Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time Dick had called, Jason picked up only because he didn’t recognize the number. It would have been insane for a Bat to call the Red Hood on his personal cell for any reason, even to let him know they had found him. Not with everything flying between them. When Dick’s voice came through the speaker, asking him to coffee the following morning like he hadn’t tried to kill their father and filled a duffel bag full of heads a scant six months ago, he’d been flabbergasted. He’d listened on autopilot, too stunned to hang up, even if he couldn’t quite make out what Dick was saying over the voices clawing at the corners of his mind. He’d answered mechanically and hung up when Dick had and thought that would be the end of it. He did not expect to find his feet taking him automatically to the coffee shop Dick had named fifteen minutes after the scheduled meeting time. Dick had been there, grinning, looking like the fucking sun opening up after the rain. Jason had sat across from him for an hour that day, clutching the coffee Dick had ordered for him without drinking a sip, his eyes solid green and swirling and wide with disbelief. The second time Dick had called, Jason picked up to snarl look, motherfucker, you need to leave me the fuck alone and stop trying to do whatever this is, and slam the end call button. Instead, he’d opened his mouth to start, and Dick had started talking cheerfully about his day before he’d had the chance. He didn’t remember agreeing to coffee again, but he’d shown up anyway, dazed and stiff, unable to hear whatever Dick was yammering about over the voices in his head. 

Somehow, Dick convinced himself that Jason had agreed to come to the cafe again in a week, and, equally improbably, Jason continued to show up. For six months, he sat silent and barely blinking while Dick talked like nothing had changed, not asking questions or waiting for answers, just watching as the green faded from his eyes. It still hadn’t entirely left, but they were mostly blue the day Jason gruffly asked “how’s Babs? She finish college?” He was rewarded with a patented Grayson smile, the kind that warmed you up from the inside out, tendrils of love and adoration creeping up from every limb, and Jason shifted uncomfortably as he listened to the answer. It was the kind of look that made you feel like you were the only precious thing in the world, the kind of smile you got hungry for. He’d forgotten Dick could do that. 

After that Jason obediently met him twice a week, drank the coffee with milk and hazelnut syrup and cinnamon added, didn’t fight the conversation, texted when he couldn’t make it, had an hour long phone call with him every Sunday evening, and had an honest g-ddamn adult relationship with his brother. Dick kept him up to date on news from the Waynes--he heard about Bruce’s baby mama dropping off that little assassin brat before the newspapers ran with the story, and hadn’t that been a fun day; Talia hadn’t told him she’d fucked Bruce before she’d fucked him--and never talked about anything heavier than complaining about however Bruce had annoyed him that week. Jason told him how the Outlaws were doing and how much trouble they’d planned to get in about it. Jason even occasionally complained about Dick’s dating drama to the theater crew when they worked long hours. It was possibly the most unbelievable part of his life, taken in context. 

But now it had led to this.

He didn’t know what he was thinking. 

Or rather, he wasn’t thinking. Bruce used to say that to him a lot, that he never thought about anything he did for more than a few seconds at a time. Sometimes he said it with frustration in his voice, sometimes a sort of bone-deep amusement and fondness that warmed Jason down to his core. He’d teased, when Jason said he wanted to stop taking his ADHD meds because he didn’t like how foggy they made him feel, that he’d have to start leaving sticky note to-do lists everywhere on the walls and write reminders of what Jason was doing at any given moment because he’d never remember anything on his own and didn’t have enough sense of thought to spark a new direction. The memory burned. He’d been thinking about Bruce a lot lately. 

Whatever the case, this was a new low for him, this level of not-thinking. When Dick had called, he’d blown him off, and he should have kept doing that instead of subconsciously clearing his Wednesday evening, the way he’d cleared all his Tuesday and Friday mornings for the last year and a half. He needed to stop asking how high when Dick said jump, but Dick had that effect on people. Jason should have been immune to it by now, by all rights, but here he was, five minutes from the Cave’s back entrance. At least with Bruce being--dead, there was no fear of running into him and starting up any fights. And that was probably what this was about anyway. Maybe they were finally cracking open the guy’s will. Maybe he’d felt guilty and left Jason the Porsche. 

He could see the entrance to the Cave now, and couldn’t stop from tensing up as he passed into the tunnel. He was thinking now, a lot of things all at once, chiefly what was I thinking? And I don’t want to go back there. What if it looks the same as when I was fourteen and coming back from patrol? And what if it looks different? And once, flitting almost maniacally through his head, what if Bruce is down there after all and this is all just some elaborate trap? What do I do then? What would he feel?

The “garage” was on him almost in the time it took to blink, and he parked in an empty motorcycle slot beside a bike he’d seen his replacement riding around. After a long hesitation, he pulled the helmet off and left it on the seat, ruffling his hand through his black hair back into some sort of order. The domino came off next, stuffed into a pocket with a lighter and a swiss army knife. He pulled his gloves off slowly, one finger at a time, and pocketed the first one before he admitted to himself he was just stalling. He sighed and shoved the second glove in with the first, forcing himself to step into the elevator that led from the garage to the Cave. 

Entering the Cave was less like the punch to the gut Jason had been expecting and more like every ridge of his spine growing cold all at once. Bruce had been dead three months and Dick had spent two of them masquerading as Batman- long enough to make a few personal touches of his own. The homemade stickers-- made on Alfred’s label maker one rainy afternoon-- dubbing things “batchair” and “batcomputer” and “batcoffeemaker” had mostly been removed, but the ones connected to more permanent tools like the computer had been replaced with etched metal name plates. The batcomputer had gone through some serious upgrades. The training ring was larger. There were chunky alphabet letters on the specimen fridge, primary colors especially stark against stainless steel. Costumes he didn’t recognize filled out the wall of display cases, shoulder to shoulder with new batsuit designs. The comfortable looking green couch was new, as were the two ridiculously large bean bag chairs close by. And there was a collection of swords hanging on one wall that had to belong to the Wayne-Al Ghul kid who he’d been told was Robin now. 

Framed photos of various costumed kids in frankly impressive action shots that Jason didn’t recognize popped up in places you’d least expect them; on walls, propped up against computer equipment or hiding between experiments or on storage shelves. He saw several of his younger self and the new Robin, a few of Babs, more of the new Batgirl who he’d heard had made Penguin cry, one or two of Dick, both as Robin and Nightwing, and a blonde girl in purple he didn’t recognize. Some of Alfred in a domino. Some of Bruce, fully cowled, usually with someone else. Not a single shot of his replacement. 

He turned around a corner toward where he remembered the kitchenette being and fuck, there were some of him now around in full Red Hood leathers and helmet. One hung on the food fridge next to a picture of Nightwing someone had drawn a moustache onto. Underneath that was Jason’s old magnetic poetry set- with a few additions, if he wasn’t mistaken. There was an honest attempt at a poem toward the top that was only three lines long, some simplistic sentences as if someone was learning how to read in the middle, and toward the bottom someone had managed to push together the words blowing sick balls hot without being caught by Alfred. An uncomfortable knot began forming in Jason’s stomach and he turned away from the cave’s “living” space, edging back into the working area. The knot grew hard when he realized apart from some telltale mess that followed Dick everywhere he went, Jason couldn’t tell what changes Dick had made to cave in his stint as Batman so far and what Bruce may have done after he had gone. 

Except the memorial case. That had been Bruce. He’d known about it before , but he’d never seen it. And he never really would; it wasn’t his anymore. Dick had told him months back that Bruce had taken the original memorial- the shrine- down almost two years ago, a little after Jason had attacked him and the Joker, moving the still-faintly-bloodstained Robin costume into a different display case with Dick’s, and now the Replacement’s, outgrown suits and taking away the plaque. He didn’t know what it had said before. Now it read For Gotham, Everything . Jason stared at the words for what felt like a long time before swallowing and lifting his eyes to look over the spotless Batsuit Dick had entombed when they had no complete body to put to rest. He felt a brief, hot rush of something that rose up into his mouth in a wild laugh as a thought flashed into his head-- replaced by Bruce, again. 

Somehow it wasn’t as overwhelming as he’d feared it would be, even as his gut twisted and churned and his eyes grew curiously hot. He scrubbed his hand over his face with a shaky sigh and turned away from the memorial, confirming again that he was alone in the Cave. When Dick had called him asking him to come to a family meeting, there was an implication that it wasn’t mask business he wanted to discuss. Part of him wanted to hide in some dark corner of the cave somewhere and never come out, family meeting be damned. The rest was just as curious about the rest of the house, and if he went up now instead of waiting for Dick to fetch him, he could have some freedom to explore. It didn’t mean his feet didn’t feel heavy as lead as he walked toward the elevator that went up into Bruce’s study. 

