Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It wasn’t moving.

It wasn’t moving and it wasn’t even supposed to be there.

A dark, dank alley with life completely sucked out of it. This was the last place for something like this little grubby thing, bundled in a putrid blanket to be. All he could see was a little fist sticking out of the blanket. Not even the full thing, and he knew what it was. He knew, he knew it was not okay for this little thing to be here.

Not tonight, not ever.

It wasn’t moving.

His fists jammed in his pockets, jaw clenched so hard it hurt from rage. Something ugly and old and starving threatened to rip out of his chest and demanded justice. It wasn’t moving and it wasn't fair that it was abandoned like trash.

It wasn’t fair.

Then he heard it.

And stiffened.

A thin, broken wail that slowly drifted off into the night.

At first, he thought he imagined it, another trick of his beyond fucked mind. But there it was again — desperate, real and alive. So alive.

He almost didn’t get closer.

He almost decided to keep walking on, telling himself it wasn’t his problem.

But something — stubbornness, maybe anger — pulled him closer. His hands were shaking as he lifted the bundle awkwardly and delicate like he was disarming a bomb. It bawled louder at first, like it knew it had no other choice but to scream for his attention. He moved part of the blanket back, disgusted at the grime that transferred to his hands.

And there it was.

A baby.

Squirming, red-faced, pink wrinkles and squishy.

For a second, all he could do was stare.

Who leaves something so small? So helpless?

And then the kid screamed again. He quickly pressed the bundle against his chest, feeling its tiny heartbeat hammering against his own. “There, there kid.” He murmured, rocking the baby slowly to quieten it down. “I got ya. I got ya” The baby stopped screaming and wiggling in his arms. He cooed at it and wanted to scream.

Somebody put it there on the ground.

Someone put this helpless little kid in a threadbare blanket and abandoned it in this horrible city.

Someone walked away.

Someone didn’t even look back.

He wanted to scream.

At this kid's parents, at Bruce, at the whole damn world that kept throwing people away.

At himself, for knowing exactly what it felt like to be like this kid.

Instead, he just stood there, in that deep dark alley, damp walls and trash around him. His breathing was hard, the weight of this tiny life anchoring him to reality. But then the kid let out this little cough, a broken hiccup, and their whole body shuddered against him. He needed someone to come and help this kid...And that was when the panic set in.

No one else was coming to help this kid.

He was all they had.

The system was horrible and would no doubt fail the kid. Orphanages sucked, foster families were incompetent and the foster system was basically a human trafficker’s supermarket dream.

The kid let out another whining cough.

Were they sick? Dying?

What if they needed a hospital?

On autopilot he pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around them like a burrito, it might have been gross but it was better than just being wrapped that fucking awful blanket. He saw a pale yellow dirty onesie that was too big for the baby. Their tiny fists grabbed at his jacket like they already knew the first rule of the world and oh boy, did they: hold on or get left behind.

Jason didn’t give a damn what the world thought.

They’d had their chance to do right by the kid and failed, they had the chance to do right by Jason and they screwed it up, just like they always do. He wasn’t letting them get their hands on the kid. Not the cops, not social workers, not some asshole with a clipboard and a checklist. They weren’t gonna be passed around the system like he was. They were his now. His to fight for. His to keep breathing for. He’d burn the whole goddamn city down before he let anyone take them away.

"You’re mine now," he said, voice rough and cracking, sounding way older than his actual age. “I got ya”

And that was it.

No walking away.

Neither of them were getting left behind.

Chapter Text

He kept his head down the whole walk back.

Didn’t look at anyone, didn’t let anyone look at him or the bouncing bundle wrapped in his jacket.

One foot in front of the other, the weight of the kid pressed tight against his chest like armor and a bomb all at once. He somehow got out of the alley and back to his apartment.  Jason’s hands were shaking so bad, he almost dropped the baby. He didn’t know how he hadn’t so far.

When he got them inside he realised just how much his apartment sucks. The cracked walls, flickering light, a heater that made more noise than heat, his only solace was that it had a door that locked and was bat proof.

He kicked the door shut, bolting it, and stood there for a second, heart thudding with absolute panic.

The baby whimpered, shifting against him and he finally looked. Really looked. 

They were both filthy.

Not just dirt — grime, sticky and crusty in the creases of the kid’s neck, under tiny fingernails and their bare legs sticking out of the jacket. 

It made Jason’s gut twist with guilt. No kid should ever be that dirty, and he could almost feel the ghost of Alfred lecturing him about hygiene. He carried her to the bathroom, flicked on the yellowed light, and stared at the mirror — green wild-eyed, hands shaking — and this tiny thing clinging to him like they didn’t know better yet.

"I got you Bug," Jason muttered, though his voice didn’t sound convincing. He juggled the baby in one arm and ran the tap to the bath, checking the temperature till the water came out warm but not burning. Jason grabbed the one cleanish towel, and lowered himself slowly down on the cracked linoleum floor.

The baby squirmed as he unwrapped them, and Jason tried not to panic when feeling how light they were, how fragile this kid was, how breakable. The grime stuck to the skin like it had been there forever. He dipped a corner of the towel in the water and started wiping at the kids face first, gentle as he could manage.

The kid screwed up their face but didn’t cry.

As Jason worked down, he slipped off the pale yellow onesie chucking it into the sink, cleaning down their arms,chest, and little birdcage ribs, he realised something.

They were a girl. A little girl in a pale yellow onesie. A little girl in a pale yellow onesie who had been abandoned in a disgusting alley on the worst side of town.

The realisation hit him harder than it should’ve. Not because it changed anything — he was already in deep — but because it made it all more real somehow.

She was somebody’s daughter.

She was… his daughter.

"Hey, kid," Jason’s voice caught. "You got stuck with me, huh?"

She kicked her feet, tiny toes curling, and for a second, it almost looked like a toothless gummy smile.

He wrapped her up in the towel, snug as a bug, held her close, and sat there on the bathroom floor, the tap still dripping, the heater rattling in the next room. Fuck, he didn’t have clean clothes for her to wear.

He didn’t have diapers.

He didn’t have baby food or formula.

He didn’t have a clue what the hell he was doing.

What if she needed something he couldn’t give?

He started breathing too fast.

Jason didn’t know where to get stuff that babies needed. Clothes? Formula? Diapers? Medicine? 

He had twenty bucks currently in his wallet that didn’t come from being a crime lord, half a tank of gas in his bike, and a studio apartment so crappy the heater rattled like a dying man when it worked at all. Not to mention the literal armoury of guns on his kitchen table and a pissed off hellbent Batman! What the hell was he thinking?

"I’ll figure it out," He whispered. "I’ll figure it out. I swear." 

Maybe he could find someone who wouldn't ask questions? He needed to get her to a doctor who wouldn’t ask questions. What doctors did he know that wouldn’t ask questions? The league of assassins? Yeah, no chance. They’d turn the kid into a weapon in no time. And as much good favour as he had with Talia, it wasn’t a guarantee that he’d be allowed to walk away. 

He needed someone he knew. The only local one was Leslie Thompkins. But Leslie would ask questions. She’d ask questions and Bruce would find out. 

That thought stopped him dead and his blood ran cold. 

Bruce would take her away.

Bruce would try to raise her in that fucking too big mansion. 

Bruce would stick her in a Robin outfit. 

Bruce would get her killed. 

That was when the panic really set in. He had to get out of town. He had to get himself and the kid out of town yesterday. He had to get them as far away from Batman and…and the Joker, from Gotham and her fucked up collection of rouges and other freaks.

He needed to get a new identity, food diapers and...and shit… the kid needed a name, he couldn’t call her kid for the rest of her life. Definitely needed to get her identification papers, birth certificate, social security, etc… 

He didn’t have anything ready and he needed to get out of Gotham .

Because no way in hell was Jason letting her grow up in a city that would chew her up like it did him.

Jason looked down at her, and she was staring back up at him with a glare, with those huge innocent eyes. Like she was daring him to blink first.

"You and me, kid," he said, his voice shaking. "That’s it. That’s all we got."

She made a tiny noise, almost a sigh, and he tucked her head under his chin as he rose to his feet. He was reminded that she was so small. Small. Squishy. Red-faced and furious at a world that didn't want her. How could they not want her?

How could anyone just leave ?

The baby started wailing for his and the world’s attention. “Yeah you tell ‘em kid. You and me versus the world” 

Jason felt his stomach rumble.

Right, he still needed to get food.

Chapter Text

The bell over the door jingled sharply as he stepped into the store, the baby tucked tightly against his chest under his jacket. Jason couldn’t leave her at the apartment alone.

He refused to abandon her like others had.

He also couldn’t bring the baby out in plain sight where anyone could catch sight of her or him. 

While being legally dead and his living status unknown to the batfamily was a perk, it only took one idiot who knew Jason Todd back in the day to look at him directly and connect the dots. 

He kept his head down, avoiding the cashier’s eyes.

It was one of those 24-hour places that sold pretty much everything convenient. The flickering fluorescent lights, a radio playing an annoyingly catchy pop song that he immediately detested. The baby, his baby girl, squirmed and let out a soft grunt, like even she knew how bad the song was. He didn’t have any baby clothes and had to wrap her in one of his t-shirts like a burrito.

He grabbed a basket and headed straight for the back, where the baby section was crammed between toilet paper, laundry detergent and dog food.

The aisle was a disaster — bottles formula cans stacked crooked, shelves lined with packages featuring smiling cartoon babies.

He stood frozen, staring at it all.

What the hell is half this stuff?

There were a hundred different kinds of diapers. Some for "newborns," some for "size 006," whatever the hell that meant. Wipes all labelled to be sensitive, fragrance free, organic.

What was the actual fucking difference?

Bottle with weird cartoons on them. Bottles that would "reduce colic" — whatever the hell colic even was. Fuck, he was way out of his league here.

He grabbed a can of formula because it had a picture of a happy baby on it.

Seemed like a good sign. 

The baby on the can looked happy and he wanted a happy baby. 

It made sense. He totally wasn't panicking!

Then he stood there like an idiot, holding the can, staring at the wall of baby bottles like they were written in a foreign language.

His girl made a little noise, a tiny whimper, and it cut through him. It had barely been 12 hours and his heart stopped from this little sound alone.

"Alright, alright," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "I got you, kid. I’m figuring it out."

He grabbed a pack of newborn diapers, fuck he didn’t even know how old the baby was and some wipes that said "hypoallergenic" on the label. Sounded important and y’know safe and all that. He hesitated at the bottles, then grabbed the cheapest one and shoved it into the basket.

The longer he stood there, the more out of place he felt.

He glanced over to the front at the cashier, who was watching him, her eyes flicking between him and the baby. She must’ve seen the panic in his face, the way his fingers twitched around the baby bottle like it might bite him. Her gaze softened, but there was something like pity in her eyes.

He hated that.

“Do you need help with anything?” she asked, her voice too quiet.

He stiffened. “No,” he muttered, shaking his head, trying not to meet her eyes. "I’m good."

The cashier didn’t say anything more, but she kept watching him, like she knew something was wrong.

Fuck, he had to get out of there.

It was already sketchy that he was there so late at night. Let alone with a baby.

He grabbed the items, paid quickly, and didn’t wait for change, rushing out of the store, the door slamming behind him.

Once outside, the cold hit him hard, biting into his skin, but he barely felt it. Jason’s heart was still thumping too fast, still beating in his ears. He adjusted the baby in his arms, her weight suddenly too much. He needed to get back to the apartment.

He needed to just get back.

Get his stuff and get them out of town.

The walk to his apartment felt like it took forever. Fuck, he needed a car.

Every step felt heavier, balancing a baby and a shopping bag in the other.

The baby shifted in his arms again, and he wanted to wallow at how small and fragile she felt, like she might disappear if he didn’t hold on tighter. His legs were shaking, but he couldn’t stop moving.

When he finally got to the building, his key fumbled in the lock. His hands were trembling as he opened the door and pushed inside. Jason slammed it shut, locked it, and let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours.

The apartment was cold and the heater sputtered on and off, making a noise like a sick dog trying to breathe. He stood there for a second, listening to the baby’s soft breaths and the creaks of the old building settling. Then he slowly made his way to the couch, placing the bag down on the floor, sitting down onto the decrepit couch with the baby in his arms, not knowing what the hell to do next.

He looked down at her, her tiny face scrunched up in discomfort. ‘She must be hungry’ he thought, ‘how long ago had she last been fed?’.

He had the formula and diapers, but how?

How did he even do this?

“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Okay, let’s... let’s figure this out.”

He took a breath, forcing his mind to stop spinning, and started unwrapping the things he bought, setting them on the table.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this lost. That was a lie… he knew when. Green eyes, toxic water, and the taste of dirt in his mouth,

The baby let out a soft cry, and his stomach twisted bringing Jason back to reality.

He gently cradled her against him, his hands clumsy, unsure, as he followed instructions to make the baby formula. Jason fed her the bottle slowly, watching as she gulped down the liquid as if it were her last meal.

And for all Jason knew, it had been days since her last.

Her big, dark eyes staring up at him, trusting him to keep her safe in this mess.

She didn’t know any better.

She didn’t know how dangerous the streets were, how everything around them was a broken system, too busy trying to survive to notice people like them.

He had to leave.

They both had to leave Gotham.

It was the only thing that made sense. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t let her grow up in a place where survival was the only thing people taught, where kids got lost and forgotten in the cracks of the city.

But no one else was coming.

No one else would.

This was it.

It was him. And her.

He wasn’t letting her go.

Chapter Text

She needed something better. 

A name would probably be a place to start, but it was hard to settle on one. Did anyone know how many goddamn baby name registries were there? And what was with the weird edgy names these days? ‘Mahogany, Acacia and Birch were kitchen table woods, not names’ Jason thought bitterly as he scrolled through a list on his phone. It had been three days and he still hadn’t settled on one.

He needed a new start. Forget Bruce, forget the Joker, forget the Replacement and the Golden boy. 

Fuck Gotham.

The idea had been rattling around in his head for days, but now, as he sat on the edge of the worn couch, holding her close, it was the only thing that felt real. 

The only thing he could see.

The thought of leaving the damn city, of driving miles and miles away, far away, from everything that he ever knew, seemed to be the only sane thing he could think of. 

Jason stood up, pacing across the room, running his hand through his hair, trying to swallow the panic that threatened to rise in his throat and remain calm.

There wasn’t much to pack. Everything in the apartment was expendable so that he could ditch the place in a moment's notice if needed.

He could do it.

He could leave.

He just had to commit to it. To the whole you know, being a dad thing.

Bruce did it... terribly mind you, but he did it.

Jason would just have to do better.

Piece of cake.

A tiny wail let out and he rushed over to the makeshift crib set up. The baby was glaring at him and crying with tiny tears swelling in her eyes. 

Her little cheeks turning red, and cry getting louder with a demand to be heard.

Jason leaned over and picked her up, slowly swaying back and forth to calm her down.  

“Hey, it's okay. I'm here, I got ya”. Jason looked down at her, her soft breaths warm against his chest. Her tiny hand rested on his jacket. “Yeah, I got ya. It's okay.” 

She was so, so, tiny. So very fragile and little.

Little pink fingers, toes and all.

She huffed into his chest as he rubbed down her back. “Just a bad dream, yeah? Is that what happened? Don't worry, I'll keep the bad guys away” he murmured into her little ear. 

She was here in his arms. 

She was safe. 

She wasn't abandoned in an alley and she would grow up feeling safe. 

She was safe.

He wasn’t going to let her forget what it meant to feel safe.

To feel loved.

To feel like it was okay to want something better out there.

“Alright,” he whispered, his voice thick with determination. “We’re getting out of here.”

Several days later Jason grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, pulling it on and tucking the baby into her capsule car thingy.

The lady at the store said it was the safest model for a newborn and had patiently answered his millions of questions. She'd almost looked amused.

Who knew car seats expired? 

The car was parked outside, ready to go. Jason had to get something inconspicuous, affordable and most of all baby safe. A second-hand red rusted jeep which Bruce fucking Wayne would never have been caught driving.

The car seat capsule which could withstand being hit by a tank, or so he had researched when looking into baby safety, safely installed.

Jason didn’t have much, but it was enough. 

She would have enough. 

Shit… she still needed a name.

Paisley, Petunia, Poppy… were all part of the most recent list that he'd gone through. He didn't think any suited her.

His heart pounded as he gathered the last of his things, tossing a couple of blankets in a bag, baby stuff, his old jacket, some canned food he hadn’t eaten yet. He grabbed the formula and diapers, the things that had made him feel like an idiot in the store just days ago, but now they were his only lifeline for surviving this trip. The new baby clothes and extra stuff he finally managed to acquire now that he wasn’t operating on autopilot.

He turned off the lights, locked the door behind him, and stepped into the night, the cold air biting into his skin. 

The city was alive, buzzing with life that didn’t care about him, didn’t care about her. Too busy caught up in its own highs and lows to care.

But he cared.

He cared more than he’d ever cared about anything before.

The drive was quiet, just the hum of the engine and the soft sound of her breathing in the backseat. The streets started to blur as he drove, the city lights fading into the rearview mirror. He didn’t know where they were going. He would figure it out when they got there. Wherever there was.

The only thing that mattered now was that they were leaving.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt a weight lift off his chest. It wasn’t gone completely, but it was better. 

He could breathe again.

He didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time, he felt like maybe — just maybe — he could make it work.

 Get outta Gotham, get somewhere safe and maybe…maybe he could do better for her than Bruce did for him.

The open road stretched ahead of him, ‘quite literally’ he thought.

His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, the weight of what he was doing pressing down on him with every mile they put behind them. Gotham city — the wreckage, the noise, the bloodshed, the mistakes — was now just a shadow in the rearview mirror.

The baby, in her ladybug spotted onesie that he picked out because it was adorable (not that he would admit it) and his kid was also adorable, was fast asleep in the back of the car. 

Her little chest rising and falling in the quiet of the car. 

It was almost like the world had quieted down just for her. The only noise was coming from the radio spluttering out lyrics to an old song.

"....I need never be afraid..."

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror every few seconds, watching the soft rise of her breath. 

"...Juliet, don't forget. The promise you made..."

‘Huh, Juliet’. He thought, ‘what a pretty name’.

They passed a sign. ‘Now leaving Gotham, visit our happy city again soon’

‘Fuck that’ He thought. 

Jason was going to protect her from Gotham.

And he was going to make sure she had a chance. 

A better chance than he ever had.

Chapter Text

The loft apartment was finally clean, and the baby monitor hissed faintly on the kitchen counter. Jason stood at the sink, staring into a chipped wonder woman mug of tea that had long since gone cold.

Outside, the city rain whispered against the window.

He hadn’t meant to message her. 

But after all she had done for him… the pit, the training, the doctors, arranging a new public identity….he felt like he owed her something after cutting and running in the middle of the night to Gotham in order to get revenge.

He was also terrified that if she found out about Juliet from anyone else…well it wouldn't be pretty.

The draft had been sitting in his phone for weeks.

If you’re in town, you can come by. I moved on from B. There’s… something else more important. 

He’d sent it without breathing. Then turned off the screen.

Juliet stirred in the crib — a soft, gurgling noise — then settled again.

She was now eight months old according to the pediatrician he’d finally got around to finding. It was hard to meet one that met his approval, Jason cursed, blaming Bruce for his paranoia again. The doctor was concerned about her weight problem. 

She was small. 

Too small for this world, Jason often thought. 

Too soft. 

Too trusting of him to look after her.

He still woke up way too much in the middle of the night, afraid she’d stop breathing after reading a pamphlet on SIDS, or that he’d wake up and find someone had kidnapped her, or somethijg more horrifying would take her away. He needed to stop  researching the city safety statistics.

A knock rattled the door.

He didn’t move for a second. Then he stepped across the creaky wooden floorboards and opened it.

Talia al Ghul stood in the hallway. She was dry despite the rain, wrapped in a black coat, silent as ever. The hood of her coat was pulled down, revealing long, dark hair twisted into a braid that looked too perfect, too prim and Talia herself, proper to be standing in his apartment hallway.

“I wasn’t sure you’d answer if I called ahead,” she said.

“I'm not sure I would either.”

She didn’t blink. “And yet, you invited me here.”

Jason stepped aside, letting her in.

Talia walked into the apartment without ceremony, like she owned the place. Her eyes swept the room with trained precision — bare light blue walls that he’d recently painted to make it look happier than the drab grey it was when he moved in, cleaned comfy hand-me-down furniture, a baby bottle drying on the counter. 

Then her gaze fell on the portable crib in the center of the living room.

Ah yep, she found the baby.

Juliet lay there, swaddled in a soft grey blanket, a pacifier barely hanging on between her lips. 

Her little fists twitched in her sleep.

Cute.

Talia’s expression didn’t change, but something behind her eyes softened. A look he saw when he, very rarely, got to see her interact with the little Demonspawn. 

It was like an old mechanism starting to turn in his head, bringing back memories of his time with her in Nanda Parbat.

“She’s small,” she murmured.

“She’s a baby.”

“I know what babies look like,” she said coolly. “I just didn’t expect her to look… so perfect and adjusted.”

Jason gave a quiet, bitter laugh. “Yeah. That sometimes surprises me too.”

He busied himself in the open kitchen, watching her as he was emptying his cold mug into the sink and started to make a fresh pot of tea. “Do you want one?”

Talia nodded her head. She walked slowly toward the crib, silent in her boots.

“She has your frown,” she observed.

“She’s not mine,” Jason said quickly. He ducked his head from her gaze to avoid her look of judgement. 

Of course Talia would be against him keeping her.

Talia would see Juliet as a distraction and would take her away. 

Jason would never see her little pink fists wave-

Talia turned slightly. “You claimed her.”

“I…I couldn't just leave her there.” He defended.

“...Then she is yours. Yours to raise.”

“That doesn’t mean I know what I’m doing.”

“No one does. It's parenting.”

He exhaled. “I’ve thought about calling someone…an orphanage…child services…anyone who could tell me I made a mistake and she deserves better than me.”

“But you didn’t.”

He paused, handing her a mug full of tea, “How would you know?”

“Because you left Gotham. You stopped wanting revenge against your murderer,” she said softly. 

Talia took a sip of tea, sighing in appreciation. “You chose raising her over your revenge against him. And because you haven’t left her, like he left you.”

Jason crossed his arms over his chest, cradling his own mug. “She cries for hours some nights. Sometimes she won’t eat…and I don’t know if she’s sick, if she’s okay, or just… or if she senses I’m… wrong.”

“You think she can smell blood on you.”

He nodded.

“She probably can,” Talia said. “Little ones often do, but she doesn’t know what it means yet. You still have time to gather some bravado until she realises.”

Juliet stirred, whining for him. 

Jason was already moving before the sound fully left her throat. Placing his tea down on the nearby coffee table, he reached into the crib, lifting her with practiced hands, holding her close. She nestled into his chest, fussy but calming quickly.

“You’re good with her,” Talia said.

“I feel like I’m one bad night away from shattering and doing something wrong that might hurt her.” Jason admitted as he slowly rocked side-to-side. 

Juliet liked the movement and it often soothed her.

He did to.

“You’ve felt that way since you were a child rising from my fathers Lazarus waters,” she said, voice neutral but not unkind.

Jason swallowed. “I thought you’d be angry.”

“I am,” she admitted. “But I’m not angry at you. I am angry that the world requires a boy to become a father before he’s learned how to be a man… that a mother could abandon a child to an alley of a cursed city without a second thought.”

He paused.

He hadn’t told her that, but of course, of course she knew.

Spies everywhere.

“...And I am angry that you did not think to call me when you found her.” She was calm in her delivery.

He rocked Juliet gently, his voice low. “I didn’t know who to call when I found her.”

Talia stepped closer. Her fingers brushed against Juliet’s tiny hand, and the baby latched onto her knuckle. 

For a long moment, Talia said nothing.

“She is… very small,” she said again, but this time it sounded too soft to be coming from someone like her. 

