Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Show me the footage again.”

The agent looks up at him, “Sir. You’ve seen it four times.”

Phil looks at the man-- mussed blonde hair, tired brown eyes. Phil can’t blame him. It’s been a hell of a week. Stark went missing, Stane talks around issues with a bluntness that could be refreshing, but is just crass, and someone walked in and stole information from SHIELD without anyone batting an eye.

And Phil himself let him go. Which makes it his problem. (He knew it would be.)

He sighs. “You’re dismissed, agent. Go home.”

“I- Sir!” The poor man protests, but is obviously eager to take him up on it.

“I got it, go. I know how to work a computer.”

“I-- thank you, Sir.” The man gathers his things and leaves.

Phil runs a hand through his fraying hair and sits down. He rewinds the footage again, watching the man’s entrance all the way up to the elevator ride and his exit. He brings up footage of the coffee shop where the ping came back from when they were hacked just a few days before, and compares the footage. Another screen shows what they were able to pull up from surrounding cameras, and a candle store around the block. It’s hard to match the grainy photos, and the hair is different.

Phil’s pretty sure it’s the same man anyways.

And Phil let him go. He’s getting kind of stuck on that, not that he didn’t take precautions. He looked into the young man’s eyes-- God, how old was he?-- and sensed no ill intent. A leashed violence, perhaps-- definitely (Phil felt the calluses, saw the easy way he held himself in his skin. It was absolutely tampered down, but Phil had the thought that if the man hadn’t wanted it to be seen, it wouldn’t have), and maybe some nervousness, but neither was too uncommon for young field agents talking to him. So he asked for the man’s name, putting him on the list of agents he’d potentially want to see in the field himself. (He can’t send his two best on every mission, afterall.)

So Phil let him go. And from what the technical department could find, he has potentially damaging information on Phil’s team, the Tesseract, and some of their more interesting projects. The techs were able to figure out what he had tried to search for specifically, even, and what they came up with was both odd and troubling.

Aliens and the Avengers Initiative. Both which explain the information he left with.

And Phil let him go. He would probably regret it if not for the last two times he followed a hunch like this he ended up with his best two agents.

He’d been very angrily not yelled at by Fury, right after his meeting with Stane.

Of course, his reply was, “I put a tracker on him. And-- It’s more about if he works for someone or if he’s doing this alone.”

Fury looked at him, slightly less cold and prompting, sending a message to the tech department about the tracker from his tablet.

“If he’s working for an organization, then there’s more than one person interested in the information he lifted, and they potentially want to use it against us. We’d need to figure out who and why,” he explained, “If he stole it for himself, then we need to ask ourselves, why us and why him?”

“Either way, we need to figure out a motive. We need to know what they plan to do with what they learned. So what’s your point?” Fury looked at him pointedly.

“I put a tracker on him. I let him go, but I’m not stupid. An alert had just gone out that there was an intruder in the building. If he was an agent, no loss. If not… Sir, don’t send teams to apprehend him yet.” Fury managed to put more incredulity in one eye than most people could fit into two. “Let’s observe him, see what he does. Send me and Agent Barton in after we gather what we need.”

Fury observed him for a long moment. “Not Romanoff? Nevermind. You’re lucky I like you, Phil.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Fury grunted, taking a seat behind his desk. “You can go. But Coulson? Your mess.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Phil watches the footage again, and pulls up the tracker’s location alongside it. It’s been at its current location for an hour, so he flags the location for observation.

He really hopes his hunch won’t prove wrong this time.

Chapter Text

Jason comes out of the bedroom of the apartment he had been staying at in a hoodie and sweats, yawning, to find a suit standing in the kitchen-dining-living area with a pleasant smile on his face. He has his gun raised, aimed, and off safety before his hairs raise and he wishes to hell and back he carried a second on him to sleep. A second guy, a blonde, comes out of the shadows with a bow and arrow, like some rip-off Green Arrow.

Jason feels like he researched him. It takes him a second. This is Hawkeye, Clint Barton. That would make the suit Phil Coulson. Barton’s younger than he would have thought, but probably older than Jason by a few years. It’d be an interesting fight.

“Aren’t solicitors supposed to knock?” he asks, voice gravelly. He’d bet every dollar he’s stolen and had since arriving in this universe that both of them knew ASL. There wasn’t a snowflake’s chance in hell of him tossing about that current weakness, though he knows the red scar is visible for all the world to see in what he’s currently wearing.

“We might have, had you lived here legally,” the Coulson answers calmly, utterly unworried about the gun pointed at him. “I’m Agent Phil Coulson, and I work for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division.”

“Your friend?” Jason asks, headed jerking in Barton’s direction.

“Hawkeye,” Barton answers.

“Security?” Jason asks because he genuinely wants to know. He needs to know it’s flaws for next time.

Coulson starts, “I am here to talk to you about the events that transpired a few days ago.”

“That all?” Jason almost laughs, “Not what I was expecting,” he grounds out. By now he has spoken more words in the past minute than he has since arriving at this universe.

Hawkeye, he thinks, usually tag-teams with Natasha Romanoff, Black Widow. He wonders if she’s hanging around. If she shows up, his chances of winning, should it come to a fight, go down by a lot.

“What were you expecting?” The question, asked like that, seems innocent enough. To Jason’s ears it’s a trap for an early confession.

Jason shrugs. Despite the arrow aimed at him (shoulder, it’d be a bitch to recover, but nonlethal) and the sense that the team’s third is hanging around somewhere, he lowers his gun. “Tea?”

Barton lowers his bow, “Got coffee?”

Coulson doesn’t sigh, exactly, but a twitch in his shoulders conveys the same message.

He does have coffee. He’s not making any. “Tea or nothing.”

Barton pouts a little, “Sure.” Jason almost makes coffee. He resheathes his arrow in his quiver, but doesn’t let go of the bow. Jason clicks the safety on his gun back on and sticks it in his waistband. The motion makes him cringe.

Coulson shakes his head when Jason lifts a plastic cup at him. He doesn’t have any mugs. “Can you answer some questions for us, Mr…?”

Jason almost says Red. In fact, it’s on the tip of tongue, when he abruptly changes his mind and says, “Jay. Here?” He turns the oven on, filling a thrifted pot with water and placing it on it, and waits for it to boil.

“Mr. Jay,” Coulson says like doesn’t know perfectly well that it’s not his name, “we would prefer--”

“--You know, I could be a Ms. Jay. Or Mx. Jay. You didn’t ask.” He watches the water as it slowly starts to bubble in his peripheral, Coulson and Barton are taking the spotlight of his vision. His throat is absolutely killing him and he distantly wonders if he’ll even be able to drink the tea without feeling sick.

Barton’s eyes fill with mirth, though he shows no signs of it anywhere else.

Coulson nods his head, but to the side, in a kind of you have a point motion. “Do you go by pronouns other than he/him, then? Both Hawkeye and I go by male pronouns,” he adds.

“Nope,” he replies, popping the p. “But it’s polite to ask.” He takes the pot of the stove, turns the stove off, then adds two honey lemon tea bags to the hot water.

“You didn’t.”

“I’m not polite to people who break into where I sleep.”

“We would prefer for you to answer our questions in our facility,” Coulson finally gets out, ignoring Jason’s last comment. Prefer, will take you in if you don’t cooperate, semantics.

“Of course,” Jason nods, “after tea. And after I get dressed,” he tacks on. He resists the urge to rub at his throat, which throbs with every heartbeat and word spoken.

Coulson agrees, probably suspicious as to why he’s being so agreeable, and the pair watches him. He watches them in turn. They pass the next four minutes in awkward silence while the tea steeps.

His internal clock dings at four, and he pours the tea from the pot into two plastic cups. A little splashes onto the surface of the counter. He passes Barton his, takes a sip of his own, and sighs as it washes down his throat.

He swings his thumb towards the doorway behind him, “Going to get dressed.”

Couslon smiles pleasantly. Jason almost believes it. “Of course. Make it quick.”

Jason hums in response, retreating to the room, and locking it behind him. He lets out a breath.

He takes a glance around and shucks off his clothes, setting his gun delicately on the bed within grabbing range. He dresses in his armoured pants and boots, making sure his harddrive is tucked in a hidden pocket in his pants. He wonders if his armoured top would be too much. Probably. He slips on a thrifted shirt instead, followed by his hoodie and then his jacket.

He glances at his thigh holsters. He shrugs to himself; if they want him to be unarmed, they’re going to have to ask. He does only wear the one, though, and slips the same gun from earlier in it. He pats himself, going over his mental checklist. He has his knives (not all of them), his harddrive, and one gun. He has his cash, too, and his Ankh (because that’ll never leave him, apparently). He leaves his mask behind. Depending on the several ways this could play out, he might not come back to his apartment. He also might get all his things back. He really wants his things back. He’s going to need to be on his verbal A-game.