Signs of life were harder to see in the study, likely because no one went in for much besides the entry into the basement since Bruce’s death. But they were there. In pictures, mostly, of Dick, of himself, of the replacement, of the new kid, of all the girls. There was a line of wallet sized school portraits on Bruce’s desk, all of them terrible except Dick’s, because of course Dick made being fifteen staring into the distance in front of a green mottled background look good, and the replacement, Timothy, who was the only one of the bunch who didn’t have at least one pimple on his face and had the same sort of polite-pleasant unoffensive smile on his face Jason had once seen Bruce practicing for a charity event. There was another bouquet of children smiling from the far wall, this time candids that looked slightly better, except Jason’s because he’d never taken a good picture as a kid, and the darker haired new girl, who had been captured seemingly in mid shout, delighted and bursting with energy, but clumsy and awkward. A large professional portrait of Bruce and Alfred together that Jason didn’t recognize hung with several other professional full-family portraits through the years--that would have to be recent, because Alfred looked so much older than Jason had remembered, even though it had only been a few years. His stomach clenched. Bruce’s desk was scattered with sticky notes full of half-formed thoughts in illegible handwriting, a little rubber duck with a sign around its neck that read for throwing <3 in curly feminine letters, a couple of stress balls it looked like people had given him as gag gifts that he’d kept, a pencil sketch of Dick with a dog that was actually quite good. The computer had been bought within the last year. The bookshelves were fuller than he remembered. There were dog toys in the corner, and a thin blanket-style dog bed against a wall near an armchair that had to be newish despite the well-worn look to it. 

It was strange, more than anything. It had been about five years since he snapped out of the initial Pit Madness, where he marked the beginning of his “new” life despite having been resurrected six or seven months before. In those five years, he’d held different images of Bruce in his head. The first was of a broken man, a grieving father--self-indulgent of him, perhaps, but he’d thought perhaps that his death must have affected Bruce in some visceral, horrible way. He couldn’t picture his father figure moving on because he couldn’t move on himself. When Talia had told him Bruce replaced him as Robin five months after his death--he wasn’t even out of the ground yet--he hadn’t believed her until he found the files himself. After that, he’d pictured Bruce’s grief as short, his perceived love as limited and false. Bruce had probably destroyed every trace of Jason left in the manor and found a better model as quickly as possible. He’d never really cared. 

Dick, in all those coffee conversations centered around anything but the elephant in the room, had still managed to imply that his death had shattered Bruce somehow, and picking up the pieces had been harder than expected. But he’d still moved forward. He had a whole family that Jason had been shut out of, so he couldn’t be missed or loved, not after all the people he had killed. Bruce’s one concrete rule cut him off from not just the Batman, but the whole extended Wayne family. Damian had killed before, sure, but he was an exception easily made because he was Bruce’s biological son, a child who hadn’t had the opportunity to know better with the League raising him. Jason had known better and he’d done it anyways. It was no surprise that no one wanted the Red Hood to cover their patrol, much less stop by for family dinner. 

But it was one thing to think it and another thing to see it. Especially when the frozen life he was seeing didn’t quite fit with the picture in his head. Bruce had moved on--but Jason was still everywhere. 

He wondered what had happened to his old room. 

Before he could change his mind, Jason left the study and turned right, feet moving with almost no direction on his part. Up a small staircase and with another right, count one, two, three doors--and he stopped. No one had taken down the band and show posters covering his door, or replaced the chalkboard sign that read Jason’s room--keep out! When he tried the handle, it opened easily without so much as a squeak. Oiled hinges meant a frequently opened door. His chest felt heavy, heart pounding. He closed the door behind him. 

He couldn’t say nothing had changed, because it had , and that was the thing that kicked his stomach up into his throat and had him rubbing his hands against hot, damp eyes again. One wall was covered in posters, still, nothing moved from the last time he was here--more band posters, some of plays he’d wanted to see, some of plays either Alfred or Bruce or both had taken him to. Those had playbills still pinned up underneath them, and a few literature posters he’d stolen from book fairs-- g-d he’d been such a nerd. Not that he could honestly say that had changed at all. 

His gameboy was still in his nightstand drawer, battery long dead. The go-bag under his bed hadn’t been touched, neither had the one under his desk or the one stashed in the hole he’d made in the wall behind a Magritte canvas print he’d been entranced by when he was thirteen. His bookshelves were still full, but the books were in the wrong order, and there were more than he remembered. Some titles he recognized--things Bruce had wanted him to read, but had never gotten around to getting and several serieses that Jason had loved that had continued after his death, shelved in order with their spines still uncracked. The books he’d been reading when he died were still stacked on his nightstand, but out of order and one the wrong side, and more worn, as if someone had read them repeatedly while he was gone. 

There were chairtracks in the carpet Jason recognized from the rocking chair that Bruce used to drag from his room to Dick’s when Dick stayed over--Bruce used to sit there and watch them sleep when he thought he could get away with it, but Jason had caught him out more than once. But the tracks should have faded by now. These were deep and fresh, though the chair was missing. The room was devoid of dust, the air fresh and even smelled faintly of cedarwood, of the little air freshener beads he’d always been fond of. The same scent he kept in the bedroom of his apartment now.

His room hadn’t been wholly preserved, not in the tomblike way he’d been expecting, but there was a sense of... respect. It didn’t feel abandoned or transformed, it felt like it had been held for him.

And here was the thing about grief--it snuck up on you and demanded to be felt, even when you didn’t really have a right to it anymore. Two years ago, Jason had wanted Bruce dead, had tried to make it happen, except maybe judging by how Bruce’s real death has made him so twisted up inside, he didn’t really want that as much as he’d just wanted to make the voices stop. Didn’t change the fact that he’d missed his chance ten times over. Bruce wasn’t his, and he certainly wasn’t Bruce’s. It didn’t matter that it hurt, bone-deep and hard. It was the way things were. And Jason Todd didn’t belong in any Wayne family meeting, whatever Dickhead said. 

He swallowed down the grief again and fled the room, intending to go right back down to the cave and leave the way he’d come. But crossing the hall toward the stairs put him directly in the path of the Al Ghul kid coming out of his own room with a Great Dane at his heels. He looked up at Jason and tensed, dipping his head and shoulders to lower his center of gravity--a fighting stance, not a bid to make himself less of a target. Jason hated that he could recognize that just from a little shift. 

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” the kid snapped, one hand making some kind of sign at the dog, who ducked his head and gave a performative growl, but didn’t seem very into it. 

Jason rolled his eyes--he hadn’t seen the kid in years, and even then it was mostly at a distance, and come to think of it he’d never been without the helmet when they ran into each other on patrol. “Relax, squirt,” he said, his mouth stretching around the words and taking the same dry, patient-but-not-condescending tone he did around the kids in the theater’s volunteer programs. “It’s me. The Hood. I was just leaving.” 

Damian frowned and narrowed his eyes, but lowered his hand. The dog stopped growling and nosed forward to request pets from the stranger. Jason offered a loosely closed fist for him to smell. “Why are you here? I was under the impression you didn’t come here.” 

“I don’t. Dick asked me over for some kind of meeting, but I’m not staying.” 

“Meeting?” Damian asked, his head tilting. “What kind of meeting?” 

“Shit, don’t ask me. I’m leavin’, alright? Some kinda family thing, I don’t think I’m welcome. 

The kid’s eyes narrowed further. He reached out to take the dog’s collar and pull him gently back from Jason. “...No, you need to stay,” he said slowly, a suspicious smile creeping across his face. It made him look his age. 

Jason eased back on his heels, leaning away without looking like he was trying to back off. “Why?” he asked bluntly. 

“If Grayson asked you to come for a family meeting, I have an idea of what it could be about, and your input would be vital.” 

Your input would be vital, Jesus, this kid. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. “You gonna fill me in on the secret?” 

Damian shook his head. “If you want to know, you’ll have to attend the meeting. I need to talk to Grayson, excuse me.” Urging the Great Dane on, he moved past Jason down the hall and turned left for the direction of the central staircase. 

Jason stared after the kid for a few seconds, which left him in earshot of him apparently meeting the replacement coming down the hall. He’d started to leave, but when he caught “Out of my way, Drake,” the contempt in the kid’s voice made him pause. 