He remembered that tone, often heard it when she was speaking to Damian and trying to stop him from getting too attached to dangerous animals that he’d want to keep but would never be allowed to.

Jason also remembered the time that Damian, not even four years of age, smuggled a baby lion cub into his bedroom and wanted to keep it, cuddling it like a regular kitten. 

Jason let out a nervous breath. “I’m working on it with a pediatrician. I just… wanted you to know that she’s here now. That I’m done with him and everything else…and I just want to keep her away from Gotham….I…I don't know what I want anymore….I just want her safe.”

He was grateful to her for everything, really he was. But he was terrified that Talia wouldn't see that. 

That she would throw him away like Bruce had.

“I will not tell you to dispose of her, that she is a distraction,” Talia said. “But I will help you keep her away from him. Keep her safe.... From afar. It is not safe to be around me at the moment."

Jason looked at her, unsure.

She continued, eyes on Juliet. “I can send money, new identites and arrange child care, if needed. You also shouldn’t be making it harder on yourself by raising her alone while dragging yourself through an education and going nights without sleep.”

He blinked. The missed sleep was common knowledge. He never slept well anymore.

The classes however...“You know I’m taking classes?”

“I keep track of my children,” she said. “Even the ones I did not birth.”

Jason looked down at Juliet. Her breathing had slowed again.

“Sometimes…I don’t know…sometime I worry if I’m doing this for her,” he said. “Or to prove to myself that I’m not him.”

Talia’s gaze flicked to his face. “Does it really matter? As long as she grows up loved?”

Jason didn’t answer. He sat on the couch, Juliet nestled on his chest, her tiny fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, he started playing with those little digits, watching as she gave him a gummy toothless smile.

“I am doing it for her.” 

“Then that's all that matters.” Talia sipped her tea.

“I named her Juliet,” He offered quietly. 

Talia stood over them for a moment longer, finishing her tea and gazing at them softly.

“It’s a good name.”

Then, she stepped back, heading towards the door.

“I’ll leave you two to rest,” she said.

“You could stay,” Jason offered, immediately regretting the vulnerability in it. “It is raining.” He tried to justify.

He could do it alone, but he owed Talia so much. Also it was raining and he didn't see an umbrella. 

…Crap, he needed to get an umbrella. 

He wanted to take Juliet to the park and library and needed to get her a little raincoat. And he needed to her-

“Jason,” Talia smiled faintly — a rare, genuine smile, interrupting his train of thought. “You are learning to ask for help. And while I will leave you alone for now, remember, child of mine, you won’t have to do it alone.”

She paused at the door.

“She does looks like you.”

Jason didn’t respond. 

He just held Juliet tighter, thinking of how Damian once did the same when he tried to convince the kid that a baby tiger needed to be with its mother and not kept in a child’s bedroom. 

How Damian had been worried that the mother wouldn’t accept the cub back. 

That the cub would go hungry.

And how Damian had clung to him crying when the mother and cub reunited. Only cheering up when Jason made him a stuffed tiger out of old scrap materials, which he proceeded to-

Juliet cooed interrupting his thoughts. She was oogoling at the rain.

And yeah, he needed to go buy an umbrella.

Chapter Text

The bottle was lukewarm, and Jason was half-asleep, crouched awkwardly by the couch with one hand on the baby and the other fumbling for the remote. Juliet was teething, cranky, and had been screaming like a little demon for the last two hours straight.

He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, had three assignments due, a pile of dirty laundry the size of Wayne Manor and the circles under his eyes were practically bruises. 

How did other people do this?

How did normal parents do this?

“You’re killing me, kid,” he muttered, bouncing her in his lap with one hand, gently. “You know that?”

Juliet gurgled back, glaring at him while chewing aggressively on a rubber giraffe.

“Yeah. Exactly,” he sighed, pressing the bottle to her lips. “You chew and stop screaming, one day I will buy you a pony. That’s our arrangement. This is purely a business relationship Jules.”

She blinked up at him with those impossibly wide innocent eyes. Still cranky though.  He always swore she looked at him like she already knew something he didn’t. 

Ancient eyes, baby face. 

Surly glare.

Yeah she was his kid.

She’d been making babbling sounds and playing with spit but no solid words yet.

He’d read in a book that babies were supposed to hit certain milestones at certain points. Juliet had started crawling one day when he wasn’t looking and ended up locking herself outside their place and started wailing when she realised she couldn’t get back in. 

He’d spent five minutes looking for her. 

Five terrible minutes where she had been crying.

Five minutes crying was five minutes too long and felt like ice daggers had clawed inside his chest.

He refused to put her down after that. 

Juliet was not happy about him carrying her around for the rest of the day, especially since she just figured out how to get places on her own and wanted to go exploring. 

Jason wanted to hang onto her until his heart had come back into his chest.

Now he was scared to take his eyes off of her in case she crawled somewhere dangerous, somewhere he couldn’t get her. He’d almost considered putting a leash on her. 

Almost… 

….ok, he’d only put the leash in his shopping basket online...

...Okay, he had prepaid for it and was expecting it in several days. Sue him for being a good parent. He was rightly worried and it was better for him to be prepared.

….also it had kittens on the leash, which Juliet had started noticing when they went for walks and she had tried to toddle after a stray cat.

That had also given him a heart attack when she tried to take off and there was cars going past.

Jesus, what was he going to do when she got older and went off to school? 

That’s what kids did right?

They went to school, made friends, did homework and all that jazz.

It would get better right?

This fear of what could happen to her if she was out of his sight. 

It couldn't get much worse. 

Could it? 

Oh god, what would he do after she went to school?

What would he do when she got friends, graduated college, got a job, started dating-

Oh god.

He’d forgotten about dating. 

You’d think after spending all that time with Bruce and Dickhead that he would remember dating. 

And oh god, he could picture it. 

Some douche canoe with a shitty haircut would swagger up to her with an even shittier pick up line and break her heart. 

Which meant he would have to break this hypothetical douche canoe's head.

And then go to jail. 

And then, Juliet would be raised in the system or she would be sent to a nunnery if he had any say -post murder and all.

That decided it. 

There was only one other possible solution than the nunnery.

Juliet would never date. 

Not until she was at least forty.

That seemed reasonable and not sexist right?

It was to protect his baby’s heart and keep him out of jail and her outta a nunnery.

They were on the floor playing with some blocks when Juliet threw her pacifier past him and started looking at him expectedly.

This had recently become a fun game for her. 

And a pain for Jason. 

Juliet had taken to throwing pacifiers around and expected him to retrieve them like a dog….at the park, at the library, one time into the river when they went past it. 

That was not a fun day. 

Juliet had cried herself hoarse and looked so miserable. Jason thought she would hate him forever when he hadn't gotten it back. 

He had also been worried this would traumatise her later on.

Her cries broke his heart so much. 

He even called Talia's emergency number asking to help him comb the river for the pacifier.

Much to his relief though, Talia, exasperatedly assured him that Juliet wouldn't be traumatised. 

She also amusedly reminded him of her number being for emergencies.

He was not amused. 

His kid was crying and in pain and he didn't know what the fuck to do.

But also Talia was correct, Juliet was not traumatised. In fact, she quickly forgot about the missing pacifier when Jason had gotten her a new one a few hours later (along with a new teddy or two). 

Man, he was wrapped around her little finger.

He leaned forward to reach for her pacifier that had somehow ended up under the coffee table, and that’s when it happened.

A soft, half-sound came out of her mouth. 

Almost nothing to anyone else. 

But not nothing to him.

“Dah-dah.”

Jason froze.

“What did you just say?” he turned so fast he smacked the back of his head on the edge of the coffee table. “Sh—ah, shit.”

Juliet, undisturbed by the language or violence, giggled like he’d just done a magic trick.

Jason, dazed, sat back on his heels, clutching the sore spot on his head. “No. No, you don’t get to just—”

“Dada,” she said again, clearer this time. Seemed so sure of it.

Dada.

Jason blinked. There was only one thought that ran through his head.

His kid was a genius.

She was a goddamn genius.

And then, as if the universe had a personal vendetta against him, Jason stood up too fast, tripped over the edge of the rug, and fell flat on his ass.

“Goddammit,” he hissed, flat on the floor now, staring at the ceiling with a bottle in one hand and a baby looking down at him like he was the one being weird.

Juliet cooed softly crawling over to him and started pulling his hair. 

She liked this game of Daddy hurting himself apparently.

He sat up slowly, heart pounding, unsure why his throat felt tight. He’d been called a lot of things in his life — street rat, failure, mistake, replacement, dead man — but never that.

“Say it again Jules,” he said softly.

Juliet just smiled and slapped him in the cheek with a drool-covered fist. “Dada!”

He laughed, once, short and stupid and full of something close to a mental breakdown. A good breakdown though.

Happy happy joy.

“Guess we are both committed to this now, huh?” he murmured, pulling Juliet atop his chest and playing uppsies downsies with her.

Why not?

He was on the floor anyway and she loved this. She always giggled and trusted him so much.

“Yeah. Okay. Dada it is.”

Jason would always maintain that his kid was a goddamn genius.

She was so smart, sweet and adorable.

And if he spent time researching nearby nurseries for advanced kids would you blame him?

His kid was clearly gifted.

Chapter Text

The sun rose too fast that morning.

Jason had been awake since four-thirty. He’d checked everything more than twice. Juliet’s lunch was already packed, carefully cut fruit, a triangle peanut butter sandwich with the crusts removed, and a note he’d rewritten twice after his hand had been shaking so bad. 

You’ve got this. I love you. — Dad.

Juliet couldn't read yet. 

At least not proper sentences. 

She recognised small words and they were working on it, but she couldn't read the note yet. 

Logically Jason knew that. 

But he'd had seen other parents write notes for their kid's lunches. He'd seen parents do those ridiculous fancy lunches in the weird shape boxes.

He didn't want to ruin her first day. 

Jason didn't want Juliet to miss out on being a kid.

He didn't want her to feel unloved.

Even if that feeling came from some other kid getting a note and a fancy lunch and Juliet didn't.

He didn't want to ruin her childhood.

Jason shook his head and looked out the apartment window.

Would she need a jacket? 

It was warm enough outside, right? 

If it wasn’t, surely the school wouldn’t mind him not sending Juliet until it was warm enough in a few days…weeks…or a few months, right? 

What if she was cold at school and a Mr Freeze knock-off super villain showed up and froze the place.

Would Juliet die from hypothermia?

All because he sent her to kindergarten without a jacket? 

He wasn’t panicking at all. Nope. 

Not panicking at all.

He felt something cool run down his fingers. The coffee mug he knocked over, it had sat next to him and was not turned on its side.

Thank god it was now cold.

Across the loft apartment, Juliet was bouncing on the couch in a navy-blue dress, one sock up, the other half-on, clutching her new backpack like a trophy.

The backpack was purple. Too purple. And way too big for her.

Oh he wasn’t ready for this.

“I’m ready!” she announced, tugging the zipper up and falling over slightly from the weight.

Jason blinked. “You sure?”

“Uh-huh.” Juliet scrambled upright again and pointed to her name scribbled across the front. “See? It’s got my letters.”

He smiled softly. “Yeah, I see Jules.”

She had drawn them on with a sharpie herself after asking him to write her name down on paper so she could copy it. 

She was so proud of the messy writing that was only readable to her.

Jules had been insisting she knew how to read full sentence and had taken to attempting to read short picture books to him at night.

Jason amusedly agreed, listening to her and helping her with difficult words.

His kid was a genius. 

Even if she couldn't read fully by herself yet, she was a genius.

Or at least, she was a genius to him.

Jason had been delaying this day in his head, since she turned four. The official paperwork had come months ago after he toured a few kindergartens that offered Pre-K. He’d left it on the counter for a week before filling it out. 

Every time he thought about sending her into a building full of strangers, he’d hear the echo of his younger self — the boy who had been excited at the idea of an education.

However, the novelty for him had stopped pretty quickly once people found out about his new relationship to the Watne family. He had flinched at too loud footsteps of the bigger kids and staff members.

He remembered learning how to use Robin skills to read people the way soldiers read terrain. 

He remembered school being a battlefield . 

Juliet thought it was a party and was so excited to be around other kids .

“Are there going to be books?” she asked, spinning in circles. “Like big ones?”

Jason stood and knelt to fix her socks. “Yeah, probably a whole library.”

“Can I borrow one for you?”

That got him. “You’re gonna make me cry before we even get to the door.”

“Daaaaaaddy.” She groaned. “You promised not to do that in front of the teachers.”

“I didn’t promise not to cry at all. My baby girl is growing up on me! ”

She grinned, gap-toothed and beaming. Jason stared at her like she might disappear if he looked away too fast.

In the hallway, he took a photo using a fancy camera that was a gift from Talia. She posed with her arms wide and one foot off the ground.

“Say cheese.”

“Waffles!”

Click. Flash. 

Photo taken.

One photo of a cute kid.

He grabbed out his phone and had taken a few photos of them together, some with silly faces and some him embarrassing her by raspberry kissing her cheek.

‘That loose front tooth is due to come out any day now’, he thought, putting away the camera. 

While Jason had initially blanched at the thought of doing things in a stereotypical pinterest parental kind of way, like the tooth fairy, he’d realised there were a lot of things he wanted to do for Juliet that no one had done for him, things that he would never get back. 

Cheesy first day of school photos included.

In the car, Jules was buzzing had chattered endlessly about the alphabet and whether glue sticks were edible. Jason nodded and made noncommittal noises except to warn her not to eat the glue, but inside, his thoughts were reeling. 

She was bouncing in her car seat, so, so excited. The car seat that held her looked almost too small. 

One day it would be too small.

When they arrived at the school, Jason parked and stared at the building like it was Arkham Asylum in disguise.

Juliet unbuckled herself excitedly and reached for him when he opened the car door. Jason caught her as she jumped out of the car.

He always did and Juliet knew that.

The kid was way too smart sometimes.

Jason wasn’t quite sure where it came from. Him or… or the people who were the reason he had Juliet.

He hoped it was him.

Juliet dragged him towards the building, excitement in her voice. She still held his hand without thinking and that was the thing that undid him most. 

One day, she wouldn’t.

“Are you coming in?” Juliet pulled him along.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Of course.”

Inside, the walls were covered in drawings and alphabet charts. The room buzzed with the nervous energy of other kids and other parents trying not to cry.

Oh god, he was not going to cry.

Juliet spotted a girl with sparkly shoes and made a beeline towards her. Figures that she would choose someone with a similar shoe choice as her. Jason followed slowly, clutching the cuff of his jacket like it might anchor him.

A teacher knelt beside Juliet and the other kid with a clipboard in hand. “Hi there! What’s your name?”

“Juliet Diana Todd.” She answered with total confidence. 

Jason noticed a parent nearby wincing.

Fuck them, his kid was awesome and named after Wonder Woman. 

Try to beat that.

“She likes dinosaurs,” he offered. “And astronomy- space stuff. And she’s allergic to kiwis.”

The teacher nodded, crossing her name off the role.  “Got it. It’s all on the intake forms that you filled out. You can stay for a bit if you want.”

Jason looked at Juliet who was distracted. She was already unpacking a crayon box, completely absorbed with drawing with the girl with sparkly shoes.

She made a friend. She made a friend all on her own.

She made a friend and was growing up on him.

Oh god, he was not going to cry.

She didn’t look back at him and his heart started to ache.

She didn't need him.

He hovered. 

One more second.

One more of being needed.

Then it came out. “Daddy?”

He froze. “Yeah, baby?”

Juliet turned around and waved. “You can go now. I’m okay.”

Just like that. She was grown up.

His heart broke.

Jason’s throat tightened. “Okay. I’ll be right outside, though. In the car. Or down the street. Or—”

She ran up and hugged his leg. 

Fast and fierce, she was. 

“I know. Teta says you worry too much. She said that’s why your hair is white”

The name hung in the air for a second too long. While Talia had protested about not being old enough to be a grandmother to Juliet, she had allowed the girl to recognise her as one and call her Teta.

Jason had to swallow his laughter into a pillow when she gave her a handmade 'Happy Grandmother's day' card for mothers day.

Talia had glared at him. 

She was not amused, but it was totally worth it. 

Jason laughed, and his eyes stung. “Yeah, she’s not wrong. Bye baby”

“Bye daddy”.

He walked back to the car with one hand clenched in his jacket pocket, holding the tiny drawing Juliet had slipped him at breakfast. It was them, stick-figured and smiling, with a sun and a dog they didn’t own.

He sat in the driver’s seat for fifteen minutes.

Then pulled out his phone and sent Juliet’s first day photos to Talia.

Jason: She went in. Didn’t look back. Absolutely fearless.

The reply came almost instantly and assuredly.

Talia: She will be okay Habibi. 

He exhaled and started preparing for his own first day. 

He got accepted into a bachelors degree of english literature at the local university and while Talia had offered for him to be sent to a more Ivy League school, he didn’t want to risk being found by Bruce or anyone else Gotham related. 

He was going to be a Professor of Literature one day and they could all suck it. 

Jason Todd and his daughter lived.

The sun rose a little higher.

Chapter Text

The wind tugged at Jason’s hoodie as he stepped off the Number 6 bus, a battered English textbook under his arm and his backpack sagging with the weight of unfinished assignments and books.

The last year of his degree had been brutal, but the finish line was in sight and the promise of relief was palpable.

The kindergarten stood quietly beside the community center, its high chain-link fence lined with drying finger paintings and the laughter of children floating through like music.

Jason spotted her immediately—the little girl in a purple coat carrying a heap of leaves, carefully arranging them into a pile.

She’d recently taken to diving into the piles when they played at the park and coming home with stray leaves and mud in her curly hair and on her clothes. Bath time and laundry day was not a fun time for either of them.

“Hey, Jules,” he called.

Juliet’s face broke into sunshine. “Daddy!”

She barreled toward him, and Jason knelt to scoop her up, steadying his balance as she wrapped her arms around his neck. 

God, she had gotten so big.

Only four and yet his heart ached, remembering the little bundle found in the alley.

She was still his little girl.

For a moment, the heaviness in his chest loosened, and all that remained was her warmth and the smell of peanut butter.

“You picked me up today!” she grinned, as if it were a surprise.

“Thursday’s waffle day at Offbeat's remember?” he smiled back.

She nodded solemnly, curls bouncing.

Waffle day was a sacred weekly family bonding activity. “We made birds. Like the ones you and Teta made!”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter. “Like Teta.”

They started walking, Juliet swinging their joined hands, humming off-key.

Talia had taught Jason how to fold paper cranes when he was catatonic and it had stayed with him after the Lazarus pits allowed him to be conscious again. Her hands had been careful, her voice low but warm, whispering folding instructions like incantations. Those birds were a comfort in a loud, unpredictable, and often violent environment. But in those stolen quiet moments, away from the training, the tests and…and the thoughts…Jason and Talia would fold.

He could still picture her fingers, bruised but precise, smoothing the creases and wondered if she had ever done the same with Damian or Bruce. 

Juliet tugged his hand. “Daddy?”

“Hmm?”

“If you make a lot of paper birds, you get a magic wish right? That’s what Teta said.”

He glanced down. “That’s right.”

“What would you wish for?”

He hesitated. There were over a thousand answers that he could give. 

For Catherine Todd to get and stay sober.

Shelia, his birth mother to not have sold him out.

Willis to have left Catherine and him sooner. Or get it together long enough for Catherine to get well.

For the man he called his father to never replace him with a younger model. 

For time with Juliet to slow down so she didn’t grow up as quickly as she had been….

“I’d wish,” he said slowly, “for you to always feel safe and loved.”

Juliet beamed. “That’s a good wish. I’d wish for a dog.”

Jason laughed, the sound cracked but genuine. “Of course you would.”

“Or all the waffles.”

“Oh that one. You definitely want that one” He swung their arms, giving her a little twirl.

They reached the corner diner just as the last traces of daylight were being swallowed by the horizon.

The small neon sign of The Offbeat buzzed lazily, casting a soft, flickering glow over the weathered stools and scratched-up counter inside.

It was a regular stop for them on Thursday nights—Jason’s unofficial weekly family dinner tradition with Juliet.

The diner was small, but warm, always filled with the comforting smells of greasy food and fresh coffee. There was something about it, something simple and unassuming, that made it feel like home, like a good Gotham vibe before you stepped outside into the literal nightmare that was the city streets.

Jason held the door open for Juliet, who skipped inside, her little sneakers tapping against the worn tile floor in quick rhythm.

The sound was familiar, like the background music to their shared routine. The bell above the door chimed as they entered, and Jason greeted the old waitress behind the counter with a nod.

“Evenin’, you two,” she said, her voice warm but gravelly from years of serving the late-night crowd. 

Marion was in her late sixties, with silver hair tied up in a messy bun and a face that had been carved from decades of hard work.

Juliet’s face lit up at the sight of her, of course, she was the waffle lady, the keeper of waffles.

Juliet immediately skipped toward the counter, hopping up onto the bar stool without needing any help at all, her feet swung, she was not yet tall enough to reach the ground. 

He wasn’t ready for the day that her feet did.

Jason took the seat beside her, sliding onto the faded red vinyl stool with a soft squeak.

“The usual for you and the little one?” Marion asked, scribbling on her notepad with a pencil that had seen better days.

“You know it,” Jason replied, the corners of his mouth lifting. He didn’t need to look at the menu anymore. It was always waffles—fluffy, golden, piled high with syrup. Orange juice for her, black coffee for him.

It was their thing.

Marion smiled, her lips curving into a knowing expression as she shuffled off to the kitchen. Juliet leaned over the counter, her hands resting on the polished surface, eyes wide as she looked at the tiny glass bottle of syrup sitting at the edge of the counter.

“How many waffles do you think we’ll get today, Daddy?” she asked, her voice filled with innocent wonder.

“Probably three,” Jason replied, his voice a little more tired than he wanted to admit. “But you can always ask for more if you’re hungry. You know how it works.”

He wanted her to always feel safe and provided for.

“Three!” Juliet’s face lit up with excitement, and she began swinging her legs more energetically beneath the counter. She was already imagining the waffles, each one stacked high with butter and syrup, glistening like little golden towers, he could see it in her eyes. “I’m going to eat them all.” She said in a deep little monster voice.

Jason chuckled. “I wouldn’t be surprised. You’re a bottomless pit when it comes to waffles.”

Juliet giggled, her curls bouncing around her face as she beamed at him, her excitement practically bubbling over. She loved these moments, these simple family nights. It wasn’t about anything grand, just a plate of waffles, orange juice and her dad, and the feeling of being full.

Jason would never let her go hungry. 

She would never know what it would be like to be cold or starving.

Not if he could help it.

Jason glanced over at the menu, though he knew he’d be sticking with the usual too. There was comfort in the routine, the predictability, the sameness of the diner, the same booth, the same waitress, and the same waffles every Thursday night.

The clatter of plates and the hum of the kitchen filled the air as Marion returned, sliding a steaming plate of waffles in front of Juliet. The smell of the freshly cooked batter made Jason’s stomach growl, and he couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his daughter’s face lighting up in delight.

“Four waffles, just like you wanted,” Marion said with a wink, placing a small jug of syrup next to Juliet’s plate.

“Hey it was only supposed to be three! I only got three!” he protested.

Juliet’s eyes went wide as she leaned forward, her small hands reaching for the syrup.

“Yessss!” she whispered, as though she were winning some sort of secret prize.

She grabbed the bottle with both hands and poured it generously over her waffles, her tongue sticking out in concentration as she drizzled the syrup in a thick, winding line from one end of the stack to the other.

Jason chuckled, taking his own plate of waffles as he grumbled about his three waffles. His were slightly smaller, but just as golden. He reached for the syrup himself, pouring it with a more measured hand, the weight of his exhaustion making him slow and deliberate in the action. He couldn’t help but watch Juliet, who was already digging into her waffles with a ferocity only a child could muster.