He chugs the rest of his tea, unlocks the door, and returns to the kitchen-dining-living area.

Both Coulson’s and Barton’s eyes flick to his gun. Barton’s holding his tea, but it looks untouched.

Jason tilts his head at their silent question and raises a brow at the full cup.

Barton shrugs.

“Not poisoned. I’ll have it if you won’t.”

Barton tilts his head slightly, studying him. He then proceeds to tip his head back and chug the whole thing.

“Hawkeye,” Coulson calls.

“What? We saw him make it. He had his own. I figured you’d save me quickly enough if it was poisoned.”

Coulson gives Barton a look, then returns his gaze to Jason. It reminded him uncomfortably of some strange mix of Bruce and Alfred, and yet simultaneously like neither. “Ready to go, Mr. Jay?”

Jason nods. They walked down the stairs of the apartment building, several floors up. He questions why they hadn’t asked for his gun when they reach the bottom and Coulson says, “Your firearm, if you wouldn’t mind.”

It’s harder than it should be to hand it over. It’s custom, with an ambidextrous trigger. And it’s not like he’s unarmed. And even if he was, he himself is a weapon. It shouldn’t be hard. It still twinges somewhere in his sternum as he hands his gun over anyway.

“And the rest of your weapons?”

Jason tries not to stiffen, glancing between Coulson and Barton. He tilts his head at them, eyes narrow. Damn. He tries to reason with himself, the not completely irrational fear of being disarmed warring with the knowledge that this is what he’s trying to do. He smiles at them, edges a little jagged and sharp. “‘Course.”

Chapter Text

Nat walks into the viewing room, sweaty and flushed. Coulson and Clint both look up from the screens as she walks in.

“Well?” Coulson asks.

She takes a seat next to Clint, pulling the chair out so she’s across from Coulson. “He’s good,” she acknowledges, “He knows a minimum of a dozen martial arts and combat forms. One of which is unfamiliar to me.” Both of them glance at her at that. “He can fight nonlethally perfectly well. The reason he slipped up with the assessor is because he held back. The man got the advantage on him, and his body reacted instinctively.”

She pauses, assessing Coulson and Clint’s reactions. They don't look off put, if a little surprised by her words.

When neither adds anything, she continues. “Ashla learned from me. Within the hour, he analyzed my fighting pattern and cherry-picked specialty moves that would suit him best. Each spar lasted longer. In the future-- if we keep sparring together-- it’s very possible we’ll be evenly matched.”

Maybe they won’t have quite the same skill level, not a lot can beat out the sheer amount of dedication put into creating what Natasha is, but Ashla has both height and weight on her, and by then he’ll likely be comfortable with her fighting style. And she, his, but Natasha appreciates someone who is still learning and able to hold their own against her.

Coulson raises an eyebrow, looking faintly surprised, but ultimately pretty accepting of that statement.

Clint, the disaster, snorts, squinting at her in mostly mock disbelief. “He’s better than me, hand-to-hand anyway. I mean-- I could absolutely hold my own, and there’s still the not-so-small chance I’d win. --It’s like fifty three--forty seven, in his favour. Even fight, really,” He cuts hand through the air, “Anyways, I’m definitely better long-range than him.” He nods to himself, then makes a face of exasperation. “What is it with you sad, beautiful, youthful assassins? Huh, Nat? Why can’t I be sent to kill some graying and amoral forty-year-old assassin with tattoos and an eyepatch or cybernetic eye or something with a penchant for poisoned bullets? Huh? That would be cool.”

She rolls her eyes at him and looks to Coulson instead, whose whole body language reads resigned.

Nat takes pity and continues her analysis, “He’s been training for years. Not for his whole life, but at least since his preteens, maybe more. He enjoys fighting, but he rarely fights for fun.”

Coulson watches her. “Do you think he means SHIELD or others any ill harm?”

Nat’s not surprised that he wants a second opinion other than that of the one who took his psych assessment. Clint had him once, and came out of the whole thing irritated and with irregularities scattered all over his report. Natasha wonders why she used him for Ashla’s assessment knowing this, but decides that Coulson could have gone in there himself and probably gotten the same results, so it rather didn’t matter who did it. Nat, though, would be able to read what Ashla didn’t say-- or sign, as is the case.

“No,” she answers, “If he wanted to be a threat to SHIELD, he would be. I think he wants to be here.”

“Why?”

“...He wants to do good. But he’s running.” She tilts her head, “SHIELD can offer him the former and protection for the latter.”

“He doesn’t know he’s running from the people he ran from?” Coulson knows better than to sound skeptical, but the language conveys the same message.

Natasha looks at Coulson, really looks, “Knowing you’re got away doesn’t necessarily mean you got out.”

They were, after all, still on the lookout for members of the Red Room.

(Not to mention they all had nightmares of their own demons.

Were you ever really away when it lingered?)

They grimace in grim agreement, reading the subtext to her words.

Natasha glances at the screen, where Ashla is greedily finishing off a bottle of water. “Did he say that not all his trainers were dead?”

Coulson nods. “The information he gave wasn’t very helpful to the tech department, though, but it’s only been a day. You think they’ll come after him?”

“Maybe. If they think he’s alive. One doesn’t put that much effort into a weapon to be content when they lose it.”

Coulson looks at her as he thinks. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Clint reading things not said in their conversation. “We’ll deal with it when it’s a problem, then. Based on that wound, they surely tried to kill him.”

“So are we getting a new team member?” Clint says in the lull of conversation, “‘Cause, like, Coulson, you’re starting to get a reputation for adopting dangerous children. Agents won’t shut up about it in the halls. Unless, of course, they see one of us walking by.”

“Romanoff?” Coulson says, the one word asking all of if that’s all she has to say on Ashla.

Natasha smirks, rather thinking the kid reminds her of Clint. Dangerous children indeed. Not to mention that Clint is older than her. “Ashla’s not going to tolerate being penned up. I believe it is in everyone’s best interest to use him and his skills. Otherwise, he’s just going to leave and we’ll lose a valuable asset.”

Coulson raises an eyebrow, “Just leave?”

“He’s not going to give you a full repertoire of his skills, Coulson,” sarcasm dripping of her words, “He doesn’t trust you. I doubt he trusts anyone. If he can break in and out of a SHIELD facility without being caught, he can probably find a way out.”

Coulson’s too put together to drag a hand down his face. Natasha’s willing to bet he wants to. “I’ve already talked with Fury,” which is remarkably forward-thinking of Coulson, and not a dot out of character, “He said if he passes your analysis, then he’s cleared for the team. So?”

“He has issues. He’s angry, paranoid, intelligent, and despite his remarkable compliance with you so far, definitely not one for authority figures or rule following. But he seems to know his limits. Barring, maybe, his anger.” (Paranoia, of course, excluded.) “He’s intelligent,” she says again, “quick on his feet, and a skilled strategist. Like I said, it is in everyone’s best interest to use him and his skills. Tell Fury I give Ashla the green light.”

Coulson nods.

Clint looks at her contemplatively, “Is Jason Ashla his real name?”

She pauses and thinks it through, “As much as Natasha Romanoff is mine.”

Clint nods, her response all the answer he needs. “So, we’re getting a new team member.”

“We’re getting a new team member,” she agrees.

It is certainly going to be interesting.

Chapter Text

Clint is bored. Instead of talking with Nat, or shooting his bow, or playing with his dog, he’s here, watching the kid.

He rather figures the kid -- J, is bored too. He has watched the kid’s eyes flick to the hidden cameras, has watched him glance disappointedly at the handcuffs and proceed to uncuff and re-cuff himself in intervals, and has watched him struggle through BSL.

And that’s another thing. Coulson had mentioned that the kid didn’t speak but in ASL, but he neglected to mention his fluency. And the big ass scar that curves around the front and left side of his throat. Like, fuck.

Clint had his hearing stolen from him and someone robbed this kid of his voice. He couldn’t help but relate.

(In an attempted murder, in all liklihood. He highly doubts that his throat was slit on accident.)

It’s not the same, exactly, but.

So he watches the kid struggle through the British Sign alphabet and wonders how he is already fluent in ASL. He wonders if the bastard who stole the smirking and dirty joking kid’s voice is still alive or if the kid killed him.

Though-- while the kid is capable (he saw the instant takedown on the two criminals the kid killed when he realized it was the easiest, safest route) he doubts anyone could have really been able to retaliate while choking on their own blood.

Clint kinda wants to find the bastard himself, and he doesn’t even know the kid.

Aw, damn, no. The kid’s like Natasha. Dammit.

He’s still watching the kid when Coulson arrives. They stand there for a minute, looking at the kid.

“What’s your plan for him, boss?” Clint finally asks. “‘Cause, like, it’s taking all my willpower to not ask him who made him like this and deliver them to ‘Tasha.”

Coulson glances at him, brows raised.

