored alias, similar to his—Peter), was entertaining her next target in advance while her as-of-yet not-poisoned current husband was busy. Toying the line, and getting a bit risky and overconfident in her abilities, but who was he to judge? It wasn’t like he wanted her to do good. Besides, it wouldn’t matter when in a few days she’d end up dead. 

Opening his burner phone (and honestly, phones—let alone burner phones—had seriously improved in the last year or two since he died. This was downright dystopian-futuristic) that Talia had ‘gifted’ him, he saw he had one new message. He clicked open. 

J—

1. WayneTech purchases succeeding. 
2. Found original coffin maker. Agreed to contract. Trail ends with his. 
3. And more funds in account. Enjoy 

—T 

It was short and concise, straight to the point. There was more, a new email update, he could see if he scrolled, but so far so good. It was nice of Talia to do all this for him, really, he was grateful. Continuing to read, he exited the current pop-up, and scrolled up, opening the newest one. 

The acquisition of the Kord corporation will be complete by the end of the month. That is the controlling arm of Wayne Industries R&D. The subject line read. 

You will have access to the toys. Old and new. The body of the email continued, you should be receiving a gift upon your return to Nanda Parbat. It’s a replica of the one my father often carried. It is tempered for the battle you will wage. 

Make me proud. 

—T

Jason smiled softly at that. Everything was going according to plan. He reminded himself. 

Good, it’s time to tie up loose ends. 

Jason shut off the phone. It was time to plan his teacher’s murder using everything she taught him. She would be so proud, he thought sarcastically. Then, more darkly: 

If, y’know, I wasn’t using it on her. 

“—and then she said, ‘It wasn’t me who poisoned your drink, but my twin’ and then I just laughed—” Jason retold some of the funniest parts of his new ex-teacher, sitting in the same room as months before—though it seemed some of the furniture was rearranged and replaced—Jason glanced back up at Talia al Ghul. She looked up as she twirled her wine glass, elegantly, seemingly paying attention to his story. While he liked to think himself quite mature for his age—which, don’t get him wrong, he was—he was still a child looking for a ‘good job’. 

“This is becoming quite the habit.” She said instead. “What is?” Jason asked, confused. 

“Your ‘investigations’.” 

He snapped his head up. “That’s not what I’m doing.” He defended. That reminded him too much of what he used to do with Batman as his Robin—but that was Before. 

“No. I was applying a kind euphemism to the obvious.” She chuckled, dark and reserved. “A pattern has formed. I assist you in procuring ‘teachers’, men and women who possess very dangerous skills that you hope to cultivate. You study under them for a period of time, expand your repertoire...” She trailed off, and she leisurely reached to pick up her wine glass. “…and half of them wind up dead.” 

Bringing the glass to her lips, she said to him, not quite accusatory but enough that he knew a threat, or whatever she was implying, when he saw one. “I know it’s not because you’re covering your tracks.”

“It’s not without reason.” He said, glaring, to the smirking Talia al Ghul—and to himself. 

“The surveillance expert was a pedophile. The small arms guy ran a smack ring, but half his stuff was poison. That close combat master was planning on killing her husband and daughters.” Those scum in Earth deserved to die, damn it. Just because they were untouchable by the police didn’t mean they couldn’t be stopped. 

“And that crew of mercenaries in Africa was hired by a rival chief to our two other tribes against one another. All that did was get boy soldiers killed. Nearly thirty a week before—” 

“Before you stopped them.” Talia stated, tilting her glass back and forth so the liquid would swish to one side away from her then back towards her. “I’m not criticizing. I’m just pointing out the obvious. On your road to revenge you seem to have also found a new interest.” Jason didn’t like where this was going. 

“Or revisiting an old one.” Yeah, he really didn’t like it now. “I’m not like him. At best, he would have just put these dirtbags in jail.” He argued, though it sounded weak even to his ears. “They’re wrong. And I’m putting them down.” He tried more vehemently. 

“I never thought otherwise.” Talia reassured, smirking. He returned it. 

“Jason… I have new business.” She said, seemingly hesitant. “I… well, I have to show you something.” She reached down to grab something, perhaps a box. The teenager learned over in an attempt to see. 

“I have a few operatives doing some low level surveillance in Gotham. Just to keep tabs.” She admitted. “One took these photos seventy-two hours ago.” He glanced down at the pictures. He didn’t know there was a new Robin, but maybe he should have expected it. Talia had already shown him how little B cared for him—so why not, right? But, some part of him had never looked too closely at it, never really daring to believe—thinking that maybe just maybe it was all an elaborate ploy to manipulate him for some twisted ploy and B had never really… 

Part of him could maybe understand not killing his killer, from Batman’s black-and-white point of view, with his code and ruled by his one, well, rule. Don’t kill. 

But replacing him? Setting up another kid to die? It was unforgivable. It made him wonder just who the man who he once—and it seemed very long ago now—thought of as his father was. 

“Who… who is he?” He asked, soundeding more vulnerable than he should. He should’ve expected this already, damn it. (Well, how could he? Part of him thought, but it was overruled by the louder, angrier voices in his head.) Get your shit together, Todd. 

The boy, in the picture he was looking at, was smiling a Robin smile, kicking mugger ass, with B being all broody in the background. It was night. It wasn’t him. 

“His name is Timothy Drake.” She said, “Robin.” 

Jason—Jason— 

“You all right?” Talia asked. 

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be all right?” He lied, though it was a bad one. He was snappish and it came out more sarcastic and heartbroken than he would’ve preferred. But the boy's face—Timothy Drake’s masked fucking face—was forever burned into his skull. Always there at the back of his mind to haunt him. 

Later, in his equally impersonal room at the League compound, Jason stared at the photos he pinned to his wall. He sat in his bed—cot-like—before making his way over to them. He braced his hand against the wall for support, not trusting his knees not to give out. Then, he buried his face in his other hand and sobbed, big ugly tears. 

It wasn’t anything he shouldn’t already know; but now, he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

The next morning, Jason woke up in a determined mood. 

After getting out of bed, still in last night's clothes, he walked over to the false-wall that hid a safe. The safe was what held the black case containing all of Talia’s information, including the new research on Timothy Drake—the new Robin (and oh, how that made his heart ache) that had been given to him last night in a neatly sorted file along with the obvious new photographs. 

82-26-73 he typed in slowly, each new number making a clicking sound of acknowledgment as he pressed it. They were picked at completely random—the best way to ensure your password was hard to guess. 

“Get your shit together, Todd,” he told himself forcefully, knowing that the details of Timothy’s… new position would be hard to swallow. 

Ignoring the other personal articles and other files in the relatively large safe, he reached for the thick Manila folder that held everything from his annual physical information, to cut out bits of society tabloids. 

The Gotham Gazette: BRUCE WAYNE SURPRISES EVERYONE WITH LATEST ADOPTION Article written by Vicki Vale

Timothy Drake-Wayne—formerly known as Timothy Drake, is the son of late Gotham socialites Jack and Janet Drake. 

Jason couldn’t read anymore. He felt bile rising in his throat. Not only did B replace him as Robin, but as a son as well?! With a fucking Bristol raised brat too. Such an improvement from the street rat, he could hear a newspaper saying—but he wasn’t even mentioned in the articles he had managed to get through so far. It was like he had never even existed. The thought hurt him more than he wanted to admit. 

He forced himself to keep reading the Gazette. It was better than having to look at pictures of Dick—Grayson, and Drake having the brotherly relationship that he had taken months and months to achieve. A quick glance earlier showed them going on the Ski trip that Di—Grayson had promised to take him in Before. He hated how the photo was ruined by water stains from where he hadn’t even realized he’d started crying. 

He wanted to yell, to scream, to cry—he wanted release, needed reassurance, there had to be someone to blame but himself. “Fuck you Bruce,” he said, voice breaking. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.” 

—“some may say that it’s indecent that Mr. Wayne adopted again so soon after what happened to the last boy. What was his name? John? Jake? Ah, yes, Jason. Such a tragedy. Given his background he was such a smart boy. Poor soul. Still, I think it’s a good thing that young Timothy has a place to go.”— 

Janelle Winslow, condescending bitch, constant annoyance at galas. Always going on about how “well read” he was to his face, like she was surprised he could read at all and talk in full sentences. Then, behind his back, she’d gossip with her friends about how ‘things have gone to the dogs. Circus and alley brats, what’s next?’. Figures, she’d side with “young Timothy”—Gotham elite born and bred. Must’ve been ecstatic when ‘what’s next’ included someone worthy of her time. 

Rumors are swirling about possible previous relations between Bruce Wayne and the late Janet Drake—could Timothy be a true Wayne? 

“‘True Wayne’?” He scoffed, as he read the next tabloid click-bait ilk title cut out from some newspaper or magazine. “It just keeps getting better.” 

Glancing up at the gilded clock on his nightstand, an antique of some sort, he realizes with a start that it’s nearly eleven—his self-appointed meeting time with Talia al Ghul to discuss his next group of trainers. He had a feeling she was stalling for time, but it didn’t matter. He needed every extra bit he could get—hence, the reason he needed to talk with her even though it wasn’t officially time. He needed to accentuate his schedule. He wanted to make B face his failures before he completely forgot him.

Quickly changing out of his old jeans, t-shirt, hoodie, and jacket into something lighter and more appropriate for an assassin’s base in the desert, Jason scrambled to leave. It was a new base, as Jason and Talia had recently relocated after some unexplained circumstances (he was pretty sure he overheard some of her glorified ninjas gossiping about a new minister who was “unfortunately quite on the strait and narrow” as he didn’t take their bribe to ignore all the mysterious assassinations and mercenaries going in and out of town. And, apparently, he had some darn good connections as his “mysterious but completely natural death” was being thoroughly investigated). 

After a few wrong turns, Jason managed to find her new throne room (oddly enough, the Murder Base wasn’t clearly labeled. No convenient signs saying “illegal and highly dangerous weaponry this way” or “the one person holding this cult together can be found easily caught off guard if you take a left turn at the next fork”). He felt vaguely awed at the large gold doors with ornate designs and some Arabic writing that he sort of recognized (while over the last few months he’s gotten better and could mostly speak it; his reading and writing, on the other hand, were atrocious). 

It probably said something like “long live our immortal overlord”, but in a more respectful and dramatically mysterious way. 

“The boy is not suspicious, my lord?” An unknown voice asked in Arabic. Jason—whose head was close to the side so he could get a better look at the carvings—overheard. Who was he talking to in Talia’s chambers? He wondered. 

“No,” a cruel voice laughed, sounding vaguely familiar. “The Detective’s brat was embarrassingly easy to manipulate.” Him. He realized with dread. Whoever they are were talking about him. 

“Not to be presumptuous, my lord,” the first said. “But why do you go so out of your way for one little boy? It is draining to our resources to upkeep such a ruse.” 

“Do you dare doubt Ra’s al Ghul, the Demon’s Head?” The second asked, threateningly. And Jason felt like he took a plunge into icy waters. Nononono—Talia said her father was dead— 

…easy to manipulate… 

…upkeep such a ruse… 

…Ra’s al Ghul, the Demon’s Head… 

NONONONO— 

Denial raged against his skull. Play it smart, Todd. He told himself. Stake it out, learn what you can. 

Don’t make assumptions, Ro— 

“No, my lord.” To the first one’s credit his voice didn’t shake all that much—he’d call him DE: Death Eater, like from the Harry Potter book series his—Cath—his mother had read him once when he was little before she was too out of it to focus. As a popular book series it was easy to get a hold of cheap, unlike most that they could get (which were older novels that kids didn’t like to read and so were left alone and eventually given away at low prices). Because of that, they gave a good answer to “what’s your favorite book?” where you weren’t instantly judged by the class (“isn’t that a grandma book?”). 

Still, it was a bit amateurish and had nothing on Pride and Prejudice (a book she had also read, that he found he ended up preferring) but he could see a young reader’s appeal. Thinking about it more, Ra’s was kinda like Lord Voldemort with his immortality obsession—and, y’know, Jason shouldn’t look too deep into this. 

“Good.” Maybe-Ra’s said. “But do not doubt that this endeavor is worthwhile. It serves many greater purposes than that of my own retribution.” 

“Never,” DE said feverishly, quick to reassure his master. “I never doubted you, my lord. Merely curious.” 

“Keep it that way. Now be gone, servant. your services are no longer required here.” DE made a hurried ‘yes, my lord’, before Jason could hear his footsteps coming closer. Shit, he was standing by the door. Not keen on being discovered, Jason ducked behind an empty alcove he spotted on his way here, bleeding into the shadows like how he was taught Before. 

Not daring to glance out in fear of being spotted, Jason anxiously waited until the doors swung open. It felt like centuries. Had he been discovered and somehow they knew when he left to hide so they could talk without being overheard—? No, he was being paranoid (still, better paranoid than dead, he thought uneasily). After waiting until the retreating footsteps were out of his hearing range (there was a moment of panic when he thought DE was going his way, but thankfully it was just a delusion brought in by his hysteria) and then a good long while just to be safe. 

God, he was so glad Ra’s didn’t have security cameras (he was sure, he had checked). Then, he realized he’d just referred to him as Ra’s. Was he really going to believe an out of context conversation? Yes, he supposed he was. Maybe it did make sense. Talia—because he was pretty sure she was the real Talia; had mentioned—had warned him. He had ignored it. 

The real Talia had called him habibi (“dear one”). Ra’s!Talia never called him that. He was so stupid. He let himself be manipulated like a fool! Ra’s was right—it was embarrassing. 

A small part of him was elated that maybe just maybe everything with the new Robin and Joker not being dead and B utterly betraying him—that maybe that was all a lie. Used to lead him on, keep him reliant. 

While he really, really, really wanted it to be true, part of him—the guilty part that still sort of believed it—told him that it may very well still be true. Shut up, he told himself. 

After a few more minutes of hiding, he slunk back to his room—technically, there was no official meeting and he hadn’t told Ta—Ra’s he was Ra’s—ahead of time of his plans to drop by unexpectedly. Obviously, or he would’ve been more prepared and Jason would still be believing him like an utter fool. 

Now, back in his room, resisting the urge to rip up the informative papers for a very different reason than that of some minutes earlier—and really, it had only taken a short amount of time for his very world to change drastically again—Jason began the only thing he could think of: 

He planned his escape… 

And his retribution. 

Chapter Text

…THREE DAYS BEFORE DISASTER… 

Laying down, looking at the nondescript box on his nightstand by his bed, Jason realized two things: 

1. you don’t just stop being Robin. It’s not some hobby you do in your free time (justice not vengeance; flying through the crisp night air; the hope—), it’s a lifestyle. It takes over your life until your nightlife is your real life and your given name is just that, a name, and it’s a mask outside the mask and— it’s just never ending and you can’t quite bring yourself to hate it. To stop it. 
2. He’s glad it’s not necessarily over. 

Sometimes, now two days into knowing about Ra’s plans, knowing that it’s all manipulation, redirection and lies, it’s harder to look at a nightstand in the dark, far from a city so without light pollution, and not see his nightstand at the manor in its place.  

They’re both on the same side of his bed, both made of the same type of wood. Ra’s likes his mind games, so is it possible that his room here looks like his room there on purpose? Likely. 

But it’s different too. His nightstand there had all the books he’d like to read or was reading, maybe some stray nick knacks or an empty tube of stray mask glue, somehow migrated up from the cave where it’s supposed to be. His bedside table back there had pictures. A picture. In the drawer, yeah, he had a few pictures he’d managed to salvage of him and his mom—Catherine— his mom , but that wasn’t what he meant. 

On top of the nightstand, carefully placed and replaced every night on top of the current book he was reading. It was of him and Bruce, in civilian form, smiling on the manor grounds. When he’d first started as Robin Alfie had taken a photograph of him and B in that cave, in uniform, but that one was different. That was when he’d been accepted as Robin , but not yet a son . 

This one, here , didn’t have any of those personal effects. It didn’t feel lived in; didn’t feel special . It was just a room, specifically designed to do… something. Maybe just annoy him, if Ra’s was being particularly petty. The closest thing he had were the pictures that might not even be real . 

They might not , he had to remind himself. He had to take every word the bastard ever said to him with less than a grain of salt (no offense to salt). 

But, he has to lie and smile—or, more accurately, glare —and hope that Ra’s (a master manipulator himself in his own right), doesn’t catch on to Jason’s scemes. Doesn’t catch on to what Jason knows . 

So he sprouts bullshit about revenge filled schemes that don’t seem so important anymore (he’ll deal with that when it comes), and tries to forget that he killed multiple people (scum on earth, the lot of them), and that he doesn’t regret it. Doesn’t regret saving a thousand innocents by damning his own soul. 

And, most notable change of them all, he stops pushing down the voice in his head that tells him what to do, how to survive so that later he can live . It sounds like B. It calls him Robin . He listens . 

Maybe, if on a quiet night like tonight, not a cricket chirping in the middle of the desert, he can pretend that none of the shit ever happened and instead of dashing off blindly to Ethiopia, or stupidly trusting essentially a stranger ( his mother , a voice in his head also argues), or anything else that went wrong and happened before that—it varies between each imagining—he’s just being given a trusted undercover mission and soon he’ll be home, and Dick will take him on that Ski trip, and who knows? Maybe that Timothy kid is real and in a few years when he grows out of the scaly parties and gets a name of his own (because even he knows you can’t be Robin forever) he’ll pass the title, the name, the legacy , over and they’ll be a real family. He always wanted a little brother. 

And then he smiles, because since Ra’s is lying then maybe that fantasy can become a reality—

Jason never lets himself finish that though further. 

Before anything, he has to get out . Then he has to confirm his information. He can call the Manor, and Alfie would explain and he could never bring himself to hate Alfie. And if no one (or no one he knows the thought haunts him, because then he wouldn’t know what to do) answers he’d call Dick. Then, his very short list of okayed contacts gets shorter—but there’s still Barbie and the JLA and—hey, maybe he’ll even look up little Timmy Drake’s number (unless, of course, he’s the one to answer the manor phone…). 

So, when he’s done pretending he begins planning. A surprisingly vital skill when your assigned role is as a distraction . With bright colors and cheeky laughter paired with snarky quips, you have to know how far you can push… and how far you cannot . That, at least, is something he learned even before he got his eighth-level education. 

Focus, Robin. He tells himself, or maybe an echo of B does. On nights like these it’s hard to tell. 

In the empty, unpersonalized room he’s lying in, Jason sits up. He doesn’t dare turn on a light, but he props up his pillows. 

Always have a contingency for your contingency’s contingency, he reminds himself. It’s been—it’s felt —so long he doesn’t know quite what rule number it is (and, oh , that’s a lie it’s as clear as yesterday—). Still, he accounts for it. Then, Jason grabs the box that along with the damning pictures also holds the timetables and information packets he’d been able to steal under them. A perfect hiding place. So, he pulls out the floor plans he’d managed to grab so far. It has little ‘x’s where he’ll plant bombs as to make a large dent in Ra’s operations (he had extra ones for hideouts he’s long left, too). Now, he just needs a specific date to choose and get the guards schedules (which change every day) and he’s good as gone.

He ignores the voice in his head that asks: 

Is Robin dead?  

He ignores the feeling in his gut that is uneasy.

…TWO DAYS BEFORE DISASTER… 

The next morning, Jason woke up with a start. He had the hint of a plan. It was reckless and bold and smart and sneaky. It was the type of plan that usually ends in one’s death. 

It was a Robin plan. 

…ONE DAY BEFORE DISASTER… 

Before he tried anything, Jason needed to know who was going to be positioned where (as to avoid the actually-dangerous-to-him assassins, know where the idiots-who-called-themselves assassins were and where none of Ra’s men were whatsoever—aka the route he wanted to take, well, aim for , if you wanted to be realistic about it) and what the security in general was (biometric identification? If so, were there pulse sensors?). 

While he had access to most places as “Talia’s Pet Project” (as said by some of the cruder assassins), he wasn’t allowed outside without an escort-entourage party. Apparently for “safety” reasons (which were annoyingly valid—he needed to find a way to survive in the Sahara Desert long enough to make it to a town as a guy who had survival training in theory ). 

So, before he took the long route on the way to his somewhat-monthly meeting with Talia, Jason planned his heist. He needed to pass the security room that was run mostly by the Incompetents™ as they were more likely to keep easily and quickly hack-able files, or maybe even printouts. 

But, even the ones with less-than-stellar cognitive thinking skills weren't so dumb as to utterly fail at their signs job so hard as to hand over the sensitive information on a silver—fucking—platter. 

So, a day before he actually physically stole the plans he bangs his prep work, after he cased the sector, he picked his mark. One of the Incompetent™ newbies whose real name he didn’t know, was in desperate need of a friend. So, grabbing a spare uniform for the lower-level, ahem, employee , Jason snagged the place next to him in the boring graveyard shift after making sure the guy whose uniform he—uh, borrowed, was fast asleep in a nice little alcove. The whole-face masks made it easy to go unnoticed. 

“ Hey ,” he said in Arabic (a good somewhat confirmed guess at the standard language spoken), leaning back in the controls. “ You new here too? ” He added, as to establish a connection. 

“ Uh, yeah. ” The assassin probie said, sounding young and male. Poor kid didn’t know what he was getting into probably, which was ironic as he was probably college age and thus older than Jason. 

“ I was gonna have a lunch party later this week, thought maybe you could pass the word around? ” 

“ Wh—dude are you insane? We’d get caught and be in so much trouble! ” And also die a painful death was unspoken but heard loud and clear as if it were shout.

“ Yeah, well, what’s life without a little risk? ” And the fact that the older but more chill ninjas (not all actual ninjas but he meant by aesthetic-wise) had been doing an impromptu luncheon for a while and one of the guys knew a guy who knew a higher up who had enough pull to not get them all executed. Like Ra’s could afford that loss in operatives. So overall Jason wasn’t worried about them dying, even if he felt guilty about endangering them. Don’t back down now, Robin, he told himself. 

“ Are you sure we won’t get in trouble… ’cause I don’t know, man. I still think you're insane. ” While it would’ve been nice if his need for acceptance and peer pressure would just make him say ‘yes’, Jason wasn’t delusional. Time for plan 2 (pro tip: don’t label your plans a-z because that implies you only have 26 contingencies). Time to persuade, it wouldn’t be too hard as he seemed to be teetering on the edge, and just needed a push in the right direction. 

“ Look, you didn’t hear this from me, but the higher up’s do this all the time. I just think it’s about time the younger generation gets invited to the party. ” 

After a fugitive glance (not subtle, slight head turn. Poor probie) in his direction, he sighed. “ Yeah, yeah, I’ll help spread the word. But if we die, I’m gonna blame you. Now get back to the monitor, dumbass. ” Snarky probie, he’d give the Incompetent™ (— fighter , that was what he was referring to!) that. 

“ Thanks, my man, ” he said before stalling and making an excuse to leave his post. Now the already thin security would be non-existent. 

…THE DAY OF THE DISASTER… 

Making sure to pass the security room that was run by the incompetent assassins (as opposed to the competent ones. While it made, in his opinion, more sense to mix-and-match; none of the competent ones wanted to deal with the incompetence of the others. Which was… fair , and helped him out—so Jason wasn’t complaining). 

And, since he planned for their unofficial “lunch break” at quarter past noon, he could slip into their ops room unnoticed and have a glance at the stupidly written down schedule that had accompanied passwords. It was almost too easy. Tensing, Jason erased the footage (as this room did have cameras, which, well, duh , they controlled them too) of him ever being there and went to “Talia”, apologizing for being late. 

Something was off, but he ignored it. 

“Hey, T. Sorry I'm late,” Jason said as he walked into the sitting room, after being let in by one of the competent ninjas. Externally he was relaxed, slightly apologetic, with an undercurrent of anger. It was a fluid act, hard to see through. Hopefully, it was good enough. 

“It’s of no conscience, Jason,” she said, face giving away nothing to her true thoughts. “Please, sit. Drink some tea.” 

“What kind?” He asked as he sat down on the wooden bench, looking out the window. He wanted to cross his arms, but feared looking anxious or worried. Instead, he crossed his legs and leaned back without a care in the world, so to say. The person in front of me completely manipulated me with just a few words and photos, and can kill me ten different ways, ten times over, before I can say ‘oops’. 

“Oolong.” She said evenly as she poured from an expensive porcelain tea pot into a matching delicate cup. It was white with tasteful gold leaves that somehow managed to make the small (real!) emeralds not look tacky. 

“Thanks,” he said, picking up the cup but not drinking from it. “How are you?” 

“I am well; but small talk doesn’t suit you, Jason. Whatever you wish to ask me, just say it.” Shit, he had been made. “I know you’ve been stalling me, it took a while for me to figure it out, but…” in for a penny, in for a pound… “I get it. You love him, but …I’m not sure murdering him is part of the plan anymore.” 

From the reflection in the window glass he was looking at he saw her smirk. “You’re an impressive liar , Jason Todd.” She said, and his heart jumped to his throat. “I almost believe you.” 

How much did she know? While he should assume she knew everything, he should also deny anything to his last breath. For all he knew, she could just be trying to gaslight him… and still thought he was under her control? It was a working theory, but he would act as if it were a fact. 

“Huh?” He asked, confused. “What do you mean, Tals?” 

“In the past decade, they’ve come out with undetectable cameras too small for the human eye to see. They use it in high-profile security, and it can even be adjusted to hide itself from the enhanced. Interesting, no?” She asked, mockingly. A predator playing with its food. It’s prey. 

“Yeah…” he said. “But what’s that gotta do with me?” 

“You know, Jason ,” she said, saying his name honey-sweet, and something about it was so… patronizing . He hated it, and she knew it. “I have cameras like that outside my office.” 

No . But he had a sinking feeling in his gut, the instincts that saved his life more than once tingling danger danger danger like an alarm gone off inside his head. 

“You know, little Robin,” she took a step closer. When had she gotten up? “Eavesdropping is so rude. And you know what we do to evesdroppers here in the League?” Yes , is what he didn’t say. B made me read every file on you so I knew what to avoid.  

Instead, he looked up and raised an eyebrow. Alfie had taught him that once. He was teaching Jason how to cook some dishes, as he was on bed rest after a fight went wrong. He had asked— 

Focus, Todd. He reminded himself, ignoring the echoing focus, Robin, that followed.

“—They are seen as traitors. And Jason, I know you know what we do to traitors.” 

He needed to get out, somehow escape from one of the most heavily guarded points in the al Ghul base. He threw his plans to the wind. Long ago, he learned to keep anything of true value on his person. While he would’ve liked to grab his extra gear, he still had the basic escape routes outlined and some pictures of Timmy and fam in his jean’s back pockets. 

“You kill them,” he said, to stall for time while he subtly tried to scout the room for any exits. Maybe the windows? He wondered. Or is that too obvious? 

She chuckled sadistically, smiling like she was in on an inside joke and he was the poor fool it was about. “Oh, Jason. There are things much worse than death.” 

Then she eyed him consideringly. “Don’t bother. The only way out of this room is through me.” 

Thanks for the tip, you bastard. He thought. 

Then, all hell ran loose. 

Thousands of ninjas with sharp blades fell from somewhere. Maybe there were secret compartments in the walls and they were hiding from the beginning? It was his current theory, and that said a lot. 

Both the competent and incompetent ones he noted, though the competent ones were closer to him— swarming him , more like; while the… ahem, less , were by Ra’s. It was a solid plan. If he somehow managed to get through the better ones he would likely take longer and end up somewhat injured making it easier for Ra’s—or, god forbid, the Incompetents™, to take him down. Permanently, for good, here lies Jason Todd —the whole shtick with no more get out of death free card: resurrection - limited edition this time. 

“Y’know, if you wanted to join the party you could've just asked—” he said as he blocked a dozen or so blade wielding ninjas. “It’s really not that knife to intrude on a conversation.” 

He heard one of them growl under their breath at his Robin-esque quip and subsequent pun. He smirked, just like old times. Part of him wanted to look over and expected to see Batman, who would then scold ‘ pay attention, Robin’ . (He looked, just for a second, and regretted it when he had to fend off a side attack and a face full of ninja butt).

“S’okay though,” he said, ignoring his wanna-be hallucinations and focusing on the assassins trying to sneak up behind him. “Gotta keep my skills sharp .” Using his surroundings, he whipped around to the other operatives who were using their, ahem, co-workers , as a distraction. “But I’m just not sure you guys are cutting it.” 

These were the higher-ups? The al Ghul’s had really taken a hit and fallen from grace. 

“Where are your top assets?” He mocked, turning to talk to Ra’s directly. “’Cause I don’t see them.” 

“Guards, attack.” She said simply, ignoring him. And suddenly Jason realized that he had been tricked again. The earlier ones were really the Incompetents™ and these were the Competents™. It was smart and worked with the same basic idea—tire him out and then take him down. It was what he thought, but unfortunately reversed. Plus , he used up all his good puns for opponents using pointy objects. He was, after all (despite younger-him’s best efforts), no Dick Grayson. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, as well-trained assailants attacked him. “ Damn it !” Dick or B wouldn’t have fallen for another of al Ghul’s tricks. Or any at all. “Shit, shit, shit , shit !” 

He couldn’t continue to fight them, and if Ra’s wasn’t lying and the only way out was through… wait . It was fundamentally stupid to have only one entrance/exit in your home office when you're a high-profile probably-target. And Ra’s was many things (the words ‘ evil scumbag ’ came to mind in increasingly violent and not PG-13 terms) but he wasn’t stupid. Not to mention, a liar . 

Ignoring the hordes of assassins out for his blood, he played the good ol’ “slip into the crowd and pit your opponents against each other” trick. He smirked as he succeeded in slipping around them. Ra’s, however, was another obstacle he needed to avoid. While he could maybe take down most of the Competents™ attacking, there was no way that in his weakened state he could beat Ra’s al Ghul. He wasn’t a complete idiot (only half-way to one, as he was in the situation at all ). 

So, he quickly tried to observe the room as he stabbed an assassin with their comrade’s blade, and poked the guy he framed so they’d turn just as the other went to see who the fuck just stabbed him. Which, fair, he’d look too. And be hella pissed when his supposed “brother-in-arms” betrayed him. Just what he’d been counting on. 

Okay, Todd, think, he thought as he scanned the room, before defending the guy actually after him. He avoided big shows of movement to try and stay low. No flips. 

No, he realized. Okay, Robin , think.  

Check your surroundings, he remembered. What do you see, Robin?  

Door—nope. Windows—two-story-or-more fall without preparation? Forget it. Wall space—would Ra’s actually be old-fashioned enough to do it? He’d have to check the paintings and bookshelves and aesthetic candle holders for secret doors. 

Slowly, painfully, he moved the bulk of the fight towards the wall he thought was most worthwhile to check out. Then, he heard it. He knew it was his imagination, echoing the past, but— but — 

Know your opponent, Robin.  

Know thine enemy. 

Almost always a good motto to live by, and Ra’s, as he knew, was tricky. He went to the opposite wall he had begun moving towards. A quick glance at the hardly-noticeable anger in those green green eyes told him he was on the right track. 

His eyes flicked over the wall space, sucking in a breath as another ninja hit a lucky hit. He needed to get out of here soon. 

No… no… 

There ! 

Very subtle, hardly noticeable, but the blade that missed his stomach by inches has revealed the tell-tale sound of hollowed wood. A false wall.  

Talia!Ra’s must’ve noticed his discovery too, but luckily he had a head start as Talia was still standing by the opposite door. Ducking into the forced-open passageway, he chucked a blade that he had snagged, jamming the handle and hopefully slowing them down. 

Running through sand-stone corridors (probably underground, by the dark looks of it), Jason turned a few corners, doubled back twice and found his way back to the main complex. Only then, did he sag against the walk as the adrenaline began to run out. And, ow , those wounds really hurt. They stung pretty fucking bad, and he hadn’t even noticed before. Thanks, high pain tolerance. 

It was everything from scrapes and sure-to-be bruises to definitely-poisoned knife wounds that were bleeding him out. Shit . Before he started seeing stars he needed to get out of this death trap. Part of him would rather die in (another!) desert then let Ra’s win. Was it petty? Sure, but it kept him moving. Made him stagger back up and run . 

From there, it was a blur of dusty colors and pain . 

His thoughts were a fluid motion of run run run, turn left, run run run, oh shit some ninjas again turn right and double back then double back again. Again, again, again, repeat, repeat, repeat.  

Hand pressed against his most bloody wound, he was the beautiful exit way door. It might be a hallucination brought on by pain and blood loss and desperation, but damn it if he didn’t want to cry tears of joy. Maybe he wouldn’t die today (for a second time—in general, not in the last twenty-four hours)! But just as he thought the cursed thought, god damn mother fucking DEATHSTROKE appeared at the blessed entrance like some sort of hellish nightmare. 

“What the fuck?!” He muttered, dying a little inside. Why him?! 

“…Robin 2.o?” Slade fucking Wilson asked in utter disbelief. “Weren’t you dead ?” 

“Yeah,” ( maybe he could work with this… ) “the rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated.” 

“Sure, kid,” he said ( didn’t he have some sort of soft spot for Dick? Is that why he didn’t kill his “brother”—though he might view me as a replacement and in that case… ). “Why are you here in Talia al Ghul’s assassin base?” 

Now it was his turn to be confused. “ Talia’s ?” He asked, “ please , Ra’s is, like, I don’t know, possessing her or something. This is Ra’s .” He didn’t answer why he was here, but it didn’t matter as Deathstroke was busy swearing up a storm. Loudly . He could hear even half-dead from blood loss with a horrid ringing in his ears and a healthy dozen or so meters across the room by a windy escape route from him. 

“Look, kid,” he said, and Jason resisted the urge to argue, not a kid. “I don’t know how you’re alive or what the fuck is going on. But clearly you're running and I’d say ‘good for you’ if you weren’t about to die.” He gestured relatively un-threateningly (considering that this was Deathstroke and he was using a katana to gesture) at his bleeding body. 

“So, I’m gonna step aside and suck up my pride when I say knock me out somehow . Clearly you don’t have time for questions so listen up: go to apartment 73 in building A27 of 3rd in Blüdhaven.” 

“…What?” He asked, confused. 

“Do I have to spell it out, kid? I am letting you escape. Now knock me out because I want no part in this and I am not going to be your scapegoat.” 

“Hey, in my defense I’m kinda bleeding out right now, so sorry I’m not the quickest.” He swore he heard Wilson mutter something about being pretty quick right then and maybe something about how he reminded him of… Dick? Well, yeah, he spent most of his so-far teen years trying to be him! He hopes some of that stuck with him in death and through… everything . 

Slowly inching (aka dragging his sautéed limbs) towards Deathstroke, too tired to bother thinking it was probably a trap, he considered how to knock him out in his weakened state. 

Huh, he replaced his lost eye with some sort of high-tech prosthetic. That’s new , he noted. While it made sense to replace it—better proverbial vision for one—it was sad to see the signature pirate-esque aesthetic go. 

With B as his (ex?) mentor, even blood loss didn’t stop him from making an analysis of it. Must’ve been a big break in science over the last few years , he marveled as he observed it. It must be connected to his nerves if he could see outta the thing—which he must, because otherwise what’s the point? 

After quickly dismissing punching him, the other usual ways, and a: just take his other eye, why don't chya? He decided to aim for the fake. The pain should be enough to overload his brain and knock him out. If he angled the blade the right way. 

He smiled, a Robin smile, ignoring Wilson’s don’t take all day, kid, and stabbed him in the eye. 

You’re gonna need a new eyepatch, Slade, he thought as he made his (as quick as can be given the… circumstances ) escape. 

Just as the assassins turned the corner. Perfect, now he just had to activate the explosives. 

Chapter Text

Blinking flecks of dried blood off his eye, Slade Wilson had an unfortunate feeling of deja vu. Pressed uncomfortably against a wall, down an eye, he groaned and glanced up at whoever was holding him captive. 

With long dark hair cascading down her back and wearing green robes that enhanced her too green eyes while highlighting her caramel skin tone, Talia al Ghul was striking. If she was, y'know, really Talia. 

“W’a ha’pend…?” He slurred, and damn the kid just had to give him a killer headache while he was at it. 

“I could ask you the same, Wilson,” the demon dressed as a woman stated, all but glaring hell onto him. “How did an injured teenager get the jump on a world-renowned mercenary?” 

“The little shit was tricky,” he said, finding his voice. “You didn’t tell me that the batbrat was back on this Earth.” She glanced at him, assessing, before letting him stand on his own two legs. Even if he could, he would be a fool—a soon-to-be dead fool—to try and run. And she knew it. 

“I did not think it was vital information.” She said arrogantly. 

He glared, turning his head to look out at the vast deserted landscape, swirling sand in the beginning of a storm. “You don’t think you should bother looking for him, then?” 

She smiled, amused. “No,” she replied offhandedly. “It would be an unnecessary bother. He’s as good as dead now—injured and alone in the Sahara Desert.” 

“All the bat brats are pretty damn resourceful, Talia. Wouldn’t do to underestimate one. Besides, what happens when some poor tourist finds a teenager’s dead body ?” 

“Thousands die trying to cross the Sahara Desert, Wilson. No one will even question when they find the body.” She paused, consideringly. “ If .” 

“Sure, a teen with the face of a billionaire’s dead kid won’t raise questions.” Well, to be fair it had been years and people were unlikely to recognize him as such, but it made his argument stronger to clarify. 

“Don’t doubt me, Slade Wilson. Between the years and the sand, he will be just another faceless body in the harsh dunes.” 

Hiding his frown as he recalled the kid’s warning; Slade needed to play his cards right. “Of course, Talia. Whatever you say.” He replied, somewhat sarcastically.

“Good,” was all she said in response. Then, after a few seconds:

“It wouldn’t do to doubt the Demon’s Head.” 

Billions of course rough tiny rocks pelted his face like splinters of glass against skin. Between the pain in his abdomen and the growing sand storm, Jason wasn’t sure he’d live to tell the tale of his legendary escape from the League of Assassins. 

“Ha,” he laughed humorously and slightly hysterically, as his voice broke in the middle and he let out a hiss of pain. I’m gonna die alone in a foreign desert again, he thought incredulously. Well, at least there's no madman in a warehouse with a crowbar this time ’round.  

Jason had been walking for hours with no direction except ‘away from there’. Well, calling it ‘walking’ was generous. It was more of a limp-crawl-drag sort of thing. The knife that had slashed him—not stabbed, there was a difference—left a relatively shallow wound by the standards of ‘wow this is bleeding a whole ton’. It was practically bleeding him out on its own, but if given the right treatment in time it wouldn’t scar too badly if at all. 

It should be pretty easy to deal with then, right? Wrong. Because it was a LoA ninja and they could never make it that easy. So of course, the knife was poisoned. While Sasha—his serial killer Black Widow poison professor originally from Italy but who was hiding out in her villa in the mountains by the time he killed her—had given him a basic overview on how to detect poisons and how to cure them, his main focus was on how to do stuff B hadn’t already done. Thus, their time together focused on how to poison others effectively. Now, he regretted his earlier haste. 

He groaned, damn it, Todd, he thought angrily. You just had to be rushing. ( And it had nothing to do with the overview reminding him painfully of him and B… he quickly and effectively cut off that train of denial and decided to ignore that reality.).

Still, even if he could recognize the poison, he wouldn’t have the necessary materials to treat it. And his hopes that it was relatively harmless were on the fucking ground. 

So, for what could have been anywhere from hours to days to weeks, Jason wandered mindlessly half-contonic in a desert of pain and fury. It was probably only hours, he realized half delirious, as otherwise he would’ve likely died of thirst and/or starvation. Well, thirst first, but still. (Or, y’know any number of dangerous animals and plants that he could’ve walked into defenseless and injured). 

Still, the mirages of water drawing him off course very few blinks of an eye, he honestly thought it was just getting more severe when instead of an oasis or B, Jason saw a random dark skinned man who he didn’t recognize. He was dressed in sandy clothes that blended in with the landscape, and he looked down with pity and concern from next to his camel. 

Weird choice, subconscious, but okay go at it, worlds better than the sick fuck who killed him at any rate. 

“Who are you… wait, J—child? Are you okay?” He asked him in very slightly accented English, an undertone, hint of an accent—which was good, as Jason didn’t have the mental strength to mentally translate, if he knew his native language at all. If his throat wasn’t so dry he might’ve responded with something snarky and defensive—the way he learned to react from a young age when hurt. Maybe: I don’t know, dude. Do I look ‘okay’?  

Instead, he said nothing. Just gave him a bland look that hopefully looked more ‘ no, I do this for fun , whaddya think? ’ rather than just plain pathetic. Clearly, it didn’t work as the man said: “Poor thing. What have you gotten yourself into these days? There is a town just a few miles from here with a good doctor. I will take you to her, child.” 

Even if he had the strength, Jason had no desire to protest against the kind stranger offering refuge. He hoped his eyes conveyed his thanks as he was carried from the desert; this time, still alive. 

You know when you first wake up from a long nap and everything that happened before was just a little fuzzy? Maybe you latch on to a big moment in recent years and think that you’re still there. Not amnesia, because as soon as you glimpse it it’s gone, but a momentary confusion, really.

Yeah. 

Jason must have blacked out as he woke up a few hours later with a killer headache and ringing in his ears. His wounds were bandaged and disinfected, and his arm was hooked due to an IV system. 

But before he opened his eyes, he thought—just for a moment, a fleeting second—that he had somehow survived the explosion that changed his life and marked his death. Think that the looming presence over his shoulder was B, who was gonna tell him that he got there in time, that everything was going to be alright, Jaylad . 

He opened his eyes, and it shattered as it did a lot over the recent months. Times where he lay awake imagining it. In some fantasies he’d tell B that, confessing it just to see if he was hurt. But in others, it would really happen. He didn’t get much further than that, but it alone was enough. 

But instead of B, the man he vaguely remembered from earlier, smiled down on him. “Good, you’re awake.” He said. “I didn’t think you could run, but it’s nice to see you got out, too.” 

“ What ?” He asked. Just who was this guy? Did he work for Ra’s? Would he send him back ? 

“Relax, Jason.” He said, explaining exactly nothing. “ Explain ,” he hissed, even though the thinly veiled threat was null and void as he was injured and lying on a cot at this strange man’s mercy. He knew his name. He shivered non voluntarily. 

“Your clothes and the poison in your system,” he said, irritatingly calm. “League-based.” Then, a small up-quirk of his lips that imitated a smile or more accurately a smirk. It reminded him painfully of B that one time when— never mind , he forcefully ignored the warm tears swelling in his eyes. The pain meds must’ve made him loopy or something as he was normally much more in control of involuntary responses. 

“I was Talia’s lover when you were catatonic,” the man interrupted his spiral. “I understand our relationship was physical rather than emotional, but that didn’t stop her from talking about the things she loved. Her sons, and Bruce. You, Jason, were her world in a dark landscape where her father dictated and her lover betrayed her after their son died.” 

“ Huhgmh ?” He made a noise of utter confusion. The drugs in his system were making him think slowly. He hated it. 

The man chuckled. “I got out when Ra’s lost use of me. No names for my family’s safety, but you are at my sister’s clinic. You are safe now, child. Rest, heal, then leave. I will help you, but my family’s safety is paramount. It comes first.” 

“Y…yes…, s-sir,” he managed. “ Thank you ,” he added gratefully. It was a minor miracle some ex-assassin saved some random teen knowing it could harm his family. As soon as he was well enough to walk, he’d leave and try his best to repay him for his kindness. Well, he’d leave so not to impose, yeah, but also he had serious trust issues now and didn’t appreciate being essentially helpless against a stranger who he had no knowledge of. On guard, Todd , he reminded himself. 

He waited for the man to leave and for himself to make a makeshift weapon to hide under his pillow; for Jason to finally close his eyes and sleep. 

“Thank you,” Jason said as the woman with beautiful intricate braids in her hair took off his bandages for the last time. Looking down, he couldn’t even see any scaring at first glance, which was impressive considering how much grief that slash caused him. 

“You are very welcome,” she said with a slightly thicker underlying accent than her brother. While they refused to give names (a good policy, especially since that meant he wasn’t socially obligated to tell them his name), he did learn that she had two young children, a boy and a girl. The boy was getting into football, but his sister still kicked his ass, even though she preferred doing other things. Well, it was phrased nicer than that, but it was still the gist of it. 

“Say ‘hi’ to the kids for me, Doctor,” he said, and she smiled kindly back. “I know my brother wants for you to go so that you don’t bring danger to us, but please know that you are always welcome, child.” 

He smiled a Robin smile, but less the smirk he gave two-bit wanna be rouges, more the softer version that he gave to comfort civilians. It wasn’t the same. Maybe it was some version of his real smile, but he had been Robin for so long the line was blurred. He was Robin, Robin was him—his smile, while not a carbon copy of Dick’s, was still hauntingly similar. 

“Thanks, I’ll miss you. Tell your brother the same.” He replied. 

“I’m sure he will appreciate the sentiment, child. Travel safely.” She intoned. 

Then he was out of the small clinic in a small town and asked around for a much more subtle form of an airport. 

“Goodbye,” he said as he walked out back. 

“I need transport. Overseas.” He said to the corrupt official. Things had changed a lot he had learned over the last eighteen hours; but, it seemed that some things never changed. 

“So I hear. No papers . No story . It will cost you. And a lot more than the fee you paid for this conversation.” The official—bald, though only in his late forties. Caucasian, with a perpetual scowl and pointy features—said. He reminded him of Lex Luthor and it wasn’t just appearances. He was slippery, slimy. Corrupt, and clearly could be bought; with no care whatsoever for anybody but himself and his best interests. Thus, why he wasn’t asking any questions other than compensation to the fourteen-year-old in his office. 

“I have money. How much will a ticket run me?” He reassured him. Jason did actually have money that he had taken from Ra’s. Old habits (thankfully) die hard, as he had important things in his pocket in case he needed to run at a moment's notice. 

“Where is it you need to go, young man?” The official asked him, a subtle self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips despite his neutral expression he tried to outwardly display. His eyes lit with greed. 

The part of him that was Robin, boy detective, protege to the greatest in the world, couldn’t help but be curious about Slade Wilson—Deathstroke—’s instructions. So, prepared for a trap, he answered in one word. Besides, he needed to go in that direction anyway. 

“ Blüdhaven .” Jason said, face shrouded by a baseball cap and red hoodie he’d picked up earlier. He ignored the blond enforcer on his right, and looked into the official’s eyes challengingly. Barely noticeable, hidden behind a much better poker face than the official, he smiled a Robin smile. 

Jason looked out the darkened windows. It was a gray, cloudy day. Or maybe night. With the time difference changing and future jet lag impending, it was hard to tell for sure. 

It was a mercenary transport. No one gave a damn why he was sitting here as long as he’d paid his way. And there won’t be a record anywhere on Earth that this flight happened. 

No one can tail him. And no one will see him coming. Which was all very good when there’s an international high-profile assassin cult gunning for your head on a pike; with an unknown amount of resources, but safe to say they have connections . 

All his bills were marked, so he used them to buy black market gold he could sell up for more and used that money to bribe the official. Good thing it paid off; as his second option was to use the (also probably marked) materials to forge a passport and board a commercial flight under an inconspicuous alias. But with Ra’s resources, if he wanted Jason's head (and not to marvel at his youthful complexion), anything that wasn’t a fifth degree offense just by breathing in the same airspace was too risky. 

So. 

Call him paranoid (and oh buddy it runs in the fucking adoptive family), but now, on the highly illegal plane flying over the Atlantic, with a number of unscrupulous characters aboard, when in semi-desperate need to get trained assassins off his trail, Jason decided there’s no reason not to make friends . Specifically, friends that can get him materials that he can use to confuse and bewilder his enemies by having them second-guessing his motives. After all, why wouldn’t an anyway lied to teenager not run to his trusted parent and instead start a one man war in frame in a very very disapproved lethal way in said parent’s city before having some version of his original showdown plan going on. Yep. Totally believable. Welp, the Incompetents™ (previously thought as of the naive and/or innocent) might buy it anyway. 

Besides, he still had motions 2 and 7.9 going on in the background for contingency: get the hell outta dodge and confuse the dodgers while I’m at it (and yeah, I know I’m probably using the ‘dodge’ tenses wrong) . 

Decision made (y’know like he hasn’t been weighing it in the back of his mind for a little over an hour and a half), Jason turned to look at the three stooges in front of him. A blond, a red head, and a brunet. He’d say it's nice to have some diversity here , if they weren’t three middle aged white men. 

“You gentlemen know a good military grade supplier?” He asked, shoving his hands in his red hooded sweatshirt’s pockets. While most of it way for contingency 73.jd—aka: get the hell outta dodge and confuse the dodgers while I’m at it (and yeah, I know I’m probably using the ‘dodge’ tenses wrong)— some of it (assuming they—the shady guys—did have connections and could get it) was for Jason as he was low-key walking into Deathstroke's maybe-trap and wasn’t stupid enough to go in without his backup. But since he didn’t have humanoid backup, he was planning on having an (un)healthy bunch of C4, give-or-take a rocket launcher, perhaps a good AK-47, and some other totally easy to carry and hide weapons as well. Y’know, just to be safe. 

Stocky Brunet on his right pulled him out of his thoughts by breaking the stunned silence. “Who the hell are you , kid?” He asked, more vocal than his friends red and yellow (hair) who looked a mix of confusion but trying to be stoic. They were nowhere near as good as B. 

“ Nobody . Absolutely nobody.” He smirked, smiling a more subdued version of a Robin smile. 

Soon, the shitty Blüd atmosphere would be in sight (and speaking of shit holes—he visited Dick at the nuclear waste dump he called his apartment once. Never again—though that was due to exfoliating circumstances, and now he was about to break that “rule” so to say, but that wasn’t the point— anyway …). 

Okay, Jason wasn’t an idiot. Something was way off. He clocked it as soon as he saw the, ah, new renovations on the city. If the military grade laser guns with a touch screen keypad weren’t enough, the flying cars gave it away. 

That moment, half-stunned, stepping off a mercenary transport ship, Jason seriously wondered if he’d stepped into an alternate dimension. Parallel universe. Time traveled. Something . 

Because who was he kidding, there was no way it was just a few years from that fateful trip to Ethiopia. 

Fuck.  

He wanted to cry. To scream how or why or… or—  

Part of him wanted B: his dad. The steady presence looking over his shoulder. Robin was Batman’s light in the darkness. But who was Robin’s light? Bruce, the guy who saved his life ( set him up to die ). Who missed patrol for him when he was sick ( who replaced him when he was murdered— ). G-d, please, make it make sense. 

Check your surroundings , a voice echoed. What do you see, Robin?  

The future. 

Ro—Ja—Ro— Jason he was Jason ( Robin is magic! Robin is dead. ) needed to… focus. Distract. Deal with whatever this is later. Fake it ’til ya make it had saved his life more than once Before. So. Now. 

Fake it ’til ya make it, Todd. 

( Robin ) 

He would go to—against better judgment—the address Deathstroke gave him. But first, because he wasn’t a complete idiot and wasn’t going anywhere in this strange new world without trusted backup went off in the direction of Dick’s shitty apartment in Blüd. 

Assuming it still existed. 

Ignoring the leering ‘ all good, kid? ’ from the others offloading by flipping whoever it was the bird, Jason forced himself to take a step forward. Then another. 

He had lived: with Willis and Catherine Todd; on the streets; in a billionaire's manor (flying across the rooftops, dancing with danger. Smirks laughter. A lifetime trying to be someone else. It was the best lifetime of them all). 

He had died: betrayed; bloody and broken; blown to bits. 

He was Jason fucking Todd. 

He wasn’t what Batman made him, or the Joker, or Ra’s al Ghul. 

He was Jason Todd. 

( He was Robin. ) 

He started running. 

The buildings seemed to have moved around a bit, but the general layout was the same. He made it to Dick’s apartment in record time. 

He took a deep breath. 