“How’s it taste?” Jason asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“It’s sooo good, Daddy!” Juliet exclaimed between bites, her cheeks puffed out as she chewed. 

“I’m glad,” Jason said, his smile softening.

He reached over, grabbing a piece of his own waffle, and dug in. The familiar taste of butter and syrup filled his mouth.

For a few minutes, they ate in comfortable silence, the sounds of chewing and the soft clink of cutlery the only background noise. Jason didn’t rush. 

He never wanted to rush when it came to these moments, when it was just him and Juliet.

“How’s school going?” Marion asked, her voice cutting through the quiet, her tone conversational, as though she’d known him his whole life. 

Jason sighed, wiping a crumb from his lips. “It’s... it’s a lot. Finals are coming up, and I feel like I’m barely keeping up with everything.”

“You’ll make it through,” she said with a reassuring smile. “You’re a tough one.”

He smiled weakly. “I guess so.”

Juliet, ever the optimist, piped up from her side of the counter, “Daddy’s really smart! He knows lots of things. He’s gonna be the best doctor!”

Jason chuckled at her enthusiasm, feeling his heart warm despite the heaviness that had been weighing on him all day. She always had a way of making everything seem better.

After finishing their waffles, Juliet let him help her climb down from her seat, and Jason followed her toward the door, glancing back at Marion as they left. “Thanks for the waffles,” he said with a smile, and she waved him off.

“You two take care now,” Marion called after them, her voice carrying a note of affection. Of course, she adored Juliet. Who wouldn't? 

His kid was damn adorable.

The cold evening air greeted them as they stepped outside, Juliet grabbed his hand, her small fingers slipping into his with ease. She looked up at him, her face still flushed from the waffles and her belly full, her eyes bright and full of love.

“Daddy, can we come back next Thursday?” she asked, her voice filled with hope.

“Of course,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Same time, same place.”

That night, after three, sorry four waffles smothered in maple syrup, Juliet was curled beneath her pink duvet with three stuffed animals and a picture book about space and half a chapter of a Jane Austen novel, Jason sat at the kitchen table under a flickering overhead light. He pulled a page from his notebook—scribbled with lecture notes and coffee stains—and began to fold.

His hands moved slower than Talia’s ever had. But the memory of her was in his fingers.

Fold. Press. Reverse.

The paper crane was crooked and clumsy

He placed it on the windowsill, next to Juliet’s current finger painted art projects and a framed photo of Talia holding a baby Juliet. He sighed.

Another page of his assignment waited for him.

Chapter Text

It was Friday afternoon when Jason pulled up to the school, ten minutes early like he had been doing all week. He leaned against the hood of the car, arms crossed, watching as parents trickled in, chatting with one another, waving to teachers, wrangling siblings. He never joined them. 

Between Juliet, his college masters program and everything else…he’d begun to slowly despise soccer moms and barbecue dads. Perfect social media families. Urgh!

He wasn’t exactly the “school gate small talk” type. Not that they hadn’t tried to recruit him to their group.

One of the mother’s had tried to slip him her number to set up an ‘adult playdate’. 

Oh boy had that been awkward.

Especially since her husband also tried the week prior.

A bell rang. 

Kids spilled out like marbles across a tile floor.

And there was Juliet — the too-big purple backpack bouncing behind her, paint on her collar and ears, her hair a little wild, curls escaping the braids he’d become an expert at doing in under 10 minutes.

Jason smiled. “Hey, Baby.”

She ran to him, arms open, and he scooped her up before she could even speak.

“You smell like glitter and glue,” he said, mock-serious, pulling back from their hug with a fake look of disgust.

“We did art! I made a bunny spaceship!”

“Obviously. I’d expect nothing less.”

They walked back to the car hand in hand. It wasn’t until her seatbelt clicked into place that he noticed she was being quiet. 

“You okay Jules?” Jason asked, glancing at her in the rearview as he started the car.

Had something bad happened at school?

Was she being bullied?

Was one of the teachers a supervillain? Did a rougue show up?

Or worse...him.

She shrugged, looking out the window. “Yeah.”

Jason started the engine. “That’s the least convincing ‘yeah’ I’ve heard all week. What’s going on Jules?”

Juliet stayed quiet for a few seconds, then asked, softly:

“Where’s my mom?”

The question hit like an icy bullet — not fatal, but jarring. He kept his hands steady on the wheel. 

It was a normal question. 

A natural question.

It was an awful, world-ending question.

“Did something happen at school?”

“No,” she said. “Just… everyone else was getting picked up by lots of people. Moms and dads and big brothers and sisters. Or grandmas and grandpas. It was like… everyone has really big families.”

Jason swallowed. “And you thought about yours.”

Juliet nodded. “Is it just us?”

He took a breath, exhaled slowly. “It’s not just us. You have people. You’ve got Teta, remember?”

“She doesn’t live here.”

“No, she doesn’t. But she’d fly across the planet if you needed her.” 

Talia had in the past. 

There had been a specific incident two years ago that came to mind. Juliet had been three and had gotten chicken pox and Jason had called Talia panicking and overwhelmed.

Talia had been in Botswana on a mission for Ra's and was convinced by Jason’s ranting that Juliet was dying. Jason had been awake for three days, dehydrated, starving and incredibly sleep deprived. He had forgotten to mention the chicken pox part.

She was not impressed.

But she did bring a nice vegetable soup.

Juliet tilted her head. “Did I have a mom? Do I still have mom?”

Jason didn’t answer right away.

How could he?

He pulled into the closest quiet street to park safely, and turned to face her. His hands trembled slightly, just enough for him to tuck them into his lap.

He didn’t want to lie to her. 

Never her.

But…but she was five and it was so…so complicated. 

And so heartbreaking.

…how do you tell someone they were abandoned in an alley?

...Just like he was.

How dare they?

GREEN SHINED.

Bright GREEN swirled in his eyes and chest. Jason tried to shake that thought off.

How do you tell your own child that they were abandoned?

JUST LIKE HE WAS.

“Yeah,” he said gently and slowly breathing. He didn't want this bomb to go off. “You had a mom. She… couldn’t stay. She wasn’t safe. And she didn’t know how to keep you safe either, so…she left you in a safe space for me to find you.”

Juliet’s voice was small. “Did she die?”

Count down struck zero.

Detonation.

He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Not that I know of. But … she’s not part of your life anymore, and that’s not your fault.”

Juliet’s lip wobbled. “Was I bad?”

Jason’s voice cracked. “Hey—no. No, Jules, Jules listen to me. You were never bad. You are so loved. You are loved.” He climbed out of the driver’s seat and climbed in the back of the car to hug his kid.

She looked at him, eyes wide and too innocent.

Jason reached over and brushed her hair behind her ear. “Sometimes people don’t know how to love the right way. And that leaves other people to pick up the pieces.”

“Like you?”

“Yeah.” He smiled softly. “Like me.”

Juliet fiddled with the strap of her seatbelt. “Do you ever wish you had a big family?”

Jason leaned back at the question. His mind flicked briefly to the days at the Manor. 

To Alfred. 

To...to...to Bruce. 

To the many other names he didn’t speak about anymore, and to ghosts that only showed up when it hurt the most.

“I used to,” he admitted. “I used to think, once upon a time, that a normal family had to look a certain way. Big table, lots of people, holiday arguments, noise.”

“And now?”

He looked at her. “Now I think the family's whoever stays with ya. And whoever chooses again and again to stay and love you”

Juliet was quiet, then said: “So… it’s me and you. And sometimes Teta.”

“Exactly.” He tapped her nose. “And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

She smiled again, a little more brightly this time. She leaned over the seat and whispered, “Thanks for coming to get me early. It makes me feel special.”

“You are special,” he said. “Every single day.”

She nodded. “Can we get waffles?”

Jason laughed. “Yeah kid, yeah we can get waffles.”

And as he pulled back onto the road, Juliet started humming a song from art class. Jason watched her in the mirror. 

And god, he loves her.

Chapter Text

The cave was quiet tonight.

Too quiet.

Bruce stood alone beneath the cold arch of the main terminal, shadows crawling along the stone walls like ghosts he’d never quite banished. The only sounds were the quiet hum of the BatComputer and the steady drip of water echoing through the dark.

He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there.

Time was meaningless in the cave. 

It had a way of dissolving into the endless grind of patrols, reports, training regimes, contingency plans. 

Every night bled into the next.

But sometimes—like tonight—there was nothing left to throw himself into. No immediate crisis. No criminals to punch. 

Just the silence. 

Just the absence.

Just him and his ghosts.

He stared at the memorial case. The empty robin suit inside looked like it belonged to a ghost. The “R” still glimmered in the light, cheerful and bold. 

Mocking him.

Bruce hated how clean the suit looked. Hated how pristine it remained when Jason hadn’t.

And although it had been present for five years, Bruce still wasn't used to seeing it every night.

He clenched his jaw.

"I should take it down," he muttered aloud.

But he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t . 

Removing it felt like forgetting. 

Leaving it felt like punishment.

Why Alfred had decided this was the best place for the memorial was beyond him but Bruce did not have the heart to argue with the man, too wrapped up in his own grief to think clearly. Dick had been furious with the old man that it had been allowed to exist in the first place. 

Barbara had refused to come to the cave for weeks after she’d first seen it, citing that Jason would have hated it. She only came back because of Tim's begging. 

Tim did his best to avoid the conversation with Bruce altogether.

Bruce spoke to Leslie earlier that day. She’d said he looked healthier. More grounded and present. Like maybe… just maybe… he was learning how to carry the grief instead of letting it consume him.

He wasn’t sure she was right.

Bruce turned away from the suit and headed for the workstation, every step heavy with the kind of tiredness that sleep couldn’t touch. He pulled up the usual patrol routes. Nothing special. A few muggings. Some gang activity in the Narrows. The Joker hadn’t been spotted in weeks. Not since—

No.

Don’t.

He caught himself before the thought finished forming.

The Joker lived. Jason didn’t.

That equation never stopped burning. Why?

His hands hovered over the keyboard. Maybe he should go out anyway. 

Chase shadows. 

Pretend there was a reason to keep chasing them. Pretend there was a reason to keep moving forward that didn’t taste like guilt.

But he didn’t move.

Instead, he reached into the drawer beside the keyboard. Pulled out a small, creased photograph.

Jason.

Just a kid in this one, teeth crooked in a grin that showed he’d been caught mid-laugh. Black eye from a fight. Alfred had insisted on documenting it after patching him up. Jason had thrown a fit—until he saw the photo and declared it “badass.”

Bruce hadn’t laughed then.

But he remembered the sound of Jason’s laughter. Remembered it more clearly than his own.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against his knuckles.

“I’m trying to do better, kid,” he whispered to the photograph. “I swear to God, I’m trying.”

The grief didn’t stab like it used to. Not the fresh, sharp pain that had made him want to tear Gotham apart brick by brick. It was duller now. But heavier. Like a chain that sat just behind his ribs.

A weight he’d carry every day.

Mostly that weight made him tired.

He could smile again now. Alfred told him that was progress. He could sleep—some nights. He even talked to Dick more. Let Tim stay. Didn’t snap at Barbara when she offered help.

Progress.

But none of that meant he didn’t still feel like he failed. Like he’d left Jason behind when he needed him most. He remembered standing over the crater where that warehouse had been. Staring into ash and twisted steel and Jason’s body weak in his arms as he passed.

Not a proper goodbye for the father and son. 

Just dust and echoes.

Bruce had screamed that first night back in Gotham. The kind of sound no one was ever supposed to hear from Batman. 

Alfred never mentioned it again.

A sound broke the silence.

A chirp.

Low and soft. He looked up. The Batcomputer had flagged something on the police scanner. A minor call: someone had found a baby abandoned in Crime Alley. Crying, but alive.

Bruce’s spine locked.

Crime Alley.

Another child, alone.

Another echo of something broken.

He exhaled slowly, forcing down the anger that came with the news. He couldn’t afford to let it control him again. Not now. Not after… everything. He typed a quick note to the GCPD. Told them to call Leslie. To make sure the child didn’t get lost in the cracks. And he meant it.

He wouldn’t let another Jason happen.

That was the promise he kept now. To protect the broken before they broke more. To fight for the ones nobody else would.

But deep down—when the cave was quite like this—he didn’t fight for Gotham anymore.

He fought for Jason.

Always.

The city was quieter in these parts.

Bruce kept to the shadows until he saw it.

A man standing on a street corner, hands in his pockets. Laughing. Watching two boys toss a rugby ball back and forth across the sidewalk while a younger girl clung to his coat, beaming up at him like he hung the moon. The man said something Bruce couldn’t hear, and all three kids erupted in laughter.

He turned away.

Something in his chest twisted.

The grief, the guilt, the aching. All the pain he tried to avoid. He had routines for avoiding it now — nightly patrols, never skipping breakfast, work meetings, Dick and Tim keeping him too busy to fall into the silence.

But sometimes...sometimes it slipped through.

This man got to see his kids grow up.

That man got to laugh with them, joke with them, and walk beside them. That man would know what it felt like to hold a grandchild, maybe. He would know what his son’s adult laugh sounded like. He would know what his child's wedding looked like.

He would never have to wonder what his boy’s voice might sound like at twenty, or if it would deepen with time or if he’d grow into that sarcastic wit. He would never sit in the cave late at night, replaying Jason’s last voicemails, just to remember how he laughed.

Jason didn’t get to grow up.

Didn’t get to graduate.

Didn’t get to fall in love.

Didn’t get to have kids of his own.

Because Bruce had failed him.

He stood under the shadow of a fire escape, eyes on the family still across the street, and for a second, let the bitterness wash over him.

Jason had trusted him, followed him, believed in him — and Bruce had let him die in some godforsaken warehouse, alone, scared, and still waiting for rescue.

He clenched his jaw, looking away. His hands curled into fists inside his coat.

The man across the street had pulled the youngest up into his arms, carrying her as they crossed toward a parked SUV. The kids piled in laughing. Seatbelts clicked. The headlights flicked on. They drove off — warm, full of life, and whole.

Bruce’s shadows wrapped around him like old regrets. When he finally moved again, it was slow.

Careful.

Like any sudden motion might break him.

Later that night, as he sat on the rooftop across from Crime Alley, watching the dark street below, Bruce let the silence settle again.

He told himself it was for reconnaissance — checking traffic patterns, observing construction sites, ensuring the usual corners were quiet — but the truth was, he didn’t want to go home. 

Not yet. 

He pictured Jason—ten years old, knuckles bloody, stealing the tires off the Batmobile. Bold. Loud. Alive.

He let himself smile for half a second.

Then the smile faded.

“I miss you,” he said to the wind.

And this time, it didn’t feel like a confession. It felt like something truer than pain.

It felt like love.

And maybe—just maybe—that was progress too.

Chapter Text

Juliet counted the days on the calendar with a pink marker.

Seven.

Seven days until she turned nine.

At the wise age of 8 and 9/10th Juliet knew three things.

1. Her Dad loved her. So much so that he was willing to make her a dinosaur cake.
2. Her best friend Maria was the coolest person in the world. Sparkly shoes and all. Aside from her Teta.
3. She had only seven days until she was nine years old!

It wasn’t really about the cake, though her dad had promised her a chocolate one with pink frosting. 

It wasn’t even about the pile of new books she’d already sneakily spotted under her dad’s bed. 

It was about being nine.

Nine sounded big.

Like an adult. 

Nine sounded like maybe she could start getting answers to the questions grown-ups always managed to get out of answering. 

Like where do babies come from?

And where does Teta go when she isn't here?

And this year, her dad was graduating from his fancy school program. He was studying to be a doctor, but not a real medical doctor. 

A book doctor. 

She didn't know books could get hurt enough to need a doctor.

Juliet watched him from the hallway that morning, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by papers and folders and a black gown that looked both too heavy and too fancy for him. 

He looked tired, a happy kind of tired, like when they watched late night movie.

Not the sad kind of tired that she occasionally saw from him.

She padded in quietly and plopped beside him.

“Do I have to call you Doctor Dad now?”

He laughed, that low warm-chest laugh that meant he wasn’t just indulging her and wrapped an arm around her. “Only if you want to. It has a nice ring to it.”

“I think I like just ‘Dad.’”

“Yeah?” He brushed her curls from her eyes. “Me too.”

She watched him fiddle with the tassel on his cap.

“Are you nervous?”

He didn’t answer right away. “A little bit Bug. But not about graduating.”

Juliet tilted her head. “Then what?”

He looked at her like he wasn’t sure if she was old enough to understand. He really needed to stop doing that.

She was so old enough.

Almost nine.

“Your Teta’s coming,” he said eventually.

Juliet perked up. “Really? From across the world Teta?”

“Yep. The one and only.”

Juliet smiled, but something in her chest tightened. 

The last time she’d seen Teta face to face had been a long while ago, most contact was mostly through mail or phone calls. Her dad said it was only six months but that felt like forever ago!

She remembered the long black coat Teta wore aways smelling like jasmine, the green scarf that Teta had given her, the way her voice sounded like soft and rulely at the same time. 

Teta had held her gently, like she was something fragile. 

It wasn’t in a bad way, it was just like someone who hadn’t learned how to be gentle and way trying really hard to be. 

Her dad had laughed when she explained it to him. 

He said that Teta wasn’t used to being around little children. That Damian, her uncle who she had never met, was the last child Talia was around and that she rarely saw him because he was at a school faraway.

“Is that why you’re nervous?” Juliet asked.

Her dad gave her a cheeky smile. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who’s not even nine yet.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I get it from you.”

That made him laugh again, but softer this time. 

He didn’t answer her question.

That night, Juliet lay in bed and listened to the city hum through the loft bedroom windows.

She wondered if other families were as mismatched as hers. Her dad apparently used to be someone who punched people for a living but was now teaching others how to write and read books. Her grandmother was more like a shadow than an actual present figure.

And a mom she’d never met but had loved her enough to make sure her dad could find her. Or at least that’s what she had been told.

Her dad never lied to her. 

That mattered.

But he didn’t always tell her everything either.

She turned over and stared at the glowing stars on her ceiling. Her dad had spent an entire hour putting them up! 

He was so tall! 

She remembered the conversation about kids at school with moms and dads and siblings who had packed lunches with little notes and gave hugs at the gate. She didn’t feel jealous exactly — more curious, her dad did the same things for her but sometimes, when she saw those families, it felt like she’d missed a book in a series everyone else had read.

The day of the graduation was bright and windy.

Juliet wore a dress Jason had let her pick out — purple with yellow stars. 

Jason wore the graduation robe.

Juliet was convinced it was a secret wizard robe. 

He looked stiff in it, but also proud, like maybe part of him believed he’d earned this after all.

Juliet spotted Talia before Jason did.

She stepped out of a sleek black car like she was in a spy movie, wearing a long emerald coat that shimmered in the light. Her hair was perfect and flowing, her green eyes sharp as glass, but they softened the second they found Juliet and Jason.

“ Teta! ” Juliet ran up before she could change her mind.

Talia knelt, arms open.

“Oh my habibi! You’ve grown,” she said in a voice that wrapped around Juliet like velvet. “Nine years old, and already are growing into a beautiful young lady”

“Almost nine,” Juliet corrected, smiling. “You came.”

“I said I would,” Talia rubbed her hand against Juliet’s cheek.

Jason caught up then, and for a second, the air between him and Talia felt light. 

Just full.

“Thanks for coming,” he said.

Talia tilted her head. “You earned it. I wouldn’t miss this.”

The ceremony was long and boring . Juliet sat next to Talia in the crowd. 

Talia didn’t talk much about herself.

Whenever Juliet had asked, the responses had been vague and asking ‘why’ ‘why’ ‘why’ over and over again hadn’t expanded Talia’s responses. She asked Juliet questions about school, her friends, her hobbies and everything else going on in her life but never reveal much of her own.

She wasn’t much for physical affection either but whenever Juliet leaned against her, she didn't pull away.

When Jason’s name was called to walk across the stage — “Doctor Jason Todd” — Juliet stood up on the chair and cheered louder than anyone else. 

Talia clapped, calm and composed. There was the faintest flicker of pride in her expression, like she’d been waiting to see this happen for longer than anyone knew.

Later, when the crowds thinned and the photos were taken, Juliet was busy finishing the last of an over frosted cupcake, and Jason was distracted wrangling his graduation robe back into some semblance of dignity. Talia herded them towards the carpark and handed Jason a small wrapped box.

Inside was a key with a keychain photo of Juliet and Jason together.

Juliet looked up at her dad. “Whats it for?”

Talia looked to Jason with a careful smile, then back to her. “I believe it’s an old American custom to get the graduate a new car.”

Juliet touched the key chain. “You got us a car?”

“Yes.”  Talia pointed out into the campus carpark.

That’s when she saw the sleek, low black car, matte finish, not flashy, but unmistakably expensive car, in the car park.

Jason looked up.

Paused.

Frowned.

“Oh no,” he muttered.

Juliet turned jumping up and down. “It’s so cool!”

“Don’t encourage her.”

Talia raised an eyebrow. “It’s not flashy , Jason. I made sure. It’s efficient. Quiet. And most importantly, safe.”

Jason crossed his arms. “I have a car.”

Talia glanced at the aging, dented rust red Jeep that sat across the lot, still clinging to life with a mismatched door. “You have a safety hazard.”

They had this conversation many times over the years and although Talia had given Jason unlimited resources, Jason was still careful and scare with what he had, including the rust bucket car.

Jason scowled. “That hazard’s been with me since Gotham. I rebuilt the engine myself and it’s the car I had when I bought Juliet home. You think I’m just gonna toss it because you—what, gifted me a Batmobile knockoff in front of my daughter?”

Juliet, who had wandered over to inspect the new car’s inside, poked her head out. “It smells clean and like a forest.”

Talia gave Jason a knowing look. “You have my precious granddaughter riding around in a rust bucket, one that isn't fit to grace the nearest dump. Maybe it’s time you stopped driving something that sounds like it’s coughing up its last breath every morning.”

Jason looked between the car, Talia, and Juliet. His jaw worked.

“I like the sound it makes,” he said.

Juliet grinned. “It does kind of sound like it’s sneezing every time it makes a left turn.”

“That’s called character , ” Jason snapped back defensively, his face deadpan.

Talia, watching the exchange, actually smiled — rare and subtle. “Fine. Park it in the loft garage. Or don’t. But it’s yours, whether you’re ready for it or not.”

Juliet climbed into the front seat and opened the glove box. Inside, instead of an owner’s manual, there was a slim envelope with “Dr. Jason Todd” written in Talia’s handwriting.

He didn’t open it when she gave it to him. 

But he took the key from her hand anyway and hugged Teta who looked a bit startled by the affection. 

“Yeah okay, thanks mom”

“You’re welcome habibi”. She kissed his forehead and Jason blushed. 

Juliet was just happy she caught it on camera.

That night, as Juliet got ready for bed, she peeked out the apartment window.

Her dad stood in the carpark, halfway between the two cars. He was being overly dramatic — just standing there, staring at both like they represented two different versions of his life.

She watched him finally sigh and unlock the new car. He opened the envelope inside.

Read it once.

Then again.

Then, he did something strange: he rested his hand on the hood. Soft. Almost reverent.

“Teta’s weird,” Juliet said to herself. “But she tries.”

She slipped into bed smiling and waited for her dad to tuck him in and start reading their book.

He was being extra dramatic tonight after all.

Maybe she could get him to do character voices.

Chapter Text

The apartment smelled like heavenly pancakes and dollar-store birthday candles.

Jason stood in the doorway of the tiny kitchen, holding a slightly lopsided dinosaur cake with pink frosting. He’d spent hours on it and was so proud of it. Juliet couldn’t wait to eat it! 

Juliet sat cross-legged on the couch in a paper crown, wearing her favorite mismatched socks — one with dinosaurs, the other with spaceships

“Alright, Bug,” Jason said, doing his best game show voice. “Are you ready for the most awesomest dinosaur cake?”