“The kid can’t even be old enough to drink. He executed two perfect headshots. He hacked and broke into SHIELD. Coulson.”

“I guess we’ll have to see won’t we?”

And no one believes him when he tells them Coulson’s humor is dryer than the Sahara.

Chapter Text

Bruce searches the rubble for days, but he never finds Jason’s body.

He doesn’t tell Dick, or Tim, or anyone what happened. Only that the situation’s dealt with.

The situation’s dealt with.

Lord.

What a way to sum up the situation.

He tells himself that just because there’s no body, that doesn’t mean there’s no Jason. In fact, in his world, it in all likelihood means Jason escaped. Even with his injuries.

But his scans show weird energy reading or days after the explosion.

They don’t match anything in his database. After deliberating, he plugs the readings into the JLA base, and the results are only slightly better.

Eight-four percent for dimension travel.

Seventy-nine percent for an extra dimensional being.

Bruce has vague thoughts to pursue the lead, but then Scarecrow escapes Arkham and then this happens and then that and, and, and.

Bruce searches for days, and he wonders. Where did Jason go?

—--

Years later, when Bruce dies but doesn’t, Tim goes looking.

He searches time, sure, but obviously he doesn’t only search time. That would be dumb.

Tim is far from dumb.

He raids the Batcomputer’s files first, obviously.

And then he discovers the file.

Amongst the other information, lies: Jason Todd: location: unknown, thought to be in alternate dimension based on readings taken at last known location, see attachment.

Tim stares at the screen in disbelief, unsurprised but nonetheless disappointed in the very man he’s trying to save.

Right, well.

Looks like he has two people to hunt down.

Chapter Text

Neon, toxic, Lazarus green washes over his vision and pumps through his blood in waves. The Ankh in his hands feels only colder, dark promises of the deaths to come, it’s cold coolness in conditional agreement with the wilder flames of the Green.

Gunshots ricochet around the room, a loud, banging cacophony. He listens and counts.

Four guards.

Each near their last round.

The closest is on his upper left.

That’s the one that dies first. Jason pops over the table in between the seconds of gunfire, the Ankh in his right hand becoming smaller and sharper once more, and it flies out of his hand and into the jugular of the first guard.

Jason smirks, in dark, grim satisfaction and the Green purrs, excited and alive, and hungry for more. He ducks the next round of bullets, takes a breath, and reforms the throwing knife in his right hand, turning the other knife into the same. In the next lull, Jason shoots out again and sends the knives into their targets -- the guards furthest away from him, who both die with nothing more than a clamour of their bodies dropping. He jumps up and grabs onto the railing above him, swinging himself over and launching himself on the remaining guard.

He saves the worst for last.

The asshole who bragged about beating a child, who bragged about their death -- when he finishes, his screams echoing so sweetly in his ears, no one will even be able to identify him.

He leaves the room coated in twice as much blood as when he enters with a pleased smile as a warning on his lips.

-----

When he once again comes across a room that had been cleared before he got there, Jason cocks his head. He’s almost to the secondary cell block and he’s certain that the unknown X-Man is making their way there, too, just along a different route.

.
.
.

Jason, or the Green, or one and the same, screams, wordless and angry, punching his Ankh through the wall. Firey trails crawl up his throat after the sound. The color washes over his vision and he kicks at the dead guard, furious beyond measure at everything about his situation.

He knows, distantly, that he needs to find the keys and unlock the cages. Presently, the frustration that there are no more targets overrides near everything else.

He takes it out on the fallen bodies, needlessly kicking and screaming and clawing, and spraying much more blood into the air and room than there was before.

“Kid!” The voice is low and has a faint rasp, and is most definitely not one of the kids trapped in the facility.

Jason’s moving before he can really register the figure in front of him. The man is broad and looming, has god-awful sideburns and a deeply intense scowl. His leather suit matches that of the so-called X-Man Jason had met and is stained red with blood from the bodies left behind him and the metal claws coming out from between his knuckles gleam darkly in the room’s half-light. Neither Jason and the Green feel an ounce of pity for the traffickers that found their end on the other side of those unnatural weapons.

With a clang, Jason raises the Ankh against him, and the man meets him claws to daggers. The scowl deepens, taking in Jason and the dead guards littered around him. The kids in the cages press themselves as far away as they can from them, the fear evident in their faces.

The man grunts. “Kid,” he says again, “the guards are all dead. You killed ‘em all.”

Jason cocks his head at the stranger. The Green thumps in his veins, whispering kill, kill, kill. It wouldn’t be easy, Jason thinks, if that metal in his claws runs through all his bones. He’d probably have to go through the eye. Disembowel, maybe, but something in his gut tells him that wouldn't work. It would be a deadly, bloody challenge and Jason nearly grins at the prospect of a real fight.

He swings again, and the two blur in a deadly dance. The man stays mostly defensive, though he scores a deep nick on Jason’s bicep. He’s strong, too, stronger than Jason. Jason’s careful to not let the guy get his hands on him.

Somewhere, in the midst of the Green-tinged fighting, the man says, “I ain’t with them, kid. Come on, snap out of it. Think about the kids,” he jerks his head to the terrified children around them, but jerks back as a blade makes it dangerously close to his eye.

Jason glances at the petrified children all around him. Wane faces and tear-streaked cheeks stare back at him. Dirt stains their clothes and skin, and some kids are obviously sick and in need of immediate care. All have collars, cutting off whatever abilities they may possess.

A distant part of him hammers harder to be free because Jason does not harm kids, but adrenaline, bold and toxic, pumps through his veins and fights back. He shakes his head at the noise, gripping the hilts of the Ankh in his hands. It bites, cold and deep, radiating Death.

The Green hisses back, bubbling acidically, and Jason breathes out sharply, distracted enough from the different magics that the stranger takes the advantage to get a one up on him. An arm wraps around his throat, and Jason instinctively reaches up with his weapons, only to be met with the sharp claws of his attacker. Jason stills, forced to look at the terrified kids and cooling corpses in the room.

He did that. He knows that the kids were already scared, but-- Shit. He murdered and mutilated those bodies in front of them, and Jason’s stomach twists with nausea.

The Ankh melts back into his skin and leaves him unnervingly woozy as it’s power goes dormant and no longer strains on his soul, while the Green snarls and recedes in a draining loss of adrenaline. He slumps back into the stranger, utterly spent and horrified with himself.

He lost control.

Fuck.

“You with me, kid?” The man mutters lowly, his lock on Jason unwavering.

Jason nods mutely and he lets go, and Jason slumps further into the floor. “The kids?” Jason huffs out through his aching throat, pressing his hands against his eyes, then running them back and pulling on his blood-damp hair, just to the edge of pain then past it. His body and muscles and bones, down to his teeth, ache, and his head pounds, and he feels just so heavy now that the adrenaline's gone. Little cuts that had previously gone unnoticed make themselves apparent now, screaming out as his senses come back into his body.

And the carnage. He’s almost completely covered in blood, and it’s not his own. It’s in his mouth. He scrunches his face up in disgust and tries in vain to spit it out.

“Shit,” he mutters hoarsely, “Shit. Shit.” He pulls more insistantly on his hair, taking in the petrified faces around him once more, this time with feeling.

“Yeah,” the newcomer mutters in low agreement, stepping towards the cages on either side and slicing them open with a slash of his claws.

Jason rocks backwards, shoving his head between his knees and struggling to breathe in deep over the coppery taste and stench of blood and sweat and shit. He observes distantly the stranger coaxing the kids out of their cages and towards the winding path to the exit, but not letting them leave yet on their own. Something tells him, instinctively, that if the man had been any threat towards Jason or the children, despite his horror, he never would have tried to fight the grip the Green had on him.

It’s a pitiful reassurance, he knows. But he also knows that those kids aren’t going near him with a ten foot pole. He not only killed in front of them, but he… mutilated the corpses afterwards.

He has to ask, another minute reassurance. “They’re all dead? The guards?”

The man grunts affirmatively, cutting open the last cage and releasing the remaining kids. Then he makes his way over to Jason. His eyes flicker over his body, clinical and assessing. It surprises him to find that there’s no fear, disgust, or misplaced pity shown there. If anything, the stranger’s eyes reflect something like understanding.

Which is absurd, but something in Jason is reluctantly grateful at the feeling.

The man audibly sniffs the air, nodding pointedly at the remains of Jason’s carnage that coats him through his clothes and stains his skin. “Any of that yours?”

Jason refrains from swallowing, copper still on his tongue, and shrugs, pulling on the gash on his arm that the stranger gave him, suddenly at a loss for words. He aches, both from his fight before he got captured and all the ones after, and the head injury still rings against his skull, but… He’s not going to die, so. He’s not really worried. He doesn’t feel particularly worried about much of anything, really, except that everything suddenly feels heavy.

“Anything immediate?”

Jason shakes his head no.

