Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The thing about Gotham is that the grime rarely changes. It seeps into the cracks of the city, a fog that never quite clears. It’s like fear gas has settled permanently in the atmosphere, distant screams not uncommon in any section of the city. The worst of the criminal element has shifted through the years, adjusting their patterns around the territories of various vigilantes as they stake their claim on different pieces of the city. There is a near constant debate on if it is best to be on the boarder of two different patrolling Bats or if they should just embrace their dedicated hero. Some swear that they can slip between the cracks. Others fear drawing the attention of two vigilantes. The flow of crime ebbs like a gentle current, but the substance of it never really changes.

Put in that perspective, Jason Todd thinks it’s forgivable that it takes him almost a day to realize that he’s not in the right Gotham.

Even then it’s only because some lunatic in a red helmet is running through his territory.

A copy cat.

For the first couple blocks, Jason watches in open wonder. Because he really doesn’t understand the kind of person who would look at a Bat and decide well, that looks like fun. There has been more than one non-Bat trained kid who thought it was a good idea to put on a Robin costume, and there was also his own unauthorized stint as Nightwing, but even so, no one outside the family would ever think to go masquerading as Batman.

And not even his family thinks it's a good idea to dress up as Red Hood.

The guy in the costume is bulkier than Jason is now, but in terms of body type, he’s more than passable. Same broad shoulders, thick through the legs. Jason has managed to hang that kind of muscle on his frame before, but it takes a lot to maintain and when he’d started to reconcile with his family he'd revert to old habits. It’s hard to pull off some of the Robin-style acrobatics with that much bulk. And if he needs to stop someone with both a size and training advantage, well, a few rounds always did the trick.

The other Red Hood moves well for a guy of his size, head down as he saunters toward one of the more populated corners. Jason raises an eyebrow at the target. He doesn’t deal with street dealers so much these days, not unless he catches wind of someone selling to children, but it’s a good target, still a street dealer, but fairly high up the food chain. The kind of person he might have chosen when he first came to Gotham.

When he'd needed to make a point.

Jason watches from a gargoyle, half-wondering if the copycat has the awareness to check all the angles. Maybe he’s cocky, or maybe he’s new enough to Gotham that he thinks Batman’s the only real threat. But Batman rarely ventures this far into Jason’s territory unless invited or working a mass breakout. Under normal circumstances, Jason would make it a point to talk to the guy. After all, if he's an amateur, he can be scared off and if he's an enemy, well, Jason can always use some stress relief.

If he's something in between, extra intelligence before approach never hurts.

It takes Jason all of five minutes to realize that’s a mistake when the copycat slips a knife out from his jacket and sticks it through the dealer’s throat. The others on the corner scatter into the darkness, but Jason can’t make himself move, not even as the copycat calmly bends down and starts sawing through the rest of the muscles and ligaments in the dealer’s neck.

Because he remembers this. The way a severed head felt as he’d shoved it into the duffle bag. The way the blood stuck to the soles of his boots.

Even now, it’s hard to summon sympathy for the dead man. Not when Jason knows the scores of new addicts his type has sown through lower Gotham. He still believes that taking over the drug trade did more good than harm for the city, but watching the other Hood work makes his skin crawl. If he could make himself move, he would probably put a stop to it.

But he can’t move.

Not when the man wearing the helmet tossing the head into his duffle bag is this painfully familiar. Not when it’s very possible that stopping the man in front of him could have very real consequence for the person he is today.

All the same, he doesn’t believe it until he follows the copycat back to a dilapidated safe house, watches him unlatch the helmet and sees his own slightly wild eyes shining through the darkness.

Jason bites back a sigh.

Time travel or alternate universe.

He wishes he didn’t have a protocol for this.

Bat protocol for waking up in the wrong Gotham.

Step one: Ditch the costume. No one can be sure what the mask means in a different Gotham. Though after last night, Jason’s pretty sure Red Hood stands for almost the same thing.

He strips out of the body armor and stashes it in one of his safe houses. It takes him almost two hours to clear it completely and set up any necessary booby traps, but the ones he would have preferred to use, the ones he’s had established since he roared back into vengeance are potentially occupied. He runs a hand through his hair, wrinkling his nose at the phantom sensation of the domino on his face. He’s knocked off step two (confirming the era) by snagging an abandoned newspaper from the gutter.

Step three is harder, especially considering he suspects time travel instead of a parallel universe.

Step three is to make contact with someone in the family. Preferably the person farthest removed from the situation. Distance wise that means Damian, but if the newspaper is accurate, the demon brat is probably still with the League of Assassins. Which has its own host of problems considering today’s Red Hood’s connections.

So that just leaves Tim, who had been suspiciously absent for the bulk of his initial rampage. He’d had the one incident, where he'd nearly beaten the kid to death, but that was… that was after the ordeal with the Joker, wasn’t it?

His head has been a mess for years and his memories of this part of the past are shrouded in a Lazarus haze. He doesn’t regret most of his actions, but he knows that for most of the family, what he’s done is unforgivable. Especially to Tim.

Except he hasn’t done it yet. Any of it.

He sneaks into Titan Tower the same way he did all those years ago, uses the same tactics to subdue Tim’s superpowered teammates, and slips into what has to be functioning as Tim’s... apartment? He seems pretty young to be off on his own.

Despite everything, he can’t resist the waiting in the dark trick. He regrets it when Tim responds instinctively to the threat and tosses a few batarangs (or whatever the hell Robin’s calling his throwing weapons these days) in Jason’s directions. They’re not hard to dodge. Robin’s non-lethal aim had been instilled with enough force that even after years of being Red Hood, Jason still falls back on the same habit. The last one skims the edge of his sleeve, just enough to draw blood. Jason raises hand in mock surrender.

“Easy there, Timbers,” he says lightly. “I come in peace.”

“How did you get in here?” Tim demands. “This is one of the most secure facilities in the world.”

“Please,” Jason says. “Batcave, Justice League, Fortress of Solitude, Paradise Island, League of Assassins, it doesn’t even crack the top five.”

He can see Tim’s eyes narrow under his mask. “What are you doing here?”

“Bat-protocol,” Jason says, almost flippantly. He chances lowering his hands so that he can apply pressure to the batarang wound on his arms. “Come on, I know B did the same thing with you. Time travel contingency.”

Tim frowns harder. Jason fights the urge to squirm under his gaze.

After what feels like eternity Tim says, “You’re one of us.”

Jason reaches up and peels off his domino, but doesn’t say a word. Tim will take anything at this moment as an attempt to confuse him and Jason desperately wants an ally. So he waits, and he watches as Tim burns through possible identities in his head. Finally he asks, “Who is Batman?”

“Bruce Wayne,” Jason answers easily and can’t resist adding, “and you’re Tim Drake. I can keep going if you need it.”

Tim nods, licks his lips and says, “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Careful what you blame on a fifteen year old, three-point-oh. You had more than your fair share of close calls. So did Dickiebird. You’re supposed to be just as dead as me. You just happen to have better luck.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jason gives him a crooked smile. He’s never been able to resist rubbing his death in the rest of the family’s faces. For years it’s been met with the same flash of guilt. Even from Tim who had nothing to do with the incident. All Tim had done was step into an empty costume and Jason made him pay for that act. Enough that he’d started sharing the guilt with Dick and Bruce.

Today Tim only gives him an eye roll that is obvious even under the mask. Guess everyone was telling the truth. Without Jason beating the idea into Tim’s skull, it didn’t ever occur to him that he might have done something wrong.

Jason’s not sure if that makes their history better or worse.

“I need your help,” he says.

Tim locks the door behind him and crosses the room to grab a tablet from his desk. “You need to get back to the future?”

“What?” Jason says, he feels vaguelylightheaded. “Hell no, I don’t want to go back. Do you know what kind of opportunity this is?”

“Didn’t think you’d be one for playing the lottery numbers.” Tim’s posture has shifted slightly, tensing into a fighting stance. He’s not as good at hiding it in nonchalance as Dick. “Can’t change the past.”

“Flash changes it all the time. And it’s not like you can tie me up and deliver me to Bats because that’s even more of a timeline clusterfuck than anything I could be planning.”

Tim stares him done for a long moment before he uncrosses his arms and says, “Fine, Jason. Guess you better tell me everything.”

Jason doesn’t tell Tim everything.

Jason tells Tim about one quarter of the things he needs to know.

Because Jason already regrets the damn Bat protocol that drove him here. Tim, as he’d found out in one embarrassingly awkward breakfast a few years after his return, has made a study of Jason’s every reaction going back to when he was wearing the short pants and can easily spot the parts he’s omitted.

Jason wonders why he hasn’t made a move to subdue him for the sake of the timeline. He half thinks he’s stalling until one of the other Titans to wake up and respond with backup.

“We should talk to someone,” Tim pleads. “It doesn’t have to be Batman. Nightwing would be more than happy to help. Or maybe the Flash. He’s probably the best bet for something that could mess with a timeline. It’s possible that someone has sent you here with some kind of purpose. Was there a fight? Was someone after you?”

“There’s always someone after me,” Jason says flippantly.

Tim pinches his forehead. “Does it maybe have something to do with why you’re alive?”

“Doubt it,” Jason chirps. “Well, Timbers, this has been fun. I’ll leave you a note about all the flaws in the Titan’s security system.”

Tim throws up his hands. “Why even bother coming here if you don’t want my help?”

“In a couple weeks a very angry version of me is going to come in a frankly embarrassing Robin costume and attempt to beat you to death.” Jason pauses at the window. “I was going through some shit. It’s nothing personal.”

Chapter Text

Past Red Hood…

Past Red Hood is relentless.

Jason watches him from the shadows, torn between appreciation and a chronic, cringing embarrassment. It could be worse, he guesses, but only if he’d managed to wind up in the era where he’d been wearing a black cape like some kind of supervillain.

The red domino mask makes him feel almost naked, but unless he knows he’s running into heavy artillery, Jason stashes his helmet for about half of his patrols.

Because people run when they see the Hood.

He doesn’t remember that part of the job. He’d always felt like the people around Crime Alley were thankful for him. Red Hood might be brutal, but he's effective. The goons asking for money stopped extorting the tenants. The pimps stopped beating the working girls. The residents who were trying to make ends meet felt a little bit safer.

But as an outsider, he can see people are scared. Yes, the dealers are getting killed, but no one is quite sure where that will end. And whenever there’s a power struggle in a gang, there is collateral damage.

Back then, Jason hadn’t been looking for collateral damage.

Now, it’s all he can see.

He follows Red Hood around. He doesn’t stop him, but he mops up quietly in his wake. Ushers children out of the line of fire. Warns the lesser criminals, the ones who haven’t committed a capital offense when the Hood is close.

And slowly, the people start to respond. They give him a nod if they see him on the street or perched on a gargoyle. Little by little they look at him less like a bogeyman and more like a hero.

During his rampage, he’d taken it as validation. The way that people had stopped flinching in his presence. He still remembers a little girl, unprovoked, launching herself into his arms. He’d been bewildered at the time, but when she’d smiled at him, showing the gap in her front teeth and called him Mr. Hood, the rage ebbed long enough for him to swing her up his shoulders, grinning as she played the drums against his helmet.

It was one of the rare shining moments of those first few years. The sun finally poking through the clouds, a reminder that there might be something outside his own pain. He never stopped to consider what might have happened to that little girl to make her fearless in the face of the Red Hood.

Never knew that Jason pulled her out of a burning building the night before.

The whole thing is starting to fuck with his head. Because he can see the changes starting to ripple through Crime Alley and he’s not sure if it’s Red Hood consolidating the gangs or Jason’s street level cleanup.

It’s the change he remembers, but Jason knows his actions have been making a difference. He’s seen it.

If this is the past, has this all happened already? He should have gotten more information out of Tim before he left. Maybe even taken him up on the offer to get in touch with a Flash. If this is actually a closed loop, if this has all happened before, nothing he tries will change the outcome.

As far as Jason’s concerned, that means there’s no reason not to try.

Red Hood may have a clear vision, but the confrontation had been a catastrophe from beginning to end. He wonders sometimes, how it would have went if Bruce made him the exception. If he’d thrown the Batarang into the Joker’s chest instead of Jason’s neck.

Would Jason have gone home that night? Would he have been spared Arkham Asylum? Would he have—

He shakes himself. No use in speculating about the big things. At least not yet. Better to go small. If he keeps to Red Hood’s territory he can likely avoid rumors about a new vigilante. Tim seems to have kept their encounter to himself, too paranoid about changing something to act directly. Jason wonders how long that will last. Robins aren’t good at leaving things alone.

Jason is even less good at it. He’s only under the radar because he’s wearing the same costume as a crime lord of growing notoriety. He hasn’t actually been hiding, just doing night after night of clean up patrol. 

Which... Well, he’s got even less patience for sitting still than Tim, and a burning desire to test out one of the more popular theories of time travel.

He goes to the manor.

He times it as well as he can. Bruce is putting in an appearance at a Wayne Enterprises board meeting and Alfred’s morning errands mean he’ll be out until at least noon. His conversation with Tim pretty much guaranteed that he won’t be around and Dick…

Jason has no idea where Dick actually is right now, but even if he’s in Gotham, it’s a pretty good bet he’s not awake.

The manor is somehow darker than he remembers it. In Jason’s present, there’s a constant bustle. It’s product of the Demon Brat’s small army of animals and the fact that at least of two of them are crashing in their old rooms on any given night. Even Jason’s been known to do it after particularly rough patrols.

But when he does stay, it’s never in this room.

He pushes the door open, expecting to find creaking hinges and ominous dust covers.

His old room hasn’t changed. It’s still the room of a fifteen year old boy. The kid who liked punk rock and classic literature. Who did extra credit assignments given the chance and had three separate food caches just in case he needed to run. A perfectly preserved fossil of who Jason used to be. If it wasn’t for the lack of dust, Jason would have guessed he’d been dead days rather than years.

And it’s creepy. A dead kid’s bedroom locked in limbo like this. When he came back (and in the years after) he’d assumed that they’d stashed all the thing in the attic and forgotten that Jason Todd ever existed. But this looks like they always expected he was coming back. Like they had been too damaged to deal with his passing. In retrospect Jason wishes they had given the room to Tim, or donated his things to one of the crime alley orphanages or done something—anything—but leave it as a homage to Jason’s teenage self.

He thinks for a moment about tearing the room apart. Or at least stealing back a few of his favorite books like has become his habit back in the future (Alfred has caught on, even if none of his brothers have, because every time he takes one, another appears in its place, always the kind of novel that Jason enjoys). Or, hell, maybe go down into the cave and smash the glass memorial case that he’s never been able to decide if he appreciates or just hates.

But the cave would spark full on bat paranoia weeks before Red Hood did it himself and Jason needed those couple weeks to figure out how to short circuit the whole chain of events.

As for trashing his old room, well, it would get to Bruce, sure, but Alfred would be the one who dealt with it. And Jason won’t do that to Alfred.

Instead, he goes subtle. He takes the bookmark out of the book he’d been reading when he died, and leaves the bedroom door open wide. Alfred will be the one to notice the door, but Alfred has also confided in hushed tones over tea, that he used to see Jason’s ghost all over the manor.

He won’t think it anything but the oversight of an overworked butler.

Bruce, the detective, will realize something has moved. He’ll go through the rest of the place obsessively, putting aside all other thoughts while he tries to find the person who had violated his safe haven.

Jason isn’t actually worried about that. It’s quite a leap to connect his resurrection to any weird occurrences at the manor. He’s still got time before Batman makes that connection and even longer before Batman figures out there are two people wearing Red Hood’s costume.

He’s a little disappointed that he can’t stay to watch the fallout. Even after all of this time, it’s still hard to conceptualize the fact that he was missed when he was gone. Instead he goes back to his old territory. It’s still late afternoon so there’s no chance of running into his doppleganger, but he doesn’t care. He goes without the helmet and spends the day beating the shit out of domestic abusers. One of the women he saves gives him a hug. A different one takes a swing at him. A little boy calls him Mr. Hood and he raises a hand for a high five that Jason delivers with a smile.

By the time midnight turns over into the early morning, Jason’s pleasantly tired and winding down for the night. It’s too early to be prime bat territory and he’s been careful that he doesn’t touch anyone in the drug trade that would invite the Red Hood or Black Mask’s interest. Asleep before the Bat comes out to play just like any good criminal.

He’s almost back to a safe house when he picks up a shadow. It’s nothing he can see, not implicitly, but there’s a crawling in his spine that only comes from a tail and he’s too well trained to ignore the instinct. Instead of heading for this safe house, he veers west, farther and farther into the maze of warehouses, eventually stopping on a rooftop with a clear view in three hundred and sixty degrees.

Nightwing slinks reluctantly into the view.

“Should have ditched as soon as you saw me pick up the tail,” Jason says lightly. “This is not a fight you will win.”

“See,” Nightwing smirks at him. “I feel like that’s overconfidence.”

“Overconfidence?" Jason scoffs and pulls his gun. " I know you’re limber, but you’re not bulletproof.”

Nightwing raises both hands, but instead of stepping back, he takes a step forward. It’s the right tactic. There’s really no outrunning a bullet, so the only real defense is getting close enough to knock the gun out of Jason’s hands.

No one does faux casual quite as well as Nightwing, but Jason had grown up trying to emulate all of Dick Grayson’s moves. He pulls the trigger and explodes the roof at Nightwing’s feet.

Nightwing freezes. “And I feel like that was overkill.”

“Talk fast, Nightwing, or the next one hits a kneecap. What do you want?”