“I’m not in the mood today, demon-spawn, I’ve got enough work to do,” Jason caught as he pressed himself against the wall and edged closer to listen. 

“Were I you, I’d find packing up a better use for my time,” Damian spat. 

“Who told you I was leaving?” 

“No one needed to tell me. I just assumed you realized you’d outstayed your welcome as well as outlived your usefulness. ” 

There was a long sigh. “Can you just leave me alone til Monday? I’m already leaving. You don’t have to be nasty about it.” 

“If you even hold out til Monday.” Jason wrinkled his nose at the smugness dripping from the words, and guessed by the jingle of the dog tags that Damian was on the move again. Another weary sigh echoed down the corridor. Jason lingered at his spot in the hall, listening for the moving of feet again to tell him which direction the replacement was going so he could avoid him. 

He heard nothing, though, which is why he was so surprised when Drake turned the corner and nearly ran into Jason. Jason startled and tried to disguise it as just him straightening up from a relaxed slouch. He probably didn’t have to bother with it, though, because as soon as Tim saw him, his eyes widened and he dropped his center of gravity, pulling his arms up defensively over his face. 

It was kinda funny, though it shouldn’t have been--Damian had reacted to Jason’s presence as though he was a potential threat, safe for the time being, but wary, cautious of his movements. Tim apparently saw Jason as an active threat, with Tim himself being the target. Jason snorted and pushed off the wall, moving lazily into Tim’s path, but holding up his hands. “Easy there, replacement. Wouldn’t wanna pull somethin’.” 

“What are you doing here?” Tim asked, all traces of weariness from his interaction with Damian gone, replaced with a tension in his voice so tight you could cut glass with it. 

Jason gave him a predatory smile. “Dick asked me over. Family meeting, he said. And since the big guy ain’t here to throw me out, figured I’d see what all the fuss was about.” 

That was a low blow, he’d admit, but Bruce’s death hurt where it shouldn’t have. The sight of Tim Drake strolling through the happiest home Jason had ever known like the place was his while Jason himself ached and ached and ached inside made him want to inflict that hurt on others. To his surprise, the kid didn’t even blink at the reminder. He just looked confused. “Family meeting? I haven’t heard anything about a family meeting.” 

“Is that really surprising?” Jason drawled, and that did get him a little flinch. Tim had a good poker face, but he wasn’t as good as Jason was. “Guess you don’t know what’s up then.” 

“Me, probably,” the kid said, and Jason only just managed not to blink in surprise. 

“You?” 

“If you’re not here to kill me, can you get out of my way?” Tim said, easing backward a step to shift out of Jason’s arm’s length despite the brave words. “I’m busy. I’ve got travel plans to finalize.” 

Jason eyed him up and down. “Going somewhere?” 

“Yes. Away.” 

He snorted, but gave it another beat before he shifted out of Tim’s way. The kid moved past him, heading down the hallway past several doors before slipping into what Jason remembered being a guest room, and didn’t relax a centimeter the whole way. 

If Jason were being completely honest with himself, he had to admit that his beef with Tim had mostly passed. Sure, it had passed from white-hot rage and betrayal about his place being taken with apparent ease into something orange and smoldering, but even that wasn’t as bad as it used to be. Especially with Bruce being-- dead, he had to get used to saying it in his head, Bruce was dead. There was no longer any reason to compete for a dead man’s attention, and he hadn’t really cared about Bruce’s attention anyway, not as the Hood. He didn’t want the kid dead anymore. And honestly-- he was a little embarrassed about jumping him the way he had. Maybe not the first time--he wouldn’t say the kid deserved it, but the situation couldn’t really be avoided--definitely the second and third and fourth times. Even though they hadn’t been as bad. Jason liked to think that he and Tim had come to a mutual understanding to live and let live.

If the meeting was about Tim, though, Jason wasn’t sure his opinion would really matter all that much. He didn’t know the kid all that well, outside the occasional pit-madness induced killer rage fights they’d gotten into and some of the background research he’d done. Rich kid, privileged, Bruce’s next door neighbor. World traveler by the age of twelve. Robin at eleven, just months after Jason’s death, and that must have been really convenient for Bruce, finding an acceptable source of pedo-bait so close to home. Sixteen now. His mom had died in a plane crash a year or three ago, and his dad had been confined to a wheelchair for a little while after that. He saw something in the news about Jack Drake getting jumped by somebody not that long ago, but he didn’t know any details. When Drake Industries risked bankruptcy, Bruce had apparently bought it out with some kind of merger cover and made the kid his business heir and put him on the board as a show of good faith, and the stock hadn’t tanked so Tim probably had some business acumen already. Only other things he knew about him was he fought like he’d been trained by professional martial artists but he didn’t have the bone-deep training from birth that Dick and Jason himself and Damian had. He wasn’t as good a fighter and he led with his left foot and his bones crunched in a very satisfying way. Whatever Dick wanted to talk about, Jason doubted this limited information would be any good. 

It didn’t matter. As much as he loved a good drama, it was better enjoyed when he wasn’t personally involved. He was leaving. 

He moved back down the stairs to the first floor and hung a right, heading back toward Bruce’s study. It was coming down to meeting time and he didn’t want to run into anyone coming in--although come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure who could be at the meeting, if the two under-twenties didn’t know about it. The one thing he didn’t plan on was--

“Alfred,” he breathed, coming to a dead halt as the manservant dropped his duster in shock. Two doors away from the study and his exit, and he knew he’d never get out now. 

Alfred stepped forward with one rubber-gloved hand out, as if Jason were some kind of skittish deer. “ Jason. ” 

He stopped moving almost as soon as he realized he was, letting the hand fall back to his side. Jason blinked at Alfred, his stomach folding itself into knots and untying them at rapid speed. His eyes burned, just a little, and his hands found the edge of his shirt, fiddling with the hem. “...Hi.” 

“Hello,” Alfred answered, empty hand opening and closing, his moustache twitching a little. The two stared at each other another few seconds. “...What is it--” 

“I didn’t m--” Jason started at the same time. They both fell silent. “I’m just here for--” 

“Is there anything I--” Alfred said over him, and they froze again, the words dropping between them like lead weights. 

A voice in Jason’s head whispered run, run, and the louder one cried out for blood again, as it always did when he was upset. Static crackled in his ears. “The meeting,” Jason burst, his eyes stinging. “Dick told me to come to the meeting.” 

“Ah, of course,” and finally there was someone else who knew what he was talking about. This was much easier with something to latch onto. “I’m...quite pleased you could make it.” 

“You have any clue what it’s about?” 

Alfred shook his head. “I do not. I presume it has something to do with the delay of Master Bruce’s will. While the general public is perfectly willing to declare him dead, legally it will be years before the will is heard. Master Dick got confirmation yesterday.” 

“Is that it?” Jason asked, raising an eyebrow. The will didn’t matter to him. Much as he joked to himself, there was no Porsche in his future. 

“It’s the only thing that comes to mind. Master Dick has been having some difficulty covering the legal side of things, since they can’t declare Bruce dead without a body, and they cannot use the body they recovered without connecting Bruce to his nighttime activities.” Alfred smiled a little. “The others are meeting in the dining room. Why don’t you wait for them there? I’ll get you something to eat.” 

“Oh, I’m not--” staying? Hungry? 

It didn’t matter what he was going to say, because Alfred wouldn’t let him finish. “Of course you are. Come along, Master Jason. Give me some time and I’ll see what I have in the kitchen.” 

Jason followed Alfred, feeling a little like a lost puppy trailing after him. “But what about the meeting?” 

Alfred waved a hand and led him toward the dining room. “You can catch me up if I’m a little late. Come on, you must be hungry.” 

He must, because no one said no to Alfred. This was fine, Jason thought as Alfred completely ignored the dazed look on his face and shooed him along when he lagged behind. He would just sit in the dining room until Alfred left for the kitchen, wait a minute, and then leave the way he had come. Or through the front door, maybe, since it was now closer, or out a window if no other exit presented itself. He comforted himself with this brilliant plan while Alfred pulled out a chair for him at the empty table and offered him a glass of water, and left one anyway when Jason politely refused it. It would be so much easier if Jason could just be as mad at Alfred as he had been at Bruce, but grandfather-figures and father-figures were different things entirely, and Alfred had never resusicated the fucking Joker. 