“Then get up. We gotta clear the place.”

That sounds… terribly hard. A deep weight has settled under his skin and if past experience is any indicator, it’s not likely to leave for hours, if not days. Slowly, and with great effort, Jason levers himself to his feet.

The man looks him over and grunts. Only a lifetime’s practice of deciphering such language gives Jason the knowledge that the stranger isn’t happy with what he sees.

Jason would be more offended if he wasn’t currently numb and nauseous. He stares at his blood-caked hands, and further down to that blasted Ankh.

“Kid,” Claws snaps, “Get moving.”

Jason’s eyes flicker up to the stern face of the X-Man, then to the faces of the horror-struck kids behind him. He tries to ground himself. He’s too— floaty. Distant.

The X-Man, the terrified kids, the slashed cells, the corpses, the concrete ground.

Blood, shirt stuck to skin, hair on forehead, the sharp tug of his wounds.

His breathing, the kids’ breathing, the shuffling of feet.

Blood, unwashed bodies.

Copper.

His thoughts clear a little, and the world around him begins to feel a little more real, though he still feels very much on a cliff’s edge.

The X-Man is still looking at him expectantly, kids shuffling nervously behind him. Right. Right, okay, fuck.

Jason takes a step forward, ignoring the minute flinches of the children and pads up to Claws, boots silent on the concrete. The man looks unimpressed, but jerks his forwards for Jason to follow him as he begins to lead the kids out of the cell block.

They walk silently for several minutes, before the X-Man side-eyes him and breathes out heavily with a sour look on his face. In a low voice, he asks, “What’s your name, kid?”

Jason sends him a blank look. No names in the field. But, no, he’s not in Gotham anymore. Or even the same universe. His name – his new one – has been used on operations before. There isn’t actually any real reason to not tell the guy his name.

But— His throat is sore and throbs as he opens his mouth to give some sort of response. He refrains from rubbing at the scar; the man can’t see it anyways, covered in blood as it is. He shrugs, signing out, “J-A-S-O-N,” without any particular care if the man even knows ASL or not.

The man raises an unimpressed brow at him, “No words?”

Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Even if he could muster up the energy, his throat fucking hurts. Jason sends the X-Man a glare that says as much.

Claws grunts. “Logan. Or Wolverine, whatever,” he offers, “You must be the kid that took over for Cyclopes.”

Cyclopes? Sunglasses, Jason struggles to recall through the haze of green anger lingering in his memories. He jerks his head in agreement.

“You’re pretty decent,” for someone so young, goes unadded. The man looks boredly curious, and one or two of the tikes behind them watches them in wary interest.

Jason snorts bitterly, then a thought comes unbidden into his head. Shit. His stuff. He bets he even passed it when he was cutting down the guards like wheat. He scowls.

“What?” Logan grunts.

“My stuff,” Jason signs with a pinched expression. He likes those guns.

“Yeah, yeah,” Logan grumbles, though it’s unclear if he actually understands what Jason’s saying, “Do what you need.”

Jason cuts a glance back at the kids, but– their eyes skirt away from his gaze. They don’t need him, and with those fancy claws Logan has, they’re fairly well protected. Jason looks back to the assessing gaze of the X-Man.

“Don’t run off,” he says as if reading the intent in Jason’s gaze.

He grumbles internally. The place is probably crawling with X-Men at this point. He probably could, he’s just not sure it would be worth the effort. Though, he wouldn’t have to deal with strangers prodding into his abilities and just what Jason is doing here.

He kind of wants to call Clint.

“Sure,” Jason flicks, breaking off from the little party. Logan scowls as he leaves, and he feels several pairs of eyes on his back as he turns away from the group. Then he turns a corner with the vaguest idea of where he’s going and the feeling drops away.

He jerks to a stop, closing his eyes. Heaviness comes crashing back down on him, and he heaves a deep breath, pressing his sticky palms against his eyes.

He’d been doing so good since he got to this universe. No Pit, no green-filled vision, no green-blurred memories. And then the bastards had to go selling kids.

Goddammit.

Fucking hell.

He’s just so tired of this shit. And he was doing so good.

He definitely wants to call Clint, and that thought alone dissolves him into another host of issues. Since when did he last trust so easily? Because he does– he trusts Clint, and Nat, and Coulson. And, that hurts too, because he’s only known them for a few months, but in the face of the first sliver of kindness he’s seen in years he’s falling into blind trust like a damned fool.

And, they must be worried about him by now, right? He hasn’t checked in in at least a day, and standard protocol is that they report in immediately post-mission.

Static cuts though his thoughts. Actual static, coming from his pocket. Jason blinks down at his red soaked pants, before remembering the radio Sunglasses– Cyclops had given him. He fishes in his pocket for it, before holding it up to his ear.

There’s a click, then Coulson’s worried voice is saying, “Jason?”

He grunts to let the man know he’s listening, then taps an affirmative against the shell of the radio. The emotion in Coulson’s voice hurts. Because– Because it means Coulson cares. Or he’s at least pretending to.

Jason hears a sigh of relief over the line, “I’m glad you’re okay, Ashla. Are you in need of immediate medical aid?”

He taps ‘no’.

“Are you injured?”

He taps ‘yes’. The man’s not dumb at any rate.

“The X-Men are on the scene. It’s how I’m communicating with you now,” yeah, Coulson, he knows, “They’re a group we’ve had our eye on. They seem to be doing good work, but we want to open communications with them.”

Jason’s not a mutant. He knows Coulson knows that. He is enhanced, which his boss doesn’t know, but that’s not the same as being born with them. Like the man can hear his thoughts, he continues, “You saved their children, Ashla. Use that as an in. And, you’re injured. They’ll no doubt offer you medical care.”

Jason grimaces. Debatable. He did what he could, no doubt, but the kids would have been freed either way. He thinks back to the non-lethal Cyclopes and amends that thought to most likely freed either way. He’s not too sure about the medical aid either.
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“Your– Your hair’s white,” Clint says with mild shock.

Jason grimaces. Yeah. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror after his shower and halted where he stood. Throughout his hair there are abrupt white patches, anywhere from single strands to whole chunks, giving him a near salt and pepper look. Or dalmatian. Not only that, but patches of his skin have been bleached, too. He had thought it was just the steam when he saw it in the shower, but standing in front of his mirror, after having wiped away the condensation, it was most definitely not the steam. Pale, near Joker-white spots splatter across his body. One curls under his jaw and another over his left hand, and there’s a trio of quarter-wide spots across his right rib cage, and that’s all just above the waist.

Yeah.

Clint’s eyes flicker to his jaw, and then they narrow. “What the fuck happened, dude?”

Jason’s mouth twists, and he can’t quite meet Clint’s eyes so they flicker over his shoulder to the bare wall of his living space behind him. He taps his fingers against his thigh, dying for a good smoke. Instead, the Ankh flows off his skin and into his hand, a lithe knife, then dagger, then knife again, when he can’t keep his concentration focused enough for a bigger form. The use of the magic tugs at his already tired core, and with a flutter of his fingers, he dissipates the Ankh entirely.

But Clint saw, and that’s all that really matters.

“Huh,” is all the response he gets. Out of the corner of his eye he watches as Clint breathes out deeply, scrubbing a hand over his eyes before sitting on the edge of his bed. “Okay. Okay. I don’t understand why you didn’t tell us before— well, no, I do, I just– Why not once you trusted us?” He waves a hand through the air, cutting off his jagged stream of chatter-thought. Clint’s eyes pin him with a look, “Sit,” and with a discordant jumble of pangs through his chest, Jason does, mere feet away from him on the same bed.

“So… you’re powered?” The question is softer than he deserves, and Jason shys away from Clint’s kind eyes.

Yes. No. Jason tilts his head back to look at the dull, gray-white ceiling. He holds his hand out and tilts it side to side.

“Not exactly?” Jason can sense the thin annoyance in Clint’s overall gentle voice and tries to ignore the pang that presses against his chest.

“I–” Jason croaks hoarsely. His throat still hurts. Talking never used to take this much effort. Fuck Bruce. “I died,” he signs, because it’s easier and less– Less.

He ignores Clint’s soft hush of air and continues to stare at the ceiling. “D-E-A-T-H brought me back,” he gestures jaggedly. “There’s… this thing,” he pauses, stumbling over the word. Lazarus? Chemical? Substance? No, ‘thing’ is much easier to sign. Though he supposes he knows ‘toxin’ well enough.

“It enhanced you?” Clint prods gently.

Jason nods, then shakes his head. “Made me wrong. Angry, more than I was.” His fingers falter.

He can sense more than see Clint open his mouth and he holds a hand up to halt him. He shakes his head. He needs to finish. “Spent time with some assassins… Decided,” he shrugs, making a skeptical face, “to get revenge.

“Nearly died again.” Jason dares a look at Clint.