“I was in the neighborhood and I figured I’d check out Gotham’s newest vigilante.”

Jason snorts. “Vigilante?”

“Vigilante,” Nightwing confirms, his face passive behind the mask. “See, I’ve got some pretty reliable intel that seems to suggest there are two Red Hoods.”

Chapter Text

This is bad.

Jason has plans. Or at least he has the intention to have plans. He’s pretty sure this is only going to work if he has the benefit of future knowledge, and the second the future starts changing, all his advantages slide away. Nightwing rocks up and down on his toes, either impatient or limbering up for a fight, Jason can’t tell.

“Two Red Hoods,” Jason says slowly.

“Not unprecedented,” Nightwing replies lightly. “Used to be a whole Red Hood Gang.”

“So you decided you wanted to meet us?”

“Meet you,” Nightwing corrects. “The other Red Hood has his fingers in the drug trade. I heard a rumor of a duffle bag filled with heads. You’re the saner option.”

Jason lets out a slow breath. He schools his face carefully blank, hating that he’d left the helmet at his safe house. He wonders if Nightwing has gotten a good look at his face yet.

If he’ll be recognized immediately.

(Bruce had recognized him immediately, but at that point Jason had already sewn enough clues together that his resurrection was the only remaining explanation. And there had also been the debacle with Hush. A debacle that Dick had missed completely. To this version of Dick , Jason Todd is a scrawny, dead fifteen year old. He has no reason to look for a miracle.)

“What if we’re the same person?” Jason asks.

“Nice try,” Nightwing says. “Other Red Hood has at least ten pounds of muscle on you. And a different jacket.”

“Harsh,” he snaps back automatically.

“It’s all right, Red,” Nightwing says sweetly. “I like your jacket better. And I’m pretty sure you’re taller.”

That startles a laugh out of Jason. Because it might be true. He’d been in his teens during his rampage, and he hadn’t gotten the last inch or so of growth until he hit twenty. The last ten pounds of bulk had slid away slowly as he’d edged closer to the family. Hard to fight like a bird when you had the build of a bear.

With the laugh Nightwing relaxes his shoulders which means he’s realized this isn’t mortal danger. He also takes it as an invitation to move again, but this time instead of stepping forward, Nightwing moves sideways. Smart considering forward had earned him a warning shot.

It’s also enough to get a good angle on Jason’s face, only masked by a domino. Jason lets him take his look, trying not to hold his breath.

There is no spark of recognition in Nightwing’s face. Nothing to suggest he’s made the connection to a dead adopted brother. Just a careful assessment. Jason suspects he’ll sketch out the new face for the purposes of identification later.

It’s not a disaster. Dick might show Barbara, but he probably won’t take it to Bruce. At least not yet. Nightwing won’t want to risk a potential ally and Batman has a no tolerance policy for firearms no matter how they’re used.

“What are you trying to gain here?” Jason asks.

“I’m in town to meet up with the big guy. I know he’s been tracking a shipment from Black Mask.” Nightwing shrugs, feigned nonchalance. “I’ve heard whispers your angry doppelganger has a real vendetta. Thought you might be interested.”

He’s never been on the opposite side of Nightwing’s interrogations, not really, and he can only see the calculation in hindsight. The threat assessment. The careful phrasing designed to put him at ease.

Jason feels himself bristle. “You want to team up.”

“After Batman gets his teeth in it, it’s not my case anymore. A lot of this stuff runs through Bludhaven. Sue me. I like being in the loop.”

Fuck. The shipment. Nightwing in town. Has he changed something already? Because he’s willing to bet that Nightwing didn’t have a damn clue about Red Hood the first time around. Jason narrows his eyes behind the domino. There’s only one logical conclusion.

“You talked to Robin,” he says. “Unbelievable.”

“Wait, you’ve talked to Robin?” Nightwing says and it’s so shocked that Jason can hear Dick Grayson in his voice.

Abort. He needs out of this conversation and fast. But if he runs, there’s a good chance Nightwing will chase him and he’ll be after a completely different Red Hood later tonight.

Jason gives him an insincere smile.“Then I guess the little bird really did slip his leash, huh? You should worry about him falling in with a bad crowd.”

“You’re not a bad crowd.” The voice is back to normal, but now that Jason has seen the cracks it’s hard think of Nightwing as anyone other than his older brother.

Dick knows about the Red Hood and even without the ties to Jason, here he is, offering…

“Let me think about it,” Jason says.

“You sure you don’t want to take a dry run tonight?” Dick cajoles, giving him a brilliant smile. “I guarantee fun.”

“Just because you’re not a thinker doesn’t mean the rest of us aren’t.” He’s more tempted than he wants to admit, but tonight risks Batman’s involvement. “I’ll get back to you.”

Nightwing pulls out his grappling hook, ready to make his exit.

Jason finds that he can’t just let him leave. Not knowing what he was going to encounter. “Nightwing, wait.”

Dick hesitates at the rooftop.

Jason swallows. “Hood’s a bad guy. No matter what you think of me, remember that.”

“See, Red,” Nightwing replies, “there’s the reason I approached you.”

Jason’s not so arrogant to think that he can follow Nightwing and Batman unseen, so he does one better and tracks down Red Hood. He should just go home for the night figure out how to unravel this clusterfuck, but he reasons with himself that he can’t know if he’s broken the timeline unless he watches the confrontation.

It happens just how that he remembers it.

The explosion in the warehouse triggers so that Nightwing and Batman have just enough time to dive clear of the blast. Jason watches Red Hood watching from the rooftops, waits as Batman and Nightwing bolt past his vantage point.

Neither of them notice someone watching. Batman does have the tendency to get tunnel vision, but Nightwing, especially after the confrontation earlier, should have known enough to pay attention.

Sloppy, but it’s the same.

It’s all still the same.

Right down to the fight with Amazo. While Batman and Nightwing take him on, Red Hood doubles back to steal the crate of kryptonite from Black Mask’s shipment.

Jason lets himself go weak with relief.

They all live life on such a razor edge that any distraction could have been the difference between life and death. He’d been afraid the confrontation with Nightwing might have unsettled something.

Jason goes back to the safe house and pulls his helmet out of its hiding place, turning it over absently in his hands. He scrolls through his memory, trying to remember the details of his plotting. Of the ways he could… Jason’s not sure, derail it? Encourage Red Hood to sit around with the Bats and sing kumbaya?

It won’t work. Not really. Not with how regimented the Red Hood of the past is. How rigorously he’s planned this. How close he’d been to blowing the both of them up. Even Amazo, who Jason was sure Batman would handle, could have gone so completely wrong. And where would he be then?

If he wants to change things, what can he possibly do? There’s almost no chance at getting Red Hood to listen. He’s made his choices, set his plan in motion and Jason doubts that there is anything on the periphery he can do that would swing things in a different direction. At least nothing that affects his own fate.

He might be able to drop Tim a few tips if he’d listen, save that speedster friend of his, or maybe even the Kryptonian. He could get Damian out of the League of Assasins early (though he suspects the damage to the kid’s psyche is already done) and if he gets really lucky maybe avert one or two of the planet wide disasters.

But even with all that good, Jason doesn’t know how he could possibly short-circuit his own self-destructive path. In the best case scenario, Jason never wears a black cape, never tries to kill any of his brothers. Because while he still believes his issues with Bruce are genuine, the others never deserved it.

Maybe if he’d found the younger Jason while training with Talia, he might have been able to make him see reason, but the combination of the newest Robin and the Joker’s escape--

The helmet clatters from his hands to the ground.

The Joker.

It always circles back to that damn clown. The clown who, if Jason’s memory is to be trusted (and to be fair, Jason’s memory is not to be trusted in the slightest), is currently getting a very cathartic beat down from the Red Hood of this era.

That was all Red Hood wanted. The clown’s death at Batman’s hands. Proof that Jason’s death had done some good. That it had somehow removed a great evil from the world. He remembers thinking that his death might almost be worth it so long as the clown died, too.

He turns the helmet over in his hand, a plan crystalizing. He’s been wrong about a lot of things through the years, but he’s never wavered on the necessity of the Joker’s death. And Joker’s death, preferably at the hands of Batman, could be enough to short circuit Red Hood’s plan.

Jason lets out a long, shaky breath.

That’s settled then.

Kill the Joker.

Frame Batman.

He lets out a huff of almost hysterical laughter. Piece of cake.

Chapter Text

Jason starts collecting batarangs.

It had been almost a kitchen industry in his neighborhood growing up. One of the older kids used to use them to make knives. Batarangs aren’t steel, but some kind of alloy; lightweight and thin, but sturdy enough to trip a switch if Batman aims it at one from across a room. The kid would slap a wooden handle over half of the metal, the fastener loose enough so that it could be pried free and flipped to get some extra use before it had to be sharpened.

Jason had stolen one when he was about eight. The kid hawking them noticed, but didn’t bother giving chase as Jason made his escape. Jason doesn’t remember his name, has no idea if he’d made it out of the neighborhood, been absorbed into one of the gangs, or died in some back alley.

The knife was terrible. The curvature was hard to navigate for a pre-teen and there was a dull spot on the sharp side that Jason now knows was designed specifically to fit Batman’s grip. All the same, he’d loved the thing, brandishing it more than once when he was trying to stake out a meager claim on the streets.

He hadn’t told Batman about the illicit market for his castoffs. Half because he didn’t want to put Lucius through the inevitable push to design some kind of impossibly sharp biodegradable metal. Half because Jason thought it was funny that there were kids out there using batarang knives to get themselves out of a jam.

He’s thankful he kept his mouth shut today, because if he’s going to get Red Hood and Batman to talk over the corpse of the clown, he’ll need to make it convincing. That means genuine bat gear thrown with the proper amount of force by someone of Bruce’s size and strength. Jason’s lucky in the size department, but the equipment is harder. There’s no shortage of batarangs around, but it’s hard to find ones without damage. They need to look like new equipment when they make their inevitable way through the Joker’s heart.

Any unexplained ding and the other Red Hood will know. He’ll be tempted to disbelieve the scene as it is. After all, the Bat only uses the best.

Some of them he picks up off rooftops, others he barters for, making trades with kids for food or decent clothes.He's been looking all night, but it’s easy enough to fold that into his usual patrol route.

He hears a commotion in the alley behind him and doubles back. There’s a man with his back towards him, pushing a woman up against a wall. Jason hesitates for a split second just in case he’s interrupting a tryst when he hears the woman scream.

Jason spins the batarang in his hands and throws it so that imbeds neatly into the man’s shoulder.

The man lets out a hiss of pain. The woman knees him in the crotch and pushes him off of her. Jason gives her a quick thumbs up. She bolts by him and out onto the more public street rather than acknowledge him. Smart girl.

The man who’d attacked starts to straighten out, reaching unsuccessfully for the batarang in his shoulder. “Batman,” he whispers to himself.

“Oh asshole,” Jason says, his voice faux sweet, “you wish I was Batman.”

The man comes up swinging, wide and sloppy. Jason ducks the haymaker and plucks the batarang from his shoulder as he stumbles forward. He bounces lightly on his toes and waits for the next rush. When it comes, he leans sideways and pins the man against the alley wall, the razor sharp tip of the batarang digging into the flesh of his neck.

“I think you and I should have a little talk about consent.”

“Fuck you, man. I ain’t done nothing.”

“I can make sure of that,” Jason offers, trailing the batarang slowly down his chest towards his half-unzipped groin.

Then he sees a shadow hit the wall and freezes.

“Don’t mind me,” says a voice from behind them. “This is very instructive.”

“You’re kidding me!” the man pinned to the wall moans. “This is not happening.”

Jason brings up an elbow to the man’s forehead and smashes his head back against the bricks. He slumps onto the concrete, unconscious, but still breathing. Jason turns slowly. He’s back in the habit of wearing his helmet whenever he hits the streets. After his confrontation with Nightwing he'd figured it would be safer.

Only the helmet brings a very different host of problems. He knows he had tunnel vision back during his crusade, but Red Hood is still bat-trained, same as him. And really, more than a week into this mess, it’s a little surprising it took this long.

Red Hood is in front of him.

The Red Hood of this present, watching him with folded arms.

Jason’s hand tightens on the batarang. There’s a gun on his hip, but he prefers not to get into a duel with his other self. Especially considering this Red Hood has a much looser trigger finger.

“Nice costume,” Jason says.

“Nice batarang,” Red Hood says in reply.

“Thanks.” Jason turns it over in his hands, feeling a little lightheaded. He doesn’t remember this encounter. He has no idea what kind of ramifications it could have. “I just found it lying around. Would have thought Batman would know better. Wonder how many people get shanked with these things.”

“So you figured you’d pick up after him? Wearing the wrong colors for a boy scout.” Red Hood has started to circle him, just out of range for a quick strike, but it is unmistakably the assessment of someone looking for a fight.

And if Jason gets into a fight, well, there goes his identity. There’s no one in the world who fights quite like the two of them. Half Bat, half assassin.

“I’m not looking for trouble,” Jason says. The batarang falls through his fingertips. He frowns as it clatters to the ground but doesn’t lunge for it. He’s not usually fumble fingered, but there’s nothing wrong with letting Red Hood think he’s playing nice.

Besides, there’s another half dozen in various other pockets. Even if he’d rather not test them against the Hood’s trigger finger, it’s a comfort to know they’re there.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t put a bullet in you right now.”

Now that they’re face to face—or at least helmet to helmet—Jason can see that Dick was right. He’s taller than the Red Hood by about an inch and a half. Red Hood probably has more than a few pounds of muscle density on him, but they don’t look the same.

Helmet on, there’s no way anyone could guess they were the same person.

Jason lets out a huff of laughter. “I’m the only reason the neighborhood isn’t running scared of you.”

“They should be,” Red Hood growls.

“No drugs to kids, right?” Jason says. “That’s the number one rule.”

The hand falls from Red Hood’s holstered gun. Jason always was proud of that. It took a long time for anyone outside Jason’s sellers to notice. And Red Hood wants people to notice. Because if there’s a noticeable difference, his crusade must be at least moderately successful.

“You’re fucked up, you know that right?” Jason says when Red Hood’s silence stretches. “You might be effective, but you are damn fucked up.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Because you’re what Gotham needs?” Jason sees the words hit like a physical blow. “Take it from someone who knows. It’s a hard line you’re walking and if you make one mistake, if just one of the people you kill doesn’t deserve it, you’re something different.”

“And what’s that?”

“A murderer,” Jason says.

There’s a quick huff of air, almost inaudible through the modulator in the helmet. “Aren’t you a condescending little prick. Please tell me you’re at least legal, because this is a whole different conversation if you’re lobbying to be Red Robin.”

It’s a struggle not to laugh. Tim’s still about a year from that moniker and Red Hood himself is barely legal. “Don’t think you need to worry about that.”

“Are you planning to stop me?”

Yes, but not like this.

“I just want to help people,” Jason says.

Red Hood takes a step forward. Jason doesn’t flinch. He’s pretty sure he can take his past self in a fight. He’s got more experience, but he’s a little worried about someone who has trained for years in exclusively fatal blows.

“And you had to wear my costume to help people?”

“As much as I don’t like showing up to prom in the same dress, it’s in my best interest to stay under the radar. And if you really think of it, it’s in your best interest, too.”

“Black Mask will come after you.”

“Aw, it’s cute that you’re worried,” Jason answers. “But you’re the one who’s fucking with him. I don’t intend to go out of my way looking for trouble.”

There’s a long moment of silence, almost an assessment. Then the Red Hood gives a dry almost laugh. “I like you, kid,” he says. “You know what? Keep the costume.”

“Your permission means the world for me,” Jason drawls.

“It does if you want to keep breathing. You’re good so long as you stay away from Bats and stay out of my way.”

Jason gives him a small salute and watches as Red Hood grapples away before he lets out a long breath and tries to calm his shaking hands.

He remembers being the Red Hood, that burn of righteous anger that had swept through him when he’d first looked at Robin. He wonders what makes the Red Hood costume different than Robin’s. Why Jason hadn’t ended this encounter with a hole through his forehead.

Deep down, he already knows the answer.

Back then the Red Hood meant fear, revenge and death. Even at his worst, Jason had known that wasn’t want he wanted.

He’d wanted the Red Hood to stand for something bigger. Not hope, because it was always Robin that meant hope, but at very least… opportunity. The Red Hood was supposed to make sure even the poorest kids in Gotham got a real chance.

And Jason still wants that. It’s all he ever wanted for himself: A real chance to claw his way back to life.

He doesn’t remember any of this. And he should, right? Anything that happened today should have an effect on the outcome of his own life. He looks down to his hands as the shaking finally stops. The man at his feet gives a small moan. Jason kicks him hard in the gut and ignores the small whimper of pain. He bends down and picks up the fallen batarang, slipping into his pocket.

Then he goes home.

Chapter Text

Dick is on the roof of his safe house. At least he has the sense not to have broken in, but with a pocket full of recovered batarangs and his nerves jangling from his encounter with Red Hood, Jason does not have the energy to deal with this. “Fuck off, Wing,” he says.

“I met your angry doppelganger,” Dick chirps back in reply.

Jason’s angry doppelganger. Who is different from Jason in a lot of ways and yet somehow, exactly the same. “You met him like a week ago.”

Dick hops from the roof to the fire escape, no extraneous flips, a slight favoring of his right ankle on the landing. Ah. Jason has wondered through the years why Nightwing disappeared after the first encounter. Injury. Probably not enough to keep him off the streets in Bludhaven, but more than enough for an overprotective Bat to warn him off Red Hood.