Instead, he had to let himself be gently pushed in and offered other snacks or drinks like a dozen times before Alfred slipped away, promising a full meal in just a half hour’s time, if he would only wait a little longer. Jason stared at the surface of the table, much more nicked up and scratched than he remembered it being, his hands folded neatly in front of him, like he was twelve and waiting for Bruce to come home to guiltily offer him a report card with a C. He pushed his lips out and to the side as if he was thinking, before allowing himself to take in the dining room. This room was the first one in the manor that looked much the same as when he’d left it, except for some signs of wear and tear and an expensive looking coffee machine on a bar by the wall. More pictures of Bruce’s kids lined the walls, including the two girls Jason had never met and the replacement. Still a few of Jason, including, again, one recent candid he didn’t remember having taken. An empty hook he remembered hanging over the table now held a simple chandelier, and more chairs surrounded the table. He remembered another dining room, larger and much grander, dedicated to entertaining down another corridor, but this one a little closer to the kitchens, Bruce had always preferred using with family. 

Jason fixed his attention back on his hands, counting up the seconds with the ticking of the antique cuckoo clock on the wall behind him. Thirty or so more and he’d slip out. 

He’d counted up to fifteen when the doors to the dining room opened with a faint mechanical whirr. He had about a second to wonder when the manor had installed automatic doors when Barbara Gordon wheeled in with a laptop in her lap, and Jason got another punch to the gut. He’d spoken to Oracle a time or two, gotten updates from Dick, but seeing Batgirl in a wheelchair? 

She tilted her head down and peered at him sternly over the tops of glasses, and since when had Batgirl needed glasses, anyway? “Dick said you’d be here,” she said, moving toward him to set up the laptop, without a trace of disappointment or disbelief or disapproval in her voice. 

He grunted, not sure of what else to say. It felt--familiar, watching her boot up the computer and wait for it to load. He wondered if she still used the operating system she’d built when he was Robin. And also, shit, he couldn’t leave now. Someone else here for this meeting had seen him. He cast around a bit for something, anything-- “So,” he drawled, leaning back a little and unfolding his hands to look a little less like a schoolboy. “You and Dickbutt, you on again or off?” 

Babs snorted once, a corner of her mouth rising, and tapped in a password. “Off. Dick’s taking a break from relationships for a little while to focus on Bat things. And if he wasn’t, he’d likely be dating that woman from his office or that guy in the Titans, he’s been fucking them both periodically when he gets bored.”

“How long you expect that’ll last?” 

“What, him not dating? Until he starts getting over Bruce’s death, I guess.” She looked deeply sad for just a moment. It flickered across her face and was gone as soon as it had come. He would have missed it if he’d blinked. Hearing someone else say it twisted up Jason’s gut again, but the impact felt less somehow due to the bluntness in which she said it. He’d always liked that about Babs--how cold she could be. It had caused at least one of Babs and Dick’s breakups in the past, but Jason had always appreciated her honesty. You could trust what she said, without exception or fault. 

Didn’t mean she wasn’t any less fun to tease. “I meant when are you two gonna start hooking up again?” 

“Why does everyone assume I’ll take him back again?” 

“Cuz you keep doing it.” 

Babs scoffed and clicked an icon on the desktop, bringing up what looked like a camera program. In a few more clicks, he and Babs’ faces began swimming into focus on the screen. “What the fuck is that, ” he asked, side eyeing the computer like it was going to bite him. 

“Rudimentary video conference software,” she said, clicking a few more boxes. “Other companies have been working on it for a while. Managed to hack into one to steal their code and I’ve been improving on it ever since.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s illegal, I’m pretty sure.” 

“It’s not like I’m selling it. They’ll release it in a year or two when they work out the same kinks I did and make whatever they’re going to make.” She didn’t sound too upset about it, and he couldn’t help but smile. That was another thing he’d always liked about Barbara. 

Granted, he had no clue what she was doing with the program at first, but in a minute or two the thing was beeping something like a ringtone and a girl’s face appeared in the camera block on the screen. A familiar face, albeit just from the pictures he’d been seeing around the manor for the last half hour. Mixed race, Chinese and white if he were to guess, with short black hair bound back. She blinked at the computer and--it wasn’t a smile. Her mouth didn’t move. But her eyes narrowed and the corners lifted a little that reminded Jason of a smile. She waved at the camera and then made a “C” with one hand, moving it over the other--also familiar, although he wasn’t sure--was it the ASL sign for computer? Jason frowned, tilting his head to try to see better past Babs’ elbow. 

“Hi,” Babs said back to the girl. “Yeah, I can tell you’re getting better with the computer. You’re practicing your reading, right?”

The girl nodded and started to make another sign before dropping her hands. “Tim helps,” she said. She spoke slowly, enunciating clearly and seeming cautious. She tilted her head to mirror Jason and pointed at him, shifting her right shoulder down and backwards. 

Jason was sitting behind Barbara’s right side. Babs shot him a look as if she’d forgotten he was there. “This is Jason Todd. Jay, this is Cassandra Wayne.” Interesting. None of the other kids had taken the name Wayne, but he felt like he would have heard if she was another secret biological daughter. 

“ Cass, ” she said forcefully, her mouth forming a pinched frown in Babs’ direction. 

“New Batgirl?” Jason guessed, and suddenly Cass was leaning back, a look on her face like she’d licked a lemon, and Babs could have shot ice through her eyes. He held up his hands in a placating gesture, not even sure what he’d done to earn such ire. 

“She goes by Black Bat now,” Babs said coolly. It must not have been a friendly parting. “She’s living in Hong Kong now with a roommate ( Helper, Cass corrected in sign, but Babs didn’t note it), but Dick asked me to patch her into the meeting too.” 

Family, Cass signed, leaning forward again, and shot Jason a smile that spelled trouble. Brother. She pointed at him. 

Jason shook his head. “Ain’t your brother, kid.” 

“You know ASL?” Babs asked, turning away from the sheer delight crossing Cass’ face. 

Several kids in the theater’s programs used ASL and he had learned from them, for them, but he couldn’t say that. He settled for a flippant “What, like it’s hard?” that made Cass’ shoulders shake. Babs mouth grew angry for reasons Jason couldn’t fathom. “Was Bruce adopting a girl not worth the news? Don’t think I read about that one.” 

“Happened while you were still dead. And Bruce--tried to keep her out of the limelight as much as possible, all things considered.” 

Cass lifted her chin and peered down her long, thin nose at Barbara like some kind of imperial judge before tapping her throat. “Can’t make words go.” 

“You seem to be doing just fine to me.” 

Better now, she signed, the fuzzy image and lag of the video making the signing a little awkward, but still pretty readable. Not good. Better sign. Happy sign. 

“I hope you’re still practicing,” Babs said sternly. The frown deepened when Cass stuck her tongue out. 

She raised her hands again before Babs could say more. Family meeting. You, brother. Where birds? Where Alfred? At least, he had to assume her sign for a teapot done over her heart was what she called Alfred. 

“We’re the only ones here so far,” Babs told her at the same time Jason repeated “I’m not your brother.” 

This earned him an unimpressed look that made him feel vaguely scolded even through the screen. “Yes, too,” she said and signed in succession so fast he could barely keep up brotherbrotherbrother. Big brother. Angry brother. Gun brother. Brother away, me away, still sister, still brother.

Babs gave him a conciliatory shoulder pat when he opened his mouth to argue. “It’s a little different. And not the point. The others should be here soon.”

“Thought the under-eighteens weren’t allowed in.” 

Babs frowned at him a little. “If that was the case, why would he ask me to bring Cass in?” 

Jason shrugged. “Fuck if I know, Babs, what am I doing here?” 

“I don’t know. He just said it was important. He didn’t say what it was about.” 

“So who’re we waiting on? The blonde in purple? She showing up?” 

Cass’ face twisted, stricken and teary, while Babs grew cold again. Jason regretted blurting out the question and coming here and also being born. “Stephanie. Her name was Stephanie. And she’s not showing up because she’s dead.” 

“...What?” 

“She died in that gang war you started.” 

Well, fuck. Jason resisted the urge to crawl under the table and die. Why the hell was he here. “I…” 

Some god somewhere had mercy on him, albeit a sick, twisted sense of mercy, because Dick strode into the room before he could fuck anything else up. 