The man’s masks are shot. His brow is furrowed and his lips are turned down, but his eyes— They swirl– with anger, grief, pain, sympathy, but no pity. They nearly glow with all his untold emotions in the lamp-lit room.

Clint meets his eyes, and Jason swallows a lump against all that emotion. His eyes prick, and he’s tired, and it’s been such a long fucking day, but he needs to finish.

“Got…” he taps his left hand against the Ankh, “and came here. Started over.”

Clint remains quiet for a long time. His face is long and hard in thought. Jason waits. Eventually, Clint sighs, seemingly frustrated, “If I told Coulson, he'd put you on the Index.”

Jason hums affirmatively.

“You don’t want to be on the Index.”

Jason eyes him. It’s clear he’s not looking for confirmation, just that he’s trying to put his thoughts in order.

“Jason,” he says, eyes flickering up to look at him. Clint searches his face, and whatever he finds makes his eyes shudder and harden in determination. “SHIELD isn’t the only one who can access that though, anymore, is it?” Clint nods to himself, “Right. One question, though, if I’m breaking SHIELD code for you. Why’d you tell me?” Why’d you put me in this position?

“Everyone I’ve ever trusted has betrayed me,” he signs slowly. He thinks about the knot in his chest, the way he and Natasha have looked out for him without anything expected in return, about how rarely somebody gives anything without expectation of return. “The way I see it, I’d rather know now, than later.”

“If we’d betray you,” Clint responds, expression pinched and turned down with sorrow and understanding.

Jason tilts his head in agreement, gaze straying away from Clint, “I could…” he waves his hand in front of him slowly, gesturing, “just disappear. If I needed to.”

“Coulson’d probably understand,” Jason cuts his gaze back to him, and Clint lifts his fingers lightly in defense and backtreads, saying with finality in his blue eyes and voice, “I’m not going to tell him. I think that you should, though.”

And, well, it’s not that he doesn’t trust Coulson. It’s that he doesn’t trust SHIELD. Jason shrugs, “I’ll consider it.” His fingers hover in the air unsurely. He wants to say thank you, but something holds him back. He drops his hands, collapsing backwards back onto the bed with the motion.

Clint snorts, breaking the fragile feeling in the air. “So. What is it, exactly, that–” he makes a waving motion in Jason’s general direction.

Jason considers the ceiling, darting his gaze to Clint and rolling his eyes with a shrug, working his jaw to say out loud, “Strength. Healing. Vaguely enhanced senses. Uncontrollable rage. Bad-ass weapons,” he clears his throat as his voice dips, and says quietly to the ceiling, “I don’t think I’ve aged.”

The idea has been rolling around in his head a while. Ra’s is hundreds of years old, and that’s thanks to the Lazarus Pit. Maybe it’s from constant exposure, or maybe it’s a one and done deal. Jason’s still young, all told, and it’s not like he’d be showing physical signs of age for a few years. But– after the Pit dealt with the malnutrition of his childhood, and he’d beefed up, well, he’s been looking like a fresh-faced nineteen year old for a while. Maybe a little older or younger, dragged backwards to the day he was thrown in the Pit and pulled forwards by his life’s hardships.

Clint hums in consideration, eyebrows twitching together. “Could be the healing. Or,” he says with emphasis, “the fact that I still don’t believe you’re old enough to buy alcohol legally.”

Jason frowns and signs, “I can buy alcohol legally.”

“Sure,” Clint says with heavy sarcasm, leaning back on the bed with his elbows, “because your SHIELD ID says so. It’s kind of frowned upon to hire people to take out hits when they’re not even old enough to buy drinks.”

Jason snorts, darkly amused. Clint’s not wrong. Coulson had given him his SHIELD ID with a straight face, but as Jason took it and looked over it with an amused grin, he had given Jason a small frown. Jason had raised his eyebrows and they had both let it be.

“For real, though,” Clint continues, “how old are you?”

Jason considers. He died when he was fifteen. He came back a year later. And it wasn’t until months later when he was thrown in the Pit and finally surfaced from his walking coma. So what does he count? When he was born, how long he’s been alive, or long he’s been awake? Finally, he shrugs, signing above his chest with a yawn, “Not sure,” then with actual, verbal words, “Somewhere between eighteen and twenty.”

“Somewhere–” Clint curses, throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling with a huff. Jason watches him as genuine amusement curls through him. “You really aren’t old enough to drink. Holy shit. I was mostly just ribbing you.”

“Well–” he says outloud, just as the doorbell rings. “Red?” he asks.

Clint grunts, shifting upwards to pat for his phone lost somewhere on the bedside table. He finds it, clicks it on, and says, “Yeah, it’s Natasha. She has pizza.”

“I’m coming in, Barton!” he hears Red’s voice echo throughout the apartment, “You boys better come down before I eat all this myself!”

“Well, you heard the lady,” Clint says, levering himself up to his feet. He holds his hands out to pull Jason upwards. He stares at them despairingly, perfectly comfortable with his spot on the bed, feet and lower legs still dangling off. Clint wiggles his eyebrows, “Do you really want to risk it?”

Jason groans, throwing his hands up to meet Clint’s and holding tight while bracing himself against the floor as he’s pulled up.

Chapter Text

He’s along the perimeter of the Fire-Fighters Family Fund gala, soft music and chatter in the background, tagging along with Coulson who is trying to get an appointment scheduled with Stark through Ms. Potts.

Jason told him ‘I told you so’ on the way here.

He scans the crowd, one eye always on Coulson, glad he doesn’t have to socialize. He gets away as the bodyguard once again. Coulson’s at the bar when Tony Stark walks in.

The media outside says nobody was expecting him. (Coulson disagreed.)

The two talk, and Jason pins Stark as absolutely distracted. He follows his gaze to the gorgeously clad Pepper Potts in a backless blue silk dress and rolls his eyes. Stark isn’t going to remember a word of his and Coulson’s conversation.

He tells Coulson as much when he approaches the bar, ordering a whiskey.

Coulson tells the bartender to cancel his order and says with a frown, “Maybe. I’ll call SI tomorrow to make sure. Are you old enough to drink?”

“It depends what my SHIELD documents say,” Jason replies, leaning back against the bar and watching Stark dance with Potts through the crowd.

“We went with the older age for convenience’s sake. You know that.”

“You do too. But what I’m hearing is I could have had that whiskey.”

“You’re on the clock,” Coulson replies, “and I know you consider yourself younger.”

He looks at Coulson out of the corner of his eye, then rolls them. “Well, you did what you set out to do. Go enjoy the party, Coulson. Live a little.”

“Are you going to order more alcohol while I’m away?” Coulson asks.

“Nope,” Jason replies, “Designated driver. Go have fun.”

Coulson spares him an exasperated glance and doesn’t move. Instead, he stares stoically as Stark and Potts move to the balcony.

Jason sighs minutely. “Shouldn’t have said anything,” he mutters. “Coulson. Go. Enjoy yourself. Or do some sleuthing,” he adds when Coulson finally breaks his gaze from where Stark and Potts retreated to the balcony to look at him.

“Sleuthing?”

“You don’t seem to do much else,” he answers.

Coulson glances at the crowd, “I know a cellist.”

Jason smirks, “Yeah? Well, go learn some dance moves for her.”

Coulon finally breaks his image of anything other than the fake, bland smile of Agent Coulson or the flat faced look of Agent Coulson with a twitch of his lips ticking upwards. “Fine. Don’t cause any trouble and keep an ear open.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jason waves his hand through the air. “I’ve been read the SHIELD protocol enough times. Now go.”

Coulson finally disperses into the crowd, leaving Jason alone at the bar where he unfortunately will not be indulging in the no doubt expensive brands behind the counter. Jason has an eye on him and the rest of the gala when Stark emerges from the balcony a few minutes later and makes his way over the bar.

Christine Everhart, a newswoman, walks up to Stark, her blonde hair pulled back and decked in a black gown. Jason, ever the spy, listens in on their conversation. (Or a confrontation from Everhart, depending on your point of view.)

It doesn’t get interesting until Everhart interrupts Stark, “Is this what you call accountability?” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Everhart give Stark a photo. “It’s a town called Gulmira. Heard of it?”

He doesn’t react obviously to the town’s name, but Stark’s body language reads recognition. Stark flips through the photos, brow pinched. “When were these taken?”

“Yesterday.”

Stark glances up from the photos, “I didn’t approve any shipment.”

Jason desperately wonders what’s on the photos. His money’s on weapons.

“Well, your company did.”

“Well, I’m not my company.” Stark hurries off from the bar towards the gala’s entrance and Everhart trails behind.

Jason watches them go, wishing he could follow without it looking suspicious. Instead, he seeks out Coulson.

He finds him chatting up some businessmen in suits more expensive than a year’s worth of his rent when he was a kid.

“Coulson,” he says, tapping the man on the shoulder, “Got something.”