There was a doorbell, but the door was still wood. Instead of ringing it, Jason raised his hand to the door. 

Knock. Knock. K         Knock. Knock. Knock.               K!

                        n                                          K

Knock..            o                                                      N!

                        c                                          n

Knock. Knock. k                                                       O!

             K                     K   n     o      c     k   o

Knock.      n                 n                                          CK!

                     o             o                               ck

Knock.              ck       ck  K    n     o      c      k         ! ! !

R2!: Robin II - urgent he spelled, a code he hoped Dick would open the door for nosgola or habit ( eh. They used and devised this once ) and not take it as someone impersonating my baby brother! Attack! (Assuming he thought of him as a brother. Things were better in the… end, but not great.) or even take it at face value, open it like a polite person raised with Alfie’s influence and just have a healthy dose of extreme suspicion on the side. 

“Okay, okay! I’m coming!” A feminine voice called. Not Dick and too old to be a paramour, he noted. Still he waited, ignoring the obvious: maybe he moved in this dystopian nightmare world. 

“Yes?” The woman—mid-forties, dark hair, tan skin, brown eyes, maybe Latino—asked politely if hurriedly and slightly annoyed. Not Dick then for sure. 

“Sorry,” he flushed in embarrassment. “I was looking for my older brother. I think he used to live here but he must’ve moved. Estranged, y’know, but mom and dad are dead now and… please, sorry to be a bother but do you know if I can find out where he’s moved to now? Apartment history, maybe?” Jason borderline begged—lied, technically, but still. 

The woman’s eyes softened. Poor boy, her eyes said. “Such manners,” she chuckled lightly, before turning worried and serious. “I—I’m sorry I have to leave for work now, as I’m already late, but… go to the lobby and tell Bobby—her name tag should say—that Rosa sent you and ask her.” 

“Thank you, Miss…?” 

“Gonzalez,” she said, “but please, call me Rosa.” 

“Thanks, Rosa,” Jason said, turning. “Have a nice day at work.” 

“Bye.”

Then, he took the further elevator despite his rush (ever say ‘bye’ then start genuinely walking the same way? Yeah, the lost minutes were worth it), and looked for the name tag with ‘Bobby’ on it (her full name was ‘Robyn’. It was spelled differently. She went by a nickname. A half-choked sob pained the back of his throat when he learned). Really, service had improved greatly and things had changed a lot. This didn’t used to be a hotel. 

( Where was his world? His dad, his brother? 

…Was this his world now, never to go back to Before? )

Go to apartment 73 in building A27 of 3rd in Blüdhaven, Deathstroke had told him. 

Staring at the large complex in front of him, Jason hesitated. Maybe it was an ambush waiting for him inside and not… Well, a part of him wanted it to be Dìck waiting in there to explain everything and be willing to accept him despite his permanently altered moralities. A dream, like the fever dream this was—but this—whatever thus was—was sick. He was crazy… he wanted home. 

Dad , part of him called. He swallowed back the tears and pushed forward. 

“Sir, your order?” Alf—some random waiter at the cafe across the street from the building that he was using to stake it out asked. 

“Oh, uh,” he stuttered, your better than this, Todd, his mind whispered, but the memories— 

“Just some tea please. Oolong.” He hated how he liked the tea Ra’s had offered him. But maybe the real Talia liked it too—  

“Of course.” He should’ve ordered coffee, or alcohol or—what was that rich person drink B had had at his parties? Espresso Martinis? Yeah, that. Caffeine and alcohol. 

Whatever . 

“Hi. Sorry to bother you, but my grandpa’s running late, and I can’t find which table we reserved… I asked Madison at the front, but she said to ask you since you're out here… table 36B?” A young, female voice asked. Curiously, Jason turned around and—

She had warm skin the color of the expensive creamed coffee at WE, faint freckles that could be bits of cinnamon swirling in one of those $9.99 lattes that he saw displayed on the menu of this cafe here. Her hair was wavy, and reminded him of unaltered espresso: dark and black as night, but when held up to the light, it became a glowing auburn. 

Okay, enough with the coffee references; in his defense, he was projecting after a tired day that reminded him he hadn’t slept in just under 36 hours. 

The girl had the type of face you saw once and never forgot, haunting you in corners, always hoping to catch another glimpse. Unforgettable . And that was how Jason knew for sure he’d never seen her before in his short life. 

So why was she so familiar? 

He didn’t get the answer until he looked up and saw her eyes. Blue, the bluest of blues, true blue eyes. He had seen those before. Had seen them glaring in hatred, had seen them sparkling in joy and mischief. He knew those eyes . 

Then, he heard the voice they should match with. A bit older maybe. More tired. But— but — 

“ Jason ?” He breathed, like he was seeing a miracle, a ghost, a mirage he was scared would disperse if he got too close. Dick . 

Slowly, he turned fully around, ignoring the girl’s confused look. 

That was not Dick . 

Chapter Text

“…Jason?” Not-Dick repeated more hesitantly, walking closer. His face was worn with age, new scars mixing with old. “It’s been awhile since I saw you,” he tried for a joke, but his voice cracked in the middle making it more like a half-sob. A cry for a dead brother's ghost. 

“Same,” he replied drily. “Who are you?” The look on Not-Dick’s face was heartbreaking to behold and Jason regretted his blunt words. Way to fuck it up on the first try, Todd, he reprimanded himself harshly. 

“I… your brother, Dick. Normally you remember me when I hallucinate you, Jay.” 

There… There was a lot to unpack there. Jason didn’t know what to say or do or think . He was… Maybe-Dick? His head hurt. “You're old,” he said tactlessly. When cornered, he learned early: show no weakness and strike back fast. “Older, I mean,” he clarified, blushing. Alfie taught him better than this. 

“…Older?” Dick Not Maybe-Dick asked, glancing confused at his… daughter? Granddaughter, perhaps? Well, despite the details of their relationship, Girl-Dick looked confused, glancing between him and Maybe-Dick, trying to make sense. The waiter decided to walk away at some point and Jason applauded him. This guy will live, he thought, unlike some of the nosy onlookers from nearby tables who seemed to think they were watching five-star reality TV. 

“Yeah, Dickhead,” he said, forging the ‘maybe’ for effect. “Like, college-age—though like me and my funeral, you missed that life.” Jason chuckled darkly at his clever if crude joke. 

Maybe-Dick flinched, and Girl-Dick let out a soft gasp. “…Sunshine?” Maybe-Dick asked, turning to his girl mini-me. “Can… Can you see him?” 

“Uh, yeah, Gramps, what’s going on?” Granddaughter then , Jason decided, before looking away. Was this really Dick? How long had he been— 

“I,” he started, before second guessing. If this were really Dick, he'd have already thought of it. Been three steps ahead. He was the original. The best, the first, the only. The golden boy. And Jason was just— a Robin, a replacement, a failure —Jason. Still, he spoke. 

“I think we should take this family reunion—as lovely as it is—elsewhere, don’t you agree, Dickiebird?” He ignored the girl. 

“Y—yeah,” he stumbled slightly, blinking rapidly. “My apartment is just across the street.” We can talk there, it was unsaid but implied. Jason nodded, before leaving one of Talia Ra’s exchanged hundreds (he had gone to a random bank, had them changed into a different currency then back to dollars at a different unrelated bank. Same for any other currency type he had. A scheme to stop Ra’s from trailing him easily. If he was to get caught, his captor better lose sleep and resources on it) on the table for the service and his un drunken tea. 

“Okay.” It was a simple, one word agreement. But to one trained by Batman himself, one would read into it as a metaphorical olive branch. I don’t trust you but I’ll give you a chance. 

That was all Dick asked for. 

They walked in relative silence. There were a few questioning looks from girl-Dick, but Probably-Dick ignored them. 

Jason closed his eyes. 

Part of him, the part that was confused and wanted family and hoped beyond everything that in the strange new world he still had his brother —

Hoped that Dick could forgive him. 

Decades ago: Wayne Manor, Bristol, NJ 

First meeting 

Jason sat at the large table in the Manor’s library. It was made of some rich-person wood, because everything here was rich. Fuck, they had their own library . He had heard rumors that it was larger than the rundown place at the corner of third and fourth that Mom would take him to in her rare good days. They were true. 

It was awesome, almost as cool as being Robin. When he was little, he was always too small to fight back. Too weak. He remembered late nights where his dad had one too many bottles and he and Mom would start to argue and he’d just hide under their rundown kitchen table—cheap plywood, nothing like this grand monstrosity—and wait and wait and wait for it to be over. 

Never, could he stop mom from being hurt, so hurt she started relying on her special medicine . 

But now? No one could hurt anyone, it was like a magic power, only without the mystical bullshit. Robin is magic, he thought. Being Robin gives me magic.  

He wondered if the first Boy Wonder felt that way. He remembered once when he was little, Dick had supposedly saved him from falling debris in an attack. His hero. He couldn’t wait to meet him. Bruce said he was with the Titans—the fucking Titans like it was just every other Tuesday, which, he realized, it probably was —but he had to come home sometime, right? 

Turning back to his book—it was a first edition !—he smiled at the thought, before getting lost again in the world of Pride and Prejudice. It was his favorite, as Mom used to read him it before bed when she was on a good day and he was on a bad one. 

“—what, Alf? Yeah, I’m at the Manor already, took the upstairs route, where’s B?” Jason snapped up, he knew that voice from the videos he had to analyze of the first dynamic duo’s fights. It was a bit older, more tired, but still, definitely his maybe-brother. 

“—no, I'm by the Library, what is it?” 

Jason closed the book—he didn’t yet think of any of this as his— and after a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed it and shoved it in the ratty old backpack he’d pulled out of a dumpster a few years ago. It held all his possessions and included whatever food he could snag just in case. As a precaution because this second chance at life was too good to be true. 

Jason inched along the corner. What would he say? ‘Hi, I’m your new brother, nice to meet you’? That sounded stupid. 

“Look, whatever you think you have to tell me in person I can handle here. I—” the floorboard creaked traitorously and Jason scowled. Rich assholes couldn’t even bother to fix up their shit old manors? Typical. 

“I gotta go, bye Alf, sorry.” Dick hung up—and what kind of person hangs up on Alfie? A spoiled brat that’s who—and looked around. “Whoever you are, you can come out! Babs? Bruce? Hello?” 

Slowly Jason came into the light of the doorframe. “Hi,” he said awkwardly, holding his arm in a half-hug while lifting his right forearm in a quick wave. “I’m Jason.” 

“Who?” Dick asked, confused before having the gall to look embarrassed by his abruptness. “Sorry, that was so rude of me. I’m Dick—laugh it up!—are your parents here for a meeting with Bruce or something?” 

“Uh… no? You don’t know who I am?” Way to sound conceited, Todd, he thought harshly. 

“Oh. Uh, no. You are…?” 

“Jason Todd?” He tried again, giving his full name. At Dìck’s continued confusion, he clarified. “Y'know, ‘Billionaire Bruce Wayne adopts Crime Alley trash’?” Dìck’s eyes widened, surprised, and what? Did he not check in at home at all when he was at his superhero clubhouse? 

“…The new Robin…?” 

And boy, did that get a reaction. At Dick’s scowl and darkening expression Jason involuntarily flinched. He tensed. 

“Oh, so now B thinks he can replace me with some random street kid?!” He yelled at the high ceiling. Not technically at Jason, but it didn’t really change that this was not how he imagined this meeting to go. Well, maybe in his nightmares. 

“—Master Dick! Apologize to your brother!” A familiar British voice said firmly, walking in briskly. If it wasn’t for his slight windswept appearance he wouldn’t have assumed that Alfie—on the other side of the house, if it could be classified as such—all-but ran here. 

“No, Alf! Is this what he waited so long to tell me? He got a new kid and gave him my colors? Fuck that, I’m leaving.” 

A weak ‘language!’ Could be heard, but it was nothing as Dick ignored him and Jason and stormed away. 

“Does he hate me?” He asked Alfie quietly. He liked Alfie from the beginning; even when he still thought B was a creep and/or was gonna send him to Juvie. 

“No, Master Jason,” and Jason shifted uncomfortably at the title he tried in vain to escape from. “He is just very angry at his father. I apologize that you got caught in the crosshairs.” 

“Don’t be,” he replied. “It’s not your fault.” 

Present day: Dick’s new apartment, Blüdhaven, NJ 

“So…” Jason said awkwardly as he sat down on the couch. One thing for sure, Dick’s new apartment was leagues better than his old one. It was less ‘apartment’ and more ‘penthouse’, with large glass windows, not blood stained walls, and multiple rooms. The furniture was less ‘yard sale’ and more ‘trust fund baby’, looking new and comfortable, not threadbare and old. Seems Dickie finally dipped into daddy’s funds after all, though he supposed having a kid, and then a granddaughter that was either living with or visiting him was a good enough excuse to get something less ‘murder scene’ and more ‘magazine chic’. 

“So…” Dick replied after a moment. “Do you want anything to drink? We have water, and ah, orange juice. Maybe some lemonade still, too?” 

“Water’s fine, Dickie.” He said, before turning to the girl after Dick hurriedly left towards what he supposed was the kitchen. “So, Sunshine, who are you supposed to be?” 

The girl started, glaring at him for a second at the nickname. “Kari,” she said shortly. “I live here.” He wanted to say something rude and sarcastic like: no shit , but he stopped himself. He was intruding in on her life, and she was probably really confused. And awkward because he was some random kid she never met but her grandfather thought was a hallucination at first. ( Part of him wondered if Dick ever talked about him to her ).

“I’m back,” Dick needlessly announced as he handed Jason his water. Then to his granddaughter: “Kari, sweetheart, why don’t you go to your room?” 

She glanced around, reading the room. “Okay,” she said surprisingly agreeable; he supposed some part of him expected her to argue for her right to be here. “But keep me updated, please.” Dick smiled gratefully and selfishly Jason's heart wrenched. Of course Dick  got to live and grow old with a picture perfect family. “Of course, Sunshine.” His brother replied to Kari, unknowingly mocking Jason’s earlier thoughts back.

Jason took a sip of water. It was cold and surprisingly fresh. Part of him expected it to taste vaguely iron-y—like water in his old childhood apartment—, but it was like the water at the Manor: pristine. 

Now it was just him and his brother. Jason took the initiative as Dick was still in a half-stunned silence. “So, what do you wanna know, Dickiebird? Up for a round of Twenty Questions, interrogation special edition? ’Cause I’m still not entirely sure this is real, and you’re you.” 

“Sure, Jay. Whatever you want,” Dick said easily, looking relieved that tension evaporated, despite Jason's slight hostile tone and words. 

“Great,” he said. “You wanna start or should I?” 

“You can go first, if you want.” 

“Okay, awesome. What’s the date? Do please include the year, as Ra’s wasn’t so forthcoming with that little tidbit of information. Though what other nuggets of knowledge he handed out like candy, would be telling. And a shoo-in for my Question 2.” 

Dìck’s eyes widened at his name-drop, something like sick understanding enlightening them. He didn’t know shit. 

“Lazarus Pit?” He asked softly, searching his face. Being trained by Batman as well, Jason was sure that his brother clocked the lack of evident childhood malnutrition in his face, the white streak in his hair, and the hint of toxic green lying beneath the surface of his teal-blue eyes, waiting to pounce. 

“Is that your question? Answer mine first.” 

“Oh. It’s July 27, 2055.” 

“My monthly anniversary, I see. And a new century, too; I gather.” Jason paused, collecting his thoughts. While he had… suspected, it was different than knowing . He breathed in and out, and up ran through the mediation techniques he learned from Druca. Part of him wanted to yell and scream and cry but instead he counted to ten. He would be calm, suave, even. Com’on, Todd, get it together, he reminded himself. 

“Yes. The answer to your question is ‘yes’. But, as a freebie in the spirit of brotherhood and bonding, it wasn’t what brought me back .” 

“How?” Dick breathed. Jason shrugged nonchalantly. “That’s the question of the hour, isn’t it? Dear old Ra’s wondered too, you know.” 

“Besides,” he added. “We’re alternating every question-answer. My turn now, the scores are one-one.” 

“Oh, do you want to keep track? I mean I can probably find some paper around here, somewhere. Less paper these days but still plenty accessible. Uh, one-one you said?” Dick was trying too hard and Jason could tell. Still he didn’t stop him, having something to do with his hands such as fiddle a pen might do wonders for the quality of his audience. 

“Sure,” Jason agreed. “But make it two-one and answer me this: did B really replace me?” He hated how his voice shook along with his hands in the end. It sounded like he was a little kid gonna cry, and he shoved his hands in the hoodie pocket and looked away. Again, stronger, he repeated: 

“Did Batman make another Robin, Dick?” 

His silence was telling. Finally, he spoke. “Jason, you have to understand—” 

“‘Yes’ or ‘no’! And swear the damn question, Dickie! Read my lips!: Did. Batman. Make. Another. Robin. After. I. Fucking. Died ?” 

“Yes,” he said, then stopped. “Well, no, technically, he made two-maybe-three.” 

“ What ?!” Jason asked, more confused and surprised than hurt and angry. 

“Yeah, there was Timmy of course, but then Steph had her brief stint and obviously Damian—” 

He was saying these names— Timmy Steph Damian— like they should be obvious to him, like they were a part of both of their lives, like the majority weren’t complete, utter stranger s who he hadn’t ever heard mentioned until today. Like they were family . 

“Look. I get the picture okay? Question answered, mission accomplished. Your turn.” He sounded defeated already, like it was a chore to talk, to live ( maybe it was— ). He regretted his decision to play this game already. 

Noticing his tone, Dick looked apologetic, probably realizing that he didn’t know details until now and didn’t want to; that he only knew enough to ask the question in the first place. Thankfully, he had the tact not to push. 

“Okay. I still want to know how you came back to life. Because it’s either that or a clone, as while you maybe could’ve faked your death, you’re still fucking fourteen .” 

“Not a clone, I assure you. I really did die, horribly, tragically, details are a separate package I doubt you’ll wanna open. And sorry to disappoint, brother, but I don’t remember my journey back from the great beyond, as I keep telling Ra’s over there.” 

Jason took a deep breath. Maybe it was the environment, comfortable with someone he could somewhat trust, or maybe he just really needed to talk, to have someone else try and understand why, how he felt. He want going to unload the trauma of his death unprompted, but after… sure, why the fuck not? 

“Look, all I remember is that timer ticking down to zero and throwing my body over my mom’s, like she betrayed me, but she was still my mom , y’know? Anyway, it was just kinda dark and black and, well, unless you count the warehouse exploding, there was no light . Then, there where the satin ceilings of my coffin, and boy let me tell you, Bruce really didn’t skimp on the craftsmanship, it was a bitch to break out of.” 

He ignored Dick’s increasingly horrified expression and appreciated how he didn’t interrupt, though at parts like his pass mention of Sheila’s betrayal and the whole implied dug outta his grave thing, he looks spike he really really wanted to. 

“When I first woke up, I remember thinking that I had just passed out and this was one of Joker’s newest tricks, that maybe he and Sheila were watching from some hidden camera like the sick bastards they were. But I soon realized just how wrong I was. Not buried in costume, had a mini panic attack and used up the air supply, but that belt buckle was a lifesaver. I got out, went catatonic, next thing I know Talia al Ghul’s telling me to run and not return. Unfortunately for me, I was always shit at following instructions.” 

“ Jason… ” 

He shifted uncomfortably at the attention. “Look, it’s fine, past is past and all that. Scores two-for-two, now. My turn .” 

Dick nodded shallowly, and he looked like he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. But, he didn’t ask to stop. Jason hesitated. He wanted to ask why B hadn’t avenged him, but Dick wouldn’t know that and wouldn’t understand. Dick had been so nice to him, and he wanted to get to know Kari. If he let it slip he was more than okay with breaking the number one rule, had in fact, broken it before without remorse because some people fucking deserve it—well, who would be okay with letting their granddaughter hang out with a murderer? Dick wouldn’t just shove him to the streets, no, he’d put him in prison. A sitting duck that Ra’s operatives would snatch up and give back to Ra’s and— and — oh god, forget Dick, what would Bruce think? Batman would never house a murder masquerading as his dead soldier. He could never go home. Back to the manor. Home .

“Can I stay with you?” Jason asked, slightly panicked. He could probably keep it from Dick if he wasn’t actively looking. But never B. ( He still didn’t regret it. Civilians were better off with them dead ). “Ra’s said a lotta shit about B, and I know now he was just trying to manipulate me, but… I’m not ready, you understand, right?” Yeah, Ra’s manipulated him big-time, but just him mentioning that to Dick was his attempt to play on his feelings. 

Thankfully, Dick smiled. “Of course, Little Wing. I won’t even tell B if you don’t want me to.” 

Jason almost sighed with relief. He was so glad that Dick understood this. The other former (and oh that hurt) Robin understood that Batman was like a dog with a bone when he wanted to get something. B would never let him go if he knew he was alive. But if he knew about Jason’s morals he wouldn’t be trying to take him home. He would try and take him to prison. 

“ Thanks ,” he said gratefully, then thought back. They had started off pretty rough though they did get better. Knowing Dick’s complex, he was only thinking about the beginning and never the good parts. 

“You’ve changed,” Jason said. “It’s not a bad thing. You're less angry now.” 

“I’m still angry, Jay.” Dìck said with a sigh, and Jason knew he was saying that to try and convince him that not everything had changed. Still, the hint of a glint of light returning to Dìck's eyes showed that the reason he told him that worked. But—

green, green, green,

he betrayed me

kill, kill, kill,

I don’t regret it, still.

“Not as angry as me.” 

Decades ago: Gotham City, Gotham, NJ 

Reconciliation

Tap…

Tap… Ta-tap, tap, tap—

Tap!

Jason rapped his foot on the floor in a rhythm. His last period of the day was Geometry. It was his least favorite, if simply because he was bad at it. At his old school in the Alley, they took math in a more practical way. After all, who cared if you couldn’t tell the difference between a Pyramid and a Triangular Prism as long as you could successfully con a tourist into an unfair amount of interest for a tour guide? Not the teacher, that’s for sure. 

Unfortunately for him, the math teacher at Gotham Academy was brutal. Ms. Mathews was pitying in the most patronizing way—because she thought all Crime Alley scum were dumb thugs. She was a sheltered trust fund baby through and through and to her his only redeeming quality was that Bruce was dumb enough to adopt him. While she ignored the phones in class, she was always quick to punish him. 

“Mr Todd!” Case to point. “Crease your tapping this instant! I will not tolerate any distractions in my classroom!” Ms Mathews told him sternly. 

“Sorry, Ma’am,” he said, biting back a million rude comments. He couldn’t get detention again from her, or B was either gonna bench him or have an impromptu parent-teacher conference. Or both. 

Who was he kidding? Definitely both. 

She scowled, about to say something else (almost no woman liked being called ‘ma’am’ but technically there was nothing impolite about saying it. Quite the opposite in fact), when the bell rang. 

The bored rich brats ran out of the building like they were being tortured all day instead of chatting with friends and mindlessly scrolling through TikTok with no teacher daring to reprime them. 

This was his chance. 

Slipping out before Ms. Mathews could give him detention for breathing too hard, Jason ducked into the ever-moving crowd, out of her classroom, down the hall, down the stairs until he saw the large doors. The fresh air was as fresh as you can expect air in Gotham to be. Finally lifting his head before he got a crick—he was trying to keep a low profile and the school uniform allowed for no hooded sweatshirts—Jason looked around for Alfie’s car. When he did a double take and couldn’t find the limo, he did another looking for Bruce. Maybe he decided to pick him up in one of his (many) sports cars as they hit a break on a case. 

Instead of Alfie or B, Jason saw one of the last faces he’d expected to see. 

Dick. 

His first thought was, isn't he off with his friends? His second being: oh shit.   

Jason tried to turn around or slip away again (he was Robin after all), but Dick’s almost cartoonishly bright blue eyes snapped to his ocean one’s before he could even think about an escape plan (sometimes he forgot who Robin was first). 

Somehow running forward, crowd splitting like the Red Sea, the Golden Boy called out “Jay!” Like they were old friends. Pals. 

Brothers . 

“Hey, Dickhead,” he said nervously. Suspiciously. 

“Oh, I just thought we could hang out maybe. I know a really good ice cream shop nearby—” 

Who was he and what did he do with Dick? They had just had a huge row and everything the other day—Jason had called him out on his bullshit because he just couldn’t stand the guy who was supposed to be his brother , fighting with his dad . Obviously, Jason wasn’t stupid, if he were here he’d be planning on yelling at him. Which, hey, Jason wasn’t gonna complain if he wanted to do it over ice cream; but with the very damning evidence that Dick was supposed to go off to the Titans today forced him to wonder if it really was Dick. A clone, shapeshifter maybe? They had had a serious problem with this one new wannabe rouge the other day… Perhaps he was processed, or gone insane? The Justice League had felt with that thing recently too… It was smart, planning this in public. Oh god, he sounded like B .

“Okay,” he said, leading the maybe-imposter away from the crowd as per protocol. “Let’s walk.” 

Dick’s smile was as bright as ever when he said that. “Awesome! I wasn’t sure you’d say ‘yes’ after everything and I just wanted to apologize. We can talk more at the parlor—” 

Jason shoved him on a side of the building, an unmarked Batarang-like blade (hesitantly coined the ‘Bat-knife’) at his throat. “Who are you?” He demanded. 

Dick-poster (get it? Like ‘Dick’s imposter’?) made a choking sound. “ What ?!” He asked. 

“Are you a clone? Shapeshifter alien or maybe a meta? Possessed, crazy?” 

“What?!—no! What makes you think that?” 

“That’s what an imposter would say.” 

“Also what I would say—and am saying ! Look, R1FG9!” 

R1FG9: Robin I, origin story summary: Flying Graysons, started patrolling at age 9. Aka: Dick’s code for ‘I’m actually me’. Not that hard to figure out given context, but easy to remember and seemingly random without context. 

“R2BT12. Sorry, Dickface.” 

“S’okay. How come, though?” 

Jason flushed, embarrassed. No way he was saying that the thought of Dick being nice to him was such a foreign concept he panicked and went to the most extreme solution. “Can we talk at that ice cream shop you were telling me about?” He asked, and one again, despite Jason just going at him with a modified Bat-knife, Dick smiled blindingly. 

As the pretty young waitress walked away at the weird rich ice cream shop that actually had pretty good Neapolitan, Jason smirked. 

“So I make a pretty good wingman, huh?” He said smugly. 

“Please, you're too small to be my ‘wingman’,” Dick teased back good naturedly, and Jason felt like he was in a different dimension and he wasn’t sure he wanted to go back. 

“I think I’ll call you my ‘Little Wing’.” 

Jason groaned at the nickname, but couldn’t help but keep the smile off his face. 

It was a Robin smile.

Chapter Text

“Last question,” he told Dick from where he sat on an over plush armchair swinging his legs like his heart hadn’t been beating so loud that he was sure the neighbors could hear it. 

“Okay,” said Dick, exhausted. “What’s your confirmation code? Just to be safe.” 

Good, he finally remembered caution. While he was sure Dick was planning on running the DNA on his glass of water if he wasn’t already; it didn’t change the fact that he hadn’t asked any identity-confirming questions until now. No ‘what did I first say to you?’ Or ‘what did you first say to me?’. Instead, he had asked how he was and how he got here. If anything, the basic question made him feel safer, like some futuristic technology hadn’t already read his mind and gotten his life story. 

“R2BT12.” He said, and Dick smiled. 

“R1FG9,” he returned freely, seeing as Jason was already out of questions (his last one being: so how’s Kari related to you? To keep the conversation going in a more “get to know you” direction after it hit dangerously close, bordering on “interrogation territory”).

“Cool,” Jason said awkwardly, bobbing his head. What now? Was left unspoken, still, Dick caught it. 

“Why don’t I formally introduce you to Kari,” he said. Not asked, as it wasn’t really a question. Jason didn’t mind, as he didn’t really wanna talk. Instead, he got up and followed Dìck out the door. 

The time their little game was over, it was almost dark out. The evening light was fading into the large living room window and it was before the street lights turned on (that is, if they still had those). 

“Jason, this is my granddaughter, Kari. Kari, this is my…” Dick paused for a second, seemingly to decide whether to lie or introduce him as what he was.

What was he? 

Once, he thought he was maybe just maybe a—dare he say it?—brother to him. But forty years and six feet under probably aged that relationship rather poorly. 

“Brother.” Dick finished firmly, interrupting Jason’s train of thought. Internally his heart soared, brotherbrotherbrother it sang like a Robin red-breast in the early hours of a fresh spring day. 

He silently sucked in a breath. 

Brother . 

He liked the sound of that. 

“Hi,” he began awkwardly. “I’m Jason.”

“Get to know each other,” Dick had said before he walked out the door. “It’ll be fun!” 

He lied. 

Sitting on a stool next to Dick’s kitchen’s island table across from Kari was just plain awkward. Idly, Jason swung his legs in the air and tapped his fingers on the table. 

“Stop that, Jason,” Kari said, annoyed. “I don’t need X-ray vision to tell you that’s pounding into my skull.” 

“Well, good thing you don’t have it then,” he shot back at her. 

Earlier, when Dick had explained her parentage he’d asked what her powers were. Apparently, anything her parents had (full Tamaranean and Kryptonian powers each, despite Jon Kent and Mar’i Kent née Grayson being only half of each of their respective heritages) that were the same (for example, both Tamaraneans and Kryptonians had advanced hearing) she had (more genetic criteria to work with or something). Leaving her with (probably slightly muted, given the generations between her and the original source) the practical powers (super healing for one) but less of the cool and showy ones (like, for example, no Tameranean-fire-ball-things or laser vision). Jason had guessed it was a sore spot for her, and he had it right. 

Now, Jason hadn’t meant to start some sort of feud with her, but, well, what can he say? His personality had a refined taste. Kari, unfortunately, was picky. She scowled at him. 

“Sorry,” he tried. He really didn’t want Dick to kick him out because he couldn’t play nice with his granddaughter. 

Kari just scowled harder. 

“What is your damn problem, Kari?” He blurted out, her blue glare too similar to another. The bluest of blue eyes, eyes she shared with her grandfather, turned towards him, widening slightly. Surprise played across her face like a ripple in a pond. She may have picked up a few tricks, but she wasn’t trained . 

“What’s my problem, Jason ?” She spat, his name dripping from her tongue like poison, and he flinched back involuntarily. Her temper was like Dick’s too, volatile and burning like a wildfire. She struck back quickly, gathering herself faster than he gave her credit for. 

“I think… I think … I don’t know, maybe I hate you,” she admitted hesitantly, looking away for a split second. He took that second. “Must run in the family, then. I wonder if your mother would’ve hated me too… oh well, too late for that I suppose.” He smirked, lazily, trying to rile her up. Part of him wanted a fight, needed it. Fuck playing nice, damn it all to hell, he thought. 

It worked.

“Shut up! You don’t know what it’s like—” 

Ha! He laughed humorlessly. “To lose a parent? A mother ? Please, honey, take your pick. At least your mommy loved you, at least your mother died for you, protecting you… mine , on the other hand, sold me out to a psycho and watched me be tortured for hours— just for what, shits and giggles?” He paused, taking a steadying breath, memorizing the walls behind her, blocking out any memories threatening to arise. “And still, I tried to fucking save her.” I’m sorry— “So, no, Kari, maybe I don’t understand what it’s like. Please , enlighten me.” 

“Don’t do that!” She snapped, sounding more defeated than before; and she was his age, and she was confused. He knew that , and didn’t know anything about her other than Dick's brief blurb of what not to bring up. But it was too late now, so he continued anyway.

“Do what?” He replied easily, voice deceptively nonchalant. 

“ Y’know —and don’t even think about speaking, Todd .” 

“Okay, shutting up now, your highness .” 

For a second, she was quiet. She fidgeted with her long, curly hair, a hint of a red tone shown through when the kitchen overhead light hit it just right.

“Look, you were right, you probably do understand.” 

“About my mommy issues? Look there’s this little thing called sarcasm, not sure if it still exists in your century—okay, okay, geez.” 

“—no, Boy Wonder the second , what it’s like to never be able to live up to a legacy.” What’s she playing here? “Yeah, well, your grandpa sure did leave some big shoes to fill—metaphorically of course, those pixie boots were tight.” 

“Yeah, well, maybe you stretched them.” Kari paused, gathering her thoughts. “Look, Jason, after he lost you, lost his brother —” 

Memories obscured his vision, his thoughts, sure they were getting better Before but— “‘lost his brother’?” 

( Who are you? At first, he was confused.

Are you lost? What are you doing here, kid? He was kind; nice, even—still confused—but perfectly polite. It’s always the nice ones though, that fuck you up the most…

My name’s Jason Todd. I live here now. B adopted me… your Dick Grayson, right? Robin? We’re sort-of brothers now, aren’t we? He had been so awed. His hero.

Is Bruce just picking random thieves off the streets now? We are not brothers ! Well, you know what they say: never meet your heroes…) 

“ Please , sweetheart , how do you lose a brother you never had?” 

(But he did have one once— 

Fighting against the fog of twisted reality he remembered—

“So I make a pretty good wingman, huh?” He said smugly. 

“Please, you're too small to be my ‘wingman’,” Dick teased back good naturedly, and Jason felt like he was in a different dimension and he wasn’t sure he wanted to go back. 

“I think I’ll call you my ‘Little Wing’.” )

“ After he lost his brother ,” she repeated, “I don’t know if it was some sort of guilt or whatever but he didn’t just ‘moved on’ and forget about you, about what happened to you, right away like you think. He—” 

“He missed my funeral,” Jason deadpanned. “My funeral. He seemed to move on pretty quickly to me .” 

Kari seemed to blank momentarily on that, maybe she simply didn’t know, or Dick really did just live up to his name. “He named his daughter after you,” she argued instead. “Did you know that my mother's middle name was Jaye ? Or, like, how he’s always like ‘be careful, Sunshine,’ or ‘your parents wouldn’t have wanted you to be a hero and die a hero like them and… Kari, did I ever tell you about my brother?’.” She took another deep breath. The picture she was painting was very different from the one he was shown, so to say. Well, he always—well no actually but still—knew Ra’s was a liar.

But Kari wasn’t done, moving on from her ‘he doesn’t hate you’ part of her argument, she fluidly turned to the whole ‘why she was scorned’ portion. “And then you showed up, the real deal ! A true example. Suddenly it was all you. Earlier today at the café? It was supposed to be my day to—look, it doesn’t matter now.” Jason looked down in shame. He hadn’t thought about how he was intruding on Kari’s life ( did Dick really miss him that much? Ra’s said he missed the funeral— ).

But still, Kari continued, her hesitant narrative turning more into a rant; less hotheaded anger that he knew well, and more a determined fire in her eyes he wasn’t new to. 

“—And you angst about not being loved, but fuck Jason, you are ! So look, I may be sounding like I’m being ungrateful, hell, I know I do—but when you showed up it was like I didn’t matter.” She finished, all but yelling. 

I’m gonna be carsick at this point, was his only startled thought at the— whatever-it-was— that took so many twists and turns it felt like he was on a windy road trip to hell. 

“So, sorry, Jay,” she said, and the softer tone of voice paired with the nickname made his head snap back up. At this point, she was gonna give him whiplash. “I’m normally better than this. I’m sorry this is your first impression.” She sighed, winding down. “Just… today was gonna be a big day for me. I’d been preparing for weeks and then… you showed up, and I had to scrap my plan.” 

“Oh.” He said. “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.” 

“No, it’s not,” she disagreed with his way of letting her off easy. “Tomorrow can we start fresh? I’ll introduce myself and… then we’ll see?” 

Jason smiled. She reminded him of Dick in a way, though he supposed that was only right. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, and glanced up at the clock; 10:00 PM it read. It reminded him of a different set of glaring red numbers . “Sure. G’night Kari.” 

“G’night, Jay,” she echoed, then she got up and left Jason alone to find Dick to see if he was sleeping in a guest room or on the living room couch. 

That night, alone in an unknown, empty room, Jason dreamed. In his mind’s eye, a scene formed around him, spreading out slowly like food coloring in water. Swirling tendrils that soon became all consuming. 

They say tragedy comes in three parts. For him it was the lead up, the climax—

And the end.

He was in the Cave. 

“Robin,” he dad said. “Did Felipe fall… or was he pushed?” 

‘Fell! He fell! Dad, please believe me!’ He wanted to say. Instead he was the one that was falling. 

He was in the Manor. 

Peaking around the corner, listening to B and Alfie. 

“Jason’s going off active duty immediately .” 

Jason’s world collapsed around him. 

It was the beginning of the end of his life. 

Later, he thought that it was just the beginning, that it was just closing a chapter in a book that would soon be reopened, that his life was finally coming together—

She lied.  

Jason woke up with a gasp, chest struggling to breathe through non-existent smoke with a non-existent collapsed lung. 

Cold sweat clung to him, like the dried tears on his face. 

Slowly, Jason got up from the tangled bed sheets that must’ve gotten roughed up when he doubtlessly thrashed, and stumbled to the bathroom that Dick had pointed out the night before. 

He turned on the water. It was hot, scolding, burning—

It felt like fire, like an exploding bomb raining debris.

He turned it down. It was cold, freezing, icy—

It felt like being trapped underground in a coffin, clawing out only to feel the thunderstorm hitting against him like a thousand knives. 

Jason got out of the shower. 

“Hey,” Dick said as Jason turned the corner. He was making breakfast—eggs, toast, fruit. By the looks of things, his cooking skills hadn’t improved in the slightest. Then, as he finally saw him—or rather, the dark eye bags, the sallow pale skin, and the cold dead eyes. “Didn’t sleep well?” 

“No,” Jason replied honestly, seeing no point in lying. “Nightmares.” 

Dick's face went through a series of emotions, finally landing on something equivalent to ‘shocked morbid understanding’ crossed with ‘I’m concerned but here if you need a shoulder to cry on’. “If you want to talk about it—” Dick began, and his dad (granddad?) was showing. 

“No thanks,” he said, cutting him off. Even Before, at the peak of their relationship, Jason didn’t think comparing trauma was in their near future of conversation topics. They just weren’t that close. 

A hint of movement caught his eye, and Jason saw Kari sitting in the same spot as last night. This time though, she looked well rested and much less upset in cute pink pajamas. He smiled, as he walked up to her and held out his hand. 

“Hi, I don’t think we’ve met before,” he said, and Kari’s eyes lit up in what looked like appreciation and amusement. “My name’s Jason, and you are…?” 

She giggled, “Kari,” she introduced, playing along. “Nice to meet you.” Thank you, she mouthed, and Jason laughed, carefree for the first time in a while. If he closed his eyes he was with Barbie or even Dick or Bruce. It was a nice feeling. 

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Jason replied, making her laugh harder, chest heaving in silent giggles. 

Ignoring Dick's questioning glance and fond look, he joined in. 

Maybe this could work out. 

“No. No way. This won’t turn out well,” he borderline-begged, all but in his knees. “Do you know how awkward that would be— no, forget awkward. Gotham is Batman’s city, he’d totally find out I’m alive, making this whole thing null and voice when he shoves his nosy head through a Bat-sized hole!” 

“Ye little faith,” Dick bemoaned, smug bastard. “When I said B wouldn’t find out until you’re ready to tell him yourself, I meant it.” He then added more sincerely. “Really, Jay,” he continued, “even if B shows up, I’ll make sure you guys don’t even have to see each other, let alone talk.” It was a nice sentiment, but when Batman wanted something, even Nightwing couldn’t hold him off for long. 

“Thanks,” he said anyway, with a sigh. “To Gotham, we go.” He raised his arms in mock cheer, as if to say ‘yay’ tired and sarcastically, given up on life.

Kari patted his back condescendingly, as if telling a sobbing child ‘there, there’. He glared at her. She smiled sweetly back at him. 

The weather was shit, the police were corrupt, and crime rates were at an all time high. Only in Gotham, was that a completely normal Tuesday. And, for all intents and purposes, it was. That is, until Jason fucking Todd, the (in)famously dead Robin II, walked through the doors of one recently widowed Commissioner Barbara Gordon’s home. 

“Hi, Barbie.” He said, raising his forearm in an awkward half-wave. “Long time no see,” noticing her lack of wheelchair, he added jokingly: “nice legs.” 

The ex-Batgirl and ex-Oracle ignored him, and turned to glared at her ex-paramour. “Richard John Grayson,” she began, full-naming him. “ Explain .” 

Everyone—Dick, Kari, Barbie, and Jason himself—was silent for a moment. It was a hesitant silence, a calm before a storm they all knew was coming. Before Dick could try and explain something he didn’t even fully understand himself, Jason stepped in (metaphorically). 

“I—Barbie, It’s me.” 

“No. The real Jason died decades ago. You're lying.” Jason flinched a little at that. Sure, they hadn’t gotten off on a great start, but towards the end she was a better sibling than even Dick. She was there for more than just the occasional ice cream and trip to see people who didn’t really like him, but for their teammate’s sake tried to be passive-aggressive instead of just plain aggressive. 

Determinedly, Jason tried again. “Please, Barbie. Look—R2BT12!” It worked with Dick, a basic identification code that they all had to know— 

“Anyone with good enough people skills could know that. The whole old Titan team knew that. You’re not convincing me that easily.” 

“No, Barbie, please —” no, please someone believe him— 

“Babs, I took his DNA—” ha! He thought slightly hysterically. I knew it! “Is it back yet?” Barbie demanded, raising an eyebrow. She knew it wasn’t. “Well, no—” Dick confirmed, and from the half-aware state he was in, Jason felt a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. Stupid. It was so fucking stupid that he was getting this worked up about not taking the should-be impossible at face-value. Stupid, stupid, stupid, Todd, he thought grudgingly. 

But part of him, the part of him that still fought to try and save Sheila, argued on, gently shaking off Kari’s hand as he pushed in front of Dick, towards Barbie. 

“You slapped me,” he began hesitantly, and everything seemed to stop and fade away until it was just them. “When we first met, you slapped me.” He repeated. “You slapped me and told me I’d never be as good as Dick Grayson.” And you never were, a voice that wasn’t so angry as quiet and true whispered hauntingly at the back of his mind. 

“… Jason ?” A choked voice asked—well, not so much ask as say , like a pinch to assure you're not dreaming. It was as sharp as a knife, cutting out of the endless quiet and into a loud ringing in his ears.

“Yes,” he said needlessly, and fell into her waiting arms, quickly closing the distance. 

There were a few minutes of quiet—though this time less suffocating and more comforting, a warm, familiar presence filling the room rather than a cold, distant, forbidding one. It was like night and day, light and dark, Batman and Robin . 

Then, Jason wiggled out of the hug, reminiscent of earlier days, and said with nonchalance he did really feel, and could almost sense the humming, an uncontrollable pressure he was about to break. “I think we came here for a reason, more than my sure-to-be awesome ‘welcome back’ party,” he exaggerated looking around the normal room, with nothing amiss other than stray papers that made it feel lived in. “Though I gotta admit, this is kinda a let down.” 

Barbie laughed, a half-sob hiccupy laugh, but a laugh all the same. “Don’t worry, the party’s later.” Then, more to Dick than Jason, “first we need a legal ID, isn't that right, Dick?” 

Dick, an awkward bystander next to Kari, just nodded. Kari smiled encouragingly, and gave a thumbs-up. He scowled at her playfully. She just kept looking innocent as can be. 

“So,” Barbie said, this time to him, “any name suggestions? ‘Jason’ is a common enough name if you want to keep it—hold on to something.” She narrowed her eyes, “but none of that ‘Jason Peters’ crap, if you want Bruce to believe that Dick just imprinted on a random kid because he looked like—and shared a name with—his dead baby brother.” 

Jason laughed and smirked, “but of course,” he said sarcastically. “Where’s the fun in that?” 

“If you want help now that I’ve shot down 90% of your ideas, I can.” It was just like old times, and Jason was glad beyond words that once she got over the initial shock she treated him like normal, teasing and joking like a big sister would, rather than a delicate old porcelain vase that could and would shatter at any given moment (ahem, Dick). 

“Heh, sure, hit me, with ’em.” He said lightheartedly, as there was time for deep emotional reunions later in more private. Barbie thought for a moment and then said: 

“What about ‘Haywood’?” 

He froze. Nonononono— 

“Looks like you trusted the wrong person.”

Cigarette smoke, blonde hair, matching ocean eyes— 

“Nah, I think I’ll just keep hitting you with this crowbar.” 

Painpainpain, toxic green—was it the hair or the pit misremembering?—a purple suit and what a joke? A Robin walks into a crowbar— 

And she just watched. 

Nonononono— 

“NO!” He did realize he was screaming until he stopped and noticed his throat was raw. He tried for a joke, to laugh it off like it was nothing. No one would trust him if they knew how unstable he was, how he k— 

“Nah,” he said, faking calm nonchalance. “B would pick that up right away.” 

Eyes widened, he saw Dick and Barbie exchange a look. Then, Kari spoke up hesitantly. 

“He… last night, he was tired and kinda out of it and so was I and well, we got into an argument and one thing led to another and he said—” she spit the words out so fast it was like they personally offended her by tasting like her least favorite food. 

“Woah, Sunshine, calm down. Deep breaths. Now what were you saying?” ( Why didn’t you tell me this when I was having a fucking panic attack over there? He wanted to demand. But that was selfish and rude and would just end with him being scolded. He felt like a jerk. He was a jerk. He didn’t say anything. ) 

“He said his mom betrayed him. Well, ‘sold me out to a phyco’ were his exact words, I think.” 

“Jason is that true—?” Dick asked him, eyes full of pity. He bristled. 

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But I’ve got better mother figures than her anyway. There Catherine and—” Talia. “Never mind. It’s the past. It doesn’t matter anymore,” 

“ Jason ,” Barbie started, “I’m so sorry . I had no idea.” 

Jason gave her a short nod. I don’t blame you, it said. 

Kari shot him an apologetic look and Dick nodded in agreement with Barbie. He repeated his earlier motion. 

“So,” Dick said awkwardly, “any more name ideas, anyone?” 

At the question, Jason thought. He tried to push past the veil of fog that clouded his mind, different from the green that interrupted his memories, and more the simple white mist that completely blocked his brain-dead-times from view. Completely unreachable, like when he was dead. 

But— but maybe not quite. If he pushed, and he did, he could hear Talia’s soothing words that blurred together so he couldn’t make them out completely and then if he pushed further— 

A doctor by the vague looks of it, talking to him, who was hooked up to a hospital-grade IV system (and trust him, he knew), and the doctor was saying— 

Your mother can see you now, Mister—  

“Head.” Jason said firmly. “My name. Jason Head.” 

Despite a few confused looks like: random but okay , there were some hesitant smiles. 

“Then let’s put your life back together, Jason. Or should I say, Mister Head?” 

This time, he returned it. 

Jason Head, he thought. He liked the sound of that. 

Chapter Text

…Roughly 40 years ago… 

The industrial-quality overtly bright lights of the gloomy Batcave hurt Ja—Robin’s eyes as he rolled them. “I know , B.” He groaned. “It’s not even that high-stakes of an op. You’ll be right there if anything goes wrong.” 

“Repeat your cover information, Robin.” He said regardless, a hint of Bruce leaked into his tone with a touch of parental concern that didn’t fit into the neat boxes of the Batman and Robin dynamic. 

“Petey Malone, second son of Matches Malone—AKA you—a low-profile mob boss. He’s pretty violent, rumored to have shoved heads in a duffel bag and dropped them off at the FBI’s doorstep.” 

“What was that last one…” He frazed it like a question, but Batman asked in a growl that made it clear it wasn’t optional. “Alice and Wonderland reference,” he said flippantly. “We watched it in school last Friday before the long weekend. The book’s better but the author was—” 

“Robin,” B said fondly, stopping his rant. “Is that really necessary?” The exasperation was clear, and Robin just smirked. “Dickie got to have an arson kink, circus fire-throwing tricks and all,” he argued, then added in a sing-song tone of voice, “unless you’re playing favorites?” He clutched his hands to his chest dramatically, eyes widening through the surprisingly expressive lenses of the domino mask as if to say the horror . 

B folded like a piece of paper. “Names,” he said with a sigh, like the single father that he was, repeating the same information over and over again but for not. 

Robin—whose literal job, let’s remember, is 90% being a little shit (the other 10% was split 50/50 between “getting kidnapped” and “kicking bad guy ass”)—continued to smirk, argument won. 

…Present day… 

Commissioner Barbara Gordon’s home, Gotham, NJ 

“Okay, Jason, let’s review,” Barbie said as she scrolled down in some document set up on her computer. They had just worked it all out with the gritty little specific details and everything, something that was flexible enough that it could change if necessary, but strong enough to hold up under scrutiny. And honestly, four hours later? He was tired, being asked to do it again was just not worth it, as the identity information was all-but permanently tattooed on the inside of his head. 

“Do we have to?” He groaned, spinning around in the office chair he had sat down in about half-way through when they were going through his early childhood and developing stages. 

“Yes, Jace,” she said. “Besides, there’s still some stuff we need to go over.” 

“ Still ? Like what, my future career plan and why?” 

“No,” she sighed. “I meant how to explain your… lasting scars from Ethiopia. Clearly you still have some.” 

Jason flinched, just the mention of it brought it, the place that he— that he —

What hurts more? A or B? Forehand or backhand?

“ No ,” he said forcibly, he was here. In Gotham, a different Gotham, sure, but Barbie was here and Dick, a little older, a little sadder but still—he was here. Here. Not in Ethiopia and not in that warehouse. “The Lazarus Pit took everything away. I have less scars now than when I first started out.” 

Barbie shot Dick a sharp, but not subtle, look of surprise at his mention of Ra’s sacred old bath waters, but she quickly got back on track. 

“I didn’t mean physical scars, Jason.” 

He glared at her. “I’m fine .” 

“No, you're not,” she said, strongly but sympathetically. Pityingly . “You had a panic attack when I even brought up anything to do with… what happened.” She sighed, turning away from the illuminating artificial light of the computer screen. “What happens if you have a geography lesson about Ethiopia, and they mention that one warehouse that exploded? Will that not trigger you? Look, you're even clenching your fists now.” 

“Shut up. Shut up. That won’t happen. You’re just trying to make me agree with you.” Jason paused. “Fine,” he said, because as he looked down he saw that his knuckles were turning white, and were probably about to leave small crescent-moon shaped marks on his palms when he let go of the tension. “Say something… as close to the truth as you can go, the best lies are half-truths and all that. Different from whatever bullshit B spewed, but, like, I don’t know…” 

He ignored Dick’s ‘language!’ And soldiered on. “I was kidnapped by someone who wanted something from my dad, maybe revenge, maybe information of some sort. Data. It doesn’t matter.

“So, this guy, he takes me. He tied me up, and beat me within an inch of death with a crowbar. This guy, he’s not interested in any money my dad can spit up, he just wants him to hurt. So, he leaves us alone in that warehouse and, beaten bloody, I still manage to crawl to the door and, in this narrative, it miraculously isn’t locked. So, I free myself and hurry out because there’s a bomb.

“There’s only 9 seconds left on the timer, and that’s barely enough time to get outta blast range even if I wasn't an injured person. So, while I’m far enough away that it doesn’t kill me outright, I’m still knocked unconscious away from the blast sight. Wanna be more realistic? I think I’m gonna die, I mean, I’m already halfway there. So here I am, about to die, and thinking in the back of my mind that maybe, just maybe, help will come. 

“It doesn’t.” 

( When kidnapped, there are two official steps he learned as Robin: 

Step one: check your surroundings and observe your kidnappers, what’s the situation? 

Step two: stall for time; if there’s others: distract; and do what Robin does best—be annoying as hell. 

But then there's the third, the unofficial step, that up until the last moment always came true.: 

Batman will come. Batman will save you. 

But in that last moment? 

Batman didn’t come. Batman didn’t save him. 