Dick...did not look good. Which may have been an understatement. Especially compared to the bubbly-energetic pictures of the original Boy Wonder and the manic-happy candids of adult Dick he’d been seeing lining the house for the last half hour, in the real life now Dick’s face was haggard. The bags under his eyes darkened into thick bruises, and an unhealthy looking sallow tone shone bright over his olive skin. He had wrinkles on his forehead. Wrinkles. And he was only twenty-five. Jason found himself looking for nonexistent streaks of grey in Dick’s hair, somehow sure he’d find it somewhere in the oily locks he usually preened over.

For just a moment, when he saw Jason, he stopped walking and smiled. Just a shadow of the usual patented Dick sunshine beam, but the wrinkles faded for a moment and his eyes brightened. “Jason,” he said quietly, like they were the only two in the room. “You’re here. I’m glad.” 

Even at just a fraction of its wattage, the look made Jason drop his eyes to the tabletop, his face hot, chest heavy with yearning to belong to the family he’d forfeited. “Was in the neighborhood,” he muttered, running a fingernail along one of the scratches in the wood tabletop. 

Dick looked around the table, nodding at Babs and blowing a kiss to Cass in response to the one she blew to him first. “Where’s Alfred?” 

“He said to start without him when I ran into him,” Jason said. 

“Ah. Probably off to kill the fatted calf for the prodigal son,” Babs said, pulling off her glasses to wipe the lenses with her shirt. Cass’ nose wrinkled in confusion on the screen beside her. No one explained the reference. 

Jason shot her a look. “Ain’t returning anywhere.” 

“I don’t think that matters to Alfred.” 

“Guys, please,” Dick cut in, all weariness returning. “We’re not here to pick fights with Jason.” 

Babs put her glasses back on and peered down at Dick through them. “Who’s picking fights? I’m just making an observation.” 

“Why are we here, anyway?” Jason spoke over her. 

Dick sighed and pulled out the chair at the head of the table. Not Bruce’s chair. No, when Jason was--was family, they sat in this room, at this table, but at the other end of the twelve feet of polished wood, huddled against the dark, uncaring city close enough to hear each other stage whispering together. Alfred could sometimes be persuaded to sit with them, a wry smile on his face, widening with the way Dick would beam and Bruce’s eyes would smile and Jason would elbow him gently and beg for extra dessert. When Commissioner Gordon and Barbara came over twice a month, Gordon would sit on Bruce’s right and Babs would sit on the other side of Dick, and those two would get progressively queasier while Bruce teased the details of murders out of Gordon and Gordon, hardened to the city, would thoughtlessly reply between bites of mashed potatoes and roast beef. Jay himself would listen, rapt, occasionally shooting little inside laughing glances at Bruce and join in with fictional cases and whatever historical crime he was researching obsessively that week, and Bruce would wink at him, and they’d tag team the others. Inevitably either Jason would push them into crossing a line even the grown ups couldn’t block out or Alfred would walk in at the wrong time and threaten to banish them to the study if they didn’t change the subject. 

They had all shifted without conscious thought to the other side of the room, the table less scratched there and burdened with fewer memories. 

Dick fell into the chair like a marionette whose strings had been cut all at once, collapsed into it like it was all he could do to keep standing. He planted his elbows on the table and leaned forward, pressing his forehead into his hands for a moment before taking a breath and visibly pulling himself together. “We need to talk about Tim,” he said, sounding more exhausted than Jason had ever felt in his life. 

Son of a bitch, the replacement was right.

“Tim?” Babs said, with a frown and an owlish head tilt. “This isn’t about his grades, is it?” 

“Oh, you could say that, just as a starter,” Dick said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His shoulders slumped forward a little, creating a hunch that the Dick Jason knew would have been horrified to see. 

“Alright, I agree, they’re usually terrible at this time in the year, but he always pulls them up for--”

“Babs, Tim’s dropped out of school.” 

Her mouth stayed open for a moment while she processed this. Jason looked between her and Dick, not sure what the big deal was. Babs sat up a little straighter, looking at Cass, who shrugged. “...Alright. He’s never exactly been a model student, and the last few months have been...kind of a lot for him,” she said slowly. “Maybe it’s a good thing. He’s always got a plan, and he should have skipped grades when he was younger anyway. He can get his GED like this, and apply for university in the fall--” 

“Tim’s not pursuing his GED at this time, nor is he interested in further education,” Dick said, sounding mechanical, like he was quoting something he’d heard a dozen times now. 

Bab’s jaw snapped shut this time, and she blinked as if faced with a complex puzzle. Jason frowned and focused on the screen where Cass was scrunching up her nose again, as if she didn’t understand what they were saying and was frustrated about it. He didn’t really understand it either, if he was being honest--he came from a background where college was a pipe dream and school was optional, and just because he’d loved it didn’t mean other people had to. And besides--he plumbed the shallows of the things he knew about his replacement-- “Doesn’t the kid already have like, a million dollar job being the wunderkind CEO of Wayne Enterprises?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in his chair.

“There is that,” Babs said, nodding at him. “While I’m pretty sure college was part of the deal that made him head of the company, with Bruce being gone, I doubt the board will hold him to it if he doesn’t want to go. Especially if he keeps doing as well as he has been.” 

Dick sighed, lowering his hand from his face and leaning in further on his elbows. “He hasn’t been to the office for more than a couple hours a day for the last three weeks. His assistant says he’s been prepping the company for him to take an extended leave of absence.” 

“Maybe he visits me,” Cass said, startling a once again stunned Babs into facing her. “We talk. Maybe, he visits.” 

“Yeah, that would be a good thing. We all did just lose Bruce.” The wording Babs used struck Jason differently somehow. He’d been so wrapped up in whether he had the right to mourn Bruce, he’d forgotten that he wasn’t the only one grieving, maybe, or felt like his grief was different from theirs in some way. She was right though--they had lost Bruce. He swallowed around the lump forming in his throat and the hot anger of grief swelling in his chest and fought to pay attention to her next words. “It would make sense for him to take a break from the company. Maybe that’s what this is. Some space to grieve.” 

“Works too much,” Cass said, and signed Too much busy, rest good. 

Dick sighed again, quieter this time. When he spoke again, his voice sounded like he was forcing it not to break. “I know. I know. But what Tim’s doing isn’t grieving. And whatever he’s planning to do, I don’t think it involves rest.” 

Babs narrowed her eyes at him. “Is he still saying he thinks Bruce is alive?” 

“He thinks what?” Jason asked, turning in Dick’s direction so fast his neck cracked. 

“Yeah,” Dick said hoarsely, with a nod. “It’s not just a thought anymore. It’s becoming an obsession. He’s been searching the city for Bruce.” 

Babs hissed through her teeth, and even through the blurry video feed, Jason could read the impossible sadness on Cass’s fine features. “Okay,” Jason said slowly, straightening up in his chair, one leg starting to jump. “Okay. Okay. That’s--not possible, right? We’ve--you’ve explored that...avenue to make sure he doesn’t have a point?” He suddenly wished he knew more about what had happened when Bruce died. At the time, and after, he hadn’t cared, but now it was important. 

What little hope he wasn’t aware he still possessed fizzled out at Dick’s expression. “We looked everywhere, Jason. Darkseid’s Omega beam ripped him apart. The league found blood, so much blood, and--pieces of a body. Enough to ID.” 

Something in his chest felt oddly crushed. “So why does he think Bruce is alive?” 

“I don’t know, Jay. He’s not thinking clearly.” 

Babs sighed sharply through her nose and gave a little head shake. “When he tried to talk to me about it, he said something about believing the corpse was a fake, but we ran his DNA. It was him.” 

“Copy,” Cass said, suddenly.

“Yeah, he tried saying it was a clone?  Something about missing a gene. But the tests he tried to do were inconclusive,” Dick said, scrubbing his hand over his face. His knuckles were split, Jason noted. The gauntlets were likely the part of the suit that would take the longest to duplicate in Dick’s size.

“Denial is one of the stages of grief or some shit,” Jason said. “Can’t you just let him work it out on his own?” 

“Maybe if this was just about Bruce, sure. How much do you know about his team?” 

“The Titans, based out in San Francisco? Not much.” 

“Gone,” Cass said, the thick, mournful tone of her voice forcing Jason to look at her and see that horrible sadness in her eyes again. 

It was hard to look at her, and harder to understand what she was implying over the visual noise of her grief. “...What?” 

“The Titans dissolved after the deaths of half the team.” Dick spoke softly, watching him. “Superboy died fighting an alternate universe version of himself, and Impulse gave his life to banish Black Flash to the Speedforce. Within months of each other.” 