Coulson politely dismisses himself from the conversation and the two of them retreat to an unoccupied corner.

“Everhart, you know, the newswoman, approached Stark with some pictures about a town called Gulmira. Whatever is on them has to do with SI and unapproved shipments. Stark didn’t know about it, but he recognized the town’s name. Given the nature of Stark and SI, I’m betting the shipment is weapons. He rushed out of here in a hurry.”

Coulson’s eyes flicker back and forth as he thinks, as if tracing something unseen in the air. “I’ll check SHIELD’s databases.” He finally focuses on Jason, “Gulmira is a town that’s been attacked by the Ten Rings before, the same group that kidnapped Stark.” Coulson’s face is grim, “Whatever was on those pictures, it can’t be anything good.”

“No,” Jason agrees, staring towards the gala’s entrance, “It can’t.”

Coulson looks him in the eye. “Which means your mission parameters are unchanged.”

“Do you really think Potts is going to know anything?”

Coulson looks contemplative. “It certainly can’t hurt to try.”

“You really don’t know anything about big businesses, do you?” Jason shakes his head. “Nevermind. I’ll talk to her.”
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Jason is half a step behind Coulson as they enter the underground garage, a week after the Fire-Fighters gala. Potts is on the phone with Rhodes, having been unable to reach Stark. The other five agents with them fan out, entering their own cars.

Potts has found vital information on the CEO’s laptop. Stane ordered the hit on Stark, which in and of itself was a surprise, seeing that Stark was kidnapped. Ten Rings reneged on the offer after they realized who they were paid to kill. Stane has blueprints for a metal suit (better and more similar to the original one suspected to be Stark’s method of escape from captivity, but less conservative than Stark’s current model.)

Jason climbs in the backseat of Potts’ silver vehicle, with Coulson claiming shotgun, (though not so expressively. He just takes the seat.) Potts drives.

She doesn’t spare him more than a glance after they all buckle in.

What Jason can’t believe is that the other agents are wearing suits. Like this is the kind of party where you wear jacket and tie suits, not high-grade SHIELD gear that will actually protect you from whatever nasty things are hidden in metal super suits.

Jason is in his high-grade, bulletproof, fireproof, SHIELD tactical suit, complete with at least a dozen hidden knives, one of which is made from the kind of metal that can cut through other metals, a thigh and calf holster for each leg, a high collar —he is not having his throat cut again— and a utility belt. The only piece of his ensemble that he has yet to put on is his helmet.

Coulson looks at him through the car’s internal mirror. “You know that this is just an arrest, right? We have no proof that Stane has even begun to build his suit.”

Jason scoffs. “Well, that’s why you have me. ‘Cause everyone in the whole freakin’ multiverse has shit luck, so my money’s on the suit already being assembled. And if I’m overkill? I’m overkill. Better safe than sorry.”

The rest of the drive is spent in tense silence, with the occasional word between him and Coulson or Coulson and Potts.

They arrive, parking haphazardly in front of the SI facility’s entrance directly into the reactor room. Jason slips his helmet on, and the HUD springs to life, scanning and pulling up diagnostics almost immediately. They exit the car, entering the building through the glass doors, and pass the arc reactor as Potts mutters, “Section 16, Section 16. There it is.”

A big, yellow door leads to Section 16. How discrete. Potts scans her key, Coulson just behind her, and Jason just behind Coulson. The key fails and she tries again.

Potts turns to Coulson, “My key’s not working. It’s not opening the door.”

Coulson simply holds his hand out, and Jason places a small explosive from his belt into Coulson’s hand. It seems like he wants to go full-out cool spy mode. Coulson loves doing that sort of thing.

Potts’ innocence towards weapons is frankly astounding, given who she works for, he thinks as the woman questions the device’s purpose.

Coulson tells her to take a few steps back, and she retreats to the back of the group, hands over her ears as the explosive beeps in warning. It goes off, and further into the facility they go, Coulson leading.

They go down stairs, a nice, big metal door at the end with a little glass window that Coulson looks through.

Yeah, no.

Jason steps in front of Coulson as he opens the door with his gun drawn. ”Sorry, bossman,” he says, pulling his own gun, “but if you’re trying to get yourself killed, you’re on the right path. Let me.”

He enters the chamber, water throwing up distorted light on the walls. He makes his way past cables and electrical boxes, his footsteps are silent from habit, but those behind him (especially Potts’s heels) clang obtrusively. He figures that if that hadn’t given away their presence, the explosion to enter would have, so he shrugs it off.

His helmet pulls up data from the equipment around them, and it does all sorts of things once he lays his eyes on the battered metal of a clunky armour suit. Well. Shit. He told Coulson so.

“Looks like you were right. He was building a suit,” Coulson says next to Potts, agents gathering around them.

Jason tilts his head, something about the scene not sitting right with him. “Something’s wrong. Look at this suit, Coulson. It’s unusable.”

A metallic creaking fills his ears echoes throughout the space. Jason stills, and silently, he, Coulson, and the other agents split up. Jason follows Potts. The turn a corner and— sparks fly in an empty chamber, just big enough that Jason wishes he brought bigger guns.

Potts turns around and he follows her while the other agents and Coulson split up. A few steps, and a rack that looks suspiciously like what could hold an even bigger suit lies empty, open wires sparking.

Shit.

They walk a little further. Chains rattle behind them (not ominous at all, no, just air currents and a nonexistent breeze) and they turn around. He gently presses Potts behind him while he approaches, gun raised. He isn’t optimistic about the chances that the bullets will actually do a damn thing, and wishes not for the first time that he had Natasha’s Widow Bites.

Glowing eyes greet him from the darkness, rising way above his frame with a metallic whir. Lovely. Jason has just enough mind to tell Potts, “Run!” as he raises his gun and aims for the glowing eyepiece.

A giant-ass metal arm bashes him out of the way as Potts takes off, and the shot goes wide (or at least doesn’t kill the bastard). He grits his teeth, lying there on the ground as metal-man Stane runs off after her, trying to catch his breath.

He hears shots and explosions from further in the chamber, along with the horrible sound of metal being torn to shreds as he finally gets his feet underneath him again.

He makes it back to Coulson and groaning agents, checking all of them for vital signs manually, even as his helmet brings back positive readings. Alive. Good.

He glances after Stane’s trail of destruction, debating for only a second whether to get the men out or go after Potts’ and Stane.

The crashing bodies of Stark’s red and gold suit and Stane’s steel one make the decision for him, and Jason starts helping Coulson to his feet.
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He’s climbing up the stairs with the last injured agent when he hears Potts yell, “You’ll die!”

Oh, hell no. He slings the agent over his shoulder, running the stairs as fast as he can. He emerges from Section 16 to find the arc reactor spewing electricity everywhere, glass covering the floor, and Stark hanging from the ceiling missing armour pieces while Stane yells at him.

No one fucking clues him into anything. He grits his teeth, hauls the agent outside, and shoos them all farther away from the facility.

He re-enters just as Potts presses a red button. Kill switches just aren’t creative these days. Goddammit. He gathers her up in his arms, apologizes brisky, and fucking bolts from the building as energy shoots upwards behind him, blinding his HUD enough that he tells Potts where to turn it off and trusts that she’ll shout at him if he’s about to smack them into anything.

He blinks as the screen is shut off, vision significantly reduced when he’s down to just the helmet’s lenses.

“Tony!” Potts shouts from his arms, face distraught as she looks back towards the burning building. She struggles in his arms, and he sets her down, but keeps her from running back into the flames in search of Stark.

“Potts! Potts! Pepper, listen!” The woman stops struggling to break away from him and turns to him, tear tracks marking her face. “I’ll go look for Stark, alright? My suit’s fireproof.” Sort of.

She nods, opening and closing her mouth as she fails to find words.
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I am Iron Man.

Well that’s certainly one way to do it.

A vigilante-pseudo-superhero, outing his identity to the world. It’s so different from the universe he left behind that he marvels at the differences.

This world, it’s heroes, they’re only now coming to light.

His, where the Golden Age of Heroes has set and settled in.

He wonders for a moment for the future of his own anonymity. Because Stark’s setting a precedent. Stark’s rich and powerful and has the most dangerous weapon in the world. He can hide behind it all with cocky smiles and too much money and daggered words.

Vigilantism may be illegal, but it isn’t for men like Stark.

But Jason’s not a vigilante anymore. He snorts. He’s a fucking government spook. Jesus Christ. One of the perks of being a spy, he supposes, is that he isn’t fucking yelling his name for all his enemies to devour and chew up and spit out in revenge. He isn’t on the run from the law -- at least not in America -- and he has mostly clean cash. It could certainly be worse.

Chapter Text

“How old are you?” Rogers asks him, grabbing his shoulder.

Jason jolts to a stop, flicking the hand off his shoulder, “Well, anyone seems old to a senior citizen.”