But that’s not what he blames Bruce for, because unlike his colleagues he’s only human. As much as Jason wanted his dad to come and save him, he knew that it wasn’t going to happen, or that—worse—he’d come and then B would die as a result. It’s better for Robin to die, as his very existence proves, Robin's much more replaceable. 

So no, he doesn’t hate B for not saving him. Or even Batman for not killing him . Because Batman doesn’t kill, that’s the one line he won’t cross and Jason gets that, he does. 

But… he really thought that… Bruce, his dad, would do it. 

So yes, in a way, he’s angry about what comes after. 

Not angry, so much as… lost. Hurt. 

But what happened after doesn’t matter. Because now he’s back. A mistake that crawled out of a grave. ) 

When he finishes, there’s complete silence. It’s not awkward so much as… final, sad, a moment of acknowledgment for the boy that died in that Ethiopian warehouse. Robin . Jason didn’t realize that he was crying until he felt strong arms wrap around him. Dick . 

He pushed him away. “Sorry,” he said, wiping his tears with his sleeve. “I know I should be better. Less emotional. It’s just a cover story.” He felt Dick shake his head, “it’s not just a cover story for you,” he noted, quietly, softly, as if saying: but that’s okay, and you’re here now, safe, with us. 

Despite himself he smiled at the thought and slowly pulled away, cheeks tinted a pale pink. “That all good?” He asked, turning to Barbie. He caught Kari’s eye from where she stood in the corner, removed. He sent a small smile—if a bit more watery than he would’ve liked—her way, as if saying hi, sorry you're here, this must be weird for you. Thanks for the sign of support though.  

“Yeah,” Barbie replied after a moment of thought. “Good.” The words sounded far-off and distant to him, and it only took him a second for Jason to realize why: she’s lying. He opened his mouth to say… something, maybe “ why isn’t that good enough? ” But before he can, Barbie speaks first. 

“Hey, Dick?” She asked. “Could Jason and I have a moment? …it’s, heh, it’s been awhile.” She’s good. 

“Yeah, of course,” he said, turning to Kari. “Come on, let’s wait outside.” Kari waved goodbye to him as she and her grandfather (and wasn’t that a weird thought?) walked out the door. 

“So,” Jason started. “What’s wrong with my cover story?” And, okay, maybe that sounded like it hit a little bit too defensive, but in his defense, that was basically what happened . So, sorry if his death wasn’t good enough for you. 

“Head,” Barbie started slowly. “I recognize that from Talia al Ghul’s lesser known aliases.” 

Oh. 

“She wasn’t… she and you were close.” It wasn't a question; from the narrowing of her eyes, and the way they lit up, she knew she was right and was testing the waters. 

“Sorta,” he said noncommittally. “I mean.” He didn’t want to lie to her, it’s just he didn’t know himself where truth ended and fiction started. “I don’t super remember her, but… what I do know is that she was there for me, found me; cared for me. I…” from his inside jacket pocket, he pulled a still pristine envelope from where he made sure it was always on his person. It was stupid that he kept it. He should’ve burned it for security reasons but… in a way, he was glad he didn’t. 

“She gave me this.” 

Jason watched as she carefully opened the envelope and pulled out a letter. He watched as she read it, and watched her eyes widen. He watched as she handed it back, and watched as she thought it over. 

“Your cover needs a complete remodel.” She said decisively. “And I have a vague idea of how it would work. But I need to ask you some questions first, maybe make some assumptions that I want you to confirm or deny. Is that okay?” 

“Yeah,” he replied easily. “I’m not some stupid traumatized little kid that’s gonna be spooked about everything. I’m still Jason.” But not the same Jason, not your Jason, not— 

“I know that Jay,” she said softer and he had to hold back a scowl. “I just wanted to make sure.” 

“Ask away,” he said, bracing himself slightly. “What do ya wanna know about the one and only Jason Peter Todd?” 

“It’s not about Ethiopia,” she said quickly, and he covered his sigh of relief. “Just about personalish stuff.” He nodded, and wondered what it could be about. Was it like: did you have a first kiss? If so, when, where, and with who?  

“When you think of your family, you think of Dick and Bruce, not Willis and Sheila, right?” He was about to interject, when she held up her hand in a just let me finish motion. “Maybe Catherine, but she died when you were nine, and despite trying, you probably don’t remember her super well, maybe a feeling or certain parts, but it’s more of a far off memory that you see through rose-colored glasses.” He was about to interject again , when she continued. 

“You were young, and it’s been years, Jason. She’ll always hold a special place in your heart, but it’s normal and healthy to move on. Don’t use Bruce as an example for that. I’m facet, using Bruce as an example is probably why you went looking for Sheila in the first place: you didn’t move on so when you saw a chance… you were looking for Catherine, for your mom, not really Sheila, but an ideal. Now, correct me if I’m horrendously wrong.” 

For a moment he didn’t say anything and painfully swallowed back the tears he felt welling. “Yeah,” he said after a second, hating how his voice cracked slightly. He tried for a joke. “But you're not really asking me any questions, Barbie.” 

“Sorry, these are mostly assumptions,” she said, not sounding all that sorry about it. Still, he just nodded, somewhat out of it. 

“In that same vein of thought, you think of yourself as a younger sibling, or as having an older brother, despite being born an only child.” 

Jason nodded slowly. “Where’s this going?” He asked, confused. 

“We’ll get there.” She said vaguely. “Now, to confirm: you think of Bruce as your dad, Talia as your mom, and as having an older brother?” Again, he nodded. 

“Great,” she said grinning. “Now, before Damian—he was Bruce’s bio kid with Talia—died, for his sake, Bruce and Talia tried their hand at co-parenting after what is normalized as something akin to a ‘messy divorce with kid caught in middle’. And according to what one very traumatized Dick told me once, they were sleeping together when he came to give them the bad news. In a very predictable fashion they went back to hating each other's guts, since the one common thing they loved was gone—that’s Damian. That was all maybe fourteen to fifteen years ago.” 

That was all maybe fourteen to fifteen years ago, she said. He was probably about fourteen to fifteen now, Jason thought. It was hard to be sure though, as his timeline was pretty screwy. He’d always been kinda shit at keeping track of time, and paired with… extenuating circumstances… his sense of time was absolutely fucked. How old was he even— 

Jason wasn’t going to think harder about that, he had other things to focus on than a midlife crisis.   

“You want me to pretend to be Bruce and Talia’s bio kid?!” It was the only reasonable explanation to that story and a good distraction to latch onto. It was also something with a ton more loopholes than what he spun. 

“It wouldn’t be unexpected for Talia to hide a kid from him, and besides, this is on paper. That way, if he takes interest… Well, you know what they say: a secret within a secret is how to keep it . To the general public, you're some kid staying with them—maybe a family friend of some sort. But when Bruce goes digging—and we both know he will—he’ll find that, and thinking he found the secret, will stop.” 

Well, that did make sense when she said it like that, but… “he’s the one who taught us that! And wouldn’t my hopefully very recognizable face kinda ruin it?” 

“I know a magic user who owes me a favor. I can get them to make you some sort of charm that makes it impossible for anyone to recognise you as Jason Todd or Robin or whatever, unless you tell someone yourself or they already know. So Talia and Dick and Kari and me, plus anyone else you told, would know, and if you had a significant other you wanted to know about your past life, you could tell them. But, say, Bruce, couldn’t figure it out unless you wanted him to know.” 

“Okay, that’s awesome and a story I wanna hear sometime, but what about my DNA, someone takes a swab—say B wanting to know for sure—and while he may magically become blind to the ‘Match: Jason Todd’ on the Batcomputer screen, but he doesn’t have to believe our cover that I’m his kid with Talia. I could just be this random dude that he’s curious about. Then, he realizes he can’t see something and gets suspicious and paranoid and looks at it through some anti-magic lens I’m sure he has—and badaboom badabang, this carefully crafted cover story is in tatters.” 

Barbie rolled her eyes fondly—which, uh, rude , he had a great point—but nodded. “Okay, good point,” thank you, finally! “I can have my magician friend add something to fix that somehow.” 

He sighed dramatically. “Awesome, now I really am Ibn al Xu'ffasch ,” he muttered. 

“What was that?” Barbie asked, raising her eyebrow. 

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just complaining about magic stuff.” But that begs the question: wasn’t he sorta magic now with the All-Blades and all? Had strong potential for magic, at least, right? Eh, it didn’t really matter.

“See? You already sound like him.” She said fondly. “Now the nitty-gritty stuff—you were probably homeschooled since you were raised by Talia; but why are you here with Dick now? What’s something that is similar to your… to Ethiopia that could reasonably happen to cover-you? Is there a reason why your name’s Jason?” 

“Ra’s took over Talia’s body, so I guess she knew and sent me away first because I would’ve probably been top-pick. She probably trusted Dick over Bruce for reactions and stuff, so I’m here now. And as for cover-Ethiopia? Maybe an enemy of some sort found out about ‘me’ and tried to torture me for imformation—I was probably a baby-assassin so maybe a mission gone wrong? Whatever. 

“They used some good old fashioned blunt-force trauma in a nice Middle-Eastern warehouse. Not so similar it’s down-right suspicious, but close enough any triggers will coordinate. Anyway, I, being a loyal baby assassin—yeah okay, I guess we’re going with that—didn’t let slip anything, and so they blew me up with all evidence because of the usual reasons.” 

He was feeling pretty confident, when he realized—“Oh fucking shit, goddamn fucking hell! I completely forgot about…” 

He was glad that Barbie didn’t bother to correct his language, and so after a deep breath, he continued. “About how, well… look, it can’t be a middle-eastern warehouse. I mean it shouldn’t matter as it’s the warehouse that gives me the panic, not the location. It’s, well, a paper trail may be left in… Gotham ?” He muttered the end out, but Barbie still heard it. 

“Why?” She asked simply. 

“Talia, I kind of remember she took me to a hospital. You see, when I woke up in my grave I still had all the crowbar injuries, since the smoke killed me and whatever brought me back only went half-way: I was still half-dead. It’s nice, cause I’m pretty sure without immediate medical attention it’d be all for naught, but…” looking at her expression, he could already tell she was thinking of the best way to match any hospital records with his description. 

“Hey, at least I know it’s under ‘Head’!” He tried to sound upbeat, and continued: “A legitimate paper trail could help our story. Sure, edit the specifics a lot, but I mean… I could still check in at a hospital here. Medical shit is always a pain to delete anyway, and I’m pretty sure a weird thing like mine might even be a suspected kidnapping, probably called in by a well-meaning nurse—I mean it was , but obviously… yeah.” 

The serious frown on Barbje’s face morphed into a sly half-smile as she began clicking away at her computer. “Gotham General,” she declared after a few minutes. “‘Talia Head’ checked in her son ‘Rayan Head’ 10/28/53, and out 11/14/53—probably only long enough for you to be stable and begin treatment plans. As insensitive as this sounds, this is fantastic: the main doctor’s death by ‘natural causes’ courtesy of Talia al Ghul’s natural selection services will make any records he submitted easy to forge without suspicion—no one wants to look through dead men’s files.” 

“Awesome. Is my name ‘Rayan’ now, or…” 

“Well, it makes the most sense for it to be officially that, yes. A boy by the name ‘Jason’ living with Dick would get his hopes up too high. However ,” she added, “I stand by my earlier statement. I think it would be good for you to hold onto something from your old life in a world so different from the one you left. I don’t think it’s crazy for a boy running from Ra’s al Ghul’s to change his name, no? While you may want to taunt him since you know he is unlikely to step foot in Gotham without proper planning for the fallout, Rayan—a boy who would have no idea of that old agreement—may take name suggestions from Dick or I, even Kari might suggest the name ‘Jason’ as an alias.” 

“So, I can keep my name?” Jason clarified. The last time he’d had a cover story almost this complicated was when… was with B, when they went undercover as the Malone Family. 

“Yes,” Barbie agreed with a smile. “This cover is much better,” she said encouragingly. “Now for the fake League documents… Do you know how Ra’s might organize them?” 

“Uh,” Jason tried to think back to when he scanned through the files looking for escape routes and where to plant the bombs. He was pretty sure he saw some… “Yeah,” he said. “I think so, anyway. Lower profile ones don’t exist, but higher profile ones do. They don’t have real names, just code names and kill counts, maybe a position in the league. Ra’s keeps paper ones I’m pretty sure as well, but they’re in his office and pretty much inaccessible to anyone but him. And even if B decides to ask—well, Ra’s seemed done with humoring him, even if that’s just to manipulate me, there’s a 50/50 chance he’ll play along, which is better odds than none at all.” 

“Mm, okay,” Barbie mused. She looked around the home office, and then down at her desk of papers and old take-out receipts. She was normally much more neat, so if he had to guess she was in the middle of a stressful case. Some things never change, he thought with an almost relieved grin. 

“How’s ‘Red Robin’ for an alias. ‘Robin’ is a role normally played by Batman’s son—as you know—, but the red part can be associated with blood.” 

“I… y’know what? Sure, it sounds like the type of word-play he’d think was smart. Add whatever kill count you think is reasonable, but it would make sense if it was… well, it is the League of Assassins, okay?” 

Barbie looked up from her work with pitting eyes that all-but asked did you have to kill? He wanted to reply vehemently that he didn’t have to do anything, that as much as Ra’s manipulation changed him, part of it was still just Jason. He only killed bad people who deserved it, and sure, he probably wouldn’t have if he didn’t think B betrayed him (which, uh, he still kind of did), but that didn’t make him really regret it all that much. The people they hurt were better off with them dead, otherwise they’d have used their contacts to just get right back in the street like nothing ever happened. Like nothing changed. It infuriated him, and now he had the power to stop it. 

Still, despite that, he still felt horribly guilty as he looked away from her burning gaze. Thankfully, she took the hint and continued. “Now I just have to draw up all the documents and fake documents and fake-fake documents. Hopefully I’m not too rusty.” 

“I’m sure you'll do great even at your rustiest, Barbie,” he said with a not-quite-but-almost Robin smile, taking her cue and forgetting about the killer thing (it confused him: if she all but knew, she should hate him. Why didn’t she hate him? ). “Now, can we actually catch up? Maybe start with how that magician owes you this big of a favor?” 

She chuckled, glancing at the clock before glancing back at him. “How about you tell Dick and Kari to go home, and you can sleep over tonight. Then, we’ll see.” 

With a grin, he bounded off. 

The next night it was pouring rain. Thunder rumbled in the distance like trash cans against pavement, and lightning flashed like white-hot wildfires. 

“Bye, Barbie,” Jason called as he pulled his hoodie over his head. “Thanks for everything.” 

“Your welcome, Jace,” she smiled. “I… I really missed you.” 

Jason shifted awkwardly, unsure how to respond. Eventually, with a glance at the waiting blue car outside, he decided on: “me too.” 

Waving ‘goodbye’ one last time, he opened the door and laughed, "wish me luck,” as he made a mad dash across the courtyard, and into the waiting vehicle. 

“Hey, Dick, didja miss me?” Sliding into the passenger side, he looked up to meet sparkling blue eyes. “Yeah, a bunch,” he said lightheartedly, but Jason knew he meant it. “Kari’s waiting back at the house.” 

“It’s technically an apartment,” he protested easily. 

“Please,” Dick said as he started the car (apparently keys didn’t exist anymore? Was a simple screen with a button even secure against thieves?). “It has a guest bedroom , calling it an ‘apartment’ doesn’t do it justice, makes it sound like I’m a college dropout living in an overpriced shit hole.” 

“Last time I checked, you were a ‘college dropout living in an overpriced shit hole’.” 

Jason winced as Dick’s face fell slightly. “You make me think like I’m stupid and nineteen again,” he admitted. “Because last time I checked with you, I was .” 

He sighed, and the thunder boomed. Suddenly, it wasn’t a joking conversation, but something more serious and emotional. Jason held back a sigh. Fuuuuck. 

“But I’m not, Jay. I’m not stupid and nineteen anymore. I’m fifty-nine years old and am raising my granddaughter. I… Jason, you have to know things have changed, but are you ready to live with them?” 

Jason bit his lip and looked away. “Yeah,” he lied. “I’m ready.” 

“Jay…” 

“Hey, one way or another I kept my name, right? That’s great, huh?” He laughed, trying to have it sound purposefully fake in an attempt to make it funny; but it didn’t take. 

“Look,” he tried. “I know things have changed. Fuck, I’ve changed, too. I’m not that R—dumb kid anymore either. But… Like I said, I’m different and, even if I wanted to—which I don’t —things can’t just go back to how it was before. I don’t want to talk with B. I’m not ready. But say I was, and we called him right now—we’re not going to be one big happy family again. I understand that, and I’m ready to move on. Jason Todd died in Ethiopia because of whatever cover B cooked up—” 

“Abducted overseas,” Dick added helpfully. “Couldn’t wire the money in time.”

“Jason Todd died in a failed kidnapping attempt,” he amended. “In Ethiopia. Possibly in a warehouse. Anyway, what I’m saying is that I am starting fresh, and I need to learn sometime. Now it seems good.” 

“Hmhm,” Dick nodded thoughtfully. “Did you like seeing Babs and going back to Gotham?” 

“Yeah.” Jason admitted freely, glad for the change of topic. “It was nice. Sure, it was different, but…” the smell of airborne chemicals and smog and smoke and gas. The cloudy skies that through some combination of the scent caused them to look wonderfully unnaturally unreal during sunset. 

Closing a chapter of a bad day, his mom—Catherine—would say, as the days then were almost always bad. And opening one for a new chance. She was optimistic like that, maybe it was her personality, or maybe because he was little and already a cynic. Maybe both. 

Sitting on Barbie’s window seat the other day, reading her copy of Little Women , he had looked out the window and remembered that. 

“Yeah,” he repeated. 

“It was home.”

Chapter Text

Dick groaned as he forced himself out of his warm bed. Years of vigilantism really wasn’t good for his aching bones it seemed. It had been a little over a week since Jason had shown up out of nowhere, and still that sentence, that name , brought a smile to his face. 

Jason . Jason was alive . 

With that thought pushing him forward, Dick stumbled into the kitchen with some semblance of wakefulness, reaching for the cereal on top of the fridge. 

“Morning, Gramps,” Kari, who for some godforsaken reason was an early riser and morning person, called from the counter, as she ate her toast fully dressed. “Tired?” 

“Yeah,” he sighed, sitting down in the stool adjacent to her at the island. “Did you sleep well, sunshine?” 

“Mmhm,” she said noncommittally. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, knowing when she was being purposefully vague. Dick had raised Kari since she was one—when her parents had been murdered protecting her from an old enemy they thought Kori died defeating: her sister, Komand’r. Damian, whose relationship with Jon and Mar’i was never confirmed or denied (partially due to an undercover op he’d undertaken around Kari’s birth), was long since presumed dead, leaving him to pick up the broken pieces of his family. 

“Nothing,” his granddaughter said, swirling her cereal with a spoon. She then glanced out the window, looking at the skyline. “Do you think Jason misses home?” She asked softly. 

“Did he say anything to you?” 

“No,” she said, not sounding very confident. “It’s just, he’s always looking out the window, y’know? Yesterday the news reported a murder, and he almost said ‘only in Gotham’.”

Dick nodded thoughtfully, thinking back to a case he’d left on the table the other day. While he’d retired from Nightwing in order to be a better guardian to a baby, he still worked at the BPD. The afterformentioned case was a standard mugging gone wrong, but there were some suspicious connections to a local mob family. When Jason had read it over his shoulder he had thought the somber expression was from the murder of a young woman (something that normally got to him), or missing the chance to try and save her. Was it possible it simply reminded him of his life before now? 

“Oh,” he managed. While he had been focused on how much of a miracle it was that Jason had returned, he never thought Jason disagreed with the notion. But… from the vague explanation that for some reason Ra’s al Ghul all-but brought him back to life with a Lazarus Pit (surely with some nefarious purpose in mind), before Jason escaped his clutches (thank god); only to find a world so different it was barely recognizable? If that had been Dick, he was pretty sure a more accurate description would be ‘curse’. 

Jason was his brother. Dick should’ve been a better brother, but then he died when he was off-world. Now, now was his chance to set it right, and all he did to make Jason feel more comfortable here was… nothing, nada, forget about it. 

Dick poured the sugary monstrosity he knew it was, before adding the milk and taking a bite. While he would surely need coffee later, the rush this gave him was enough to get his brain working less sluggishly. 

With that jump start, he paused for a second, a vague, horrible idea slowly forming in his mind. As much as he wanted to make Jason happy, his first priority was Kari. Still… 

“Would you be okay with moving to Gotham?” He asked. Kari turned to him in surprise, a spoonful of cereal still in her mouth like a chipmunk. She swallowed with a gulp, and looked at him. “Like… where?” She said, not immediately shooting it down. With his lack of proper caffeine and running only on sugar and regrets, Dick took it as a sign to continue. 

“I can talk to… Bruce… about getting an apartment on the good side of town,” he said, and saw her eyes widen at the mention of his adoptive father. While he and B weren’t as estranged as say, Tim, he still didn't talk with him much and hated asking for favors. 

“You can see your cousin more,” he tried. 

“Drake?” She asked skeptically. “Last time I saw him I was ten and he turned my game console into a—well, I don’t know what, but the smug bastard never apologized. He kinda reminds me of Jason when I think about it.” 

“I… did you just compare Jason to an eleven-year-old ? And watch your language.” 

“ No ,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I compared him to Tom Drake ,” Kari said it like it made a difference. But to be fair to her, Tom Drake was the son of Stephanie Brown and Tim Drake; with all his mother’s personality and all his father’s skills. A horrifying combination when put together. 

“Okay,” he relented. “But would it really be so bad?” 

“ Yes ,” she said. “Besides, Gramps. I have friends here.” 

“You’re homeschooled,” he deadpanned. While he wanted Kari to be happy, Jason couldn’t help but cream into the forefront of his mind. If Kari really really didn’t want to move, he understood and wouldn’t push it. Really, this was just a hypothetical conversation before he was even fully awake. 

“Yeah, and ? Just because I’m homeschooled and most of my close friends are your old friends kid’s and/or grandkids who live in different states anyway, I still have some close friends here! Like there’s Emily, that waitress at the coffee shop across the street.” Ah, the coffee shop. It was extremely overpriced in his not-so biased opinion; but in their defense the coffee was heavenly. 

“Honestly, you really shouldn’t buy into stereotypes about us home-schoolers,” Kari added, pulling him out of his coffee daydreams. As he spooned another mouthful, he bemoaned the fact that their coffee machine was fried once again. Despite being the eldest son of a multi-billionaire—yes, with a ‘b’—it didn’t change the fact that he was on a detective’s salary and his wallet was crying every time he had to pay $11.99 for some caffeine on the way to work. No coffee was worth $12, and yet here he was looking out the window and down at the bustling café below. 

“Sorry, Kar,” Dick said. “Besides, I was homeschooled when I was younger. Easier with a traveling circus.” 

“Yeah, but—” at his raised eyebrow (a move he learned from Bruce who learned from Alfred), and she coughed. “I mean, yeah okay.” She corrected herself. 

“It’s only a 45 minute drive, maybe 30 on a good day,” Dick tried, wincing. He meant it to sound like ‘we’re moving next door, it’s only a short walk away’, but it fell short. 

“ Right ,” She said. “Look, fine. We can try it, but if I have to go to real school I'll riot. Emily and Jeremy tell horror stories about teachers and homework assignments.” 

“We’ll see.” Dick decided on. “But you might like it.” 

Kari threw the most utterly insulted look at him, and he smiled. 

Dick just hoped he didn’t just make a horrible mistake. 

A few days after his fateful conversation with Kari, Dick finally got to calling Bruce. 

“Hello, Dick.” B greeted after a few rings. “What do you want?” 

“What, no ‘how are you’ or ‘how do you do’? No asking after my family? ‘How’s Kari doing, chum? Pass that last math test?’” 

He sighed a long suffering sigh at Dick’s indignant quips. “How are you? How do you do? How’s Kari doing, chum? Pass that last math test?” He parroted. 

“Good, great, amazing, yes with flying colors.” 

“That’s nice,” his adoptive father said. “ Now what do you want?” 

“Hey! I could just be calling to check in with you, set up a date to catch up over dinner.” 

“I’m sure,” he said, humoring him, before his tone turned darker. “But I do hope you’re calling to finally tell me about my son in person. I hate to learn from a file.” 

“Your… son ?” Dick asked, slightly panicked but not letting it show in his voice. Jason had specifically asked not to let Bruce know. Somehow, when trying to make his new life better, he managed to ruin it. “I don’t know what you're talking about.” He tried hopelessly. Surely Babs had covered her tracks… his eyes locked with the file on the table, near-hidden under all the others. But unlike the cheap off-white of the BPD case files, this was a crème manilla folder, the kind that Babs preferred to use to organize her files. 

She had given it to him, stating it was filled with the details on Jason’s alias, but he had been swamped in work and hadn’t gotten a chance to read through it. Maybe she left an explanation there.

“Rayan al Ghul, alias Jason Head.” Bruce growled. “My son . Was the alias your idea of a joke? Is his middle name ‘Damian’?” No, not Bruce he realized. B. Batman. More and more these days Batman was more than Bruce, and Brucie was a long-forgotten memory. That was why he’d stopped talking to him so much. He was busy raising his granddaughter, and his father figure wasn’t there to help him. On some days he felt guilty about it, thinking the reason was that he’d forced him to become a recluse, driven crazy by being unable to do anything for his city. 

Now though, all that mattered was that Jason’s alias was still intact. He never should’ve doubted Babs, who clearly had some sort of a contingency plan. Thankfully his old tricks came back to him relatively easily as he silently made his way across to the table, narrowly missing the creaky floorboard. Under the BPD files riddled with notes he found the thick folder, all printed out. Opening it, he saw it was handwritten—something odd, but if she didn’t want to leave any possible digital trail it made sense. 

Babs handwriting had always reminded him of a teacher’s: neat and easy to read. Which was good, as he hurriedly skimmed over the file, old vigilante skills kicking in as he quickly absorbed the important information. 

He forced an exasperated groan. “How do you always know these things?” He sighed. “Now I know Alfred taught you to use a—” 

At B’s warning growl, he stopped. Right, having a supposed second son that your ex-lover kept from you again and your adopted son named after your other dead son probably didn’t do any good for one’s sense of humor. 

“He doesn’t want to meet you,” Dick told him instead, internally flinching at the coldness of his tone. 

“Please, chum. I—He’s my son , and Talia hid him from me again. I just want to meet him. Once.” His tone was softer, and the old nickname made him think back to when he was still Robin. Before Jason and Damian, and Tim and Steph, and Duke and Cass. When it was just him and Bruce and Alfred. It was happier back then, Dick thought. While he didn’t get along well with B when Jason was Robin, he knew enough to understand that B changed after Jason’s death. Everything else after it was some bleak tragedy that only enforced that grief. 

The iciness melted, but not enough to disregard Jason’s wishes. He was pretty that with enough time, Jason would want to see B. But now was not that time, and Dick got that. Respected that. He wasn’t a kid anymore, and wasn’t about to try and please B just for the sake of it. He was a father, a guardian, and had been for years now; the kid—and Jason was still a kid—came first. That, at least, was a sentiment he still held from his early years, even if it was for a slightly different reason. 

“I’m sorry Bruce,” he said. “But I can’t make that happen.” 

“ Please ,” he tried in vain, and the fact that B was begging made his heart sink further. Batman—hell, Bruce didn’t beg. “At least tell me about him.” 

Dick paused, but from what he gleaned, it wouldn’t do any harm to Jason’s cover, and thus risk upsetting Jason. “Okay,” he sighed. “What do you wanna know?” 

“Anything. Everything .” B said. “I… Damian looked like me with T—his mother’s coloring. What does he look like? What are his interests? Damian liked art. Jason liked reading…” 

“He has your coloring. His eyes are more green, kinda like Talia I guess, but he’s unique. A mix of both. He likes reading. I think… he reminds me kinda of Jason, y’know?” He felt kind of bad about bullshiting B, but in a way he hadn’t really lied had he? Like Bruce, Jason had dark hair and light eyes. After the Lazarus Pits, they even looked somewhat like Talia’s in the right lighting. He was unique, and a mix of both in a way as well. And obviously he reminded Dick of Jason because he was Jason. 

“Hn.” Bruce grunted like he hadn’t been all-but begging for information a little earlier. “Thank you.” He managed. 

“B…” Dick began. He still had a job to do. “I was thinking of moving to Gotham. I was wondering if you had any apartments you weren’t using? Child-safe safe houses perhaps? I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to a penthouse.” 

“I’ll send you the details.” B replied. He used to hate how he was like that, still did in a way. But the slight warmth in his tone still brought a smile to his face like it did all those years ago. It was a Robin smile; but it was his smile first. 

“Thanks.” He replied, and B hung up, leaving him on a dial tone. Good old B.  

“So why are we here, again?” Jason asked as he opened the car door and pulled on his red hoodie. His shirt lifted up slightly, shifting the literal magic charm—a small silver Robin—that Barbie had given him earlier that week.

Technically, the charm was protection from the Real Deal ancient magical artifact from, like, Merlin times. From what he understood, the nondescript golden chain was the last remaining part of a 3-piece set that changed your appearance, abilities, and blood/DNA respectively. The only con to it (or pro depending on your prospective), was that it was permanent and irreversible: once the necklace made skin-contact for a certain period of time the pre-determined altercations would become you, not just a ruse. After it was done, the chain (named something pretentious in, like, Latin) was untraceable to the original spell and just a simple gold chain—a souvenir if you will.

Thankfully for him, however, Barbie’s mysterious contact had gotten him the golden birdie so that he could take the necklace off skin-contact and be back to his original DNA (though with the sheer amount of work Barbie put into making sure “Rayan’s” DNA corresponded to his natural appearance as (while improbable) plausible it only was really for Jason himself and he knew it. Look, he just didn’t want to infringe on B and Talia if they didn’t want him, and because he needed proof he was still him even if he wasn’t really that boy anymore).

Given the fact that the last of the magically powerful collection was now his (and also supposedly was spelled—via the… birdie… charm—so that it would make him unable to be recognized as the decades-dead Jason Todd-Wayne look-a-like—he could imagine that the Press would be brutal if it came out that B’s “bio”-kid looked like his deceased adopted son. Creepy cloning-experiments weren’t that out there even in his time. And while admittedly he truly didn’t look that much like his younger self—Jason quickly pushed those thoughts away; he was not still him), Jason was kind of scared to learn who or how some mage got it to repay her such a big favor (of which it was the—evasively explained—life debt and a half of the unnamed mage and his pet cat, which was maybe not worth just a magical piece of jewelry—or two depending on who’s counting—, but he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth), though it still made his stomach lurch to know that Barbie wasted such a huge IOU on him (her “I wasn’t going to use it anyway,” wasn’t all that reassuring to him). 

“To see the house before we move,” Dick replied simply; reminding Jason he was there, and pulling himself out of his head. Quickly pushing his identity crisis into a small deal with later or never box in his mind, he decided to focus on the problem at hand. And—Jason was also trying not to think that much about it. While he was excited to be back in Gotham, just the thought of how much potential to go bad was disheartening, let alone the fact that he was going to uproot Kari and Dick from their happy lives in Blüdhaven. 

Right now, it was just him and Dick as Kari was hanging out with some friends and would come by later, around 4:00 PM. It seemed like a while to chat (as it was about 12:00 PM now) but Jason wouldn’t know, seeing as his best friend growing up… wasn’t much of a talker. 

“Right,” Jason replied neutrally, looking up at the cloudy gray sky. Out of habit, he searched the rooftops for a sign of life. Just as he was about to force his haze away— as it had been years and nothing was there and —his eyes caught on a dark form. 

It had an enhanced Kevlar weave suit— a material that he would recognize anywhere. But tanwanst what startled him, because maybe one of the kids that came after him— Tim, Steph, Cass, Duke— had a kid who they let endanger themselves. Maybe ‘Batboy’ was a thing. 

But no, paired with the distinctive pointed ears, the red bat was unmistakable. Most bat’s were slightly different, but that bat belonged to—no, he was jumping to conclusions, all his information was outdated by who knows how long ( not him ), and things probably didn’t work like that anymore. Hey, maybe that was Batboy. 

Still, he had to know, had to ask. Surely Dick would know. He—he— 

“ Who is that? ” Jason asked urgently, pulling Dick’s attention to the rooftop diagonal from them. 

“Oh, that’s, uh, what’s his name…? T-something… it’s ah… Terry , yeah. Terry McGinnis. The new Batman.” 

The new Batman… the words pounded in his skull. It had never really seemed possible, because despite knowing better, Batman— Bruce— had always seemed larger than life, a figure not a person. More immortal than Ra’s al Ghul could dream to be. But he guessed that was just a name, just a mask . A legend and not a legacy like Robin, not until now anyway. A mantle, a symbol. Justice incarnate. 

“B’s replacement,” Jason breathed. “Is he…” he trailed off, not quite finishing the questions. It was a hypothetical in a way. He didn’t want an answer. Robin could die, Robin had died. But Batman? Bruce ? Batman could not be— 

“He’s not dead, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Dick said, and Jason couldn’t help the sigh of relief that escaped him. “Just retired.” 

“Oh.” He said. 

“Just talked to him actually. Asked about ‘Rayan’. He offered me this house.” Dick gestured to the building in front of them, tearing Jason’s gaze away from the spot where the new Batman had long-since moved from. It was a large townhouse, standing dark and tall. It looked older in the sense that he might’ve seen it on patrol once and passed it by. It had a flat roof that he couldn’t see on it at his angle, and brick steps leading up to the door. Single person. 

“This house,” he said skeptically. “Wouldn’t he have put bugs in? Or have B-man Jr do it for him?” Jason nodded to where he had seen the retreating figure of Terry McGinnis at the last part. 

“I made him promise not to,” Dick began. 

“And you believe him?” Jason interrupted incredulously. 

“ What ? Hell no. I plan on sweeping it as soon as we enter with state of the art equipment I had Babs ‘borrow’ from him so he wouldn’t get suspicious of me.” 

“Oh thank god,” Jason laughed. “I thought you went crazy.” 

Dick laughed. “Yeah, I would too,” he agreed lightheartedly. “Now come on, let’s get started. Hopefully the bugs are mostly gone by the time Kari gets here.” 

Jason nodded, and they walked up the brick steps together. 

( Maybe, he thought, like brothers. ).

… Years ago… 

“Hey Gary,” he said to the gargoyle on his right. “It’s been awhile.” 

Jason had been Robin for four months by now. Normally it was magic, flying through rooftops, rescuing kids like he used to be, hell, rescuing people in general was amazing. But today was the first day he’d failed to save someone. It was stupid, stupid . He knew not everyone could be saved, but damnit, he’d been so fucking close to saving her. 

It was his fault. 

The moon was bright tonight, full. Usually smog would cover it, but today it faded away in its wispy clouds as a backdrop like in his school play. 

“How did you know I was here?” He asked the shadow behind him, yellow cape blowing in the wind. 

“Because you’re the only kid I’ve ever met who had his favorite gargoyle?” 

Jason—Robin—or was he still Jason despite the uniform? He didn’t feel like much of a hero tonight. 

“Look, Bru— Batman ,” He corrected quickly, as B moved from behind him and into the light. “What if you are wrong about me?” 

“What if I screw up or something?” 

“I am one hundred percent confident that you will screw up, Robin.” Oh, so he was Robin now. Or was B just talking about Robin? He went through the whole growth mindset “it’s okay to make mistakes” seminar at school; but with B looking down at him he just felt small, sitting on the rooftop under the shadow of this great man. 

“You’ll jump to conclusions.” He continued. “You'll make mistakes. You’re bound to fail spectacularly. At least once.” 

“Real confidence-building skills there.” Robin quipped. 

“I didn’t ask you to be Robin because I wanted someone perfect. I wanted someone who can do their best. Who can learn from their mistakes. Someone who makes me a better person just by being with them.” He paused for a second, letting it sink in. 

“So tell me…” he began again. “…is that you, Jason?” 

And, well, there was only one answer to that. 

“The name’s Robin ,” he corrected. 

“An honor.” B replied, taking his hand. 

Jason smiled a Robin smile.  

…Now… 

The door creaked open slowly, as if it had not been in use recently. If it wasn’t Gotham, it would have struck Jason as oddly similar to a horror movie, except for the fact that it was Gotham; and thus most things there did. 

Flicking on the light switch however, the lights flickered on easily. “It’s outdated,” Dick mused as he hung up his coat in a rack. “It’s normal,” Jason retorted, before remembering that now of course that meant that it was. 

Dick seemed to note that, but kept it to himself. Not bothering to take off his hoodie, Jason scowled. “I’m not a baby,” he remarked. “I’m not some delicate little bird.” He chucked slightly at that reference, and Dick with him. “You can tell me what you really think. I’d honestly feel better if it didn’t feel like you were treading on thin ice around me.” 

“Sorry,” Dick said. “It’s just… Jay, I know it feels regular to you, to be alive that is, but to me…. To us… it’s been decades. You being here next to me? That’s more of a miracle than any fantastical thing I’ve ever encountered during my vigilante days.” 

He flushed slightly, and had half a mind to clarify. Really? He could see himself saying it rawly. Do I really mean that much to you? To everyone? But he stopped himself. Jason knew that vulnerability like that would only lead to being burned. Instead, he retorted harshly. 

“You don’t know how I feel. Being buried alive and treated to ‘Ra’s Lazarus Spa: manipulation included in premium package’ isn’t my idea of a usual day. Besides, you shouldn’t talk like that. B could’ve bugged the entryway.” 

“He didn’t,” Dìck said, showing him a small sleek silvery device that he held in his hand. It was a screen, and he pressed a button on it again. 

… Searching for hidden audio and visual surveillance devices… 

NONE FOUND 

“Oh,” Jason managed. That kind of tech didn’t exist when he was… Before. But then again, he supposed lots of things didn’t exist then. “It only covers the room,” Dick clarified like that alone wasn’t impressive enough. That clicking a button in a doorway accounted for the entire hall it opened into wasn’t cool. If he had had that when he was Ro… never mind, he thought forcefully. 

“Awesome,” he said instead, and Dick smiled. “Yeah, I guess it is. I mean if I had that back then it really would’ve been super helpful.” 

“Yeah, totally,” Jason took the proffered olive branch. 

“Come on, let’s check this place out,” Dick said, and Jason followed. He didn’t bother to take off his converse sneakers, and so hoped B didn’t have any staff who had to clean up as they were muddy with rainwater drainage. He didn’t think so, but if this was an unused house that he kept as an official ‘Brucie’ residence and not a safe house, it would be in character for such a possibility to occur. Of course, from what he heard, B hadn’t even kept up the ‘ditzy billionaire playboy’ persona, and went full on Batman sometimes nowadays. 

“Nice painting,” Jason noted after he saw what he swore was a legitimate Rembrandt in the hallway. Rich people, honestly. 

“Mmhm,” Dìck nodded. “It’s a forgery, Damian painted it. I think I watched, but it must’ve been a practice since he signed his initials ‘DTaGW’ in a slightly darker green paint.” 

“Oh,” Jason said again, but this time it was more down. He felt stupid. While sure, he was no museum curator, Auntie Di had shown him around an art gallery in France over spring break once, and he picked up a few things so as to survive at B’s fancy parties. Now that he thought about it, how was Auntie Di? As an immortal Amazonian Princess, surely she’d be one of the only people to stay the same? Maybe he should ask Dìck about it sometime… 

Jason forcefully pulled himself out of his thoughts, when a flash of red caught his eye. Not unlike the earlier message in green, this time in red the screen displayed: 

FOUR FOUND 

TYPE: AUDIO, VISUAL.

With a map of the room and the points where they were hidden highlighted in two different colors that showed what kind of bug was there. 

Ah. “ Umi talked about him. He was good at art, yeah.” Umi was essentially Arabic for “mom”, and he assumed “Rayan” would refer to Talia as such. Likewise, he assumed she would tell him—Rayan—about his older siblings. 

“Right,” Dick said. “Uh, he was.” 

With an awkward nod that disguised the blinking of his eyes that said to destroy the bugs in Morse code. 

As they traveled over the house, a search that spanned three floors, he realized that the house was almost like a museum, displaying the achievements of his ‘siblings’, though to his anger and disappointment, there were surprisingly few of his own. 

Though, Jason couldn’t really complain to Dick about it as they removed the audio/visual microscopic cameras and mics (which must be what Ra’s mentioned—as they were clearly expensive, but probably common. Though these particular ones were specified for Bat-tech Dick noted ‘off-handedly’ for Jason’s benefit). 

“Just the roof left,” Dick sighed after a few hours. 

“Thank god,” Jason agreed. “Any more and I might go insane,” 

The two walked up the stairs to the unofficial fourth floor to all (former) vigilantes: a flat roof that you could easily relax on. Hell, even to normal people you could probably throw a semi-safe party up there, as there were stone carved ornaments decorating a short (only maybe ½ foot) “railing”. 

But it wasn’t the rooftop itself that caught Jason’s eyes: it was the lone stone gargoyle on it, that he’d recognize anywhere— Gary . 

Vaguely, he recalled Dick getting a text on his phone sometime after doing a quick sweep. He had mentioned something about Kari’s friend's mom not being free and him having to go pick Kari up. 

“You coming?” He had asked him. 

“Naw,” Jason said, still looking at Gary. B had kept him, even though the old building he was on had surely been destroyed. “I mean, is it okay if I stay here?” 

Eventually Dick agreed (after what should be a probably unsurprising argument, seeing as it made sense for him to be somewhat overprotective), leaving Jason alone with the gargoyle. He sat down next to him. 

“Hey Gary,” he said to the gargoyle on his right. “It’s been awhile.”

Chapter Text

A short interlude, hours earlier: 

Terry McGinnis’s Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day 

Terry McGinnis, the new Batman, woke up to the too-loud sound of his phone ringing. Groaning, he picked it up, only to see he still had five more minutes before his alarm went off for his afternoon classes. That, if anything, should’ve told him it was a bad day. 

But, when he picked it up, he soon found he was wrong. Wincing, not only from the bruised ribs he got last night in a drug-bust gone wrong, but to the loud sound of Dana’s voice in his ear as he forced himself out of the warm bed. He was glad Bruce paid for his homing while in college, because between the sneaking and the falling asleep in the suit things, a shared dorm could lead to disastrous results. 

Still, that didn’t change the unfortunate fact that his day was already off to a truly shitty start. For the sake of his splitting headache, he quickly turned down the volume before answering. 

“Heeeey, Dana,” he laughed. “I, uh, totally forgot about our date last night…” 

“Again.” Dana replied. It wasn't a question. “Look Ter. I’ve known you since high school. I really like you, but this is the fifth date night you’ve missed. This month.” 

“Look, Dana, it’s not what you think. I really like you too, it’s just I’m really busy…” 

“Busy? Doing what? You’re suspicious Terry. I don’t know if you're cheating—which doesn’t sound like you, but I don’t really know you anymore. It doesn’t matter what, just the fact that you're lying to me about something, anything, everything in general. I’m looking to be an investigative reporter Terry. I know these things.” 

“I—look—” 

“No Terry! I’ve bought your bullshit for years, and yeah we’ve taken breaks, but I’ve always come back. It’s just something about you, maybe because I know your family. Your brother, who I used to babysit, your mother, who was always a better host than you in all these recent dates!” 

She didn’t bring up his father, who died, but she was dating him even when Warren McGinnis was still on that earth. They had been good then. Then, before Batman. 

“Dana, I really do love you—” 

“Yeah, well then tell me what’s going on!” 

“Look, I can’t really… It's complicated. Not, not now, maybe later? But I can’t really talk over the phone—and now,” he swiped at his alarm notification furiously before it finally went on ‘snooze’ or something. “ Really isn’t a good time—I’m gonna be late for class—but I don’t wanna keep lying. Just come by… well, not later, I have work with Mr Wayne—” 

“Oh, right, Mr Wayne! I completely forgot about him! I know he's old and taking care of him is your job, but Terry—are you dating him, or are you dating me? I know you wanna hurry this up, so here’s the deal: there’s someone in my Creative Writing class who actually seems to like me, and actually knows stuff like what’s happening in my life right now, unlike some people! He invited me on a study date since you never show up to inform anyone that I have a boyfriend. I don’t wanna cheat, but we haven’t hung out in days. When was the last time we talked face-to-face, huh? I like him, and so I think that it’s for the best for us to break up.” 

“Dana, look—” 

“It wasn’t a question. I’m sorry Terry. We tried, at least I really did. But… I hope you have a great life, and we can still be—well, not friends, but we do have mutual acquaintances. So. I’ll see you around. Bye.” 

She hung up before he could get anymore words in, and in all honesty he couldn’t blame her. He was a pretty shitty boyfriend, and… well, he hoped she was happy. 

“My life’s up in fucking flames,” he muttered as he shoved the Bat-suit in his closet’s secret compartment, and pulled out the med kit. He groaned. “Ugh.” 

Just then, as he was groping for his phone to look up ‘how to treat bruised ribs that may be broken’ online, hoping for a YouTube tutorial video but not feeling crazy optimistic, his thrice-damned phone rang again. At first he thought it was that snooze alarm finally going off—he wished, but no he was not that lucky. It still had a solid 4:38 minutes left, and he almost certainly would’ve cried tears of frustration if he wasn’t a trained vigilante. His eyes still felt moist, but that might’ve just been from the dust—when was the last time he cleaned? 

“Heeey, Bruce,” Terry greeted as hit hit ‘accept’. “What’d ya need, because I’m about to be off to class—” 

“Skip it.” He growled. “I need you to do me a favor,” 

“Look, Bruce, it’s really not a good time—”

“Please, Terry, it’s a personal favor. Simple. Easy. Quick. I have a key, just plant some bugs, and drop off a letter.” 

“Bruce, seriously man, I’m trying not to fail out of Gotham U here. My mom would be pissed.” 

“You’ll only be a little late. I do some funding efforts there, I’m sure they’d accept me excusing your absence.” 

“Bruce, that’s not—” they were both stubborn, but Terry realized that he wasn’t going to win this. “Fine,” he growled. “I’ll meet you…” 

“Outside, I’m in the car.” 

“Of course you are.” 

Spoiler: it was not ‘simple’, ‘quick’, or ‘easy’. After trying to inconspicuously place the bugs—after having been refused a real explanation other than things that implied that it was important and possibly mafia related—he, in uniform, made his way up to the roof of the borderline-museum. 

All the way up all of the fucking stairs with his bruised-maybe-broken ribs (no elevators, how old was this house even?), when he realized he forgot to place the letter in an easily excessive place. Noting the late time, he quickly looked around the roof for a place to shove the damn thing—a flowerpot, maybe? The only thing up here really was this one old gargoyle that was looking like it was from Bruce’s prime. 

Oh well… He thought tiredly, as there was no way he’d go back downstairs to place it in a mail slot or kitchen table. So with no other options, he hurriedly shoved it mostly-securely in the mouth of the stone ornament, hoping for the best (which didn’t seem to be doing much for him today, quite the opposite in fact, but again: oh well ). 

Terry—too exhausted to bother compartmentalizing, and to remember no names on the field even in his own headspace—made his way to the next building, wincing slightly at the jostling of his ribs. He should probably get that looked at. 

Still, he repeated the motions and grapled to another building back towards Gotham U. Really, normally he didn’t make a habit of being rude to Bruce, but honestly fuck him—was it really that hard to wait with a car? 

But alas, Bruce would be Bruce, and life would be life. And so, as he prepared his mental strength (while he mourned his attendance and ribs), Terry felt the six-sense that he was being glared at and sighed. It better not be— 

Oh thank god, he breathed. It wasn’t an escaped villain that he needed to fight, or even some ambitious thugs who wanted to take a shot (which he wasn’t looking forward to dodging). It was just some kid and his dad spotting Batman. He waved a bit and disappeared off to class. 

Terry quickly changed and sped-walk ( ouch, his fucking ribs! ). Sadkyk despite his best efforts he was late, and made his way into his last class a minute before the end bell. He was aiming for a minute late to his first class. 

Honestly, today sucked, and then he looked on live television on the way back to his apartment, showcasing a villain with thugs and no longer did he blame the dust.  

Max was vacationing in Australia. 

He wished he could join her. 

Now, back to Jason. 

(…Poor Terry…)

Jason sat down on the ledge next to his gargoyle and watched as the sunset turned dusk and the dusk to the darkness of night. Or, well, as dark as a metropolitan area completely ridden with pollution of all kinds, including but not limited to light pollution could be. 

Jason leaned his head against the cool stone of Gary, murmuring to his oldest friend. The last time he’d been here he’d been Robin—er, well, not Robin on account of being fired, but in that mindset at the very least. He’d been a sad little boy who just found out his mother wasn’t the woman who raised him. 

“So much has changed, y’know?” He said, and as always there was no response. Still, the presence was comforting. He was conflicted on Bruce for multiple reasons: he’d put more kids in a suit that should’ve died with him. While he understood that B’s code was important to him, and very black and white, and thus ensuring he wouldn’t kill his killer, it was truly unforgivable that he let other kids die in that uniform, lose their livelihood in that same gruesome manner. 

But on the other hand, B didn’t forget about him, even saved his friend. That had to count for something, right? 

“I don’t know, Gary,” he said, but just then a sealed letter fell from the gargoyle as if in response to his plight. Looking down, not having to squint hard due to the lit up city, he saw utterly heartbreakingly recognizable handwriting spelling out a name: 

Rayan 

Bruce , he realized. Bruce had written that, ostensibly to his son Rayan—aka Jason himself. Hesitantly, remembering that Dick had swept the place for bugs and found it clean and the fact that even then he had a magic charm around his neck, he ripped the letter open. 

Rayan, 

I want to preface this by saying I had no idea that anything came of Talia and my union fifteen years ago. However, had I known, I would surely have wanted to be a part of your life. 

I understand that Talia raised you mostly off grid, traveling to escape from her father, your grandfather. However, when you were twelve I also know that that changed. I mention this to showcase that I know of your tenure as the assassin by the name of ‘Red Robin’. I know that you have killed many for your grandfather. While I do not know what Talia told you of your paternal family, I do suspect that you may already know of my stance towards those who kill; and as such is the reason you chose not to contact me, and instead chose my eldest son, your eldest brother. 

But, with that said, I do not know how much you know of your other siblings, both your adoptive and single biological. If you have heard tales of them, or at least of Damian, you may know that they followed me into my crusade, and thus my stance. Still, many have been forced to kill before in the past, and of that I do not judge them. I would do the same to you in the case that you wish to meet me. 

However, I do know that you choose not to, and of that I will respect. If you ever change your mind though, I will be here and will welcome you with open arms. 

As it is, you have chosen to start a new life under a new name with Dick and his granddaughter Kari, which is a commendable and brave choice all on its own. I understand that you have suffered through much, including the loss of your mother, the manipulating hand of your grandfather, and a brutal attempt at being murdered. 

Running from that cruel life isn’t cowardice, Rayan, it is strength of character. 

I do not know if you know much of the boy whose name you share now—Jason—but he, like Damian and all my other children, are dear to me. Dick tells me that you remind him of him, and I suppose that is how you got your new name. 

Coming into this new life, after such a drastic change, can be difficult, and so in final I leave you with this: Jason also came from a life of which he had different standards than the one of which he then entered. He would often talk to a gargoyle he named ‘Gary’. While I first believed he simply used the gargoyle as a rubber duck, I soon saw it was confident free of judgment. A friend, if you will. I feel that Jason would have wanted a kindred soul to have such a friend to talk to, especially when they couldn’t talk to others about parts of their life, like him. 

I understand that you are unlike my other children, and if you choose not to contact me again, let alone join my crusade I would understand and respect that decision. But do know Rayan, had you ever wondered during a story your mother once perhaps told: 

You would have been a great Robin, of that I have no doubt. 