“And within months of Stephanie’s death,” Babs said, and Cass made a thin, heartbreaking noise that made both Jason and Dick flinch. “She was his best friend, and first girlfriend.” 

“And just a few months after that, his mother died in the plane crash that disabled his father,” Dick said with another sigh, “and shortly after that--”

“Bruce,” Cass cried, plaintive and awful, and signed Father. 

A cold, sinking something settled into Jason’s bones, and grew colder when he realized that a few times in that span he was actively trying to kill him too. Jesus, how was the kid still functional? “...Okay then. So he’s snapped a little with Bruce. That sounds fair, given the state of--everything, apparently. Maybe you should just...leave him alone for a while? He’ll move onto the next stage eventually.” 

“I don’t think he’s thinking about an eventually.” Dick’s words were careful, so painfully careful, that Jason instantly knew what he was implying even if he wasn’t sure he believed it. “Tim hasn’t been taking care of himself. He was always bad about keeping to a regular sleeping schedule, but lately he’s been staying up for days on end and sleeping for eighteen and twenty-four hours at a time on the crash. He’s barely eating. Alfred was literally having to beg him to come to dinner before he moved out--” 

“He moved out?” Babs cut in, looking up sharply. 

Dick ran a hand over his face. “Yeah. A few weeks ago.” 

“But his father--”

“He’s staying with his uncle, I checked.” 

Jason made a face, drumming his fingers on the underside of the table to have something to do with his hands. If he didn’t feel so blindsided by all this, he would have pulled out his guns to clean to piss the others off. “What’s wrong with his dad? I saw something about him getting mugged?” 

Babs sighed a little. “He wasn’t mugged. He was attacked by Captain Boomerang, in his own home. He’s in ICU right now, and his prognosis is touchy, from what I’ve been told.” 

Dick winced. “I just got word this morning. They’ve put him in hospice, actually. They’ve given him maybe two weeks. His stepmom’s been handling the arrangements for his care, but she’s not holding it together well, which is why he moved in with his uncle and not her.” 

“Well, fuck,” Babs said, covering her mouth with her hand. 

Well, fuck indeed. “Yeah. So I could understand if he’s out of sorts, but this was going on for weeks before hand, and--he found his dad, but he didn’t even stay to fill out the police report. I had to go after him because I thought he was going after Captain Boomerang, but he didn’t. He didn’t do anything. He just went back to work.” Dick worked a hand through his hair. “He’s neglecting himself. Not eating, not sleeping--he barely showers, he’s overusing caffeine and energy drinks. His patrols are getting sloppy. His line snapped last month and he would’ve died if I hadn’t been there to catch him. He claims someone cut it, but as shoddy as his work has been and as little as he’s taking care of himself, I’m pretty sure he’s just not been checking his gear. His emotions have been erratic, his behavior is wildly abnormal, and he won’t let anyone help him. He refuses to talk to me, he and Damian bicker constantly- he’s even snapped at Alfred. I think this is more than just grief. I think this is some kind of mental break, and I’m terrified that he’s either going to kill himself or get himself killed.” 

“You didn’t tell me things were getting this bad,” Babs said, her jaw tight.

Cass made some kind of generic noise to draw attention to herself and said “Tim is okay.” Switching to sign, she shook out her fingers in apparent concentration before signing brother talks to me. He would tell me if it was more than hurting.

“Sometimes people don’t tell others if they’re--” Babs pursed her lips and glanced at Dick and Jason. “How do we explain a breakdown to her?”

“Fuck if I know,” Jason muttered, pressing his palms into the table. He looked at the computer screen. 

Dick scrubbed his hand over his face again. “I don’t think Tim knows what he’s doing, Cass. Sometimes when people are hurting in these ways, they don’t know. Or they don’t tell other people about it. They get embarrassed or ashamed, and they don’t know if there’s a way to fix it. But mostly they don’t know until they need more help than they can get for themselves.” 

Cass’ face scrunched up, her eyebrows knitted together. Her hands flew faster than Jason could follow--faster than Babs could, either, because she broke in soon. “Slow down. You know no one can understand you when you do that.” 

She froze so still that Jason thought there was something wrong with the connection at first. Rage so palpable that Jason’s own eyes went green flickered across her features and she signed Batman did, slow and deliberate and almost cruel. Something twisted in his gut, the reminder of Bruce’s absence stabbing through him again. 

Fury and pain hung heavy on Babs’ face as well. “Well, Bruce is dead, Cass, and we’re here instead. Sorry if that’s not good enough for you.” 

“Whoa, whoa, okay,” Dick said, holding up his hands and looking even more tired than before, if that were possible. “Don’t start now, you two. Deal with it another time. We’re here for Tim.” 

He keeps up too, Cass signed, and Babs’ mouth twisted up. Jason looked between the two of them without moving his head. Whatever happened there was some kind of hornet's nest he would have to make a note not to step in-- even while his inner bi drama kid was dying to know the story. 

Dick gave Cass a warning look and she sighed sharply through her nose and relented. Tim is good. Tim knows his head. Can’t not know how you are.

“I know it’s confusing,” Dick said, carefully concentrating wholly on the computer and not looking at Jason. “But sometimes, some people can get sick or hurt, and their heads lie to them. They may see things or hear things, or have bad thoughts. It’s like--fear gas, except there’s no gas, it’s happening inside their heads.” There--his eyes darted in Jason’s direction, just briefly. He wondered if he’d really been invited to this little party just in the hopes that crazy could recognize crazy. 

She blinked a little, but she was expressive enough that Jason could see the moment she understood, even if she didn’t look convinced that was what was wrong. You think Tim’s head lies?

“Sometimes it happens when someone’s under a lot of stress,” Dick said. “It’s just like being sick, but we can help Tim get better.” 

Jason leaned his elbows on the table. “What, so not just a stress or denial kind of breakdown? You think the replacement’s going through a psychotic break?” 

“I don’t know what else you’d call it.” 

“Alright, so what do you want us to do about it? Just ‘cause I hear voices tellin’ me to shoot people sometimes doesn’t mean I know jack shit about how brains or mental illness works. Short of committin’ the kid, I don’t see what you can do about it if he won’t talk to anybody.” 

Dick went silent, his eyes dropping to the tabletop, fidgeting in his seat a little. The bottom of Jason’s stomach dropped out and the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up, a fuzzy-static feeling filling his ears. “...Oh my fucking g-d, Dick.” 

“It’s not like I want to!” Dick snapped, his hands going into his hair. It was too short, he must’ve cut it for the Batman cowl. Jason had never seen it so short. “I don’t know what else to do. He’s gonna get himself killed the way things are going, but I can’t put the city on hold to coddle him through it. And he won’t talk to me anymore! And I’ve got Damian to handle!” 

“You can’t handle both?”

“Frankly? No. They both need and deserve undivided attention, but Tim isn’t responding to me. He’s my little brother, and I love him, but I am not a figure of authority for him. Whatever influence I had is gone now, and I can’t figure out why.” His voice cracked a little. “I know what’s wrong with Damian. He’s eleven , and autistic, and an abuse victim with assassin training. He tries. He listens to me, responds to me, but he doesn’t understand morality yet, and it takes so much time and energy to make sure he’s under control and learning what he’s supposed to be learning. I can help Damian- I’m the only one who can . But I can’t help Tim because I don’t understand what’s wrong with him, and I don’t have any legal claim over him now that his uncle is back in the picture. There are other people who can help him more than I can. I don’t want to lose another brother, Jay.” 

That was a low blow, and Jason’s eyes flashed, but he held it together. 

“Okay,” Babs said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “If he’s posing as big a danger to himself as you say, maybe you’ve got a point. West Clinic has a really good outpatient program. I think if we talk to his uncle at least, and maybe Tim himself, we may be able to get him to go. Thomas Wayne Memorial has some of the best psychiatrists in the city working in their psychology department, and they’d be able to work with us to make an appointment schedule.” 

“Dickhead wants to commit him, not get him a therapist, Babsy,” Jason said, noting Cass’ rapid hand movements. The only thing he could pick up were question words periodically, and she seemed to be getting more frustrated. He didn’t know what her deal was as far as language, but he was pretty sure she didn’t really understand what they were suggesting. 