“You jealous, Hood?” Dick says. “If it helps, I like you better.”

“Why are you here, Nightwing?”

“Wanted to say thanks for the tip about Red Hood.”

Jason stares at him blankly. “I didn’t give you any tip.”

“You told me he was dangerous.”

“That’s apparent if you’ve ever seen him. You here trying to pump me for more information?”

Dick leans against the side of the building, wry grin on his face. “Not really. Heard a couple things through the grapevine. Thought you might be interested. Seems like Black Mask has a bounty out on you. Don’t think he’s realized that there are two of you.”

“You still have no proof of that.”

“Give me some credit,” Dick says, and it’s 100% Dick here tonight, not Nightwing. The tone of voice is almost teasing. Jason’s heart twists. It’s been years since Jason heard that directed at him. “I was trained by the world’s greatest detective.”

Jason snorts. “By my measure Robin’s got his number these days.”

“Give him a few years,” Dick says easily. “You know I’m going to get one of you to talk about how you met.”

Which means Tim hasn’t talked yet. That’s… something. Jason stares at him for a long second before moving to the window on his safe house. He keeps his body between himself and Dick as he undoes his security measures. It takes him more than one try as his hands slide over the wire catch. Eventually, he manages it and climbs inside. He pulls the batarangs he’d collected that night out of his jacket pocket and sets them on the edge of the table.

“Whoa,” Dick says. “Where did you get those?”

As Jason turns around, he sees Dick shut his window, moving shoulder to shoulder so he can pick up a batarang in his gloved hands. Figures he’d take the open window as an invitation.

…Not that it wasn’t an invitation.

“Are you serious?” Jason asks. “Batman flings them around all night and rarely bothers to pick up after himself. I’m just doing a civic duty. Making sure Batman doesn’t get blamed after some poor kid gets shanked.”

Dick picks up one of the batarangs and turns it over in his hands. “I never thought about that,” he admits.

“There’s a whole economy around it. I wouldn’t bother shutting it down. Better the kids collecting batarangs than running drugs.”

Jason hesitates and then pulls his helmet off. Dick hadn’t recognized him the first time. There's no reason to think that he would this time. He leaves the domino in place.

Without the helmet, the world seems to flicker for a moment. Jason blinks hard and almost loses a hold of his helmet, looking up to glare at the fluorescent light’s steady glow.

Dick doesn’t seem to have noticed. He sets the batarang back onto the table, a thoughtful look on his face. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“You think someone starts going out at night on a whim?”

Dick huffs out a laugh. “I guess not.”

After a second’s debate, Jason heads to the minifridge and grabs a pair of beers. He opens both without asking and shoves one into Dick’s hands. Dick looks briefly baffled by the overture, but then he shrugs and takes a sip.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the tip,” Jason starts, taking a sip of his own drink, “but we’re not exactly friends so this is a little weird for me.”

“You’re new,” Dick says. “Figure you might need the lay of the land. I mean, it’s not just Black Mask. I know the Joker’s out of Arkham.”

“Avoid if at all possible,” Jason says, gesturing with his beer. “Bullet through the forehead if not.”

“Batman won’t like that,” Dick warns. “But I can’t say I’d blame you.”

“Batman can go fuck himself.”

A soft huff of laughter. “And that’s something I’ve said about the big guy more than once.”

Jason holds out a beer and with barely a hesitation Dick clinks it against his. “Not that I don’t appreciate the visit, but what are you actually doing here, Nightwing?”

“Robin said you were a good guy.” Dick shrugs. “But one that could probably use a hand.”

“Robin doesn’t know a thing about me.”

“I don’t know. He seemed pretty sure of himself.”

“Well isn’t Robin’s job 95% being an obstinate little shit?”

“Don’t make jokes.” Dick sets the beer down on the table. “Black Mask is gunning for Red Hood and going by normal nightly patterns, the more accessible Red Hood is in significantly more danger. By my eyes, that’s you, Red.”

Through the brown glass, Jason can see that the volume is the same as it was before. Smart. If Jason was assessing a newcomer, he’d do the same. Good way to keep from getting drugged. He drains his own drink in another few swallows and debates starting on Dick’s. If he’s not going to drink it, Jason’s more than willing. “Why do you care? You don’t know me.”

“Honestly?” Dick gives him a crooked smile. One of the real ones. Not the smile of the polished Richard Grayson or the slightly menacing smirk of Nightwing in battle. The fond kind of smile he got a few rare times back when he was still Robin. “You remind me of my little brother.”

“Huh.” This time Jason does grab Dick’s discarded beer, to a huff of amusement. He takes two quick gulps and doesn’t bother stifling his belch before continuing, “Here I thought Robin was a fine, cultured young man.”

Dick snorts. “You had it right, Robin is an obstinate little shit most of the time, but I doubt you had the chance to meet the brother I was talking about. He died a few years ago.”

Jason nearly chokes on his beer, but luckily Dick doesn’t seem to think much of it. “Guess you’re too new to Gotham to have picked up that little bit of knowledge. Joker killed him.”

“Was he Robin, too?” Jason forces himself to ask.

“Yeah,” Dick says. His smile is sadder than Jason’s seen it in a while. “Turns out Batman runs with a whole flock of birds.”

Dead birds, Jason doesn’t say. He’d done some research when he came back into town, knows that Black Mask managed to take out Blondie even if she wasn’t an active Robin at the time. Fifty percent mortality at this given point in time and the odds only get worse the longer Robin continues.

Dick is blatantly watching him, but even in the harsh light of Jason’s cramped safe house, he doesn’t appear to have put the clues together. Doesn’t have the slightest idea that he’s looking at his younger brother all grown up. Jason takes another long swallow of beer, desperately trying to hide his reaction.

“Been thinking of him a lot lately,” Dick continues quietly. “Apparently someone went in his old room. My dad thought it was me.”

“Batman?” Jason asks.

A huff of laughter. “Batman’s not actually my dad.”

Alfred then, Jason decodes. Neatly evaded.

“Probably a good thing. Can’t imagine bringing a girlfriend back to meet the parents if it were Batdad.”

Another huff of fond laughter. “He’d probably insist on the cowl the entire time.”

Jason finds himself grinning back even though he has to quash down the automatic responses. He’s had this conversation with Dick once before, the two of them doing their best Batman impressions throwing an imaginary batarangs at a serving platter growling, say please first or else.

It’s a good memory. More and more of those have drifted back over the last few years. Enough that he suspects he's lost a hell of a lot of his best memories. He forces himself to steel his features. “Look, this insight into your bizarre family life is somewhere between interesting and disturbing and I’m sorry I remind you of your dead brother, but I’m really not looking to get invested in Bat business.”

“Why not?”

“Are you serious?” Jason asks. “Batman doesn’t work. Say what you want about the Red Hood, but crime is falling. None of those scumbags are selling to kids. He’s been here for less than a month and already there are dozens of people who are alive because of him.”

“He’s also murdered a few dozen people.”

“The ones he killed were guilty.”

“Really?” Dick asks. “And not one of them deserved a second chance. Not a single one of them.”

“It’s not the second chance I have a problem with,” Jason spits. “It’s the sixteenth.”

“Then why aren’t you the one pulling the trigger?”

It’s an argument he’s had internally more than once. Years ago, when he was wearing a black cape and spiraling, he’d found out the circumstances of one of his victims and he’d been suddenly unsettled, unsure. Then there was Arkham and the forced introspection that came with it and when he finished the stint, he’d just….

Lost his certainty. Lost his nerve. And when he slowly started edging his way back towards his family he’d been terrified that he could lose that, too. But even now, he’s not entirely convinced his initial thought process was wrong.

After all, crime had spiked again after he’d started divesting himself from the drug trade

Dick takes his silence as tacit agreement. “Help us take him down, Red.”

Jason’s eyes flicker to his pile of batarangs, the half-formed plan still somewhat fluid in his mind. “I can’t.”

“Even if what you’re saying right, even if Hood’s just taking out the worst kind of criminal, he will make a mistake. You said it yourself, he’s a bad guy. He almost killed me and Batman the other day. Give me one good reason you’re on his side and not ours.”

Jason takes a second to breathe out, setting the half-finished beer on the table next to the first, empty one. Dick’s persistent and a relentless optimist. Right now, he’s found a stranger who reminds him of his dead brother, one who fights in the same costume of a monster. In that situation, Dick will keep coming back, trying to turn him, cajoling him into joint patrols. And as much as Jason secretly wants all of that, he can’t have it. Not yet.

“Red Hood’s my brother,” Jason says.

Dick’s eyes widen behind the mask.

“You get that, right?” Jason stumbles over his words, but it’s the right play. It might be unfair, considering Dick’s own obsessive drive to protect his family and friends, but it’ll buy him the space he needs. Dick doesn’t know him well enough to read his fumble as anything but an emotional moment. “You said you and Robin were brothers. If he started…”

“I’d do what I could to protect him,” Dick finishes. “At least until I could talk him down myself.”

“Don’t tell Batman,” Jason pleads. “Arkham… Arkham wouldn’t do much for him.”

“I won’t tell,” Dick promises instantly. “But you have to understand, Batman doesn’t know about you right now, but he will find out. He’s distracted, but even Batman at his worst knows Gotham better than anyone else in the city.  Whatever you’re trying to do with your brother, you better do it fast. You won’t stay under the radar forever.”

Chapter Text

He doesn’t remember this part of his plot.

Right after Red Hood’s encounter with Batman, he’d allowed himself a moment of satisfaction and tracked down the Joker to beat the clown with a crowbar. But there is a gap in Jason’s memory between beating the Joker and pulling him out for the final confrontation with Batman.

There’s no way he let the clown go, right?

Even at his worst, he’d never let the clown go.

He starts following Red Hood again.

He’s careful to stay out of sight, which is a feat considering Red Hood is the one person who will absolutely recognize him. He wears a baggy gray hoodie that he’d picked up from Goodwill rather than his old standby red. Red Hood’s trying to lay low, but Jason’s kept enough of his patterns that it’s not hard to guess where he might be. After the initial campaign of shock and awe, he’d established strict rules with his dealers, but delegated most of the day-to-day drug trade. It’s a holding pattern until the final few pieces start to slide into place.

Bruce spent a lot of last week out of town. Which means he’s made the rounds of the other heroes who gained a miraculous resurrection.

Which means he already has Red Hood’s identity. He just hasn’t brought himself to believe it.

Jason’s running out of time.

He finally finds the Joker in the place he should have looked first. The fucking amusement park. Jason picks his way carefully through the peeling paint and abandoned rides to get to the funhouse.

Three steps in and he can hear the Joker laugh, the sound sending a curtain of ice cascading down his back. He almost freezes right there, his breath in short ragged gasps. He’s not aware of his grip on one of the salvaged batarangs until he feels blood dripping through his fingertips. He curses loudly.

Too loudly. The laughter stops and the voice takes on an almost gleeful tint. “Will you look at that, someone new.”

Jason takes a step back, suddenly panicked that his face might be visible. He takes stock of his costume, taps the side of the helmet. The thigh holster with the loaded gun. He has a knife up his sleeve. It’s just a clown.

The clown.

The one that killed him.

Jason turns another corner and there he is.

The Joker.

Every nightmare he’s had since his resurrection and a lot of them from before. His smile, his laugh, the manic look in his eyes.

…He looks small.

Pathetic.

Broken.

His face is a mess of bruises. That too-wide smile has blood slipping through his teeth. Jason wouldn’t be surprised to find broken bones. Anything to keep him still, keep him out of the city.

This won’t work.

He can’t kill the Joker like this and expect Batman to take the blame. If Batman ever kills, it will be heat of the moment. Not with an already beaten victim before him.

Jason’s stomach rolls.

“Another Hood,” the Joker muses, looking up at him. “I’m thinking I should have copyrighted that number. I wore it so much better.”

“What are you doing here?” a voice says from behind him.

When Jason turns the mirrors bounce back his own face, hidden by only a red domino mask. He raises both fists, to the Joker’s amusement.

“Really think you can punch those bullets away, eh Red?”

The crack of the gun pierces the air and the ground at Jason’s feet splinters into a mess of destroyed wood.  The Joker’s laughter grows louder. Jason feels his own heartbeat pick up, fighting the urge to cover his ears even if the helmet would make the action look ridiculous.

Red Hood saunters into view. “I thought I told you to stay out of my way.”

Jason gives an exaggerated shrug. “To be fair, I thought you mostly wanted me out of Batman’s way.”

“Should have told me you were auditioning for a body double, hoodie,” the Joker cackles. “I feel like you could have done better than this do-gooder. Look at him! He’s barely more substantial than a ghost!”

Red Hood steps by Jason, to deliver a swift kick to the Joker’s midsection. Joker curls in on himself with a soft moan of pain and then goes still. Hood looms over the clown for a second, fists clenched, breathing heavy. Jason can see a hundred different problems with this situation, from the aggravation of his PTSD, to the possibility of the Joker’s escape, to the fact that the Red Hood just left his back exposed to a relative unknown.

“Kill him,” Jason says.

Red Hood turns around slowly.

“What?” Jason folds both arms over chest. “That’s the endgame, right? This is a terrible place for prolonged torture, little more Joker fetish than is healthy. You clearly want him dead and I heard the rumor about the bag full of heads so you can’t have a problem with violence. Kill him.”

“I thought you were a boy scout.”

“Every person in this miserable city understands Gotham would be a better place without that psycho. Fuck, they might even give you a merit badge for taking out the trash.”

“He will die,” Red Hood says. “The way he was always meant to die. By Batman’s hand.”

Jason lets out a huff of laughter. Even to his own ears it sounds just short of hysterical. “Are you serious? Batman? Batman didn’t kill the clown when he murdered Robin. What makes you think he’ll do it because you asked?”

He sees the change in the Hood’s face. His mouth parts in shock. He doesn’t want to see behind the domino because he suspects his own blue-green eyes are wide with fear.

Because that was always the thing.

Jason never needed Batman to kill the Joker.

He needed Bruce to do it.

Jason can mow down dozens of ninjas without breaking a sweat, but ask him to put a bullet in the man that killed him? Suddenly he’s a kid again, clutching at his mother’s cold hands, wondering why she doesn't wake up. Shivering on the streets, willing to do anything for something warm to eat. Lying broken in the middle of an abandoned warehouse as a bomb ticks slowly down to zero. Hoping—no believing—until the very last minute that Batman is coming to save him.

It’s written all over Red Hood’s face.

He needs his dad to make him feel safe again.

“Fine.” Jason takes a quick sharp breath and puts a hand on his holstered gun. “I’ll do it.”

“What?”

“You know Batman won’t. Whatever test you’re trying to push the Bat into, he’ll let you down. But I can do it. Let me do it.”

Red Hood stares at him. It must be shock, because he lets Jason slip neatly past him and draw his own gun. The Joker is silent, watching, with blood smearing his toothy smile.

Jason couldn’t do this when he first came back. The same way he couldn’t actually kill Bruce when he’d planted a bomb in the Batmobile. But he’s not the same person he was back then. And killing the Joker has always been the right thing to do.

So Jason puts the Joker in his sights and pulls the trigger.

The funhouse mirror behind the Joker explodes, showering him in glass and the clown’s burst of laughter tells Jason he missed.

He glances sideways.

Red Hood looks bewildered, his breathing loud, his hair a mass of barely tamed curls. His hand is around Jason’s wrist, the gun’s sights yanked off target just as Jason had pulled the trigger.

“No,” Red Hood says.

“What the fuck!?” Jason shouts. “Did you really just save that piece of shit’s life?”

“This is not the plan.”

Jason rounds on him, standing toe to toe. His gun is heavy in his hands. “Fuck the plan. Fuck all this convoluted bullshit. You came here to right a wrong. What are you waiting for?”

“Batman’s supposed to do it!”

The Joker howls with laughter, brushing glass from his slime green hair. “Hold on! I know this one.”

Red Hood’s head snaps back to the Joker in perfect time with Jason’s. The clown looks between them with a vicious smile.

“One fine day… in the middle of the night,” he recites, the smirk growing increasingly malevolent. “Two dead birds got up to fight.”

Jason feels his eyes go wide. Red Hood gives a full body flinch. Of all the people who he thought would piece it together, it was never Joker who he’d thought would see. But he should have expected it. The clown has always been more perceptive than any of them liked to admit.

Slowly, Red Hood looks sideways. “Wait, he knows who you are?”

“Moot point,” Jason grumbles, raising the gun again. He can’t resist adding, “He knows you, too.”

Red Hood knocks the gun out of his hands. Jason, because he’s never been someone with good sense, turns and throws a punch. It catches the Hood in his unprotected face, but that only seems to make him mad. When Red Hood stands back up, one of the lenses in his domino mask has chipped away and Jason catches the barest hint of unnatural green in his eyes before the punch comes.

Jason isn’t fast enough to dodge it completely, but he turns his head enough so that the brass-knuckled blow glances of the edge of his helmet. There’s enough rotational force that his head rattles against his helmet and the pain jars something loose in his memory and more of that damn poem floats back into his consciousness. He’d first heard it from Dick back when he was a teenager. He’d been reading Shakespeare out loud with Alfred and then his brother had barged in, told them with a wink that they already had too much tragedy and recited his own favorite poem.

One fine day in the middle of the night.
Two dead boys got up to fight.  

A nonsense poem, Alfred had commented with perfunctory disdain. But in the face of his charges’ glee, even he had a smile tugging at his face.