Your future is not defined by your past, and it is what you choose to make it. With those wise words, I finish this in hopes you have found this letter, read it, and acknowledge it. Do know that even without meeting you, I have heard only good things from Dick and Barbara, and even without their testimonies, I do and would always still love you unconditionally. I understand that in the past I have made many mistakes, but should you choose to give me a chance, I hope I can learn from those and do better by you. 

Still, if you choose to leave me be, I will not judge you. But if you do contact me and feel uncomfortable calling me ‘dad’, many of my other children refer to me by my first name and you may do the same. But, whatever your choice, I can only hope that you are happy and safe. 

Your father, 

Bruce 

Jason finished the letter, surprised to find tear tracks running down his face. Parts of the dark ink had bled slightly due to the drops of water that had fallen. He quickly blinked the salty tears out of his eyes, and furiously reread the letter, then reread it again. 

By the third time, he’d found and hyperfocused on any flaws, but even those couldn’t stop him from wanting to go over and try again. To say ‘ hi, it’s me Jason, I’m alive’ . But, still, there were too many factors to consider. This was to Rayan , and sure it said some nice things about Jason—a long dead child—but it was asking a boy who did not truly exist to start a relationship, not a boy who already existed and failed. 

Jason was broken out of his thoughts by the sharp squeaking of door hinges against a mostly quiet night. While sure, there were the faint voices and telltale honks of a rush hour traffic jam, but they were all slightly muffled, clearly a distance or so away. 

He turned to see Kari, frozen like a deer in headlights in the doorway. “It’s getting late,” Kari said when she noticed him looking at her. “Gramps wanted to check on you, and I offered ’cause I hadn’t seen you yet. But clearly you're busy having a moment so…” 

“It’s fine,” Jason said, grimacing when his voice cracked slightly like he was on the brink of breaking down in tears. “Why don’t you, uh, sit. I can introduce you to Gary.” 

“Who’s Gary?” Kari asked as she hesitantly made her way over to sit on the left next to him on the townhouse’s edge. 

“This is Gary,” he said, motioning to the gargoyle. “Gary, meet Kari; Kari, meet Gary.” 

At her slightly confused look, he explained. “He’s my favorite gargoyle and my best friend. I used to see him all the time when I was Robin. It was nice having a friend who I could just talk to. Dick and I didn’t get along great at first, and Barbie only heard his side then. And Bruce is… Bruce.” Well, he was surprisingly emotionally literate in that letter, but that’s the exception, not the rule.  

“Hi, Gary,” Kari said. “It’s nice to meet you.” Most would be judgmental, and if they greeted him at all it was mocking, like they were just humoring Jason and weren't bothering to hide it. Kari, if she was mocking, didn’t show it—she talked like he thought she would to a real person. 

As they sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, he took the opportunity to think back to the letter, still resting in his hands. Running from that cruel life isn’t cowardice, Bruce had written . It is strength of character. Thinking back, he wondered if Bruce would still think that if he knew who Jason really was. He had been right about one thing, that Jason wondered if he made a good Robin. Of course though, there were very different contexts. But if he could so correctly interpret a stranger he had never met, wasn’t real, and only heard of, it stood to reason that he may unconsciously associate him with Jason. But maybe he was giving him too much credit. 

“Robin is dead ,” he told himself desperately, decisively. He wouldn't let his emotions be manipulated so thoroughly again by a person he once thought of as family. 

“Huh?” Kari asked, and Jason realized he said the statement out loud. He thought of how upset Kari had been the first night, but then remembered her treatment of Gary just now. She had apologized for the bad start, and to be fair, the majority of his good relationships started off horrible (Dick, Barbie, even Bruce who he stole from… so maybe Kari?). 

So, with that sentiment in mind, he decided to try and explain, to talk it out. Normally he’d do that with just Gary, to help clear his head and make his thoughts clearer, but he supposed an outside perspective might be good. 

“I was Robin for almost three years before I died,” he began. “It was important to me, y’know? Part of me. Sometimes I find I’m still referring to myself as Robin. If it’s a stressful situation, or something, I’ll start telling myself ‘focus, Robin. What’s the problem?’. Now, I find that I’m giving up part of my life, that I lost part of my life. If I’m not Batman's Robin; who am I, Kari? Am I still a hero? Or am I just the villain who defiled his ashes?” 

“I…” she began after a moment. “I don’t pretend to know you well; hell, I met you a week ago. But from what I’ve seen, you're nowhere near a ‘villain’, Jason. I know what real evil is, and that’s who manipulated an impressionable young boy. Even with all that, you still escaped and found Gramps, you still forgave me for being a bitch to you, and you still teased me for losing my phone the other day when you were already looking for it.” 

“I… I didn’t just see Ra’s and immediately think ‘hey, that’s bad, let’s pack it up and leave’. Ra’s processed Talia, and I trusted Talia. He spoon-fed me certain information, and while I know it was purposefully given to manipulate me, I still stand by what I thought. Kari, I didn’t see those articles and think ‘oh well, better hear it from the source, and not trust an al Ghul’, I saw that and asked for training . I’ve killed people, Kari. Bad people, people who wouldn’t and couldn’t be stopped from hurting others. Hurting children . Not by the law, anyway. I don’t regret it.” 

At his admission, Jason looked away. Like Kari said, they didn’t know each other well. He just told her something that he meant to keep a secret. It’s just—the words form Bruce’s letter ( Still, many have been forced to kill before in the past, and of that I do not judge them. I would do the same to you in the case that you wish to meet me. ) haunted him now that he read them, and couldn’t get the thought out of his head. Would his family judge him that he killed others? The letter specified ‘forced’, but… Jason didn’t know. Maybe, he wondered, if that was his subconscious deciding to do a trail run: surely, if an essential stranger believed in him, his own family would too. 

Finally, Kari responded; looking into the clouds as if thinking back to a far off memory. “Batman doesn’t kill, right? That’s his thing. So obviously you can’t be Batman’s Robin anymore. But… that doesn’t mean you're not a Robin. I… My mother killed my great-aunt Komand’r to protect me when I was too young to remember. My grandmother also died thought to have killed her a year before it was clear she didn’t. Everyone thought they killed somebody, but they weren’t murderers. They weren’t villains. I don’t think they were anyway, and neither does my Gramps.” 

She turned to him, and after a pause, continued. “Personally, I don’t think you're a villain. And if you made those children’s lives better by doing what the law couldn’t? Well, Robin was always a vigilante. Just because you can’t be Batman’s Robin anymore, Jason; doesn’t mean you're not a hero. It just means you're not the same kid you were before you went through multiple traumatic experiences, and that’s okay. If you need to be Robin to know that, you can be my Robin. I mean, I’m not about to go jaunting about with you as a junior partner, but I’ll call you ‘Rob’ to remind you. Maybe someday Gramps will finally let me be a hero and you can be Robin again, but for now that’s all I got.” 

Jason was speechless. That was not the reaction he was expecting. “I—thanks.” He managed, then her wording dawned on him. “Was that what you were gonna do when I came? Ask Dick if you could be a hero?” 

“Yeah,” she laughed softly. “I had a name picked out for as long as I could remember. I was gonna get through school, and then maybe in college once I’m eighteen I could join a team or something. Maybe after, I don’t know, it was just a vague idea for a while. I wanted to be like my entire family and most of my friends. But recently… The last of my hero-legacy friends became full-fledged hero’s or sidekicks or partners or whatever. I felt left out. I was gonna talk to Gramps about it, but…” 

“But then the walking talking example of why you shouldn’t let your teenager dress up in bright colors and fight crime showed up and said ‘hi’.” Jason finished her sentence when she trailed off. No wonder she was so angry. 

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I wouldn’t have framed it that way, but you certainly made a solid point.” 

“I can talk to him…” he offered. 

“No, it’s fine. I didn’t bring it up after that, and I should have that conversation with him myself.” 

“Okay,” he said. “That makes sense. But here’s a pro tip: don’t just sit there and brood. You really should talk to him, and hey, maybe he’ll surprise you, you never know.” 

“Yes, like you're the shining example of that,” Kari scoffed sarcastically but not cruelly. Then softer, with the same warm undertone as before: 

“Thanks for that… Rob.” 

After that night at the gargoyle, subsequently both nothing and something changed in their relationship. They still teased each other, but now it was more friendly banter. They still had disagreements, but even then Kari still made a point to call him ‘Rob’. 

(“Jesus fuck, Rob. What kind of person can sleep till noon everyday?” She’d say after a very successful morning as she comes home to him just waking up and making some coffee. 

“Well, you just answered yourself, didn’t you? ‘Rob’ does. Ask your grandpa. Ugh, morning people, I swear to—!” Old habits of a nocturnal bird die hard, he supposed— oh wait was that a pun?— His insomnia probably had nothing to do with any nightmares he may or may not have. 

—at this point she’d raise an eyebrow, a move she probably saw Dick attempt to mimic and say: “late risers, I swear,” in a very clearly mocking manner of his earlier exclamation.)

And—fuck, it did kind of make him feel better. Over the course of a few surprisingly short weeks, they managed to move all their shit to B’s de-bugged townhouse, in an official move in. 

(Jason had asked Dick if he didn’t mind keeping what was Kari’s childhood home. He smiled, and said “ of course, ”) 

The house—who’s museum like quality was attempted to be preserved, with paintings staying hung on the walls, and vases on side tables; all pieces to large or unreasonable for a living environment safety stored in a mostly unused basement—was just beginning to look lived in, passing the stage where it was uncannily clean to the point where if you walked in there would be jackets hung on the chairs haphazardly and a random tennis ball (despite none of them playing tennis) rolled under the coffee table (which still had old mugs of expensive-that-one-café-brand coffee, a gift from Emily and Jermey—who he learned were twin siblings and apparently Kari’s only civilian friends.). 

(Honestly, it had only been a week or two at most and the house looked like it’d been in use for years. That is, in use for years by rambunctious two year olds, a tired teenager on a deadline, and a still-grieving single father working the double shift. 

Jason was seriously insulted on Alfie’s— oh god he must be dead now, right?— behalf. Dick’s cleaning skills deserved to be shamed right next to his lack of cooking skills. How he survived on his own was an accomplishment really. No wonder his old apartment was shit.) 

Anyway, the point of all that forethought was to set the scene: imagine Jason, surprisingly awake at 10:01 AM sipping some coffee—still that overpriced bullsh*t, what was with that one shop? Why did Dick keep buying it after complaining about the price?—and Kari stupidly fully awakened on her phone—or whatever the future’s equivalent was—scrolling through like Instagram or something. 

Dick walked up to their depressingly unsociable sit-together, a grin on his face. Oh shit, that could not be good for his continued health and happiness, Jason realized with a sigh. His life of catching up on books and history and looking into volunteering places without running into any WE people was about to go down. 

“The Drake’s invited us to a housewarming party,” Dìck said diplomatically. Jason hated diplomats and their stupid diplomatic immunity. 

Clearly, Kari mirrored his thoughts when she looked up from her phone and said calmly: 

“Hell to the ‘no’.” 

Dick only smiled. “I said ‘yes’.” 

The next evening, much to Kari’s displeasure and Jason’s hesitancy, they loaded into Dick’s car—after a fight about who got shotgun of which Dick told them to both just sit in the back— ready to drive to the apparent home of the Drake family. 

“So,” Jason began awkwardly. “What’s the deal between Kari and Replacement Jr?” 

Kari opened her mouth, but Dick beat her to it with a tired sigh. “Please don’t call Tim that, Jay.” He said, and Jason flushed. It just kind of slipped out. “Sorry,” he mumbled. 

Kari, sensing his attempt to break the silence, went into a long rant about the incident with Tom fucking Drake when she was ten. 

Jason looked out the window, remembering T—Ra’s reveal of Tim Drake’s existence and how he hated him. Now he couldn’t, shouldn’t really. 

Jason worried that maybe he still did.

Chapter Text

Finally the car came to a halt, and the sickening motion of the hovering vehicle lowering came to. 

“We’re here,” said Kari glumly, gesturing to the house on her side of the window. Getting out of the car, Jason made his way around until he too saw it. 

Maybe part of him expected Drake’s home to be a manor like B’s or a safe house that crossed over with a tech-based villains lair similar to the Batcave. Instead, what he came face-to-face to was a perfectly normal suburban house. It was large, yes, but no more so than the others in the block. 

It was a tasteful lavender color, with perfectly nondescript windows and doors with complementary white lining. It had hydrangea bushes under the windows and a perfectly mowed lawn much like the houses on either side of it. In the same shade of purple there was a garage off to the side with a driveway and a car parked outside the closed garage door for what seemed to be simple convenience. 

Despite its normality, it was frankly unnerving. Perhaps it was because whenever Jason thought of Drake, he thought of the nitpicked files that T—Ra’s had designed for him. He thought of a thief in the night, stealing a dead boy’s name and wearing his colors ( green yellow red ). Jason thought if he searched longer and harder in the darkness of his unlit bedroom of a little boy with a camera who he caught half-hanging off a fire escape once and bought ice cream. Maybe, if he thought back slightly less, studied the photos slightly more, he remembered vague shapes of icy parents always gone and a sole little boy at galas all alone. 

Black hair. 

Blue eyes. 

Green. 

 Yellow. 

  Red. 

My name. My mantle. My colors. 

( Oh, but didn’t you steal it too? ) 

Replacement. 

He pictured little Timmy Drake as a knobby-kneed thirteen-year-old Robin, flying through the night, washing all B’s pain (if he had any) away and stealing his place in his heart. A cuckoo bird in a robin's nest. 

But, when the small party made their way past the white picket fence, up the stone-speckled winding path and up the steps to the house, suddenly larger and more looming than the unthreatening atmosphere before, and rang the doorbell— 

Ding-dong! 

— Jason was faced with the reality that life had moved on, that the pictures and documents and eyewitness accounts that Ta—Ra’s, damn it, he was Ra’s and Talia loved him and she was dead! Dead? Well he probably had to have killed her right? Well and—

“Hi,” Tom Drake greeted them at the door. Wincing slightly at something unknown, he continued. “Please come in, dinner’s just on the table. …mom’s in the kitchen arguing with dad. They’ll stop soon when you come in. Nice to see you, RiRi; Uncle Dick. Uh… new kid?” 

Jason didn’t know what the protocol should be for situations like this. Family, albeit not in contact with Bruce. He could, hell, he should give the Drakes his real name and identity, as they deserved to know. … Or did they? He didn’t know. So, he aimed for a fake slip-up to solidify his fake alias with some hesitation because, well, he was. Hesitant, that is. 

“Ra—Jason. Jason Head. We’re… well, I suppose the term ‘cousins’ could apply.” 

Thankfully he was saved from his response by Kari interjecting after his quick introduction. “Don’t call me ‘RiRi’, Tommy .” 

“Awe, RiRi,” he said. “Did you not miss me much? That would’ve hurt if I minded extra nicknames. Was it meant to? Sorry, I forgot how you were with grudges.” He leaned towards Jason conspiringly like he was telling him a great secret. With a stage whisper, he added: “she likes to hold them.” 

Jason snorted slightly despite his poor attempt at stoicism. He was growing lazy. Losing his touch. Kari, on the other hand, seethed. Eyes with an undertone of almost red glint. Laser vision . He understood as a former Robin how utterly annoying not reacting could be. Kill your enemies with happiness, a saying said to stop little kids from fighting. As a kid, Jason learned how to weaponize it. 

But Jason also knew how to comfort distraught civilians, and was ready to step in if Kari was about to turn her cousin into dust. Literally. Thankfully, he underestimated her and she took a few deep breaths. 

“I forgot how you were with grudges,” she bantered. Mockingly, she leaned in close and stage-whispered to him. “He disregards them.” 

“Don’t see the point,” Tom added helpfully. “I figure that if something that happened five years ago isn’t affecting me now it isn’t my problem; and if a problem is still bothering me it isn’t a ‘grudge’ rather a ‘constant annoyance’.” 

Pretty sound logic, but Jason wasn’t about to go forgiving and forgetting what happened in Ethiopia because of that either. In his defense though, a grudge was tame compared to what he’d gone though— 

Anyway . 

“Alright, kids,” Dick interrupted to his relief, distracting him and the cousins from their respective fights. “Break it up. Tom, lovely to see you too, it’s been so long. How you’ve grown. Big year… planning on getting your driver’s license soon?” Smoothly, Dick maneuvered the conversation away from treacherous waters of dangerous topics and into a safe, warm, low-tide beach in a privately-owned Caribbean resort.

He was so smooth, in fact, that Jason found himself seamlessly walking along into the Drake household listening somewhat transfixed. This was the talent he was always up against. This was the Dick Grayson he tried but never could imitate. 

Jason was pulled from his spiraling chain of thought by the sound of a feminine voice coming from a different room, possibly the kitchen. Sneaking off from the group, he eavesdropped on the one sided conversation though the door, all while feeling horribly guilty. Alfie would be so disappointed. 

“That’s it, Tim! I can’t believe you can’t get off work now, they RSVP’d in advance! You had time to plan but you pushed it off and said ‘it’s okay’ and I fucking believed you! I have to throw a dinner party without you, and the waffles are burning! Waffles , Tim! My waffles!”  

That must be Stephanie Drake née Brown. Ex Spoiler, Robin, and Batgirl. 

“Look, sorry for yelling at you, I was just upset. Why ? Because you're gonna miss the dinner I spent hours on! Oh, sorry, I mean be late and only miss most of it. So that’s okay, huh ? You always do this, even when it’s not something special! Even when it’s something special! I thought you were done with late nights after—right, I’m sorry, that was too far. Look, don't you wanna meet the new kid, Damian two-point-oh, guaranteed not to try and kill you via Di— yes , I know he said that last time , I was there for the failed assassination attempts by a prepubescent ten-year-old!” 

Well, not the loving couple I was expecting… but hey, free information! 

“Yeah, Tim, I’ll see you soon; let Tom know you’ll be home to say goodbye to Dick and Kari and Rayan. Love you too, uh huh, bye.” 

Eyes widening, Jason quickly ducked out of the way, but was too late for a blonde woman with the same shade of blonde as Tom’s hair grabbed him by the hoodie’s hood. “Going somewhere?” She asked, crossed arms and a warped mirror of Alfie’s raised eyebrow. 

“Sorry,” he flushed. “I couldn’t help it.” 

She examined him closely, like she was dissecting him in an autopsy (wait, did he have an autopsy? He thought through foggy memories that— no . Some things were better left unknown). “Just like B,” she noted. “It’s fine, Rayan, isn't it? No harm, no fowl. I’ll show you to the dining room.” 

Embarrassed at being caught, Jason just nodded and muttered ‘sorry’ again. But in his defense, Stephanie was also an ex-Bat. 

The walk is somewhat awkward and short as hell. The kitchen is right next to the dining room, and Jason doesn’t know what to say the whole way there. Which again, isn’t that long. 

“So,” he starts awkwardly. “What’s for dinner?” 

“Waffles,” she said with a grin. “My favorite and best meal. I thought about cooking something more traditional like, I don’t know, turkey , but… Damian was a vegetarian and I’m not that confident in my cooking prowess.” 

Jason nodded. Breakfast for dinner was an old favorite. Not necessarily because he loved pancakes, but because when he was younger, before he met B, old off brand Cheerios sounded like a dream come true compared to starving. 

“Nice,” he said. “And I’m not a vegetarian, by the way.” He added. Likewise, you don't have the chance to be picky when you're poor and homeless. 

“You’re not a brat,” she said appraisingly, like she was surprised. “Welcome to the family; you can call me Steph.” 

Jason grinned as he finally noticed her Gotham accent. It wasn’t Crime Alley , but it was close. Definitely not the elitist snobs of Bristol that Bruce couldn’t help but sound like. Still, it was more subtle, like she’d been surrounded by people with different accents for years. Which, seeing as she lived in the suburbs with Mr. Bristol-Born-and-Raised, made sense. 

“Thanks,” he responded as they entered the dining room. Maybe dinner wouldn’t be so bad, especially since Timmy seemed to be ditching. 

He was wrong. Horribly, horrendously wrong. 

The five family members of various ages and backgrounds sat down at the wooden table. It was shaped like a rectangle, with six chairs (two on both sides of the longer side parallel to each other, and one on either side going the short way) altogether. There was a purple and white table cloth sitting nice and pristine with a fractured glass vase of complemented flowers in the middle of the table. The food was brought out on nice plates and glasses of juice were poured. 

Dick was at the head across from Steph. Jason was sitting at the side closest to the door, diagonal from Dick. There was an empty seat next to him directly, and diagonal from that chair sat Steph. Next to Steph sat Kari, who was unfortunately next to Tom, who in turn was directly across from him and thus also diagonal to Dick. 

They all sat in mostly silence, eating; but that didn’t mean it was peaceful. Far from it in fact. Kari was glaring at Tom who was smirking at her in a way that only agitated them further. Kari was then trying to get her grandfather’s attention to switch seats, but Dick was busy trying to engage in a stilted conversation involving all the participants. 

Tom was mocking Kari pettily by doing the same to his mother who was ignoring it and trying to follow Dick’s lead. Jason sat trying not to engage in their feud, but Kari had different plans, trying to get him to back her up. Steph had now turned to him and started asking about how he was adjusting (answer: not well ; but he wasn’t about to tell her that), and Dick was grimacing like he was regretting this already and lived his knife to cut the Waffle but honestly he could use it to cut the tension in the room. 

But hey, despite all that, it was still all good up until Timothy fucking Drake decided it was time to join the party. Better late than never was a lie. Jason wished it was never. 

“Hey,” he said generally. “Sorry I’m late, things came up at work.” He explained in lieu of an actual greeting. He moved to sit down, the screeching of the chair against wood made Jason wince slightly and Steph glare. “Sorry, sorry,” he repeated tiredly. “I’m tired, give me a break. Hi, Tom.” Re—Tim (because he wasn’t about to respect him and call him ‘ Mr Drake ’) added after catching his son’s eye. 

Looking at them side by side, Jason realized that they actually looked alike. While originally he’d thought that Tom took more after Steph with his matching blonde hair and similar blue eyes, Tom and Tim actually had very similar profiles, and Tom’s blue eyes were a bit more icy than Steph’s like the—like Tim. 

“Hi, Tim,” Dìck greeted. “Miss me?” 

“Dick, yeah, it’s nice to see you,” he said in a way that sounded genuine but Jason’s little brother instincts pegged as sarcastic. But honestly, this family and their way of awkwardly meeting. 

“Hi, Uncle Tim,” Kari said politely. She was across from him directly and he made eye contact as he grabbed the fruit salad. Jason cringed at the awkwardness. 

“Hi, Niece Kari,” Tim said back in the same way, and Jason almost kneeled over a cry. He saw Tim reciprocated his wannabe-tears. 

“‘Hi, Steph, my super sexy wife, so nice to see you after a long day at work. Sorry I was late, but your waffles taste great’.” 

“Hi, Steph, my super sexy wife, so nice to see you after a long day at work. Sorry I was late, but your waffles taste great.” Tim sighed back. Jason was painfully aware that he was the only one who was yet to be greeted. He waited for an awkward ‘sup’, but it never came. 

Jason had half a mind to just sit there and do nothing, because he sure as hell had no interest in playing house with Robin 3.o; but sadly the other part of his head won out and he gave a pointed cough. 

“Hiya, Timmy,” he said. “I bet you were just about to greet me, but I’ll beat ya to it. Nice to meet you, hi, you can call me…” ah shit, he didn’t know what to say here. Like, he introduced himself to Tom as ‘Jason Head’, but Steph clearly, ahem, knew he was ‘Rayan al Ghul-Wayne’. Now, he was no parent and had no way to judge how much to disclose to your teenage son, and as such he had no way to know if Tom ‘knew’ and if not (or if so), how he should go about it. 

By the time he had that epiphany that he had no idea how to respond, Tim and everyone else in the room had already picked up on the weird silence. “Hi.” Jason repeated. “Call me whatever.” 

Clearly the response he came up with—and he was kinda proud , damn it—was met with blank looks. “Hello, Rayan.” Tim greeted him. “I’ve heard so much.” 

“ Really ?” 

“No.” 

Well, to be fair, he walked right into that one. He took another one of Steph’s delicious waffles she made ‘from scratch’ (which he would later find out were just from her favorite mix, and ‘from scratch’ was relative with the meme ‘yeah I scratched the label off the box’). Then, he swallowed and worked up the strength to reply. 

“Damn, Tim-tam, I’m starting to get the feeling you don’t like me. What’d little ol’ me ever do to you?” 

“Er, uh,”  Tim stuttered because he honestly didn’t have anything against him in particular. Jason smirked as the fact dawned on him. “You’re different than I thought you’d be?” Tim tried. 

“Really?” Jason said bemused. “What, didjya think I was gonna be all ‘arrogant murder prince’? ‘ Honestly, Drake, you are a disgrace to our family! Your hair alone is utterly horrendous! ’”

“Uh, yes , actually,” he replied. And ah shit, what happened to ‘don’t be suspicious’? 

“Well, sorry to disappoint,” Jason shrugged. And at the rapid rate his audience was listening he’d think this conversation was prime time TV. Oh well, might as well use the time to dump some backstory lore for ‘Rayan’. Hopefully, ‘once a theater kid always a theater kid’ applied here. Alfie—an actual actor—gave him some tips when he was auditioning for Gotham Academy’s rendition of ‘Romeo and Juliet’, which should transfer over nicely. 

Time , he thought, grinning inside. To raise the curtain and begin the performance of a lifetime. The show starts… now!

“I… I know you think I’m like my brother, Tim. Like Damian when he first was introduced. I’ve heard stories, I’m not stupid.” He took a deep breath and looked away. “I’m not, y’know; if you give me a chance. I would really appreciate it if you did but if not… I understand, I’m an al Ghul. I wouldn’t trust me either.” 

Too bad I didn’t have that great advice when Ra’s was playing me like a violin, but oh well. The show must go on. 

“I was told you were a detective, the ‘ smart Robin ’. I’m sure you read a file on me on your way home. So, you probably know all the shitty details Barbie made me cough up. But, I can say them to your face, if that makes you believe me. I’m sure you know basic kinetics.” 

“I didn’t read the file.” Tim said firmly but his voice betrayed him, shaking slightly. “I—I’m not a detective, and I’m not ‘the smart Robin’!” His voice rose in conviction, but Jason didn’t know who he was trying to convince: Jason or himself. 

Part of him wondered if he sounded like that sometimes: distraught and lying to himself, and anger seemed like the route out. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.” 

Tim nodded slightly, gathering his breath. “Yeah. Yeah, go on, Rayan. I’m sure you’ll get your touching moment and heart to heart: ‘we’re the same,’ or some other bull.” 

“Right. Well. Uh, so you really didn’t read the file?” 

“Yeah, no. I didn’t,” Tim confirmed. 

“Awesome, so all of you guys are…” a quick glance around the table showed them watching the scene unfold with poorly concealed glances. The general air was you better not kick us out . Good thing for him, he wasn’t planning to. “Staying, right.” Still, Halsn had to play the part. 

“ Umi kept me from everyone—Bruce, yeah; but also Ra’s. I first met my grandfather when I was eleven. He caught us. Umi and I moved around a lot, but… I started formal training soon thereafter. Ra’s needed a body— Umi shielded me, forced him to take her instead. I didn’t know until it was too late. 

“What I’m saying is I wasn’t born a sheltered prince. I was a glorified prisoner, and that didn’t leave me time to be an elitist snob, especially since most of my childhood was spent blending in with the masses. I am not my brother—any of them, despite my name. Give me a chance, Tim. I’m not a good person, don’t pretend to be—and okay, that is kind of a lie, but —please don’t hate me on principle. I’m sorry for any shit Damian pulled when you guys first met, but—and okay here’s your ‘we’re the same’ moment—you more than anyone should know what it’s like to live up to your dead predecessor. I am not Damian in any capacity, just like you were never Jason. Give me the same chance you’d give to anybody. Okay?” 

“Okay,” he sighed. “I—I’m sorry, Rayan. I have a lot of beef with Damian, with him replacing me right as I was—anyway, hi. Uh, are the waffles good?” 

There was a lot to unpack there, starting with the odd grimace Dick gave Tim (ignoring Steph’s indignant “of course the waffles are good!”), and the fact that Tim and him may have more in common than he originally bargained for. However, let’s all end that with the fact that Jason deserved a goddamn Oscar for that performance. Alfie would be proud.

“Yeah,” Jason replied. “The waffles are great.” 

At that, Steph smirked triumphantly, Dick looked concerned at Jason (presumably about his blatant lies that were sprinkled with hidden truths), Kari kept feuding with Tom, Tim was eating looking unhappy to be there—which Jason got. 

Jason fiddled with his fork, a cut square of waffle on it. It was soaked in syrup, and he just couldn’t wait to eat it. Unfortunately, life seemed to hate him and was making up for giving him a win with the whole thing with Tim earlier. The waffle flew from his fork and onto the floor

He quickly pushed back his chair and stood down to look for it, not wanting to stain the carpet. 

Ducking under the table, he felt a slight tug on his shirt. Not thinking much of it, Jason pulled at it slightly as he sunk down further muttering apologies. 

“Sorry,” he said, as his absence was noticed, “just dropped something. Loverly carpet?” The carpet was lovely, possibly Persian in origin and very soft. A real tragedy for the sticky syrup to ruin it. Focus renewed, he crawled forward. 

Ah ha! He thought triumphantly as he reached over to take it. 

CRASH! 

Jason started, grabbing the waffle and quickly jumping away. The looks of shattered dishes and shocked faces met him, and he realized in horror that the tugging must somehow be the table cloth—and being no magician, the food on it, along with the silverware fell on him when he moved. 

“Fucking shit,” he cursed. “Oh my god, I’m so so sorry,” 

Steph shook her head about her ‘poor waffles’, Dick helped him begin to pick up. Tim sighed tiredly and looked to the sky as if asking ‘why?!’. Kari also began helping, seeing as the others guests were, and Tom smiled. 

“Finally!” He exclaimed. “It’s over, thank god!” 

Kari, for once nodded in agreement. “It was fun while it lasted.” 

They cleaned up the broken dishes, and apologized, while they tried to make small talk. 

“I’ll see you guys at school?” Tom asked as he said goodbye without his parents (who were still inside doing who knows what). 

“Hell to the no,” Kari said. “What gives you that idea?” 

“Just something my parents mentioned,” he replied, and Kari whipped over to taker at Dick. 

“You promised !” She said betrayed. “I said I would think about it.” He said. “I thought about it, and I thought that since you are close with Jay, it would be good for you guys to go together.” 

“I, Gramps, that’s not—” 

“Two things,” Tom interrupted. “One is: I know that Jason’s name is Rayan, you guys have been saying it all night.” Then, with a grin, he added, “and two: see you at school!” 

“I thought you didn’t do feuds.” Kari said evenly. 

“Still don’t,” Tom nodded. “But this isn’t a fued. It’s banter,” 

“Fuck you, Tommy Drake.” 

“Nah, that’s incest, adoption or no,” 

“Bye, Tom,” Dick interjected before it went off the rails. “Tell your parents dinner was lover.y. It was nice to see everyone,” 

Tom nodded, and Kari shut up. Jason, who was quiet until now, spoke up. “Sorry,” he said again. “About everything.” 

“It’s chill, man,” Tom laughed. “Funniest shit I’ve seen in a while. This dinner's going to be one for the history books.” 

Jason laughed hesitantly too. “Sure,” he said. “I can picture it: ‘family dinner or family of sinners? Featuring late guests, cold waffles, and family drama; buy or rent full DVD or Blu Ray on Amazon for $3.99 only this weekend’!” 

“‘DVD’? ‘Blu Ray’? That’s so vintage,” it wasn’t meant to be cruel, but Jason winced anyway. Sometimes when he was joking around he forgot how different everything was. He needed to be more careful. He couldn’t slip up again. 

Thankfully, he was able to laugh it off, and Dick took the clue to lead them back towards the car, and he made a quick escape. The car was parked just outside the house, and he knew if he tuned around, Jason would come face to face with the Drakes again, who he heard come out and wave goodbye.

If he didn’t look, it was easier to pretend that he didn’t just have dinner with his replacement and his family. 

Not looking back, closing his eyes, it was easy enough to forget how much had changed. 

Looking out the window and watching the lavender house fade from view; Jason clutched the letters perpetually in his pocket: one from Talia and one from Bruce. 

Talia’s letter was written on older paper, but just as expensive paper as the pristine white paper the Bruce’s letter was written on. They were so different yet so similar. Green ink and blue ink, he knew without looking. 

( One from his mom and one from his dad. ) 

The rest of the ride was spent looking out the window as Kari and Dick argued. He faded away from the loud outside world, so different and surreal but it was… it was— 

It was actually kind of okay, once he got past the initial awkwardness to it. He thought of the reassurances, and wondered, once again: what if? 

I have done this for LOVE. 

I do and would always still love you unconditionally. 

Maybe, Jason hoped, as they passed skyscrapers and he saw the new Batman. They didn’t lie. 

Maybe I can have a chance with a real family again.

Chapter Text

Jason felt the heat, the burning sensation of his body going up in flames before he saw the fire. He opened his eyes, forcing them to see, expecting to be faced with the same landscape he saw as he died. 

Instead, the flames died down, and he saw a beautiful face of warm brown skin, curled brown hair, and green green eyes that almost matched his own. Soft mid-afternoon sunlight spilled non-threateningly over her, as she glanced up from the lapping waves below. 

Ra’s, he wanted to say, wanted to yell. But try as he did, no words came out. “What’s wrong, habibi?” She asked him, petting his hair like Catherine used to after a long day. The words came out muted, and Jason was suddenly aware that he was underwater. 

The woman, Talia, Jason realized it must’ve been, had dispersed like blood in water. The water was green. He panicked, because his lungs were still burning but not from smoke this time. He was drowning, the very thing that was giving him life was killing him— 

He was pounding on the roof of his expensive silk-and-mahogany coffin, “B! BATMAN, HELP ME!” he called, because this was just another sick trick. He must’ve passed out and—oh god, the haunting laughter grew louder, and he hadn’t even known it was still there. It was always there in the back of his head. Was Sheila watching too? 

“DAD—!” 

“Jason,” someone shook him, and he screamed again, limbs locked in place, eyes opened wide and unseemingly, almost dead-like. “Bruce?” He asked hesitantly. No sound came out though, he was choking on dirt, it was filling his lungs—“Wake up!” 

The illusion shattered like a thousand shards of glass piercing his skin, it was bleeding and when he opened his eyes once more, aware and expecting to find his temporary bedroom walls, only to see his twisted, reversed face staring up at him through a dirty, cracked mirror. He vaguely recognized it, but he didn’t recognize himself staring backwards at him. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t want to acknowledge it. 

Somehow, in his mind’s eye, he visualized it was like a playing card that fell over. On one side was him, and he suddenly became aware that he was once more dressed in his Robin gear, a broken domino mask in place and he could still feel every bone on his person like it was yesterday and not a dream. But was he even dreaming anymore? He woke up, hadn’t he? Or… 

In the reflection though, as he looked through the mirror, he was still dressed in red, but this red was different—less vibrant and more violent. A mask like the one he wore in the league over all his features—a blood red half mask that covered the lower half of his face, and a domino mask that concealed all but his toxic, glowing green eyes. His eyes were normally baseline teal, not like his ocean blue of Before, but still close. Unlike Talia’s eyes however, these were evil like Ra’s—but no, not even the Lazarus Pits could describe the pain that he associated with this poisonous shade. They were the same green as the madman who murdered him—but now, it seemed to be an omen that he was the murderer. 

On one side, the Robin side, Batman came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. When Jason reached up to touch his hand, seeking the comfort it would bring—“It’s not real, it can’t be real…”—he fell again, pounding on the glass, as he stared at the happy scene dissolve into one of agony. He held a gun, blood splattered on his face, masks now asque. “Killer. Murderer. Just like him.” His father said. He lifted his arm, a glint of sliver being the only indication, the only warning, he had until he was falling on the floor; dark, sticky liquid falling from his sliced jaguar as the maskless face of his father's horror disappeared from his mind the moment the red numbers appeared in his line of sight once again. 

5… 

“Did he fall… or was he pushed?” 

“He fell I swear, dad, he fell!” Jason called, but the bodiless voice didn’t hear him. “Jay, please, it’s not real, just wake up. It’s a nightmare. It isn’t real, please…” 

4… 

He was crawling, dragging his limbs behind him like a dead weight. Jason didn’t blink at the sudden change of scenery as he realized he should have in hindsight. Now though, all he could feel was the hopelessness of the situation weighing on him, furthered by the sharp pain of his rib piercing his lungs as he lifted his arms to try and untie her. 

His mother. 

“…I’ll… save you… mom…” 

3… 

“It’s locked!” 

He was crashing, his heart was pounding, fighting to stay alive and yet his hopes were falling, falling, falling—

But it was okay, because his dad—Bruce—would save him. He remembered how he had crashed after a tough patrol, and tried to still finish his science project. Bruce—not Batman, because sometimes his dad was more heroic than the actual vigilante—had made him go to bed, told him not to worry, and if Alfie was to be believed (which he always was), he had stayed up all night putting his carefully hand-written notes into fruition. He knew that the JLA somehow thought that Batman was inhuman when he was anything but, but that next morning he’d understood why. 

Now, here he was, he was dying—and god, it really shouldn’t come as a surprise, he was always gonna die young—but most importantly, his mother was dying. His second chance, and sure, she’d fucked up, but it wasn’t on her. He was the hero, he was the weak one. It was his fault and now she was dung for it. 

2… 

With his last bit of strength, he pushed himself, pushed his aching body past its limit, trying to cover her from the blast. Despite knowing the statistics, he was Robin, and Robin saved people. Despite hoping, daring to believe— 

He prayed, in his last moments alive, that when—because B would come. He was always there to save— 

“Please, my mom, she’s—” 

1… 

BOOM! 

Jason woke up with a start. His bedsheets were kicked to the end of his bed, and the fitted sheet was soaked in sweat. His pillow in tears. 

“Hey, Jay,” a soft voice came from his bedside. “Are you doing okay?” 

“I’m fine, Dickhead,” he said, moving to get up. The pajama bottoms had a stretchy waistband that held them up, but, like the t-shirt, were entirely too long, engulfing his lean frame in a way that made him look small. He hadn’t realized how much the Pit had physically changed him until he realized that Before he used to be this small on a regular basis. 

“Fuck off,” he said moodily at Dick’s overtly concerned look. He knew that he was clingy, but now he was downright paternal. Oh. No. 

Now that he noticed it, along with his dream nightmare that he tried not to think too hard about, he couldn’t help but become hyper-aware of the differences, especially with the mirror sitting mockingly on the vanity across from him. This mirror, at least, was not broken.

Before, he was small and perpetually skinny, despite Alfie’s delicious home-cooked meals and B’s demanding training regimen. Due to Gotham’s ever-smoggy climate, he was pale as well, making the freckles more prominent on his face. 

Now though, he was definitely on the taller side for his age, and while still lean and agile, more muscular. And, due to being in sunny, humid, and hot conditions that seemed to never see a single cloud; he was tanned, his youthful freckles disappearing along with his last naïveté. 

His once ocean-like cerulean blue eyes were baseline teal on a good day, on others, like now, they seemed to glow almost the same shade of green as the Pits—as the al Ghul family eyes. Part of him wanted to laugh, and so he did. God, he was really becoming one of them. The streak of white in his once-completely-black-hair did nothing but prove the point. 

“Jay, hey, it’s okay,” he didn’t even realize he was crying until Dick got up to comfort him. 

“Hey, bud. Wanna tell me what it was about?” 

“Hey, lad. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Don’t patronize me, Br—” Jason’s eyes widened, and he bit his lip. Hard. “Dick.” 

Dick, who clearly noticed the misstep, didn’t mention it to his credit. “Okay. Just breathe. You’re here. I’m here. We’re here together. It’s all going to be okay.” 

“I don’t wanna miss school…” he mumbled into his older brother’s shoulder. And he laughed slightly. “Don’t change, Little Wing,” he said, and the familiar nickname brought a small smile to his face. The dream, and his After, only showed the good parts. The Pit tainted everything in green, making Jason only see the bad for so much of the time that he forgot the good parts. Like this. He shouldn’t ever forget this. “Never change.” 

But maybe , he worried, looking back to the mirror and his toxic green eyes. He already had . 

“He's gonna be okay, Gramps?” Kari asked as soon as her grandfather exited his room. “He was screaming like crazy.” 

“Yeah, Sunshine,” he said with a comforting smile. “He’s gonna be fine. A little late for school, maybe, but I’ll write him a note.” 

“Can you write me a note, too, please?” She asked, trying for ‘politely’. “The whole point I wasn’t being homeschooled again was so that Jason had someone who, uh, y’know, knew .” 

Thankfully, it was polite enough that he agreed. Or maybe he just didn’t want to make two trips there and back. Whatever it was, it meant she had another however-many-minutes that it took Jason to calm down before she had to go to hell. Er—public school. 

Kari had decided—read: her grandfather forced her too because he was her guardian and she didn’t have a choice (not to be bitter or anything)—to go to public schooling with Jason, who, for some unfathomable reason, adored learning; a few weeks earlier. That didn’t mean she was excited to go. 

She’d tried to text her Normie friends for advice, but Emily (and her twin brother, Jerome), were busy because the school they went to in Blüd started sooner that the one in Gotham did. Her other friends were all busy doing the one thing she couldn’t do. Superheroing. 

“Gramps, hey, we never decided what I got for doing you that favor and going to public school…” Kari began goodnaturedly. She what’s the type to overthink her conversations beforehand, and so she dove in right off the deep end. 

“That’s because it wasn’t up for debate,” her grandpa called her out on her bluff. But thankfully, he continued, and tossed her a line. “However, I’ll humor you. What do you want? I already got you those earrings you’ve been eyeing.” 

“They were a gift,” she disagreed flippantly, before going on quickly before his generosity ended. “And besides, thanks, but you know that that isn’t what I really want.” The earrings in question were admittedly beautiful. Golden hoops that each had a small crystal butterfly on them. The butterfly was a purple-blue ombre, and paired perfectly with this one shirt of hers. With some light-wash wide-leg blue jeans perhaps… 

Focus Kari, she told herself. This was her chance. 

“I’m not about to let you put yourself in danger for all the wrong reasons.” 

“There is nothing wrong with my reasons!” She defended. “And say they are whatever you think are the ‘right’ ones,” she put air-quotes around the word ‘right’. “Will I get to do it?” 

“No.” He said firmly. “But feel free to convince me otherwise.” 

“I will!” Kari proclaimed readily. “Not only are all my friends doing it—meaning that their parents, meaning your friends are okay with it—but it’s a way to connect with my parents! They would be okay with it.” 

Her grandfather’s face flicked with untold emotions, and she worried that maybe she’d gone too far. It sounded convincing to her, but clearly she wasn’t the problem. 

“Mar’i and Jon are dead.” He said. It wasn’t said to be cruel, but simply an unfortunate fact. “And even if they weren’t, I’m sure they would agree with me. Still the point remains; I am your guardian, and when I say that you can’t do something, you can’t. I’m sorry, Kar. I don’t mean to exclude you.” 

“Gramps!” She exclaimed. “ Why ? Just tell me why !” 

“Because,” he began. “I don’t want to endanger you.” 

“I’m not some little kid anymore,” she grumbled. “I’m 15, turning 16 in less than a year,” okay, so that was a bit misleading seeing as her mid-to-late summer birthday wasn’t for awhile yet, but still. “I can drive then, why am I not ready? What is so wrong with my response? I can control my powers perfectly by now, and have for years! Why can’t I be with my friends and honor my parents? I bet if my god-father, Damian, was here, he’d let me.” 

“Enough, Kari. Please let it be. When you’re eighteen you can make your own choices and I can’t stop you. But now I can. I just want you to be safe.” 

“That isn’t answering anything,” Kari argued. “What’s with the ‘all the wrong reasons’ crap you’re shoving at me?” 

“Language,” he said tiredly, ignoring her protests. “And as for that? Your reasons are that you want to hang out with your friends, and ‘honor’ your parents, right?” At her nod, he continued. “Well, I—and I'm sure they —agree that they don’t want you dying so you can have a good teen party. You’re going to public school now, and have the chance to make some real friends, not just people you know through their legacies. Don’t go off to die thinking it’s all fun and games, Kari. You’re smarter than that. Being a hero isn’t just so you can be cool, as it is about others .”

“I’m not selfish!” 

“I never said you were. I’m just explaining what you asked. I’m sorry.” 

Kari hung her head in shame. She had been selfish, hadn’t she? “I guess the people were just an afterthought,” she admitted. 

“Hey, Sunshine,” her grandfather said. “Look at me.” She did. “ Don’t feel bad, you did nothing wrong. You are a brilliant, beautiful young woman, but you are also still a kid. You make mistakes and you learn from them. I’m not saying never, and if you feel the same way later that isn’t bad in the slightest. That was not my intention. Okay?” 

Kari nodded, standing up from the kitchen stool and smoothing her skirt. “Okay.” 

“Good.” He said with a contagious smile. “Now… where is Jason?” 

“Uh, I’m here,” Jason said, flushing slightly as he came out from behind the door. “I got ready real quick—quick change habits, y’know—after I splashed some water on my face. Came here for an apple, but you two were, um,” he gestured awkwardly, a lot more human than the perfect person described in stories. “Arguing, so I didn’t want to interrupt… sorry? I tried not to listen…” 

“Hey, Rob, it’s chill,” she said, tossing him an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter. The kitchen was a lot more welcoming than the dining room of the townhouse, and so most of the easy-to-grab stuff was in there, rather than there or the pantry. 

Jason caught in easily, grinning crookedly in a way that almost reminded her of her grandfather. He was a real hero, she remembered suddenly. They both are. 

“Thanks,” he said instinctively. Kari nodded. “Your, uh, welcome, I guess,” she said, pushing the thoughts away as she picked up her new bag and walked towards the door. 

Hopefully this wouldn’t be nearly as hellish as she feared. Then, remembering her grandfather’s words, still fresh in her mind, she tried thinking of Jason. 

A hero. She would be a hero, too. 

Thomas—Tom—Jason Drake groaned as he tried to turn off his blaring alarm by his bed. 

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! 

It sounded loudly on his nightstand table, next to the empty coffee cups. His headache screamed at him painfully for forcing himself awake at such an ungodly hour after pulling an all nighter with noise-canceling headphones on. 

Still, he rubbed his eyes, and carefully placed his laptop on his desk, plugging it in. Making a video game while playing one, while hacking into the pentagon to try and solve that one cold case that he saw on season 29.6 of Buzzfeed Unsolved: True Crime , while listening to the new album from his favorite band, was a bit much for the first day of school he had to admit. 

But his last day of summer hadn’t been nearly as productive as he had hoped, and during the school year his parents placed screen time on his devices like hypocritical evil overlords. He had to make his last few houses work, and not go to waste by sleeping.  

As Tom pulled on a blue hooding over his jeans and t-shirt, he trudged his way to the bathroom. “Those look as if they’re taken off the floor,” his mother mused as she passed him in the hall while she put her earrings in as she walked phone to her ear. “Breakfast is on the table, and your dad’s already left. Matt’s brother said he’ll swing by and pick you up. Love you, have a good day, and be nice to Kari and Rayan!” 

“Oh no, not you Diane, sorry,” she said hurriedly after that, and turned a corner. 

“That’s ’cause they are!” He called back to the first part as he in turn ducked into the bathroom. 

Ugh. School fucking sucked. At least though he’d be able to show Matt his progress on the game, even if he had to deal with stick-in-the-mud cousin Kari, and an as-of-yet-undetermined child assassin. 

Yeah, he’d read the Batcave’s files—and really, they needed better security—he had since he was ten and his parents sat him down and explained their history. At ten, they’d decided that he was old enough to keep secrets well, and they had long since decided that secrets only led to more misery. 

He spit out his mouthful of toothpaste-water. He didn’t hold grudges, finding them rather pointless in nature, but it was a current issue of unfairness that he couldn’t tell Matt—his best friend since Kindergarten —that his own brother was Batman. If his hypocritical parents truly believed that secrets were bad, Tom would be able to share. But no—of course it was a ‘family only’ thing. Right then, his phone (kept safely in his back pocket) beeped with a message from Matt as if mockingly.

He wiped his face and rushed down the stairs, and Tom grabbed his pre-packed bag—as done the night before so as to minimize the time spent awake, getting ready—and the cream-cheese bagel on the counter left by his mom, and hurried out the door. In a few minutes, a sleek car came smoothly around the corner. 

As he climbed in, he couldn’t help but glare at the image of Terry in the side irons as he waved jollily to his friend. 

“’Sup, man?” Matt asked as he shifted over to the back seat so they could sit together. 

“I just worked out the bug in the games system,” he grinned, pushing his uncharacteristically bitter thoughts away. “I know how to stop it from crashing every time.” 

“Great,” Matt grinned, “you’re genius.” 

“Dude,” he said with faux-seriousness. “ I know .” 

They laughed, and now—well, for the next five minutes at least—they were just two best friends. 

And one of them—cough, Tom himself, cough—was a genius. 

( A lying one ). 

Matt McGinnis sat on the couch, looking blankly at his phone. 

7:27 AM 

If he was going to get to school on time, Terry—his older brother—really needed to hurry up. 

His mom was in her office, stressed from whatever big work meeting that came up out of the blue. She worked from home, meaning he needed to be quiet as so to not disturb her. 

“Where are you?” He grumbled to no one, opening the calling application again as he got off the couch and began to pace around. 

Bring…

Bring… 

Bring… 

The phone rang three times before it was clear that his brother wasn’t picking up. “ The person you’re trying to reach is not available. At the tone, please record your message. Beeeep. ” 

When the AI lady was done talking. Matt hung up and tired again to no avail. This time though, he did try to leave a message. 

“Bro. Hurry up. Mom can’t take me today, so I told her not to worry because you're home for break and’ll take me. Mom said that you texted ‘okay’ before she went into her meeting, so please don’t take your time and come ASAP. We’re also picking up Tom, so unless you know and are going there first for whatever reason. Hurry back from whatever you’re doing. Thanks, bye.” 

By the time he finished his rant, he’d made it to the hall outside Terry’s bedroom, which was across from his. He went to turn around back towards the kitchen—maybe make something for his mom for when she go out, seeing how fucking long— 

CREEEEAK!  

Matt’s head snapped towards the sound, where lo-and-behold, was Terry’s window squeaking open from where he could see him sneaking in from the slightly ajar doorway. 

“Mom won’t like you sneaking out,” he said brattily. “Hurry up, or I’ll be late and tell mom about your midnight rendezvous.” He threatened as Terry winced, walking forwards. 

“Where did you go, anyway?” 

“I went to see Dana,” Terry said easily. More like, Terry lied easily. Matt knew as a fact that they had broken up. His brother—who he trusted—had just lied like a pro. Lying was a talent that Matt was good at, and Terry had always sucked at it since he had a big conscience. It takes one to know one, after all.  

It worried him how simply he’d said it, how well he’d said faulsities to his face. What else was he not being truthful about?

Still, Matt didn’t comment on it, opting to keep his cards close to his chest. Maybe it was a one time thing. Doubtful with how masterful he was with the art of bullsh*tting, but right now Matt was gonna be late. 

So, as he dragged his brother out the door of the apartment, stopping only to grab his bag; he didn’t call him out. 

As they got into the elevator, Terry clicked: 

FLOOR - GARAGE 

“What are you doing?” He asked. “Isn’t your car on the street?” Vehicles couldn’t park on the streets overnight as an attempt to minimize traffic flow or something, but Terry had come in the morning, and since he clearly knew he would go right back out it made no sense to go back to the underground parking lot reserved for residents. It would be dumb to do so in any case, given how much of a hassle it could get in the mornings with everyone leaving. Terry may not be book smart, but his big brother was far from stupid. 

“Nah,” Terry said, disproving his trust further. “I put it back in before I came up.” 