“I’m aware of that,” Babs snapped at him, “But this is Timothy Drake we’re talking about. You can’t have him committed without extreme social ramifications. Bruce made him heir of Drake Industries and Wayne Enterprises when he took over DI, and the press has been speculating about him ever since his mom died. Now with his dad in hospice and Bruce gone there’ll be even more press coverage. He goes into a psych ward, that’s going to get out, no matter how quiet you try to keep it. It’ll ruin the kid.” 

Dick flinched. “I hadn’t thought of that. But I don’t think outpatient care is going to work.” 

“Then we get him out of state. Say he’s going on a business trip, find a hospital in New York, or Massachusetts, or Virginia. Somewhere that doesn’t keep up with Gotham news and where the news can’t find him .” 

Jason snorted. “We’re still talking about an involuntary admission here. How the fuck are you gonna get a bat across state lines when he doesn’t want to go anywhere?” 

“We take a few weeks to figure out a plan, that’s how. Tim’s good, but if he does need this, we can make it happen.”

“We don’t have a few weeks. I heard him say he’s leaving Monday.” 

“He’s not leaving, Jason, don’t be absurd. His father’s dying, he isn’t leaving now. Where would he even--” 

Cass clapped her hands loudly, her face a thundercloud. “What is?” she demanded hotly, slapping her hand on the desk in front of her. “What is, what is, what is?” 

Her outburst startled the others. Dick tripped over his tongue, trying and failing to hide the fact that he’d completely forgotten she was there. Babs, on the other hand, was clearly gearing up for Round 2, cheeks flushing and lips going thin and pinched. Before either of them could get a word out, Jason cut in with his very best Park Row drawl. “They want to put Tim in a hospital. The kind of hospital for people whose heads are sick. The doctors there will lock him up, and treat him against his will until he gets well enough to make the right decisions.” Just saying it left a foul taste in his mouth. 

The storm in her eyes froze and turned to stone. “Like Arkham,” she said, pronouncing the word carefully. 

“Exactly like Arkham.” 

“But not Arkham, obviously,” Babs said soothingly. 

Dick’s eyes dropped to the table again. “...Actually.” 

For a second, Barbara and Jason just stared at him. Then everything was noise and motion. He wasn’t sure when he stood, but he knew that he was- vision flashing green and muscles locked as he fought not to tear into Dick. He didn’t know half of what he was screaming, couldn’t hear Babs at all over the pounding in his ears, but saw her half on top of the table, supporting herself on an elbow as she stabbed an accusing finger at Dick. Dick, red-faced and shouting right back at the both of them, eyes bright and chin set stubborn, just like when he’d fought with Bruce in the old days. It was noise and upset and chaos until a piercing, ragged screech- all wordless fury and hurt split the air and drew every eye back to the laptop, words stuck fast in their throats.

“Stop ! ” She howled, face contorted into something so wild and fierce and painful that Jason didn’t think he could have named it if he’d tried. “Stop, stop, stop!” She glared at each of them, hissing like a feral cat when Babs opened her mouth. No! She signed as she hissed, snapping her fingers shut with all the force of a steel trap. Always many words, no listen. Only angry, angry, angry! Listen! You words later, Dick words now! Babs narrowed her eyes, but leaned back in her chair without another word. Cass glared at Jason, too, and he raised his hands in surrender, expression twisted into a grimace as he picked his chair up off the floor and settled back in.

“Thank you, Cass.” Dick said quietly.

No thank. She signed sharply. Angry me! Say why Tim goes there!  

Dick sighed, spread his hands wide. “I don’t like it either, but Arkham is the best option. It’s one of the only facilities in the Northeast capable of offering the type of 24-hour care Tim needs. And it’s the best of all of them, by far. It’s got the best equipment, the best doctors, the best standard of care-- you all know that. It wasn’t always a good hospital, sure, but it is now. There’s not a better one for--fuck, hundreds of miles. It’s why the Rogues are never transferred to a different facility. Arkham is the only place they have a hope in hell of being rehabilitated. It has rehabilitated some of them.  And it’s not like he’d be locked up in maximum security with them . He’s not a criminal and no one knows he’s a vigilante. The civilian wing is on the opposite side of the campus.” 

“As if that matters,” Jason scoffed, half under his breath. “Security’s shit in that place.”

“ No , it’s not.” Dick countered, eyes flashing. “Arkham has strict protocols that keep the wings completely separate and secure. No doctor crossover, different passwords and levels of security clearance, and contingency plans in place for every type of disaster imaginable- including the escape of a Rogue. Honestly, the civilian wing is the safest place he could be even if a Rogue does break out. No Rogue is going to try to break back into a place they’ve just escaped, and even if they did try, the whole place gets locked down tighter than Fort Knox if they even suspect there’s been an incident. And if he tries to break out, the doctors there know how to contain a Bat, even if they don’t know that’s what they’re doing.”

“But you’re talking about sending him to Arkham to deal with a psychotic break as a result of tremendous stress” Babs said, keeping her voice carefully even. “Putting him in any situation that he perceives as unsafe will only make things worse. It won’t matter if he’s right or not. If Tim thinks he’s in the slightest danger, he’ll never let down his guard enough to heal. Worse, being admitted as a civilian might make him think that he shouldn’t defend himself if something happens.” She shook her head once. “It’s not worth it. Sending him to Arkham would only force him into an even worse break from reality, and that’s without the added complication of the press. And the press will find out if he goes to Arkham.”

“No, they won’t. They never found out about Bruce.” 

Babs paused. Blinked. Jason also paused, giving his head a little shake. “...I’m sorry, what about Bruce?” 

Dick’s jaw set so firmly it clicked. “Bruce went to Arkham to deal with stress all the time, like a few times a year,” Dick said shortly. “The Rogues being there never bothered him and you know how paranoid he was. If it didn’t bother Bruce, it shouldn’t bother Tim.”

Jason laughed dryly. “Not sure if you noticed, but there’s a difference between sneaking into Arkham to use a Rogue as a stress ball and being locked up next to them.”

Dick blinked, wrinkled his nose. “What? Bruce didn’t do that. No, I’m talking about the times Bruce booked himself in as a patient.”

“For case,” Cass said. “Secret.”

“No,” Dick said, irritation edging into his voice. “I mean the times he booked himself in as a patient because being a CEO and vigilante is incredibly stressful and he needed to step back from it for a while. He didn’t really want us to know about it, but he also never hid it. I just didn’t know how often he was going until I started having to go through his paperwork. Some of those three day weekends he claimed to have business trips? They were voluntary admissions into inpatient care at Arkham.”

“Bullshit,” Jason said flatly. “There is no way Bruce booked himself into Arkham for anything but a case.”

“Why is that so hard to believe?” Dick snapped. “He was an outpatient for years; he went there twice a month for therapy, for G-d’s sake. I know he wasn’t exactly open about it, but-”

“If he wasn’t open about it, maybe we shouldn’t be talking about it.” Babs said tightly. “And it doesn’t really matter why Bruce chose to admit himself, does it? This isn’t about him. It’s about us having Tim committed involuntarily and that’s a helluva difference.”

There was a crash at the door and they turned as one to see Alfred, wide-eyed and pale, a mess that used to be a tray loaded down with food and tea steaming at his feet. “What in G-d’s name is going on here?”

Jason and Dick both jumped to their feet, and Jason felt a sudden, hot rush of instinctive guilt flood his stomach. As if he was twelve and caught red handed stealing silverware again. His face flushed deep, and he saw a matching blush on Dick’s face. There was a squeaking noise as Babs wheeled a little backward, her eyes widening behind her glasses. Dick swallowed and opened his mouth, then closed it again, then opened it. “Alfred. I didn’t want to start without you--” 

“If this is what your intentions were, you should not have started at all,” Alfred snapped, making no move to clean up the dropped tray. Jason had never seen him look so red before. He had a thought for Alfred’s blood pressure, his age, the extra wrinkles lining his face, but he did not dare move to help him into a chair, not with the weight of that sharp, critical gaze on him. 

“Listen,” Dick said, a little quieter, collecting himself. One heel started jiggling a little. “You missed most of it. We can talk about this--” 

“Dick thinks Tim is a danger to himself and he needs to be locked up,” Jason cut in before he could finish, ignoring the way Dick glared. 