Back to back, they faced each other.
Drew their knives and shot each other.

Jason parries a second punch away, and by force of pure habit catches Red Hood’s shoulder, trying to shove him back. Red Hood reacts instinctively and delivers a swift elbow to Jason’s jaw. Jason bites his tongue and tastes blood but is quick enough to knock Red Hood’s hand away from the gun holstered against his thigh.

Undeterred, Red Hood swings back with the heel of his boot and smashes it into Jason’s shin. Jason can feel the blow even through his shin guard, but instead of stumbling back like he knows Red Hood expects, he lowers his shoulder and barrels forward, smashing the two of them through one of the funhouse mirrors. Red Hood hits first, but Jason knows from experience that the combination of the leather jacket and body armor saves his skin from the back full of broken glass.

He’s right. The next thing he knows, Red Hood’s rolling backwards, kicking both feet into Jason’s stomach so that he can send him flying through the air.

But Jason’s at home in the air, has been since the days when he was running with Bruce and the rest of the Bats. He flips neatly, throwing a half twist in at the last second so that he can land facing his double.

Red Hood kicks himself up to his feet, knife in hand, a scowl firmly on his face, a cut across his left cheekbone.

And fuck. That’s a mistake. Another one in this endless litany of colossal fuckups he’s made since landing in the past. Because no way in hell does Red Hood fail to recognize that move.

It’s a Robin move.

“I can’t believe this. Did B train another one? Who are you?” Red Hood demands.

“Ask the fucking Joker,” Jason snarls back. “Had to have saved him for a reason.”

All at once the anger seems to drain out of both of them and they look back through the destroyed funhouse, and what has to be approximately one hundred years’ worth of bad luck. Not that Jason’s luck could get much worse.

Red Hood creeps through the mess of broken mirrors, his boots crunching against the glass. But Jason has already seen the pieces of frayed rope. They’d left a bound Joker in the middle of more than enough shards to cut himself free and slither away. Stupid. Sloppy.

Unforgivable.

A second later, Red Hood has made the same assessment and he bends to pick up his fallen gun, spinning back around with it trained on Jason.

Jason reaches for a smoke grenade and slams it onto the ground.

Red Hood’s shot pings uselessly against another mirror as he flees.

Chapter Text

Jason’s so tired, he doesn’t remember how he gets home. Just bits and pieces of quiet streets with empty blocks in between them. The sun’s crested over the horizon and if he doesn’t manage at least two hours of sleep, he runs the risk of falling off a gargoyle when he passes out. If Red Hood hasn’t beaten him to the Joker, the clown must be lying low.

The security on his safe house window has been dismantled when he finally makes it home. He forces himself to gear up, draws his weapon and edges the window open.

The first thing he notices is a laptop standing open on the kitchen counter. He counts three different empty coffee mugs, and he’s lowering his gun even before he spots Tim Drake snoring on his couch.

No costume, Jason notes absently, though he’d made it pretty clear that he knows exactly who Tim Drake is when he’d crashed Titans Tower. Tim’s snoring lightly, one hand thrown over his face. Jason debates waking him up so he can throw him out, but he’s so tired himself that the entire world feels like it’s flickering on the edges. He grabs a blanket and drapes it over Tim like a medical examiner covering up a body. Then he stumbles into the cramped bedroom where he has a dirty old mattress shoved in a corner and sleeps for eight hours.

He wakes to the smell of coffee.

There’s someone shuffling around the other room of the apartment. He scrubs at his eyes, trying to shake the haze of sleep before standing up and following the sounds.

The windows are open. The cramped safe house freezing but bathed in a late afternoon glow. Tim has the blanket draped over his shoulder, the ends of it falling like Robin’s cape around his knees. Jason opens his mouth to comment on the break-in, the invasion of privacy, and how Tim’s supposed to be playing superfriends with the Teen Titans, but all that comes out is, “What happened to your face?”

Tim takes Jason’s pot of instant coffee and pours quintuple the recommended dose into his mug of boiling water, stirring it slowly with a spoon. He brings it slowly up to mouth and blows the steam. Then he cannonballs the whole thing in one go before turning to Jason. Both of his eyes are black and blue, the left swollen shut. There’s mottled bruising all over his face. There’s a cut on his left cheekbone, sewn up with a neat row of black stitches. He licks his split lip.

Instead of answering he says, “It was a Lazarus Pit, right?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Lazarus Pit,” Tim repeated. “Your resurrection.”

“Woke up in a coffin, actually,” Jason says. “Still don’t know how or why.”

Tim frowns. “I thought for sure…”

Jason relents. “The Lazarus Pit came later. I was basically braindead until I took a swim. How did you piece that together?”

“If you eliminate the impossible…” Tim starts.

“Don’t you fucking quote Sherlock Holmes at me, you nerd.”

Tim gives him a faint smile. “I was trying to quote Star Trek.”

Jason scrubs a hand over his face. “How is it possible that you’ve been running with Bruce and never read Sherlock Holmes? You and I are going have a long talk about classic literature right after you tell me who beat the shit out of you and where I can find him.”

Tim manages to rearrange his battered face into something that resembles surprise. “Jason, you did.”

Jason falters.

He hadn’t realized it was that bad. When he’d left Tim in Titans Tower it had been with grudging respect and the knowledge that no matter how badly he was beaten, Tim had friends who’d look out for him.

“Come on,” Tim says. “You even warned me, remember? An angry version of you in a frankly embarrassing Robin costume.”

“I really didn’t think it was this bad.”

“You said you were going to try and kill me!”

“I’m sorry?” Jason says. “I think I must have left before all of the bruises set in. Why the hell would you want to come find me after that?”

“Because you’re from the future,” Tim says. “Which means Batman is wrong. You’re not a lost cause.”

Everything goes completely still, the last words echoing in head. The world starts to white out on the edges, his breath coming in quick gasps. He sits down hard on the ground, his teeth chattering, his hands suddenly numb.

Batman thinks he’s a lost cause.

He’d guessed that much years ago. After all he’d been pushing Bruce to that point. Everything he’d done was specifically designed to get under the Bat’s skin. But…

But he’d been after criminals. He’d kept his victims to rapists and murderers. He might not have had Batman’s code, but he wasn’t lost.

“Jason?” Tim asks in the distance, the sound barely penetrating his ringing ears. “Jason did you hear me?”

“Bruce said I was a lost cause?”

He hates the way his voice sounds, hates his weakness, hates that he has to know.

“He told me you were the Red Hood. And then he told me that Jason Todd was dead. To treat him like an enemy. But you’re not the Red Hood, are you?”

Jason’s hands clutch at his side with enough force to bruise, but slowly resolve starts to creep back into his blood. “I’m still Red Hood.”

“Yeah,” Tim says. “Dick told me. Apparently there are two of you and you’ve been mopping up after the other one. Which I’m going to assume is why you look almost as bad as me.”

“This?” It’s hard to look cool after having a panic attack over Batman’s approval, but Jason’s willing to throw on the bravado and try. He gestures to his own collection of bruises from the encounter in the funhouse. “Don’t worry, it was just me beating myself up.”

Tim stares at him for a second, but Jason’s knows there’s no way he missed the pun. He never had a chance to hang out with Tim at this age, but he’s Robin. And there’s nothing Robin appreciates more than wordplay. Jason waggles his eyebrows and then Tim’s face cracks into a smile. “Oh God, you’re worse than Dick.”

“You have to work hard to catch up with someone who literally calls themselves dick,” Jason says smugly.

Tim gives a startled huff of laughter that triggers a wince of pain. Broken ribs, Jason diagnoses with uneasy guilt. He walks over to the other boy and offers him a hand, unsure if Tim will be willing to touch him after the beat down. Tim, however, accepts Jason’s support as lets him haul them both to the couch.

“Thought you were staying out of all of this,” Jason says.

“That’s the protocol for time travel right? Contact the person in the family farthest away from the incident and then lie low until you can fix it. Only I’m guessing you skipped part two.”

“What makes you say that?” Jason asks with faux innocence.

“Asides from the fact that Nightwing has been giving me updates almost daily? You just told me that you’ve met your past self up close and personal. It’s a pretty good inference.” Tim flips open his laptop and starts scrolling through screens. “I asked Kid Flash about you.”

“Should I worry?” Jason asks. “I mean Kid Flash is from the future, right? And he still exists.”

“Kid Flash’s situation is…” Tim frowns. “I think it’s a Flash thing? Different rules for speedsters. But as far as I understand, trying to change anything major in the timeline, it’s like throwing a pebble into a river. Time wants to happen and it wants to happen in the same order that it’s already happened.”

“But things have changed,” Jason says.

Tim winces as he settles back against the couch. “Would you be able to tell if they had? Wouldn’t it just cycle into your consciousness so that it felt normal?”

“Probably,” Jason agrees. “But trust me when I say I’d remember last night.”

Tim’s tongues pokes at his split lips. He runs a hand through his hair. “I did some legwork about your situation. Anytime there’s a breach in between realities, there’s some sort of trace, but as far as I can tell, there’s been nothing like that in Gotham for at least six months.”

Jason nods, unsurprised. He’s been to alternate Gothams before. And no matter what he’s always been able to tell. It might be some subtle difference in the atmosphere, the sky the wrong shade of blue, the accents lilting in a different direction. This place has never felt like anything but home. “Didn’t really think you’d find anything. Was pretty sure about the time travel.”

“So the first thing you did was try to change things,” Tim says.

“Well, second. I talked to you first.”

“Why?” Tim asks.

“Are you serious? Red Hood just beat you half to death. Of course I wanted to change it.” Jason winces. “I am really sorry about that by the way.”

“But you’re not like that now,” Tim says. The eye that isn’t swollen shut widens in earnest. “You were dead. You might have snapped when you came back, but Jason, you got better. That’s obvious. You asked for my help. According to Nightwing, you’ve been making the worst parts of Gotham safer. You’re clearly not the same guy you were back then. Which means it all works out. Why try to change anything? Why risk it?”

Even through the beating, Tim seems to genuinely believe that it all works out for the best. Jason feels a sudden stab of sadness.

God, he misses Tim. His Tim. Not the painfully earnest kid in front of him. Not the one who still wants to think of Jason as Robin. And as for it working out? Jason’s burned a lot of bridges. Even if Tim is willing to forgive an attempted murder, he’d shot Damian, killed so many people. And even if most of them deserved it, there was at least one who didn’t.

“Think the ship’s sailed on that one already, Timbers.”  He runs a hand through his hair, almost afraid to ask, “Where does that leave me?”

“Should have asked that question before you decided to change things,” Tim grumbles.

And yeah, okay, that’s fair. “I’m asking now.”

Tim folds his arms over his chest, wincing as he does like the motion pressed at his ribs. “Flash ever talk to you about time remnants?”

Jason shakes his head. “Didn’t get a Flash of my own like the rest of the family. You’ll have to enlighten me.”

A faint smile slips over Tim’s lips and then dissipates just as quick. It takes Jason a second to realize what caused it.

He called them family.

“I haven’t heard of it happening outside of speedsters,” Tim says slowly, “but that might just be because no one else is the kind of dumbass who immediately tries to change things when they get stuck in the past.”

“Complaint registered,” Jason says, pushing himself up from the couch and moving for the kitchen. He hopes Tim didn’t finish the last of his coffee.  “Spit it out already.”

“A time remnant happens when you time travel back from a future that has been altered so drastically that you’ve essentially erased you as you currently exist from the time stream.”

The light glinting in from the open window catches just the right angle to nearly blind Jason. It makes the world seem over bright, slightly surreal. A cold wind drifts in lazily, but it’s more than enough to send a chill through him. He glances into his tin of instant coffee. There’s at least enough for another cup. He turns the kettle on and closes the window.

“Jason?” Tim asks.

Jason clears his throat. “And what happens if I manage that? Do I wake up in the future as a complete different person? Does the world go all Final Destination on my ass and get me killed back here?”

“From what Kid Flash says, it varies from person to person. The stronger their ties, the longer they last, but otherwise, they just sort of… fade. It’s like their body doesn’t remember how to exist anymore. I know the Reverse Flash managed to slow it down but that involved a lot of ties to the speed force and…”

“And I’m no speedster, I got it.” Jason catalogs the past few days, the batarangs slipping seemingly right between his fingers, the way he isn’t always able to perform the delicate tasks of undoing the safe house’s traps, the intermittent flickering of his vision, the Joker taunting he’s barely more substantial than a ghost. “Good to know.”

Tim’s eyebrows edge up as Jason makes himself a cup of coffee. “Jay, you realize the more you change things, the faster you’ll fade.”

Jason takes a sip of the coffee. He can’t taste it, can’t feel it hitting his tongue even though it should be scalding. “Then I guess I better work fast.”

Tim closes his laptop. Stands up.

For a second Jason thinks Tim is going to throw a punch. Jason would probably let him. He deserves it after what the Red Hood did.

Instead Tim says, “Tell me how I can help.”

Jason finishes his own mug of coffee in two quick swallows. Not quite the same level of epic as Tim, but still respectable. He wipes the liquid from his lips. “I lost the Joker.”

 “What?”

Chapter Text

Ten minutes in and Tim has enough information to start programing a search algorithm to cross-reference all of Joker’s typical hideouts with Red Hood’s standard patterns, piecing together Jason’s movements with such accuracy that he’s honestly floored.

“Why doesn’t Bats have you doing this full time?”

“Batman likes to do things himself.”

Jason leans over his shoulder, noting the way Tim flinches away from contact. Nominally comfortable in his presence, but still uneasy, Jason observes. Good. It would be stupid not to be wary after the beating the Red Hood gave him. “You’re better at it than he is.”

There’s a brief flicker of surprise across Tim’s face, but it’s quickly rearranged into a smirk. “Oh, I know. It took a solid year of lobbying before he let me digitize all the files in the Batcave and even then it was only because Oracle made him.”

“I would pay to see that,” Jason says.

“Didn’t you see it?” Tim asks. “From everything you’ve told me, I assumed you would be a regular in the Batcave.”

Jason feels himself go tense. “Tim, I don’t know what kind of impression you’ve got about how I am in the future but…”

“You’re Jason Todd,” Tim says viciously. “You’re Robin. I watched you for years.”

“The guy who beat the shit out of you is Jason Todd, too.” Jason points. “So is the guy who stuck a batarang in your chest and left you for dead. And the one who shot his eleven-year-old brother.”

Tim takes a step back.

Jason presses forward.

“You might have a passing knowledge of Robin, but I’ve been Red Hood for years now and Red Hood?” His voice cracks. “Red Hood doesn’t really care for birds or bats.”

Tim sets his feet and Jason can literally see him steeling himself. “You know, as soon as I figured out it was the Lazarus Pit, I started doing research. Ways to mitigate the effects, deal with trauma. I can help you, help him.”

“I’m not worried about him getting help. I’m worried about you.”

Tim gives him a lopsided smile around the bruising on his face. “You didn’t kill me at Titans Towers. What makes you think you’ll manage it in the future?”

“Because I remember trying!”

“But you’re changing things! You can let me help. We can get Dick working with us. There’s no way he leaves you out there alone if he knows.”

Except Dick Grayson, the first time he’d tracked Jason down, had left him in the clutches of a supervillain in New York. He’d sent Jason to Arkham after becoming Batman and left him in a cell within earshot of the Joker.

How can that be the same guy who’d taken Jason’s offered beer? Who’d tried to talk him to his side? Who heard his assessment of the Joker without knowing Jason’s burning need for revenge and hadn’t tried to talk him out of it?

When exactly had Jason burned that bridge?

Had it been beating the shit out of Tim? Had it been Batman’s assessment of the confrontation? He takes a shaky breath and opens eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed.

This version of Tim isn’t as good at hiding his expression as the one Jason knows, a mix of sympathy and calculation in his eyes. At least he knows enough not to try to touch him. 

“What did you even tell Dick to get him on my trail?” Jason runs a hand through his hair. “He keeps acting like we’re friends. He told me I reminded him of his dead little brother. Nightwing’s not usually that open with strangers.”

“I vouched for you,” Tim says. “When he told me there were two Red Hoods, I confirmed that one of them was trying to do the right thing.”

“And as far as Dick’s concerned, you vouching for me makes me one of the good guys.”

Tim shrugs. “I wasn’t sure how much I could do without completely messing up the timeline. But it sounds like that’s already shot to hell, so we might as well.”

“No! Dick hears and Batman figures it out right after that.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Tim asks. “From what you told me, this whole thing is so you can come back to the family. So Bruce knows. Who cares?”

“Bruce already knows who the Red Hood is,” Jason says. “And I know I made a lot of mistakes coming back to Gotham, but at this point, he’s classified me as the enemy.”

“He hasn’t,” Tim protests. “You were Robin. You’re one of us.”

“You know how this ended before I stared messing with it? Me with a batarang in my neck as a building explodes.” Jason’s fists clench on their own accords. “And yeah, it was my fault I was ever in that situation, but Bruce didn’t exactly rise to the occasion.”

“So how do we stop it?” Tim asks.

“I told you already,” Jason snaps. “I need to find the Joker before Red Hood does.”

“What’s that going to fix?”

“If Hood can’t actually find the Joker, there’s a pretty good bet Batman has no reason to slit Hood’s throat. And the Joker’s not, you know, killing people. Win-win.”

“I think you might be too close to this.”

“Fuck you, Timmy. You don’t exactly look like you could win a fight right now.”

“If you ask Dick…”

“For the last time, I’m not asking Dick. I don’t even like that you know about me.”