Another lie. Now that Matt had spotted one, he couldn’t stop even though he started to want to. 

“Mmhm,” he said noncommittally as the slightly sickening feeling for the elevator going downwards began. Or maybe it was just Terry’s blunt breach in trust. 

The elevator took forever, stopping and starting as more people got on and off—Mrs Mohammad—a kind newlywed who just moved in, who Matt and his mom had brought welcome-neighbor cookies—from floor 7 had to get back on because she forgot her keys upstairs; but eventually they got down to the ground floor, which was—as expected—a zoo of people and cars. 

“Damn, I’m impressed you decided to brave this mess twice,” he poked at his brother, not calling him out, but prompting him in a way. Would he lie, or come clean? Maybe he was with a friend? Or walked? But if so, why not just say so? 

“Heh, yeah,” Terry said vaguely. “It was less crowded earlier though.” 

Very unlikely, but Matt wasn’t gonna make a fuss right now. 

“’Kay,” he said. “If you say so.” He knew he sounded unbelieving and sarcastic, but Terry nodded like he was serious. Quickly leading them towards his car. 

The car was shiny and black, a new model that was expensive—a gift from Mr Wayne, his brother’s rich boss who kept odd needs at odd hours. 

As Terry walked around to the driver’s side, Matt climbed into the passenger seat. He would move to the back when Tom got in, but for now he felt awkward sitting there with just the two of them. He wasn’t a little kid. 

As the car started, he pulled out his phone and texted Tom: 

On the way now

He took a quick selfie of him and Terry in the car and hit send. It was good that once they got out it was a short five minute drive with the right route, otherwise they’d be crazy late. 

The ride was mostly silent, save for the radio proclaiming: “Batman saves the day again!” and the rest of the news story. As he reached to turn up the volume, Terry switched the channel to some old-style classical music. 

Matt rolled his eyes and huffed, planning to watch the story later. It was so unfair that even after stressing Matt out, Terry couldn’t even get over his weird dislike of all-things-Batman that he already avoided like the plague. 

It wasn’t until they were almost at Tom’s house that Matt realized something he had missed and/or dismissed in the earlier chaos: 

Terry came through the window, but their apartment was on the 10th floor.

Chapter Text

“—Ri! That was my foot !” 

“‘ Ri! That was my foot! ’” 

“Don’t mock me, that hurts!” 

“Well, shove off, we’re gonna be late!”

“I thought you didn’t care!? Isn’t that why you’re in such a grumpy mood?” 

“Yeah? Well, I thought you liked school!” 

Dick Grayson resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands. The drive to the school, uncreatively named Hamilton Hill High School after a late mayor, had been mostly peaceful, with the only sounds being the car radio in the background. 

It was too good to be true. 

After the far from peaceful morning, Dick had hoped that maybe it would last. Once he dropped Kari and Jason off, he could have a nice 45 (hopefully only 30) minute drive to work back in Blüdhaven, and catch up on the audiobook he was listening to. 

Unfortunately, it seemed the nerves of first-day-of-school had gotten to them, and, both being hot-headed individuals with various levels of self-control, had taken it out on eachother in the form of pointless arguments. 

While he was sure he should be glad that they were bonding, and treating each other more like siblings than imposters, all he could bring himself to feel was self pity. God, did he miss that overpriced coffee. 

“Kari, Jason; cut it out!” He said, trying to be louder than their raised voices without yelling. “Good. Now do you have your notes? I called the office, but back in my day, even Br—er, my guardian, calling didn’t get the underpaid staff to communicate with my equally underpaid homeroom teacher.” It was probably best not to remind Jason of what he missed, right? Or did that not count? Dick had successfully raised part-aliens, but his human kid brother was going to be the death of him. 

“Yeah,” Jason said. “I get it, you’re old.” 

Kari nodded in agreement, “what he said. Thanks, Gramps, see you later.” 

“Bye, Dickhead!” Jason called as he exited, finally allowing Kari to slide out as well. 

“Bye, have fun!” He called, like school was enjoyable and he actually had fond memories of it. As soon as the car door closed, Dick finally let himself sigh. 

“‘Have kids’, they said,” he muttered. “‘It’ll be fun’, they said.” Reversing the gear, he looked backwards, ignoring the screen with the camera. Old habits die hard . There were a few cars on the road behind him, but not many. Most had already dropped off their kids and were on their way to work by… he looked at the clock application on the dashboard. 

9:16 AM

“I’m gonna be so late,” he moaned to himself, not bothering to pull up the GPS. Even though the city had changed, spending his childhood roof hooping was enough to know the basic layout by heart. 

“—the body of 14-year-old black-haired blue-eyed Cameron Inges was discovered in an abandoned warehouse yesterday, the after being beaten with some sort of blunt-force object and showing flash-burns similar to those found in explosions. Anyone with information on this incident is urged to come forward and contact the GCPD tip line—” 

Dick lowered the volume on the radio, as he turned the corner into a four-way intersection. He stopped. The light was red. So much for being easy, he rubbed his temples, a headache he'd been putting off since this morning now hitting him. 

When the car behind him honked loudly, he decided that he’d have to get that overpriced coffee. 

Mary sighed, clicking out of her computer. The meeting had gone horribly, and now she had to go all the way back to Blüdhaven to retake the pictures that Bertrude Higgins had lost. 

Shoving the specialized camera into her large purse, she tossed it onto the office chair she had gotten out of, walking down the hall to her bedroom, where she quickly changed out of her comfy pajama bottoms and blousy top she’d worn so that her co-workers thought she cared. 

Looking into her armoire, she considered her options. Outside it was cloudy out, but it was September, and Gotham was typically dreary. Would Blüdhaven be the same? She sighed. 

On one hand, there was a presentable blue pencil-skirt dress that she knew looked good on her. However, it had short sleeves, and she didn’t want to be cold. 

Tossing on fitted slate gray pants and a pretty long sleeve green blouse (a different one than her off-white short-sleeve one of before), she decided that it effectively would cover her bases as ‘business casual’ and as ‘warm enough’. 

Briskly walking, she grabbed her purse—a large, expensive, good-quality black one that she’d splurged on and found it to be 100% worth it when she discovered the multitude of pockets—and shut off her computer, quickly sending out a message into the group chat incase anyone went looking for her services when she was away. 

Mary McGinnis • 9:16 AM 

I will be out retaking the pictures that Bertrude Higgins misplaced. Anybody looking for me can email their requests at [email protected] . Thank you, and sorry for any inconvenience. 

As she hit send, she smirked slightly. Let it not be said that she wasn’t petty. She successfully made herself out to be a kind and helpful person and not someone who was coreersed, while carefully shifting any blame and criticisms to Bertude Higgins instead of her. Still, she made a note to check her work email just in case someone wasn’t willing to wait or actually had something important. 

Closing out of her 1,001 tabs, making sure to save her progress, Mary made her way out the door, grabbing a sophisticated long, black, woolen coat just in case, and grabbed her keys too. Making it down to the garage smoothly, as her meeting with Bertrude Higgins and her superiors (damn him), had run right through morning traffic. 

She sighed, starting the car and turning the radio down to a 1 volume level. “I’ll get some coffee once I’m there,” she muttered to herself, as she made her way to Blüdhaven. 

She repeated her earlier sentiment as the bright light of the white-gray cast over sky hit her sensitive eyes when she pulled out of the parking garage: damn Bertrude Higgins . 

Dick parked his car the moment he saw an open parking spot, even if it was a block away. He was already late, and exercise was good for him. Plus, free parking was free parking and it might very well not be free the closer he got to shops and apartments. 

Dick pulled on his jacket, and walked the peaceful streets. The air spelt of smog and blood, with the hint of something else that no one seemed to address. Finally, he saw his—now old—apartment building and crossed the street. 

HAVEN CAFÉ 

The sign was oriented in tasteful gold accents, and entering it smelt like fresh baked bread. The establishment was all around aesthetic, with beautifully decorated tables and well-placed well-maintained flowers that were strategically placed outside along the outside seating options so as to both look nice out there, and through the windows inside. 

It was honey-brown wood that lined the floors, and despite the odd hours it was surprisingly crowded. Getting into line, Dick looked at the old-fashioned chalkboard hung over the counter, which kept in with the aesthetic. 

Today’s Special: Rose-Honey Ice Tea 

It sounded like something that Kari may like, he made sure to note, but not what he wanted. He looked again. In large font than the ones under it, it read:

CLASSIC ESPRESSO 

Then, it continued: 

CAPPUCCINO

LATTE 

VANILLA LATTE 

MOCHA 

AMERICANO 

FLAT WHITE 8oz 

EXPRESSO 

RISTRETTO 

MACCHIATO 

CORTADO 

— And so on. He skimmed over the “dairy-free milk” options (almond and oat), the “extras” (espresso shot, fresh whipped cream, and flavored syrups—vanilla, caramel, hazelnut, amaretto, sugar fresh vanilla, and sugar free caramel), et cetera. 

Dick prepared his order in his head as an order for an “Ana” was called. 

Hmm… something sweet since coffee isn’t good without sugar… he thought. It was an unfortunate habit, but his sugar tooth would get the best of him yet. Maybe a Vanilla Latte or a Mocha? Timmy-level espresso shots, so maybe cover up the bitterness with some fresh whipped cream and a flavored syrup? But then he should probably get the Vanilla Latte so that the vanilla syrup wouldn’t taste out of place… 

Okay, he decided. So one… ah fuck it… grande Vanilla Latte with extra espresso shots and fresh whipped cream plus vanilla syrup. 

There were only two people ahead of him now (a ‘Kiegan’ having gotten called), and so he pulled out his wallet in preparation. After a few minutes wait, it was finally his turn. 

“Hi, could I please get a grande Vanilla Latte with extra espresso shots and fresh whipped cream plus vanilla syrup…?” He asked awkwardly. Glancing at the tantalizing display case and thinking of his soon-to-be growling stomach, he added hastily. “And, uh, one morning bun, thanks.” 

“Of course,” the college-aged cashier said with a smile. “Name for the order, please?” 

“Richard,” he said, knowing from experience that it wasn’t worth it trying to push ‘Dick’ as a nickname of choice. People who grew up with English as their first language (and so all the bad connotations) just didn’t get it. 

“Mhm…” they said—as the name tag on their shirt read “Linsay; they/them” on it—“got it. Your card please?” They turned the screen around, and Dick held his card for a moment before it accepted the purchase. Linsay grabbed him a morning bun from the display case and printed a receipt. “Thank you for coming to the Haven Café, enjoy.” 

“Thanks,” Dick said, taking a step back to wait for his coffee. After a few minutes he heard his name—er, well, ‘Richard’—called. 

He walked briskly towards the counter, grabbing it and turning around quickly. It had taken longer than he thought. 

“Ah!” 

“Oh my god,” Dick said in horror, looking up to see a pretty red-haired woman in a now-ruined woolen coat. “I am so sorry!” 

“It’s okay,” she said, glancing down at her damp coat. “It’ll come out, don’t worry about it.” 

“I feel really bad, please at least let me buy you a coffee,” he said. “Or pay for the dry cleaning.” 

“Okay, sure,” she smiled warmly. “I can’t say no to that. The coffee, not the dry cleaning. I have kids, so none of my stuff needs that level of care. My name’s Mary.” 

“Richard, but please, I really do prefer ‘Dick’.” 

She scrunched her eyebrows in confusion, but nodded. “Nice to meet you, Dick. Now how about that coffee?” 

Jason Todd had worn many faces over the years—from Jason Todd the street rat, to Robin the Boy Wonder, to Jason Wayne the rags to riches fairytale come to life, and even Rayan al Ghul illegitimate assassin child extraordinaire. 

Each role, he’d learnt, had certain elements, expected characteristics that he would follow as guidelines. As a street rat he’d been a tricky little shit, caring that over to the Robin persona but with less self-preservation instincts than before. Jason “Jay” Wayne was more an act than anything, mostly because he was actually acting on purpose and instead of a subconscious thing. He hadn’t really been Rayan al Ghul yet, but it didn’t seem to pose much of a challenge. 

But now, in this school, he was known as ‘Jason Head’. He didn’t know what was expected, and it left him feeling vulnerable and nervous. He glanced at Kari, who was trying to keep bravado, but her anxiety gave way in her fighting hands. 

Jason bit his lip, and glanced around the hallway to distract himself. Despite it being 40-odd years, there was something so timeless about the way that the lockers were lining the halls, and the cheap industrial lights illuminated the room. 

He paused, catching a glimpse of the library, lined with books. On a poster near the back, he sucked in his breath as he spotted the framed old newspaper of Robin—his Robin. It seemed like not that long ago it’d been his first days. Kari was right, he’d loved school, but Robin was, to put it simply, magic . 

His hands subconsciously reached for his pockets. Maybe to find a utility belt, or something. He wanted to cry. The paper was yellow and faded and god that was only three years ago now—  

No. Because Robin—his Robin—had been dead for a very long time. He needed to remember that. The similar landscape was fooling him, and the picture, with his nightmares… 

His hand, still in his pocket, touched something. It was rough, thick. A paper probably. A photograph .

Jason pulled it out, looking at it for a moment before shoving it into his pocket hurriedly. He had meant to take that out. Dick had given it to him earlier and Jason had meant to take it and hide it away so it didn’t threaten The Secret. 

( But what is the point anymore? He wondered bitterly. Does B even care? Do I? )

He closed his eyes for a second and he was already falling. 

THIS MORNING. 

There are times, Jason thought, when you have a sudden moment of awareness. You wake up, and stare at some old picture, and think: wow, I can’t believe that was just a year ago. 

Jason felt like that now, staring at the photograph Dick had handed him after his fit as he finally calmed down and sat down (way too early for his tastes). 

“I got this from Bruce,” he explained at Jason’s heated ‘how did you get this?’. “It would’ve been weird to ask for pictures of, well, you and him, but I just asked for a picture of Robin and him, y’know, his son and him. And well, I know he only bothered with that stuff for you.” 

Jason wanted to say why , ask him: why did you do this? Why did you bother? He wanted to yell at him for taking that sort of risk, for somehow making the magic fail and for B to connect Jason Todd , his long dead adoptee—to Rayan al Ghul , his mysterious child by the daughter of a man obsessed with immortality and raising the dead; who popped out of the woodwork with odd similarities to said dead adoptee. 

But Jason, like all Bats, ex or no, was somewhat talented in compartmentalization. Jason knew how to understand that emotions got in the way, and that he was particularly vulnerable to such a weakness. You get more when you are in control , he recalled. And to be in control you must be calm. 

“Alfie made him take that,” Jason said deceptively nonchalantly as he fidgeted with the edges of his oversized shirt.

“That doesn’t change the fact that he’s smiling ,” stressed Dick. And he was . It wasn’t one of the fake ones, large and a little too wide, that Brucie posed for the press. Or one of the tight-lipped ones he gave to people he didn’t like but needed to do business with. It was small, a barely noticeable upturn of the lips and —most importantly: it was real . 

As much as Jason hated to admit it, the photographic proof that B actually cared meant more to him than Dick would ever know. There were times when Jason was left questioning whether or not he properly remembered an event, or it was just tainted green by the poisonous waters of the Lazarus Pit. 

The Pit gave him back from catatonia (either because of A : however-he-came-back, B : the brain damage inflicted pre-mortem, or C : the lack of oxygen in the coffin he woke back up in; he wasn’t sure. Maybe D : some horrible combination of all of the above). Now, looking at the picture and searching for his memory of that, he wondered: at what price? 

“Well, thanks.” Jason said, a little too late to be casual. He hurriedly stood up and walked to the bathroom to splash some water on his face, photo clutched in his white-knuckled hands. He muttered a quick “thanks, I’ll be out in a sec” as he left. The sad truth was that no one had believed in him until Bruce, and despite everything that happened because of it… it was still the best days of his (very short) life. 

… Decades ago… 

The Batcave, Jason’s first night out as Robin 

“Okay, let's go. If you can't suit up quickly at home base… I'm concerned how you would handle it in the field.” Jason heard Bruce call. Jason—no, Robin , wasn’t afraid. 

“Perhaps he's primping. As I recall, Master Richard spent nearly half an hour admiring his reflection… the first time he donned his cape.” A British voice intervened, and from the darkness, Robin could hear the clinking of ceramic mugs. Pre-patrol hot chocolate, he remembered B alluding to. He grinned, Jason thought he had been joking. 

“Jason, get on out here or I'm going on patrol without you.” B called out again, and from his voice he could tell he was still amused. Now, it was time… 

“Ha!” Jason exclaimed with a gleeful grin, jumping out from behind the (Bat-)computer bank. A crash of dishes sounded as Alfie started. Sorry, he mentally apologized. 

“My word.” Alfie said, all British-like. 

“Gotcha.” Jason grinned widely at B. 

“Would have… if I hadn't seen you slip behind the computer banks three minutes ago.” B countered good naturedly; taking a sip from his mug to hide his matching smile from the small boy in front of him. 

“No, I got you.” The freshly-turned-twelve-year-old abolished childishly.  

“How does it feel?” B then asked him, turned his head slightly to really look, glancing over Dìck’s old uniform on a new boy. Jason . He wore the colors well. 

Jason grunted, throwing a few fake punches and a roundhouse kick to the empty air in the form of him. 

“It feels awesome.” He said, spreading his arms wide. Jason liked to talk with his hands, to illustrate and enhance what he was saying. He pointed to himself with his thumb and a smirk. “Check me out. I'm Robin, the Boy wonder.” As he spoke, to further showcase his claim, Jason threw two more punches, turning and going into a flip turned kick. Six or so months of training had paid off, turning a small malnourished boy into someone who could fight back, who, despite Bruce’s own efforts, would join him on his own crusade. 

As if the boy could hear his thoughts, with another kick and double punches, Jason stopped in front of him and grinned as Bruce took another sip of Alfred’s cocoa. It was really the best. “Are you kidding me? This rocks.” Jason iterated, a smile wide on his face. 

“Come on, old man, we've got bad guys who need chasing.” Jason called as he turned around and dashed towards the Batmobile. With a grace that required hard training, Jason flipped onto the roof of the car. 

Putting his hands on his hips, the boy grinned again. “This is the best day of my life.” 

Bruce chuckled, putting down the mug. “Calm down, Jason. Don’t get over excited. How do you like the cave?” He questioned as he pulled on his cowl. 

“I thought you were in a hurry?” Jason teased as he jumped off, walking towards him. 

“Humor me, then.” Bruce called as he double checked the grapple lines, a habit he picked up from Dick. He walked back to the balcony where Jason was waiting, handing him his own grapple where he secured it in his utility belt. 

“I mean it’s cool, yeah—but why all the trophies?” Jason finally asked. “The penny, the T-Rex. That creepy clown card. It’s just—you don’t really strike me as the sentimental type, Bruce.” 

“They’re touchstones.” He explained. “A way to keep track of where you’ve been… so you don’t lose your way to where you’re going.” 

Jason looked over to see Alfie holding a camera. “That's why the graduation photo, huh ?” 

“No—this is for me. I most certainly am the sentimental type.” Alfie said. 

Posing, still looking at the camera, Jason decided to make sure B smiled in the photo. He was too stoic sometimes, and today was a night of celebration. 

“So how are we doing this—spontaneous?” He questioned teasingly. 

“Serious.” 

“Sexy?” 

“ Serious .” 

“Really, sirs—‘cheese’ will do.” Alfie interrupted as he took the photo with a tell-tale click . 

Later, when he looked at it, Jason smiled—because in the picture, B was smiling too. 

NOW. 

GOTHAM CITY HIGH SCHOOL. 

“—on! Jason! ” 

He snapped out of his revelry, quickly shoving the photo deepening into his pocket, and pulling his hands out, forcing himself to tune away from the glass of the library door. 

“Yeah?” He said nonchalantly, like he was ignoring her on purpose. “What?” 

“I said ,” Kari smoothed out her shirt. “That we should hurry and find the class before the bell rings and we’re even later.” 

“I thought you didn’t care?” 

“I—shut up. I know you care a lot more than you let on.” 

“Yes,” Jason admitted. “And? Just because,” he glanced the security camera out of the corner of his eye, and then thought back to Ra’s micobot shit. “I liked my… old education, doesn’t mean this’ll be any good.” Call him paranoid, but if B was watching, all that mattered was fooling him. School teachers wouldn’t care all that much if he sounded suspicious, and so he purposely tried to think back to his cover story before changing the subject like he thought Rayan al Ghul would.  

“Besides, weren’t you homeschooled, too?” Rayan al Ghul was homeschooled by his mother, as he was on the run from Ra’s most of his life. Public school was one thing that Talia al Ghul would be unlikely at best to put her child in during that situation. 

“Yeah,” Kari said, either catching on or not noticing the ‘too’. Or maybe she did and just didn’t care. It was hard to tell. “I guess.”

“Let’s go,” Jason encouraged. “Maybe we can make it to the third period on time.” 

Kari nodded, and they stood one last time in awkward silence before she left to find her class as the office lady had given them their diverging schedules. 

Jason stood a moment longer and resisted the urge to go in and ask whoever the librarian was what the deal with the Robin II news clipping was about. 

Still, he turned and left, after biting into his lip and drawing blood. 

It was red like a Robin redbreast. 

But Jason was an actor, and Jason knew how not to cry. He had had a shitty morning, sure; but who didn’t? He was happy, he told himself. He was getting the chance to finish high school—fuck that, he was getting another chance at life.

A better, real, chance. 

He was happier. Really.

( Robin is magic! Robin is dead.

DON'T THINK ABOUT ROBIN.) 

Bringggg! Sang the bell. 

Chapter Text

They stepped outside the small café after Dick ordered their drinks while Mary took the time to change into a new shirt. 

The air was sharp and fresh; the scent of flowers almost masked the smell of the toxic Blüdhaven fumes. There was still no one sitting outside, despite the sun starting to flicker in. He pulled out a chair and gestured for her to take it. 

As he pulled out the adjacent seat and sat down himself, he smiled. “So, Mary, tell me about yourself,” he said, looking at her. 

“Oh, I’m boring,” she laughed. “Two kids—both boys. I divorced my ex-husband, but he died, like, half a decade ago now. God, I feel so old, that seems like just yesterday.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound boring.” At her dubious look, he added on to his earlier statement. “Really, I could see a TV series about it: ‘the adventures of a hot single mom’, only on Fridays.” 

She laughed. “Thanks, Dick, you flatter me. But I’m 54, parent of two. Not what most look for anymore. I’m just a mid-level executive at a Graphic Arts company.” 

“Well, if 54 is old, what does that make me? I’m 59,” he is in good humor, leaning closer.

“ That makes you someone who aged extremely well,” she laughed as a young person with the name tag that read Jackson, he/him on it came out with their coffees. 

“Order for table 29?” He asked. “I have a large black coffee and a large vanilla latte?” At their nod, he handed Dick the black coffee and Mary the latte. They were in pretty white cups, with almost old-fashioned tea-services-like designs in gold trim. They exchanged looks. 

“Thanks,” Mary said. “Yeah, thank you,” Dick agreed. Jackson nodded, flashing a customer-service smile and walking back indoors. 

Quickly, Mary and Dick switched cups, and Mary smiled slightly. Dick could feel the corners of his lips moving upwards. Like they had just gotten away with a crime, they grinned conspicuously. 

“So, you know that I have two kids and a late ex-husband, but I know nothing of you. Tell me, Dick, any kids? Exes?” She asked after a moment, taking the first sip of her coffee. 

“Ah, that’s hot!” She exclaimed. 

“You okay?” Dick asked. 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

Mary’s fiery red hair had slight gold highlights in the thin morning sunlight. They were sitting outside, despite the slight chill in the air. Mary had changed into a new blouse—this one a dark blue. 

She was smiling, twirling her spoon in her black coffee she’d ordered in a cup. Dick smiled. God, he had a thing for redheads, didn’t he? Babs, Kori, Wally, Kori again for Mar’i… then there was Mary. 

Maybe . 

“Oh, yeah,” he laughed. She was a civilian, he reminded himself, he couldn’t just be open in the same way. “My kid brother lives with me, and my teenaged granddaughter, Kari.” 

“‘Teenaged granddaughter’?” Mary asked curiously. “But you're only five years older than me,” 

“Yeah, I was young. My then-girlfriend and I broke up when I was, like, 19. My brother had just… died, and. Well, 15 years later she showed up with my daughter. Her name was Mar’i.” 

“Oh,” Mary said awkwardly, looking down at her cup. “I—I’m so sorry. Marie sounds like a wonderful name, is it French?” 

Dick took the subject change offered. “Maybe,” he shrugged. He couldn’t just say ‘naw, it’s alien’. “Sorry about the trauma dump by the way. I guess I’m a poor conversationalist. Normally people say I’m charming, but I guess you make me nervous,” he threw in an over exaggerated wink, taking the Bat-trademarked method of ignoring his problems. 

Sure enough, Mary laughed. “Well, I still think you’re charming, Dick. Favorite color?” 

“Gotta say blue,” he replied, thinking back to his old Nightwing outfit. “But I am partial to red.” He nodded at her hair. “It’s beautiful. The color, of course.” 

“Of course,” she said. “I like green myself. Olive, forest, everything really. It brings out my eyes, I think.” Okay, in his defense, he really had a type… red hair, green eyes, but each had bright personalities in their own way. 

“Well, you look great in green. Any color really.” 

“Not orange,” she disagreed. “I look ghastly in orange. It blends too much and makes me fade.” 

“Mary, I am sure you look fantastic in orange,” he said in faux-seriousness. “And nothing could make you fade.” 

“Keep those one liners to yourself; you’re making you blush.” 

“Maybe that’s the point,” Dick grinned flirtatiously. 

Maybe . 

Jason walked into the classroom, taking a moment to fish his schedule out of his bag to double check the room number. While at first he thought it was similar to his old school, the screen outside the door and the lack of an actual handle option on the automatic doors proved him wrong. 

Sensing him before he could even grab the school-issued tablet, Jason looked at the room before him. It had high ceilings, with rows of desk-chair rows in front of a large SMART-board like screen.  It reminded him almost of an auditorium, much different than the middle school classrooms he was used to. Still, he walked down some rows, looking for a good seat. 

“R!” Jason turned at the familiar voice. But even here he was still going by ‘Jason’, so who—? 

“Kari?” He asked her, fully swiveling. “What are you doing here?” 

“I have ‘ Gotham History 101 ’ too, y’know,” she rolled her eyes. “It’s a required class, dumbass.” 

“Yeah, well no need to be rude, Kar,” Jason said defensively, despite her light tone clearly teasing. “It’s just… different here, okay? How are you getting on so well, you were homeschooled.” He realized too late that he should have added on a ‘too’. But if he added it on now it would just seem awkward and unnecessary. Better to play it off. 

Don’t be paranoid, Todd, he reminded himself. Then, quickly: Rayan. Think of yourself as ‘Rayan’. You are Rayan masquerading as Jason. Not the other way around. 

Still, calling himself ‘al Ghul’ still made him think of Ra’s—of Talia’s face, cruel green eyes calculating just what made him tick. 

You remain unavenged. 

Shut it, Wayne, he decided. It felt wrong too, but it was better than al Ghul and better than ‘Robin’. Because despite what Kari thought he couldn’t be Robin with blood on his hands. Murderer. 

“Hey, hey, R,” she said, and he blinked quickly as the fluorescent lights flashed back into view. “Snap out of it, you're okay. It’s, uh, the first day of school, September of 2054, you're in Gotham, Jason. You’re okay.”

“Whatever,” he said harshly. “Stop being so condescending. I’m fine .” 

Kari shrunk back, and Jason pushed the guilt away. He was in school. It was fine. He was fine. 

“Well,” a voice came into view from above, walking down the steps to them. “I’d bet you aren’t, Rayan, but that's just me. Tip for next time, Ri? Try using his real name to bring him back to the land of the mostly-sane. Didn’t Dick tell you that?” 

“Shut. Up.” Kari said, already facing him. Jason turned too, and saw a head of bed-head blond and a taunting grin. He was trying to rile her up, he realized. Toying with her like a sibling would maybe, he remembered from last night. He seemed to care for her to some degree. 

“Tommy,” he greeted, the petty bitch that he was. No matter what he said, the nickname clearly bothered him, he could tell from the way his eye twitched slightly. “Long time no see. I hear this is a required class. Good course?”

“It was fine last year,” a voice called from behind, breaking the tension. “But we were learning about hero’s last year so…” 

“Matt,” Jason heard Tom hiss. “You’re supposed to be on my side.” 

“Hey! I’m on no one’s side. Staying out of it, Tommy. Sorry to disappoint.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Right here in the classroom? Sorry, I’m not big on PDA.” 

Jason laughed slightly. “Jason,” He introduced, and despite knowing full well, continued: “nice to meet you...” 

“Matt,” he said at the prompt. “I’m not gonna apologize for Tom, but since you already seem to know him…” 

“We’re family. Distant family.” He clarified. 

“Not distant enough,” Kari reaffirmed, looking less like she wanted to murder Tom on the spot. He didn't know why he got to her so much, but he guessed she didn't owe him anything so he didn't have any ground to push. “But it’s fine, via adoption.” 

BRING! 

“Ugh,” Matt said, “do they ever change those bells?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Jason couldn’t help but put in. “But they really downgraded.” The sound was like a phone alarm: annoying, but short and quick. If he didn’t know better, he’d check his phone. But the phones he knew were long gone, replaced with holo-screens like in movies. What was the newest iPhone was now the equivalent to, say, a flip phone, or no… a landline . 

Jason was pulled out of his thoughts by a person, dressed neatly in a pencil skirt and blouse, wearing long, platinum blonde hair down; in the front of the room calling for attention. He took the cue, quickly sitting down in the nearest seat, followed after a few moments by the rest of the class. A low murmur was still there, but it was generally silent. The presumptive teacher waited until the group in the back got the hint— ah, some things never change —before introducing themselves at last. 

“Okay class,” they said, “My name is Ms Hills, she/her, and I will be your Gotham History teacher this year. Be warned: this class is going to be a rough ride for many of you. There will be graphic depictions of violence shown. 

“These images will upset you, and I will not tolerate any kind of flippancy when dealing with this. With that said, today we will be jumping right in. There is enough to cover the entire year and then some, so there will be no ‘getting to know you’ activities. Now, let’s begin with a general overview.” 

She was strict, likely an older sibling. The way she spoke was straight to the point, making him think English wasn’t her first language. But then again, she used certain idioms that made him think that she would’ve put effort in, which didn’t make sense. She had no accent. So probably just raised in a position of high society. Still, she was young, so she must’ve decided on this particular subject right away, meaning possibly personal experience with a rogue and a dislike for her parent’s more lucrative professions. ‘Hills’ was a general name, possibly an alias as he didn’t recognize it, meaning she could be hiding from her past or just be new money. Maybe dirty, but unlikely at the same time. Then again, he had no room to talk, and all of Gotham was shady in one way or another. Some were just to a higher and more dangerous degree. 

Would she be that degree? 

Shut up, Robin—

He forced himself out of his state of suspension. He was just a student now. It wasn’t his job to psychoanalyze every new person he met. Besides, maybe Gotham changed so much that they actually bothered to do background checks. Jason made himself dismiss the notion. He needed to remember that he was here now. He wasn't—that kid in those colors was dead. Had died. Whatever.  

He was fine. He was antsy, itching for a fight, but he was fine. If vigilantism was a drug, he figured he’d be in withdrawal. Ha, and I said I’d never do drugs after what happened to mom, he thought sardonically. 

“To begin, I will show you pictures and the circle back with general trivia. This,” she must’ve turned on the screen at some point, as she now changed the slide from Welcome to Gotham History! To—

The face was too white, the red smile too wide, the hair too green, and the eyes too crazed. 

— No, I'm just gonna keep beating you with this crowbar.—

“Is the Joker.” 

He swore she was looking right at him. 

“Maybe they’re trying to seize control?” Terry wondered tiredly to Max, who was in a spiny chair across from him, leaning against the Bat-computer. 

They were (read: she was) doing some research in regard to a particular new serial killer running around Gotham. The newbie was killing with a MO similar to the Jokerz, but they seemed to kill not for money or convenience, and even some actual high-ranking Jokerz members were caught in the mix. It was really quite particular.

“Maybe…” Max said, typing something up on her laptop. “You may be on to something…” 

“Yeah? But still,” Terry pointed out with a groan. “I’m guessing there’s no idea where they’re striking next?” 

“No.” 

Terry turned to see Bruce behind them, limping towards them with his cane. Dramatic bastard. 

“Okayyy then,” Terry sighed. “Well, I can go on patrol and see—” 

“They're getting closer together—escalating!” Max exclaimed at once, eyes lighting up in comprehension. “Like maybe whoever this is is getting impatient… or maybe they’re working for someone else. See here,” she pulled up a map with labeled dots. “These two kills—Freddy Boyd and Oskar Smite,” she highlighted them in red. “Died at completely opposite sides of the city, but time of death puts them within a 20 minutes of each other—supposedly done by the same person. …Which would be practically impossible with the estimated traffic and just general time it would take—unless they were murdered by different people who were specific orders from one person!”  

“Glad you’re back, Max,” Terry grinned. “I never thought of that.” 

“No,” Bruce said, interpreting the thought. “Joker—Jokerz work alone. They don’t work for anyone, much like their namesake. Despite the similarities to certain cases, it’s much more likely they're just getting impatient. Bored. And Maxine, do not forget that in Gotham nothing is ‘impossible’.” 

“Okay then,” Terry repeated, trying to stop the exchange from going down hill. “Back to square one.” He reached to rub his eyes. What with taking Matt this morning and patrol last night—and Max having been on break to boot—he’d been getting no sleep recently. 

While he knew that he should be reluctantly glad that Dana had broken up with him so that his few hours alone weren’t taken, he couldn’t help but still feel the open wound. Maybe he should try calling her? Or would that seem too clingy? Looking around the trophy-filled room, Terry looked for a distraction. 

“So, uh, how was that letter you had me hand deliver like last month?” He asked, catching sight of a pen. 

“What letter?” Asked Max curiously, and with fair reason: hardly anyone wrote paper letters anymore. While they still technically existed, paper was limited to maybe classrooms and for young children. Well, also things you wanted to keep off the record. 

“Oh, just this weird thing Mr Wayne,” he gestured to Bruce, “had me do. It’s basically what I said, he wouldn’t expand or anything.” 

“Odd,” Max commented. 

Bruce glared. “It is not of your concern.” He said clippedly. 

“It said ‘Rayan’ on it,” Terry whispered conspiringly to Max. 

“Ooo, old lover?” She teased. 

“No.” Bruce said tensely. Terry and Max waited for him to expand, but he didn’t. 

“You're hiding something,” Max guessed. “Who is Rayan?” 

“No one,” he didn’t rise to the bait. “Now stop gossiping. Crime doesn’t stop for breaks.” 

Terry rolled his eyes, grabbing a mint (to prevent breathing in gross air. He learned his lesson, okay?) and shoving on his Batman mask. 

“Geez, was he always this grumpy?” Max laughed. Terry grinned. “You betcha,” he said as he walked backwards to the car—the Batmobile. 

“I kinda feel sorry for his kids,”

Bruce glared. 

Still, he didn’t say anything. 

With a jolly wave, Terry—Batman—got into the vehicle and started it up. 

Crime didn’t sleep, sure, but he didn’t either and only one of them got tired. 

Unfortunately, it was him. 

“The Joker is one of Gotham’s most infamous villains of the era. Also referred to as the ‘Clown Prince of Crime’, he is responsible for more than a billion deaths and rumored to have murdered the second Robin and put the third out of action permanently. We will revisit this later, with a whole unit that focuses on the atrocities committed against the city.” 

… Murdered the second Robin… 

Ms Hills must’ve said a dozen things, named a few horrible acts in a bland way that didn’t give them justice. Still, he couldn’t help but latch on to that specific one. Maybe he was selfish or maybe it was natural, but… 

‘Rumored’ —what? He didn’t go bragging to the streets? Was he really forgotten by everyone, left only as a few cautious whispers that surfaced in the few seconds before he replaced him? 

Jason could feel the Green rising in him, and he squeezed his eyes tight, pushing it downwards. 

She was talking again, with the same bland tone as she told of the same old villains he once faced. 

“The Riddler,” she began, citing directly from the slideshow. Ms Hills read the slide, and Jason tried to focus on better things, if he was going to survive this class—which he was , damn it—he needed to think about something else, something good. 

All he could think of though was the past. Of times where it was just Jason and Bruce or Batman and Robin . 

Still, some of those times were good, right? The Green made it hard for him to remember, concealing certain bits from himself. But he let himself drift slightly, eyes wide open despite that, into memories of the past, searching for a good one. 

It didn’t have to be much, it could just be something simple, like a bust against, say, The Riddler, gone successfully—quick and relatively easy. 

Long before Ethiopia, long before That Warehouse , back to the early, good old days… 

Back when it was just him and his dad. 

Jason’s early Robin days! 

(Or: back when he was still pantless) 

It was cloudy, the overcast smog making it a starless night time sky. The only light in the sky was the Bat Symbol that illuminated the background. 

Robin crouched on a gargoyle, looking down at the city below. He smiled slightly. That was his city.

He turned to B, who stood behind him grimly. He shot his grapple gun, and together they took off— took flight . 

While B simply went to the next building, Robin flipped, all his training paying off as he effortlessly kicked off the corner of the next building. 

“Ha ha!” He grinned, pushing off from this time a rounded rooftop. 

He flipped again.  

The wind whistled through his ears, crisp and cool. He didn’t care, he wasn’t cold, he was bringing. This is awesome! 

He sprung from the curved roof, efficiently landing on the flat ground of the Museum rooftop. 

“Check your surroundings,” B said softly. “What do you see, Robin?” 

A training exercise . Looking down through the windows, he saw henchmen dressed in white with a hint of green in their suspenders and hats. They were looting the museum—nothing new, not particularly creative, really—two carrying an abstract Picasso-like painting made up of squiggles and lines (look, he wants an art guy, okay? Give him a good book, please and thank you). 

Then, he spotted him. He was dressed garishly in skintight green and purple, with a large question mark over his chest and a gold colored matching question mark cane in hand. 

The Riddler. 

“Riddler robbing the museum!” He chirped, and B nodded. “Good job, chum.” 

Robin beamed. “Let’s go!” 

B nodded. “Let’s.” 

“Whoo-hoo!” Robin called as he backed up a sufficient distance and made the jump. Shifting his weight just right, the glass ceiling window shattered, and he fell, purposely landing on henchmen número uno. 

“You guys having a party?” He called as he kicked dos and tres in the face. 

“Ha!” He tossed a handful of multicolored marbles at cuatro—the guy with a crossbow. Cuatro-with-the-crossbow stumbled, slipping and face planting on the floor. 

“Guess our invite got lost,” Robin quipped as he dashed over to B, who elbowed cinco, who was standing next to him in the throat, (don’t worry) only knocking him out. 

“It’s over, Riddler,” B said, who was backing up. 

Riddler sneered and ran. Coward . Crossbow—hey, that you cuatro, old buddy old pal?—shot a heap ton of arrows at them. And look, he’s not complaining, okay, it’s just— what’s with the crossbow, dude? You’re not Green Arrow, and I don’t know why’d you wanna be, so why not a gun? 

Anyway, he easily dodged, hand springing and then vaulting? Flipping? He didn’t take gymnastics, okay? He just knew it looked cool, and was effective as he used the momentum to push both Crossbow-maybe-cuatro down and him upwards. 

Another henchmen, possibly a new one, so número seis, tossed some sort of rope-lasso-thing at him, trying to snag his feet—which, uh, not cool, dude! 

But thankfully, Robin saw it coming, and with a grin, grabbed the collapsible Bat-Knife he’d hidden—which, uh, can he get some credit for? It was so hard safely concealing it! 

But the rule on the street is: always carry a weapon; so now he was glad he went through the trouble. 

—and cut the rope off before it went taunt. 

On the ground below him, B grunted, grabbing seis and knocking him out as Robin pulled his attention to the guy he’d just landed in front of. Ha ! 

“Riddle me this,” he said with a mocking grin as he leaned firmly in the form of the Riddler, who stopped in his tracks. 

“What’s green and purple, but covered in red and yellow?” 

Riddler scowled, not even responding to his quip—which, uh, rude , he wants even finished!—and lifted his cane in an attempt to hit him over the head with it. 

Key word being ‘attempt’! Robin blocked it, and flipped, victoriously, kicking him where the sun didn’t shine. Riddler stumbled back in pain and tumbled down the small staircase— the steps? —he’d run up trying to escape. 

Flawlessly flipping in the air, positioning himself so he’d land at the bottom unharmed, and on top of the rogue so he couldn’t escape if he was somehow still conscious. As he did, Robin saw the opportunity and took it, finishing his earlier joke with a smirk. 

“You, when I land on your sorry butt.”

Chapter Text

If he closed his eyes, it was easy to pretend that it was still Before. That he was still Robin, that Bruce was still his dad, that he hadn’t died. 

The murmuring of voices that the teacher couldn’t quite stop was the same. The mundane topics and inside jokes referenced wouldn’t even be that out of place back at Gotham Academy. Sure, these kids were less of the rich-spoilt-brat types, but they were no crime-alley-street-kid. 

Comfortably middle to upper-middle class, his new peers gossiped about the newest video game update and sports scores for games and teams he didn’t know. 

When he was at Gotham Academy Jason had always felt somewhat removed from his fellow classmates. He was the rags-to-riches wannabe who didn’t belong in their already pristine world, and likewise, they would never understand the hopelessness and helplessness he’d felt as he starved and stole and prayed to survive but more often prayed to let it end quickly. 

It was ironic that he had always known he would die young, but it was just plain cruel how it lasted for hours and ended with him being ripped apart by fire and flames and— 

Mom, I’ll save you—! 

He forcibly pushed those ghosts away. 

His point was that whatever he felt as a kid thrust into his wildest dreams, it didn’t compare to now. Before he’d at least recognized certain things—like the Gotham Knights notoriously bad team, who true Gothamites always supported anyways. 

Bruce had taken him to a game once, he remembered wanly, and after they’d played baseball together. Just the two of them. It was nice. Normal. Then they were just Bruce and Jason, father and son. 

Too bad Jason Todd died two decades ago, he forced himself to think. It hurt to acknowledge it, but he had to before it caught him by surprise again. 

Jason opened his eyes. 

“Hey!” He called. The final bell of the day had rang just a few seconds ago, but the hallways had already gone to hell. Not even his self-taught-street-kid-tricks/Robin-training/assassin-boot-camp could stop him from struggling to reach the curly head of red-brown hair only ten feet ahead of him. 

“Hey, Kari!” Quickly apologizing to the guy who he just shoved past who probably hadn’t even noticed, Jason feigned casualty as he slid next to the brunette. 

The brunette who was apparently already talking to someone. 

Part of Jason wanted to shrink in on himself then awkwardly walk away, planning to apologize later. Still, he faked nonchalance as the confused and annoyed looks respectively glaring into him. 

“Hi, I don’t believe we’ve met,” Jason said to the dirty blonde haired girl next to Kari. It was easier to put himself through social situations when he was playing a role— ever the theater kid, Dick might’ve once teased—which was probably some sort of trauma response that he’d never gotten treated, but hey—if it worked, it worked. 

Now he was the hot (not to brag or anything, but Jason was self aware and somewhat vain), teasing cool guy with a sad backstory. It wasn’t that far off from the truth—as the best lies are—but different enough that he didn’t feel like he was really putting himself out there—y’know? 

“Oh,” the girl didn’t blush, but she looked away slightly as if trying to hide if she was flustered, which really only made him think that she was. “Me neither.” 

The girl tried to hide it, but she still looked like she regretted it the moment it came out of her mouth. So, Jaosn laughed at the maybe-joke. “You're funny,” he bluffed. Hey, maybe she had a great sense of humor and was just shy now. “So, are you gonna give me a name or am I gonna have to call you—” he did a quick search of her person, landing immediately on the lettering of her shirt. “— Los Angeles ?” 

“Oh, uh,” Los Angeles stuttered, trying to come up with a response. 

“Cut it out, Jason,” Kari cut in, clearly having enough of his act. “ Aimee is my friend.” 

“Don’t be such a spoil-sport, Ri. You’re always so uptight and so sure you're right—maybe Los Angeles likes it.” 

“It’s fine, sorry,” Aimee said quickly. “I don’t mind it, really.” 

“ See ?” 

“Just because you can’t make friends doesn’t mean you have to bother me,” Kari said harshly. 

“Oh, don’t be such a bitch,” Jason said, equally scathingly. Aimee looked awkwardly away, not quite sure what to do but morbidly intrigued enough to not outright walk away. “You have such a superiority complex, don’t be such a prissy princess,” 

“Fuck you,” she replied. “I may be a spoiled brat, but at least I’m not you .” 

“Is that the best you have?” He taunted—leered. What had she meant by that exactly? Whatever. He knew enough to be insulted despite how pathetic an insult it was. Despite how much it was true. 

“I know it bothers you,” she said in return. Jason hated that despite how despite making such insensitive remarks, she was still able to read him—and people in general—well. He also hated himself for how his poker face kept slipping. Anger makes you sloppy, he thought. Don’t be sloppy, To— Wayne . 

“I just wanted to say ‘hi’, geez,” Jason said instead of responding directly. 

“Oh,” Kari said. “Still, flirting with my friend when it makes her uncomfortable is a jerk move.” 

“Sorry, Los Angeles ,” Jason said genuinely. “Er… Aimee.” 

“Don't worry, it’s fine,” she repeated, once again awkward now that attention was back on her. It was probably good for Kari to have someone like that, he thought. Kari, not unlike him, was hotheaded and could at the very least fake confidence on command. To have someone to pull her back was good. 

Jason didn’t have anyone like that. But with his situation, the only ‘person’ he could trust was his subconscious to play devil’s advocate. 

“Bye, R,” Kari said, and Jason could see the question marks in Aimee’s eyes. “I texted Gramps that I was with a friend, and he trusts you to walk back on your own probably. He’s at work, but if you need a ride…” 

“Yeah. Thanks,” Jason said, as they parted ways. “I’ll let him know if I need him to pick me up.” 

He was pretty sure his image was shattered, but it was fine. He was already acting enough as it was. 

As he turned and walked away (because despite them heading towards the door, it would just be horribly awkward if he kept on walking the same way after saying goodbye), Jason glanced once more at the library. 

Jason had always liked reading. It was an escape, a way to get lost in a world that was not his own. Now, he desperately needed it. 

As he entered the library he was happily surprised when he saw the physical books on the shelves. In this future, books obviously still exist, but lots of people just used some sort of new Kindle to read rather than flip pages. 

But Jason liked the physical books, the action of flipping a page was nostalgic in a way. As he walked along the shelves, he first saw the ‘A’ section—organized alphabetically by the author’s last name he quickly deduced. His gaze immediately traveled to the book toward the end of the ‘A’ partition: 

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen 

Jason grabbed it quickly. It was a childhood favorite that his mom—Catherine—had read to him when he was little and she wasn’t… well, when she was better. Less sick. Not sick yet. 

Quickly, he opened the first page and read it. It must’ve been a year since he last read this. Before Ethiopia, he was rereading it again. Yes, it was on his nightstand by his bed, he thought… 

Er—40 years since he read it, he amended. He hadn’t gotten the chance yet, and assassin training was all consuming. 

“Most people don’t read much anymore,” a feminine voice said from behind. 

Jason despite his training, was startled. Damn it, he was doing that a lot lately. He needed to get his spatial awareness under control. 

“Well, they’re missing out,” Jason said in response, turning around to see Ms Hills. “What are you doing here?” Ah, good rude, T—Wayne. Back it up… “er. I mean, I was just surprised to see you here, is all…” 

“I volunteer at the library,” Ms Hills said in explanation. “Old Mrs Blanchly needs all the help she can get.” 

Jason shifted awkwardly. He never knew what to say in some situations. “Cool,” he decided on, tapping his fingers over the book cover, fidgeting.

“Well, if you need any help, I’ll be by the desk.” 

Jason nodded in response and she started to walk away. Just then, his eyes caught a glimpse of the newspaper article he spotted earlier. 

“Wait!” He called. 

She turned. “Yes?” 

“Why’s that here?” 

She looked at him confused. “The library ? Well, yes, it is unusual isn’t it? The school, from what I understand, can’t really get rid of it, despite next to no one using it. Mrs Blanchly is practically the only one here, half the time! Students don't even use it for study halls.” 

“Huh,” Jason said, intrigued slightly, despite it not actually being what he meant. “The school can’t get rid of it?” He asked. 

“No, it was dedicated with a lot of money some thirty years ago. Maybe more, I don’t know. Some rich billionaire’s program that really got the school off its feet. Probably the only reason it’s here.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah, the plaque’s over here,” she nodded to the desk, on the opposite side of the newspaper clipping. Jason walked over, and stared unbelieving at the metal dedicator for what must’ve been a suspicious amount of time. Still he couldn’t believe it. He read it again: 

JASON P. TODD

SCHOOL LIBRARY

This Facility is Dedicated

In Loving Memory of 

Jason P. Todd 

August 16, 2000 - April 27, 2015 

“I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.”

- Jorge Luis Borges

“That’s, ah, that’s nice,” he said. His careful fasque was falling. Did Bruce really remember him? 

“Hm,” the teacher nodded. “Now, would you like to check that book out?” 

Jason glanced down at the object in his hands, held so his finger stayed on the page he closed it on. 

“Yeah,” he said, slightly breathless. “That’d be great, thanks.” 

She nodded. “See you in class tomorrow,” she said after scanning it. 

Jason nodded politely. “Have a good afternoon.” He said as he left, backpack handing open off one shoulder. With one last glance at the memorial, he left. 

The Robin clipping could be saved for another day. Now, he just had to figure out if the general layout of Gotham stayed the same, or if he would need to open Google Maps (or whatever the new equivalent was nowadays). 

Matt entered his apartment building, making a beeline for the elevator. He pressed the button on the screen and waited for the elevator to arrive. 

It really shouldn’t be that busy as it was only 3:30 PM and most people were still at work, but the elevator needed some maintenance that never seemed to get done, and so here he was. Waiting. 

After staring into space for a few minutes, he felt stupid when he realized that he had better ways to pass the time. Matt opened the games application group on his phone just as the elevator arrived with a tell-tale ding!  

Classic. 

“Well, better late than never,” he sighed, shoving the phone back into his jeans back pocket. 

As the teenager walked into the elevator, Gertrude from floor 3 clambered in. Matt suppressed a groan. 

“Hello, dear,” she said kindly. Look, it wasn’t that Crazy Gertie was mean, she was just, well, a tad bit insane. Trauma from an old fear gas attack mixed with mild dementia, his mother had explained once. Be kind, Mattie. 

“Hi,” he said back, making sure his smile wasn’t an obvious grimace. “How was your day?” 

“Oh, same old same old, I saw Robin flying across rooftops again, he did a fancy flip again too…” 

“Robin?” Matt asked incredulously. This is what he hated—because what was he supposed to say to that? Would it harm her to point out that Robin hadn’t been seen in Gotham for maybe 20 years now? Should he just play along? 

His history class last year was with Mr Binasco, an old man in his 90s who really should’ve been replaced long ago but hadn’t been, and didn’t bother teaching anything. It was basically a free period, he hadn’t even taken attendance. Most students ditched or came just to chat. He was pretty sure despite that—or maybe because of that—, people were sad when news came he passed away at the end summer and was being replaced. 

The point was—he had no idea how to play along even if he had to. G-d, this was why he avoided the library at school and the third floor at home. 

“Yes, yes, Robin,” she said dreamily. “Saved me from being run over, good boy,” she ‘hm’ed. “They all look a bit like you. Dark haired small framed things,”

“Thanks, ma’am,” he said. “It’s, ah, nice being compared to heroes,” 

“Yes, yes,” she said. “This is my floor, bye now, dear,” she said, and to his relief she was right, as he glanced up to confirm the glowing large ‘3’ above the doors. 