“Kid.”

“I’m not a kid, Rogers,” he says, turning fully to face him.

“I mean,” Banner adds, “you do seem kind of young.”

Jason glances at Nat who doesn’t give him anything more than a pointed look.

“Fine,” he replies shortly. “Depending how you look at it, I’m twenty two or twenty three.”

“Depending on how you…”

“You’re not the only one who’s come back from the dead.”

Rogers’ face pinches, “That’s too young for this.” He glances between him and Nat, “SHIELD starts training you that early?”

“Please,” Jason responds, resuming his walk, “give me some credit. I didn’t join SHIELD until three years ago.”

“That doesn’t make things better.”

“Look, FroZone, what were they going to do? Let a nineteen-year-old trained killer who could both hack and break into SHIELD without getting caught go?”

“You-”

“You’re allowed to join the army when you’re eighteen. I just started early.”

“Maybe we should move on to a new line of discussion?” Banner interrupts, looking extremely uncomfortable.

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“We. Are not. Soldiers!” Jason finally erupts, shoving his chair backwards as he stands, “We are people! We are sons and daughters! We have lives! We have friends, we have family! We are not just some pawn to be sacrificed where the only thing to remember us by is a suit in a memorial with ‘A Good Soldier’ on the plaque!” His breathing is coming hard.

But we are soldiers, the nasty part of his brain whispers, And soldiers have lives, too. But-- He’s trapped-- So--

“Jason,” he hears Nat call distantly.

“Coulson was not a soldier! He had someone back home. He had us!” He waves his hand around the table, “He was not someone we sacrificed to win a war! He isn’t just moral inspiration, like that’s all he had to offer! He- He-” Jason balled his fists, glaring at Fury, at Rogers. “He was not a good soldier, he was a good man.”

“Jason,” Nat was in front of him now, green eyes peering up at his face, posture slightly defensive, “Jay. We know. We know.” She touches him lightly where his fist is curled on the table, “But you need to calm down. You’re looking a little green,” she whispers.

He turns his glare on her. Just as quietly and much more viciously, he answers, “I’m saving it for the fucker who killed him.”

He’s going to avenge Coulson, like he wanted someone to do for him.

She nods, barely a tilt of her chin, “Good. So stop taking it out on us.”

He closes his eyes and breathes in slowly. He holds it, releasing to just as slow. He repeats the motion. He opens them, looking to Nat. She nods. “Okay, “ he says, gaze flickering from Nat to Clint to Stark to Rogers and Fury. “We are not soldiers,” he repeats, ignoring the way his brain whispers back and forth with itself, “We are the goddamn Avengers and the bastard who thinks that this planet is his, he has another thing coming.”

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Fury catches his arm as he hurries out, “A word.”

Jason tilts his head, voice tight, “I got places to be, Fury.”

Fury raises an eyebrow, eye hard and… something. He doesn’t think he’s seen that emotion on Fury before.

He sighs, setting his duffle on the ground, “Yeah, before Thor leaves without me. I’ve delayed him enough as it is.”

They walk a short ways down the hallway, entering a door on the left. Fury pulls out a device and Jason’s ears pop at the high noise. He’d ask Fury if he was paranoid, but he already knows the answer to that question.

Jason settles against a wall, arms crossed.

Fury stands across from him, hands on his hips under his trenchcoat. He’s looking at him like he might regret what he’s about to say. Fury closes his eye, lets out a breath, then fixes him in his rock-hard gaze, “Coulson’s alive.”

He jerks off the wall, heart pitter-pattering in his chest. “You’re lying,” he says viciously, getting in Fury’s space. Had he been in any more mind, he’d have been astonished that he got that close, “I saw that wound. No one could survive that.”

“Correct-” that about stops Jason where he stands- “Phil died. And we brought him back.”

He’ll unpack that later. Jason clenches and unclenches his fists, chest feeling wobbly, staring at some spot to the right of Fury’s eyepatch. He feels empty, filled back up to fast, head both floating and too full, generally just-- overwhelmed. Relieved. Finally he grits out, “Was he alive when you told us?”

“No.”

Okay… okay. He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. The sharp green spike ebbs some. “Why are you telling me?”

“Hill brought up that your… rage issues might cause some problems in the wake of Coulson’s death. With you going to Asgard… Well, we wanted you to not start a war between our peoples when you try and murder Loki. Congratulations, you’ve been upgraded to Level 7.”

Jason scoffs and steps out of Fury’s space. He tries to stay still for all of two seconds before he starts to pace, “The others don’t know, do they?”

“No,” he tilts his head slightly as he corrects himself, “Barton knows, so Romanoff probably does as well. And you’re-”

“--not going to tell anyone else. I-- dammit Fury,” he stops and glares, “I don’t like keeping secrets like that.”

“And I don’t expect you to. Now, go superportal our galactic guests back home. Get a grip on those new powers of yours,” Fury tilts his head in his closest public display of a smirk, “And make reports on anything and everything you see in Asgard and beyond.”

Jason snorts; he gets to spy on his new ally and lie to the people he’s closest to. “You got it, boss,” the words spit out tinted green. He shakes his hands out and puts one hand on the doorknob. His eyes are closed when he whispers hoarsely, “Thanks.”

He leaves.

Chapter Text

He looks at the markings the Bifrost burned into the concrete. “That is not an inconspicuous way to travel.”

Thor glances at it and back up to him, “I suppose it is not. But it is not meant to be, either.”

“Right,” Jason says, looking around the space where sentients, humanoids with colored skin, others with horns or who are shiny, are starting to stare, “Well, I guess this is where we part ways for now.”

Thor holds out his hand, “Should your teleporting fail, Heimdall would open the Bifrost for you, son of the Ash.”

“Really, Ashla, Jason, or even just Jay is fine,” he responds, shaking Thor’s hand in turn.

Thor smiles. Jason wonders if he borrowed it from Clint. “I know. But it is fun to see you humans respond to the formalities in your names.”

“Yeah, I bet it is,” he mutters under his breath. “Alright. We’re starting to draw attention here, lightning rod.” Jason steps out of the Bifrost’s burn radius.

Thor nods, looking around, “Yes, I suppose we are. Heimdall, when you’re ready!”

A thrum runs up his right arm, and Jason takes a few steps back, raising his arm to cover his eyes as the Bifrost slams down.

“Right,” he says, looking around at the crowd who is definitely staring now, “Nothing to see here, folks!”

He hefts his backpack further up onto his shoulder, his duffle bag in hand, and weapons strapped firmly to him, “Now, to buy a spaceship or to hop rides on another, that is the question.”

-----

He buys a spaceship. He buys a spaceship.

The humanoid he bought it from, because they weren’t human, with ridges on their face and slightly blue tinted skin, sold it to him for almost a quarter of his credits which had been gifted to him from Thor.

Jason had done his research first, staying two local nights in a space tavern while he scouted shipyards, talked to the locals about who had the best prices, and searched the galactic web. The ship was a fair price, and he has plenty of cash left over for food, fuel, and anything else he might need. He inspected the ship, too, and everything was in working order.

He has a captain’s cabin under the cockpit, fit with a semi-comfortable cot, two shelves, and a small closet. His cabin has an entrance directly up into the cockpit, and another into the cargo hold. Behind the cockpit-- which has two seats-- there is a small kitchen and dining area, with the ladder down to the cargo hold / lounge area / entrance to the ship. There are two doors behind the kitchen, the one on the left which leads to a bathroom, the other a small bunk room which could potentially be converted to something else. He doesn’t see having many guests on board. Overall, it’s small, but comfortable.

She has a red and steel gray paint job and he names her Star-Feather. If Clint were here, Jason would not be hearing the end of it. As it is, he’s already cringing about telling him when he eventually goes home.

He drops his backpack and his duffle on his bed in the cabin, taking out the two pairs of clothes he has besides the one he is wearing (all of which is really just his SHIELD gear, collar for his helmet included, plus one set of worn-in civie pajamas. He has, however, noticed that a lot of spacers wear armour and things very similar to his SHIELD gear, so he isn’t too worried about blending in) from his backpack and sticks them in the top of his closet. He unzips his duffle and looks down at the armour and various weapons inside.

Much like the Bifrost, his Asgardian armour is not inconspicuous. Neither is his helmet, but he upgraded the latter for space so it could very potentially be useful soon. He leaves both where they are, but makes a mental sticky to look them over and polish or repair it if they need it later.

He rummages through the bag further, gently pushing away his armour and extra weapons and grabbing an extra knife or two, specifically taking out one of Asgardian metal gifted to him and replacing it for another on his person. He should have had that on him already, he thinks. His fingers graze something that he did not place in the duffle and he stills, gently moving away the items on top of it.

When his eyes land on what it is, he laughs out loud, “Oh, Stark, you beautiful man.” He picks up his gift, a helmet modeled similarly to his original one, but much less obvious.