Tim straightens his back. “You’re the one who asked for my help. I just need more information.”

“I already told you. I need to find the Joker.”

“I was thinking of something different. More information.” He gives a self-deprecating smile. “Like maybe how to talk to the current version of you without him trying to murder me.”

Jason forces out a long breath. Because, yeah. That would probably help. He was alone for a long time when he roared back from the dead and in retrospect, he can see all the ways it had made his situation worse.

And… he likes Tim. Even early in his Red Hood days, when he’d actively been trying to kill Tim, there’d always been a part of him that recognized the two of them could have been friends.

“Honestly?” Jason swallows. “The costume’s most of the problem. I came back, Joker was out of Arkham and you were Robin. It was like nothing had changed. Like I’d been replaced.”

Tim nods slowly. It can’t be new information. The present Jason had very obviously beaten that message into him. And even now, it still hurts to see someone else wearing his colors. 

“We didn’t even start being civil until you were going by Red Robin,” Jason continues with a crooked smile. “You broke me out of jail one time.”

“Red Robin?” Tim echoes. “What? Like the restaurant?”

“Robin was taken.”

Tim’s quiet for a second. He probably thought he was going to be Batman’s partner forever. Jason knows he’d been the same way. Tim smooths his expression into a blank mask, his voice a steady monotone as he says, “Taken by the eleven-year-old brother you said you shot once? Are we sure you’re in the right universe? Last I checked, we don’t have a little brother.”

“He’ll turn up,” Jason promises. “He’s probably still with the League of Assassin. I’m all for storming the place and grabbing him early, but the thing with the Joker is a time crunch.”

“Should you be telling me any of this?”

“You’re the one who said I was a time remnant. Screw it. If I’ve got a time limit, I’m all for fixing as much as we can. So long as we start with that fucking clown.”

Tim’s computer chirps. They both stop to look at it, Tim scrolling through until he has a list of a dozen locations. “This should help, at least. Likely Joker hideouts considering his past preferences and probable desire to avoid running into you.”

Jason scans the list, his heart falling. “I checked most of these yesterday.”

“Joker was probably on the move yesterday.” Tim pulls up a map, neatly slotting the locations into the grid. “That’s usually his MO if he’s avoiding capture. Hunker down until he’s ready to make his play. Sorry I can’t get you anything more concrete.”

“It’s all good, Timbers,” Jason says. “This helps. A lot.”

“Let me come with you,” Tim says.

Jason looks him over.

The bruises crossing his face, are still swollen, his upper lip twice the size of his lower. His stance is unnaturally upright, like a slouch would irritate broken ribs. One of his eyes is still swollen shit and the other, puffy enough that his periphery must be shit. “Hard pass. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

“You need help,” Tim says. “And if you won’t let me call Dick, I’m all you’ve got. How about we try and draw the Joker out? I mean, if there’s one thing Joker can’t resist, it’s an injured Robin wandering around by himself.”

“Absolutely not.” Jason puts a hand on either shoulder, bending down so that he can look Tim in the eyes. “Tim, promise me you won’t go anywhere near him.”

Tim stares. “I can handle myself. I can handle the Joker.”

“I thought I could, too. I was wrong.”

“You were by yourself,” Tim says. “I’ll have you watching my back. It would work. You know it would.”

The thing is, Tim’s right. Joker figured out years ago that the quickest way to earn Batman’s attention, his rage, was to go through Robin. It’s pure dumb luck that Jason was the only causality. “That doesn’t matter. It’s an unacceptable risk. You understand that, Timbers?”

Tim folds his arms over his chest, wrinkling his nose as he breaks eye contact. “Fine.”

Jason feels relief wash through him.  “Good.”

“We still don’t have the Joker,” Tim says. He moves for his duffle bag and shuffles his uniform out of the way before pulling out a portable printer. “And that’s a problem.”

Jason blows out a breath. “I’ll start looking, but you have to promise me that you take it easy on those ribs.”

“Only if you promise to report back to me when you’ve found the Joker.”

Tim holds out the newly printed list of locations.

Jason grabs it without protest. “Deal.”

Chapter Text

Jason takes Tim’s list of location and loses the next six hours.

When he comes back to awareness, the sun is setting, throwing up brilliant colors distorted through the grim haze of Gotham’s pollution. Back when he was a kid, Jason had taken these sunsets as a sign that life would get better, but as he gets older, he can only wonder which colors are results of Joker’s laughing gas leeching into the atmosphere. Which colors mean fear gas.

He stumbles on a rooftop in his distraction, the bruises from the fight with Red Hood protesting as he pinwheels his arms to keep from falling. He presses a hand to the catch on the helmet and pulls it off so he can blink, disoriented, into the fading sunlight.

He hasn’t given himself time to process his likely fate. Not with the Joker at large and his double racing him to the clown.

Tim’s ominous prognosis seems almost fitting. Since he came back, he’s always felt like a vengeful ghost lurking on gargoyles, unseen during daylight. For years he’s doubted that there was anything left of him outside Red Hood and the mission, half sure that he’d stop breathing the second the Joker did.

Now? If he’s a ghost or a time remnant or whatever, he refuses to fade before the mission is over.

Bruce would be proud of him for that much.

He shakes himself. Fuck Bruce being proud. He wants the Robin he used to be proud of him. And maybe if he’s honest with himself, he want to hear about Tim looking up to him without an accompanying stab of guilt. He wants the kind of grudging fondness the Dick of this era seems willing to give.

Mostly though, he wants to save Gotham an extra few years of Joker.

He shakes himself and pulls Tim’s list out of his jacket pocket. The dazzling array of colors in the sunset fade slowly to a muted blue and he notes that he’s nearly a mile from his safe house, outside an abandoned joke shop. It’s several blocks past the edge of the Red Hood’s narrow territory, but that was the whole point of Tim’s list. To find likely places the Joker would hide that would best avoid Red Hood.

He slides down a fire escape, and circles to the back entrance of the joke shop.

Then he pauses, taking in the wooden doorframe, splintered around the deadbolt. There aren’t a lot of people left in Gotham willing to rob a joke shop. Too high a possibility of running into Joker and his crew.

Jason draws his gun and kicks the door open.

It swings in without resistance, crashing into the wall to reveal a darkened room. Jason taps his helmet and toggles on his night vision capabilities. He finds a figure waiting in the darkness, but it’s immediately apparent from his bulk that it can’t be the Joker.

Fuck.

Batman. Waiting in the dark like the massive creeper that is.

Tim, the bastard, must have sold him out.

…Jason’s actually a little impressed. Maybe even proud.

But then the figure moves and instead of the swish of a cape, Jason registers a jacket and the glint of a helmet before the lights cut on and the night vision setting momentarily blinds him. He reaches instinctively for a gun, but it’s knocked out of his hand before he grabs it. The second hand goes for his small collection of batarangs, but his fingers never close around the metal. He kicks out instinctively, but the heel of his boot hits a shin guard and the figure does not yield.

“Easy,” the man says. “I’m not actually here to fight.”

Jason barely hears the voice, but he does recognize the slightly tinny sound of a modulator.

A second later he registers the helmet.

“Red Hood?” he gasps, thankful that his own helmet masks the raggedness of his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”  Red Hood lets him go, taking a step back. His posture is tense, but not actually a fighting stance. “Figured you’d turn up eventually. Joke shops, right? Looking for the clown.”

Jason presses his mouth shut but gives a quick, curt nod.

“Go home. Let me deal with this.”

He does a double take. “Excuse me? If it were up to me, the clown would have already been dead, instead of out there in Gotham doing god knows what!”

“Look,” Red Hood says, managing to sound condescending despite the modulator. “I get that you managed some bat training, but this gig isn’t for wide-eyed idealists. The Joker will kill you if you give him half the chance.”

“You’re seriously trying to warn me off?” Jason says. “After you let the fucker get away?”

“That’s right,” Red Hood says. “Joker’s loose and that’s on me. He’d have no idea who you were if you weren’t trying to follow me around. So let me finish this.”

Jason bristles, wanting to pick another fight, but thinks better of it. He pulls out the list of sites he’s already memorized and folds it in half. “Tell you what, I’ve got an agenda for the night. Likely sites for that slippery bastard with a bias towards locations he’ll hit if he wants to avoid our patrol patterns. We’ll split them.”

He offers the folded slip of paper to Red Hood who doesn’t make a move to take it.

“Priority number one is getting him off the streets,” Jason pushes. “I know you understand that. Nothing else matters. And I can help.”

The red helmet gives away nothing of his emotions, but there’s tension in the stance that Jason recognizes as consideration.

“You’ll let me take the more likely spots?” The voice is almost hesitant.

Jason feels a stab of pride. Even the Red Hood that Batman declared a lost cause, was looking to push an innocent to something safer.

“I’ll start from the bottom,” Jason promises. “We can meet up in the middle.”

“Only if you promise not to take him on yourself. You shouldn’t be involved in this.”

It’s a condition Jason has no intention of honoring, but he nods anyway.

“And no Batman?” Red Hood presses. “No calling him or any of his helpers.”

“This is our mess,” Jason says. “I just want him off the streets. No Batman needed.”

Dead, he thinks to himself. Joker dies tonight.

Red Hood reaches out and takes the slip of paper from his hands.

Jason steps aside and lets him pass.

Red Hood pauses at the door. He puts a hand to his temple.

It takes a second for Jason to recognize the pose. It’s a habit drilled into him by Alfred rather than Bruce, one he’s never managed to break. Alfred considered inattention during conversation to be the height of rudeness, so he’d taught them all the gesture as a way to signal they couldn’t give their full focus.  

Jason racks his brain, trying to think of anyone who Red Hood might be in contact with in this era.

No one. He’d kept the coms around for surveillance. Audio only for Batman’s channel, but the batchatter was rarely used unless Nightwing and Robin were in town. He’d also had the feed for GCPD dispatch. Jason hadn’t bothered updating the same information into his helmet. He’s still wired to the frequencies used in the future, but it’s a few years before his credentials would be in date.

Red Hood turns slowly back around, a hand on his holstered gun.

“Don’t wait on me.” Jason sweeps an arm around the room. “I’m going to search this one myself. Just because the clown’s not here now doesn’t mean he wasn’t here recently.”

“GCPD got a tip about the Joker,” Red Hood says. “Batsignal’s been lit.”

“More the merrier.” Alarms are going off in Jason’s head, but he can’t for the life of him pinpoint the danger. “Get the clown off the street.”

Red Hood steps forward. “The tip came in from Robin.”

Jason’s flinch is hidden by his helmet. If there’s one thing that set him off back then, it was any mention Robin. He’d hoped that allowing Tim to hang out at his safe house would be enough to satisfy his curiosity without enticing him to the search himself. He’d even promised not to tell Batman.

But trust Tim Drake to find a loophole. Jason doesn’t even blame the kid. Joker’s on the loose. All hands on deck.

“Robin, not Batman,” Red Hood stresses. “Robin who is supposed to be in San Francisco. He’s not even in in town like Nightwing.”

“All hands on deck,” Jason says. “This is Joker.”

Red Hood closes the gap between the two of them. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend,” Jason says.

“Whose friend?”

“Yours, you paranoid fucker.”

“I don’t think so,” Red Hood. “You move like a bird. I think you’ve run with Nightwing before. Robin, too. You been feeding them information?”

“Are you serious?” Jason shouts. “I came here to help you! I gave you intel! What kind of self-respecting vigilante willingly works with a crime lord?”

Red Hood takes a step back. Then he unfolds the list Jason had given him, skimming the locations.

Jason’s surprised when the gun goes off. He doesn’t know what piece of the list could have possibly provoked this kind of reaction and hadn’t even thought to prepare. Jason stumbles back into the wall, his hands pressed against his gut as he slides to the floor.

Red Hood advances, crouching down to examine him, the list dangling from his fingertips. “You know, I don’t care who you are, not really. But being one of Batman’s acolytes is a dangerous gig. And really, B should have known better than trying to set up a trap for someone like me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hood.”

“You know where you get a readout that looks like this?” Red Hood crumples up the piece of paper and tosses it so it hits Jason’s helmet, bouncing into his lap. “The Batcave.”

Jason looks down and then back up at the Hood. “So that’s it? You kill me right here? Because you think I’m working with Batman? I thought you were supposed to have some sort of code! Because if you walk away right now, that means you’re just like him!”

“I’m nothing like Batman,” Red Hood spits. “I don’t abandon my allies. No matter how much they deserve it.”

“I wasn’t talking about Batman, you stupid prick.”

Red Hood’s back snaps straight. He holsters the gun. “An ambulance will be here in ten minutes. I expect you’ve already signaled the cave to extract you before it gets here. Tell Batman to stop following me.”

He leaves to the sound of sirens.

Chapter Text

He should be in more pain.

He’d reacted more to the sound and the angle of the gun than to the feeling of the bullet. Robin-trained instincts push him to seal his palm to the wound with as much pressure as he can manage, as soon as possible, but he remembers gunshots hurting more than this. He tilts his head down to assess the wound and finds his gloves suspiciously clean.

He takes a deep breath and peels his hand off the wound.

There’s no blood.

How?

He looks behind him.

The bullet is imbedded in the wall.

From the trajectory, it must have hit. There’s no way it could have missed and Jason… He’d felt it, hadn’t he? He swears he did.

Then again his entire torso is a mess of scar tissue and his perception of pain warped badly in the wake of the Lazarus Pit, to the point where Tim once likened it to effects of a dissociative anesthetic. If the bullet was small enough caliber and a through and through…

It still doesn't explain the lack of blood.

He takes a batarang from his pocket and uses it to pry the bullet out of the wall, tipping it carefully towards his hands.

The bullet falls right through his palm, hitting the floor with a soft tink.

His heartbeat doubles as he stumbles out of the joke shop, his hand pressed again to his chest like he’s afraid the wound will change its mind and start bleeding.

He feels more real in the cool air of the Gotham night. The soft glow of the streetlamps, the fragrance of the dumpster and the ghoulishly grinning gargoyles overhead unravel some of the tension in his bones. He looks either way down the alley, hoping for some sign of Red Hood, but when he doesn’t find it, old instincts force him to pull out his grappling hook and head upwards.

As he lands on his second rooftop, the long-dormant communicator in his helmet squawks and after a second of static, Tim says, Robin to Red Hood. Robin to Red Hood.

“Did you hack my coms?” Jason pauses before firing his next grappling line and considers the situation. He’d fallen asleep with Tim Drake in his safe house after all. “What am I saying? Of course you hacked my coms.”

Great, you’re alive, Tim answers. An ambulance was just dispatched to one of the locations on the list. I think that might be as good a lead as we can hope for.

“Already on it, Robin,” he says, glancing at the street below. It’s always felt weird to call Tim by his old code name. More so, considering by the time Jason started warming back up to the family, Tim was going by something else.

9-1-1 call says there were gunshots, Tim’s voice is measured, but hiding his nerves must be something Tim learned with age.

“I know.” Jason puts his hand to his torso and checks. Still no blood. “I kind of shot myself.”

He hears a sharp intake of breath. Are you okay? I can get you to the cave if I absolutely need to but there’s no way you stay anonymous.

“I’m fine.” Jason probably should have lead with that. “It went straight through me.”

Even a shot that goes through and through can still cause some damage, Red. You need to get off the streets.

“No, you don’t understand. The shot went straight through me. Like I was some kind of ghost.”

A long pause filled with hissing static.

“You still with me, Rob?”

Sorry, Red. You said the bullet went right through?

“Found the bullet in the wall,” Jason confirms. “It wasn’t a shot Hood could have missed. And before you say it, I know that’s bad.”

There’s another pause and the faint clacking of a keyboard.

Jason grapples to the next rooftop, an entirely different panic washing over him.

The helmet’s communicator.

He’s been tuned into the same channel since he came back. While the heavily encrypted Oracle-run batchatter rotates on a monthly basis, Jason has stubbornly kept his frequency the same for the past serval years. He’ll never admit it out loud, but he’d done it so that his family always has the means to contact him if they need help.

Not that any of them ever bothered.

Or even noticed.

Jason struggles to remember when he’d set it up. Red Hood has definitely hacked the batchatter by now, but he can’t remember when he’d established his personal channel.

“Robin,” he interrupts Tim’s background ranting about time remnants. “Where are you right now?”

Still at your safe house, Tim says. If you give me another minute, I think I might be able to get you a narrower location on the Joker.

“Forget the Joker, you need to leave. Get to the cave.”

Calm down. I’m a little bruised, but it’s not like there’s much Agent A can do.

“You need to get out of there, because there’s a very good chance the real Red Hood is monitoring this channel. And if he can hear you, he can definitely find you.”

You don’t think he’d come after me, do you? He can practically hear Tim’s frown. Not with the Joker still at large.

“Robin, you know what he can do. Get out of there. Please.”

Got it, Red, Tim replies. Stay safe.

That’s at least one load off Jason’s mind. He stares at the city sprawling in front of him as he tries to think. Red Hood has his list of locations, but Jason’s memorized most of them. He scrolls through the various arcades, novelty shops and carnival spots on the list, trying to think of one that might be more likely than the rest.

Then the answer hits him like a lightning bolt.

Joker was injured when he escaped, pretty badly by Jason’s own estimation. Tim prioritized the list to keep most of the locations away from Red Hood’s territory, but there’s very little chance that Joker had the physical ability to drag himself far enough away.

Jason had written the amusement park off since he’d searched it the night of the confrontation. From the locations on the list, so had Tim. But Joker is smarter than any of them give him credit for. If he’d managed to dodge the initial sweep, that’s the only clown-themed location he could possible make it to.