Juliet grinned, cheeks already sticky with icing from a previous sneak attack. “Only if it comes with a song.”

Jason groaned dramatically. “You drive a hard bargain.”

He cleared his throat and started singing “Happy Birthday” in the worst opera voice imaginable, drawing exaggerated vowels and waving a wooden spoon like a conductor.

Juliet laughed so hard she nearly tipped off the seat.

“Make a wish,” he said, setting the cake down on the coffee table. Nine candles flickered gently.

She closed her eyes, scrunched up her nose, and whispered something only she could hear before blowing them all out in one breath.

“What’d you wish for?” he asked, handing her a plastic fork.

She gave him a look. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

“Right, right. Forgot the ancient art of birthday magic involved.”

Jason sat down beside her and pulled a small box from his jacket. Wrapped in purple tissue paper, a blue ribbon stuck crookedly to the top.

Juliet’s eyes lit up. “You said no more presents!”

There had already been so many new books, puzzles and new skates.

“I may have miscounted,” he said with a smirk. “What else is new?”

She tore into the box and gasped. It was a new camera for her to use, one that produced the instant photos! Polaroids, she recalled. Juliet instantly ripped that packaging open to see a sparkly blue and white camera with rainbow patterns. 

Juliet hugged Jason’s legs with excitement “Thank you!” before dashing off to take photos of random objects around their apartment.

Jason shook his head. 

He could hardly believe that his baby was nine years old. It seemed like only yesterday he was bringing her home.

His little baby girl.

“Okay, close your eyes,” Juliet commanded as she ran back into the room, hands behind her back, a proud grin on her frosting-smeared face.

Jason raised a brow. “That’s usually how people get glitter bombs to the face.”

“Dad!” she groaned, in that long-suffering tone only a nine-year-old could pull off.

He smirked but obeyed, squeezing his eyes shut dramatically. “If this is a prank, I’m putting broccoli in your pancakes and waffles for the rest of the year.”

“Okay, okay — open!”

Jason peeked one eye open, then both.

Juliet was holding out a bracelet. Beads strung on an elastic cord — sparkly purples, blues, and pinks, glittering slightly in the light. The centerpiece was a mismatched arrangement of letter charms that spelled:

J-A-Y J-A-Y

He blinked.

“I made it at school,” she said, a little shy now. “Ms. Lisbon said we could make something for someone we love, and I thought you needed it. You always lose stuff.”

Jason laughed, but there was a tremor to it. "I don't always lose stuff." He knelt to her level and held the bracelet like it was made of glass. “Bug… this is…”

“I know it’s not perfect,” she rushed. “And one of the ‘Y’s is a capital—”

“It’s perfect,” he cut in. Voice rough. He immediately slipped it over his wrist, where it clashed completely with his dark hoodie and leather jacket. “I love it, Bug,” he said softly. “It’s perfect. Just like you.”

Juliet beamed and wrapped her arms around his middle, small and warm.

“Happy birthday,” He mumbled to her.

Juliet beamed. “Now if you lose it, I’m telling Teta.”

Jason snorted and pulled her up into his arms to deepen the hug.

Tight and safe.

“You’re not supposed to weaponize emotional blackmail on your birthday.”

She hugged tighter. “You taught me how.”

"Yeah well, let's have more cake." 

Jason knew something was wrong the moment he stepped back into the apartment. 

He stepped further in, grocery bag still in hand. He’d just been out for thirty minutes to the bodega down the street— milk, bread, a stupid novelty cereal Juliet had begged for because it had wolves, her newest obsession, on the box.

It was her birthday!

Of course he was going to say yes to her request. He was only gone for thirty minutes. 

The door was still locked. No forced entry.

No sound.

Not even the usual hum of the fridge or the quiet buzz of a documentary playing in the background. The silence hit like a punch to the gut. His hair stood on end.

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

“Juliet?” he called, voice tentative.

She’d been curled up on the couch when he left, wearing his hoodie, eyes glued to a snow-covered tundra and narrating facts about pack hierarchy whilst eating her cake. She’d barely glanced up when he kissed her hair when he walked out the door.

Now the TV was frozen on a scene of a lone wolf, limping through white silence.

“Juliet?” His voice was sharper now. “Kid?”

He walked into the living room — nothing. The couch cushions were slightly askew. Her sketchbook was lying open, half a doodle of a direwolf and a stick figure labeled “me.” Her stuffed fox lay on the floor, eyes tilted sideways like it had been dropped mid-laugh.

His heart kicked.

“Jules, this isn’t funny. Come out now!”

No answer.

“Bug come out now!” He was slightly hysterical.

Then he turned the corner into her room — and froze.

The window was open, curtain fluttering in the night breeze. The lamp on her nightstand lay shattered on the floor. And on the centre of her pillow—

A red lotus.

Perfect. Unbruised. 

Placed like a goddamn calling card.

Jason moved slowly toward the bed, like the air had turned thick. No signs of a struggle aside from the lamp.

No blood.

Nothing out of place. 

He ran through the apartment, checking closets, under beds, the fire escape — even though he knew. Every room screamed absence. 

Not a sign of struggle. 

No blood. 

No scuff marks. 

Nothing out of place… except the stillness. 

Like someone had removed her from the world with surgical precision. Everything was too clean. Too perfect. 

Planned.

His throat closed.

His phone buzzed from his pocket. He reached for it, hands numb.

One text.

No contact name.

No metadata. A burner number?

You want her back? Check the kitchen

He sprinted, panicking, heart racing and just filled with absolute dread— only to see something he hadn’t seen in years.

His helmet.

The Red Hood.

Laid there carefully, like a gift returned to its owner.

And next to it — a folded piece of paper.

He picked it up with shaking fingers.

Make Batman kill the Joker.

Jason stood frozen in the kitchen, phone in one hand, note in the other, helmet glaring up at him like an accusation.

He couldn’t breathe.

Juliet — his Juliet — was gone. Someone had broken into their home and taken her without a sound.

No witnesses.

No ransom calls.

No leads.

Just this.

A message. A helmet. A test.

And a trap.

He needed help. He needed to find Jules.

Talia.

He needed to call Talia 

He needed to call mom.

Mom.

Talia would know what to do.

Mom would know what to do.

His fingers trembled as he dialed.

Talia.

Straight to voicemail. Then nothing. No service. 

Line dead.

Juliet possibly dead!

He slammed the phone onto the counter hard enough to crack the screen.

He was being played.

And whoever did this wasn’t just targeting him.

They knew about his connection to Batman.

About Joker.

About the past Jason had tried so hard to bury beneath pancakes, homework, bedtime stories, and sleepy little hugs. 

Juliet didn’t know about the Red Hood. 

She didn’t know about Gotham. 

Him and Gotham.

She didn’t know her father used to wear that helmet or that he beat men’s kneecaps in to make that city safer for someone like her. That he had planned to paint the city red with blood for his vengeance.

That he gave all that up for her.

She didn't know about who to go to if she was unsafe in Gotham because he was certain there would never be a need.

She didn’t know about going to Leslie or Gordon or B-

She didn’t even know about Bruce.

Jason had made sure of that. 

No pictures. 

No stories. 

No traces.

Not even a Waynetech appliance in the apartment.

He wanted her to have a normal childhood — or as normal as she could get with an ex-Robin fugitive for a dad. He raised her far from Gotham, far from the cave, far from everything he used to be. So that she didn’t need to grow up afraid of the dark, because he’d already burned down the monsters.

And now that world had found her.

Jason’s hand hovered over the helmet.

He had buried that life. 

Promised he’d never be apart of that again. 

Swore it.

But she was all he had.

And someone had taken her like she was a pawn in a game he never agreed to play.

He looked down at the helmet again.

Red.

Cold.

Sickeningly familiar.

He picked it up and turned it in his hands. His reflection stared back at him — haunted and hollow.

“Forgive me, Jules,” he whispered, voice low and raw. “I’m gonna get you back. Even if I have to burn down every inch of the life I tried to build.”

He slid the helmet on, sealing away the last piece of Jason Todd.

What came out of the apartment that night wasn’t a father.

It was rage.

The Red Hood had been dead.

Now he’s reborn.

And Gotham — that festering wound of a city — would bleed until she was safe.

Chapter Text

The Red Hood’s arrival in Gotham hit like a storm ripping through the city’s underworld—a wildfire consuming everything in its path.

He hadn’t just come back.

He'd become a living nightmare.

He’d returned for one reason: Juliet. 

And the only obstacle standing between him and the monster who took her… was Batman and the Joker.

Going to any Bat-related person for help wasn't an option. 

Going to Bruce himself definitely wasn't an option.

Jason was supposed to be dead.

Dead and buried at barely 15.

They hadn't gotten along the last few months of Jason's previous life.

Bruce had basically disowned him.

Batman had disowned him.

I'm not your father, Jason. I don’t need teenage rebellion.

Jason couldn't go to Batman.

Bruce would get Juliet killed.

He valued the ideal of Batman too much.

Much more than he'd value his unknown grandchild.

…And Jason would kill him and burn Gotham if he so much as breathed the same air as her.

The clown however was fair game 

But the clown was gone.

No trace. 

No sightings. 

No laughter in the alleys, no twisted calling cards. 

Not even whispers in the East End or the Narrows. 

The Red Hood had scoured every contact he had when he first came back, every sewer, every asylum satellite.

Nothing.

It was like the Joker had been swallowed whole by the earth.

But Hood knew better.

Joker wasn’t hiding.

He was waiting.

Waiting for the right kind of chaos to show up and cause a Hell of his own making.

Which meant if he wanted to draw him out, Hood had to bring the chaos to him.

But Gotham was naturally used to chaos. It breathed it, adapted to it, even weaponized it. 

A missing Joker wasn’t enough to make the city flinch. It was enough to set her on edge but not a flinch. Sometimes it caused her people to breathe sigh of relief or sheer panic on what was coming next.

In Hood's case it was endless rage.

In Jason's case it was terror.

It was important that he separate the two. 

The Father and the Fearmonger.

So Hood turned his sights on the only man big enough, ruthless enough, paranoid enough to lure the Joker out of whatever hole he was festering in:

Roman Sionis.

Black Mask.

Black Mask had territory, resources, reach—and enemies. He also had a relationship with the Joker built on mutual hatred and nuclear paranoia. If Hood made himself a big enough threat to Black Mask’s empire, Sionis would start looking for nuclear options. And the Joker… the Joker always came with the sound of detonations closely followed.

Jason was on his own. 

No Talia. 

No allies. 

No help.

He tried getting in touch with Talia again and had no response. Maybe she was caught up in league bullshit or whoever took Jules got to her as well?

Either way, she couldn't help him.

And he couldn't afford to make mistakes.

So for now he buried Jason Todd, The Father.

So for now, he wasn't a father but a vigilante crime lord.

So Hood got to work.

The city descended into chaos almost overnight.

Bodies began to appear, dumped in dark alleyways, bound and warehouses with Black Mask's goods were annihilated. They were strategically selected—Black Mask’s lieutenants, drug peddlers, child traffickers, anyone with ties to the darker corners of Gotham’s underworld. 

Criminals that the Red Hood had no hesitation putting down.

Each corpse came with a message pinned to the chest in jagged handwriting:

"Give me Black Mask's head"

At first, Sionis thought it was just another turf war. He sent men. 

Then more men. 

Then specialists. 

All of them disappeared into the dark, only to resurface in pieces.

Still—no Joker.

And that was the problem.

Hood crouched low on a rooftop in the Cauldron District, the stench of mildew and trash thick in the air.

His wrist itched.

His helmet made him itch and the guns and knives at his side made him uncomfortable to the point of crawling out of his skin. 

He'd gone so long without having to use them on actual people that… well… let's just say he was glad he had kept up the league and bat training while Juliet was at school. Otherwise, this would have been a lot more messy. 

He didn't want to kill.

He didn't.

He didn't want to maim, murderer or kill.

He just wanted his kid.

Hood placed a marker beside the most recent body. Blood pooled beneath the corpse, seeping into the paper note he’d stabbed into the man’s ribs.

He waited.

Watched.

Breathed.

His burner phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn’t check it immediately. Not until the alley had been still for five minutes, not until the buzz came again, longer this time—urgent.

He pulled it free, thumbed it open.

He won’t come out unless someone shakes the tree. Start cutting.

Hood's stared at the screen. His hands trembled. 

It was a photo of her holding that day's Gotham Gazette newspaper.

Juliet.

She was still alive. She looked okay. If scared and terrified was the standard for okay.

But she was alive!

Still being held by god knows who. Still waiting for him to find her. And if he hesitated now—

The phone buzzed again. A second message.

You know what you have to do. Make them afraid again. Make HIM KILL.

Hood’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache, his molars grinding. He dropped the phone and picked up the helmet, holding it in both hands. The red surface was scratched, battered, scarred.

 Like him.

He slipped it on.

His wrist itched.

The HUD flickered to life.

His voice inside the helmet was flat and cold when he muttered, “No more waiting.” 

He reached for the duffle bag under his bed.

Black Mask’s dealers and left over lieutenants had been summoned, like rats to a burning ship. They sat at a long metal table in an abandoned shipping warehouse, muttering, twitching, reaching for weapons they knew wouldn’t save them. The duffle bag with heads of their fellow tradesmen lay open in front of them.

The air went dead silent when Red Hood stepped from the shadows.

The twin pistols were holstered, but everyone knew how fast he could draw.

“I’m not here to negotiate,” Hood said, voice metallic and distorted through the helmet. “I’m taking over your trade.”

There were murmurs, one man stood to object—Hood shot him in the leg.

The man dropped, screaming.

“Anyone else?” Hood asked.

No one spoke.

“You’ll get a quarter of the profit,” he continued. “I don’t care how you feel about it. You’re going to do what I say because I’m the only one who can keep you alive. You keep selling. You move fast. You stay quiet and off the radar. And if I catch any of you dealing to kids?”

He pulled a switchblade and stabbed it down into the table.

“You’ll wish you ended up in one of those duffel bags.”

One of the older dealers, voice trembling, dared to ask, “Wh-why are you doing this? You’re not taking the cut for yourself. What’s the angle?”

Jason hesitated.

And that was the mistake.

Just for a second, his breath caught.

He saw her face—Juliet, nine years old, holding out a bracelet, telling him he loses stuff too much.

Her missing tooth smile.

The glue on her fingers.

Frosting on face.

And now… nothing.

His wrist itched.

He turned away. “I’m not doing this for me.”

Silence.

No one moved. No one spoke.

He walked away from the warehouse.

Inside the helmet, though, Hood’s mind was anything but silent. 

Juliet. 

The name burned behind his eyes like a live wire. 

He could see her small face, wide with innocent curiosity, unaware of the nightmare unfolding around her. She didn’t know who he was at the moment—he hoped she never would.

The Red Hood was just a ghost to her, a dark story he promised he’d never let touch her life.

He pulled the burner phone from his pocket again, fingers trembling slightly beneath his gloves. 

Dialed Talia’s number again. 

No answer. 

Tried again. 

Nothing.

Come on, Talia pickup... His breath hitched.

He clenched his fists at his sides, the helmet’s voice modulator catching a harsh edge of frustration he fought to suppress.

He couldn’t let his worry or sheer panic show—not in front of these criminals who were weighing their next move on his patience alone. 

This was a chess game, and as long as he didn’t have Juliet he had no pieces left to lose.

Hood’s thoughts flicked back to Juliet—alone, scared, in hands that might not even care if she lived or died. 

That was the only thing driving him now.

Fear and sheer terror about losing his kid.

He'd burn it all for her.

He couldn't understand how Bruce hadn't been the same when it was him in Jason’s position and Jason had been in Juliet’s position.

And now the clock was running out.

Again.

He felt his arms itch again and this time scratched only for his fingers to get caught. 

There it was.

The bracelet.

His wrist had been itching from it rubbing on his skin.

The one Juliet made. Pink, purple, and blue beads, dulled now by grime of his hard work. He forgot he was even wearing it.

The letters stood out.

J-A-Y J-A-Y.

He dropped to his knees. Slowly, almost afraid, he slid it off his wrist with his gloved fingers.

His breath hitched in the helmet.

It was hers.

She was his.

The weight of it crushed him. Juliet hadn’t just been taken from their safe space — she’d been taken from him.

Maybe she’d fought whoever took her 

Maybe she’d been too scared to fight. 

Or maybe…

“Damn it,” Jason whispered, pulling the helmet off.

His hands shook.

She must have been scared. 

Alone.

All the things he didn't want her to be.

And now… now he was tearing Gotham apart, bleeding in alleys and setting fire to everything, and this tiny bracelet — this one stupid thing — was the only piece of her he had.

He clenched it in his fist, pressing it to his forehead.

“I’m gonna find you, Bug,” he swore. Voice broken. “I don’t care who I have to kill.”

He made it back to his safe house and threw the helmet as hard as he could against the wall.

Fuck, everything was a mess.

Chapter Text

The Narrows was Gotham's darkest soul, a place where even the rats didn’t dare to roam at night. 

It was in the corners of these derelict streets where fear was a currency, and the Red Hood was currently the highest bidder. The old warehouse stretched before him like a prison built from rusted steel and shattered glass, forgotten by time and by anyone who wasn’t desperate enough to find something in it.

He leaned against the wall, the cracked remnants of his now broken helmet lying at his feet like some broken symbol of his failure. 

The world felt too small now.

He was suffocating with the weight of his thoughts. The air, thick with the scent of sweat, gunpowder, and the burnt remnants of a city on the edge of chaos, made his lungs ache.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't think beyond the ghost of Juliet's face, frozen in the last image he had of her: young, innocent, her wide eyes full of trust. 

Trust he was failing to protect.

He clenched his fist tighter around the bracelet. 

It was like holding onto the last shred of humanity in a world that had long stopped caring. The little beads pressed into his palm like a kind of grounding force—her touch, her love, reminding him that there was more than just the fight.

But where the hell was she? 

What had they done to her?

Focus, Hood. 

Focus.

Hood.

He knew what needed to be done, but how to do it? Get Batman to kill?

An impossible task.

He'd made his calls, reached out to anyone who could help. 

But like once before, the people he needed most were unreachable. 

Talia, his twisted maternal link to the League, was a ghost in the wind. He tried and tried and tried. 

Where was she?

His former family—Batman, Dick, Barbara—had no clue that he was really alive or what he was really up against, what he was willing to sacrifice to get her back. 

To keep her safe. 

And even if they did, none of them were the ones on the ground running like he was, staring down the barrel of an unrelenting clock, the seconds ticking away like a countdown to hell.

Jason moved to the window and looked out at the skyline of Gotham; the streets littered with the aftermath of his own chaos. He’d been burning everything around him—corrupt cops, drug lords, mercenaries—but none of it mattered. 

The blood was always washed away by the next wave of crime, the next grimy hand that reached for power.

The only thing that mattered was Juliet.

He needed to get it the fuck together.

"Where the hell are you kid?" he muttered, turning back toward the dark room.

His mind was reeling, spiraling with thoughts of the things he couldn’t control. 

What if she was more than just hurt? 

What if she was... gone?

The thought nearly made him sick.

Green … so much Green.

He was drowning. He was burning. He couldn’t- he couldn’t- all he could do was - 

It was just -

GREEN!

Bloodied anger.

Green Blood in his veins.

The world was green and burning.

He turned his back to the window, punching the glass with his bare knuckles, teeth gritting at the pain.

Control it.

Control it! He demanded his head.

Control it!

He squeezed where the RED blood ran down his knuckles.

His mind wandered back to Bruce. 

The old man had been so cold, so distant, and that was before he’d run away. 

What kind of reception would he possibly get now if he went to him?

The night he spent waiting in the dark Manor in the far-flung corner of Gotham, praying for some kind of sign, for someone to reach out—only to be met with silence. 

Jason couldn’t even wrap his mind around it now. 

He could still feel the sting of abandonment like a knife in his ribs.

But this wasn’t about Bruce. 

Not anymore. 

This was about Juliet.

She needed him. 

He needed to get a grip and get her the fuck back.

She deserved better than him. Deserved more than the cold, unfeeling world that kept swallowing her whole.

He grabbed his phone again, slamming the power button. Maybe now, maybe this time…

The screen lit up. 

No calls, no messages.

"Dammit, Talia," he hissed, swiping the screen and pulling up a list of contacts—people who owed him, people who feared him.

No more games.

He dialed. The phone rang once, twice, three times… then the dial tone.

‘This number has been disconnected….’

He roared and threw the phone.

Everything in Gotham was crumbling. 

But if he had to tear it down to the last brick, if he had to turn the whole city into ash to find her…

He would.

And this time, no one would be able to stop him.

Silence swallowed him again.

Then—a buzz.

Not a call. A vibration. 

The Burner.

Jason pulled it out fast, fingers shaking. One new message.

No number.

Just a string of text:

"Answers move at midnight. Tricorner Yards. Dock 39. Ask for the Hollow Man."

He stared at it.

No name. No trace.

But he didn’t need one.

This was the kind of breadcrumb that people like him had to chase—thin, dangerous, probably a trap. But what wasn’t these days?

Dock 39.

He hadn't been down there in years. The tricorner yard docks were practically lawless now—run by freelancers, smugglers, and ghosts with guns. The kind of place where people disappeared into containers and came out in body bags—if they came out at all.

If someone was willing to talk there , then they either had nothing left to lose... or everything to gain.

His jaw clenched as he slipped the phone into his jacket.

Hollow Man.

Jason didn’t know the name. Which meant this guy wasn’t a player from the old circles. 

Someone new.

 Someone behind the curtain, maybe…

And if they knew something about Juliet, if they knew where she was...

He grabbed his gear. Two pistols. Three mags. His backup knife. The helmet—he sighed.

Fuck he hated that thing.

This wasn’t a recon run.

This was war.

He needed to get it together.

As he stepped through the warehouse door, the wind off the Narrows river hit his face like a slap. Cold, sharp, full of rot.

Midnight wasn’t far off.

And if the Hollow Man had answers, then Jason was going to rip them out of him, one breath at a time.

Nightwing’s footsteps echoed softly through an empty alley as he approached a shadowed doorway marked only by a flickering neon sign.

Inside, the dim light revealed a nervous man hunched over a cracked table, fingers drumming anxiously.

“Tell me what you’ve heard about Black Mask’s shipment,” Nightwing said quietly, sliding into the seat opposite him.

The man swallowed hard. “Word is, something heavy’s coming in tonight. Not your usual guns or coke. They’re calling it ‘Amazo’ — some kinda fully armed android. Black Mask’s new toy.”

Nightwing’s eyes narrowed. “Where and when?”

“Tricorner Yards, Dock 39. Midnight.”

A flicker of concern passed through Nightwing’s mind. 

Tricorner Yards was almost as bad as fighting in Crime Alley when criminals were in their peak season. Tight dark area and hard to get out of if in a hurry.

Only it was on the other side of Gotham.

He missed Blüdhaven.

Fuck that was sad.

The informant’s voice dropped. “And there’s more. The new guy, the Red Hood-” Nightwing’s blood ran cold. “-He’s been shaking things up — taking over chunks of the gang scene. Real violent like too, no mercy. People say he’s carving out his own territory now in the Alley, and Black Mask’s ain’t happy about it.”

Nightwing’s jaw clenched involuntarily.

 The last person who used that alias was…

How dare he claim the Alley!

“Joker playing dress-up is nothing new.” He flattened his tone.

“Yeah but this ain’t that Joker! This new guy is something else,”

Interesting.

“A new player?”

The informant nodded. “Yeah, usin' the clown's old name. Black Mask is getting pissed at the new guy. Nobody knows what his endgame is, only that heads are rollin' and the Alley is under his control. He’s not playing by any of the other rouges rules.”

Nightwing stood, pulling up his hood as the weight of the night settled in his chest. “Thanks for the tip. Stay safe.”

Outside, the cold Gotham wind whipped through the streets. Nightwing glanced toward the distant docks.

The new Red Hood’s ruthless takeover made everything more complicated.