“It’s not as if I want any of this--” 

“Alfred, Dick does make some points,” Babs said, and they all looked at her. She was blushing too, almost the same color as her hair, and from the corner of his eye, Jason could see Cass frantically signing at them from the screen, too fast to pick out individual words. “Tim really isn’t well--” 

“Sure, but he’s talking about Arkham, Alfred--” 

Dick glared again. “He’s leaving his father to die alone, and it’s like he doesn’t even care, I don’t know what else--” 

“That’s enough. ” 

Silence fell over the room like an iron curtain. Even Cass lowered her hands. Alfred looked at each of them in turn, his eyes sharp, moustache trembling. The back of Jason’s neck warmed, and he lowered his eyes. 

Dick’s eyes flicked up again, his shoulders squaring a little. “We only want what’s best for--” 

“No one,” Alfred said, his voice low and dangerous. “Is putting Timothy anywhere. Is that understood?” 

“...Okay. So what else do we do then? We can’t just sit here and--” 

“ No one is to interfere with what Timothy feels he must do.” 

“Alfred--”

“ Richard Grayson, if the next words out of your mouth are anything other than yes, sir, you will be removed from the premises  and not permitted back. Do I make myself clear? ” 

Dick’s jaw dropped, and Jason and and Babs looked at each other, eyes wide in alarm. He’d never, ever heard Alfred make any kind of threat like that before. For a moment, everything was tense and silent. Then Dick’s mouth closed with a little tremor. “...Yes sir.” 

“Good.” Alfred glared at him in a way that made him flinch a little. “I advise you take a good look again at the situation and determine what outside source has caused you to take leave of your senses, and perhaps find a better way to offer Master Timothy the help you feel he needs. And if there is any other talk of involuntary commitment, I trust you remember that while I am still living this is half my house, and all my house while Master Bruce’s properties are tied up in legal niceties. I have no wish to put anyone out, but if you become a threat to any of my other grandchildren, I will.” 

With that, he turned sharply and began heading down the hall, stepping over the broken glass and ruined food. The tension in the air around them seemed to snap with the motion, and all three of them released a long breath, not looking at each other. Dick left first, slinking past like a kicked puppy, but Babs was soon behind, closing her laptop without bothering to shut down any programs or even say goodbye to Cass. She balanced the tech on her lap and rolled through the door with head held high. Jason watched them go, shifting from foot to foot. The outburst from Alfred had been shocking, yes, but something… wasn’t right, in a familiar sense, something in Alfred's tremor that felt almost like...fear. He should just go--he’d more than stayed his welcome by now, and everything felt dizzying and upside down, but--

Before he could apply any other thought to his actions, Jason began to follow Alfred. He turned a corner toward a lesser-used den that Jason remembered having a couple of movie nights with Bruce in--it was smaller, much smaller than the theater room they used when Dick was over, because Dick liked the spectacle. Jason preferred the den--the screen was big enough as it was, and it felt cozier, more intimate, less ostentatious to hang out with his father figure in the converted office than in a literal in-home theater that only rich bastards owned. 

The other thing he remembered about the den he remembered just as he walked into it and saw it again--the dry bar in the corner, more of a storage center for alcohol close enough to the ballroom that they could store emergency back up liquor there and retrieve it in case a gala started running low, but just far enough away that drunk patrons didn’t stumble in looking for more. And he may not even have remembered then if Alfred hadn’t stopped at the bar, opened a cabinet, and after a second of deliberation pulled out a large bottle of rum, poured a finger into brandy glass, and threw back the whole of it in a single gulp. 

Jason’s stomach dropped again, and he froze in place. “... Alfred,” he breathed. 

“Do not lecture me on hypocrisy, Jason,” Alfred snapped before Jason could say another word. He flinched at the tone, his mind reeling. “None of us are saints. Perhaps it’s time we stop pretending.” 

Never in his life had he seen Alfred drink more than a half a glass of watered down mulled wine at Christmas, and he’d scolded Bruce more than once for drinking overmuch. Always with an implication that Alfred was familiar in some way with the problems alcohol could cause. As Red Hood, Jason spent most of his time firmly on solid ground. But when he was Robin, when he still flew, there had been a moment, a split second after he’d jumped off a roof, when the ground gave way and his stomach lurched and all his muscles locked up in a horrifyingly wonderful muddle of overwhelming joy and terror. G-d, he felt almost exactly that now, with his feet planted and none of the joy. “I--I wasn’t. I just--Alfred are...are you okay?” 

“No I most certainly am not. My son is gone and my grandchildren are suffering. I’ll never see Stephanie again, Cass may never return home. You refuse to come back, and now I fear Dick may drive Tim away, or worse, before--” He blinked rapidly and drained his glass and poured another finger. Something inside Jason shriveled up and died. 

“...Yeah,” he said, quietly, weakly, and the great swooping feeling returned when Alfred turned to offer him a glass as well. He took it, surprised at how steady both of their hands were, and downed it in one gulp. Bruce kept better stuff than he was used to drinking, and it went down smoother with less of a burn at the back. He missed the burn of cheap liquor. 

“I’m sorry,” Alfred said flatly once they’d both emptied their glasses. “I should not burden you with an old man’s troubles. I’m sure you have your own.” 

“It’s alright. I--I didn’t know that’s what--Dick didn’t give me any details--” 

“Dick has his own pressures and demons to wrestle. It’s just a shame he can’t see operant conditioning in his current state.” 

“Operant--” 

“Never mind. I don’t blame you. I don’t think I blame any of you. It’s just…” 

Jason swallowed. “Tired?” he offered, like a coward, ushering them toward an easy exit. 

Alfred sighed and blinked again, gripping the shelf in front of him. For a moment Jason feared he’d lose his balance. “...Yes, my boy. I’m tired, I believe.” 

“Yeah. Maybe I should go, let you rest.” 

Alfred caught his arm before he could even think of turning away. “...You won’t return, wil you?” he asked, voice heavy with mourning.

Jason drew a sharp breath at the contact, let the warm ache of comfort roll over him like one of Dick’s best beaming grins, like the quiet humor in Bruce’s eyes that he would never see again. “...Not unless something changes,” he muttered, his eyes on the floor.

“...Could you try to do something for me? I understand I have no right to ask, and I know you cannot always...control your actions, but. To the best of your abilities. I must ask.” 

“What is it?” 

“Could you try to...ease up on Timothy?” Jason tamped down the instinctive swell of anger-jealousy-spite-rage from the pit, his eyes flickering. “He’s been through several unkindnesses lately, and I fear there will be more before he’s finished.” 

“Finished with what?” Gears turned in his head, enough that he could see a picture forming. “Alfred? You don’t believe--” 

“Given the atmosphere at the manor, I cannot and will not claim direct support of anyone. You are all my grandchildren and I will not take sides.” He released Jason’s arm and his moustache twitched. It didn’t look like a happy movement. “However...Bruce was my son, Jason. And I cannot give up hope until all avenues are explored, no matter how absurd the argument or slim the chances.” 

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking because you don’t think he deserves another beat down, or because you need him to go wherever he’s going to find whatever he’s looking for for you?” 

“Both,” Alfred said, and had the decency to cringe. Harsh. Jason hadn’t thought Alfred had that kind of mercenary callousness in him, but he had just threatened to throw Dick out on his ear ten minutes ago. Maybe he was wrong. “Yes, I am aware of how that sounds, but it can’t be helped. Tim understands.” 

Jason snorted softly. “Yeah. Alright. I’ll do my best to play nicer with my replacement. He’s leaving Monday anyway, or so I heard. You know where he’s going?” 

Alfred shook his head. “No. But I trust he knows what he’s doing.” 

“Did you trust me like that when I was fifteen going off half-cocked to who knew where?” 

The moustache twitched again, and something...twisted in his gaze. “...Yes. I did.” 

“Huh. That worked out fine, then.” 

It was a low blow, he’d admit, and Alfred’s sharp look and intake of breath proved it landed. Jason knew he’d feel bad about hurting Alfred like that later, but right now he was just... so fucking tired. Too tired to filter himself or the pit out of his mouth. The day had been too long and too emotionally taxing, For all the insistence on neutrality, it sounded to Jason like Alfred had already chosen Bruce. And he was dead. He lifted the glass as if in toast before leaving it on the sideboard. “Thanks for the drink, Alfred.” 

“You know you can come home, don’t you, Jason?” he asked quietly, staring into the decanter. Jason wouldn’t have heard him if he hadn’t still been close. 

He shook his head a little. “No.” He pulled away and headed back to the study, keeping his eyes on the floor to avoid meeting the gaze of a flight of Robins lining the way. He didn’t try to sneak a last look at the impassive images of Bruce, but he felt the film eyes follow him all the way home.