Joker doubled back.

He must have doubled back

Jason fires his grappling gun and flies. He doesn’t give much thought to subtlety. The GCPD will have relayed Robin’s tip about Joker to Batman and Red Hood assumes he’s too injured to keep looking.  Robin’s injuries when he gets back to the Batcave might buy Jason a few minutes of Batman’s distraction.

He has a window.  A very brief window, but Jason’s always been good at working with what he has.

The amusement park is at the opposite end of the city from the joke shop. Even pushing himself, it takes almost an hour to get there by rooftops.

And even as he flies through the city, Jason can feel parts of himself getting left behind, on the rooftops, on the gargoyles, time coming in fragments as he passes the places that haunt his memories. The alley where he’d tried to steal the tires off the Batmobile. The apartment where his mom died. His favorite gargoyle.

The street where, after years of only killing people who deserved it, he’d made one of his biggest mistakes.

He has no idea how much time he loses in the trip, but he feels like he’s about to shatter, like the next time someone touches him, he’ll be forced back towards a future that doesn’t belong to him anymore.

He lands at the abandoned amusement park, his boots oddly light against the boardwalk. The decrepit Ferris wheel looms on the horizon, its carriages throwing odd shadows through the slowly dawning morning. Jason fights back a shiver and picks his way slowly through the boardwalk, passing various empty rides on his way back to the funhouse.

The broken glass that had been left in the wake of his fight hasn’t been cleared, but there is an extra set of footprints through the grime. The wrong size to be the Joker’s.

Batman’s been here.

Jason turns slowly on the spot, the jagged edges of broken mirrors casting his own fractured reflection back at him. If he’d heard about the altercation, Bruce could have surveillance on the scene. Red Hood might not have followed up on it, but Batman tends to flag potential Joker.

Jason feels his certainty waver as his boots crunch against the broken glass.

If Batman’s been here, then Bruce might have realized that the Red Hood was, too. He might have even picked up on the fact that there were two of him.

He fights down despair.

Then, through the darkness comes a shrill bite of laughter.

Familiar laughter.

Jason freezes to the spot.

“You know I was hoping it would be one of the other guys,” Joker says. “Mean Hood or Batman, or someone who doesn’t look like he’s about to disappear.”

He can hear the Joker moving through the hall of mirrors even if he can’t actually pinpoint what direction the voice is coming from. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“You were a disappointment,” Joker says, the laughter flushing out of his voice. “I kill one bird and then get two back. Wonder what happens when I take out two birds.”

A crunch of glass.

Jason spins slowly on his heels, hand on the batarangs in his pocket.

“I get that—despite what the rest of the world thinks—you’re the murdery one of the pair,” Joker says. “But I think you’ll want to hear...”

He sees a flash of green and purple.

And then the batarang is in the air.

He thinks for a second that he’s missed.

Because despite the years he spent training with Talia’s people, despite the years turning himself into something alarmingly close to a supervillain; when using throwing weapons, Jason almost always defaults back to Robin’s habits.

And Robin doesn’t kill. Even Red Hood would spare the Joker in favor of waiting for Batman.

Except he’s not Robin today. That’s Tim’s title. He’s not even Red Hood anymore. Not really.

He’s just Jason. And Jason? His aim is dead on.

The batarang hits in the same place as Bruce’s near-fatal blow on Jason all those years ago. He watches, fascinated, at the arterial spurts that blooms from Joker’s throat like a fountain against the broken mirrors. The clown’s hands fly to his neck as he falls to his knees. His spasms as he dies look like someone who is convulsing with laughter.

And just like that, it’s over.

Jason takes a step closer to the body. He has a second batarang in his hand, the bite of metal an odd pressure through his gloves. He nudges the knee of the Joker’s purple suit with his toe but there’s no reaction.

He hears someone laugh, a choked, almost startled sound.

He covers his mouth.

It was easy.

All these years and it was easy.

He doesn’t lean down to check the pulse. The arterial spurts have stopped gushing, and the only movement is the slow spread of the steadily pooling blood. He debates sitting down next to the body and waiting for the end.

Because he can feel it coming: The fade. He’s changed things irrevocably. There’s no way the Gotham he knows exists anymore. Not with the Joker gone.

He forces himself to move anyway.

Because this is the idea he’d had before everything went to shit. Jason’s the same size as Bruce so forensics will profile the suspect as the right size. Wearing gloves, the obvious answer to who killed Joker if he gets the hell out of dodge is Batman.

It won’t last long. Batman’s relentless and he’ll peg Red Hood almost instantly. When he figures out it’s not Red Hood, well, if there’s anything that can get Batman and Robin talking again, it’s a good mystery.

He takes the flight back to his safe house slower than he did earlier. When he gets back, the sunrise has tinged the morning sky a vivid red. Tim’s cleared out. He’s left his half-filled duffle bag next to the couch like he fully intends to force his way back into Jason’s search, but he’s at least put the assortment of the coffee mugs into the sink and there’s no sign of a struggle.

Jason sits down on the couch, closes his eyes and waits. If he’s still here tomorrow, he can find Tim and they can raid the League of Assassins to grab the batbrat a few years early.

He has no idea how long he sits there, but an insistent pounding makes him open his eyes. The sun is high in the sky so he’s at least missed the rest of the morning, maybe longer. The knocking doesn’t stop so Jason stands, wincing at the roll of cracks from his back. He grabs his gun from the kitchen table and checks to see if it’s loaded before sliding off the safety and approaching the door.

A look through the peephole tells him it’s not a threat. Jason undoes the deadbolt carefully and then the half dozen extra locks he’d added for security before taking a deep breath and throwing it open.

Dick Grayson is standing on his doorstep.

He’s wearing a faded pair of jeans and a green and orange patterned shirt that pretty genuinely hurts to look at. The only thing left of the Nightwing costume is the mask, impassive white lenses covering Dick’s shockingly blue eyes.

Jason blinks at him, half sure he’s dreaming before Dick pushes his way inside. He glances at Jason’s gun, but dismisses the threat just as quickly in favor of latching the door behind him and quickly clearing the apartment.

By the time he’s in front of Jason again, Jason’s found his voice. “Okay, you’re definitely not invited.”

“Batman’s on a warpath,” Dick interrupts. “We need to get you out of town.”

Chapter Text

“Batman has no idea I exist,” Jason says. “That was kind of the whole point.”

The afternoon sunlight streams through the window. Dick paces to the television and then tunes Jason’s salvaged TV to the local news. He has to fiddle with the rabbit ears to get a good picture but after a second, scenes of crowds fill the TV. Jason frowns for a moment, watching the celebration. He doesn’t remember ever seeing Gotham like this. There’d been no parades since before he can remember, too big a target, too inviting for any one of the madmen who ruled the city. Even the meager block parties had been declared too dangerous by most organizers.

Dick isn’t watching the newscast, his masked face is staring at Jason, waiting for a reaction.

On the television the newscaster cuts in, And that’s the remarkable scene from Gotham where spontaneous celebrations broke out in the streets following the announced death of the supervillain known only as the Joker. The death was confirmed early this morning by the GCPD. At the moment, there is no official cause, though there have been unconfirmed reports that Batman was on scene.

“What?” Jason look sideways. “Am I supposed to be sad about this?”

“Batarang to the throat,” Dick says. “That’s what they’ve been keeping out of the press. Joker bled out within a couple minutes.”

“Which is why Batman’s on a warpath,” Jason finishes.

“Batman didn’t kill anyone.”

“I don’t know, Nightwing. Big Bad Bat’s a bogeyman in a lot of these neighborhoods. Lot of those folks he puts in the hospital never get out from under that medical debt. Who’s to say Bats isn’t the bad guy here. Maybe he snapped.”

“Fine,” Dick agrees. “Batman’s snapped and killed the Joker. We still need to get you out of town.”

Jason narrows his eyes.

“What?” Dick says. “I’m not an idiot. I’m not going to ask for confirmation because I don’t want to know, but you were collecting batarangs last I saw you and Batman’s already looking for Red Hood. If you want to stay off his radar, you’ve got to be out of Gotham by the time he figures out there are two of you.”

“I don’t got to do anything with any of you.” Jason sits pointedly on the couch and kicks out his legs. “I’m going to sit here and enjoy my day off.”

“Batman will find you soon.”

Jason stands up, stepping forward to crowd Dick’s space. Dick doesn’t flinch, but Jason notes his hand move towards the small of his back. He must have brought one of those stupid escrima sticks with him. “Why do you even care? You don’t know me.”

“You’re not like the other one,” Dick says. “I know you’re not.”

“How, Nightwing? I use guns. You might not have ever seen it, but I’ve killed people. I’ve hurt my family. How am I different from the other one?”

He can’t see Dick’s eyes but he knows this posture. That strange mix of threat assessment and pity that no one outside their network of vigilantes ever seems to wear. Jason shoves a hand into Dick’s chest. “Get the fuck out, Nightwing. You don’t owe me shit.”

Dick rocks back on his heels and rebalances. “Look, I get you’ve been trying to keep this all under wraps and okay, that stings a little, but if I know you, you have a good reason. And if that reason was killing the Joker? Well, I can’t really say I blame you.”

“Usually you bats are a bit stricter on the whole cold-blooded murder thing.” Jason’s eyes flicker to the gun on his table and after a second, he moves towards it.

Dick doesn’t move despite the new threat in Jason’s stance. And that’s stupid. There’s no way Dick can be sure he won’t end up with a bullet between the eyes. No way he can know that Jason would never hurt him.

Dick tilts his head sideways, a faint, almost fond smile on his face. “You’re really going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

Jason figures to hell with it and draws the gun.

“I don’t blame you for the Joker, Jay.” Dick’s face is earnest even though his eyes are still masked. “How could I after what he did to you?”

“What did you just call me?”

“Jason,” Dick says clearly. “Because that’s who you are. Jason Todd. My little brother. Except you’re not so little anymore.”

How they stand now, Jason’s essentially the same age as Dick. He’s been through hundreds of fights with Dick, against Dick, beside Dick.

He’s not this Dick Grayson’s little brother. Not really.

“You should leave. You have no idea what’s going on.”

“Batman told me,” Dick presses. “He said the Red Hood was Jason Todd. Only he doesn’t know there are two Red Hoods. Jay, I don’t know why you won’t come home, but I know it’s you. If you want to stay off Batman’s radar, you have to let me help you.”

Except he can’t be sure, because he’s still talking in code. If Jason evades, he might still be able to push Dick’s suspicions away. At least until he runs fifteen year old Jason’s face through an age progression algorithm and figures it out anyway. But by then, Jason can be long gone. The only person left for Dick to find will be the present version of Red Hood.

And Jason will fade away.

He wavers for a second.

Then he holsters his gun. “Dickie, you’re in way over your head.”

Dick’s face lights up. It’s the kind of smile Jason very rarely gets to see, the one reserved for Damian, Tim, Barbara, and Cass, people who’d never disappointed him on quite the same scale Jason had managed. He watches for a moment in shock as Dick takes a step forward and throws his arms around Jason’s waist.

After a second, Jason returns the hug, pretending not to notice the choked sound coming from his brother. He wonders how much tech is in the domino mask. He remembers Tim mentioning problems with moisture in the future.

He waits a beat before deeming it acceptable to pry himself loose. Dick gives a small huff of annoyance, but pulls back enough so that his hands are resting on Jason’s shoulders. “God, Jay,” he says. “Look at you. You got so big.”

Jason shuffles his feet.

He’d never gotten this reaction before. He’d died at fifteen and by the time Batman figured it out, he was firmly entrenched as the bad guy. “S’what happens when you grow up.”

“As soon as Batman said you were the Red Hood, I knew he had it wrong. I knew it was you.”

Jason feels his face fall. Because that’s exactly what he’s been trying to avoid. He was supposed to pave the way for Red Hood, eliminate his biggest hurdle to coming back to his family.

This is supposed to be Red Hood’s reunion. Jason will be gone before he gets to enjoy it.

He steps out of Dick’s grip.

“Okay.” Dick rubs at the back of his neck, ducks his head and tries to subtly wipe at his eyes. After a moment he says, “You don’t want B to find you, fine. But he’ll track down Hood soon. Tonight if I have to guess. And he’ll figure out that Red Hood wasn’t the one who killed Joker. You haven’t exactly been hiding.”

“Batman hasn’t found me yet.”

“Batman hasn’t known to look. And while I understand why you did it, he…”

“He won’t,” Jason finishes. “He’ll think I’m a murderer.”

“Jason—”

“Look, you’ve got a lot of things about this wrong. I’m not your brother, not really.”

Dick takes a deep breath, gives him an assessing once over and asks, “Alternate universe?”

“Time travel,” Jason corrects.

Dick frowns. “The other Red Hood?”

“Me,” Jason confirms. “Age seventeen. Maybe eighteen, depending on how you count. It’s a very long story.”

A nod. “Do you remember any of this?”

“No,” Jason says.

Dick’s hung out with enough speedsters to know what that means. He takes in a quick bite of air and then erases the emotion from his face. It’s an interesting sight out of costume. It looks wrong. Out of costume Dick’s always been emotive, this younger version even more so.  “Do I even want to know how badly it went the first time around?”

“Probably not.” Jason shifts his weight side to side.

“What about the Joker?”

“Alive in my timeline.” There’s an intermittent flickering in his vision and while it could be the slightly shoddy light fixture overhead, Jason knows the far more likely scenario. “Seemed like a pretty good trade.”

“Jay, you should have come to us! We could have made sure we got you home! Instead—” Dick cuts himself off as his cell phone rings. He looks up briefly in exasperation and declines the call. “Instead you decide to take over Gotham’s drug trade, what the hell, Jason?”

Jason’s memory of this time is spotty at best, but this is still an answer he knows. “What happened to crime numbers in my territory, Dickie?”

Dick pauses, his mouth working soundlessly for a second before he eventually concedes, “Down.”

Jason nods. “And how about overdoses? The number of people selling to kids?”

“All down,” Dick says. “Did you seriously decide to fight crime by becoming a mob boss?”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

“There are reports about…”

“All true,” Jason says. “Funny how getting beaten to death, blown up and then crawling out of your own grave leaves you a little rattled in the head.”

Dick looks vaguely sick. “Jay, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t waste your time being sorry for me, dickhead!” Jason shouts. “I’m not the one you have to worry about! Red Hood’s the one who’s still living this. And as much as I want to lie and say I started with the best of intentions, like ninety percent of it was revenge.”

“On the Joker,” Dick says flatly.

“On the Joker, on Batman, on Tim and all the rest of you who forgot about me! Who replaced me!”

“Jason, we didn’t.”

“I know that now! But back then…”

Dick’s phone rings again. Which is weird considering Jason watched him put it on silent. Dick’s face hardens as he looks down and then answers. “Hey boss, remember how I said my source was real skittish and not a huge fan of bat ears?”

Bruce. Jason tries to take a step back, but Dick reaches out and grabs his wrist, mouthing stay.

Jason rolls his eyes and wills his weird flicker thing to break Dick’s grip, but the universe doesn’t seem to work that way.

“You realize this micromanagement is why I skipped town on you, right? I’m about to talk with him. No, I’m not giving you a name. I thought you were running down Hood anyway.” Dick pinches the bridge of his nose with the hand not holding Jason. “Okay that sounds kinda bad but he’s dead… Fine. I can be there soon. Just let me finish up.”

Dick pockets the phone.

“Bruce?” Jason asks.

“Bruce,” Dick confirms. “He’s been going over Joker’s murder file. Apparently the GCPD found something near the scene. Think we might have gotten lucky on this. Sounds like it could have been pretty bad. B’s freaking out. He’s been trying to get a hold of Robin.”

Jason feels his stomach drop.

Dick continues, oblivious, “But Robin’s on the other side of the country.”

But that’s wrong.

Tim’s been in Jason’s safe house. He’d slept on the couch Dick is looking at the moment. He’s supposed to be safe back at the manor under Batman’s watchful eyes.

And Jason’s not supposed to exist anymore. 

“What did they find?”

“Looks like Joker was planning something big. One of the rooms at the carnival. There was a message. Red letters. Presumptive testing says in blood. It just says: Two dead birds.”

“What?”

“I know, right? Sounds like he was thinking about going after you again. And maybe either me or Robin.” Dick shrugs. “But we’re right here and Tim’s with the Titans, so it can wait. Do you still need me to get you out of town?”

“Tim’s not with the Titans,” Jason says around the panic building in his throat. “He’s been staying with me. I thought the location might be compromised, so I told him to get to the manor.”

Dick’s face hardens. “Batman hasn’t seen him.”

“That…” Jason swallows. “Sounds like a big problem.”

Chapter Text

Two dead birds.

Jason moves slowly through the safe house. Dick watches him from a couple paces back, cataloging the same signs that Jason takes in. The empty coffee mugs, the duffle bag worth of clothes tucked beside the couch.

The duffle bag’s half-full which doesn’t seem unusual considering how light Jason tends to travel. He finds the laptop tucked underneath one of couch cushions. Which isn’t a huge surprise if Tim was planning to come back.

“Looks like he cleared off on his own,” Jason says. “He’s the smart one, right? He’d never fall into one of the Joker’s traps.”

“He’s Robin,” Dick says, flipping through the duffle bag. “Same way you were. Same way I was. No way he comes to Gotham without the costume. Since it’s not in here, I’d bet money he’s wearing it right now.”