If Red Hood, whoever this new player was or the Joker was tangled in this mess with Mask, things were about to get a lot worse.

Chapter Text

The wind off Gotham Bay cut through the Tricorner Yards like a blade.

Hood stood in the shadows behind a stack of shipping containers, his hood pulled low, the message still fresh in his mind:

“Answers move at midnight. Tricorner Dock 39. Ask for the Hollow Man.”

He didn’t trust it. 

He didn’t have the luxury of trust anymore.

Juliet was running out of time.

He needed to get this the fuck done.

Footsteps echoed. 

A tall, gaunt man in a long coat appeared from the mist of Gotham Bay, cigarette glowing like a dying ember in the dark. 

His eyes were sunken, haunted.

The Hollow Man.

Hood stepped into view.

“You can get me Black Mask,” he said flatly.

“I can do more than that Red Hood. I can get you your daughter.”

Hood’s fists clenched. “Where is she? Did you take her?!”

The Hollow Man exhaled smoke and nodded. “Word travels fast in the Underworld. Getting to a guy like Roman is difficult and you cannot just vanish after all it said and done without stirring up the rest.”

Hood repeated. “Where is she? DID YOU TAKE HER?”

“You’re looking in the wrong places. You’re burning small fish, breaking bones for petty names. But the one who took her? Not me. He doesn’t fear you. He owns people like you.”

Hood grabbed him by the collar. “Start making sense before I break your ribs through your spine.”

The Hollow Man didn’t even flinch. “The girl was taken to someone higher up in the chain than me. You want her back? You need to get me in the high-level trade. Not drugs. Not guns.”

He leaned in.

“Tech. Experimental. Stolen from LexCorp and Cadmus. They’re smuggling it in tonight — Dock 39.”

Hood’s grip loosened slightly. “Tech?”

“Amazo. Fully functional. Adaptable. Programmed for one thing.”

Hood’s voice dropped. “What?”

“Enforcement. Elimination. Doesn’t matter. What matters is this: the same pipeline that’s moving that Amazo tech?” The Hollow Man looked Jason dead in the eyes. “She went through it. ”

Hood’s breath caught.

Jason's heart raced with aching terror, he could imagine Juliet's scared little face -No it wasn't the time

Hood's mask came back on as he mentally tucked away the 'Jason the Father' role in his mind.

“Who’s behind it?”

But the Hollow Man just shook his head. “Like you don’t already know. You just don’t want to admit it. I’ll leave you to your thoughts. Oh….and as an extra incentive from my Patron, Mask is on the other side of the yards if you can get to him in time….”

Before Hood could press him again, the man stepped back into the fog — gone as quickly as he came.

Jason stood there, heart pounding.

Juliet had been moved through a weapons trafficking route.

Whoever had taken her smuggled her through Gotham's underworld.

And now, Black Mask had a goddamn Amazo android being offloaded under Batman’s nose.

It was all a bunch of runaround bullshit!

He just wanted the fucking clown dead to get his damn kid back.

Fuck getting Batman to do it. 

Hood would do it himself.

Hood gritted his teeth and turned toward the pier that was offloading at the other end of the yards. Flashlights were starting to appear in the distance, shadows moving — mercs. At least a dozen. 

And a shiny Black Mask.

Hood started planting explosive charges around the area. 

Loud and big enough to get someone’s attention, like a Certain Black Mask, angry enough that he’d be losing more than half of his importing goods and would have no one in Gotham brave enough to buy the rest. 

Perfect.

And no sign of Batman yet.

Good.

Bruce would just fuck it up.

Batman he amended. Batman would fuck it up.

Bruce would never be seen near him again

If Juliet had come through this port, someone here had to have answers.

Time to let the lion out.

He wanted some damn answers.

The Gotham docks were thick with fog and quiet dread. Batman and Nightwing moved through the shadows like twin ghosts, tracking the latest of Black Mask’s shipments — this one, far more dangerous than narcotics or weapons.

“Amazo,” Dick muttered through the comms. “That’s what intel says this shipment is. Fully armed android. Just what every mob boss wants for Christmas…Why the hell would Black Mask have something like that?”

“I don’t know,” Batman answered grimly. “But if it’s here, we shut it down. Now.”

A sharp clatter of metal drew their attention — masked mercenaries were already unloading the container.

But someone got there first.

A figure dropped from a rooftop landing between the guards with ruthless precision. 

Two shots. 

Two bodies on the ground. 

Then a knife, a throat slashed, a scream.

A flash of Chrome Red.

The Red Hood had arrived.

“Damn,” Nightwing hissed. “He’s already here.”

“Move!” Batman ordered.

They were too far away.

Suddenly, gunfire erupted.

Not aimed at them — aimed at the dock workers. Nightwing watched the Red Hood move — brutal, fluid, dirty, familiar.

League style.

But there is a bit of back alley in the Hood's brawl? 

Unknown.

Unpredictable.

Dangerous.

Where had this guy trained?

Hood blocked a shot from a thug, disarmed another, then slammed his helmeted head into another’s nose with a crunch. It was efficient. 

Too efficient.

Too planned for.

Not Joker then.

Who the fuck was this guy?

Hood threw a knife that landed deep dead centre into one thug's chest. He shot a grappling hook at another, launching them into a shipping container.  

“WHERE is Black Mask?” an electronic modular voice came from the Hood.

So much blood spilled.

So much red.

“WHERE IS BLACK MASK!?!” Hood loudly roared at the goons while still shooting them. 

He did a double summersault off the top of the container. 

That maneuver.

The thought froze Nightwing for half a second.

His fists clenched. 

It wasn’t possible.

And then, in the chaos, something flickered.

Red Hood moved through the last legs of Black Mask’s men like a ghost of rage—pistols barking, then vanishing back into holsters as he smashed a crowbar across one thug’s skull. Another came from behind with a chain, but Hood snapped it from his grip and wrapped it around the man’s throat before tossing him into the side of a container.

He picked up the goon by his throat and dangled him a few inches off the ground.

"WHERE IS BLACK MASK? FUCKING TELL ME WHERE HE IS NOW!"

"Well I'm right here Hood"

Hood turned and saw Black Mask standing at a distance.

"So uncivilised" Mask taunted holding a gun on him.

"Fuck you asshole." Hood heaved.

The shipping yard stank of oil and gunpowder.

Black Mask’s men lay scattered across the wet concrete—some groaning, others not moving at all. A pistol clattered to the ground as Hood dropped the goon he was holding and kicked him square in the chest, sending him sprawling into a stack of pallets.

Then it was just the two of them.

Black Mask stood rigid in the glow of the dock lamps, his trademark skull glaring out from the shadows. He tried to steady the pistol in his hand, but the tremor in his wrist betrayed him.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, Hood,” Mask snarled, voice cracking just enough to give him away. “Your young. New to Gotham. And overly ambitious. You think you can just take me out? You’ll have every crew in Gotham crawling for your head.”

Hood stepped forward, slow and deliberate, boots crunching on broken glass. His pistols hung loose at his sides, but the weight of his presence was enough.

“I’m counting on it,” Hood said, voice low and menacing through the helmet. “Because once you’re gone, I’ll know exactly who to hit next.”

Mask fired wildly, the shot sparking against a container. Hood didn’t flinch—he closed the gap in two strides and slammed a fist into the crime boss’s gut. Mask wheezed, stumbling back into a stack of crates. Hood grabbed him by the collar, pressing the barrel of a pistol against the bone-white mask. “This ends tonight.”

For a heartbeat, Mask froze—pinned like prey. T

hen, with a desperate surge, he smashed a knee into Hood’s thigh and wrenched free, shoving a crate into him as cover. The box split open, spilling smuggled rifles across the dock.

By the time Hood pushed it aside, Mask was already retreating into the fog, his left-over men scrambling to cover him.

“You’ll regret this, Hood!” his voice echoed, shrill with panic as it vanished into the night.

Hood stood alone amid the chaos, chest heaving, pistol still raised toward the darkness. 

Fuck!!!

He was so damn close!

So damn close!

Hood slammed his fist into the nearby shipping container in rage. “Run while you can Mask. Next time, there’s nowhere to hide.”

He started planting even more explosive charge on the container door when Batman landed near him.

“Red Hood.”

The word carried through the fog like thunder. Heavy boots crunched over wet gravel, a cape dragging behind.

Batman stepped out of the shadows, a wall of armor and intent.

“You don’t belong here.”

Hood’s laugh was electronically sharp, bitter. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”

A flicker of motion above—Nightwing dropping down from a crane, escrima sticks spinning. The first strike cracked against Hood’s crowbar, the second nearly clipped his temple before Hood ducked and slammed an elbow into Dick’s ribs.

“You still telegraph that move, boy wonder.” Hood twisted, hooking Nightwing’s ankle and dragging him to the ground.

‘What an absolute bastard,’ Nightwing thought.

A gauntleted fist blurred toward Hood’s jaw—he barely managed to block with his crowbar, the impact rattling his bones. He staggered back, grinning beneath the helmet. He turned to Batman pointedly “Guess you’ve still got a little bite left, Old Man.”

Before any of them could press the fight, Black Mask’s goons stormed the dock. “Light ’em up!” one yelled, unleashing a hail of bullets that tore splinters from the crates.

The three men moved at once. Hood spun, guns flashing as he dropped two thugs in a heartbeat. Batman surged forward, cape wrapping around one shooter as his fist shattered a rifle stock. Nightwing vaulted a shipping container, crashing down on two more with a spinning kick.

Then Hood shoved a downed thug toward Batman, breaking the rhythm. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he snarled. “We’re not on the same side.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed, his voice like stone. “Whose side are you on, Hood?”

Hood leveled a pistol at the ground between them, fired, and let the gunshot ring out over the waves. 

Batman snarled. “Stop!” he growled, batarang flying at Hood’s arm.

Hood spun away from the batarang, drawing a blade mid-twist and launched an assault of punches towards Batman.

Blows landed back and forth. The two clashed in a flurry of cape and red, fists crashing into armor. Nightwing quickly joined the fray, fighting to land hits between Batman, Hood and focus on the thugs.

Hood fought them all with uncanny precision — anticipating moves, dodging attacks with chaotic rhythm. 

Hood held his ground.

Parrying, punching. 

Bleeding and bruises.

Gunfire in the background hailed around them as the three dodged each other and smoke billowing in the distance.

Something had caught on fire.

“You don’t want to fight me,” Batman snarled, grappling to land a blow to Hood’s shoulder. “Stop this!”

“FUCK YOU OLD MAN!” Hood snarled back. 

He kicked Batman's chest with enough force that the Bat stumbled back. Mask's men quickly reformed their target and took aim at the Bat instead of the Hood. 

Fuck. 

Batman had to split from Nightwing to take care of the goons. They had to get some distance from each other, or it'd be a bloody massacre.

Hood took off in a run. 

Nightwing chased after him.

Nightwing vaulted from a container, landing hard on solid ground behind Hood and gave chase. His escrima stick sparked against the metal wall as he swung it for balance. He was fast—always had been—and Hood could hear his footsteps getting closer.

Hood kicked over a stack of pallets, forcing Nightwing to leap them, then shouldered through a series of shipping crates to a half-open warehouse. Inside, shadows stretched long over rusting machinery and dangling chains.

Nightwing slid in after him. His breath was steady, focused. He could see the red of Hood’s helmet flashing in and out of the darkness like a taunt.

“You think you can just vanish into the dark? This is Gotham, Hood. It’s my city.”

Hood laughed, the sound echoing off the steel beams. “If it’s yours, then why do I keep running circles around you?”

Nightwing hurled one of his escrima sticks—Hood twisted at the last second, the stick clanging off the side of a deconstructed crane. He ducked behind a stack of barrels, then burst out the other side with pistols drawn, firing low to keep Nightwing diving for cover.

But Nightwing was relentless.

He rolled, scooped his stick back up, and surged forward, closing the distance.

Hood skidded to the edge of the warehouse, out the window and back into the yards.

Waves slapping at the pylons below. He didn’t hesitate—he vaulted over the railing, grabbing a hanging cargo net and sliding down toward the lower docks.

Nightwing cursed under his breath and followed, but when his boots hit the ground, Hood was already hiding in the dark areas of the lower docks shipping area, the red glow of his helmet appearing and then vanishing between stacked containers.

All that was left was his voice, tossed back on the wind:

“Gotta move faster than that,”

Nightwing clenched his fists, scanning the shadows. 

Red shined.

He ran after the helmet again.

“Stop this! Tell us who you are and what you want!”

“Stop chasing me! That’s what I want” Hood snapped dodging him, voice low and modulated. “You don’t understand what’s at stake.”

“You’re making it hard to care,” Nightwing grunted, swinging his escrima stick. 

“Get off me boy wonder!” Hood snarled, pushing back. “You’re interfering in something you don’t understand,” Hood growled, throwing a punch.

“I understand enough,” Nightwing snapped as the Hood ducked and twisted with a motion far too fluid, too familiar . Nightwing swung in from above, launching into the fight. “Man, I don’t know who you are, but you’re seriously pissing off the wrong people.”

“Back off, Grayson,” Hood barked, knocking one of Dick’s escrima sticks aside with his forearm.

That name — Grayson. 

Nightwing froze.

He knew.

Nightwings eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

Hood scoffed, drawing a knife and hurling it toward Nightwing. Dick deflected it — barely — with a spin, but the movement opened his guard.

Then they both heard it.

Like a pin dropping in an empty room.

It was a little countdown ping.

A little flash.

...just a little flash.

They both saw it too late.

A hidden proximity mine — one of the charges Hood had planted earlier — triggered early as Nightwing stumbled backward into it.

BOOM.

The explosion was small but brutal. Dick screamed, crumpling to the ground. His leg bent unnaturally beneath him as smoke filled the air.

Hood froze in sheer panic. 

In terror.

What did he do? Oh god, what had he done?

“NIGHTWING!”

Batman had arrived again and rejoined them.

“NIGHTWING!” Batman's voice bellowed across the yard, racking toward them.

Hood froze.

"Get away from HIM!"

Hood stood frozen.

Batman was leaning over Nightwing trying to assess the damage.

For a heartbeat, Hood looked down at the injured man — pain flickering behind the red helmet.  Batman's gauntlets worked quickly, assessing the damage—bruising, blood seeping through torn kevlar, ribs maybe broken.

But alive. He was alive right?

All Hood could do was stand still.

Like a child, waiting for a scolding.

Hood started to shake the ringing from his head. “That wasn’t me,” he said defensively, pointing to Nightwing. “Mask’s men must have triggered the expl—”

Batman’s head turned sharply, eyes locking on the red helmet. The look cut deeper than any blade.

“Had your fun, Hood?” His voice was gravel and fury. “Was it worth it? The fire, the bodies, him—” He nodded to Nightwing, who groaned, trying to get up but Batman was holding him down.

Hood froze for a moment, fists tight at his sides. He wanted to argue, to scream that Black Mask deserved worse, that this city needed someone willing to spill blood to stop monsters.

He needed to stop the monsters.

He needed to get his damn kid back.

He needed to get his kid back and to do that he had to stop the monster.

Bruce would get that, right?

Bruce was also a parent. Bruce would get that he just wanted his kid back, right?

But the words died in his throat when he saw Nightwing struggling to breathe.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of fire and the lap of waves against the pier.

Finally, Hood muttered through his helmet, low and sharp. “I didn’t come here for him. I came for Mask. Don’t twist that.”

Batman stood, his cape dragging through the ash as he loomed closer. His voice dropped to a dangerous calm.

“Doesn’t matter what you came for. Look around you. All I see is destruction. And someone who enjoyed”

Hood's body ran cold.

Then his voice cut out, low, bloody and raw.

“You think I’m doing this for fun?” Hood barked. “You think I want this?”

It sounded desperate.

Hood screamed “You think I wanted any of this? I’m trying to fucking find her! And I can't catch a damn break!"

The words hung in the air for just a breath too long.

Batman hesitated — he reached for him and in that second, Hood slammed a smoke pellet to the ground and vaulted off the dock’s edge into the waiting darkness below.

A second later, the Amazo crate exploded in the distance.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

The scorched ruins of the dock hissed as water lapped against the twisted steel. 

Batman sifted through the wreckage in silence. 

Nightwing was back at the cave with Alfred, recovering from the leg injury and blast burns. He lived, thank whatever gods were out there. Bruce wasn’t sure what he’d do if Dick hadn’t survived. The loss of Jason had all but broken him. The additional loss of Dick however-

Rage. 

Grief. 

An endless need to let others know the pain that he carried. 

To let others bleed the way-

No.

He wouldn’t go down that road.

Dick would live…but he’d be out of the field for weeks recovering from the leg injury.

The fire had been extinguished. The bodies — Black Mask’s men and Red Hood’s collateral — were zipped in black bags as the GPD cleaned up the mess.

And then, while he was searching the docks, a tiny little something shined. 

The tiny something caught Batman’s eye.

Caught between two scorched planks, half-melted from the heat, was a little shiny plastic bracelet.

It shimmered in the moonlight — plastic beads in sparkling purples, pinks, and blues. Batman knelt slowly, lifting it into a gloved hand. It was sticky with soot, but intact.

He turned it over carefully.

Beads spelled out:

“Jay-Jay”

Bruce stared in confusion.

Poorly made. 

Plastic sparkly beads and cheap elastic strings.

It looked like a child had made this.

“Jay-Jay” the letter’s spelt.

Something cold unfurled in his chest.

He whispered the name without thinking: “Jay-Jay...?”

The nickname for the Joker by his ex-lover immediately came to Batman’s thoughts. 

Mr J.

Unlikely. 

Batman ruled out the possibility of the Old Red Hood being the one who caused this. Whoever this new Red Hood was… he was skilled, trained, violent and while yes, a murderer, he wasn’t in the same category as the Joker.

“You think I’m doing this for fun?” Hood’s voice echoed in his head. 

Interesting. 

Hood didn’t enjoy the destruction his rampage had caused.

Batman squeezed his hand.

The bracelet felt wrong.

Plastic beads. Childish colors. 

Children are something Batman would not associate with this Red Hood.

“You think I’m doing this for fun?” 

The way he said it.

“You think I want this?”

It had sounded extremely desperate.

A fragile string holding it together. Bruce turned it carefully under the moonlight. Then his thumb brushed against something tacky.

Blood.

Fresh blood.

His stomach felt a pit and a sinking feeling emerged.

Something was off.

He scraped a trace of the blood into a capsule and slipped it into his belt.

Back at the Batman stood beside Nightwing, who winced as Alfred remotely guided him through stabilizing his shattered leg.

“Clean break… probably fibula and tibia,” Nightwing muttered through gritted teeth. “Man, I’m getting too old for this.”

Bruce winced.

“You’re not,” Batman replied tightly. “You just got caught off guard.”

“He knew my name,” Dick said quietly. “He called me Grayson. Civilians don’t know that. Most people don’t even know I was the first Robin and yet, he knew who I was. Meaning our pal Hood, he's done his research.”

Batman didn’t answer.

His gloved fingers closed around the plastic bracelet. Something was off about this whole thing — something out of place.

The child’s bracelet.

The plastic beads glinted in the low light: glittery pinks, purples, and blues. Batman turned it over slowly, jaw tightening beneath the cowl. 

He lightly pulled the elastic to see the beads stretch without touching.

He traced the letters.

Jay-Jay 

The air went still.

“Bruce?” Dick said, watching his mentor’s expression darken. 

“It’s nothing”. He walked over the Batcomputer.

Alfred set a tray of tea down beside the terminal, casting a long look at Bruce’s hunched figure in front of a glowing monitor.

"You look exhausted, Master Bruce."

“I’m fine.”

Alfred glanced at the screen. 

Surveillance footage paused mid-frame: Red Hood mid-strike, knocking out one of Black Mask’s smugglers. Even with the helmet, the familiarity of the movement was undeniable.

“Still no clue on who he is?” Alfred asked carefully.

Batman’s voice was rough. “He’s not leaving fingerprints. Not even a DNA trace. But he bleeds. I got a sample.”

“And?”

Bruce hesitated.

Then: “The computer’s still analyzing it.”

Alfred didn’t press. Instead, he gestured toward the bracelet resting beside the console while he was placing empty ceramic cups and a teapot back onto his silver tray.

“A child’s craft,” he murmured. “Handmade, by the looks of it.”

“Why would a killer like Hood carry something like that?” Bruce asked, mostly to himself.

Alfred gave a knowing look. “Perhaps because The Red Hood is not just a killer.”

Batman said nothing. But something shifted in his expression. 

The desperation.

The blood lust.

I’m trying to fucking find her! 

The child like bracelet.

“He’s a father.”

The Batcomputer dinged.

The results were in. 

98% DNA match.

Bruce paled. 

Alfred dropped his tray. 

“He’s your son.”

The safehouse stank of mildew, old sweat, and rot. 

The Red Hood moved through it like a shadow — silent, controlled, dangerous. His shoulder ached from the last skirmish with the dock members and Black Mask’s crew. His ribs were bruised, and the burn on his arm from the Amazo incident still throbbed under his jacket.

But none of it mattered. Not compared to the silence.

No leads.

No answers.

No Juliet.

Without her he was a Dead man.

Dead with a capital D.

Jason kicked aside a broken crate, more from frustration than strategy. His boot hit something small — a quiet clink against the floor. He turned, breath catching.

The safehouse was silent.

Jason peeled off the Red Hood helmet, his breath ragged as he tossed it across the room. It clattered against the wall and fell with a hollow thud. 

He staggered back, blood still smeared on his knuckles, and leaned heavily on the edge of the kitchen bench, his gloves trembling as they scraped over the cracked linoleum.

“Goddamn it…” he whispered, eyes burning.

The night had gone to hell. He hadn’t meant to hurt Dick—Nightwing. 

That wasn’t the plan. 

It was never the plan. 

But things spiraled fast, and the moment he saw that charge armed behind Grayson’s boot, he was too late.

He could still hear the scream.

He slammed his fist against the counter hard enough to rattle the drawers.

“I told you I wasn’t trying to fight you,” he growled to the empty room. “Why won’t you just let me do this?!”

His voice cracked on the last word. He was getting desperate and that would cause him to make mistakes.

Jason paced the floor, helmet off, sweat clinging to his skin. He was still in the armor, still Red Hood — but all he felt was like a kid in over his head again.

A scared kid.

He reached for his wrist to rub the only comfort item he had that had accompanied him only to touch raw skin.

Where’d it go?

His eyes flicked to the duffel bag by the couch. Maybe it had been left in there?

He unzipped it, sifting through ammo, burner phones, a photo of Juliet when she was six — her gap-toothed grin beside a melting ice cream cone. He kept it folded, close, like a talisman.

But it was missing.

His heart dropped.

The bracelet.

Juliet’s bracelet.

The one she made him out of dollar-store beads: pink, purple, and sparkly blue. It had said “Jay-Jay” in crooked letters, one bead off-center. She’d given it to him and told him it would keep him safe.

And now it was gone.

“No. No, No, NO…!”

He tore through his gear bag, yanked open the pockets in his jacket, dumped everything on the floor — magazines, spare cash, syringes of adrenaline, nothing that mattered. The only thing that mattered, he had lost.

He had lost everything else; he couldn’t lose that.

Not that.

“Shit!” he shouted, kicking the overturned chair hard enough to crack the leg.

He sank down onto the ground, breathing hard.

The world tilted sideways.

It was just a bracelet, he told himself.

Just plastic and string.

He’d get a new one when he got her back.

Plastic and string and all.

But it wasn’t.

It was Juliet.

It was hers.

It was his.

It was the only thing he had left of her besides photos and guilt and rage.

And now someone else had it.

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to his knees, fists clenched in his hair. The threat from the burner phone kept playing in his head like a loop:

“He won’t come out unless someone shakes the tree. Start cutting.”

He had.

And it had cost him everything.

A man like him wasn’t allowed to love something as pure as Juliet — not without losing her.

The phone buzzed again. A new message.