“Bye,” he said. “Have a good day, Mrs Blanchly.” 

She nodded, “you too, dear,” and the doors closed once again. 

Matt let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. While he’d heard the rumors, and knew that once Mrs Blanchly was once perfectly sane and went by ‘Tru’—as Gertrude was a terribly old name with not the same ring to it—Matt had never known her as Tru, and so found it much harder to sympathize with her than his other neighbors. 

While Matt had long idolized (and still did, if to a lesser degree) superheroes and vigilantes, he was glad that those times were past. The new Batman still saved people, sure, but Matt couldn’t imagine the constant state of terror even his mom would’ve been in when she was younger. 

The smooth upset of the elevator had always made him slightly nauseous, so to center and distract himself, Matt looked up as the numbers rose. There wasn’t nearly enough time for it to be worth starting a game he wouldn’t get to finish. 

…4… 

…5… 

…6… 

…7… 

…8… 

…9… 

And finally: 

…10…  

As the elevator opened, Matt readjusted his backpack and headed down the hall towards their apartment. 

Pressing his hand—but most importantly his thumb and finger pads—to the finger-print-scanner lock, he opened the door a crack to make sure his mom wasn’t there, slipping in and tossing his bag on the couch. 

“Hey, mom! I’m home!” He called as he turned on the TV for some white noise while he did homework. Opening up his math assignment, he waited for a response. Since she worked from home mostly, his mom had liberties with her schedule, and as long as she got the work done, she could take a break or take lunch whenever. Normally she could pop out to say ‘hi’ even if she already took one. 

“…Mom? I’m home…!” He tried calling again, but to no avail. Matt got up off the couch and walked down to her office—empty. While it wasn’t unheard of, it was weird she was still out. 

“Mom?” 

Nothing . 

Now normally he wouldn’t worry that much, and just text her or something, but his awkward conversation Ms Blanchly put him on edge. 

Instead of texting her, Matt pulled out his phone and called her. Opening up the contact that read ‘ Mom ’ with a picture of him and her in the circle, he hit ‘call’. 

She picked up after a few rings. “Hi, Mattie.” She greeted him. “Is it that time already?” 

“Yeah,” Matt said, embarrassed at his paranoia. “Sorry for bothering you.” 

“Don’t worry about it, honey. I just lost track of time this morning and still had to take care of some stuff. I’m on my way home now, okay?” 

“Okay,” he agreed easily. 

“See you soon, love you, bye,” she said warmly.m

“Bye,” he replied. She sounded happy over the phone, he realized as he hung up. Despite normally being stressed over losing track of time, she was happy. 

Matt was glad. Ever since his dad’s death—or even their divorce—Terry’ behavior had put her on edge, along with her new promotion making her swamped with work. It only took five years, but still, he was happy that she was happy. 

Matt, not even all that biased, was a much better son for his mom than Terry. Of that he was sure. 

Settling onto the couch again, he flicked through channels until he heard a click of the door opening. 

“Mom! You’re home!” He called with a grin, having finished his math homework and began his science project in the half-hour she’d taken. 

“Hi, Mattie,” she said. “How was your day?” 

“Good; I got a new history teacher,” he replied. 

“Oh?” She said, “did Mr Binasco finally pass?” 

“Yeah,” he said. “May he rest in peace. So I’ll take it your day was good too?” 

“Better than good,” she said smiling, before looking more hesitant. “I met someone. He seems really great, and we planned to have a date… is that okay, Mattie?” 

“Of course!” He rushed to assure her. “Even if you and dad weren’t already divorced, he’s been dead for five years now.” 

He smiled kindly at her, not lying when he spoke. 

“I’m happy for you, Mom.” 

She smiled, and hugged him; brushing aside his hair and kissing his forehead. “You grew up to be a brave, smart, and kind young man,” she said. “I am very proud of you, Mattie.” 

He smiled, and replied cheekily, “I know.” 

She laughed affectionately, and Matt knew that Terry didn’t try nearly as hard. Despite being younger, he was the mature one. Terry may be an adult with a prestigious job, but he was always sneaking out and getting into fights which worried her. 

Matt was the better son, and for that he was happy. 

A woman turned the corner with swift, precise movements only achieved through arrogance and deathly training. 

She dropped her careful mask the moment she was a block away from the wretched building. She pulled her long blonde hair into a perfectly high ponytail that would’ve taken others hours and a hairbrush to achieve. 

She smirked. 

Dipping into an abandoned building, she pulled her change of clothes out of her bag, taking off the skirt and cutesy cardigan for something a little more… dangerous. She had learned long ago, after all, the importance of appearance. 

In sleek black pants and an icy blue shirt that tantalizingly displayed her cleavage, she slipped off her ankle boots and put on tall heels that could turn into flats with two spare knives. Pulling over a disguising black coat, lined with weapons, she fixed her makeup carefully. 

She turned something that made her look soft into something that made her look cold. Any harsh angles she now enhanced rather than blended, warm-tone brown and pale pink eyeshadow changed to grays and frozen blues. 

Her lips, once outlined to be soft and colored in with natural shades, she now outlined harsher and filled with a glossy, tempting, red. The color of blood. 

When she was done, the woman turned her bag inside out and put the makeup and her clothes back in, in a separate part than where she kept her backup—securely hidden—gun. 

While she knew she had to report to her boss—at this she scowled at the reminder of who she sold her soul to—first she had to make sure her affairs were in order. 

The Dämonenjunge —the ‘demon boy’ in her mother tongue; as that was only what she would call her target—had stolen her kill. 

Her papa, before he died, had one rule: 

Kill the weak, my little Attentäterin , he would tell her. But only family can kill family. 

They were just a small family-run business then, with some distant ties to the mob. Her brother had made it great, after killing her papa that is. He was older than her, and her half brother to boot. His mother was only there for her connections, and he resented her for being the product of more . 

But only family could kill family, and the Dämonenjunge had murdered her brother. While he had insisted she stay under his thumb, he still paid for her education and whims. And she was going to kill him. 

She had plans— people, connections. She would’ve thrown a coup and taken over the no-longer family business. 

But no, the Dämonenjunge had stolen that dream from her too. 

While she maybe could have forgiven the sin of slaughtering family—he was hardly her family after all—he had razed the compound and connections to the ground, and with it the merchandise. 

No, the Dämonenjunge would pay. 

To do so—with her only person left alive was her boyfriend and ex-inside rat; and without the money to recruit more—she needed to be smart. 

And so when the infamous top-of-the-top came to her for poetic justice (he had sprouted poster-worthy not-really-one-liners like ‘facing one’s sins’) in return for the life she should’ve— would’ve— had? 

Well, the only option was to say ‘yes’. 

So while she did detest getting to know her targets before killing or condemning them, as it made her horribly uncomfortable to then screw them over, she would make an exception for the Dämonenjunge . 

Dialing the number on the burner phone that she only kept memorized for safety reasons, she set her doubts behind her. 

Her boss would allow her to torture the Dämonenjunge who stole everything, and while she had to leave him alive, her boss promised a fate worst than death for betraying him. Not only that, but to sweeten the deal she would get everything she strived for on a silver platter. 

So, she pushed her doubts far behind her—ignoring the fact that like always her conscience blinded her and made the Dämonenjunge now seem more boy than demon when she spoke with him—and answered easily when the phone stopped ringing and He picked up. 

“I have made contact with the target, My Lord,” she said respectfully, because though she never met Him in person, the rumors painted the same picture. A picture of a man who was almost god-like, and could kill her as easily as a flick of the wrist. 

“Good,” He answered. “That is perfect .”

Chapter Text

Then. 

Ten years ago… 

“Come on, daddy!” Five-year-old Kari squealed happily. “We’re gonna be late!” 

Dick flinched. 

“I’m not your dad,” he tried to explain gently. “Your dad was named Jon. He loved you very much.” 

The young girl looked at him confused, her eyes scrunching cutely. “But you look after me and you are family. I’ve never met ‘Jon’; and that’s what all my friends' daddies do, so you must be mine!” 

“Sunshine…” he tried; but she was young, and she had made up her mind. “Just, please don’t call me that, I’m your grandpa. Can you say that for me?” 

She scowled. “But you're my dad!” She cried. “Not my gram-pa!” Despite having started her first year of Kindergarten in the Fall, she still had a childish lisp that was prevalent as she tried to pronounce the title. Or perhaps she was just being petty. Likely both, Dick thought fondly. She was a stubborn soul, after all.

“Besides, CeCe’s gram-pa came to pick her up once and he was old . You're the same age as CeCe’s dad, and so it just doesn’t make sense, daddy!” CeCe was her friend from the Kindergarten she went to. She had nice parents and a brother, and was a nice girl that Dick was glad she made friends with. Unfortunately for him now, however, Kari happened to look up to CeCe, and saw her life as something she wanted to be able to relate to. Which she couldn’t. 

“Yes, ah, well,” Dick scrambled for an excuse. He didn’t want to disrespect and disregard Jon Kent’s memory, but he didn’t want to risk hurting Kari more. But Dick, like his granddaughter, was stubborn. 

“How about ‘Gramps’?” He suggested, factoring in her lisp (despite the possibility of it being fake, which it may be since she didn’t normally have any issues, but he wasn’t going to call her into question) so other kids wouldn’t make fun of her for trying to pronounce the word—as Dick, unlike some, wasn’t delusional and knew kids could be cruel. “It rolls off the tongue better, see?” 

She glared harder. “ No ! You’re my dad !” 

He sighed to himself. Kory would have known what to do, he decided. Or better yet, Mar’i. His daughter would’ve made a great mother— had been a great mother for the too-short time—and her husband would’ve— had —been a great father as well. 

Dick, though, didn’t know what to do. As Nightwing and as Robin he would comfort children relatively often, but somehow it felt wrong to treat his granddaughter like just another tragic victim. 

Mar’i, regretfully, had been grown by the time he’d first met her, and so he had no experience with family members who were under the age of ten. 

“Mm,” he hummed noncommittally, letting the subject matter rest for now. “What was that about us needing to go soon?” 

Kari, like most young children, had a short attention span, and when faced with the new excitable situation, she quickly forgot about the earlier argument. 

“Yes!” She squealed once more, bouncing up and down slightly. “I got all pretty in my new dress!” 

The dress in question was a gift from Dick as she had been eyeing it in the store and was behaving well with the other kids. He also was facing the growing possibility that Kari—two generations removed—wouldn’t develop the powers of her parents. While admittedly, the Kryptonians he knew developed their powers on Earth around the age of ten, Tameraneans developed their powers at birth, something that Kari hadn’t. 

Half her grandparents were human, and she was only a quarter of each, so it had been theorized based on very limited cross-species knowledge that it would be all or nothing, though the ‘all’ could cancel out or weaken or both. It was all very new, he just knew what to look out for. 

“You look very pretty,” he said indulgently. “You were right, the purple-dark blue ombré really does bring out your eyes and complements your skin tone nicely.” Then, remembering she was five, he clarified: “‘ombré’ is like a fancy word for fade.” 

“Why not just call it fade then?” She asked. “If that’s what it means?” 

“I,” he paused thinking about it. “I don’t really know,” he decked on honestly. “English is weird. But I’m pretty sure ‘ombré’ has French origins, so…” 

He trailed off, but Kari still nodded along, focusing on something else. “You speak French? That’s so cool! CeCe’s family is from France!” 

“Ah huh,” he said, as he finished the short walk over to grab his coat and car keys. “Okay, Kar, ready?” 

“Yes! Yes!” She called. “I can’t wait to meet my cousin! You're always like ‘oh yeah Tom is your age’! And I never met him but now I get to!” 

Dick found himself grinning at her excitement. “Yes, it's all very exciting… now, it’s chilly out, can you put on your coat, please?” 

“But it’ll cover the dress! And we’ll just be in the car and the house!” 

Dick suppressed a sigh. He was glad she was so opinionated—it was a good trait to have, to be so sure in oneself—but sometimes it was just plain exhausting. 

“You can take it off inside, but what if you want to go outside and play? There’s probably a park,” he suggested, and he felt relieved when she agreed. 

“Okay,” she replied, acting like he asked her a Herculean task as she put it on. “Can we go , yet?” 

“Yes, sunshine,” he said, grabbing her small hand in his own large one. “Let’s go.” 

Locking up the apartment, he let her skip ahead on the way down to the garage, before grabbing her hand once more and letting her buckle herself in the car seat after she insisted she could do it on her own. 

Turning on the radio to the station Kari preferred, he asked after her life as he set up the defections to Tim and Steph’s house. 

Honestly, he never thought they'd end up together after the rough patch they'd had that included some misunderstandings and classic Robin-who-replaced-me issues. Still, after Tim… after the incident ; Steph had, to his shame, really been the only one there for him after it… after it happened, and all their worst nightmares had come true. 

Robin kills , he had realized maybe not then, but he should’ve. While Damian wasn’t Robin when he’d died, he was still dead from the hero-ing business. 

Dick had created Robin to avenge his parents, but even B’s mantra of justice not vengeance could wipe away the less-than-angelic origins that clearly shaped the following legacy. 

He hadn’t thought of B in a long time. 

Dick was busy and angry, he justified. But wasn’t B still the closest thing he had left of a father? Dick pushed the thought away as quickly as it had come. Even if he was, they were estranged and he planned to keep it that way. 

The song on the radio sang back mockingly at him.

Now. 

Ten years later… 

Jason was sprawled legurly against the chair of the media center where most classes took study hall, rather than—to Jason’s great confusion—the library. It seemed like an odd choice to put kids who were supposed to focus on schoolwork in front of screens with easy access to the internet, but who was he to judge? A boy out of time should have his opinion taken with a grain of salt. 

“I’m bored,” he said truthfully, as he had finished his homework earlier, but mostly to get attention. “Entertain me.” 

Kari, seated with Aimee, looked up to give him a courtesy glance. “Make friends,” she said simply. “I’m busy.” 

“But you are my friend,” Jason said in an exaggerated tone that made it seem he said it to be annoying and not because Kari was his only friend. It wasn’t that Jason was bad at making friends—on the contrary, he knew exactly what to say to get the right reaction—it was just that he felt weird making friends with people who wouldn’t ever get to know a quarter of the story, let alone the whole one. 

Kari tensed, and Jason could tell she was forcing herself not to respond. Dick must’ve taught her that ignoring the problem and it’ll go away did in fact work most of the time if someone was trying to get a reaction from you (and sadly, no matter how much he tried otherwise, only then). Eventually they’d grow bored and leave well enough alone. 

Jason was already bored though, and didn’t want to leave well enough alone. After all, it took a special kind of stupid to defy Ra’s al Ghul, but a spectacular kind of brilliance to survive. Jason was, in fact, both. 

“Com’on, Los Angeles ,” he said to Aimee, who flushed slightly at the nickname, and pulled her hair over her face, turning back to Kari, who glared at his dirty tactics. “You don’t mind if I join in,” it was phrased like it should be a question, but it clearly was a statement. 

Jason had perfected over the last three weeks—as it was now mid September—what mask to wear so it would appear effortless. Jason pretending to be Rayan pretending to be Jason was the light hearted funny guy, who flirted playfully but with a mysterious past. All very cliché, sure, but it worked. 

Jason hadn’t figured out what just Rayan would be, but the confidence he faked at school made it easier. He could over think once it was all over. But it wouldn’t ever be all over , he thought horribly, this is my life now . 

Aimee glared at him. “I don’t mind, but Kari does.” She said quietly, making him strain to hear over the chatter of their surrounding classmates. 

“Kari, you hear that? Your first and only friend is okay with it!” 

“She’s not my ‘first and only friend’!” Kari responded instead. “I have, my, uh,” she glanced suspiciously at Aimee and Jason sighed. She, clearly like Dick in some ways, had trouble lying to and—in this case— in front of people that she cared about. He resisted the wedge to put his head in his hands melodramatically. “ Family friends ,” she decided at last, “and, and! I have my friends from Blüdhaven!” 

“Please,” Jason said. “ Family friends ,” unfortunately he had to be suspicious too or Kari’s suspicious pause would look more suspicious and/or cause strife where a simple family inside joke wouldn’t, “don’t count and you know it. And your friends from Blüdhaven were just because they were convenient.” 

“They are not!” She cried indignantly. 

“You were homeschooled,” he said plainly. “So little to no social interaction with your peers. From what I understand, whatever-their-named happened to be your age and saw you often as they worked at a café you frequented. They probably felt bad and befriended you.” 

At her crestfallen face, he amended, “hey, don’t feel bad. It’s natural for humans to seek companionship.” 

She glared harder. “Like you? Begging to be part of my friend hangs like the lonely child you are?” 

“Hey,” he said. “I may be a lonely mostly-friendless child, but at least I got what I wanted! Los Angeles , don’t you think this lovely little conversation is entertaining?” 

She looked guiltily amused, and didn’t hide it well. “You manipulated it!” She accused, looking at him again in a new light. 

“Did I?” Jason grinned. “If you think about it, I just stated an interesting prompt and you feel for it. And, most importantly, that’s how all conversations start.” 

“Look, R,” Kari said. “I get you’re lonely, but you’ve made your point. I don’t see why you can’t just make a friend and insist on tagging along like a third wheel on a date.” 

“ Fine ,” Jason glared. “Why not? I suppose I can see if dear unspecified-distant-relative Tom and his buddy are in want of another friend. They’ll probably come over all the time, though, so just be warned…” 

He smirked at her frantic scrambling. “Everyone needs more friends,” he sing-songed. 

“I couldn’t agree more,” Tom said, walking towards them with a shit-eating grin. 

“Wanna be friends, Jason?” Matt asked, coming up from behind. While he said it loudly to match Tom’s tone, his body language was sincere. 

He didn’t bother to resist the urge to wink leeringly at Kari, and smiled smugly at her face. She couldn’t stop him without contradicting herself, and the conflict showed on her. 

“Of course,” he said to Matt. “Really,” he added after a moment. “Thanks.” 

Honestly, when he thought about it, the proposed friendship worked out great. While he had held off for Kari’s sake, he didn’t feel as guilty about it now compared to how he would have felt if he went behind her back. 

The reasons he’d not tried to make a friend here were many, but mostly it was because he didn’t want to hide over half of himself from them. Hell, even the voice he spoke in was different than his natural one (he had purposely let a slight accent slip through that was reminiscent of Talia’s. While he was pretty sure someone with Rayan’s training could hide it—like Jason did for his—it seemed safe enough that he wouldn’t have, and cemented Rayan’s existence more than it risked Jaosn’s—especially with the magic charm making it so not only could no one, not even machine, recognize him, but it also made his DNA match with what Rayan’s would look like should he be real). 

But with Tom and Matt, he felt like he could tell them more about himself. Instead of flat-out lies, it would be half-truths, since Tom already knew his “real” name and Matt, being the Pretender’s brother, wasn’t as much of a safety risk if he didn’t already know. 

Besides, they were his age and seemed nice enough. 

So, with a final jolly wave to his irritated house-mate, when the bell rang he walked out with Tom and Matt and smiled. 

Then. 

Ten years ago… 

“I can do it myself,” Kari protested as her dad tried to help her out of the car. She was a big girl now. 

“Okay,” her dad said, putting his hands up like the bad guys did on TV. 

Unbuckling the seatbelt, she jumped onto the curb of the street and carefully smoothed her pretty princess dress. It was super flowy and spun around like a ballerina’s tutu. The jacket that her dad made her wear covered the long sleeves that matched the skirt in flow. She shrugged it off, as the overcast light made the silver disk that she always wore on a chain around her neck glint. 

“Honey, please put that back on, it’s cold.” Her dad said. 

“Don’t be silly, daddy,” Kari told him, and he shifted like he normally did. “I’m not cold!” 

“You can take it off when we get inside,” he bargained, pointing to the lavender house across the street. “We’re almost there.” Kari, who was totally old enough to make decisions, thought about it for a second. The walk was only for a few seconds and they were probably not going to wait outside long… 

“But that’s not worth it!” She told her dad smartly. “If we’re almost there, I won’t have time to get cold. Which I’m not ,” she clarified at the end so he wouldn’t be able to use it against her. 

“Sunshine,” he began like he was gonna do a long speech. “For me?” 

“No.” Kari said stubbornly and he sighed. 

“Okay, fine,” he said and she grinned widely. “But you have to put it on if you play outside, okay, Kar?” 

“Yeah, yeah, okay!” She said with a grin. “Let’s go! Let's go! Let’s go!” 

He laughed and held her hand as they crossed the street. “Look both ways,” he said. 

“I know!” She exclaimed, even though she forgot to. Kari was excited, in her defense. 

“Okay,” he said unconvinced but her dad didn’t push. 

As soon as they made it across, she dropped his hand and ran to the pretty light purple home. Her dad hurrying behind her, Kari opened the white fence and hopped up the steps. 

Jumping so she could reach the doorbell press screen, she grinned as the sound rang through the air. 

Ding-dong! 

She clicked it again. 

Ding-dong! 

And again, and again. 

Ding-dong! 

Ding-dong! 

Until her dad caught up to her and stopped her from hitting it a fifth time. “It’s rude to keep ringing it,” he said gently. 

“But it’s fun!” Kari protested, confused. 

“Not for whoever is listening,” he said wisely. “Remember that annoying fly that was buzzing around you?” Kari nodded vigorously. “It’s like that for them,” he dad explained. 

“Oh.” Kari said. That fly was horrible and buzzy. 

Just then, the door opened to a pretty blonde lady. “Hi, you must be Kari,” she said kindly. “I’m your auntie Steph.” 

“I’m sorry!” Kari said instead. “I didn’t mean to be rude!” 

“Oh?” She said, glancing at her dad behind her. “The doorbell? It’s okay.” 

“Mmkay,” she mumbled, embarrassed. Just then, a blond head of messy hair popped up from behind the woman—Auntie Stephie. 

“Hi!” He said brightly. “I’m Tom!” 

“Hi!” She returned sunnily. “My name is Kari! Can I call you Tommy? There's a Tom in my class!” 

“Okay,” he agreed. “But only if I can call you Ri! There’s no Kari in my class but if you have a nickname for me, I want a special nickname for you!” 

Kari pretended to think about it for a second before nodding happily. “Okay!” 

The grown ups chuckled, and a black haired man came up behind Tommy. 

“What’s this I hear?” He said, scooping up his smiling son in strong arms. “Making new friends?” 

“Dad!” He cried out. “Put me down!” Despite his words however, Tommy was laughing. 

“Okay, sport,” he said, before noticing her. “Hi, I’m your uncle Tim,” he said. “You must be Kari.” 

Kari nodded. As her dad smiled at uncle Timmy. 

“What, no ‘hello’ to me? Your most favorite brother?” 

Uncle Timmy and Auntie Stephie laughed and talked more, walking inside. 

Tommy pulled her away from the grown ups' boring chatter and out the back door. “Com’on,” he said. “I have a swing set!” 

“Shway!” 

Kari and Tommy played happily. It was awesome. Kari was glad that her dad had introduced them. 

“Push me higher!” Tommy called from his turn on the swingsets. He also had a mini-play structure. 

“I’m trying!” Kari said, pushing herself further. Tommy was older than her and heavier, making him harder to push. 

“You can do it!” Tommy encouraged with a grin. 

“Okay!” Kari said, wanting to make him have a good turn so her would push her too. She focused, like her dad said to do when trying, and saw her slightly aching arms moving the swing up and down. She willed all her strength into her arms and hoped as she pushed.  

SNAP! 

The metal chains broke, and sent Tommy flying. Kari didn’t have time to think, she just knew he would get hurt. She screamed, terrified. 

What happened?! 

Her dad and uncle and aunt ran out as quickly as they could, only to see Tommy land—thank everything—in the soft flowerbeds, sadly crushing the pretty flowers. 

But Kari, and the grown ups, didn’t care about the flowers as she, and they, ran to the prone boy. 

“Oh my god!” She said, “I’m soso soso sorry! I don’t know what happened! We were just playing and—!” Softer, she added. “Please, will he be okay?” 

“M’fine,” Tommy groaned, but he held his head gingerly and his knees and arms were bleeding slightly. 

“I’m sorry!” Kari said to him. “Please forgive me! Can we still be friends?” 

“Of course,” Tommy grinned, despite his parents fussing. “I’ll never blame you, Ri,” he stated. 

“—And we’ll always be friends.” 

Now. 

Ten years later… 

Terry sighed as he walked into the apartment that his mom and Matt lived in full-time when he was away at college. 

“—see you next week at my place, Mary,” he heard a male voice say, and he froze. “Thank you, I had a great time and dinner was delicious.”

His mother laughed. “I had good company, Dick,” 

He tensed. What was going on? He wondered. His mom sounded genuinely happy, sure, but she also just insulted the guy she was with. 

“Mom…?” He called hesitantly. “I’m home,” 

As he entered the kitchen area, he saw the man she was talking to. He had black hair with hints of gray. Very blue eyes and light brown skin with a few laugh lines. Objectively, he was in good shape and handsome. But naggingly, at the back of his mind, something clocked familiar.  

“Hi, honey,” his mom said when she saw him, and noticed him squinting at the man suspiciously. 

“This is my boyfriend,” she introduced. “Dick, meet my eldest son, Terry. Terry, meet my boyfriend, Dick.” 

“Wait, ‘Dick’ is your name ?” He said before backtracking at his moms raised eyebrow. Don’t be rude, it said. 

“Nice to meet you…” 

Thankfully, the man—Dick—laughed. “Don’t worry, I get that all the time. It’s nice you meet you Terry, I’m Dick, Dick Grayson.” 

Suddenly it fell into place: Dick Grayson, the first Robin and formerly Nightwing. 

Adopted son of Bruce Wayne. Aka: his boss. 

Terry nodded tightly and smiled. “So, I’ll leave you guys to it,” he said awkwardly. “I’ll see you around, bye,” he said to Dick. Probably more often than I’d like, he thought. Hopefully the man didn’t stop by the Manor. 

His mom glanced at him. “Everything alright?” She asked. 

“Yeah,” he replied. “I just feel weird intruding on you guys. Bye.” 

His mom glanced worriedly at him, but didn’t push as he dashed to his room, immediately dialing Bruce. 

“What is the deal with Dick Grayson?” He demanded as soon as it was picked up. “He’s dating my mom ! Is he some sort of spy or shit? Get your operation out of my personal life!” 

“ Terry, ” Bruce said calmingly. “ Slow down. You’re yelling. ” 

“I said,” Terry repeated. “Why the hell is Dick Grayson here, spying on my life!” 

“ Dick? ” Brice asked. “ Yes… he came back to Gotham, but I assure you, I trust you enough to rely on my bugs and not my sons—and yes, that was a joke. Now quiet down before your newborn hear you. ” 

But the damage was already done, as Mary McGinnis paused in the doorway in shock, having come in after her boyfriend left to check in and say ‘hi’ to her son. She left before he noticed her.

Chapter Text

CRASH! 

“Fucking shit!” Tom cussed as he startled at the sudden movement. Reflexively, he jumped away from the spilled contents of his snack, now littered on the floor. Well , he realized as he looked down in shock, now he knew why his mom always nagged him to not leave stuff on the edge . 

He gingerly backed further away from the kitchen table. “Really?” Tom muttered to himself as he bemoaned his mid-afternoon meal that was all over the dirty floor. “I was hungry!” 

For a second, he debated just leaving the mess and getting some crackers to-go instead, that way he wouldn’t have to deal with the sticky lemonade—that was once precariously placed on the same plate as the once-great snack—mixing with his favorite junk food on the wooden floor. 

Still, Tom knew that it would be more trouble than it was worth when his parents got home from work—his mom at 5:30 PM, despite getting out at 5:00 because traffic; and his dad later because he liked to avoid responsibility of hanging with his family but rather ironically loved work—he would be the only suspect and thus limiting his precious screen time as a resulting punishment. 

So, his mind made up, Tom groaned as he made his way over to the cabinet to get the dreaded cleaning supplies. 

Oh god, I’m gonna need a mop, he realized with a groan. He hated mopping. 

Opening the cabinet with a click , he grabbed the electric mop and reached for the cleaning solution on the top shelf. 

“Damnit,” he muttered as he saw the hint of a pink sticky note instead of a plastic bottle. Grabbing the post-it, he read: 

Out of cleaning supplies. 

Check attic for backup. 

Go shopping for more if not. 

The note was scribbled in his mom’s messy scrawl, clearly forgotten and left as an afterthought. She had probably written it, gotten distracted, and closed the cabinet door without a second thought, having forgotten in the fray. 

“Now,” he said to himself. Thinking aloud had always helped him process his thoughts better. “I have two options.” 

“One,” he mused. “Is to forget about it and make do, as the attic’s off limits…” 

“But on the other hand…” 

Tom, having made up his mind, raced to the attic. Just because he wasn’t allowed there didn’t mean he didn’t know where it was. 

The trap door on the ceiling of the second floor wasn’t even hidden. Pulling it down, he coughed as loose dust fluttered through the air. The window that was in the hall filled it with afternoon-golden-hour lighting, which made the space look ethereal. 

Trudging up the rickety ladder-staircase, Tom’s first thought as he gazed upon the attic was: 

Dang, this space was really wasted. 

And look, he was no interior designer, but boy, this attic space would have made a great place to hang out in. It was large, with a beautiful window that took up most of the wall. He normally looked over the glass from outside, not thinking too much of it, but now he wondered how he could have done that. The ceilings were surprisingly high, with artistic (and probably practical too, but he was failing engineering so…) beams up above. 

But the floor was covered in boxes and broken things with no sense of organization, like whoever put it there just wanted to forget about it and strongly believed in the practice of out of sight, out of mind.  

Tom would have assumed it was his mom in charge of this—as she was the disorganized one, in stark contrast to his father—but most of the boxes were labeled with his dad’s name: 

TIM  

It was written in messy scrawl that indicated it was written in a rush. What was his dad so keen on forgetting? He wondered, as he let his curiosity take hold of him and he walked to the only box that wasn’t sealed tightly with duct tape—It was slightly opened, even. 

He felt silly and stupid, creeping towards it like he had to be sneaking; perhaps the show he had been watching was probably setting him on edge. 

Inside, he’d of expected a variety of things, including but not limited to: 

• Weapons of any sort, but probably some sort of—what’s it called?—Batarang that his dad wanted to forget about 
• Computers and other devices (that would now be outdated) that a normal civilian should not be able to own but his dad couldn’t help but keep 
• Uh, maybe an old uniform or some form of identification that his dad wanted to cathartically burn but just couldn’t 

But still, over all not even the last thing he expected was what he saw. 

The box, old and worn, perfectly nonchalant, held what he was sure others would pay billions for; and yet they were just pictures. 

Pictures—of Robin . 

Sure, there were some Batman (a good amount) and Nightwing (less, but still plenty more than one would expect) but they were mostly Robin. But not just any Robin. 

From what Tom could tell, there wasn't any of his dad’s time, which would’ve made more sense. His dad seemed the type to gather information on what others thought so he could best protect his identity. He was a meticulous planner like that. 

Instead though, there were candid shots of Robin laughing and talking and joking. While at the bottom he found some of what looked like the earliest iteration of the costume, most of them seemed to have progressed some. Less than the costume his dad would’ve worn, and so by process of elimination he figured who it would be: 

The second Robin, aka whichever kid came after Dick Grayson but before his father. Tom couldn’t remember his name, for he had oddly never met him, but he planned to look it up later. 

These photos weren’t just any stock photos, no, these were specific shots from innovative views that implied they hadn’t just been taken by a drone. Possibly the highest quality pictures of Robin II, especially as he wasn’t on any hero teams that got photographed more often. Batman was possibly still just rumors in the wind (but don’t quote him on that, history class was a joke for most of his career). 

Flipping over a photo of Robin teasing Batman, who quirked a small smile under the moonlight; Tom saw his dad’s handwriting, much more carefully written than on the boxes, though it was slightly shaky. 

Robin II (J) and Batman 

On the rooftops over 21 Baker Street, Gotham.  

11/13/12  

Quickly grabbing another, this one depicting Robin II confronting a young girl, he again checked the back. 

Robin II (J) 

Streets of Crime Alley Park Row 

2/1/13 

“Huh,” he said to himself. So the ‘J’ probably stood for Robin II’s name, he reasoned. 

This time picking up an older one of the first Robin, he read: 

Robin (DG!) 

Flipping (qud.!) over 73 and Garber 

9/4/09  

Taken by TJD

It was less organized, and the handwriting was clearly younger. It followed a similar outline to the first two he saw, though less matching. Still, it had the basic elements and Tom could see where his dad—because the crossed out initials he could still make out confirmed his suspicions—had creepy paparazzi wanna-be took. 

“Well, I guess it makes sense,” he said. His dad may hate the way of his past now, but he had to start somewhere and since his parents were still alive when he started and he probably knew their identities (unless ‘DG’ didn’t stand for Dick Grayson, which he doubted). He must’ve seeked them out. 

After a moment of hesitation, Tom grabbed the box and rushed downstairs to his room like an escaped prisoner or wanted criminal on the run. He quickly emptied the box into his top dresser drawer and hid it under a t-shirt and sweats. 

“Good enough,” he muttered, and—less crazed—fast-walked to put the box back. Having glanced at his bedside clock on the way out, he knew his parents—read, his mom—weren’t due home for another forty-five minutes at least, so he didn’t have to panic just yet. 

Though he did feel kind of stupid with all his paranoia, he learned that in this house, one should never be too careful when sneaking. While his parents were pretty lenient, they had a few rules that were law. 

One of which he was breaking now. 

They were: 

1. NO HERO/VIGILANTE/BATMAN & CO RELATED STUFF. EVER. Do you hear me, Tom?
2. Whatever you do, family secrets are family secrets. Only family. Under no circumstances, okay, Tom? 
3. Don’t hack into anything Government databases. Just because you wanna test your skills isn’t an excuse for hacking the Pentagon. Especially if you fail. Got it, Tom? 

Of course there was be kind and eat your vegetables , but those were the big 3. He occasionally walked the very thin line and hacked the Batcomputer (probably breaking Rule 1, but seeing as they meant it as ‘don’t moonlight in a bright costume under a bird name’; and Rule 3 technically only mentioned Government stuff…), but he only skimmed things, never digging. 

Partly because he wasn’t that sure of his skills against that of the new Oracle (Max, his friend’s brother’s BFF) and partly— mostly , his skills were fantastic , thank you very much—because while he could make an argument that it was for safety, like watching the News for any Flash Flood reports; digging made him feel guilty like he really was breaking his parent’s number one rule . 

Still, he pushed any guilt away, seeing as this was along the same justifications as hacking the Batcomputer—hell, this is probably preferable! 

With tag in hand, he placed the box where he found it and hurriedly closed the trapdoor to the forbidden attic. 

He never got the cleaning supplies—honestly, he forgot—and went back to his room to look more at the pictures. 

His once-great snack was still on the kitchen floor, but his hunger was quenched despite that. 

He still got in trouble for the mess. 

Mary McGinnis liked to think she was a well-tempered woman. That before doing something rash, she would think it over and reconsider. Patience was a virtue, after all; and with two kids she had mastered the art. 

Furthermore, she had had her fair share of shitty, lying ex-boyfriends in her life. Enough that she had trusted her ability to spot them from the off set. 

But, still, Dick… had caught her by surprise. 

He was open and funny and kind. He was smart, too, and had been perfectly happy to take things slow. She didn’t get any serial killer vibes off him, unlike her high school sweetheart who, as it turned out, actually was a serial killer. 

But… she had only known him for a month or so, and she trusted her son much more than that shaky framework. While she did trust her instincts, they had been wrong before, like with… like with Warren. 

However, having prided herself with being a reasonable woman, Mary was determined to not make assumptions based on an out of context overheard conversation. Maybe, she hoped, it would all just be a big coincidence or have a perfectly reasonable explanation like on TV. 

So, instead of canceling their lunch date, she put on her best casual dress—a pretty green-blue one—and heels and makeup and hair like a shield, mask, and armor. 

Forcing a smile on her face, she prepared for her conversation. 

Now, if he was a liar—a spy, perhaps hardcore corporate espionage? Dick Grayson had been unaccounted for by the media for a while, and the Dick she knew was very different from the Richie Wayne she fawned over as a young girl when he was on TV.

—if he was a liar, he would lie when confronted. He was a good liar too, so she would have to be sneaky. 

Walking up and kissing him lightly, she grinned. “Hi. Sorry, I’ve been stressed at work,” she said. “It’s so great to see you, but I apologize if I’m not at my best.” 

“You’re always at your best,” Dick said kindly, and Mary flushed. She felt guilty, but relieved that he bought the excuse for her hesitance hook, line, and sinker. 

They sat down at a small outdoor table, almost reminiscent of their first date. It was fitting she supposed, if they were to break up here. Though she really hoped it didn’t come to that. 

Still, after ordering their food—Mary a Caesar salad and Dick, despite it being 12:00 PM, ordered eggs and bacon—from a kind server named Fatima, she decided it was time to break the awkward silence. 

The problem was, Mary realized suddenly, that she didn’t have any material that would properly trip him up to the point she’d be convinced she wasn’t crazy. So, she decided to just say it outright and look at his reactions. 

“I know you are hiding things from me,” she said. “Big things. I don’t know what—but don’t tell me that I’m delusional I deserve more than that.” 

“Mary, I—” he started to say, before thinking it over. He sighed. “Look, I don’t know how much I can tell you, but it’s really not that important…” he paused once more. “I mean, I doubt anything will come back to haunt me…” he paused again, eyes widening and a small smile that she almost missed quickly hid away, as if laughing at an inside joke she wasn’t privy to. 

“Dick,” she said. “I’ve had enough boyfriends with dark pasts. I can respect it if it’s, like, childhood trauma that you don’t want to share yet; but the fact that you didn’t say that makes me think it’s not. Or at least not just that.” 

She had only known him for a handful of weeks, after all. She completely understood if he didn’t want to share morbid mommy-and-daddy-issues on a first date (or even second or third); but she also felt like she knew Dick—or, perhaps more accurately, what a good liar with a guilty conscience looked like—enough to know if that was the case he’d say it point blank, but the fact that he was beating around the bush implied that he didn’t want to lie to her. 

Which was good—but not good enough. 

“I understand.” She said, “don’t feel pressured to tell me anything. But in all honesty I’d feel more comfortable if we weren’t… dating for the time being. I like you Dick, but trust is important and I’d rather have us just be friends for the time being… okay?” 

Mary felt like a bitch with too high standards—this was Gotham after all; and a kind, mostly-honest man with money was what most people here dreamed for. But, after Warren, she felt it was what needed to be done. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Really, I am.” 

“No,” Dick countered. “I completely understand. I’m the one who’s sorry. Friends?” 

“Friends,” Mary agreed easily, despite knowing that it was highly doubtful that it would ever happen: them being friends. At best, they were exes on good terms; but more realistically given how short a time they’d known each other, they’d probably never see each other again. 

“Fuck,” Kari cried as she looked down at her phone. The white light was stark against the smoggy night sky. She was sitting on the roof patio of the house they were staying in. 

Her new home, she reminded herself bitterly. 

✨Legacy Heroes Group Chat ✨

Barty not the time traveler:  
Damn that robot in Metropolis was crazy!

Thea of the amazons:
Tell me abt it! It so interrupted my hair appointment lol 

Glad the people are all right tho ig 

The press loved us! Tho I low key hate my pic like couldn’t you have waited for after my haircut!!?  

Mai (the “quiet” one—silent but deadly!):
Don’t be dramatic Thea… 

It looked as bad as it always does 

Morgan DON'T CHANGE MY NAME :
The civilians were saved. That was what mattered. 

Thea of the amazons:
Don’t be a spik sport Morgie 💖 

Mai (the “quiet” one—silent but deadly!):
*spoil 

Ur spelling sucks ass

Barty not the time traveler:
Yea h Morgie have some fun 

Live a little 

It was awesome and no one got killed so chill 

Morgan DON’T CHANGE MY NAME :
None that we know of! 

Thea of the amazons:
Exactly 💅

They were having a whole conversation without her, Kari realized. About something she didn’t even know about. Sure, she could imply what had happened, but Kari felt wield, they were texting like she wasn’t even a part of the group chat. 

Maybe they just forgot she was in it, she realized sadly. With the descendant of Flash I, Thea, the new (second? His older sister was ‘Aquagirl’ on a different, older, team, but that may not count) Aqualad—hell, even her honorary Auntie Lian’s daughter Mai; having started their hero careers without her, it only made sense that she was left in the dust. 

Still, she retained hope, and added her piece. 

✨Legacy Heroes Group Chat ✨

Kari the legendary legacy child:
Hi guys! 

What’s this with this robot? 

Thea of the amazons:
Don’t you watch the news? 

We beat it to the moon and back 

With out you 

Sry 

Kari the legendary legacy child:
Dw abt it Tea

I’ll be right out there with you asap! 

Barty not the time traveler:
Woah so your grandpa finally said yes ? 

That’s awesome!! 

It’ll be so great to see you! 

Thea of the amazons:
Stop being such a love sick fool Barty 

And btw I hate the nn Tea & u kno that

Mai (the “quiet” one—silent but deadly!):
Girls girls you're both pretty 

But I’m the prettiest 

Kari didn’t know what to say. Months—fuck that, weeks ago she would’ve known how to respond to the quip and sufficiently knock Thea off her high horse, but now she was blanking, and as she looked down, her phone still buzzing with non-stop notifications; she realized they didn’t even realize she was fading into the background. 

Kari going-to-be-Flamebird Kent, with the family history of Batman, Superman, Nightwing, Starfire, Superboy II and Nightstar (honorable mention to Robin V), didn’t get ignored. She shined. 

“Fuck,” she said again, looking out into the night, lit up by glowing buildings in the not-so-far distance and no stars in sight under the cover of hazy clouds. “I’m losing all my friends.” 

“Not all of them,” a voice said lightly from behind her. “You made one recently—LA, right?” 

“Aimee,” she protested half-heartedly, not even bothering to glare at the young boy’s direction. She didn’t hear him come in, but she didn’t have to turn to know he was leaning lazily against the wall, a playful smirk on his face. 

He was so carefree it was easy to forget that he lost everything. 

She still envied him. 

“Hey,” he said, walking up behind her. “What’s wrong?” 

Jason sat down next to her on the ledge. She hated how effortless his empathy was, how he was always so fucking perfect and— 

—and she hated herself for hating him. He was only kind to her, and unlike Tom, she had no good reason. Less than that really. Vaguely, she remembered what Gramps had told about being a hero. 

Jason is the epitome of a hero. She decided. Why can’t I be more like him? 

“Nothing, Rob,” she said instead. Rob for Robin . “Don’t worry about it.” 

“Well,” Jason said. “Now I’m really worried!” 

Was she really so self-absorbed that not wanting to talk about herself was something concerning? She was always annoyed at Thea for being like that, but at least she had more of an excuse to be insecure. She wasn’t really related to Wonder Woman, after all. 

“Hey, hey,” Jason said. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me…” 

Kari hadn’t even realized she was crying. 

“What makes a hero?” She asked quietly. He opened his mouth to answer, probably with something smart and simple. He closed it, and she took the opportunity to shove off his pitying arm to sob on. 

She stood up, and jumped down to the main patio floor to pace, her anger rising like a defense mechanism. 

“It’s just not fair ! I’m ready and—” 

Her voice broke, as she cried: 

“I just don’t want to be left behind.”

Chapter Text

“I got your message,” Kari said as she sat down on the bench outside in the poor excuse for a courtyard the school had put together so they could claim to be “nature friends” back when it was built and Poison Ivy was still an eco terrorist threat. 

“Don’t be suspicious,” the guy behind her—on the opposite end—hissed very suspiciously like a hypocrite. God, she hated him. His very voice made her blood boil. She knew he set this whole public meeting just to replicate that one meme, despite it being realistically illogical. Still, she humored him. 

This is for Jason, Kari reminded herself as she pulled out her phone and opened the screenshot of the calling screen she regrettably took in preparation for this meeting. Brushing her hair back behind her ears so that the Bluetooth earbuds she put in would be clearly visible. She didn’t turn them on as they were just so she didn’t look like a crazy person to onlookers—though Kari did like the option available to just tune him out. 

“Great,” the horrible blackmailer said with a smirk, and she tilted her reflective screen so she could see behind her—an old trick Jason had shown her when she was bored in study hall that one time. Tom was leaning leisurely against the end of the bench, taking up the whole space like a jerk. His blond hair practically glowed in the rare afternoon sunlight, in sharp contrast to his dark haired lackey who was perched on the arm of the bench, elbow against the top of the bench next to her. She didn’t even need her phone to see him. 

“Happy now, cuz?” Kari said annoyed. “I really don’t want to hang out with you and your buddy, so not to be nice, but please hurry up.” 

“No no, Ri,” her first cousin once removed said languidly. She could tell he was enjoying this. “We shouldn’t rush this. We are doing it for Rayan, after all. It would be best to be mature about this and get over ourselves.” She knew he meant her. 

“Never thought I’d see the day when you call for maturity, Tommy. What happened to ‘ there’s always time for games ’? And it’s Jason .” She nodded significantly to his friend— what was his name?— and look, while she had no idea how much he knew, she was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to know anything at all. But mostly she wanted to be petty and Kari was self aware enough about that to acknowledge her faults—and accept them. 

“Yeah sure,” Tom said airily in the same tone one might say ‘ whatever ’. “ Jason has his birthday in two days. We get a half day off for Halloween that day, so I figured we could make it a surprise party.” 

“Anyways,” his BFF jumped in; she was pretty sure his name started with an ‘M’. “I thought we could use my house for the celebration ’cause it’s in between your and Tommy’s. We figured Jace would want you there too for whatever reason and I guess it’d be nice to have an extra set of hands even though my brother and his friend offered to help—they’re the flakey sort, y’know?—but never mind that! Whaddya say?” 

“Uh,” Kari said, unsure of how to respond. Like on one hand, she was pretty sure Jason’s birthday was in August , but she wouldn’t put it past him to change it—especially to Halloween the dramatic motherfucker. 

Still, that's beside the point; because on the other hand, she couldn’t just say no to his birthday party no matter how little she desired to spend time with Tom and… Marco? 

“Ugh, fine,” Kari agreed. “Happy now?” 

“The happiest,” Tom replied with a grin. 

“Fantastic,” Mikey said, breaking the tension. “So here’s the plan—it’s fairly simple, really; Tom and I’ll distract Jace by going on some birthday shopping spree or whatever while you and my brother Terry and his friend Max work on setting up stuff. Sorry about leaving you with strangers by the way. It just couldn’t be helped.” 

“Woah, woah wait! Why me? C’mon,” ah shit, “dude, why can’t I distract Jason and and you two and your family can throw a get-ready party?” 

“Because you’re his sister,” Milo said unironically. “It would be crazy suspicious and kinda sad if you suddenly wanted to hang out for his birthday and his friends were both ‘busy’.” 

Skillfully ignoring Tom’s frantic attempts to shut Malachi up—mostly just the ‘cut it out’ motion, because Tom was uncreative—Kari spoke to correct him. 

“He’s not my brother,” she interjected awkwardly. 

Matt— oh wait, that might actually be his name —looked at her confused. “You live together, have the same guardian figure, and tease each other all the time with no flirty undertones. I have a brother, and so from my very qualified standpoint, I can clearly tell you you’re siblings.” He said it point blank like he was stating facts—which, she supposed, he technically was. 

“I don't know where you live,” Kari said unsurely. She wasn’t touching the ‘ siblings ’ subject with a ten foot pole. Jason was her grandfather’s brother. Not her’s. 

(Though clearly, he was Rayan now to some people, the same people who thought he was her pseudo-brother. Maybe that could’ve been a solid connection standpoint if Rayan wasn’t just a façade). 

“So that means you’ll do it then?” Max said excitedly, like a puppy. She could see how he and Tom could be friends: they had similar energy levels, but Marty was kind enough to stop some of Tom’s more mean-spirited tendencies—well, at least she hoped. 

“Yeah, I guess,” she sighed. At Tom’s perking up quickly followed by a smug smirk, she added: “for Jason . I still hate you all,” 

“Us all, Ri?” Tom said teasingly. “Why, you just met Matt!” 

Oh, so that was his name afterall, Kari realized. Externally she bristled. “You know what I mean.” 

“Do I?” He asked, but let the matter drop. 

Time to plan a birthday surprise party. 

In storybooks, everything is so black and white: don’t lie, be a good son, make friends. Don’t be mean. 

But in reality, more often than not, to be a good friend and a good son, to be nice, you have to lie. Or at least, that was what Matt McGinnis told himself as he flawlessly grinned at Jason. 

“Ready for the best day of your life, Jace?” He called out the open window as he and Tom pulled up in Tom’s car. He was driving, despite only being fifteen, because Tom was simply hopeless, and a shitty time to die would be on your birthday. Plus, Matt himself didn’t want to fear for his life if he could help it. 

“’Course,” he grinned, jumping over the back door of Tom’s red convertible (because he was low-key rich and a flashy guy) into the middle back seat. “I’m sure whatever you have planned will be awesome!” 

“Don’t worry, Rayan,” Tom said. (Matt still didn’t get that—when he’d asked he’d been assured it was an inside joke/family thing/his middle name. Matt wasn’t sure what to think, but he trusted his friend so he let the matter drop. Maybe all of the above? )—“It’ll be totally shway!” 

“Yeah,” Matt agreed, starting the car up. “I thought we could just run around, maybe take some cool pics to get that assignment for Art done, then maybe go shopping or play, like, hover ball.” 

“Hover ball, yeah,” Jason said, like he was testing the word. Tom had also assured him that Jason had just grown up very sheltered, which was why he leaned towards older references and was less certain about everyday knowledge. 

“Well,” Tom said, his grin widened like he had a great and potentially dangerous idea. “Just like you to be oh so altruistic,” the sarcasm was heavy there. “But if we must—and I guess we should— do that stuff for Art, we might as well have some fun with it, right?” 

Oh no… 

“Oh my god, yes ! You’re so right,” Jason agreed. “What were you thinking?” 

“So it’s a photography unit, right?” It was a rhetorical question. “Well, we should do those cool photos—y’know, optical illusion shit—but without photoshop. Call it a challenge and we get extra credit! It’ll be fun, maybe deadly, but what’s life without a little risk? So you guys in?” 

“Hell yeah!” Jason reclaimed. “And I have the perfect idea—so you know the ‘cool guys don't look at explosions’ thing in movies? We can do that in real life—I call it extreme exposure therapy!” Jason laughed at his own—clearly inside—joke.  

What? He shared a look with Tom, but he was just as confused. Still, he learned to accept, and even expect Jason’s strange behavior by now. 

“Uh isn’t that, y’know…” Matt searched for the right words. “ Dangerous and illegal ? Not to mention morally questionable…” 

“Hey,” Tom said, he was less teasing and more reassuring, like he knew Matt was actually bothered and not belittling; then he continued as normal. “That's what makes it fun, Matt!” Tom added with a grin, “It’s all about the danger.” 

“Besides,” Jason added. “Barbie wouldn’t lock us up.” 

Tom nodded in understanding, but Matt gave his friend a confused look. 

“Commissioner Gordon,” he clarified. “And y’know, to solve the moral dilemma, we can just blow up some rich jerk’s warehouse. I personally vote for Wayne for the trauma, but I’m totally all in for the Jokerz as well. I’d say mob-boss too, but probably more serious potential repercussions and precautions than three normal school kids could handle on a whim. So yeah, it’s up to you…” 

Matt thought it over for a second, but no matter how hard he pretended he wasn’t nearly as mature and controlled as he looked compared to Tom and even Jason. He was an adrenaline junkie at heart, after all. How else would he get on with his friends so well? 

“Yeah, okay, sure,” Matt agreed, before admitting: “It does sound shway.” 