Jason scrubs a hand over his face. Because on a normal day, Tim in costume, Tim with a plan, can take on just about anything. “And Robin’s never been the best at impulse control.”

Dick rewards him with the faintest flicker of a smile. His phone is pressed to his ear, presumably trying to get an answer from Tim. “He’s got us looking out for him. He’ll be okay. Why did you need him to clear out?”

“I had a run in with Red Hood,” Jason says. “Tim contacted me via the helmet, which means there’s a fifty-fifty shot that Hood heard it, too.”

“You’d do that?” Dick asks. “Go after Tim?”

“Hood beat the shit out of him less than a week ago,” Jason says. “Did Tim really not tell you?”

“I’m in Bludhaven most of the time,” Dick says. “Out of the loop. Beating the shit out of him is one thing, but kidnapping?”

Jason presses his eyes shut. “Look in this time I’m a borderline supervillain. I would absolutely have kidnapped Tim. Maybe even done worse. I didn’t used to react well to seeing someone in my old costume.”

Dick nods once, and pulls out his phone. They’ve all been through phases where they avoid Batman, but it’s worth a try. Jason watches as Dick dials, his skin crawling. He thinks about Tim’s wide-eyed earnestness as he tried to pry information about Red Hood out of Jason. How to best approach, how to coax him back to the family.

And then the Joker’s ominous last laugh.

Two dead birds.

“He’s not picking up.”

“How common is that?” Jason pulls out the laptop and unfolds it. A password screen blinks up at him.

“He trained hearing stories about you.”

Jason winces. “Not common then.”

The first two attempts on the password fail. The third throws up a warning screen. Dick grabs the laptop and types in the code before handing it back. Jason pulls up the program Tim had written to track probable locations for the Joker, mentally cross referencing points along likely routes to the manor where he could have been headed off.

Of course that's assuming he was even headed for the manor.

There’s a good chance he’d gone for Red Hood instead.

“Hey, Red,” Dick says. “I’m thinking we might want to go to the big guy on this.”

“You’re probably right.” Jason sighs. “I could really use a look at crime scene.”

Dick lets out a quiet huff of laughter. “You and Tim sound just like him sometimes.”

“Work the case,” Jason mutters. Because anything after that is superfluous. Work the case, follow the plan. No room for panic, no room for worry. Even speed is a detriment, because if you move too fast you can miss something.  “Are they even going to let Batman on scene?”

“Considering the bat brand murder weapon, GCPD might be a little reluctant, but Gordon will sneak him in eventually. I’m sure he knows that half of Lower Gotham has a batarang collection. Might be easier for Nightwing to claim the room for a few minutes.”

Jason’s reaching for his helmet before Dick’s even finished.

He must have walked right past this on the way to the funhouse.

Jason’s honestly floored that he managed to miss it.

The scene is built into one of the tiny buildings that usually house ring toss or darts or one of the other equally inane carnival games. The prizes lining the wall are plushies. Oversized effigies of Batman, Superman and Wonder Woman. Robin. He even sees a Nightwing.

The front of the table had a quartet of water guns, meant to be aimed at a target which in turn made the colored birds on the wall move towards a finish line. Jason had snuck onto the boardwalk more than once as a kid, even scrounged up a few quarters to play. It was always a fight for the red and green marker.

For Robin.

Splashed up against the board in huge red letters, words mar the racetrack: Two dead birds.

The robin figure has been torn from the board, nowhere in sight. None of the other pieces are missing. He glances sideways. Nightwing is in costume instead of the civilians clothes he’d been wearing when he turned up at Jason’s safe house, frowning at the scene.

“Yeah,” Dick says. “I don’t like it either.”

“Anything on the blood?” Jason asks.

“Human,” Dick answers.

“DNA?”

“PCR,” Dick says apologetically. “Even skipping the backlog at the lab, it needs twelve to twenty-four hours for amplification.”

“ABO typing?” Jason asks. They must still be a couple years from incorporating chip technology for fast DNA analysis. Now that he thinks of it, increasing processing speed of blood at a crime scene was likely one of Tim’s pet projects.  “Is it Robin’s?”

Dick shakes his head. “B negative. Robin is AB positive. It’s not his blood.”

Jason’s breath comes a little easier. It’s also not Nightwing or Bruce who are both type O.

“Same type as you,” Dick observes. “You think Hood is involved?”

“I don’t see Joker getting the drop on any version of me ever again.” Jason’s teeth are on edge just thinking about it. “Besides, I had a run in with him the night before the incident. I don’t think he had the time.”

“Small mercies,” Dick says.

Jason presses his mouth shut, thankful that the helmet hides his expression.  He has no idea how much time he lost during his mad dash to the amusement park, but he’s not sure he wants to deal with his other self in addition to whatever the Joker managed to implement before he died. He takes a slow circle of the crime scene, assessing the way Bruce taught him. He notes the strokes of the blood on the wall. Made with fingers rather than a paint brush, which fit Joker’s hands on approach, but he would have still needed transport to the site. True Joker MO would have been to drag the body with him, but there’s no sign of drag marks or additional bleeding that suggest anything but a bucket of blood.

“You think we can test for additives?” he asks. “Heparin? Citrate?”

“I didn’t think of that.” Dick takes a step up, pulling a cotton swab and a plastic bag from one of his gauntlets. “Because this is a whole different ball game if the blood’s been processed.”

“It’s fresh,” a new voice says.

Dick doesn’t jump at the voice, but he does manage to convey a full body eye roll despite the lenses in his mask. “Okay, B. I know it’s your whole shtick but sliding out of dark places and saying the blood is fresh is why those rumors that Batman is a vampire never die.”

Jason’s entire body goes tense. He wants to laugh at Dick’s quip because the vampire Batman rumor was one of his all-time favorite gags back when he was Robin.

But he can’t do much by stare.

He’s avoided this for weeks, promising himself that he can fix everything without a confrontation. Because he’s already lived that confrontation and as unsatisfying as the entire run up to his endgame had felt at the time, this time around would be so much worse.

Batman advances toward him, his cape billowing out behind him. Dick steps in front of him before he makes it to Jason a hand out. “Remember, we talked about you crashing this particular crime scene.”

“Nightwing, get out of my way.”

“I know this is a crazy concept, but I have this under control. Me. Nightwing.”

“Red Hood is a murderer,” Batman growls. “He’s dangerous.”

“Batman,” Dick says. “This is not what it looks like.”

Batman shoves Dick aside. Jason should be gearing up for a fight, but faced with Batman looking like this, with Bruce—his dad—rounding on him in anger and suspicion, Jason can’t make himself move.

But then the fury slowly flushes from Batman’s frame. “That’s not the Red Hood.”

“Fuck you,” Jason snaps reflexively. “You don’t get to label me.”

Because if he’s not the Red Hood and he’s definitely not Robin, all that leaves is Jason Todd. Except he’s pretty sure Jason Todd died at age fifteen in an exploding warehouse and the thing that came back…

He hasn’t felt like Jason in a long time.

“Okay,” Dick says, “In that case, maybe it is what it looks like. Remember when I said I had a source?”

Only Batman is ignoring Nightwing now, in favor of focusing his energy on a new potential threat.

“Ease up, B. Red’s been feeding me information about the drug trade in Bludhaven. Thought he might have some idea about the Joker.”

“Why wear Red Hood’s costume?”

Jason draws himself up for a speech, but Dick cuts in instead. “Turns out that there’s a pretty good argument for taking over the drug trade to control crime. Hood might not be quite as rotten as he looks on the surface.”

For just a second, there’s a flicker of Bruce on Batman’s face, hope.

And it’s not like Red Hood can try to force Batman to murder the Joker anymore. Maybe that makes it easier to stop fighting. Maybe it makes it easier for Bruce to talk Red Hood down.

Not that any of that matters with Robin missing and a Joker display looming over the three of them.

“Can we maybe stay on topic?” Jason gestures to the crime scene. “Because if this really is the Joker’s last laugh, you might want to be watching your birds instead of me.”

Batman looks to Nightwing. “Any word from Robin?”

Dick shakes his head. “Still dark.”

“Last known location?”

“Gotham,” Jason cuts in. “About two blocks south of Crime Alley.”

Batman’s focus narrows to him. “And why would you know that?”

“Because I saw him,” Jason says. Not quite the truth, but not a lie either. “He’s dressed like a traffic light. He’s not inconspicuous.”

“And why should I trust you? You’re wearing the costume of a man who’s murdered several dozen people over the past month. How do I know you aren’t the one who painted this? Or the one who murdered Joker?”

“I don’t have to take this. I’ve got my own lead to chase. Nightwing, I’ll call you if anything pans out. And Batman...” Jason’s vision is whiting out on the edges. He can’t tell if it’s the timeline trying to correct an aberration or just his slow burning rage. He jabs a finger in Bruce’s direction. “This bullshit about who killed Joker doesn’t matter. What matters right now is finding Robin before you lose him like you lost the last one.”

For a second Jason thinks Bruce might take a swing at him, even with Nightwing literally grabbing his cape to keep him tethered. In the end he reigns himself in and growls, “Was it you? Did you kill the Joker?”

“If I did—” Jason pulls out his grappling gun and takes aim, knowing full well that Batman will take this as a confession.  “—I deserve a goddamn medal.”

Chapter Text

Work the case.

Push all the emotion aside. Put Tim’s life aside. Panic gets you nowhere. But following the threads of a case? That gets you to answers.

Jason’s never been the best at this part of the job.  He’s always understood it, but his emotions are huge, wild things and he’s always had a tendency towards the dramatic.  But he closes his eyes and tries to pull from Bruce’s old compartmentalization lessons, pushing Tim, Red Hood and Joker’s last laugh into the realm of casework.

Because despite the intimidation techniques, despite all the fights, what Batman really trained them all to be were detectives.

It’s still another few hours before Batman’s DNA profile is readable and in the meantime he’s likely to focus on Joker himself. But Jason doesn’t have to multitask. He’s focused on finding Tim.

So… if ABO typing means the blood’s not Tim’s or Dick’s and the time window makes it unlikely to be Red Hood’s, whose blood is it?

He digs Tim’s laptop out of depths of his couch and uses the same set of keystrokes he’d seen Dick use when he’d unlocked it. That gets him into the browser, but unfortunately the session with the cave’s credentials has expired.

He pecks in the same password, but either Tim’s too security conscious to use duplicates or he’s been locked out of the Batcave computers until he’s been found and found uncompromised. Jason has other ways to get to what he needs, but hacking the GCPD takes time and the missing persons database is likely to be less complete than Bruce’s.

He tries Dick’s credentials next, which also bounce back an error. Alfred must have finally forced him to change his standby password. He’ll cycle back to it in a few years, but for now, Jason doesn’t have a clue.

On a whim he types in his old login. The one he’d used back when he was Robin. The one he’s always pretended to have forgotten.

And then he’s in the system.

Jason blinks at the screen in surprise.

Batman knows he’s alive. Knows he’s the Red Hood and he still has access? That’s an oversight for sure. Except Batman doesn’t make those kind of oversights.

Before he can second guess it, he pulls up the databases he needs. He limits the search to new missing persons reports that came in between the fight with Red Hood at the carnival and when the Joker had died.

Seventy names. Christ, Gotham has a problem.

He skims the list, wishing there was a quicker way to sort through blood types that wasn’t just click on a name and hope for medical records. This many names and…

He stops. Scrolls up.

Sorts alphabetically by first name.

Since Dick first started appearing in the short pants, Robin has been one of the top five baby names in Gotham girl or guy. So it’s not actually surprising that there are two Robins and a Robyn on the list of missing people. All things considered, the names might be a coincidence.

But Jason’s intuition is screaming at him.

Robin Blake, age seven.

Robin Martinez, age twenty-two.

Robyn Wideman, age thirty. 

With his stomach in knots, he clicks on the file for Robin Blake. He sees just a blip of a face and then the file unwrites itself. “No!” Jason says. “No, no, no!”

He bashes his palm against the side of the monitor.  

The computer beeps at him, the light next to the webcam powering on.

“Master Jason,” says a familiar voice.

“Alfie?” Jason asks. “What are you doing?”

“I’m afraid I’m the response where someone breaches the Batcave computer.”

“I didn’t break in.” The protest is habitual, like he’s twelve years old again, stashing silverware in case he needed to get out of dodge. “My credentials.”

“Your credentials are the only chance I had to talk with you. And I must say, Master Jason, I very much want to talk. Words cannot express how much I have missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too, Alfie.” More than he wants to admit. If Red Hood had made this call years ago, there’s a chance…

“Come home, Master Jason. Let us help you.”

Jason’s throat feels tight.

...A chance this all would have turned out differently.

“I’m not... I’m not the Jason you know, Alfred. I would love to come home, but I can’t right now. The Joker’s dead but somehow he still has Robin. And if you don’t get me access, Robin will be the one to pay.”

“I can give you any access you wish, but only under direct supervision. Master Bruce has told me stories of your exploits and I will not do something that could endanger the wellbeing of any of my charges. And that includes young Master Timothy.”

“Alfred, I’m trying to find Tim. I’m trying to—“

The screen goes black. Alfred’s voice gone along with the information he needs. The information that could get him to Tim. He seizes a fistful of his hair with either hand, trying to think. Three names on the list. Three chances if his hunch is correct. He grabs his helmet.

Gotham’s still in the era of the phone book which means his luck could be worse. He finds the closest payphone and flips through the phone book, dodging through missing pages and questionable stains.

He can’t find the name Robin Blake. But since he’s a minor, he wouldn’t be listed. There are dozens of other Blakes in the city, but the knowledge that most child abductions are members of the family means that Jason can pass over his name with only minimal twinges of guilt.

The last name, Robyn Wideman, is either unlisted or on one of the missing pages.

Which just leaves one person.

Robin Martinez has an apartment on one of the streets undergoing a reclamation project. It’s decidedly mixed income, section eight housing on one side with a ritzy apartment complex across the street and a second in construction to its left. The street is a bizarre mix of thrift shops and theaters. In a few years, it’s going to be one of the more desirable areas of the city.

Martinez is in the luxury apartment complex. It’s not gated or anything, but there’s a passcode the residents have to enter at the door before it unlocks. Jason can hack it without issue, but instead he tugs his helmet off, shoves the domino mask into his pocket, zips up his jacket to hide the body armor and walks right in after a young woman who is holding groceries. From there it’s a quick four flights of stairs to the top level where Martinez’s apartment, number 404 is on the far end of the hall. Jason makes his way there slowly, checking up and down to see if there was anyone out watching.

The deadbolt isn’t set, just the latch on the doorknob which is easy to deal with if you know what you’re doing. And Jason’s lock picking talents predate even his time with Batman. He has it unlocked in less than twenty seconds.

He pushes the door open and puts his helmet back on so that he can record the scene. Inside, Jason doesn’t immediately see any signs of struggle. There’s a stack of mail on the kitchen table, unopened bills. On the couch is a discarded jacket. On the coffee table, a pair of pizza boxes and a half dozen empty beer bottles. He moves to the kitchen, noting the blinking green numbers on the stove. Power outage thirteen hours ago. He opens the fridge. The milk isn’t expired yet, though there are a few cartons of leftovers in the back that look like they might be gaining sentience. He closes the fridge, frowning. No wallet or keys anywhere in the open.

If Martinez was abducted, odds are good that it didn’t happen at the apartment.

Long shot anyway. If Joker was really making a point, odds are good he’d grabbed the missing seven year old. The one who’s young enough that he was likely named after Robin. He hadn’t really wanted to consider it since statistics point to parental abduction in nearly all missing children’s cases and judging from the amount of blood on the scene, Jason doubts Joker’s victim is still alive.

That’s on him.

This didn’t happen in the timeline he knows. The Joker may be dead, but anyone he killed in those scant hours of freedom are on Jason’s conscience.

He walks down the narrow hallway with only a brief glance at the empty bathroom to the closed door that has to be a bedroom. He doesn’t particularly want to see the state of the place, but Batman trained him to be thorough even as he’s mentally cataloging all the things he needs to find Robin Blake.

It’s unforgivably sloppy, but when he’s reaching for the doorknob, he’s already scrolling through potential locations in his head, painting himself horror stories about the missing kid named Robin, wondering how long he has before Batman touches base with Alfred and starts back on his trail.

He doesn’t notice something’s wrong until he hears a faint click and then Tim’s voice, loud and panicked, “Stop! Whatever you do, don’t move!”

Jason looks down.

There’s a seam in the carpet that betrays the fact that it’s been partially torn up. The difference between this step and the last tells him he’s tripped a pressure switch.

“Robin?” he asks.

A moment of quiet before Tim says, “Red Hood? Is that you?”

Alive. Despite the situation Jason feels some of the anxiety loosen in his gut. Robin Martinez might be dead, but Robin—Tim—is right here, on the other side of the door. “Yeah, it’s me. What’s the status?”

“Which you?” Tim asks. His voice is slightly slurred. Jason hadn’t ruled out linger effects of a concussion when he’d seen Tim at his safe house and whatever the Joker did to capture him can't be helping.

“The saner one,” Jason says. “I need you to tell me your status.”

“Tied to a chair,” Tim recites. “Would have broken myself out, except, well, I’m not in great shape and there are a lot of explosives in here. Whatever you just did started a countdown.”

Jason closes his eyes, trying to shake the sudden vision of a different warehouse, a literal lifetime before. “Think I tripped a pressure switch,” Jason admits. “I should have caught it, but I wasn’t looking. I’d already cleared the rest of the apartment. I didn’t think you were here. How long do you have?”