“Time’s ticking, Jason. Get Bruce to kill or your Bug is next.”

His blood ran cold.

They knew.

Whoever they were, they knew about Juliet. They knew he called her Bug. 

They knew about Bruce. 

They knew everything.

Jason’s hand shook as he picked up the phone and typed back:

“Tell me she’s still alive.”

No reply.

He slammed the phone down so hard the screen cracked.

“I’m gonna find you,” he whispered, teeth gritted. “And when I do…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t have to.

Red Hood was already back in control.

Hood stood, shaking off the paralysis, the weight of hopelessness. 

His eyes burned green.

Whoever had touched Juliet, whoever dared take something of his… they were going to find out exactly what it meant to experience a never-ending hell.

The room around him was now a mess of overturned chairs, scattered gear, and broken glass, but it didn’t matter. 

The storm outside didn’t matter. 

The only thing that mattered was the one person he couldn’t lose. 

She was out there. 

She was Alive. 

And he would reach her before the world crushed her. 

Make sure she was safe and loved.

Even if it killed him.

He strapped his weapons back on, methodically, each movement precise, almost ritualistic.

His jaw tightened. 

“I’ll get you back Jules,” he whispered, voice low, almost a growl. “And I swear… anyone standing in my way is dead.”

The city was his to burn to the ground. 

Every alley, every rooftop, every dark corner would be mapped, hunted, and claimed. 

No trace of mercy would remain for those who threatened Juliet.

Jason’s fingers brushed the empty space on his wrist where the bracelet had been. He closed his eyes, letting himself feel the weight of it—not just the beads, but her. 

Her laughter. 

Her tiny hand in his.

Her trust in him.

Juliet and her too big purple backpack, ready for her first day of school.

That memory was his fuel now. And there was no limit to what he would do to protect it.

Juliet was his world, and anyone who touched her would burn in his wake.

The city waited, silent, unaware that the storm was coming.

Red Hood was awake. 

Gotham was going to burn if he didn't get her back.

Chapter Text

The BatComputer chimed.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed as the results flashed across the monitor.

DNA match: Jason Peter Todd.

Status: Deceased — Ethiopia.

For a moment, Batman didn’t move.

Bruce was paralysed.

The cave was silent, except for the low hum of the equipment and the faint hiss of the generators.

His son was- 

-he couldn’t think.

 His son was- 

He couldn’t breathe.

His son was…

Dead.

Buried.

Mourned.

Alive.

The screen’s glow cast hard shadows across Bruce’s face as the words cut through him like shrapnel. He remembered the bloodied uniform. 

The coffin lowered into the ground. He would never see his son's face again-

Jason’s laugh. 

Jason’s brightness.

Jason’s temper.

Jason’s pleas for approval he had never properly answered.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred’s voice was soft, but his eyes saw everything.

Bruce swallowed against the tightness in his chest. “…It’s him.”

Alfred sat down into the nearest seat with deliberate care. “Jason.”

Bruce didn’t answer, but his silence was confirmation. He reached for the bracelet on the console, turning it in his palm. 

Glitter caught the light. 

Jay-Jay.

Who had made him this?

Who had made him like this?

Alfred’s gaze fell on it. 

His tone lowered, thoughtful. “The child’s trinket… it belongs to him?”

Bruce shook his head slowly. “Jason never wore this. He wouldn’t.” His voice broke slightly as he forced the words out. “It’s not his. It’s someone else’s.”

Alfred raised a brow. “Then he’s carrying it for another.”

The weight of implication pressed down like stone.

Bruce set the bracelet back on the desk as though it burned.

Behind them, Nightwing shifted in his bed, his leg propped awkwardly, pale with pain but watching. “Hold on,” Dick said, voice sharp. “You’re saying Red Hood is Jason? Jason Todd? As in—Jason? Our Jason!?!”

Bruce’s jaw clenched. “He died in Ethiopia.”

“Yeah,” Dick snapped, “You were there, Bruce. YOU buried him. So unless you’re telling me YOU didn’t bury him in that coffin, you need to explain how the hell—”

“ENOUGH,” Bruce cut him off, voice like stone.

The silence hung thick.

Dick leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus. Jason…”

Alfred’s voice broke the quiet, calm but steady. “If Jason is indeed Red Hood, then the matter of that bracelet becomes all the more pressing. He is not only back from the grave—he is… obviously trying to find someone.”

Bruce’s mind replayed the last encounter. 

It was Jason’s voice cracking when he screamed at him. 

“I’m trying to fucking find her! And I can't catch a damn break!"

It was Jason’s rage. 

The fury of someone who only knew desperation.

But threaded through it all, now that Bruce thought harder, there was something else. 

Something dark and twisted.

Something that made his skin crawl.

Jason’s nature was to be protective.

Jason hadn’t fought him like a man with nothing to lose. 

He had fought like a man fighting for something just out of reach.

He fought like someone wanting to live.

Bruce stood abruptly, cape sweeping behind him. “I need to find him.”

Nightwing frowned. “How? And what happens if you do? Redhood running a one-man show of the Gotham crime ring and is currently trying to burn the city down! He's killing people Bruce! He’s not Robin anymore. He’s not—”

“HE'S JASON!” Batman growled loudly, cutting him off. 

The silence was palatable.

“...He’s Jason.” he said more quietly.

The word cracked in his throat. He turned, staring once more at the child’s beads glittering on the console.

Jason was alive.

Jason was Red Hood.

Bruce froze.

Jason was the Red Hood. 

The Red Hood was a crime lord who ran rampant in Gotham, cutting off heads, murdering people, and had dismantled 75% of Gotham’s Drug Trade. He was responsible for the mess tonight at the Yards. He set bombs- he- he - he- Jason.

Jason was a crime lord who chopped off lieutenants heads with the swish of a blade.

Jason was the one who’d single handedly dismantled 75% of Gotham’s Drug Trade.

Jason had killed people.

Jason was a murderer.

Oh god.

And Jason was carrying on the name of someone who had murdered him when he was a child.

- A child. 

A child’s craft.

The bracelet that was made by a child.

Not made by Jason, but carried by Jason.

“You think I wanted any of this? I’m trying to fucking find her!”

Her?

Whoever she was?

Jay-Jay.

What child!?

Whose child?!

A plan formed in Bruce's head. 

He was a detective, was he not?

He could find her, whoever her was.

That would help.

That would have to help.

That would stop Jason from doing this, from going too far.

From murdering people.

He could find her and then, he could find Jason.

He could do it.

He could help Jason find her and stop Jason from killing. Get him the help he needs.

He could bring him home.

He could hold his son again.

And for the first time since pulling his son’s broken body out of the rubble all those years ago, Bruce Wayne felt something he hadn’t expected—

A broken feeling he hadn't had in a while.

Hopeful disgusting terrible dread.

The apartment smelled faintly of burnt coffee and dust. 

He hadn't slept in days.

Jason was sifting through the remains of his gear, trying to piece together what had gone wrong at the docks and where to go next. 

 His fists still throbbed from the fight, every bruise a reminder of failure.

He hadn't slept in three days, not even a short nap and he was so tired.

He needed a new lead to get the Joker out.

Then he heard it.

A soft, almost imperceptible click at the door.

Jason froze, muscles coiled, fingers brushing the grip of a pistol.

“You’re tense,” a voice said, smooth, almost clinical and bored.

Hollowman stepped from the shadows, tall, pale, eyes hidden behind mirrored lenses. “I didn’t want to break in. But…” He tilted his head at the scattered equipment. “…it seemed necessary.”

Jason tightened his jaw. “What the fuck do you want?” His voice was low, controlled—but every word carried an edge.

Hollowman smirked, walking further into the room, hands visible, empty. “A little chat. About the Amazo tech you destroyed. That was… a rather unfortunate outcome.”

Jason bristled. “Unfortunate for who? You? Black Mask? Some other fucker?”

“Yes.” Hollowman said simply. “All of Gotham could be at risk, and yet all you can think about is only your vendetta.”

“Vendetta?! Listen you fuck-”

Hollowman leaned casually against the wall, a predator in repose. “Ah, ah, ah…I have information, and you need to get your daughter. And yet here we are. You, burning with purpose; me, enjoying the view. A fascinating stalemate.”

Jason’s eyes flicked to the broken tech scattered on the counter. “It’s done. End of story. No one’s walking around fighting with that tech.”

“And yet… that does little to soothe the nerves,” Hollowman said, tilting his mirrored lenses toward the dim light. “Rumors circulate, you see. Someone, somewhere, once upon a time… took something precious, stole something important. Your daughter, in this instance?”

Jason’s chest tightened.

His hand twitched toward the burner phone in his pocket. “What do you know?” His voice was sharper now, filled with desperation. 

His hand tightened around the gun. “Who has her? Where is she?”

Hollowman’s smirk deepened, almost amused. “I do not speak names lightly. But consider this: the one who took her is deliberate. They aren’t sentimental. And they will make you dance to their tune.”

Jason’s teeth clenched. “And you? You’re just here… delivering polite warnings?”

“Think of it as professional courtesy,” Hollowman said, tilting his head with the faintest bow. “You wanted your daughter. You destroyed the tech. The consequences… well, you can see them unfolding. And she? She’s the one most likely to pay for your missteps.”

Jason’s blood boiled. “Who the hell are you?!”

“I am a Hollowman,” he said softly, almost conversationally. “Like you, born hollow. Pain is the only currency we know. Do you think she saves you? No, Jason. She anchors you, makes you vulnerable. And yet… My Patron is not one to spill names. But I can tell you this: who took her isn’t bluffing. They’re not happy about the girl or the tech and have no problem forcing your hand.”

Jason’s teeth clenched. 

Red.

Just blinding red.

Jason’s hands trembled slightly, jaw tight. 

He tried to reign in his rage.

“Who are you!?” He demanded again.

“I already told you. I am a Hollowman. And so are you. Men like us who were born hollow. The only thing that ever fills us is pain.”

Jason brokenly let out “Fuck you! I… I don’t care who’s behind this. All I know is… if anything happens to her—”

“You won’t let that happen,” Hollowman said softly. “But your choices will get darker before you stand any chance of seeing the light.”

Jason’s breath hitched. 

Rage and fear wrestled inside him. 

He wanted to lunge, pummel this fucker’s face in. 

He wanted to demand answers, to rip the truth from Hollowman—but the man stayed calm, unnervingly calm.

Almost amused.

It was freaking him the fuck out.

“You think you know the world,” Hollowman said, voice low and measured.

He paced around Jason slowly. 

Like a cat stalking its prey. 

“You think your childhood, your time with Batman or the League of Shadows and the All-Caste’s prepared you for this? It hasn’t.”

Jason kept his eyes on Hollowman.

If there was one thing Bruce taught him and taught him well, it was that you do not take your eyes off someone who has a bigger hand than you.

“You're rusty. You’ve been out of the game too long. You’re inexperienced. You’re weak.” Hollowman’s every word hit Jason hard.  “Every weakness, every hesitation, every mistake you make isn’t paid for in your blood. It’s paid for in hers. And the people who have her? They know it. They’ll carve that truth into your bones until you can’t breathe without hearing her scream.”

Jason’s fists tightened on the edge of the table. His gaze burned through the shadows where Hollowman stood. “I’ll find her. Whoever has her. And I’ll…” His voice cracked slightly. “…I’ll make them pay.”

Hollowman tipped his head, almost approvingly. “Good. Remember—anger is a tool. Let it become the weapon that guides you. You being a father? That’s not strength, Jason Todd. They’ll choke you with it until you beg them to stop… and they’ll never stop.” 

Jason’s fingers hovered over the trigger on his gun, mind racing. “Why are you even telling me this? Why help me?”

Hollowman smiled faintly, tilting his head. “Help? Oh no, Jason. I don’t help. I inform. Observe. Occasionally… I amuse myself.” He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. “You see, chaos isn’t always fun unless someone interesting is tangled in it.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. “Interesting? You think I’m… entertaining? You think my daughter being taken is entertaining!?!”

“You’re… predictable,” Hollowman said softly, voice smooth as silk. “And predictability is charming in small doses. You lunge when you’re afraid. You bluff when you’re desperate. You think with your fists before your mind.” He leaned casually on the counter, fingers brushing a shard of broken tech. “Fascinating, really. A man who’s so strong, and yet so… tethered.”

“Tethered?” Jason spat. “I’m not a dog! My daughter’s life is not a leash!”

Hollowman’s mirrored lenses caught the dim light, glinting like knives. “Ah, but she is. That tether? That fear? That love? It makes you human… painfully human. And humans… are easy to manipulate.”

Jason gritted his teeth. “You sound like you enjoy this.”

“Not enjoy,” Hollowman said, stepping closer, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Appreciate. Study. A man like you… he becomes poetry in motion when pushed. And here I am, observing the verses.”

Jason’s hand tightened on the table. “Enough riddles. Who has her? Where is she?”

Hollowman leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, mirroring Jason’s tension. “I could tell you. But where would the fun be in that? No… you need to discover, to hunt, to choose your path. I simply… illuminate the path for you. See from the shadows, so to speak, mostly.”

Jason’s breathing hitched. “You’re insane. You’re twisting this. Making it sound like a game.”

Hollowman tilted his head, a mock apology in the gesture. “A game? Perhaps. But life… often feels like one, doesn’t it? Especially when someone you love is dangling just out of reach. You, Jason Todd… you live for these moments. That’s why I find you so… compelling.”

Jason’s fist slammed against the table. A new hole pierced the top “Compelling, huh? You think that makes me stop? You think your information changes what I’ll do?”

Hollowman’s smirk widened. “Oh no. It only makes you more… interesting to watch. You’ll rage. You’ll falter. You’ll fight tooth and nail. And through it all… you’ll learn. Perhaps even respect… the way choices cut both ways.”

Jason’s voice dropped, deadly calm. “I don’t care about respect. I don’t care about your bullshit. I want her back.”

Hollowman stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender. “Of course, of course. I wouldn’t dream of standing in your way. Consider me… a gentle reminder that the road you walk isn’t straight. It curves, it twists… and occasionally, it bites.”

He paused, tilting his head one last time, voice dropping to a near whisper. “Do well, Jason. Or… do poorly. Either way, it’ll be unforgettable.”

Jason stepped back, trembling.

“OH and just so you know…Mr Sionis has gotten the Joker out of his hiding spot. I believe that they are currently negotiating how the Joker should deliver your head,” Before Jason could respond, Hollowman slipped into the shadows.

A faint click marked his exit. Jason swung toward the window, but he was already gone.

Jason sank into a chair, breathing heavily, staring at the photos of destroyed Amazo tech that the Hollowman had left on his floor.

Juliet. 

Someone was forcing his hand, trying to manipulate him—and now he was running with a bad hand and a fuck ton of luck. 

Black Mask has gotten the Joker out. 

Good.

Finally, some progress.

He needed to find the fucking clown.

He needed to get the clown and Batman into the same room.

He needed-

He needed Bruce to kill.

Bruce who wouldn’t kill. 

Not for anyone. 

Not for him. 

Certainly not for Jules.

His anger flared. 

He'd make him. He'd make the Bat kill.

His desperation sharpened. 

He had to make him.

Batman would do it.

Bruce could do it.

He could.

Jason could get him to do it and the consequences be damned.

Jason was so, so, so tired and angry, and broken and mad and desperate and -

-And he just wanted someone else to carry his pain for a bit so he didn't have to feel.

Just a little while.

Just until he got his kid back.

He was almost there.

He was so close to getting Juliet back.

He was just so tired.

Hours later, the BatComputer hummed as the re-analysis loaded. Bruce stood motionless, cape draped like a shroud, watching the lines of data cascade across the screen. 

He had sent Alfred away and Dick and Tim to bed.

A fool’s request that they take care of themselves for once.

Instead of worrying over him.

No one in the house was actually sleeping but he could live with the fantasy that they were.

Indeed, a fool’s request.

The results came in again.

DNA match: Jason Peter Todd.

Bruce felt the ground tilt beneath him. 

All this time, he had grieved a lie.

Jason had clawed his way out of the grave and had now built a new life in Gotham’s underbelly—and Bruce hadn’t known. 

Hadn’t been there. 

Hadn’t saved him.

He pressed a gloved hand against the desk; head bowed under the crushing weight. His breath came ragged, but discipline forced it back down. 

He had no right to break. 

Not now.

Because Jason wasn’t dead.

He was out there.

And Jason wasn’t home.

He wasn't home. 

Yet.

Chapter Text

The rain fell slow and cold, fat drops glistening on broken glass and pooling in potholes.

Gotham’s night was normally thick with shadows, and Jason had been watching them for hours. The sun was almost on its way.

He sat perched on a rusted fire escape several blocks away, helmet tucked beside him, rifle resting across his knees. His breath came steady and low, a practiced quiet. Below him, the warehouse district pulsed with faint sounds: the slap of footsteps in puddles, a muffled laugh, the distant growl of traffic.

His target was here. 

The warehouse smelled of kerosene and rot, the dim light from hanging bulbs flickering over the rusted barrels and stacked crates. Jason had tracked the Joker through the underworld like a predator, following whispers and blood trails.

Black Mask’s men had freed the Joker as part of some twisted deal: eliminate Red Hood or die.

But the Joker had other plans.

He had taken Black Mask and the dealers hostage, dragging them to a cage rigged above barrels of gasoline. The clown’s laughter echoed off the walls, manic and uneven.

Jason had followed every thread — every lead — right here. 

To this warehouse.

And tonight, he would end it.

He’d get Juliet back.

He’d take her back home and they’d go back to a normal life. 

Diner dinner Thursdays and movie night Fridays.

I'm coming Babygirl.

His gut tightened as he watched movement inside the building. Figures. Struggling shapes bound in ropes. Gasoline cans stacked in careless pyramids. Somewhere deeper in the shadows, he heard the ragged hum of laughter. 

The echoing ‘HA HA HA’

It reminded him of the Goddamn Clown.

It was not human.

He crouched lower.

The voice reached him through the rain and brick walls. The twisted sick pitch that made his skin crawl. A song twisted and uneven.

“Nothing like a bonfire to bring people together…”

Jason’s fingers flexed around his rifle.

He knew that voice.

The Joker.

His chest tightened, lungs constricting, breath catching somewhere between a gasp and a growl. His heart thundered in his ears, each beat a drum of warning.

Fear settled deep in his bones, cold, coiling. The sharp edges of panic, was something hotter.

Anger.

A slow burn that flared up in his fists, making his nails dig into his palms. His teeth ground together; every muscle in his body coiled like a drawn bow.

He wanted to look away.

He wanted to run.

He wanted his kid.

The air thickened with gasoline fumes. Somewhere inside the warehouse, a match struck. The smell of fire mixed with rust and decay.

Jason dropped the rifle to his side and moved. 

Quiet. 

Fast.

The rain’s patter faded under the pounding of his boots.

The Batcave was silent except for the soft hum of the Batcomputer. Rain still drummed against the cavern mouth, the storm outside unrelenting.

Bruce stood motionless at the console, his gloved hands resting flat against the glass panel. His eyes traced the screen — but he wasn’t reading it. 

His mind was elsewhere. 

Jason could have come to him for help and hadn’t. 

Why didn’t he?

Bruce hadn’t slept.

He hadn’t moved from that spot since seeing the results. Everything felt heavier. Every instinct was screaming at him.

Find Jason.

He drew a slow breath and began working. The Batcomputer ran constant scans, pulling feeds from Gotham’s surveillance grid — traffic cams, police reports, street-level scanners. 

Bruce knew fifteen-year-old Jason.

Not this man now.

He knew his fifteen-year-old Jason's patterns. 

His strikes, his disappearances, his old haunts. 

Jason could always be three steps ahead when he wanted to be, and now Bruce was chasing shadows.

A small ping rang through the Batcomputer. 

Bruce’s sharp eyes caught it instantly — a timestamped location ping in the Narrows district. A rooftop camera feed: static breaking into vision, a blurred shape moving in armored form.

A faint glint of red.

Bruce froze. His breath quickened. He touched the screen, zooming in. 

Every instinct told him this was Jason. Jason, who was alive.

Why hadn’t Jason come home?

Without hesitation, Bruce pulled up every camera feed in the district. He layered the data, running motion analysis. Patterns emerged — rooftops, shadowed alleys, abandoned warehouses. 

Jason had been moving like a ghost through Gotham all night.

Alfred’s voice came quietly over the comm-link. “Sir… you’ve been at this for hours. You need rest.”

Bruce’s tone was clipped. “No. Not until I know where he is.”

“Sir,” Alfred said softly, “this… pursuit. It is wearing you down. And if I may say… there are forces in play here that are unlike anything you have faced.”

Bruce didn’t respond.

He was already pulling up a new layer of data — phone pings, anonymous chatter in Gotham’s underground channels, encrypted comms. There was something in the way Jason had acted out his plan. Taking control of the drug trade, gunning for Black Mask.

His fingers moved over the screen with grim precision. “He wants something. He’s following a trail. I need to know where it leads.”

He pulled up Gotham’s full transit network. Overlayed it with underground routes, abandoned service tunnels, and areas where sightings had been reported. There was one thread that cut through every piece of intel: an abandoned warehouse at the edge of Gotham Harbor near Paris Island.

Bruce pressed his gloved hand to his face. His jaw tightened.

Jason was headed here now.

Jason was alive.

Jason hadn’t come home. 

Why hadn’t Jason come home?

He activated his comm-link. “Alfred. Prep the Batwing. Lock in coordinates for Gotham Harbor.”

Alfred’s voice was measured. “Sir, whatever Jason is planning, you are walking into dangerous territory.”

Bruce’s voice was colder now. “I don’t care. I need to find him.”

He pulled on his cowl, the weight of his cape settling on his shoulders like a promise of war. Gotham was bleeding out somewhere in the dark, and Jason — his son — was at the heart of it.

And Bruce would follow that trail, wherever it led.

Because Jason wasn’t dead.

He was out there.

And Jason wasn’t home.

The city burned low on the horizon, a glow of red against Gotham’s fading night. 

Inside the crumbling warehouse, gasoline fumes hung thick in the air. 

The Joker danced in a circle, humming tunelessly as he struck a match and waved it near the soaked floor. Black Mask and his men writhed against their bonds, their muffled pleas drowned by Joker’s manic laughter.

“Nothing like a bonfire to bring people together!” Joker sang. “You’ll all be ashes, and I’ll be free—”

The match never landed. 

A shot rang out, snapping it from his fingers.

Red Hood stepped from the shadows, his helmet gleaming under the flickering light. “You talk too much.”

Joker’s grin widened, unshaken. “Oh, I like this newbie. You came for me.”

The fire that caught in Jason’s chest wasn’t playful. 

He moved fast, slamming Joker against a pillar, fist after fist driving into the clown’s painted face. Blood smeared red over white, laughter mixing with choked gasps.

“You think death is enough of a punishment for you?” Jason hissed, each punch harder than the last. “You think anyone will mourn for you?”

There was a crash through the skylight before the next hit could land.

Batman.

Smoke bombs hissed, and in seconds he was at the hostages’ side, cutting them free, dragging Black Mask and his men clear of the soaked floor.

Jason didn’t stop.

 His grip on Joker only tightened.

“Jason.”

The name, spoken low and raw, froze the air.

Red Hood turned, helmet locking on Batman. 

Batman who stood not even 10 feet away.

His voice was a snarl under the modulator, but the weight of it was human, personal. “Don’t you dare say my name like you still have the right.”

Batman’s chest tightened.

He stepped forward carefully, every line of his body torn between defense and grief. “This isn’t the way.”

Chapter Text

Hood froze.

His fist lowered.

“This isn’t the way!” Hood let out hysterically. 

He had been through hell for the last few weeks… and THIS ISN’T THE WAY?!

He dropped the Joker and kicked his ribs in for extra measure. The clown's ribs were definitely broken with the amount of force he used.