“Awesome!” Tom grinned. “I don’t have anything fancy, but my new phone camera should do the trick. Rayan, as a birthday gift to you, how’d you like to be our photo’s subject?” 

“Huh? Oh! Yeah, that’s perfect—great! Thanks!” 

“Well then,” Matt said. “Let’s go. Where to?” 

“The warehouse district,” Jason answered, looking concerningly excited for arson. Tom was already setting up the directions on the Maps app, and with the AI voice guiding him, Matt began to drive. 

An expensive black car pulled into the driveway as soon as the red convertible left in a flash of likely illegal speed. At least it was controlled speed, though, as Tom’s driving skills had looked… Well, Kari was just glad she wasn’t there. 

Grabbing her bag, Kari smoothed her pretty blue blouse that brought out her eyes. For Jason, she reminded herself as she stepped out the door and closed it with a click. 

“Hey,” a pretty pink-haired woman with dark skin and warm eyes said kindly to her. “I’m Max, and this lump over here—” she jabbed her thumb to the dark haired driver who shared a cursory resemblance to Matt she supposed. “—Is Terry. He’s your friend Matt’s older brother.” 

“Oh, we’re not friends,” she said on instinct, before flushing in embarrassment. That was his brother . “I mean—I’m—my brother is friends with him. Um. Not really me…” she shifted awkwardly, but thankfully Max laughed. 

“Don’t worry about it. Get in, I hear we have a party to plan…?” 

“Yeah. Jason’s—that’s my brother—” and wow, that felt weird to say, but it was easier than trying to explain their actual relationship. “Birthday is today. So, we—well, they—thought a surprise party would be fun. Tom—Matt’s other friend—is my cousin, so he invited me to help and uh… yeah.” 

Kari felt horribly awkward with these strangers. They had to be just out of high school, but they were still, what? 21? The point was, they were older than her and she had never met them before in her life. Honestly, if Matt hadn’t had the foresight to show her a picture she might’ve thought she was getting kidnapped by really creepy stalkers. 

“That’s nice of you,” Terry said as he began driving. “And your name is…?” 

Kari blushed once again. “Oh right. Sorry! My name’s Kari, Kari Kent.” 

“ Kent ?” He said, his once polite but distant tone turned into one of actual interest. “Like that one, ah, Metropolitan reporter?” 

“No.” Kari said harshly. She had never been close to her other grandfather. Even if it was revealed he was under some alien brainwashing scheme a few years ago, he was still very much in his right mind when he said he didn’t want her. Her Gramps hadn’t said it like that, sure; but she could read between the lines, and knew that Lois Kent-Lane had died—been murdered—around the time of her parents. Interrogated by her Great-Aunt Komand’r. 

Clark Kent wasn’t malicious, yeah, but he’d never made an effort either. He wasn’t her family—Dick Grayson, the man who raised her, was her family. Hell, even Jason, who she met months ago was closer than him. 

“Oh, okay… sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Kari said clippedly. “I didn’t mean to snap. It just gets annoying correcting people, y’know? I’d change my name, but it’s such a drag legally and I don’t know how to do it illegally—if I knew, clearly we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” 

“Yes, because that doesn’t sound suspicious at all,” Max muttered under her breath. Kari scowled. This was her chance to escape that legacy she built her old other life on. Still, she didn’t know what to do or say that would change her mind. Jason would know what to do, she thought scornfully. 

Oh. 

WWJD?—or: What Would Jason Do? a motto she should probably live by, and had been considering after she realized that Jason was quite possibly the key to her goals. She felt horribly manipulative when she said it like that, but never let it be said that Kari was anything but stubborn to the core. 

“Jeez, tough crowd,” she said in a joking manner. What was a follow up joke that would make them skirmish? Come on, Kari— what’s the secret?  

The car was extremely expensive, she could tell just by looking at it; and Terry was a college student. He came from an upper-middle-class family, nothing special… except Jason called Terry ‘The Pretender’ she remembered as she looked out the window and right at a wall with a grafiti Bat Symbol on it. 

“Are you attempting an internship with the GCPD? Or do you have higher allusions of grandeur— hoping Batman hires you?” She watched as Terry flinched and Max narrowed her eyes. If you can’t win ’em all, win their boss, she could see Jason saying. He liked to tell her stories and she was the only one really able to listen. 

“Look, I’m just some kid—” she put her hands up. “Give me a break, it was a harmless joke. Of course I wouldn’t change my name legally—identity fraud is a crime, after all.” 

“Right, sorry,” Terry said, actually chastised. “I didn’t mean to intrude, I’m just stressed at work—um, paranoid with, uh, possible corporate espionage.” 

“Oh?” She said intrigued, but let the matter drop. She wasn’t Jason, she couldn’t keep up the act forever. 

The rest of the ride was in silence, so when they reached the building she assumed was Matt’s home, the commotion was all the more noticeable. 

“What’s happening?” She asked. 

“I don’t know,” Terry gritted out. He opened the car door—leaving it where it had been quickly pulled over—and walked hurriedly to honorary Auntie Babs. They exchanged some words, as Kari and Max watched. 

Eventually he came back with a sigh. “Bomb threat. They don’t think it’s anything serious, but just to be safe they evacuated and won’t let anyone back in.” 

“What about the party?” Kari asked. 

“Is your mom and everyone okay?” Max questioned at the same time. Kari felt guilty. That was what Jason would ask; what her legacy friends would ask; what a real hero would ask.  

“Yeah, no one’s hurt, it’s just a precaution. And the party, uh…” his phone rang. 

“Yeah?” He answered. “Oh! Is it Mad Stan? Wait—they’re all over the city? Yeah, I’ll go check that out… thanks, bye Mr Wayne.” 

“Sorry,” Terry said, looking at Max. “I have to go get it, uh. Neckties! For, well, my boss. Its surprisingly urgent…” he cringed. “I really got to go.” 

“Right,” Kari said. “And my brother?” 

Terry glanced once more at Max, who nodded. He left. 

“We can have the party at Wayne Manor. Mr Wayne is busy, and either way I’m sure he’ll be fine with it. Okay?” 

Kari hated being patronized like a child— this is for Jason.  

“Okay.” She agreed, and Max smiled and switched to the driver's seat. Moving herself to shotgun, she took out her phone to text Tom. 

RiRi: 

Change of plans. 

Tommy:

Did the ice cake cream melt??

RiRi:

New location is Wayne Manor. 

Tommy:

How am I gonna swing that one ri?

RiRi:

Figure it out. 

“This is gonna be a long day,” she sighed. Max laughed, and turned up the music. 

Jason smiled his best i’m-just-a-innocent-child smile at the bored teenage cashier behind the counter of Bob’s Hardware & Corner Store . While he was pretty sure it was a poor front for the Gotham mob, that made it all the better to buy homemade bomb supplies without suspicion. 

“…is that for school, kid?” The guy asked with a raised eyebrow. Okay, well, not as much. 

“Yes?” He said, though it came out like a question. “Yeah,” he reaffirmed. “It’s for Engineering class.” Was that still a thing? Please let that still be a thing… 

Thankfully, the cashier either didn’t care much or was paid off to ignore odd activity. Perhaps both, or maybe just an older brother used to pranks and bad excuses. “Mmkay, that will be $48.50.” He said, and Jason bit back a remark. Inflation much? It was probably out of date anyway. Instead, he forked over the money in cash. 

“Thanks for shopping at Bob’s Hardware & Corner Store,” the guy—probably only 17 or so—said monotonously. “And if you see some guy smoking on your way out with red hair and a crazy shirt, hard to miss—please tell him Ethan Cho told you to tell him to get the fuck back on the job, because his break is up.” 

“Got it,” Jason said with a mock salute. “Thanks for the help finding that one lightbulb!” 

Ethan Cho shook his head and muttered something about it being “Arnie’s”—presumably the red haired smoker with Dick's fashion sense—job.

The bell rang, announcing his exit. Sure enough, just outside, Arnie was smoking by the door. Ever since Ethiopia, he hadn’t been able to stand the smell of smoke, as Sheila had been smoking as she watched. It really went to show, seeing as he’d grown up with more secondhand smoke in his lungs than air. After all, Gotham air was bad enough, but Crime Alley had fancy no rules in regards to no smoking in front of kids, or, well, anything. 

“Your shift, Arnie,” Jason called as he turned to the parking space Tom and Matt waited in. 

“Who the fuck are you?” He asked, but seemed to go in anyway—Jason didn’t wait around to find out. 

“What took you so long?” Tom asked as he got to the shiny red car that would be stolen in a heartbeat if left unattended, perhaps even when. “Fall down a cliff to hell on the way back?” 

“Nah,” Jason laughed. “Already been there, done that. Besides, you try getting bomb parts at any old place. I cut down time by planning to build it in the car.” 

“Is that—? Actually, never mind. Do I wanna know how you know that?” Math asked apprehensively as he started the car. “Or should I just drive to the warehouse by the docks Tom found while you were sniffing daisies?” 

“Probably option two,” Tom said hurriedly, shooting Jason a glare that clearly said: remember Matt doesn’t know! 

You should tell him and damn the consequences, Jason thought as he rolled his eyes. Secrets never ended well. If B had just told him—

No . Shut up, Todd. 

Pulling out his newly acquired supplies and laying them on the back seat, Jason tried to remember how to make the explosive, pushing any other doubts and worries down with his other thoughts of Before. 

Back to the bomb-making, he told himself, as he thought about a different section of his life, when he had been under Ra’s control. Ra’s—though he regrettably thought it was still Talia at the time—had sent him to train in a controlled environment with a man, a real selfish b*stard, on how to do just that. 

His name had been Shurik Ivanko , and he had made bombs . And for an enormous fee, he had been willing to train others how to do so. He’d worked for the IRA, the PLO, a few Aryan supremacist groups in Germany, before he met his end when Jason had killed him; after he had discovered his plans to detonate a series of bombs all over London and make it look like it came from an Arab terrorist cell . 

Admittedly, he hadn’t given enough credit, as it was a brilliant plan: the U.K. would focus its energy on the terrorists and leave the mob he’d been doing business with and most domestic crime issues as a second -tier problem.

All they have to do is murder seven hundred people in an afternoon . 

Interesting really, what people just left lying around when they didn’t think he was dangerous . Jason had stopped him before he could send the bombs out, and he didn’t regret doing so. 

Forcibly, Jason pulled himself from his reminiscing . 

They had a photo to get. 

“We’re here,” Matt said as he parked the car a safe distance away. “You ready?” 

“Yeah, just lemme open up my camera on my phone,” Tom answered with a grin. “You ready, Ray?” 

“One sec…” he called. “Hmmm, okay… annnnnnd— done ! Please note this is in record time.” 

“Of course,” Tom said with a grin. “Not that I’d know—should I be concerned you do?” 

“Eh, maybe,” Jason said honestly, and Matt cut in as he climbed out of Tom’s car (it had been given as a late birthday present, pity for his parents who hadn’t known of Tom’s abysmal driving skills).  

“You sure you’re up for it, I mean, it’s crazy dangerous. You could get hurt.” 

“Don’t worry, Matty,” Jason reassured. “I’ve walked off worse. Right off death’s doorstep, really. Outta the grave.” He let out a laugh, and winked over-animatedly. 

“Let’s go! I just informed the dock workers of a pizza break so no one gets hurt. I have the security cameras pulled up on my other tab too, so don’t worry about any stragglers.” 

“Okay,” Matt said, as he let himself grow excited for the stunt. “Let’s do this sh*t!” 

“That's the spirit!” Tom laughed, and Jason grinned crookedly. 

They were teenagers, after all, and stupid decisions and danger didn’t faze them. 

SPECIAL BONUS! 

(Terry’s POV, a bit later). 

Terry-as-Batman flew high overhead, looking down at the buildings that looked as if they could be lego structures. They all were mostly neutral in color, but he could still see the clear device between the rich and the poor. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of fiery light like one of an explosion. It came from the docks. 

“Boss!” He cried through the coms. “Did one of the bombs—?” 

“ No ,” came the clipped reply. “ That must be something else. Continue en route to the next apartment complex in the area. Our guy is targeting easy hostages, likely a quick ride from his own neighborhood. And to answer you’re earlier question, it is unlikely to be Mad Stan, as it does not focus on meta-media centers or other political issues he has destroyed in the past. Still, I’ll keep looking.” 

“Got it,” he said, pulling his attention away and back to the screen where the known information was displayed. 

(If he had looked a little longer he may have seen a very recognizable red convertible driving away from the crime scene. 

Alas, he did not.) 

Chapter Text

“Where are we going?” Jason asked suspiciously, as the red convertible turned a strangely familiar corner. It itched at the back of his mind, like he should know where they were, but between the facts that he’d never known Bristol well anyways and even if he had it had definitely changed over the years, all he knew was that they were not headed to Matt’s house. 

“You got a secret family villa stashed away to raid?” It was the only reason they’d be going in that direction, right? The Drakes… they’d lived near them—lived near Bruce, that is. Jason tried to think back to his research and previous knowledge. For Gotham Elites, they had thrown surprisingly little Galas, as they were always traveling, he remembered. 

Still… 

Their kid: little Timmy, the Replacement—Tom’s dad, weirdly enough… 

“Just being neighborly… say, our sons are about the same age—” 

Shit, he realized. If they were going to the Drakes, what? Summer home? To hang for the top-notch Bristol-based WiFi or whatever, there was a chance he’d see Bruce. 

Look, it wasn’t a big chance, Bruce was a recluse after all, not very neighborly; but maybe for the Replacement— Mr Drake , because he was Tom’s dad , he forcefully corrected—he’d check in on the premises. 

Still, Jason knew that B’s school for young dark haired light eyed adrenaline junkies with a taste for justice and Ra’s super-special post-spa-treatment assassin training montage had made him paranoid, so he waited for Tom to contradict or Matt to admit he made a wrong turn in his haste. 

They were suspiciously silent. 

“Guys… we’re not actually going to hang in Tommy’s rich mausoleum, right?” 

He could hear the crickets chirping. 

“ Right ?” 

“Of course not, Jace,” Matt said reassuringly. “Though that would be cool. Tommy’s always pretending he’s not totally loaded.” Only Matt got to call Tom ‘Tommy’ without being glared at. Apparently it was something from when they were younger and Tom actually insisted all his BFFs call him that. Jason had tried once when they were friends and no longer rivals-by-association and he had gotten a blank stare in return that clearly read ‘fuck you, man’.  

“Mhmm,” Tom added on unconvincingly. “Even then, what’s so bad about my super cool manor?” 

“Wayne. It’s right next to Wayne’s.” 

“Woah, I’m really impressed and mildly creeped you knew that random trivia; but again, Rayan, Wayne is so bad how?” 

Oh, the power of commas. He knew Tom had phrased it weirdly on purpose. 

“You know,” he said, sparing a glance at Matt. “You know why.” 

“Does he not… know ?” Tom asked. “I had assumed, but I mean…” 

“No,” Jason said. “He knows . We just haven’t, that is to say… look, Tommy I just don’t want to meet him. Wouldn’t know what to say.” 

Tom scowled, as he always did when faced with his childhood nickname from anyone who he didn’t know in childhood. Glancing down at his phone he glared harder, typing furiously. Running his hand over his face, he just looked done as he replied icily to Jason’s poorly worded statement. 

“Yeah, okay, but here’s a tip for you to keep in mind: taking his dead son’s name will not make your father love you, Rayan. So if you do, I don’t know, happen to run into him…, I'd say introducing yourself as ‘Jason’ won’t go well for you. My dad hates it.” 

Tom meant well, but it came out harsh to Jason’s ears. Maybe it would have hit better if he actually was a name-stealing-wannabe, but seeing as he was really said ‘ dead son ’… 

“Well, that won’t be a problem, right.” It wasn’t a question, but maybe it would’ve been as right then, they turned into the already-open gates. Jason had been so absorbed he’d lost track of his surroundings only for a few minutes. But a few minutes were clearly long enough, as the universe had plenty of time to set up this cruel joke and then laugh at him. 

Because the gate they turned into? 

Lead to Wayne Manor. 

“No!” Jason spit out as the car pulled to a halt. The manor looked the same and alien at the same time. The very image and aura matched so closely he’d think he was living in a snapshot of his past memory. But the little details were off. The gardens weren’t perfectly manicured—Martha Wayne’s roses were overgrown, and they covered the place where Alfie’s herb garden used to be. Everything was slightly different and yet— nononono. “Look, Tom, you gotta understand!” 

He searched desperately for a lie, anything to convey his point without outing himself. “I know you probably think you're doing me a favor—introducing us or whatever. But I know, I’ve always known. He… there was a letter! It’s a choice .” 

“What’s a choice?” Matt asked, looking confused and slightly hurt; on the way over he’d been focused on driving and the music that he was playing, but now he turned around in his seat to look at Jason—who was panicking, probably looking a little odd as the white streak he normally dyed was growing back in and his eyes were sure to be more al Ghul Lazarus green than his new baseline of teal.—and at Tom, who was as if taming a wild animal. “What do you two know that you’re not telling me?” 

“Matty,” Tim started, glancing at Jason. “There’s a… history… that isn’t really my place to disclose…” 

“Forget it,” Jason said, feeling guilty. “Drop the false pretenses. I’m not sure whether to thank you for not spilling or shaming you for lying by omission. Matt,” he said, addressing his friend who he was still lying to, despite what he said next. “My name is not ‘Jason Head’.” 

“What?! You're kidding, right?! This is some rom com shit!” 

“My name is Rayan. That’s why Tom calls me that. Not because it’s my middle name, or whatever inside joke he said in explanation. My mother was Talia al Ghul… and my father is Bruce Wayne.” 

“ Bruce Wayne , Bruce Wayne? As in my-brother’s-boss-the-billionaire Bruce Wayne?” 

Jason sighed. “No, the other guy who lives down the street,” he answered drily. “ Yes , that Bruce Wayne.” 

“No need to get snippy about it,” Matt said. “It’s a lot to take in, Jace!” He paused awkwardly. “Or. Um. Should I call you Rayan now too?” 

“Jason’s fine, better even.” Seeing as that was actually his real name. “For security reasons and stuff. Technically Tom shouldn’t call me Rayan either.” 

“Hey!” Tom put in. “You let Kari call you ‘R’, no complaints!” 

“How do you know I don’t complain? And besides, you're not Kari, Tom. Not nearly pretty enough.” 

“Woah, you take that back, you monster!” He exclaimed playfully, breaking the tension. “I’m plenty pretty!” 

“Sure you are,” Matt said consolingly, like a tired Kindergarten teacher in the sixth month of school. 

“Shuddup, you don’t deserve my awesomeness.” Tom turned away from Matt and Jason, facing the window with his arms crossed and head held high, eyes closed. The only break in his act was the smile threatening to emerge on his lips. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Matt said, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Com’on, let’s not keep the pretty lady waiting.” 

“What pretty lady? Kari’s a—” he paused for a moment, trying to think of what to say. Jason wondered how he’d go about insulting her, as while he held no personal attraction to her, objectively she was very pretty (as comes the case given who her relatives were. No really. Last time he checked, Tamaraneans were literally called the ‘most beautiful species in the universe’ for a reason after all). “—A haughty cow with hot relations. Ahem, like me!” Tom argued, but he too shifted, getting ready to leave the car. 

“Hey! Are we all just gonna forget the heartfelt—” okay, so maybe that’s a stretch, “—conversation earlier about me no likey this house ? Why are we here, anyway? And what’s Kari got to do with it?” 

“Uhhh so funny storyyyyyy…” Matt said, before Tom turned to swat at him. “Hey! What was that for?!” He exclaimed. 

“It’s supposed to be a surprise,” Tom hissed. “But since somebody opened their big mouth, I guess I might as well…” 

“It’s a surprise party!” Matt said, before Tom could recover from his dramatic pause. 

“For what?” Jason asked, genuinely confused. His birthday was in August…? 

“For your birthday, dummy.” 

“My birthday…? But today's just Holloweeeeee—and also my birthday. Oops. Sorry, yeah.” Shit! That sounded suspicious as fuck. 

“Only you could forget your own birthday, Rayan,” Tom laughed, thankfully after a moment of stunned silence. 

“Hey!” Jason cried. “I’m my defense, we didn’t really do birthdays in the league. Sure, Umi got me something, but that was it…” 

“‘ Umi ’?” Matt asked. “You have a secret friend I don’t know about too? And what ‘league’?” 

“No,” Jason said as he realized that unlike Tom or his brothers, he lacked both the proper context or basic understanding of Arabic for his name-drops to be effective to his cover. Maybe he should’ve just said ‘mom’, even if in his mind, that was still Catherine and not mentioned the LoA. Oh well, too late now, he supposed. “It means ‘mother’ in Arabic. And the ‘league’ is where I grew up.” 

“Oh.” Matt shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “So I guess we should get going then…” he added, changing the subject. 

“Uh, look guys, I appreciate it really, but the answer is still no. I’ll deal with the yelling later, okay? Can I please just… go?” 

“Why?” Matt pushed. “I mean, my parents divorced when I was young and I lived with my mom too. I still saw my dad.” 

“It’s just different, okay?” Jason snapped. “It’s not like that.”

“Uh, it kinda is though…” Tom interjected. “Y’know, just a little bit.” 

“Shut up, Tom!” Jason said, and he could feel the Pit rising. Quickly, he dug his fingernails into his palm, surely to leave little crescent-moon marks, though he couldn’t look down now. He was fine, he had to be fine. It was okay, these were his friends. Calm down. Control yourself, Ro— 

“It’s just like you said! Taking his dead son’s name will not make my father love me, so why bother? I’m a trained assassin , Tom! That’s what you don’t get! That’s what you’re missing! I am a murderer , a killer ! And y’know what? My father doesn’t do killers ! Why else wouldn’t he have killed the guy who ruined his sons’ lives?! Who killed his precious little replacements ?! He claims ‘kill a killer and the number of killers in the world stays the same’, but what’s the ratio if you kill a guy who proves again and again they won’t change, that they won’t do anything but hurt and kill and main thousands? Friends? Family? Sons ? What then, huh?! What then?!”

“Rayan your—”

Jason took a strangled breath, his throat raw from his outburst, eyes surely green by now. 

“What? Crazy?” He replied to Tom. 

The Pit hummed in the back of his head. He had been doing so much better, surrounded by civilians 24/7, he could almost forget— 

Almost. 

“He’s not home—” Matt tried after a beat of silence. His eyes were wide with disbelief, probably still numb in shock as he mouthed ‘assassin’ to himself. It took a certain kind of stupid to poke at it after that . Jason could tell he was a younger brother. 

“Sure he isn’t,” Jason said scathingly, as the music in the background stopped with a: Breaking news! Bombs planted around the city! Batman on scene! B was probably in the Batcave cheering the Pretender on ( oh wait he should play nice too—that was Matt’s brother after all ). 

“But fine, you win. I’ll go anyway—after all, happy birthday to me.” 

Jason stepped out of the sports car, and onto the manor grounds for the first time in forty years. 

Walking into the mansion, Jason would like to be awarded for many things. Like y’know, not just breaking down and crying right then and there. For that at least, he deserved an Oscar. 

But paired with the facts that: 

1. This was his “first time” there so he needed to fake being lost enough times to not look suspicious as fuck and set off B’s paranoid searching for an answer. Like a dog with a bone, he was stubborn and wouldn’t give up unless fully satisfied. And Jason could attest to the fact that both Dick’s sense of direction and thus map making skills were truly atrocious to behold. 
2. Jason was coming with two distraught friends of Verizon’s degrees who may or may not think of him as crazy and/or murderous. 
3. And finally, the fact that on top of all that, he was late to his own party—of which it was a surprise, and so he had to look happily shocked so not to get Tom and Matt in the doghouse with Kari any more than they already were (despite it literally being their idea in the first place. Though to be fair to them, Kari did have super scary super powers like that could go off by her glaring angrily, like, don’t know, oh yeah—laser eyes). 

“SURPRISE!” Kari and some pink haired lady called with confetti. 

“Happy birthday, Jason!” 

“I, oh my god! For—for me?” Yeah, he better get an Oscar because that was a truly brilliant performance. 

“What other Jason do we know, dummy? That one dead kid in the corner?” 

Jason choked. Kari had the audacity to wink . Well, in her defense, she really didn’t know the day, no, the last few minutes he’d just had. And—look, it was something , alright? 

Then Bruce fucking supposed-to-be-out Wayne walked through the living room/sitting room no.2.5’s doors. 

And smiled. 

Max Gibson was a great friend. She was loyal, she was supportive, and above all, she actually managed to put up with Terry’s bullshit. 

Still, looking at the scene before her: the immaculate room she and Terry’s kid brother’s not-friend who was Definitely Not related to Superman (more on that later) had cleaned to perfection (Bruce Wayne didn’t bother dusting his big house after his butler died—and before that either probably, who knew?) and then set up decorations for Terry’s kid brother’s real -friend’s birthday; the balloons on the floor and confetti on the couches, as they had thrown it up in the air when Matt and friends stepped into the room. 

Now on the friends: they were all disgruntled, dirty like they just walked out of an explosion and into a car chase; the one in the middle had some sort of weird white roots patch in the front, and seeing as it was the roots, it made her think it was natural. He had green eyes and was taller than Matt (on the shorter side) and his other buddy who was average height. She didn’t recognize him, but his eyes—too old for his age of more-or-less 15–betrayed the fact that he recognized her. 

Who are you? 

His other buddy, though, she did vaguely remember seeing around Terry’s (mom’s) house. He had blond hair and ice blue eyes, with a shit-eating grin eerily similar to the one skunk-hair sported, like they were both imitating the same person. He was clearly thriving in the chaos, unlike skunk-hair who looked nervous, but happily surprised at the earlier announcement; and Matt himself, who looked wide-eyed and confused over all. 

What had they been getting up to? 

But anyway, all was fine up until Bruce, who was supposed to be keeping Terry alive d*mnit, walked in and stopped for a moment like he was trapped in a bittersweet memory. His eyes were fixed on skunk-hair, she noticed, following his gaze, and then he smiled. 

Really , she would swear to Terry later, he full-on smiled . Like he was happy . And no , she was not drugged! 

“Mr Wayne,” she said hesitantly but pointedly, because she was starting to wonder if he was okay. And Terry too. “I thought you were busy telling Terry what to do.” 

“Right,” Bruce said, tearing his eyes away from skunk-hair, whose friends were already closing ranks around him. “I just heard we were having a party for… Jason.” 

Skunk-hair—maybe Jason?—flinched visibly. He was tense, in the controlled sort of way one was when trying to stop themselves from breaking down and exploding. 

Max was, in her very humble opinion, a great detective on the levels of Bruce himself (she’d say Batman, but Terry was shit at the whole ‘detective’ part of his shtick). 

So, obviously, she drew the line between Bruce and probably-Jason. On a hunch, she tried to catalog the similarities, but oddly ended up with more differences. At first, it was hard—let’s-just-call-him-Jason didn’t share basic facial structure, nor eye color. His skin was tanned in a way that Gotham natives simply didn’t get, which made her think he’d recently moved from somewhere sunny. Over all, he was pretty ambiguous looking, so it could just be his natural tone, but she had a feeling she was right with her first assumption. 

His green eyes almost seemed to change color, and for a second they were much more blue, but they shifted constantly like a kaleidoscope so it was hard to tell. Maybe he was a meta? Could that be why Bruce kept looking at him oddly? 

No, she thought again, he had smiled. And hesitated at his name. Was it fake? 

You’re overthinking it, she told herself. Max glanced at him again. This time, she noticed the way he unconsciously positioned himself, the way his calm mask fell over his features, and the way he looked at Bruce with hesitance and hope. Yes , she realized, this was his son . 

She wondered who his mother was, but then she looked at the green of his eyes again. The hint of a white streak. Of course. But really, Bruce? Talia al Ghul? She hoped it was long before Ra’s had processed her. She had read the mission report and seen the pictures. Still the only problem with her very good theory thank you very much , was the little fact that unlike Terry, she’d done further research to help and noticed the bit about Talia and Bruce already having a son named Damain who was dead and even if he wasn’t, older and almost a carbon-copy of Bruce without his coloring. Aka: not this kid. 

Well, they could have another? Who was probably not really named Jason? For some reason? Eh, it made enough sense. 

Pulling herself from her hyper-focused thinking process that Terry often teased her about, she turned back to the stilted conversation at hand. 

“—Walk with me…” Bruce said to ‘Jason’. 

“I— f…ine, whatever. You win, old man.” Snarky, she catalogued. And it would take a ridiculous amount of skill to fake the perfect barely-there-covered-up accent that he spoke with. Max preened, it was similar to the al Ghul’s that she heard through the video-files on the Batcomputer network. 

On the other side, for getting the response he wanted, Bruce looked strangely impaled. Maybe it was the kid’s rude nerve? “Yeah,” he said weakly. “Thank you, …Jason.” Okay, so something was clearly up with the name Jason. Did Bruce know a person with that name who died recently? He was pretty choked up so it likely wasn’t about some dead guy from forty years ago or something like that. 

Your brother makes weird friends, Terry McGinnis, Max thought as he settled into a no-longer-dusty armchair after Jason and Bruce left down the hall, and an argument broke out. She put on her headphones. Really fucking crazy friends. 

Bruce didn’t know what to say to the dark haired boy across from him. Talia’s son. His son too. 

The boy fidgeted awkwardly. He looked around at the family portraits surrounding them in the long corridor of inescapable memories, before landing on a large one in a simple golden frame so as to not take away from the picture itself. Damian had painted it, he remembered nostalgically. It was the only one with Jason in it, possibly in the entire manor, not hidden away. Just the thought of his second son opened a chasm in his heart. 

It was of all the children and him approximately the ages they would be when Jason was 14–the age he had died at—painted with a multitude of reference pictures and/or photo-editing techniques to accurately portray the ones who didn’t have pictures to draw from. 

Rayan was staring at it. Bruce opened his mouth to offer to have one with him added in, despite the fact that he wasn’t yet born when Jason passed, they could make something work, but then he remembered that Damian was dead too. Guilt washed over him in a familiar wave. It barely affected him by now. Numbness was easier. Compartmentalize . 

“It’s nice,” Rayan said after he noticed Bruce staring at him. “The portrait.” 

“Yes,” he said stiltedly. “Your brother painted it.” 

“Damian?” He asked. “He was the artist in the family, huh?” 

“Hn,” he agreed. “That he was. What did Talia tell you—that is…” he trailed off. “You don’t want to be here,” Bruce noted astutely, as Rayan shrunk in on himself slightly. 

“It’s fine,” he said blandly. “Don’t worry about it. Umi told me plenty of Damian, and a basic overview of the whole family. She was a good mother,” he said defensively. “She ran, y’know. I didn’t even meet Grandfather until I was eleven and he caught us.” 

“You went on your first mission at twelve.” He supplied. “I am aware. Barbara sent me your file.” 

“’Course she did,” he said bitterly. “But that wasn’t her fault! And how is that any different from you and your Robins?”

Bruce opened his mouth, even though he didn’t know how to reply, but perhaps thankfully, Rayan beat him to it. “Sorry,” he rushed to interrupt. “Look, B, I…” 

He paused, and clenched his jaw. “I don’t think I’m ready for this.” 

Bruce looked at his son, whose eyes were nearly green. It wouldn’t be a concern, if he didn’t already know he got his coloring from him. Rayan Wayne had blue—or perhaps teal—eyes. 

“The Lazarus Pits,” he murmured to himself. 

“Yeah, old man,” he said, and god, did he sound just like Jason — “I thought for sure, that would be in your file.” 

“It came up in the blood test,” he admitted. “What happened?” Rayan shot him a confused look, but complied.

“I was on a mission,” he said vaguely, shifting uncomfortably and looking at him like he was gauging his reaction. Bruce knew what kind of mission he meant. “I was betrayed by a jealous colleague. Before I started training, they were next in line,” he explained. “They handed me over to an enemy. They weren’t all that creative with the torture, don’t worry, but lemme tell you blunt force trauma and fire power is a 0-10 recommend.” 

The report had simply stated he’d been hurt badly, and now Bruce understood why Barbara would leave out the specifics. It was just too close to what happened to Jason. Except this time, he lived. 

“Anyway, I was hurt badly. Umi got me to a hospital, but they weren’t able to do much. Against Grandfather’s rules, she emerged me in a Lazarus Pit to heal me. Grandfather has been after me ever since.” 

Bruce winced as he realized that not only had the explosion at the compound not killed Ra’s (he had already suspected, given how much of a cockroach he was and the fact that there wasn’t all that much upheaval in the criminal underworld after the fact as would be expected) but that if Rayan ever had to face his grandfather again, he would be wearing his mother's face. Oh Talia, he had thought she’d willingly given herself over, but no. It was for their son. 

Rayan had been calm during his explanation, like he had something to focus on that he knew by heart. Now, he just looked unsure. 

“Look, Bruce, maybe another time we could, uh, meet up and bond more, but now… please, I just can’t.” 

“Okay,” he agreed. “Let’s plan on that.” 

Bruce paused, reaching for his son’s shoulder, who looked down at his hand like it was unreal. He was cold, even through his shirt. 

“And Rayan?” He said with a small smile, as the boy looked up, snapping out of his trance. “It was really nice to meet you.” 

Rayan sounded a bit choked up when he replied in turn, but he still smiled, eerily similar to a Robin smile. It must run in the family , he thought half-jokingly. It made him think of Jason, but then again, these days, with all was steeped in regret, everything did. 

“You too.” 

Chapter Text

Dick sat down at the ice cream shop he had taken Jason to when he had first reintroduced himself and they started over. He had gone there a lot over the years after , and it had hardly changed. Sleeker, maybe. More screens, for sure. But it still had that same 60s diner feel as before. 

This was the first time he’d gone with Jason since before he died. Though that didn’t mean it was the first time he saw Jason here in the aftermath, smiling in the corner with an old book and a cup of ice cream off to the side. 

They had gotten into an argument over something earlier, and here seemed like the perfect way to reconcile, the perfect way to show Jason that he hadn’t forgotten about him and their history. That they didn’t change that much. 

Still, even as they ordered the ice cream, Jason’s scowl remained, as if the idea of his old life insulted him. Maybe Dick could understand it, but he seemed so happy going back to school. He was always an unnaturally fast learner, and adjusting looked easy to him. Still, he thought a reminder of his old life would be nice for him. Clearly, he was wrong. 

“Look, I’m sorry—” Dick tried. 

“Sorry for what? Missing the funeral?” Jason cut him off bitterly. 

“I was in space!” He defended half-heartedly, trying to start a more friendly sibling-like argument. “Look, Jason, you know I lo—” 

“Did you ever even visit the grave after you got back then? How long did it take for you to ‘find out’, after you got back, huh? Weeks ? Did you even take the initiative to check at all after you heard? Did you even care enough to ask Bruce why he never even gave you a call—” 

“Jason…” 

Sometimes, when he had been gone—been dead— for so long it was easy to immortalize him as a perfect kid, a perfect Robin, who was mature and kind all the time. But he was also an angsty teenager, like he was also human. Now, with him back, he’d never felt so real, so tangible, until he was there right before him just now. People may say he came back wrong, but Dick knew his brother. He came back right. Sure, he changed a bit, but didn’t everyone? He came back real . 

Despite always being older, it felt weird to be the mature one, to look down at Jason and see a kid. But here he was, and it was harder to see him as something closer to an equal when he was obviously still just a kid, a perpetual time capsule that stayed the same while everyone else aged and grew up on their own without him. A once prized possession to be looked at years later with nostalgia. 

He had changed though, too. He was different, sure. But in the end—still a kid. Still Kari’s age. Still too young .

“The answer to all of those questions is yes .” 

FORTY YEARS AGO. 

GOTHAM CEMETERY. 

“Bruce never called to tell me what happened to Jason.” Dick said, staring at the grave marker. Kory stood behind him, hands comfortingly on his shoulders. It didn’t help. He was angry and sad and just— unsure . He felt like breaking down and sobbing and punching a mugger’s face in all at the same time. It was like his parents all over again. God, not Jason. Not his brother. His little wing. They were going to go Skiing, he remembered. Just the two of them— going to. 

“He didn’t know I was half-way across the universe, but he didn’t even leave a message on my phone.” He stared numbly at the tombstone once more. He was always an angry child, and now at nineteen he still needed someone to blame. If he blamed the Joker he’d just plain kill him, like he wanted to with Tony Zucco. There would be no Bruce to stop him this time. Bruce . 

“If Danny hadn’t found out—” would B have ever told him? 

“He must be taking it really hard himself.” Kory said knowingly. He looked once more to the marker. At the flowers that he had brought, pink roses—Jason would have liked them. He was always a romantic at heart. Before, it felt so empty, so generic. Just another grave next to some random woman’s— Sheila Haywood, a loving mother , it read—not even at the private Wayne plot. Not even with the Wayne name. It read simply: 

HERE LIES
JASON TODD
REST IN PEACE 

“I called Alfred. Bruce hasn’t slowed down since Jason died.” If anything, he had picked up more patrols without some kid slowing him down. He—he thought he might hate him. The liar . The hypocrite . The closest thing he had to a father . 

“He took a business trip the next day.” Because god forbid stopping public appearances when your son just died . For Brucie and for— “the Batman’s been in the prowl every night. It’s standard operating procedure for the Batman. Death is all in a day’s work.” 

He wanted to curse, he wanted to scream—  

“ I gave Jason my old Robin costume. I should have been there, Kory.” 

“It’s not your fault.” She said gently. He could feel her comforting hand on his shoulder, and her half-hug that she had leaned into. 

“Maybe not,” he said, turning away, and shaking off her warmth. “But that doesn’t make it easier.” 

Limping, he continued to speak. To just let it out . It wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t ever be enough. It would never bring Jason back . 

“I was Robin for almost twelve years .” He took a forceful step forward despite his cane and limp. It hurt. It didn’t matter. A cast on his leg was nothing compared to the hole in his heart.

“Maybe I should go to Bruce.” Confront him, yell at him… Dick didn’t know what he’d do, but he needed… he needed to see the look on his face. 

“Would you like me to come with you, Dick?” 

“No. I don’t think so. This is something I should do alone.” He looked back at her, tall and beautiful in the sunlight. Dressed in a pretty pink dress and her long curly red hair billowing behind her, she looked so… so alive . “At least I think it is.” 

God, he didn’t know. He just wanted to—to cry as if that would bring Jason back. He wanted to imagine that he would. After all, in the world they lived in, anything was possible. Did Bruce try and look for a solution? Or—or—no. But maybe if he’d just been there, damnit—

“Blast him. Why didn’t he call me?” It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t have gotten it anyway, but the point was— what if he had? 

Turning fully back around, he forced a grin on his face. The end result was wobbly, and could be called a grimace at best . But Kory understood, he could tell from the soft look in her green green eyes. “Can I drive you home?” He asked her. 

“No—some friends from the modeling agency live a few blocks away. I can walk or fly .” She pulled him into a kiss. Passionate wasn’t the right word to describe it, as it felt more like a don’t forget I’m here for you . 

“I love you, Dick.” She called as he began to walk away down the long path. 

“Me, too, hon.” He replied softly, before adding with a honest sigh: “I’m looking forward to this like I look forward to having surgery performed—with a plastic picnic knife.” 

Then, with that, he turned and left to talk, no, to confront Bruce. 

As he walked away, Kory watched his back disappear slowly into the distance. He hadn’t been the same since he found out about Jason. 

Oh, Dick—I know you were Robin. I know what it means to you that the new Robin died. She thought forlornly. I know you feel like part of you died, too—but it wasn’t you, honey. 

As he finally disappeared over a small hill, she turned back for a second to look at the sad scene behind her. She had met him once, she remembered, when Dick had brought him to the tower. He had been so sweet, so excited to see a real life alien warrior princess.  

Robin died. She thought—Jason, the kid, had died. But… but you didn’t. 

Even if Dick didn’t think so anymore, it was her job to make him realize— you’re still alive! 

It was what Jason would have wanted. 

A LITTLE EARLIER. 

TITANS TOWER. 

After being in space, even with the anti-gravity system in effect, stepping back onto Earth’s surface always made him feel… heavy . It was like when he landed after flying across the rooftops, limbs aching, only more so. He felt faint and lightheaded in the best way, like after a five course five star meal. 

After another successful Titans mission—this one going a bit overtime, but that was nothing new—Dick was ready to take Jason to the Ski trip of a lifetime. But first, he had to make it through the reunions. It was great, don’t get him wrong, to see the others again; but still, the pain in his right leg (wrapped in a make-shift cast) had seeped into his head, giving him a killer headache. 

The flood of voices surrounded him as he limped forwards with steady determination.

“I was so worried .” Donna’s boyfriend said, as she ran in for a hug. “What are you wearing! You look… wonderful.” 

“Later…” Donna brushed aside. “Just hold me. Please just hold me.” 

“Hey, anytime—day or night.” 

It was heartwarming, Dick had to admit. He was glad that Kory had gone with them instead of being left behind. It would’ve been so much more of a disaster than it was. 

“Oh, nuts—everything was going great guns. ’Course, I forgot about ‘ the beast with red hair ’!” 

Dick was pulled from his thoughts by the argument brewing. Ah, home sweet home. 

“Lay off him, Logan. Danny’s okay.” 

“Only way he’d be okay is medium rare and basted with barbecue sauce.” Beast Boy quipped back, scowling at the younger redhead who had rushed forward. Or, well, as much as a gorilla could scowl that is. 

“I’ll ignore that, Creepzoid.” The boy replied with equal venom. “Dick, I got real big news.” 

Dick perked up at his name. Shifting his wait so he could lean onto his crutch, he decided to listen to what the kid had to say; and grab a new shirt to cover his shredded uniform in a second. 

But first, Kory, the godsend, who had taken control somehow when she noticed he was getting out of it, interrupted gently. “In a minute, Danny. Gar, hurry Vic over to Star Labs. We’ll be over in about half an hour.” 

When Kory finished assigning tasks, Danny seemed to have taken it as borderline permission to start his rambling. Dick tried to listen wholeheartedly, despite the shooting pain in his surely broken leg. “Hey what happened to el leggo ?” Danny asked appropriately. “Y’know, if I’d’a been with you, I bet this wouldn’t’ve happened. 

Dick pushed down a spike of annoyance, and said neutrally: “I’ll tell you later. What’s up?” 

Before Danny could speak, what’s-his-face—Donna’s boyfriend—stopped him, quickly pulling away with a frown. “Danny, not now. Let them wash up first.” 

“What’s wrong, Terry?” Donna asked him, turning her head to look at Danny, who responded by retorting: “C’mon, they gotta find out sometime.” 

“It isn’t a big deal, anyhow,” he continued. “Happens all the time.” 

Dick was thoroughly curious—had another alien invasion happened when they were away? Did one of their rogues escape for the 500th time? Giant killer robots? “C’mon, already. What is it?” He asked. 

Still, despite all his guesses, Dick never could have conceived the next words out of the red head’s mouth. He could never have thought of it, the impossibility too horrible. It was unreal, because Robin was immortal, never wounded always getting back up and laughing it off— 

“I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure.” Danny said like he was reciting the morning paper. “I think Jason Todd was killed .” 

No… nononOnoNONONO NO — 

He was sure his face did nothing to hide the odd, his eyes were surely wide and mouth open in horror. No, not Jason — 

“You must be mistaken.” He heard Raven say from behind him, but he was already gone, limping as fast as his leg would let him. He had to be sure. He had to know. He had to see . 

“Dick, where are you going?” He heard Kory ask. He held out his hand to stop her. “I’ve got to find out. I’d try calling Wayne’s place, but nobody ever answers.” 

“I’ve linked the Titan’s computer into Bruce’s computer in the Batcave,” he explained, half-unaware of his own actions, and frantic. “I can access any information that’s in there.” 

“ I know.” The—the little shit blabbed in a know-it-all tone. He could strangle him, the fucker. “That’s how I found it out.” It wasn’t even subdued, just rubbing it in his face. 

“Dick, calm down.” Kory tried in vain. “There could be a mistake.” 

“If there is, then I’ll take it easy.” He said typing hurried, he had to know — 

He clicked on the file. 

“Oh lord—Jason!” 

The screen showed a picture of Jason in his Robin uniform. His hair was soft and curled slightly at the ends. His eyes wide and  innocent behind the mask, cheeks still slightly chubby with leftover baby fat. Too young. Too young to die. 

Robin: Jason Todd 

The screen read in description. 

Status:
Unknown 

He ignored the hope; flying, soaring above the clouds—

“See—it says whereabouts unknown. No info. That doesn’t make any sense.” 

“Shut up, Danny.” He snapped. “I can use Bruce’s password to bypass this main screen.” And see what really happened. Was left unsaid, but clearly heard all around. 

The answer… wasn’t the one—

The words flashed on the screen clashing in his head and he tried to read it. It was jumbled and incoherent and yet at the same time it could never be more clear— 

His eyes trailed over it… the height and eye color, hair and body weight until— 

Deceased . 

NONONONONO— 

It just kept flashing over and over, a never ending tornado of his nightmares— 

Of death…

Of death… 

“No ! No!! NOOOOO!! ” He cried out, clutching his head in his hands, tears freely falling down his face. God no, not his brother, not Jason — 

“Jason… dead?” He heard Donna mutter, vaguely in the background. “My god. How old was he, anyway?” A pause. “How did it happen?”

“I didn’t want you to find out this way.” Donna’s boyfriend, Terry, said. Whether to him or to Donna he wasn’t sure. 

“Richard—” was that Raven? “Do you need my help?” 

“No… no! Don’t do anything to me, Raven.” The last thing he wanted was someone in his head, messing with his memories, his emotions, to make him forget to Jae him feel better— 

Oh, he realized numbly. He’d never hear another ‘hey Dickhead’ anymore. He had hated the nickname, but now— now all he wanted was to hear it again falling snarkily from those lips— 

“I think it happened a week or two ago.” Why was he still fucking talking ?! “I’m not sure.”

He clutched his head, pulling his hair tighter. Shut up shutupSHUTUP— 

“There’s been nothing in the papers— sorta like the secretary disa—vowing any info and such.” 

SHUTUPSTUTUPSTUTUP— 

“Danny, maybe this isn’t the best time…” Kory began, before he interrupted. Again. Dick clenched his teeth so taught he thought they might break — 

“Hey, we knew the job was dangerous when we took it ! ”

And— and Dick snapped. 

“You stupid little jerk. God, I can’t believe how idiotic you are ! ” He screamed, leaping out of the chair, ignoring the shooting pain in his leg so he could grab him, forcing him up against the computer banks. “I thought it was just because you were a kid— but you’re just plain dumb !” 

“Hey, leggo. Wh—what are you doing ?” The little bitch wined. 

“Dick—” 

“No, get back , Kory. I can’t keep listening to this moron thinking life’s just another statistic .” Jason deserves—Jason deserved better. “Not when he nearly fell apart when it was his own blood that spilled.” The little FUCKING hypocrite — 

“Listen—” he said, near feral. His face was so close he could feel Danny’s short quick breaths. “This is real life . Not some James Bond spy story where the villains get blown away and the good guys always live.” 

“Lay off, man, before I use my powers.” Danny threatened, eyes wide. 

“Dick…” he heard Donna say through the fog of grief and red hot anger. “C’mon. Step back.” 

“I don’t want to.” He said, broken as she and Kory began to walk him toward the door. “Jason’s dead. I gave Jason my Robin costume.” They had started off on the wrong foot but they had been brothers, hadn’t they? Maybe if he had been there, Jason wouldn’t be— 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry I said it.” He heard Danny mumble. He clenched his fist, wanting to have another go at him, but Kory and Donna were on both of his sides, supporting him and stopping him. Vaguely, as they led him away, he heard Raven began to have some sort of heart to heart with the absolute sociopath about understanding others feelings 101 , but he was taken outside the room before he could hear anymore. 

STILL FORTY YEARS AGO. 

BATCAVE. 

SCREEEECH! 

In a cave hidden underneath a manor that hung over a hill, a car skidded to a stop. Despite its atmosphere, the room was spacious and lit with industrial quality lights, displaying trophies—from giant pennies to joker playing cards. 

A man, dressed in Kevlar body armor and a cowl stepped out of the vehicle. 

He scowled. 

“I didn’t expect to see you again.” He growled, looking at the youth of nineteen years, who had spun around in the chair in front of the computer banks when he walked in, like in a melodramatic mob movie. 

“I heard about Jason.” He said solemnly, hands folded together to hide his mouth, as if that could make the words come out any less raw. “I’m really sorry, Bruce…” 

The man, the hero, felt his heart stop, just for a moment at the very name of his son. His dead son. Jason . He was his partner, his—his soldier , his fault. 

Compartmentalize , he reminded himself. His eyes were hidden by the cowl. Deflect . “You weren’t at the funeral .” He spoke. “People asked about you.” 

“C’mon, Bruce— talk . Don’t turn your back on me.” The dark haired acrobat said as the caped man just that. “I’m here… now .” 

“You were lucky .” The older man said roughly. “When you didn’t listen to me, your injuries weren’t fatal.” God, Jason, he thought. Why couldn’t you have just waited? Maybe if you had followed orders— “Of course, by the time I properly trained you—” 

In Bruce’s mind’s eye, the ghost of Jason stood in front of him. He was bleeding, asking if he wasn’t good enough. No, Jaylad, never, he wanted to say, to scream. Normally he was so in control, and had thought he could deal with any grief after losing his parents, but no, clearly not—this was shattering him. He clutched his hand to his head. Jason, oh, son, no… 

“Bruce, c’mon…” Dick started. “Lay off. I’m not here to fight.” 

Jay— oh how his very name hurt —had always hated when they fought. “Then don’t! ” He forced out ripping off his cowl as if that would make him see clearer. His sweat mixed with his tears. 

“Are you blaming me ?” His son asked, and Bruce paused. He wanted to say no, because it was his fault and not anyone else’s, but somehow the blame made his heart light, if his conscience heavy. 

“I left,” Dick continued on, “so Jason replaced me, and because I left he died?” No, but… no . God, he couldn’t even think clearly anymore. “ No way, pal.” 

“Jason wasn’t me. I was a trained acrobat. I could think quickly in perilous situations.” Jason was brilliant, light on his feet… was wasWAS. 

“But why did you let him become Robin before he was ready?!?” 

He was right, it was all his fault. He felt guilty, he wanted to explain but there were no words as to how. He didn’t respond as Dick stormed closer. “Jason’s dead ! Caught between you and that maniac ! He died so the Joker could get at you , Bruce ! ” 

Sometime then, Alfred must’ve come down, or maybe he had been there the whole time. Bruce wasn’t sure, like all his recent days, it had been a whirl of punches and pain and madness. He took off the cape and mindlessly handed it to his butler as Dìck let it all out. 

“Barbara paralyzed. Now Jason .” He met Bruce’s eyes. Blue met blue, an ocean of fury and an ocean of sadness. “At least tell me the Joker bought it.” 

Bruce looked away. He had come so close, and then Clark and the plane went down, and… he thought back to another time so far away. Jason wouldn’t want that . He was too good for this world and then he was— 

“I’m not certain .” He said with a mask of faux calm. “No body was found.” 

He could feel the moment in his bones, when Dick spotted the memorial case for the boy that was too good to be called his son. “So that’s it ? Jason as the ‘good little soldier’?” He yelled, pointing at the glass case that held the burnt and torn remains of Jason’s Robin suit. “Do you have a case for me , too?” 

Nononono… Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, as if that could do anything to the ghost just out of the corner of his eyes. C’mon, Old Man, it said. Ain’t ya gonna answer? 

It seemed Dick had the same idea. “ Answer me , damn you!” He called as Bruce continued up the stairs. “ ANSWER ME!” 

Bruce continued up the stairs for a few more paces before responding. “I don’t need a partner. I never should have had one. And I never will again. Do you understand? There should never have been a Robin. It’s my fault! Goodbye, chum.” 