“Thirty minutes,” Tim says. “It’s my fault. I was heading towards the manor when I saw the note about the missing person’s case. Robin Martinez. Between Hood and Joker, I had to follow that hunch when I heard the name. I tripped a gas canister. My rebreather’s still at your place. Before I could react, got my ankles cut out. Left leg has a compound fracture. So does my right wrist. Suspect a few other injuries, but the gas meant I blacked out pretty quick.”

“You should have called for backup,” Jason says.

“Tried when I woke up,” Tim says. “I think Joker set off a localized EMP. My system’s fried. Passed out trying to get the lock picks out of my belt. Knew someone would tag me missing eventually and at the time, the timers for the bombs weren’t armed. Decided to hedge my bets. Figured Joker would want an audience before he did anything to me.”

Jason opens his eyes. “Joker’s dead.”

A long pause. “Batman?”

“Working that case when he should really drop it and focus on you.”

“As far as he’s concerned they’re the same case.”  Tim’s cough sounds wet. “Twenty-eight minutes on the countdown. I can’t tell for sure, but looks like there might be a pressure component on my end as well. Closed the circuit and if I had to guess, I’d say either one of us stepping off the switch will trigger the explosives and take out half the block.”

“Bang,” Jason says to himself. “Two dead birds.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Tim snaps. “We’ve got time.”

Jason’s made it a point to get good at explosives since he crawled his way back from the grave. He bends down carefully and tries to pry up the piece of cut carpet to look at the mechanism. Twenty-seven minutes is enough for him to disarm even the most complicated bombs.

When it takes him two tries to even grab the edges of the carpet, an entirely different problem occurs to him.

“Robin?” The helmet’s vocal modifiers iron out the waver in his voice. “Robin, you remember my thing with the timeline?”

“Oh,” Tim says softly. “Oh shit. Are you flickering?”

Jason sits down hard on the carpet, staring at his hands. “I’ve been flickering on and off since I got here, Robin. I don’t know if it’s something I can control.”

“It’s all right, Red,” Tim says. “Twenty-six minutes. You can make it. We can both make it.”

With shaking hands Jason switches on the GPS tracker Oracle gifted him as part of his tentative truce with the rest of the family and pulls up an open channel. “This is Red Hood to all points. Request immediate assistance, including bomb disposal, at my location.” He takes a deep breath. “I found Robin.”

Chapter Text

“You there, Red?” Tim says through the door. “Status update?”

Jason wishes he could see the kid, but instead there is just the claustrophobic hallway and the mechanism that he’s slowly exposed under the carpet. He can already tell there’s nothing he can do from this side of the door. On the other side, Tim has enough by way of broken bones that trying to get himself loose likely means blacking out from pain.

“Unlikely I’ll be able to disarm it from my end,” Jason says. “How long?”

“Twenty-two minutes,” Tim says. He’s sounded more and more coherent the longer they talk, but he hasn’t actively been trying to slip his bounds. “I don’t think I can do a full assessment on my end unless I get my hands free.”

“That doesn’t sound fun.”

Tim gives a dry laugh. “I think I’ll break the thumb on my good hand. The other wrist already has too much damage for delicate work.”

Tim’s pragmatic in all the same ways Bruce is and more fluid with his planning. He’s probably calculated the precise time he can expect to be unconscious or incoherent from pain. He’s right to do it early in the countdown. That gives him enough time to swallow back the pain and refocus before their time is up. Jason doubts he’d have been able to make the same assessment at that age.

He wonders if that’s Tim thing.

Or if it’s what Batman started teaching Robins after Jason died.

“Nightwing will be here soon even if Batman figures it’s a trap. Help’s coming.”

“I know, Red.” He hears steel in Tim’s voice. “I’m doing it anyway. Three, two, one.”

There’s a faint crack followed by a cry of pain. Then the other side of the door goes quiet.

“Robin!” Jason shouts. “Robin! Report!”

Nothing.

Jason looks back down at the wires crisscrossing under the carpet. Without eyes on the explosives, it’s impossible to tell if trimming the leads will trigger the payload. The hallway is bare of furniture, not even a potted plant he could try to use to replace his weight on the pressure pad Indiana Jones style. Just gray walls and framed posters of bands Jason’s pretty sure stopped being cool long before he’d died.

He clicks back to the open channel. “This is Red Hood,” he repeats. “Request immediate assistance at my location. Or for fuck’s sake evacuate the block if you can’t manage that.”

As if on cue, the fire alarm goes off. It’s not loud where they are, but if Jason had to guess, the EMP that knocked out Robin’s coms likely got the fire suppression unit, too. He can hear a commotion in the hallway and knows that the steady stream of people into the streets will ease the way for vigilante access.

“Told you, Robin,” Jason says. “Help’s on the way.”

Twenty seconds after the fire alarm goes off, the door to Robin Martinez’s apartment opens.

“Back here!” Jason shouts.

He’s hoping for Nightwing, but expecting Batman.

Red Hood rounds the corner.

Shit.

Jason stands up, careful to keep his weight on the pressure pad.

He hears a faint rustling on the other side of the door and then, barely audible, Tim’s voice saying, “Red?”

“Red Hood,” Jason says, both a greeting for his past self and a warning to Tim.

“Should be more careful about when you share your information. Turns out anyone could be listening.” Red Hood has his gun drawn. “Glad I was listening. Because I swear I already did this.”

“Calm down,” Jason says. “This isn’t anything to do with your vendetta. This is a kid. A stupid, reckless kid who fell into a Joker’s trap. It’s not his fault.”

Silence, through the door, but that’s probably just because Tim’s annoyance tends to be more visual than verbal. Every Robin, from Dick right on down to Damian has been a stupid, reckless kid.

“It wasn’t my fault either.” Red Hood’s gun is steady, trained center of mass.

“That’s because it was Joker’s fault,” Jason says. “And Joker’s dead.”

“Avenged,” Red Hood says. “I heard all about the little scene Batman found. Two dead birds. And now the Joker is dead. Funny how the last one didn’t garner that kind of retaliation. How he didn’t matter.”

“Batman didn’t kill the Joker.” Jason looks up at him in surprise. “And Robin’s still alive.”

“If Batman didn’t, then who?”

Jason doesn’t answer. If Red Hood can’t figure it out, Red Hood’s an idiot.

The moment Red Hood makes the connection, his trigger finger tenses.

“You really going to shoot me?” Jason thought he was better than this. He wants… he wants to have been better than this. “Because I took out that festering piece of garbage when all you did was talk about it? Go ahead. I won’t move.”

“Robin…” Red Hood starts.

“Robin’s here, actually,” Jason says. “Other side of the door with a whole lot of explosives. Courtesy of the Joker. Sound familiar?”

“Joker’s dead and Robin’s still trapped.” Red Hood takes another step. “He’s probably waiting for Batman to save him. Wonder what Batman will think when he finds out he’s too late again. Seems like all he ever does is fail his birds.”

“Tell him Batman tried to save him,” Tim whispers through the door. “Tell him Batman broke the last time Robin died—”

“Shut up, Rob,” Jason growls and then he raises his voice so Red Hood can hear him. “This isn’t Batman’s failure. Not anymore. As soon as you walked through this door, this became your problem.  And I know you. You won’t let Robin die.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Jason knows as soon as the words leave his mouth.

He feels the bullet hit him before the crack of the gun catches up to his ears. He teeters back, but keeps his weight on the pressure pad through sheer force of will. From the other room, he hears Tim shout, “JAY!”

“Kid should know better than to try reason with me,” Red Hood says. “Especially after the last time I ran into him.”

Jason curls in on himself, hand pressed against the gap in his armor. It hadn’t been nearly enough to stop the armor piercing rounds Red Hood is using to try and take down the Bat.

“Honestly…” Red Hood steps forward. “You should know better, too.”

Jason can feel the blood seeping through the gaps in his fingers, a little more with every heartbeat. Chest shot. No miracle this time.

Except this might be the best case scenario. If he flickers again, they’re all dead.

“Joker.” Jason’s voice is garbled. He has blood in his mouth. He hasn’t been hurt this badly since… since he died. “Joker did this. Robin’s on the other side of the wall. There’s pressure switches. I’m on one, Robin’s on the other. Good chance that the whole building blows if we move. B has nothing to do with this.”

“I can’t believe he managed to lure another sucker into his crusade.” Red Hood’s helmet invades his vision. Jason hadn’t realized he’d fallen, but Red Hood’s looming at an angle that has to mean he’s no longer standing. “Where did Batman even find you?”

Jason doesn’t answer, but he also doesn’t fight as Red Hood reaches up to undo the latch on his helmet, disengaging the security measures as he tugs it off.

He hadn’t bothered with the domino under the mask today, not when Dick already knew who he was and his plans for existing in the past expired when the Joker did.

Red Hood steps back. Jason lets go of his grip on his bullet wound in favor of curling a hand on his double’s ankle.

“You’re…” Red Hood starts.

“Ghost of the futures yet to come,” Jason spits. “S’not like I’ve been hiding it.”

“What happens?” Red Hood asks. And Jason can recognize the urgency in the pace of words even if the modulator in the helmet masks everything else.  “If you’re from the future, you know how this ends.”

Jason sputters out a laugh. It leaves a mist of blood on Hood’s helmet, almost invisible against the red. “Think I’d be here if I knew how it ended?”

“You changed things,” Red Hood realizes in a rush. He reaches up and unhooks his own helmet, as if untrusting of any filtered reality. “Wait, that means… the first time, did it work? Did you get your answers? Did Bruce kill the bastard?”

“I killed the Joker,” Jason says. His grip on the Red Hood’s hand is loosening, blood slicking through the gloves. “You couldn’t. Batman couldn’t. So I did it.”

He might have showed his hand to Dick and Tim, but Red Hood doesn’t need to know just how badly Batman betrayed him that night. Jason’s never truly forgiven Bruce for leaving him in an exploding warehouse, after slitting his throat instead of shooting the Joker. Though he’s reached the point where he understands Bruce’s moral line in the sand, he’s never reconciled that disastrous confrontation.

Jason will spare himself that knowledge. Spare Bruce that knowledge. Joker’s dead. None of it will happen.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” Red Hood demands. He seizes Jason by the jacket. His green tinged eyes are wide with panic. “What happens now?”

“Save him!” Tim shouts through the wall.

Jason appreciates the sentiment, really he does, but he doesn’t belong here.

“I’m not part of the equation,” Jason says. His voice is a whisper, so much that Red Hood needs to lean in close to listen. Jason can feel his weight settle on the pressure pad. “This is still the Joker’s plan. What he always wanted. Two dead birds.”

And no matter how much he’s always wanted to deny it, Jason’s never stopped being a bird.

He can hear a commotion in the distance. Red Hood’s head snaps towards the sound.

Jason grabs for his arm again, but his hand goes straight through Red Hood’s jacket. He can’t feel the wound in his chest anymore and he’s not sure that’s a good thing. Red Hood’s attention swivels back to him, eyes widening.  

The world is fuzzy on the edges. The gush of blood around his stomach appears to be spreading. Jason’s not sure of if he’s dying or flickering or some horrific combination of the two.  

“Batman’s coming,” Red Hood says, tensing like he wants to run.

“Stay,” Jason pleads.

“How long?” Red Hood asks.

“Eleven minutes,” Tim supplies from the other side of the door. “I’ve heard blowing up is not the best way to go.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Jason quips.

Or it could be the Red Hood. Jason can’t tell anymore. His mouth doesn’t seem to be working.

Maybe it doesn’t matter. In the end, they’re the same angry, dead boy, trying to make things right.

From what sounds like a thousand miles away, he hears the door to Robin Martinez’s apartment burst open.

Red Hood turns.

“Batman,” he says.

Jason doesn’t hear anything after that.

Chapter Text

Jason wakes up in darkness without a gaping hole in his side. It takes a few minutes for his eyes to adjust. He wraps his arms tight to his chest, as a cold wind tries to bite through him. He takes a few steps towards the edge of the building seeking the familiarity of the street corners.

It takes him a few minutes to realize what’s wrong. The city’s definitely Gotham, and more than that, it still feels like his Gotham. It has the right smell and the right texture, except… The diner on the corner—the one that would isolate their leftover food from the rest of the trash in the alley so the homeless kids could grab it—closed when Jason was ten. And the Wayne Enterprises sponsored shelter hadn’t opened until well after Bruce and Jason started talking again.  His favorite gargoyle is on southeast side of the building rather than the north.

It’s also occupied.

The figure wears an outfit Jason doesn’t recognize. It’s similar to Nightwing’s costume; spandex in a dark blue rather than a black, a dark gray belt that had to be stashed with any gadget possible. He looks up, face masked by a domino and says, “In case you haven’t picked up on it, I’m pretty sure we’re dreaming.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “What do they call you? Knockoff Nightwing?”

“Blue Jay,” he corrects. “Jay for short. It’s been a while since I was Nightwing. We all played musical costumes when Batman was gone.”

Looking past the costume, Jason sees what he’d missed before. Jay has the same build as him, the same hair color. He looks… less worn than Jason does even if he’d bet they were the same age.

Jay watches Jason’s assessment with faint amusement. “You know, Wally warned me you might show up. Something about a time remnant being tethered to the point of divergence. I’m pretty sure I’d have gotten zapped last night without someone watching my back.”

Like what happened to Jason all those weeks ago. He’d never seen the attack, just woken up years in the past. He wonders if anyone even bothered to look for him. He’d never been good about checking in. His throat tightens. “You’re not Red Hood anymore.”

“I’m still Red Hood,” Jay says. “But Red Hood can’t really keep a hold on the drug trade if it gets out he’s fighting crime on the side.

“Batman went for that?”

“Nightwing backed me up.” Jason can read something just short of awe in Jay’s face. “Told Batman that he could go after me but only if he could prove the other cartels wouldn’t be worse.”

“That’s…” Jason shakes his head. “Look, no offense, but all of this because the Joker died? You didn’t exactly seem like you were ready to listen that night.”

Jay’s face darkens. If he could see the eyes, Jason suspects there would be a tinge of the Lazarus Pit still there, but it’s wrested back quickly. “Joker’s still out there.”

“He’s dead,” Jason says. “I killed him.”

“Yeah, I killed one, too.” Jay lets out a huff of annoyance. “Two, actually if you want to get technical, but another one of those fuckers keep crawling to the surface. Eventually I didn’t bother going after them. Wasn’t worth another stint in Arkham.”

“If killing Joker didn’t matter… what actually happened that night? What changed?”

Jay swings himself up to the rooftop, standing toe to toe with Jason. “Batman crashed in a couple seconds after you flickered out. Between him and Nightwing, they got the bomb diffused. Kept me locked up in the Batcave for almost two days after the incident trying to figure out what to do with me.”

“Jesus, that sounds like Bruce. I’m surprised you didn’t shoot him.”

“I thought about it,” Jay admits. “Trust me, it’s about all I thought about. Then Dickie snuck in one night and offered to smuggle me out of town. Way easier than breaking out of the cave on my own. Still considered doubling back to Gotham to wipe Bruce and the rest of them off of the map.”

“What stopped you?” Jason asks.

“Probably the same thing that stopped you.” Jay huffs out a sigh. “I killed someone who didn’t deserve it. It’s kind of a wake-up call.”

Jason scrunches up his nose in confusion. His particular breaking point had come years later, and in retrospect he’d been able to see how the line for his kills had been moving for years. He’d cut back after that. Started to respond with assistance when he heard distress over the batchatter rather than use it as a means for attack or avoidance. His path back had been glacial—still isn’t finished—but at the time of Red Hood’s rampage, he’d only ever killed rapists, dealers and murderers.

When he meets Jay’s eyes again, the other man seems amused. “I’m sorry about that, by the way. You definitely didn’t deserve it.”

Jason blinks. “I kicked your ass.”

“I shot you point blank,” Jay says. “Twice. And if you were a bad guy, so was I. And if you weren’t…”

“My head hurts,” Jason says.

“Yeah, well, I guess I had a few extra years to get used to it. Tim filled me in on a lot of what happened when you woke up in the past. Tracked me down about six months after the incident and asked me if I wanted to go beat up some ninjas. Thought it was a really bizarre attempt at bonding until we ran across a mini Bruce in one of Ra’s al Ghul’s complexes.”

Jason huffs out a laugh. “Tim’s great at multitasking.”

“Tim’s an insufferable know-it-all with a God complex,” Jay says fondly. “But he’s probably the only reason I made it back to Gotham, so as far as brothers go, he’s definitely okay.”

And that’s the difference, isn’t it? Not the Joker’s death after all, but Tim refusing to believe Jason was a lost cause. Dick giving him the benefit of the doubt and smuggling him out of town instead of leaving him to Bruce’s mercy.

“It’s not perfect, you know,” Jay says. “I don’t think I’ve managed more than a day without a blow up fight with Batman. And I think Damian still bites.”

“Plus there’s the spandex,” Jason jokes, desperate to lighten the mood. “Never would have seen myself going that route.”

“Red Hood has the same height, build and fighting style if you remove the guns. The costume hides most of that.” Jay shrugs. “You’ll get used to it.”

“What?”

Jay glances around the scene, noting the odd shimmering on the edges. Jason can hear a steady beeping in the distance. After a second, he places it as an alarm clock.

“Don’t worry,” Jay says. “This isn’t the flickering or anything like that. We’re waking up.”

“Both of us?” Jason asks, almost afraid to hope.

Jay extends a hand. “Let’s find out.”