Jason’s eyes flared beneath the helmet’s visor, the rage in him burning hotter than anything else. His fists clenched until his knuckles cracked. “No. Screw it. This is the way.”

Before Batman could respond, Jason lunged.

His fist drove into Batman’s jaw with savage force, the sound of impact cracking through the air. Bruce stumbled backward, caught off guard. Jason followed with another blow, driving through Batman’s guard with a flurry of fists, each one a lightning strike powered by years of pain and betrayal.

It was not a fight of equals. 

This was war.

Their blows landed hard, armor against armor, bone against bone. Batman moved with precision — the discipline of decades — but Jason fought with something far more dangerous: desperation.

Every hit was fuelled by anger, by grief, and rage.

"Hood Stop!"

Jason’s fists drove into Batman’s chest, knocking the breath out of him. Batman struck back with elbows and grapples, but Jason twisted free with inhuman speed.

Batman steadied himself enough to speak through the barrage, voice strained: “Jason… don’t make this harder than it already is.”

They traded blows across the warehouse floor, metal and concrete groaning under the violence. Batman slammed Jason into a steel pillar, and Jason returned the strike with a savage punch to Batman’s jaw.

“This isn’t the way!” Jason roared, voice breaking. “How fucking dare you! You let him live! The Joker! The man who did this to us! You let him breathe!”

Batman staggered, breathing hard. “Hood. Stop!”

Jason laughed bitterly, blood dripping from split lips. “No! You swore you wouldn’t kill. That’s your line. Your sacred code. But I… I crossed my line years ago. And I don’t give a damn about your code, Batman. Not anymore.”

Jason’s fists were storms now, striking with unrelenting fury. Batman blocked, countered, but every blow brought them both closer to breaking. Jason slammed Batman against the wall, pinning him with brutal strength.

“Robin. Stop” Batman tried again.

Robin.

Now he was Robin?

Now, when it counted?

Rainwater dripped from his hair.

Green Rage filled his eyes.

His face was twisted with anguish. “I’m not going to stop,” he said, voice raw, almost breaking. “I can’t stop. I need to do it. And you have no idea what it’s cost me.”

Batman grunted, struggling against Jason’s hold. “Jason… please. Come home.”

“No!” Jason’s voice cut like steel. “You don’t get to ask for that. You don’t get to ask — not after what you did. Not after what you didn’t do!” He stepped back, fists shaking. “You let him live. You let the Joker live… and you lost me. And now you’re gonna make me lose her too.”

Her?

Her again?

Batman’s brow furrowed. “Who? Jason, her who?!” 

Jason’s expression hardened. He spat the words like venom. “You think I’m here for revenge? You think this is just about me? No. I’m here because I have something you can’t understand, Bruce. You wouldn’t kill to protect me. But I’d kill for her. And I will.”

The revelation hit Batman harder than any punch. His jaw tightened under his cowl. Jason stepped forward, closing the gap between them. His fists were fists of vengeance, his voice a weapon.

“This isn’t just about you anymore, Bruce. And if you try to stop me… you’ll lose too.”

Hood roared and charged, the fight resuming with renewed violence. The warehouse became a storm of fists and fury. The clash of blows rang out against steel beams and concrete. But in the chaos, the sound of movement shifted.

A faint, mocking chuckle echoed from deeper in the warehouse.

Jason’s head snapped toward the sound. “Where is he?”

Before Batman could answer, Joker emerged from the shadows with a twisted grin, holding another match. “Ohhh… boys, boys, boys,” he said almost gleeful. “You’ve been playing your little dance, and while I’ve been enjoying the show its time to say Ta-TA!.”

Jason lunged toward the Joker, but Batman grabbed him mid-motion. 

Their fight stumbled into each other, leaving Joker a gap just wide enough. The clown vanished into the smoke, laughter trailing behind him like poison.

Jason cursed under his breath. “Damn it.”

Batman’s voice was low. “He’s gone.”

Jason staggered back, chest heaving. “Damn it.” He said again.

He turned and sucker punched Bruce.

Jason broke through Batman’s guard, sending him sprawling. Batman struggled up, chest heaving, but Jason stood over him, breathing hard. His helmet now cracked revealing part of his face.

“I’m going to kill the Joker,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You are not going to stop me. Not now.”

He walked away.

Lightning flashed, and the warehouse fell into silence.

Somewhere far away, Joker’s laughter faded into the distance.

He just walked away.

He just walked away.

Jason just walked away from him.

The silence was astoundingly loud.

Maybe he could lay here and drown in his failure? 

Bruce was still in shock over the last hour. He should follow Jason, right?

He should do a lot of things

He should make sure that Tim had done his homework and that Dick was resting and that Cassandra was in Gotham.

He should have made sure that Stephanie was alive, that Tim's parents were still alive, Barbara hadn't been paralysed, that Jason hadn't of died, Talia hadn't had a miscarriage or driven Dick away... and he hadn't done that.

He should have done a lot of things.

For five minutes, surely, he could sit down and just wallow in his failure and self-hatred that was his life. It had all been a spectacular mess so far.

What was five more minutes? 

“Batman. Are you there?”

The message came over his comm.

No wallowing time then? Shame.

He took a deep breath.

In and Out. 

It had already been a long night and he was ready to be done and go hide away in his cave until he had a new plan to bring back Jason that wouldn’t end in a brawl. Unfortunately, his terrible night wasn’t over yet.

Someone had hacked his comm and was contacting him directly.

“Batman when you are done moping, please come see me on the red roof. You will want this conversation to happen.” 

They had direct eyesight on him.

That alone sent him on edge.

He sent a message off to Oracle quickly to call the GPD to collect Black Mask and to clean up the Joker’s mess.

“Bat, I’m getting impatient. Make your way here now!”

Batman stood up and burst upward in a spray of grapnel and lightning reflexes, landing hard on the nearby red rooftop. His chest rose and fell under the strain, his eyes sweeping the grounds below.

He thought he saw Jason’s helmet glinting one last time in the distance before he turned and vanished into the night — a ghost in the storm.

Batman moved forward cautiously, grapnel still coiled in his gauntlet, scanning every shadow.

His instincts screamed - he knew something wasn’t right. 

He stepped toward the edge of the roof, eyes fixed on the opposite rooftop across the alley.

There, a figure stepped out of the shadows. 

Tall, pale, unnervingly still. 

Mirrored lenses reflected the glow of Gotham below. He moved with a predator’s grace.

Batman stiffened, voice low and measured. “Who are you?”

The figure tilted his head slightly, as if considering whether to comply. “I could tell you,” he said softly. “But then you’d know less about me than you think. And I wouldn’t want to rob you of the… pleasure of the chase. However, if you require a name, you must call me the Hollowman”

Batman’s fists tightened. He had a long night. He was done with the dramatics.

“You’re in my city. You’ve been watching. Speak.”

The figure smiled faintly beneath the lenses. “Ah… The Batman. Always so direct. I like that. It makes things easier — and yet, here we are, dancing around each other.”

Batman’s gaze hardened. “What do you want?”

The figure — Hollowman — stepped closer to the edge, letting rain drip off his shoulders. “Want? No. I have no desires here. Only… amusements and information. And you, Batman, are most entertaining.”

Batman’s voice was sharp. “I don’t have time for games.”

Hollowman chuckled softly. “Oh that denial must be hereditary. No, no you don’t… but I do. And I’m not sure you understand the game you’ve stumbled into.” He folded his arms, leaning slightly forward, his mirrored lenses catching the faint light like shards of glass. “Do you know why I’m here? Do you know what your son is doing?”

Batman’s posture stiffened, every muscle tensing. “He is not your concern.”

“Oh, but he is,” Hollowman said quietly. “He has been an awfully busy young man, all that damage and chaos…and yet, he still has so far to go.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Hollowman’s voice dropped to a whisper, almost teasing. “Jason is not merely fighting you, Batman. He’s hunting something. Someone. And what’s truly delightful… is that you have no idea what it is.”

Batman’s jaw tightened. “I need names. Who is he fighting?”

The man tilted his head, as if considering whether to answer. “Names are heavy things. Dangerous things. They give meaning. And meaning is… subjective. I prefer to keep mine… optional. ” His voice was smooth, detached, almost amused. “But if you want a name…I have a particular one you'll want.”

Batman’s fists clenched. “Not in the mood for games, Hollowman. Answers. Now!”

Hollowman smiled wider, his mirrored lenses glinting in the rain. “Ah… answers. Such a pedestrian demand. You know why I’m here, don’t you? Because you’re desperate, Batman. Desperate to bring him back. Desperate to understand. And desperate to stop him.”

Batman took a step forward, voice cold. “You’re playing with me.”

“And you’re walking into it,” Hollowman replied softly. “You see, I enjoy watching you work. The way you pull at threads, searching for answers. And here’s the best and most frustrating part — you’re missing the whole picture.”

Batman’s tone hardened. “Then tell me what it is.”

Hollowman shook his head slowly, almost mournfully.

“No. That would spoil the fun.” He took a deliberate step back toward the rooftop’s edge. “You are always so certain. So, commanding. I like that. It makes your desperation, your fear all the more intriguing.”

Batman shifted his stance, defensive. “Fear is irrelevant. I want the truth. Who are you and who do you work for?”

“I am the Hollowman. I work for no one except My Patron,” Hollowman replied softly. “Though some might call me… an interested investor.” He glanced down at the warehouse, voice dropping. “You left your son broken. And broken men rarely find their way back to the same place they came from.”

Batman’s froze. “He isn’t broken. I will bring him home.”

Hollowman tilted his head as if considering the statement, letting the rain drip off his shoulders. “Home. Such a curious word. What is ‘home’ to a man who has been dead? Do you think he wants to return to your cavern of rules? To your ‘justice’? No, Bat. He’s chasing something else. Something that terrifies even the bravest of men.”

Batman’s fists could only tighten so far. This guy was a dick and pushing his control to the limits.

“Speak plainly.”

The pale figure chuckled softly, almost mockingly. “Plain speech is overrated. But I will give you a gift — a whisper of truth. Your son is not here for you. Not anymore. He is here for… something else. A tether stronger than vengeance. And when he finds it, nothing will stop him.”

Batman’s voice hardened. “What are you talking about? What tether?”

Hollowman stepped closer, letting the wind spray rain between them. 

His mirrored lenses reflected the faint light of the city. “Your son has a reason. A purpose. Something precious he’s protecting.  Something worth more to him than all the blood he’s shed.”

“What is it?” Batman demanded again.

“A daughter.” He let the words hang between them like a blade. 

Batman froze.

Bruce's heart stopped. 

His breath caught. “What did you say?” His voice was low, sharp, a growl.

“A daughter,” Hollowman repeated. He almost sounded bored. “A beautiful baby girl named Juliet. She was taken from him in the dead of the night, Batman. Something you, yourself have experience with. and she is the reason your son has chosen this path. Hell has no wrath like a father scorned and all.”

Batman’s fists clenched tighter, knuckles whitening beneath his gloves. His eyes narrowed behind the cowl. 

He thought of the plastic child-like bracelet.

Jay-Jay.

Hollowman smiled faintly, leaning toward the edge of the rooftop. “You think you know everything about Jason Todd. But you don’t. You have never seen the whole picture. And that… is the cruelest truth of all.”

Batman’s voice was cold, measured, but there was a sharp edge of shock in it. “Where are they?”

The pale man’s tone softened, almost mockingly sympathetic. “Ah… Batman. If I told you, you wouldn’t know what to do with the knowledge. Jason will find his daughter first before anything else. And when he does… he will never let go. Not even for you. And when he finds her, Bruce… the choice before you will burn your soul.”

Batman’s voice dropped to a growl. “How do you know those names?”

Hollowman’s smile widened, a glint of cruel satisfaction in his tone. “Because I watch. Because I study.” He took a slow step back toward the shadows. His voice drifted like smoke. “Follow the thread, Batman. It will lead you to him. But be careful what you wish for — because when you find him… you may not like what you see.”

“I will bring him back.”

Hollowman chuckled softly, the sound drifting into the night. “Oh, I have no doubt you will. But first, Bat… you must decide whether you are saving him… or stopping him. And when you find out the truth, you’ll wish you never asked.”

With that, Hollowman stepped back into the shadows. 

The rain washed over him as if he had never been there.

Chapter Text

Red Hood. Juliet. Hollowman.

Each word a thread, each thread another knot he couldn’t untangle fast enough.

He hadn’t slept.

He’d traded exhaustion for obsession a long time ago.

The Cave had never felt so hollow.

The Batsuit pressed in around him like a tomb. 

His knuckles were bruised, the armor cracked along his shoulder where Jason’s blows had landed hardest.

He hadn’t told anyone yet.

Hadn’t confirmed what Juliet’s existence meant beyond what they initially suspected.

The fight from the warehouse kept replaying in his head. The fight. Jason’s rage. His voice breaking when he said it: “I’d kill for her. And I will.”

The screen still glowed with Jason’s face and name, mocking him in sterile font:

Alive and seen in Crime Alley.

Bruce couldn’t tear his eyes away. His chest felt like it was being crushed in a vice, but the pain was dulled by the greater, sharper wound clawing at him.

Red Hood. Jason. Juliet. 

Jason had come back from the dead.

But not here.

Not to him.

The thought burrowed deeper, festering. He had imagined a hundred times what he would give for one more day with his second son—one more chance to set things right. He had thought, if miracles existed, Jason would find his way home. 

Back to him.

But Jason hadn’t.

Jason had just…walked away.

From the looks of it, Jason had chosen to go literally anywhere else.

He hadn't gone home to him.

Bruce’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling before curling into a fist. He didn’t notice Alfred speaking behind him, didn’t hear the scrape of Dick shifting in pain, of Tim arriving at the cave after being away in Smallville. He had wanted to tell Tim of Jason's return personally, but it looked like Alfred and Dick had beaten him to it. He wanted to tell them all about Juliet and her father. Tim, for all the recent chaos that was their lives, had adapted well to hearing his former hero was alive and now tearing apart the criminal underworld leaving nothing behind but an empire with a red running river.

Their voices blurred into a hum, distant, meaningless.

All he could see was the frozen frame of Red Hood, captured mid-strike. 

Jason. 

His boy. 

His baby.

His second son.

Alive.

And hidden behind armor, rage, blood.

Not in his room at Wayne Manor.

Not training in the cave. 

Not safe and sound beside him.

The bracelet caught the computer’s glow, beads shining garishly in pinks and purples. Bruce stared at it, bile rising in his throat. 

‘A beautiful baby girl named Juliet.’  Came the mocking tone in his head.

Jason. Juliet. 

Blueprints, dossiers, city schematics — they were spread across the BatComputer’s monitors in a dizzying kaleidoscope of data. Bruce stood rigid at the console, hands braced on the desk, eyes fixed on the endless stream of information. 

The bracelet glittered again where Bruce had set it down, its childish colors obscene against the cold steel of the BatComputer.

He wondered what the girl was like. Did she look like Jason? Or did she take after her mother? Who was her mother? Did Jason meet her and decide to stay away from Gotham to be with her? Were they married and happily in love with each other? Did they have a wedding? A baby shower? Did they own a house? All of those little mundane events that meant the world.

A cruel reminder of what Bruce had missed.

Of what he'd lost.

A daughter…his son had a daughter.

Jason wasn’t alone.

Jason. Juliet. 

Someone Bruce didn’t know.

A grandchild.

A beautiful girl named Juliet. 

“He has a child.” The words dropped out of his mouth like lead.

Dick blinked up from his conversation with Tim who was signing his cast. “What?”

“Jason,” Bruce said quietly, turning toward them. His voice was rough, and so very tired. “He has a daughter.”

Tim frowned. “You’re sure?”

His youngest boy. All grown up and so, so bright and alive. His children were his pride and joy in every and any way that mattered.

…Maybe Jason felt the same way about his daughter.

Bruce nodded once. “He said he’d kill for her. That… she’s the reason he’s been back in Gotham. Everything he’s done, it’s all been about her.”

Dick’s jaw slackened. “Holy hell.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Jason… a dad? That’s—”

“Unimaginable?” Tim supplied softly.

Dick exhaled, nodding. “Yeah. That.”

The silence that followed was astounding.

That was the thing Bruce noticed. 

It was like time had stood still. Nothing short of a nuclear bomb and the apocalypse wouldn’t break the shock.

Alfred was just staring. 

Just staring. 

Bruce hated when he couldn’t read him.

“...I have to find the girl,” Bruce said finally. “Before someone else does. It'll stop all of this.” It had to. It would stop Jason long enough for Bruce to talk sense into him. Or at least, he hoped it would.

His new declaration was the first thing to break the silence.

Tim leaned forward slightly, processing before leaping into action. “Do we know where she is? Or if she’s safe?”

Bruce’s gaze darkened. “Hollowman said someone took her. That this was a game that Jason had to play. That Jason had to do it alone.”

That silence again — the heavy kind that settled into the walls.

“Master Bruce…” Alfred’s voice was tentative, but the weight of concern pressed every syllable.

Bruce didn’t look up. His voice was low, ragged. “He could have come home. He could have asked for help,”

Alfred was not one to hesitate. “Perhaps he did not feel he could.”

The words cut deeper than blades. Bruce’s breath hitched, though he forced it steady. He knew that Alfred didn't blame him for Jason's death. That was due to circumstances outside Bruce or Alfred's control. However, that didn't mean the man did not hold a little resentment towards Bruce for the events leading up to Jason running away in the first place.

All Bruce would hear was Jason would never trust him again, and it was all Bruce's fault. 

Who could blame him? 

Jason’s last few months had been volatile at best. To say it was a disaster would be under-describing that time period. Long and hard earned trust had been destroyed so easily due to Bruce's arrogance and mistrust. 

Jason didn’t trust Bruce.

He didn’t trust him to help find the girl.

He didn’t want him. 

Why would he?

He didn’t need him.

The literal body bag full of heads could attest to the fact that Jason would make the city bleed if he was desperate enough.

His jaw was clenched so tightly he half-expected to hear his teeth crack. 

He saw Tim and Dick exchange glances. “Bruce,” Dick said finally, crossing his arms. “You’ve got a head wound. You need to stop and take a break. We can look for Jason in the mean time.”

“I can’t stop.” Bruce’s voice was hoarse and in so much pain “Jason’s alive and he’s my responsibility. He’s desperate. He's volatile and he is alone. And if this ‘Hollowman’ was telling the truth…” Bruce’s fingers flexed against the console. “Then… Jason’s daughter.” Bruce said, voice low. “That means she’s my responsibility too.”

Dick shook his head. “No, Bruce. She’s his life. There’s a difference.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to bleed.

The words echoed in the cavern, heavier than any boulder.

Jason’s life was with someone else. 

Not him.

Not their family. 

Someone new. 

A little girl.

How? How did this happen? 

How did Jason get a child?

How did Jason have a daughter?

Bruce closed his eyes. Juliet. He didn’t know her face, her age, her laugh — but the thought of her haunted him anyway. How on earth did you miss someone you’ve never met?

Jason’s child.

His grandchild, in every way that mattered.

And oh lord, was that a shock.  

He was a grandparent.

And oh, wasn't that such a weird thought.

He had accepted Jason’s loss in more ways than one.

He had accepted that Jason would never graduate high school. Jason would never have gone to college. He’d never gotten to drive or drink legally, never walked across the stage in a cap and gown while Bruce watched from the audience, pride tucked tight in his chest.

Bruce had grieved that loss more than once. Hard.

He’d mourned that life Jason should have had.

But he’d never imagined this level of loss.

He had never imagined Jason meeting someone and falling in love. He never imagined Jason having children, never buying his first house, moving away from Gotham, from him.

He had never allowed himself to picture Jason as a father.

Never imagined him with someone small and fragile in his arms — someone so small that it was instinct to protect.

Now that image would never leave him.

Someone so dear to his boy.

Someone Bruce didn’t know, didn’t protect, and he wasn’t even sure he had the right to ask about.

…But he wanted.

He wanted so hard his heart ached.

Bruce ran a hand down his face. His voice was quiet — almost a confession. “I should’ve prepared for the possibility of this… of Jason returning. It's happened before to others... but I didn’t. I didn't want the false hope. And now it’s too late.”

Dick exhaled slowly, moving closer. “Bruce, we don’t know if that’s true.”

“We have to assume it is.” Bruce didn’t look away from the screens. “It would explain what we’ve seen so far. If Jason has a child, she’s in danger and it’s my fault. She’s leverage. Every enemy I’ve ever made — every enemy we’ve ever made — would use her against him. Against me.”

“Or just against Jason specifically," Dick countered, sharp. “Hollowman seemed to only care about him. He just wanted to toy with you and get under your skin.”

Bruce’s head lifted just slightly. “That doesn’t matter.”

Dick’s voice rose, frustration bubbling past his usual calm. “It does matter. Because right now, you’re not thinking about this clearly. Jason, or this kid, or what they need — you’re thinking about how to control the situation.”

Bruce finally turned, his cape brushing the floor. “He’s, my responsibility."

This was worse than picking the coffin. Worse than clearing the rubble in Ethiopia. Then when Jason had been taken from him. 

Torn away.

Now—

Now Jason had walked away on his own.

The concussion was definitely making him aware of that little fact.

“He is supposed to be your son. You need to treat him like one,” Dick snapped him back to reality. “Jason doesn’t need another mission briefing — he needs to know you’re not going to chain him up in the cave until he behaves. He needs to know you won’t be the reason his kid gets taken away just because you don’t understand what’s going on!”

Bruce’s silence stretched, a canyon between them.

Dick softened, running a hand through his hair. “Look… you want him home. I get that. But Jason isn’t coming home because you say so. He’s only coming home if you meet him where he is. And right now? He’s not there. He's hurting. He’s scared. And he’s furious. Jason’s only goal is to find his kid.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, but the fight had gone out of him. “We still need to find her. Before anyone else does. If Black Mask, Joker, or anyone else learns who she is…”

“They’ll weaponize her,” Dick finished grimly and swallowed hard. “So how do we even start? Jason has been tearing Gotham apart for weeks and still hasn’t found her. We also need to figure out how Jason’s alive, maybe if we figure out who helped him…we find out who knows about the girl?”

Bruce’s breath came shallow, unsteady. 

“I’m going to kill the Joker. You are not going to stop me.”

Jason had basically thrown his next step in his face.

The concussion was really throwing him for a loop. He had briefly thought that Tim was still in high school and that Stephanie was still 'dead'. He tried to summon the discipline that had carried him through warzones, through funerals, through blood-soaked alleys.

But it frayed at the edges.

His mind kept whispering the truth, over and over, until it roared:

He didn’t come home to you. And now your child and grandchild are in danger and it’s all your fault.

“...Jason is going after the Joker. Somehow he is entangled into this mess as well.” Bruce pushed out the words.

You got him killed.

“Jason couldn’t get to Joker. So he got Black Mask to lure him out, hence the gang war.” It made sense.

You will get her killed.

“Jason thinks killing the Joker will somehow get him Juliet.” That monster took his son away, he was not going to allow an encore performance involving his granddaughter. 

He will never come home to you.

Bruce pressed both hands flat against the desk, head bowed. “We need to stop him from going too far.”

His son was alive. 

….And he had chosen a life that didn’t include Bruce Wayne.

“Bruce…” Alfred tried to start speaking… no words would come forth.

Bruce looked away, the ache behind his eyes deepening. “He thinks I can’t understand,” he said quietly. “That I wouldn’t do whatever it takes. But he’s wrong.”

Dick swallowed hard. “What are you gonna do?”

Bruce’s answer came without hesitation. “Find her. Find the girl.”

Tim nodded. “And Jason?”

Bruce turned back to the screen, watching Jason’s cracked helmet as the video froze on the last frame. His voice, when it came, was low.

“Find him too.”

Rain again. 

Gotham never stopped bleeding.

It had been twenty-four hours since the fight,

His helmet was gone — cracked beyond use — and his face was a ruin of bruises and exhaustion. The fight with Bruce had left its mark, but it wasn’t the pain that kept him awake.