Then quieter, still: “I’m sorry, Dick. I’m so so sorry.” 

Softly, he muttered, “I know.” Before getting on his motorbike and leaving without his earlier commotion, all his bravado and adrenaline used up in his yelling, in their fight , leaving him an empty shell without his brother. 

“Did I make a mistake, Alfred?” He asked, still not turning. 

“I don’t know, Master Bruce.” Alfred said, even though he seemed to always know the answers. “But I think we are all having a hard time right now. Still… young Master Jason would have wanted you to be happy and to stop blaming yourself.” 

Bruce walked upstairs without another word. 

BACK TO THE FUTURE. 

AN OLD ICE CREAM PARLOR IN THE DIAMOND DISTRICT. 

“…Really? You really cared?” Jason asked quietly, shrinking a bit. 

“Yeah,” Dick said, thinking back. “As soon as I heard I checked, then I went to the grave and then I confronted Bruce.” Jason’s eyes seemed to turn more blue, perhaps from tears? “I told him the Joker should be dead.” He added it sheepishly as an after fact. “I… I even killed him once. It didn’t stick. But… Yeah.”

He was ready for… well, he didn’t know. While Dick understood Jason was with the LoA, he had always been so perfect. Bruce seemed to think that Jason wouldn’t have wanted that. So really, he did not expect the hesitancy in Jason’s murmured response, that he said like he couldn’t quite believe it. Like it may be a good thing. 

“You… but I thought…” he paused. Sucked in a deep breath and asked quietly. “Does it make me a bad person to be grateful ? Because god, Dickie, thank you . I—” he looked nearly scared for a second. “I’m sorry.” He muttered. “I know that we’re supposed to be better.” 

“Hey, Jay,” Dick said. “I’m the murderer here. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You’re fourteen and that psycho… he killed you. Brutally, painfully. I don’t blame you, and for it’s worth, Bruce wouldn’t blame you either.” 

“…He wouldn’t?” Jason asked. He sounded so young, daring to hope. 

“Of course not, Jay. We all have dark thoughts.” Jason, despite those reassuring words, seemed to shrink in on himself. “Oh.” 

“Hey—he wanted to kill him too… y’know, after .” 

“Really? Bruce?” 

“Little Wing,” he began softly. “I don’t know where this is stemming from, but what… whatever the League made you do, no one will blame you. We all have dark thoughts,” he repeated, an idea forming. “But you are still Jason Todd, no matter what anyone tells you, no matter what name you go by, you will always be Robin inside.” 

“The League didn’t make me do anything.” He said sharply. “And Jason Todd—Robin? He died, Dick. Betrayed, alone, and broken .” His voice shook, but then it hardened. “But I’m over that. I am not that kid anymore, okay? Stop pretending, cut the shit! Jason Todd is dead , I am not him! Stop thinking I am, okay? I keep trying, keep faking , being him but I’m not ! I don’t think the same, I don’t act the same, I don’t even look the same! That Jason Todd is dead ! The Robin you knew is dead !” 

“Jason…” 

“Forget it.” He said. “Look, I’m sorry. Just hungry, y’know?” 

Just then the blonde waitress—Cindy according to her name tag—walked up with their ice creams. Dick let it go, filing the intervention away for later as he took a spoon to his extra fudgy chocolate flavor. 

They spent the rest of the time in silence. 

When they got back to their house, Jason, perhaps to distract from their argument, said: “you should talk with Mary. She’s good for you. Matt tells me she’d forgive you if you tell her. And fuck B, tell her. Her son’s the new Batman; and her other son is BFFs with two ex-Robin relatives. She should find out either way. Secrets are never good with relationships. Take it from me. I’d know.” 

Then he walked away up to his room. If he wanted a distraction, Dick would wager it had worked with flying colors. He had certainly given him a lot to think about. 

Tom Drake sat with his back pressed against his bedroom door and a box of old photographs in his lap. It was the third time that week he’d been in that position. But… it was just so unbelievable, so at odds with what he knew. 

The person who took these must’ve leaned off buildings, risked their life to settle their hero-stalking urges; the person who was, impossibly, his father. But the Tim Drake he knew hated even the thought of things like that. He worked and was, yeah he had his moments, but he was normal. Tom had known for as long as he could comprehend his parents' pasts, but this… this wasn’t mentioned. 

Jason Todd featured in all of these much more prominently than any others, he realized. Until all photos stopped, and then there was only those of the original Batman, going crazy and nearly-killing others and himself. What happened? He wondered. 

On the final, the absolute last one in the box, there was a note scribbled on the back, not the unusual subject-place-date there typically was. Instead it read: 

BATMAN NEEDS A ROBIN. 

There had been notes to this in addition to the others in the others— evidence , he realized—, but this one was all consuming. This one was him trying to convince himself. This is how it started. Tom realized. It was kind of funny, in a morbid way, he thought. It was a hell of his own making. He was his own undoing and all that. 

From his tactfully chosen position, he felt the footfalls coming before a hand knocked on the door. “Tom, honey?” His mom called. “Can you come out for a minute?” 

“Yeah, sure,” He asked as he moved and pushed the box under his bed before getting up and opening the door. “What is it?” 

“Nothing serious, don’t worry,” she said, noticing his worried expression. Maybe all the photos were getting to him. “I was just going to say bye! I’m meeting up with Auntie Cass for lunch, ’cause she’s back from Hong Kong.” 

“I’m not a little kid, mom,” he said lightly. “You can just call her ‘Cass’ and I’d still know who you’re talking about.” 

“Of course, sweetie,” she said humoringly. “Love you too.” 

“Yeah yeah,” he said. “Say hi to Aunt Cass for me.” 

Then, on a whim, he forced it out before he could think it over too much and second guess himself. “Wait, mom!” 

“Mmhm?” She turned to acknowledge him. “What is it?” 

“What happened… What happened to Jason Todd? Y’know, the second Robin.” 

“Tommy,” she said very seriously, fully swerving around to place her hands on his shoulders. “Look me in the eyes. Where did you hear that name?”  

“From Rayan,” he lied, not flinching away from her blue stare. “He mentioned him.” It would make sense, after all, Rayan went by ‘Jason’ to the rest of the world. Did he know? Tom wondered. 

“Don’t mention this to your father,” she said quietly. “He gets touchy with this subject. But Jason was murdered when he was your age. Maybe younger. I don’t know, everyone was always awfully stingy about any information involving him. But I do know he was your father’s predecessor—and his hero. He was killed by the man who is the reason your father is who he is today.” 

Tom stilled. Oh . 

“Thanks, mom,” he murmured. “Bye. Have fun.” 

His mom hugged him tightly. “Don’t let this get to you, darling.” 

He just leaned deeper into her shoulder. 

Kari sat on her new bedspread with Aimee across from her. The late afternoon sunlight spilled through the window, warming her skin. 

“Truth or dare,” she said with a grin. After Gramps and Jason had had some row earlier, they’d left and her grandfather had given her permission to invite a friend over. 

“Truth.” Aimee said quietly. She was a girl of few words, and when she did speak it wasn’t really the epitome of ‘loud and clear’, but Kari had found she didn’t really mind. She was perfectly happy to be the outgoing one. Aimee was funny when she let her guard down some on her whole ‘shy girl’ thing. Admittedly, at first she’d befriended her because it was convenient and she needed more non-hero friends apparently ; but she had grown on her, much to her surprise. 

“Okay,” she said. “Uhhh. I don’t know, any crushes?” 

Aimee blushed, twirling a piece of blonde hair around her finger. “No.” She murmured. “But if I did I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Ah, my heart! How dare you, Aims! The betrayal!” She maimed clutching her heart, channeling her best ‘Jason’ (aka her best melodramatic theater kid). “That’s against the rules! I declare another turn!” 

“Na-uh,” she said. “ That’s against the rules!” 

“You are a cruel, cruel girl, Aimee Chloris Sanford! Mark my words!” She cried, and Aimee flinched. Or maybe there was a fly or something. It was subtle. “Hey, sorry,” 

“It’s fine. I’m a bad friend, making you so, uh, on your toes all the time.”

“No! No, it’s fine, I’m too literal. I need to get better at it anyways, for Jay.” Yeahhh, turns out there were a lot of ways to be insensitive. Like, even crossing off all death related idioms, she learned the hard way not to make a comment about starving. 

“‘Jay’ like ‘Jason Head’?” She asked, perking up. “How, uh, is he?” 

She had always been intrigued by Jason, and the flirty mask he put on in front of her wasn’t helping. She knew Aimee liked him even if she didn’t admit it. Seeing as Jason was leading her on for… well for what she didn’t know—fun? A test?—but he definitely didn’t display any genuine interest that she knew for sure. Kari had tried to dissuade him from his games, but it was no use. She sighed. 

“Jason’s fine, Aims,” she tried. “Don’t worry about him.” 

“Please, Kar,” she said, almost immediately. “I… I mean. Okay.” She blushed. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, really,” Kari said honestly after a moment. “He’s doing just as good as always. His birthday was last week, I guess. He talked with his dad.” Was that classified information? Oh well, Aimee was a civie—hero short-hand for ‘civilian’—so it should be fine. 

“Last week? Really?” She asked. “I didn’t know. And his dad , really? I always sort of assumed he died or something since he lives with you and your grandpa.” 

“Yeah, no, he’s fine, it’s just he didn’t,” shit, what was that cover story she was supposed to spew? “Know about him, his mom kept him secret and all.” 

“Oh?” She said, genuinely intrigued by the gossip. 

“Yeah,” Kari said. Look, she knew she wasn’t supposed to, but there was like no one to talk to about it. And like. She was still a teenage girl, after all. And this was his cover story, so Jason might even be thankful that she spread it, and thus enhanced its believability by one person. “After his mom, y’know,” she mimed cutting her throat, a universal sign for kicked the bucket , “he was at odds with his grandfather, some inheritance shit I know i can’t talk about, sorry,” 

“His grandfather ?” 

“Yeah, but he's evil from what I know. Anyway he wasn’t comfortable with his dad—also rich by the way—since he didn’t know and all he’d heard was stories of his brothers, mostly his bio one, but still, since he’s also dead he came to my Gramps cause he’s actually his older brother. Adopted, but still.” 

“Your grandfather ?” 

“Yeah, crazy right?” 

She nodded vigorously. “He has such a crazy life. It’s awesome.” Kari could see where she was coming from. Even with the full context and all the bad things that came with that, she still couldn’t help but be a little jealous. If only because he was a hero and she wasn’t. 

“I’d continue but that’s it pretty much. New name to hide and past buried, Jason has a pretty boring nerd life. Despite what his persona suggests, he loves his 18th century romance books. So like, don’t date him ’cause you’d have to deal with that and his internal theater kid vibe, big displays of affection and all.”  

“That’s honestly so hot, Kar. Like I know you're trying to dissuade me or something and since you're, like, his sister that isn’t even hitting you. But. Like if I had a crush in him it just grew three sizes. Like. Sweet and funny and hot? Count me in!” 

“Ew! Aims no! That is not what I meant you to take away!” 

Aimee just laughed. 

Terry’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day… Continues For Another Hour! 

Terry McGinnis groaned as he nearly walked into the metal post that held up the Stop screen for cars. Between college classes and Batman, he was both failing his studies and running on 0% sleep and 100% unholy energy drink-coffee combinations. 

“Woah, Ter,” Max laughed at his misery. “You all good there.” 

“Yeah no,” he sighed. “But I’ll live.” 

“I disagree,” she said, as she pulled him away from another bush. “If Batman has the special awareness of a blind and deft headless chicken, he’s gonna get slagged.” 

“Yeah yeah,” Terry groaned. “I’ll get some sleep after this test I have in Lit. It’s, like, 90% of my grade and I needa cram study. And of course Batman can’t miss a day or the criminal underworld will throw a party soooo. Sleep is for the weak, Maxy.” 

“Well be weak,” Max said. “Like, I'm in college too and you don’t see me—” she looked at him pointedly. “—Walking into every corner.” 

Terry opened his mouth to argue more, but he stopped. Maybe he was more sleep deprived than he thought and was now hallucinating, but he swore that he saw Dana. 

Yes , he decided as he turned, the young Asian woman dressed in the very flattering outfit was most certainly his ex girlfriend. 

Now, if he had any sense or perhaps sleep, he would have quickly turned the other way as to avoid the awkward conversation that was sure to come; but, as he would look back on later with horror, he did the exact opposite. 

“Dana! Hey, Dana!” 

The woman in pale blue turned, long hair flying over her shoulder from the wind. “Terry?” She asked sharply. “What’s…” she paused, clearly unsure how to greet her ex. “How. Um. Are you?” 

“Good,” he said with a grin. “Or about as well as one can be doing these days. How’s it going for you?” 

“Good.” Dana said neutrally. “Look, Ter…” she shifted uncomfortably, glancing back at the café she was heading to. “I. Um. Really gotta go,” 

“Oh, um—” 

At that time, Max finally ran up to them. “Don’t just disappear in me like that, Mister!” She said mock-scoldingly. “You know it’s creepy!” 

Terry could feel the moment she noticed Dana. “Oh, sorry, hi,” she said to her friend, before remembering that they had broken up. “What’s going on here?” She questioned, looking accusingly at Terry. 

“Nothing!” He defended. “Look, Dana, I just wanna talk. Please, I can explain… I’ve missed you, y’know? Can we…” 

Dana looked at him for a moment, before shaking her head. “Terry, look, we’ve gone this route before. It’s best if we just… don’t, I think. Unless you can honestly tell me you’ll give me more attention than Wayne or, I don’t know, quit, we can’t. And I know you live that job, so don’t do it for my sake, okay, Terry. We’ve been together since high school. We need to move on with our lives.” 

“No, Dana, I’ll do better,” Terry tried again, wincing at her good argument. Was he that bad of a boyfriend? Honestly, between Batman and everything… probably. It hurt to acknowledge. “I’m sorry. Please. Just one last try!” 

“I… I’m sorry Ter,” Dana said. “Thanks for the apology, but… I already have a new boyfriend.” 

Did you really move in so fast? He wondered, before stopping himself. He was a pretty sh*tty boyfriend, and Dana was a very pretty woman. While he knew she wouldn’t cheat, he was sure there would be lots of people lined up. 

“Right,” he said, defeated. “I hope your new boyfriend is better than I was.” 

At her guilty expression, he clarified, trying to force fake happiness to cover his disappointment. “Don’t feel bad, I really meant it! You deserve so much better than I gave you.” 

“Thanks,” she said with a tight smile. “Bye, Terry; bye, Max.” 

And with that she left, leaving Terry to groan at Max. “ Why did I do that?” He moaned. “I feel so stupid!” 

“Hey, you did okay,” Max said, awkwardly patting his back. “It could be worse, after all.” 

“Don’t remind me,” he said, just as his phone rang. He looked at the caller screen. 

Bruce . 

“Fuck, it just did. Thanks for jinxing it, Max,” he said. 

“Hey,” she argued. “It could be a good thing!” 

“Please,” Terry replied. “With Bruce it’s never ‘a good thing’.” 

And with that, he picked up the call. 

Attack on 4th. 

Perfect . 

(And to think, he thought he could get some sleep anytime soon.)

Chapter Text

5/1/56

… 

Jason sat down at a desk, in the town house that wasn’t quite home . He picked up a pen, ballpoint—his favorite, he loved the smooth way the letters flowed. He grabbed a sheet of pale white paper. It was perfect, pristine, like snow in the early hours before anyone woke up, or sand from those fabled beaches. Too good to be true, practically myth or pretty lie. Never clearly seen but always first imagined. 

His pen was red. The ink flowed so easily onto the page, he couldn’t think of any words—though mentally he crossed out many—and so it just sat there, not quite pooling but there. A dot. A mark. A needle’s prick on an otherwise flawless surface. 

It was redred red , red like blood; like love. 

Like hope. 

Like Robin . 

Rayan wrote the first letter with a flourish. 

D.

Present day - Gotham City, NJ: April 27th; Wayne Townhouse  

The 41st Anniversary of Jason Todd’s Death 

When Dick woke up, he knew immediately what day it was. He had been waiting in anxious anticipation for days now. 

The morning sun was shining brightly over tall glass buildings in the distance. The flowers on the nightstand had bloomed and smelled lovely, the air from the slightly-open winder was fresh and held a delightfully warm breeze that was complemented by the smell of petrichor. 

It was the start of one of the worst days of his life. 

Dick dressed himself slowly, almost methodically in shades of black. 

Charcoal pants. 

An ebony long sleeve. 

Onyx for his light overcoat. 

Jet black shoes and an inky pair of socks.  

Dick, perhaps a by-product of being raised in a circus, had always loved color. The clashing tones were all the better, the brighter. It brought joy, sparked happiness. But this, as it had been for the past forty years, was not a day for smiles. 

Walking down the still-unfamiliar staircase towards the breakfast nook, as Kari had taken to calling it, he was greeted by his granddaughter’s solemn look (as she noticed his attire and understood, as she had since he’d explained it so long ago when she was but a girl or three or four and for one asked why? ). 

He was also greeted by the raised eyebrows of the boy next to her. The impossible miraculous wonder of a boy. Over the past months back under Gotham’s perpetually smoggy skies, his skin had lost its healthy tan that it had gained over the time away. He hadn’t bothered to dye his hair, and so the (ghostly) white streak stood out starkly against midnight locks. His eyes had never quite reached the same perfect ocean blue they once were, but the tropical teal seemed lighter than ever. And less green. Really, more turquoise. 

He was a phantom, but tangible. The closest he’d ever looked to Before. But —

“Damn,” his brother laughed. “Who died?” 

“You did,” Dick said softly, as he walked closer. Kari awkwardly got up to put her empty bowl in the sink. 

“I’ll, uh, be in my room if ya need me,” she said as she inched away. Sorry, R, she mouthed, but he didn’t see it. 

Jason was quiet for a long while; he tilted his head (like a bird), and chewed on his lip thoughtfully, hands surely fidgeting under the table (he still did that?). Eventually, he spoke. 

“Why mourn the living?” He asked. “I’m right here, y’know. Maybe we should throw a party.” 

Dick winced. “Jay…” 

“Why would you mourn the living?” He repeated. “Did I come back wrong? Am I not that perfect Robin any longer?” 

“Jason, it’s not like that.” He tried in vain. “It’s just a bad habit.” 

“Oh, so I’m just a bad habit, am I?” 

“No,” Dick said strongly. He was not Bruce. He would not make the same mistakes. “Stop twisting my words. I know you're smart enough to understand what I mean.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Jason said with a sigh, after he looked at him to the point of being uncomfortable. Maybe that was the point. “I woke up and this was just another day for me, y’know? Nothing special.” Dick didn’t know if he was talking about earlier today or earlier then . He didn’t ask. 

“What do you normally do today?” He wondered. 

“Watch the movies you watched. Eat the food you ate. Mostly just be regretful and reminiscent. Then I guess I’d go see you—well, your grave I mean. The first few years it was a—a family thing. Now it’s just an alone thing. Bruce takes it even harder than me.” 

Jason shifted, either morbidly interested or horrifically confused. Perhaps both. “Huh,” he said, mostly to himself. “Well,” he then said, stronger. “I’m here now, so you can skip steps A through Z.” 

“Be happy, Dick. You have nothing to mourn for today anymore if what you say is true. Have that chat with Mary you’ve been avoiding for months. That would be the best way to honor me.” 

Dick felt himself begin to grin. “Yeah, sure, Little Wing.” 

“Not dressed like that, I hope.” He heard Kari say from the doorframe she seemed to have never left. “You’re hoping for a date , not going to a funeral .” 

“What should I wear, then, Sunshine?” 

“Blue, it brings out your eyes. The pants and stuff can stay, but where’s that nice button up I got you…” 

They left for upstairs, leaving Jason staring up at them from the kitchen door. It wasn’t exactly longing or jealousy. Or curiosity either. Likely some bittersweet mix of all three paired with hope and wonder and dreams. 

Then, he scribbled a note, and he too, left. 

5/1/56 

Dear … 

Jason—no, he had to be Rayan   now—stared down at the mostly-blank page, unsure how to continue. What should he write next in the handwriting that he had a whole sheet off to the side he’d paranoidly dedicated to practicing the fake look? 

Father seemed too formal ( Baba even more a lie). 

Dad seemed too informal. 

Mr Wayne was cold. 

B was wrong. 

Picking up his pen he decided before he could stop himself. He was a writer, just facing some writer’s block, is all. 

Once he got started, it would work itself out. 

Dear Bruce, he began. 

This is your son Rayan, — no, that didn’t seem right… 

Focus, he told himself. Rereading what he just put down aloud (“dear Bruce,”) and crossing out the first part of his draft: this is your son Rayan . He took a deep breath, and lied through his teeth. 

Present day - Gotham City, NJ: April 27th; Outside the McGinnis’ Apartment   

The 41st Anniversary of Jason Todd’s Death 

Dick Grayson stood in front of the red door, hand not-quite hovering over the touch screen that was the doorbell. He was dressed in the same charcoal pants, but his ebony shirt and onyx overcoat had been exchanged for the blue button up Kari had gotten him for grandparent’s day (a real holiday, he’d found out when his granddaughter did research after he tried to subtlety tell her I can’t accept a Father’s Day gift and she was finally old enough it clicked . It was the first Sunday after Labor Day) and a lightweight Navy jacket as per Kari’s suggestion respectively. 

He was nervous, he realized. That, and, despite it literally being what Jason wanted, it still felt… wrong , almost, to do it on the day he died. Oh god, years of parenting and he didn’t even consider what Jason would be going through today. He shouldn’t be trying to chat with his ex, he should be helping his little brother. Fuck. 

“Ahem.” A dark haired young man, maybe anywhere from 19 to 21, walked up next to him. “Are you going to just stand there, Mr Grayson? Has the old man sent you to spy?” 

“Damn,” Díck laughed, turning to face Mary’s oldest son. With his coloring, he’d fit right in. Really, it made sense that Bruce had picked him up. If Bruce had been a little younger—Terry too,—he could have been Robin, the sixth one to fill the role. Now however, he was Bruce Wayne’s, the ex-Batman’s, assistant by day and the new Batman by night (though, technically, by day as well). “What’d he do this time to make you so paranoid?” 

Terry scowled. “I wouldn’t tell you. Besides, what are you doing here? I thought mom broke up with you.” 

“Ouch, Terry,” he said, trying to keep the conversation friendly. “She did,” he lifted his arm, “that’s what the flowers are for.” Terry glared. “Why’re you here on this fine day?” Díck continued faux-brightly. “Not needed at work?” 

“No.” Terry said shortly. “I was kicked out like he does every year ’round this time like clockwork. I try to be in town to see my mom.” 

Dick winced. “Forty years and you’d think he’d handle it better,” he said. “Hey, Terry, let me offer you some advice. Now, I know I’m just some questionable stranger who used to date your mom, but I know Bruce. Well, I knew him at any rate. Worked with him. Lived with him. And from all that experience, I can tell you one thing for sure: he’s terrible with emotions . With words . He can be gruff and stoic and bossy. But he does care. He surveys you because he worries for you. Doesn’t want you to end up dead.” 

Terry paused, before scrunching his eyes in confusion. “Handle what better?” He asked sharply. 

“Oh god,” Dick breathed, eyes widening, “he hadn’t told you?” 

“Told me what ?” 

“It’s…” Dick didn’t know what to say, standing out in the hallway with flowers and a new shirt and his ex’s son. His ex’s son who was asking about his not-so-dead brother. “It’s not my place to say.” 

“ No ,” Terry said, the fire in his eyes, alit with determination, was all Bruce. All Batman. But then again, what even is the difference nowadays despite it all? “Tell me. Look, I believe that the old man probably would only trust his own eyes—his own cameras. You still wanna get with my mom though, and she’d still take my word over yours anyday. So talk .” 

“Blackmail? Impressive.” Dick took a deep breath. It was bound to come up some day. Especially on this day. But how to explain your brother was murdered by a psychopath? Is the question. “Look, you know the glass memorial case he has of the Robin costume?” Talking out in the open about this? Bruce would kill him. Er, well, ground him. —But not put him in the ground, like lecte him like he was still 9 and not 59. Good old Bruce.  

“Yeah,” Terry said, confused. “I guess you could call it that. What it’d ever do to him? Is the dry cleaning bill too expensive? Not up to date?” 

“Ever wonder why it says ‘a good soldier’?” Dick knew he was being cryptic, explaining it slowly. He wasn’t a kid. He wasn’t Kari. He was Batman, and Jason… eh, actually he probably would have wanted it to be as melodramatic as possible. 

“Woaaaah, hold up, I’ve never noticed that , that feels… like dude, who died? The Robin costume I saw wasn’t displayed all altar-y, more like storage. What’re you going on about?” 

“ What ?” The Bruce he knew would never put the costume away. But then again, they’d parted ways years ago, and the short conversation they’d had since then had been that: short. Maybe he didn’t know him so well after all… still, always had to be sure… “not whoever’s he’s got on display with my old suit and his and whoever else's',” 

“Batgirl’s,” Terry interrupted. “Sorry, continue.” 

“Yeah, okay. I mean, the one that stands alone, all tattered and shakily hand-sewn back together. You can’t miss it: a bloody reminder. A good soldier. Hey kid, ever heard of Jason Todd?” Yeah, Jason would be proud of this, even more so than if he actually worked up the courage to talk with Mary. 

“Uh, no, but I get the feeling I should have…?” 

“Damn, yeah, okay he really teaches you nothing. Look, Terry, Jay was…” magic. Hope. Robin. G-d, was it just this morning he saw him? “…His son. He was… everything to Bruce. The Joker murdered him when he was fourteen .” 

“I… I knew he… my god…” 

“Yeah, that about sums it up, kid. He always takes it rough. He likes to deal with everything alone. But…” he thought to Kari, first Mar’i and Kory, and now miraculously Jason. Hey, Dick, didja miss me? Jason had asked after staying at Babs months ago. The answer, like always, was yes. With others, though it went against everything Bruce taught him, it helped heal the pain. But maybe that wasn’t the point, maybe Bruce didn’t want to heal. But like a careless child, he didn’t always know what’s best. “…but he doesn’t have to. Go, he’ll probably still be at the Manor. Help him. He needs it. He needs you .” It had been too long for Dick to be anything g but an instigator, he sadly could admit. That, and he had nothing to grieve but the lost years and Bruce may tell. 

“How do I know you're not making this up to get me to leave you alone with my mom? I know you know she’s home.” 

“He was my brother too,” Dick said harshly. The ‘was’ slipped out automatically. It had been years. 

“I’m sorry,” Terry said, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… he’d been getting worse in his old age. More paranoid. More… man, at times it’s like I’m not Batman, and he still is.” 

“More Batman than Bruce, huh? I don’t doubt it. But you can help.” 

“Yeah yeah, I'm going. Hey, you're okay Mr Grayson.” With a grin and a parting wave, Terry turned to walk away, before swing around and calling: 

“And you should visit him! He misses you too, y’know!” 

Then, he was gone. 

After a moment, he took a deep breath of Mary’s favorite flowers, that he’s picked up from the place on 3rd and Garden instead of Jason’s, and— fucking finally, Batman!— rung the doorbell. 

In a minute, Mary McGinnis turned the door handle to open it a smidge. It was enough to recognize him without a doubt. “Dick?” She asked in a gasp. 

“Yeah,” he said sheepishly. “Hi Mary. I think I’m ready to have that chat.” 

She opened the door a little wider. 

5/1/56  

Dear Bruce, 

This is your son Rayan. … 

There were so many things Jason wanted to say. But he was Rayan now. 

Still, the best lies had a hint of truth. 

It was easy, really, once Jason remembered that both were just broken, angry boys who above all valued family. 

… And wanted their father to love them . 

Present day - Gotham City, NJ: April 27th; Gotham Cemetery   

The 41st Anniversary of Jason Todd’s Death 

I woke up and this was just another day for me , Jason had told Dick. He hadn’t been lying or exaggerating or whatever he usually did. Jason didn’t remember the day his life became a living nightmare because he pushed down those memories everyday. 

Thanks to his dip in the Lazarus Pit and Ta— Ra’s’ manipulations, his recall was shit. He couldn’t remember all the times Before without the green tinge, and he couldn’t think forward without that hint of homicidal rage in the corner of his eyes. Jason had been pushing it down for so long it felt, but— 

He had to know. 

He had to see. 

There were no words for his heart shattering in his chest, and the choked tears it hurt to swallow down. He had come so far, and yet he was still that angry, grieving boy curled into a fetal position on the al Ghul’s floor after reading that newspaper. 

Bruce hadn’t cared, he remembered thinking, angrily, his mind setting stage the first thing he’d ever Planned was the end goal. He pictured himself luring Bruce into a confrunction, saying—not yelling, simply stating calmly, not raving live a supervillain but speaking the heartbreaking truth. 

Even… even ignoring what he's done in the past, he’d say. 

Blindly , stupidly, disregarding the entire graveyards he’s filled, the thousands who have suffered… the friends he’s crippled… I thought… 

I thought killing me— that I’d be the last person you’d ever let him hurt. Even in his head it sounded pathetic, but it was so true and god, he was crying and dad, WHY? 

If it had been you that he beat to a bloody mass. If it had been you that he left in agony. If he had taken you from the world… I would have done nothing but search the planet for the pathetic pile of evil, death-worshipping garbage… and sent him off to hell. 

And then he would— 

“Focus,” he told himself, forgoing the fake-accent he’d perfected. “Check your surroundings. What do you see, Robin?” The words, the orders , that Bruce once said to him stupidly were the only thing that calmed him enough to calm himself down. 

He was in his favorite red hoodie, and had loose black jeans underneath. Maybe for a gravesite he should’ve sprung for the black one, but he wore that yesterday with blue jeans. The fresh spring air still held the aroma of last night’s rainfall, and the grass was slightly squishy under his converse sneakers. 

In front of him were two gravestones, one was his—he shuddered slightly, remembering dirt and blood and fear. 

The other, the main cause for his anguish, was for the traitor that he had once… once he looked for her, wanted her. Believed in her. 

She had betrayed him, sold him out, watched as he died —

And yet— 

And yet — 

SHEILA HAYWOOD

A LOVING MOTHER 

The grave read unironically, but to him it was the funniest—if most tragic—rung in the world. 

“She good as killed me, dad,” he said. There was no one there but him. No one heard him break. Now he was just Jason Todd, undead kid; not Jason Head the normal high schooler, or Rayan al Ghul-Wayne the second son of Talia and Bruce. It was nice, to finally be himself. Silver linings and all that.

“Did you not care enough to look? I thought you’d wanna know everything, but was I just so—so…” he struggled to find the right words, but in the end he just gave up, sinking down to the ground. “So unworthy that I didn’t deserve a moment more of your time? Was that it? I was just a stupid, reckless child who ran headlong into his own death? Did you write it off as my fault, dad? I’m sorry I didn’t follow orders but she was my mother, Bruce! And… and even after everything I died a hero trying to save her.” 

Bruce wasn’t there though, the only witnesses being the dead corpse sniffing daisies and the nature surrounding them. And of course, there was a Robin redbreast pitched on his grave. He let out a small smile at that. 

Looking around, his eyes—no less sharp than they were when he was still in the scaly panties or training with assassins—spotted a crowbar that he suspected was left behind in an act of grave robbing gone wrong. What was the punishment for that anyways? Like, it took a total sicko to do that, right? But it also wasn’t exactly grand larceny. It seemed pretty easy… low security probably at night—people got creeped out, and were likely to write strange shapes off rather than check in it, possibly why he hadn’t been spotted (and ouch for memories, thanks self). Like, how did they get caught—? 

Ahem. Anyways . 

Jason neared the weapon that had helped kill him, and tensed. It was stupid. It was just a metal bar. Only dangerous in the wrong hands, really. He’d trained with bombs like crazy to get rid of the PTSD shit. Now, though… 

Get over yourself, Todd, he said. 

He reached for the crowbar, wrapping his fingers around it and lifting it. Slowly as he walked back towards Sheila’s— not his mother, never his mother —grave, he tossed it from hand to hand, getting a feel for the coolness of the metal. 

Then, when he reached it, with one deep breath, he lifted it over his head and hit the stone as hard as he could. Then again, and again. 

It cracked. 

He grinned, but felt like sobbing. 

Then, he did. 

It mixed with the rain that had started pouring down when he first lifted the bar. It felt poetic, and it probably was. It wet his face, his clothes (once a bright red now a dark blood red. Once again fitting), his grave. 

Ha. 

“I’m sorry,” he couldn’t help but say, hating himself for it. He didn’t even know who he was talking to. He dropped the crowbar onto the wet soil. “God, I’m so sorry…” 

Sorry for what? What he had become? 

Alone and crying in the muddy dirt, the boy—for that was what he was—left the grave of Jason Todd alone, perhaps because he knew that a part of him had died and stayed dead. 

A part that deserved to be mourned. 

The Robin on the angel sang sadly into the sky, and the ex-Robin on the grass sobbed sadly into the dirt. 

Now, if this were a show or a movie, it would aesthetically pan from Jason—crying in the rain, consumed by the storm, somehow ironically poetic in some fucked up way, a sad scene to be sure—maybe blue?—to the planning, scheming assassin under the cover of a building of some sort, who answered a call with a smirk. She would be pictured contrastingly, maybe in red. Or perhaps green in honor of her employer… 

“Report,” the Demon’s Head said sharply, before she could speak. He was about to go on a rant of some sort, most likely she could tell. The rain was really not doing wonders for her health, but she didn’t move from her position (perfectly selected so she could see the Dämonenjunge but the Dämonenjunge could not see her). The young woman withheld a scowl, if barely. Afterall, he could be watching. “And I do hope for your sake that this one is more informative than the prior. Continue, Miss Schröder.” 

“Yes, Milord,” the blonde said, careful not to sound sarcastic, he could be amused by audacity, but would not stand disrespect. She was nervous, despite having planned for this in her head. Thanks to her American mother, she typically had a little-to-no accent. Still, it slipped when she was worried. “But first I must mention zhat not telling me zhat the Dämonenjunge is your grandson is very much hampering my abilities to properly assess zhe situation.” 

“Oh?” Her employer said, “do go on.” 

“Yes, Milord. See, if you had not instructed I include the entire family I would not have realized, however,” best lay on the flattery thick… she thought, but her nerves were diminishing. She wasn’t beheaded yet, after all. 

“It is clear now that the… madness you had warned of is clearly apparent. The Dämonenjunge is, to my understanding, attempting to insert himself seamlessly into his other family… The Waynes, was it? For an alias—as I know you know already—he has chosen ‘Jason’. 

“Doing separate research I learned there was another by that name—one whose grave he is at today. The favorite of his father he is likely trying to emulate and replace in a way. The Dämonenjunge is clearly some sort of sick psychopath. Um. Milord.” She should probably stop insulting his grandson, but too late now, she supposed. Besides, he must not like him all that much anyway given the circumstances. 

“Yes,” the King of Assassins said, amused. “I see. Your point is heard, Miss Schröder. Now continue with your usual report.” 

Taking her luck when she got it, the young spy followed the orders given by the leader of the League of Assassins. 

“Of course, Milord.” 

5/1/56  

Dear Bruce, 

This is your son Rayan. When I first met you, I admitted I was not ready to see you, to talk with the man who is more than legend. My mother, Talia, told me so much, and yet I was afraid of disappointment. Not of you not living up to these tales, but you not knowing me. 

Since then, I have had months to think about what to say, and I still don’t know. But I’m trying, okay? And I know I’m not my brother, or any of my brothers, really; but I will try to make you believe in me like you seemed to have them. 

On my birthday you showed me I saw a portrait of all my siblings at my age. I am no artist, but I hope that in your mind, one day I will deserve a place right beside them on that wall. I am no Robin, but I want to be a hero. Not some costumed vigilante, don’t worry, but… the type of person people think are good. I want to be good . I want you to accept me . 

While I don’t always think you make the right choices and believe some people deserve to die You are the strongest most moral person I know. There is a pedestal in my mind, where I can never live up to. Dick is the perfect son, and I know I am just Still, if you are willing, it would be… nice to see you again. To hear stories of my brothers that I’ve missed. It was my namesake of a sort’s death day a little bit ago. Maybe you can tell me about him. 

If so, maybe you could just call Dick or something because postal service nowadays is slow and a drag please let me know what time would be good. I know how to make tea, so we could have that or something like book club maybe please.

I hope to see you soon, love , your son ,

J Rayan al Ghul -Wayne 

It wasn’t perfect, not by a long-shot, but Jason didn’t let himself overthink himself. He had had a few days to think it over, and he realized, remembered :

The only way to know, is to see it for yourself. 

Jason would find if he had been wanted, loved, whatever. How? Well, Rayan was him, and in a way, not him. 

He was undercover. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, he let go and the letter fell into the USPS Mailbox. 

He stupidly, naïvely , hoped for the best. 

But he was ready for, expected really, the worst.

Chapter Text

“…It is often debated how many Robins there were,” Ms Hills said. It was probably meant conversationally, but she naturally had a sort of biting sharp undertone to her words that made it seem harsher, like an unspoken taught to him: you were forgotten, idiot . Jason knew it was stupid and self centered, that and irresponsible— the Robin who ran headlong into danger and got himself killed, he thought self-deprecatingly. 

While they had spent the first half on the Rogues gallery and Batman’s early years (as known by the public), Jason still wasn’t prepared for what was undoubtedly next to be broached with distant insensitivity.

Five , he wanted to say. Dick, me, Tim, Steph, and Damian. He had memorized every detail on Tim like an obsessed psychopath, and the others were just unaware tagalongs. Jason glanced at Tom, who had stiffened beside him— with him , really, when he heard the name, the word, the title. The legacy . 

Jason figured with the pencil in his hands aimlessly. Matt, next to Tom as Jason was sitting aisle side, was reasonably intrigued (read: working on his Science homework for next class and looking up every once and awhile), and Kari—across the room with her blonde friend—seemed like she understood but wasn’t inherently curious despite her claims for heroics. 

It was weirdly… domestic, he realized with horror. While a year ago he’d never picture himself in some high-tech college wannabe middle class prep school, that isn’t saying much seeing as a year ago he’d been whole hale and healthy as can be. He’d been Robin. Fuck. 

“It’s just the letter,” he muttered to himself. “Dear ol’ dad will reply soon and we’ll have an awkward as fuck meeting and it’ll all be fine .” 

Aaaand he’d spoken aloud. You’re so fucking slipping, Todd, he thought furiously. All that training went down the drain, like some sick fever dream. Slipping, slipping, slipping, falling—  

“Mr Head, do you have something to share with the class?” 

The room was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Jennifer Hills was a strict woman, likely an older sibling of some sort (Dick was always a bossy bitch; he got it from his father, B, the controlling shit). Anyways, she enforced it in the class. There were complaints about that lack of leniency, but Jason had always been a good student (“teacher’s pet,” Dick and later Kari would teasingly note) and he had also liked to think he was almost favored due to Ms Hills love of books and he being the only one who went to the library and thus made it so it wouldn’t be shut down. Really, it hadn’t been a problem, except for the fact that he’d clearly miscalculated and Ms Hills didn’t play favorites. Oops. 

What was that saying about fences and grass? 

“Yes, Ms Hills?” He said in the perfect way he’d projected for Rayan. It was Jason’s natural bad habit of coming off as an absolute menace that leaked through. 

“Mr Head, are any attempts at subtly so fugitive to you or is it your nature to be disrespectful?” 

“Eh, I’ve heard accounts of both,” he replied, to his horror. Stupid Robin instincts. 

“Mr Head, this is your second warning. There will not be a third.” 

“Second? Wait guys, I’m not trying to cause a scene here, just generally confused. Like, I get the whole ‘snarking at the teacher’ thing can come off as rude—teachers' egos are so fragile nowadays—but what was strike one? Breathing too hard? Now that’s just favoritism. Or, well, whatever the opposite of that would be… anti-favoritism? Oh well, I probably won’t look it up but…” 

Ever since he’d sent that damn letter in a fit of grief induced hysteria, Jason had been living his life like it wasn’t his own. (Maybe he had been since he’d seen the grave ). Like he didn’t have to deal with consequences, like he was just watching like a viewer on a TV show about his life. Like a ghost coming back from behind the grave with no purpose outside of his haunts. 

Fuck . 

“Mr Head, see me after class about your detention.” Then, she went back to her lectures about Dick’s early days and when rumors of a demonic creature disguised as a boy became solid facts, like Batman: Cryptid to Leader of Superheroes Next Gen. Still, about Robin. 

Oh god, he realized as he began to pack up. They’ll probably be videos too. 

“Honestly,” Jason would later say in explanation. “It was all Ms Hills’ fault.” Because fuck him over sideways if he wasn’t just that petty. Look, he had all rights to be salty over that detention. It was on Pizza Day, the only semi-edible lunch in the cafeteria, and if he got any it’d be cold. Or non-existent. Like honestly, fuck her. 

Anyways. 

To set the scene, it was just after school had ended on a fresh early-May day. Jason was walking home from school alone so he could gather his thoughts (and since Matt and Tom were both busy and as Kari—who was off with LA—loved to remind him: he was a pathetic guy with only two friends and zero social skills ). It was nice as a cloudy, light-gray polluted sky could give to a day’s decor. 

The school was positioned between Neo and Old Gotham, an unofficial split down the middle—Neo was built with towering glass skyscrapers with neon lights and screens everywhere, a futuristic gothic metropolis from Back to the Future II’s vision board. Old Gotham was closer to the home he remembered—brick and blood and alleyways galore. 

So obviously he took the scenic route through Old Gotham. Or maybe it was a short cut? Jason wasn't sure. Normally he went through the city because Matt lived there and he liked to be able to split his life right down the middle: Before and After . 

Technically, Wayne Townhouse—the place they’d been staying at—was located in Old Gotham, but you could get there either way. It was at the edge. 

Jason had been tempted to explore per sé. To see what had changed. 

Now he understood why he’d stayed away. 

Because somewhere subconsciously in his head, Jason had realized that even if it changed completely in direction, the aesthetic would be enough to send him toppling, spiraling off the deep end. 

Because paired with that History-class-from-hell earlier, and just his general approach to anything that was a reminder to Before, it was a recipe for disaster. 

Jason hadn’t been wrong. 

Walking down these streets—that really hadn’t changed much, just a year that felt like hours ago he’d been patrolling here with B. They’d shut down Scarecrow's op, saved two kids—Billy and his sister Olivia—from a fire and stopped a multitude of muggings. 

—Walking down these streets, it felt like it had just been yesterday. Before Gonzales and that one drug dealer—before he was benched. 

Just… Before . 

(But now it was After). 

He was wearing dark gray cargo pants and a light gray long sleeve athletic shirt. He was wearing a red zip-up hoodie under a worn brown leather jacket because just ’cause it was May didn’t make it warm. It was brisk and Jason was perpetually cold. 

All and all, a pretty conservative style that he’d have conceivably worn Before. Sure, like the goody-two-shoes he was, he leaned towards button-ups and jeans combo that he somehow made hot and sometimes kinda badass if he did say so himself (which he did. Look, he never claimed to be humble, okay?); but the hoodie-jacket combo was a favorite of his and cargo pants plus athletic shirt wasn’t crazy. 

All that to say that if he—actually, fuck it he didn’t even need to squint. Lose focus for a second and he was back Before. When he was Robin. When he was Jason Todd. 

(When he hadn’t died .) 

So anyway, with all that paired together made for a rather nostalgic mood, but even if, the moment he heard a woman’s scream from the alley a few feet ahead of him, Jason still would have jumped—jumped into action. 

Now, little did Dick and Babs and Bruce and friends know—let alone the school board—Jason was a paranoid bastard who had rocket-launchers and AK-47’s stashed around the city in safehouses like a psycho. That, and he also carried a large array of weaponry on his person hidden perfectly especially with the tips he learned in Assassin 101 that was painstakingly transferred from outfit to outfit everyday. 

Knives, throwing stars, a taser, even a collapsible Bo staff and small gun (the kind with bullets that was a bitch to find but totally worth it. Much more enjoyable than the laser ones that were popular nowadays. The gang he’d got the shipment off of was decidedly not happy and totally too dead to care). 

So—grabbing a small poison-laced throwing dagger and pulling his hood up to hide his face from any security cameras and thus Batdad—Jason would not say he walked into the situation unprepared. 

It was just, he was expecting a give-me-your-money sort of situation, not that of a consent kind. But this was Gotham, so he really should’ve expected it. 

He hated these horrible excuses for people who did these things and could sleep at night thinking they were good and set things right in the world. Clearly, types of dirtbags haven't changed much in 40 years. 

“Yo, dude,” he called to the early-to-mid-twenties man with sandy blond hair and murky blue eyes. He gave off duche college frat boy vibes, and the way he leaned over the dark haired woman in a wanna-be-bad-boy way really wasn’t helping his case. He had a really punchable face, seriously, it was just one of those faces. But, technically he was relatively handsome in that only -redeeming-quality way. Maybe the Asian woman was his girlfriend who said no? 

Focus, Todd, he thought as he continued with his quip, twirling the dagger in a way that took skill in an understated power move. God, he missed that adrenaline rush. 

“Is that pose taken straight from a grade Z movie?” 

“Wha—?” He said, turning towards Jason. “Nunnaya business, kid. Scram.” 

“Ahhh, so it was from a movie so bad it didn’t even get a review score, gooootit,” he winked just to be a little shit. “It can be our little secret.” 

The goal was to distract and redirect without coming off as a pretentious do-gooder. Make Wannabe-Bad-Boy angry, because anger makes one single minded and open to mistakes. Careless. He would know. 

“Shut it, punk,” Sandy-hair said, fully turning away from the young woman. “Before I make you. This is between me and my girl. I’ve waited so long for her, you know. I’ve been good to her. Better than her last absentee ex,” ah, so murky-eyes thought he was doing good. He still rubbed Jaosn the wrong way. 

“Well, I bet her ex at least listened. And dude, some advice? You come off as a creepy stalker who lies in wait with lines like that. Oh wait, hold on, I get it now. You are that guy, aren’t you? Not cool my guy, not cool.” 

The woman looked horrified at that, backing away. “Brad…” 

“Oof, ‘Brad’? And I thought you couldn’t get any douche-ier.” 

“SHUT UP, YOU LITTLE SHIT!” Brad exclaimed, rushing at him. The woman tried to back away further in the commotion. “Brad, please, he’s just a kid…” she tried to plead to her credit, despite Jason’s bruised pride. 

“Dana, let me explain after the kid gets what’s coming for him…” he said, calmer. “Baby, it’s not what it sounds like…” 

“What is it then, Brad?” Dana asked, standing up stronger. And where had he heard that name before? Jason wondered. “I thought you were such a nice guy, always offering me pencils and advice… all those times you criticized Terry, helped me think through breaking up, was it all just so you could get under my skirt?” 

Terry , Jason internally repeated with a thunk of cold recognition. Oh god it couldn’t be… but then again, that would be just his luck if the Pretender’s ex—  

“Baby, listen to yourself, you're talking crazy…” Brad-the-douche said lullingly. The manipulative piece of shit— 

“Brad, was it? Or do you prefer Mr Douche?” Jason said, barely containing the Green. “You’re the only one talking crazy from my perspective, and as the guy with the dagger, I’d say my point goes.” He did another fancy trick with the knife, pulling attention to it. They seemed surprised, like they hadn’t noticed it before, which was kinda sad given the awesome tricks he’d been doing since the beginning. Because he had flair, damnit. 

“M-my last name’s Whitmore,” Brad said half-heartedly, losing his bravo, eyes on the ornate dagger. And dang, if “Brad Whitmore” didn’t sound like a trust fund baby he didn’t know what was. 

“She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” Jason said, tossing the knife again. “Part of a collection I got overseas.” 

“A c-collection?” Brad stuttered. 

“Yeah,” he smirked. “Wanna see?” 

“No!” Brad said hurriedly. “I mean… nah ,” it was too late and too forced to be a good casual coverup for his freakout. 

“Well then, I suggest you scram and apologize to this lovely lady—Dana, was it?” 

At her shakey nod, he confirmed. “Got it, Mr Brad Whitmore? Option two is less fun for you, but I’m sure I’ll manage hurting a few feelings.” 

“Look, Dana,” he started. 

“Save it, Brad,” Dana said scathingly, interrupting. “We’re through.” 

“But, baby—” 

With one more flip of Jason’s knife, he was gone with only cliché remarks to be forgotten by. 

“You okay, Miss, uh, Dana?” He said, dropping his act nervously. “Sorry, about, uh,” he seamlessly put his dagger away, so smoothly he was sure she missed it. Jason was kinda proud, not gonna lie. He missed that rush. “I hope you’re okay.” 

Dana laughed wetly. “Yeah, but I think I’m still in shock. Up until now I thought… Well, anyways, thanks a lot, kid.” 

Jason scrunched his nose at the nickname. “I’m not a kid. And you’re only, like, five years older than me.” He protested weakly, but the blooming warmth in his chest made it worth it. The best part of the job wasn’t the adrenaline rush, he remembered, it was the act of helping someone in need. 

“Sure, kid,” she said. “But really, as many questions and concerns I have, thanks for the help. You were a real hero.” 

“You’re welcome, Miss Dana,” he said, flushing at the praise. 

“Just Dana, kid,” she said, but he was already gone. 

You were a real hero, echoed through Jason’s head. 

When he closed his eyes, he looked like Robin. 

Technically Terry’s day sucks, but this isn’t about him. 

“Ter, when you get back to the Cave, you gotta look at this.” Max said through the coms. Bruce was busy pouring over some letter or something so she had stepped in—she was already his unofficial tech support, so it wasn’t too much to ask. 

“What is it?” Terry-as-Batman asked, barely biting back a ‘no names on the field’. God, the old man was rubbing off on him. Ever since Bruce bluntly refused and outright lied to him about that letter he’d delivered, the new Batman had been on guard. 

Bruce had admitted to surveillance after all, after a slip during the Townhouse favor. Any cameras were bad enough, but when he learned about… well, Grayson wasn’t subtle, and it was just plain cruel to bring his mom and Matty into it. He had trusted him, but trust worked both ways. 

“I… it’s just something that flagged me. I wanted… just finish patrol, I’ll tell you then, boss.” 

“Max,” he said, the name slipping out with worry. “That doesn’t sound good. Just tell me.” 

“ It’s Dana,” Max—er, he should probably refer to her as Oracle now, T…Batman realized—replied. He felt a shock of panic run through him like a lightning rod. “What is it? Where is she? I’m on my way as soon as you can get me her location.” 

“…That’s the thing, boss,” Max began hesitantly. “The situation has already been handled.” 

“What?!” He asked, confused. “I didn’t know Superman or any other heroes were in the city.” 

“That’s because they’re not, boss. Besides, it could’ve been the police, what makes you think it was one of the big ones?” 

“Just the way you said it, O,” he admitted. “It made me worry. But the police? The way you said that certainly makes it clear it’s not them. Answer me clearly—what happened to Dana?” 

“Good detective work,” she complimented wryly. “Just… it’s easier if you see the security camera footage. It’s an old one from behind some back-water Deli, but good enough to see perfectly fine.”  

“Is she…?” 

“What? Oh, no, sorry! She’s okay. Just broke up… I guess her new ex is even worse than you. By a lot. Just see.” Max replied grimly. 

“That doesn’t fill me with hope, if you’d believe it,” Terry—because he was just a worried friend now—quipped worriedly. “Did he…?” 

“No, thank god. …Someone… stepped in before anything happened. Look, you’ll see when you get back to homebase.” 

“Got it, O. Thanks for the info; ETA is about 10 minutes.” 

“Confirmed.” She said, and it was silent as he raced back to where he parked the car. 

Jumping in, he flew over glittering skyscrapers and dirty streets. Down to the main road where he set the Batmobile back to car-mode and drove back up into the Cave in a record breaking time: 9.53 for what was—technically—an eleven minute drive.