It was the silence. 

The absence of anything.

Juliet’s laughter used to fill every corner of his brain. She’d hum nonsense songs while drawing him pictures with crayons. Sometimes she’d fall asleep in his arms while he studied— and for once, he’d feel at peace.

Now the air felt dead without her.

Jason dropped another file onto the table of his safehouse — photographs, maps, strings, half-scorched papers. 

His leads were thin. Too thin. 

He was fucked.

It was Bruce’s fucking fault.

A phone buzzed on the table — one of his underworld contacts. A lieutenant he'd stolen from Black Mask.

 He grabbed it. “Talk.”

“Boss,” the voice rasped. “We got a sighting. Joker at the Amusement Mile.” Of course, it was the Clown’s own personal playground after all.

Jason froze. “Amusement Mile?”

“Yeah. Didn’t get a confirmation. But people say he paid off some muscle to keep quiet.”

Jason’s mind snapped to one possibility — murder.

His stomach twisted. He was so close.

The voice on the other end stammered, “What do you want us to do, boss?”

“Nothing,” Jason hissed. “I’ll handle it.”

He hung up and stared at the chaos of notes on the table. Every line connected, looping back to the same nightmare.

Joker.

The Bat.

He’d spent years on the streets and in the manor learning to stay one step ahead — now he was slipping behind, and every second felt like her heartbeat was fading somewhere out there.

Jason grabbed his pistol, checked the mag, then shoved it into his holster. He pulled his red domino mask from the table — cracked but still usable — and pressed it to his face.

Somewhere in the distance, a single laugh echoed — faint, familiar, cruel.

Jason’s eyes narrowed behind the mask. “You’re first, clown,” he muttered, voice shaking with fury. “Then I’ll come for the rest.”

He’d figure it out. He would. 

He'd get the clown.

He'd get Batman.

He’d get Batman to kill the clown.

He’d get Juliet back.

He’d kill the fucker who took her.

He would make them feel so much pain to the point they would beg for the relief of suffering only found in the nine levels of hell. Then if he was merciful, he could kill them.

He’d figure it out.

He would. 

The neon glow of Amusement Mile still flickered in the night, casting fractured light across abandoned rides and broken stalls. It was once the kind of place Gotham forgot — a forgotten kingdom of twisted joy and rot. Now it was a constant reminder of all the city's failures and twisted brokenness.

Hood stepped lightly over the cracked tiles of the midway, boots splashing in puddles, pistol drawn. His armor was battered. His face still bore bruises from the fight with Bruce, only lightly hidden by the mask.

His eyes burned with a single purpose.

The Joker had to be here.

Somewhere inside the old funhouse.

Every whisper from the underworld, every scrap of intel, every dead body. Every tear, every desperate little thought and action that Jason had taken. Every line he crossed.

It all led to this.

The air smelled of oil and salt from the sea and the long-abandoned rides, but beneath that was something sharper that Jason thought could only be described as the stench of blood and madness.

Jason came to the gates of the funhouse.

Dark twisted metal faded paint peeling away in chunks.

A warped grin still painted the painted facade of the clown face that loomed over the entrance.

He pulled his pistol tighter.

A laugh echoed from inside — low, slow, venomous. “Ohhh… Hood,” the familiar voice called. “You finally made it. Let’s play.”

Jason stepped forward. 

Rainwater pooled in the warped floorboards as he approached the entrance. 

Every muscle in his body was taut. 

He was ready to happily burn this city down if it ended with the clown dead by the Bat's hand. He would make sure that it happened. There was a safehouse nearby he was ready to stache the Joker in and lure Batman to. Then he'd make Batman pick and if Bruce wanted any chance of 'saving' Jason, HE WOULD KILL THE FUCKING CLOWN FOR JASON.

Jason wouldn't stick around for the aftermath though. His only goal was his daughter.

He was going to get her back tonight. He'd have her in his arms and never let her out of his sight again. 

The clown and The Bat would be a far distant memory that would never touch the two of them again. He'd make sure of it. Hell, if he could find Talia, he might even ask her to come with him.

The grin above the funhouse door seemed to pulse in the dark.

Jason pulled the door open.

And the world exploded.

A deafening roar shook the air, metal groaning, glass shattering in a blinding flash of heat and sound. The force threw Jason backward across the midway. Pain tore through his chest and head. The world tilted, fractured, then went black.

In and out of consciousness, he went.

When he came to, the air was thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burning rubber. Sirens echoed in the distance. The funhouse and the rest of the mile was a ruin — splintered wood, twisted steel, and flame.

And the Joker was gone.

Figures that this was a trap for Jason since he messed with the Clown's plans with Black Mask. Oh well, it was just another reason to kill the fucking monster.

Jason crawled forward through the debris, coughing, one hand pressed against his chest where his armor had buckled under the blast. His boots scraped against broken glass. 

Blood dripped from his split lip.

The laughter was gone now.

Jason’s breath came ragged, chest rising in heavy pulls. His visor flickered, scanning the wreckage.

Then his blood ran cold.

A twisted, burnt shape lay half-buried under the funhouse’s wreckage — Joker’s grin frozen in death.

Jason’s fist slammed into the concrete beside him. Hard enough to splinter it.

“No,” he rasped.

His vision swam. Pain thundered through his head. His knees gave way, and he collapsed to the ground. The world swirled into shadow.

Somewhere in the chaos, a faint, mocking whisper echoed in his ear — “She’s gone now, Hood. You failed. Your daughter is dead.”

Jason’s fingers clenched the dirt beneath him. 

And then he was gone.

Chapter Text

He woke to the smell of lavender— a ridiculously pretty smell that pulled him back from the edge of the black like a hand on his throat. For a second he lay very still, the world soft and unsteady around the edges, the helmet gone from his head and the taste of iron in his mouth.

Light slanted through a thin curtain, violet and washed-out; it painted the room in bruised purples and made everything look like an afterimage.

Something small and fragile clicked into place behind his ribs: he was breathing. 

He was alive.

He tried to move and pain flared, hot and immediate, along his chest and a rawness at the base of his skull. Memories came in jagged shards — the funhouse grin, the blast, the sensible silence after the laughter died. 

The fucking clown.

The last image hit him like a fist: a twisted, burnt shape half-buried in splintered wood. A grin that shouldn't stop laughing. 

Then nothing.

Total black.

A shadow moved at the periphery of his vision and he turned his head. 

A girl—no, a young woman—sat on the edge of the mattress opposite him, elbows on her knees, fingers worrying at a thread on her sleeve. 

Blonde hair tied back in a messy knot, a purple hoodie half unzipped over a faded tee. 

The room around her was an argument of thrift-store chic and Narrows survival: mismatched cushions, a potted plant that had almost given up, shelves of comic trades and takeout menus. Posters in shades of violet and magenta — a youth's defiant color pressed up against the grit of the neighborhood.

Her eyes were wide and tired. 

Almost as tired as his.

When she saw him awake, she exhaled like someone who'd been holding a breath for too long. 

"About time," she said, voice rough with worry and something like relief. "You gave me a hell of a fright."

Hood tried to speak — to ask where he was, how long he'd been out, what was happening — but the words came out as a dry rasp. 

His throat hurt.

She softened her expression, stepping forward without a question. 

She reached up and brushed a jagged line of blood from his lip with the back of her hand. 

"Steph," she said simply, as if that explained why she was here. It did, in a way that made the wound crack open inside him. “Stephanie Brown.”

Stephanie Brown. 

The name hit him with a clarity that felt allergic to his bones. 

He remembered the files that he’d recovered from one of the Bat’s old hideouts.

The Narrows accent. 

The purple hoodie. 

The way she held herself like someone who'd patched more lives than she ever let others know. 

She had been a bright, loud thing against Gotham's bruises for years — reckless, stubborn, impossible. She had been one of the few who could call out the Big Bad Bat and not flinch, who could see the man under the armor and still choose him.

She had also died.

He tried to sit up and the room tipped. 

She was there in an instant, hands on his shoulders, fingers firm. 

"Don't move," she snapped, half command, half plea. "You're hurt."

The immediate animal reaction — anger, the urge to strike, to tear the world open and find the face that deserved to be ripped off — rose like bile. 

For a moment it consumed everything.

He could feel the old hunger for retribution, the focused, burning certainty that violence would fix this. 

He tasted it: necessary, righteous. 

He needed blood.

He imagined standing up, storming back to the ruins of the funhouse, following whatever thread of blood and smoke led to whoever had done this and making them pay in a currency they understood.

But when Stephanie's hand pressed to his chest — palm flat, warm, steady — the rage fractured. 

The sound of her telling him to breathe, the small carefulness in her voice, struck a brittle place inside him that he hadn't known was still soft. 

He only had that soft side for….

Oh no…

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no….

NO!

“She’s gone now, Hood. You failed.”

You failed.

You failed.

He remembered the weight of Batman's words in the smoking tri-corner yards: ‘Had your fun, Hood? Was it worth it?’

"Where is she?" The question tore out of him before he could stop it. 

“Who?”

“My daughter!? Where is my daughter!?!”

Daughter — the word felt hollow, like a coin with a hole punched through it. 

“She wasn’t there.”

She was dead…

His baby was dead.

His fingers clawed at the mattress, at the linen far below where he could take purchase and pull himself together.

Stephanie's face folded, and something small and private slid across it — a shutter coming down. 

"I pulled you out of the Amusement Mile," she said slowly. "We- I got you before the—before it finished burning. I took you back here. You were... out of it. You got hit. Hard." She swallowed. "You kept screaming. I—" She stopped, and the raw edge in her throat made his chest tighten.

Images flashed unbidden: the grin beneath the wreckage, the whispered, the mocking promise in his head that she was gone, his fist smashing concrete. 

He'd fallen through something deeper than pain — a place where the plan had been his only anchor and now the plank had given way. 

Where the thing he had been hunting had been taken from him, and there was nothing left of the map he had been following.

Hood's shoulders shook with the beginnings of a sob and anger flared at himself for it. 

Tears were a currency he would never have allowed; they were a vulnerability, a red flag to the world that could only be exploited. He swallowed, tasted salt. 

Stephanie didn't look away. 

She sat closer, the poor mattress creaking with both their weight.

"You should sleep," she said finally, softer. "You need it." 

There was judgment in it, but not the kind that blamed him. More like a ledger being settled: this is what needs to be done, even if everything is still burning.

“My daughter…” He murmured. “...I need to find her.”

“Sleep first.” She pulled him down against the mattress.

He wanted to pull away, to flee into the night and its familiar cold. 

He wanted to return to the ruins of the funhouse, to claw through ash for whatever was left of the Joker and burn Amusement Mile to the ground and make the fucking clown’s corpse bleed more than it already was....  

Instead he let his head fall back against the pillow. 

The world narrowed to the sound of his breath, the click of the radiator somewhere in the next room, the dull throb where his armor had taken the worst.

"Was it worth it?" Batman's voice echoed in his mind like a verdict. 

Had his choices changed anything? 

Had the explosion killed the thing that mattered most? 

He imagined a ledger with columns he could not balance: lives saved, lives lost, vengeance served, love lost. 

The numbers blurred.

Juliet.

He woke again.

Stephanie was in a chair next to him.

Stephanie reached out, folding his hand with hers like a bandage. 

"You look like hell," she said, and there was the ghost of a smile behind her tiredness. "But if you want to go dig through the corpse of the funhouse again, I will stop you." Her words were half joking, half serious. "Not because I’m not thankful for you killing the clown. Because I don't want to be the one stitching you back together for the next person you want to kill. It wasn’t pretty the first time."

Thankful for killing the clown?

But he didn’t kill the clown…

Didn’t he?

For a long moment neither of them spoke. 

Outside, the Narrows breathed its usual, rough rhythm — sirens, a distant shout, the clunk of a truck. 

Inside the small purple room, Hood's rage cooled into something heavy and hollow and real. 

He was a man with an unfinished war and a body that betrayed him; he was someone who had thought running would hide the blood. He thought being gone would bury his ghosts only to find they looked back from the wreckage, smiling.

Finally he said, very quietly, "Tell me where to find Black Mask." 

It wasn't a plea for vengeance as much as it was a tether — one more task to hold the edges of his sanity together.

It was his lead.

It was his only lead.

Black Mask knew where the Joker was. 

Joker was dead.

Whoever took Juliet had wanted Batman to kill the Joker.

That was no longer possible. 

Ergo, he needed a new plan. 

He needed to retrace his steps.

Black Mask was his only possible lead left.

He’d work with what he had.

His only other lead left was tracking down Hollowman.

He wasn’t sure if he could find Hollowman but…

He could sure as fuck find Black Mask.

Stephanie's fingers tightened around his. "Later," she said. "First, you need sleep. Then we will figure out what to do next."

What happened next was he killed the fucker who took and killed his daughter.

He’d kill.

He’d burn.

He’d bleed the whole world dry.

He’d- “Shhh ... sleep.” Stephanie pulled a blanket over him.

He’d go to sleep.

Just for a bit.

He didn't trust her to guard his sleeping body— not fully —but she was once a bat. 

Same as he.

And he was so tired.

So, so tired.

He closed his eyes anyway, because for the first time since the blast there was a hand in his, and that simple, human contact steadied him more than any armor. 

The purple light bled into his lashes as sleep took him in small, reluctant waves, and the ruins of the funhouse burned somewhere behind his eyelids, flames reflected in the wet sheen of tears he refused to own.

The Narrows didn’t sleep; it just dimmed. 

By morning, the rain had washed some of the ash from Jason’s armor, but the ache in his ribs hadn’t eased. 

He sat on the edge of Stephanie’s couch, boots planted, elbows on his knees. 

His helmet sat on the coffee table — cracked down one side, the HUD flickering like a dying pulse.

He hadn’t bothered covering up his face again.

He wasn’t sure if she knew who he was. 

He wasn’t sure if he cared. 

Nothing mattered anymore.

Stephanie moved around the small kitchen in her hoodie and ripped jeans, the faint scent of cheap coffee cutting through the must of old plaster.

She didn’t look at him right away, just stirred sugar into her mug and said quietly, “You’re not gonna fix this by bleeding on everything.”

Jason’s gaze flicked up, sharp, but tired. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good,” she said, leaning against the counter. “Because you look one bad night away from burning half the city.”

He didn’t answer. 

He didn’t need to — the silence was enough of an admission.

He would.

Stephanie hovered near the counter, mug in hand, watching him. “You need a plan,” she said quietly.

Jason gave a small shake of his head. “I don’t.”

“You’re running on fumes, Hood. You keep this up, and if you’re gonna find your daughter—”

“She’s dead.”

The words landed flat. 

Cold. Final.

Stephanie froze. “What?”

He lifted his head, eyes glassy and distant. “Juliet. My daughter. They took her, and I didn’t stop them. I couldn’t do what they wanted. They killed her. There’s no coming back from that.”

He felt like he was outside his body. 

Like reality hadn’t sunk in yet.

Nothing felt real.

Stephanie set her mug down, harder than she meant to. “Don’t you say that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“You don’t know that,” she said, voice rising. “You haven’t seen anything—no body, no proof. You’re just—”

“Steph.” He cut her off, voice rough and frayed. “I’ve seen enough.”

She stepped closer, anger mixing with grief. “Then maybe you’ve seen too damn much. You of all people should know what it’s like when everyone assumes you’re gone.”

Jason flinched.

Oh.

She knew.

Her voice softened. “You were buried, Jason. We all thought you were dead. And you weren’t. You came back.”

Yeah, she knew who he was.

“That was different.”

There was a swan-dive into a swimming pool of toxic ancient glowing green jelly involved.

“It’s not,” she said firmly. “You don’t know if she’s dead. Not until you see her body. Not until you know for sure.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, the tremor in his fingers betraying the cracks in his composure. “And if I find her body?”

“Then you can break,” Stephanie said, stepping closer until she was right in front of him. “But not before. Not when there’s even a sliver of a chance she’s still out there.”

Jason’s throat worked, the words caught between denial and acceptance.

Hope was for suckers.

Finally, he exhaled shakily. “I don’t know where to start.”

Stephanie took a sip, then set her mug down. “You want to find her. I get that. But you’re out of leads, and your network’s probably burned or scattered after that explosion at the Amusement Mile. You need help.”

Jason huffed a laugh that wasn’t really one. “Help? Yeah. From who? Bruce? Dick? They’d just lock me down before I even start looking.”

“Not them.” She folded her arms. “Oracle.”

“Oracle?”

“Barbara. She’s moved up in the world.”

The name hit him harder than she probably realized. 

Barbara.

The shadow behind the net, the eye that saw everything Gotham tried to hide. A ghost of control in a city built on chaos.

Jason looked away, jaw tightening. “She wouldn’t take my call.”

“She’ll take mine,” Steph said. “She’s the reason I found you before the cops did last night. She’s been keeping tabs on you, like she does with everyone.”

That last part stung more than it should’ve.

He thought he’d been more careful.

Fuck.

Jason rubbed a hand down his face. “If I go to her… it’s not going to end well. I’d be better off alone.”

Stephanie’s voice softened. “You can’t. You will lose.”

The words hit clean and true.

His pride was nothing when compared to finding his daughter.

Hell…he’d sacrifice every inch of his pride, his intelligence, and anything else that he owned.

He’d sacrifice his mind, body and soul for her.

He exhaled, long and quiet, then stood. “Fine. I’ll go.”

The city had shifted by the time he reached the Clocktower with Stephanie— all wet streets and amber light bleeding through the fog. Gotham looked almost peaceful from this height, its filth and fire blurred by distance.

Jason’s boots echoed across the marble floor as he entered through the service stairwell after Stephanie, one hand brushing the railing for balance. The building was mostly silent except for the faint hum of computers above.

He followed the glow until he reached the heart of it: a wide room filled with screens, maps, and the quiet hum of surveillance. Lines of code scrolled endlessly across monitors, casting blue light across a single figure seated before them in a wheelchair.

Oracle.

When she turned, the light caught her hair first — auburn, soft, pulled back. Then her face.

Freckles and ugly blue glasses.

Barbara.

He hadn’t seen her since he was fifteen.

Jason froze. She also froze.

They both stared at each other.

He didn’t know why he was scared of her.

It was just Barbara. Barbie. Bab’s. 

Batgirl.

The last name stuck in his throat. 

The wheelchair.

She was Batgirl no longer.

“Uh, hi Babs.”

Her expression softened at the sight of him. “Hi, Jason. It’s been a while.”

Something inside him cracked right down the center. 

He hadn’t seen her in years — not like this. 

Not without the mask, without the filter of crime and shadows between them. She was calm, composed, surrounded by her machines, and not for the first time since the explosion, Jason wanted to curl up into a ball and cry…or bawl his eyes out.

Jason felt small.

Looking at her… he felt so small.

Which was ridiculous, he was 6’0 feet tall. 

He literally loomed over her.

And yet…

He was so small.

He wanted to say something cruel, something to armor himself — You knew who I was and were following me? Did you know where I was the entire time? Did you know I was alive? What do you know about my life? — but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was air.

Barbara wheeled closer. She looked calm but he could sense the caution in her gaze. “Steph told me you were coming. She said you needed my help.”

He nodded once, his throat tightening. “Yeah….They took her. She’s gone. Joker—he—my kid…Juliet.”

His voice broke on the name.

He couldn’t do this.

How could he admit aloud what he did?

It was worth it.

Juliet was always worth it.

But saying it out loud…

And in front of the Blessed Saint Babs?

Barbara’s eyes widened slightly as his slight climbing hysteria, then softened with understanding. Something was wrong. 

Something was wrong and it was breaking him.

“Sit,” she said quietly, pointing to a nearby chair.

Jason didn’t. 

He dropped to both knees instead, right there on the cold tile, hands braced against his thighs. 

His head hung low. 

“I can’t—I can’t lose her, Babs. Not her.” His voice cracked raw and unguarded. “I tried to protect her. I tried to keep her away from all this, but it found her anyway. And I don’t know where to look. Every lead it burnt out. Every contact’s dead. I can’t even think straight anymore.”

Barbara reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder. 

Her voice was steady but thick with empathy. “Hey. Hey. You’re not alone, okay? You’ve done everything you could, and now you’re here. That’s what matters.”

He shook his head, trembling. “You don’t get it. I failed her. I failed everyone. I thought if I could just—if I could just stop him…” He swallowed hard, voice breaking completely. “Now she’s gone, and I don’t even know if she’s—”

“Jason.” Her voice stopped him cold. She moved closer, guiding his head down until his forehead rested lightly against her shoulder. “Breathe.”

For a long moment, he didn’t. 

Then, slowly, the walls cracked, and the sound that came out of him wasn’t words — just a shuddering, broken exhale that felt like something dying inside him. 

It turned into a long sobbing wail. 

Barbara held him there, fingers curling against his jacket as he wept loudly into her shoulder. 

His new height made it awkward, but she didn’t care.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered hoarsely. “I can’t keep chasing ghosts.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But you don’t have to. Not alone.”

He stayed like that for a long time — a man who had been nothing but the epitome of violence for the last few weeks, breaking quietly in the one place still willing to hold him.

Finally, Barbara eased back just enough to look into his eyes. Her hands cradled the sides of his face, warm and steady against the cold line of his jaw. 

“Juliet… that’s your daughter?” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, carrying both awe and a quiet reverence.

Jason’s throat tightened. The word came out raw, a broken thing that barely left his lips “Y-yeah…”

Barbara’s eyes softened, a flicker of a smile tugging at her lips. “You’re… a dad.” Her thumb brushed lightly against the tip of his nose, gentle and teasing, but there was a weight behind it — a recognition of everything he carried.

Jason’s chest rose and fell unevenly. He swallowed hard, voice trembling despite himself. “Yeah… yeah, I’m a dad.”

And for a single heartbeat, all the chaos, all the fear and guilt and rage, seemed to fade. He let himself feel it — the simple, terrifying, overwhelming emotions that he’d been trying to block. “Yeah, I’m a dad.”

Barbara squeezed his face once, lightly, grounding him. “We’ll get her back Jason. I promise.”

Jason blinked, startled by the conviction in her tone. “You’d really help me? After everything?”

Barbara smiled faintly. “You’re still one of us, whether you believe it or not. And she's innocent. No one touches a child in this city and gets away with it.”

He stared at her for a long moment, the weight in his chest easing by degrees.

“Thank you,” he managed, the words foreign on his tongue.

Barbara gave his shoulder one last squeeze before turning back to her screens. “Get some rest. Let me dig.” Her fingers flew across the keys, the glow of data reflecting off her glasses. “We’ll find whoever took her — I promise you that.”

Jason rose slowly, still shaking, but lighter somehow.

"Okay."

The room shimmered like a dream she didn’t understand. The walls gleamed with a strange, smooth light that reflected off the polished floor, making every shadow feel alive.

The air was warm, too warm, and smelled faintly of flowers and other sweet desires she didn’t know.

Juliet hugged her knees to her chest, toes pressing against the slick surface of the silken pillow. Every sound echoed — her own shallow breaths, the distant hum of something mechanical, the faint shuffle of someone moving far away.

She wanted to move, to run, but the floor was slippery, the light too bright, and her small hands trembled. She pressed her face into her knees, trying to make herself smaller, invisible.

“Where… am I?” she whispered to the empty room. Her voice sounded strange, fragile, like it belonged to someone else.

Everything was soft and shiny, almost beautiful, like a palace, but it made her chest ache.

She was alone.

She was scared.

And she didn’t know if anyone would come.

Her fingers toyed with the hem of her sleeve, seeking something familiar, something solid to hold onto. Not for the first time since her birthday and the world had turned upside down, she allowed herself to imagine her dad. The thought brought a small, trembling spark of hope in the middle of her fear.

“I… I just want him,” she whispered, voice barely audible over the silence. “I just want Daddy.”

The room didn’t answer.

The shimmer didn’t move.

But somewhere deep down, she clung to that tiny flicker, the one that whispered she wasn’t completely alone.