There’s a sticky note on it saying, “Birdie #2, wait ‘till it’s on to play with the new toys. -TS.”

New toys…?

The helmet is black and silver, the silver streaks vaguely resembling feathers as it spreads from his eyes around the back of his head. It’s sleeker, and upon closer inspection, seems to be made up of lots of different little metal pieces. The buttons on the sides are in slightly different places and there is an additional button on the right side.

He slips it over his head, the cool metal slotting atop his nose, against the ridges of his cheeks and brow, over his ears, and nestling into his hair. The two clasps that keep the helmet on his head lock together on the back of his head and the helmet comes alive, blue shining in his eyes from the HUD as the system runs opening diagnostics.

“Welcome, Jason Ashla,” a smooth, vaguely feminine voice greets.

A.I. Tony gifted him A.I.

“Hey there. Care to test out Stark’s upgrades?”

A blueprint of his new helmet appears on the HUD in front of him, over where he can look at his surroundings. He reads through Stark’s mess of jumbled notes then clicks his tongue, “That man doesn’t speak in any of the languages I know. Why don’t we just test it ourselves, eh?”

“As you wish,” returns the voice in his ear. Not even half a second later the upgrades are highlighted on his screen.

He bounces on his feet. “Let’s do this.” He presses the new button on the right side.

Clink-clink-clink. Jason listens and feels (watching is kind of hard, when it’s on your face) as the helmet’s metal pieces shift and move down across his face. The HUD collapses down, folding seamlessly into the moving parts. Jason blinks at the strange feeling. There is another shift-clink sound as his helmet unlocks from itself around his ears. Then the metals press tighter on three different points on the shells of his ears, with another pressing on his earlobes, similar to magnetic earrings, but sharper.

Shit. He’ll get Stark back later for the lack of warning.

The metal parts resonate as they all finally come together like a thick, solid chain across the bridge of his nose, then it slides off his face and around his neck, the locks on the back of his head falling with it. The only thing left on his head are what feel to be earrings on each ear where the metal had pressed down and evidently attached themselves. The whole process couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds.

“Hello?” He asks tentatively.

“Here,” his A.I. responds from whichever pieces left on his ears are speakers.

“What just happened?”

“Mr. Stark wanted you to be able to travel with your helmet, so he made it able to transport without drawing attention. Currently, it is in what Mr. Stark has dubbed ‘Bling Mode’ in which your helmet appears as a necklace and piercings. You still have comms and should you press the second earring up on your right ear or enter the voice command, your helmet will return to, again, what Mr. Stark has dubbed ‘Mask Mode.’ The remaining metal that is not for communication has a magnetic field which can be activated to return the helmet to its former shape.”

“Huh,” he runs his fingertips along his new necklace and over the metal on his ears. They don’t poke out, and only the bottom earrings, which are still small, are of any significant size. “Neat.”

He leaves the helmet turned jewelry on and rezips the duffle, stashing it in the bottom of his closet.

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He picks up the phone, ending the horrible ringtone that annoys Clint to no end. “Clint, what’s up?” He asks, tucking it under his ear as he rifles through the cabinets in his little kitchen. He’s out fruit.

“Jay. Hey,” Clint’s voice sounds strained, like when he’s trying to soften the blow of bad news. “We have a situation.”

He shuts his cabinet, the thunk sounding ominously final. “Clint. What is it?” He leans backwards on his counter, staring out into space through the cockpit.

“Three hours ago energy readings spiked in New York, like the day you arrived in this universe.”

His fingers start to tap random patterns onto the countertop. “And?”

“Fury sent Stark and I to investigate. We found two disoriented vigilantes who claimed they were named ‘Batman’ and ‘Nightwing’.”

“Huh,” Jason replies distantly, head floating somewhere else. The Bats followed him to another goddamn universe. (A more logical part of his brain tells him that they could be from a different universe than this one or the one he came from entirely, but that part of his brain goes on ignored.) They don’t want him in Gotham, they don’t want him gone. He can never please the Dark Knight of Gotham, can he?

“---Jason? Jay?” Clint’s voice calls over the phone and in a blink Jason is back in his spaceship, blinking away the rooftops of Gotham.

“Yeah. Here,” he responds tightly. “I’m being called back?”

“Sorry, man. Told Fury you wouldn’t want to.”

“Three hours ago, you say?” Jason asks, thinking back to when the blue stone claiming residence with him thrilled through him, different than when the Bifrost is activated, and different than the always present background thrum of energy, for no obvious reason. The times matched up. Well that’s one mystery solved. “I’ll be there. I have a timeframe?”

“Ehh, you’re in space, Jay. Delays can be expected.”

“I can teleport,” he deadpans.

“But the Bat doesn’t know that, does he?” Clint replies, sounding much too smug.

Jason hums. “He found me somehow. The sooner we figure this whole mess out, the sooner he can go back. I’ll be there in…” He walks into his cockpit, tapping screens to figure out where the nearest spaceport is. There was one half a Terran day away. “On second thought, you think Stark will mind me landing on our fancy new tower with the Star-Feather?”

“Jason,” Clint says like he just heard the most ludicrous thing ever, “If you land your spaceship on the Tower and Stark gets to go in its belly? You might just become his best friend for life.”

Jason snorts, “Of course. Whatever was I thinking? I’ll be back on Earth within the hour.”

“Alright. I’ll give Fury and Stark a heads up. Wait- Can your ship turn invisible? We don’t want the general populace thinking we’re being invaded again.”

“Now who’s asking ridiculous questions? That was one of the first things I modified her with, Clint, com’on. See you soon.” He hangs up.

He looks out into the beautiful emptiness of space and closes his eyes in the quiet.

He figures it’ll be the last he gets of it for a while.

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.

.

“I thought you were dead.” Bruce looks desperate, eyes open and pleading, the multitude of masks finally gone.

Jason can’t really work up any sympathy. Instead, he pulls down the collar of his shirt, a permanent reminder of everything that went wrong.

“And I would be if not for the Lazarus Pit.”

Chapter Text

A deep, low groan reverberates through the space.

Jason looks around, then up. The Dark Elves’ mothership is crashing.

Shit.

He licks his lips, looking around the space as ship parts start to crash to the ground, sending shockwaves up his feet and down his arms to his fingertips.

Okay. Okay, he could do this.

He holds his hands palm up towards the crashing ship. He thinks of the desolate planet the Dark Elves hail from, energy sparks under his skin and tingles on his fingertips, and blue portals open above him.

A giddy, desperate, relieved chuckle escapes his lips and the overwhelming feeling of thank fuck that I’m not about to be crushed almost breaks his concentration. Right. Small parts fall through the portals as Jason slowly starts expanding them.

The ship’s shadow passes over him and his stomach drops, the elated feeling washing away like a riptide, as he realizes he isn’t going to be fast enough to portal all the wreckage away.

Jane shouts something, unheard amongst the clamour-- He can’t hear like this, god dammit-- He barely blinks and he’s looking at the wasted grays of Svartalfheim.

There was no tell-tale tingling sensation crawling over his skin to signal that he had done it. Jane must’ve used her device to teleport it away, her shouting was probably a warning.

Good on her. The ship is still crashing on him..

Sweat trickles down his spine and face as he takes a final glance around through the dust in the air before he teleports away. His gaze catches on Malekith, bared on his back and looking up at their incoming doom.

Damn, he thinks. If lightning and getting beaten around by Thor isn’t going to do it, neither will a falling ship.

So instead of portaling back to England like he so desperately wishes, he summons some remaining dregs of energy and portals over to the bastard, wary of spawning in the falling wreckage.

Malekith looks up at him, vitriol evident on his face as the shadow of the wreckage passes over them, black metals crashing around them, shaking the ground and making Jason’s footing unstable.

Jason crouches down beside him, head cocked, hair sticking to his face, and the Ankh flows into a long knife in his hand, the Tesseract stone in its handle.

The Aether gathers weakly above Malekith, its strength matching that of its host, and blue light batters it away.

“You’ll get your darkness, asshole,” Jason tells him.

Malekith chuckles weakly. Above them, Jason can tell the stone has gone into defense mode, portaling wreckage away without Jason’s say-so, the feeling an uncomfortable prickle along his skin. “The Aether will get what it wants, son of the Ash. Just-“ he stutters off as Jason slits his throat in one, sharp motion, blood bubbling up from the wound and out his mouth.

“That’s nice,” Jason replies. He gets up and steps back, so, so ready to leave when Malekith’s body seizes, dark red vacating his body and swirling above him.

A tug from his right wrist and the Ankh jerks him forwards.

“No,” he says, glancing up at the rapidly descending wreckage and the various glowing portals he has no focus to control, “No,” he repeats as the Ankh flows from knife form to a dark suspension much like the Aether’s, drifting towards the cursed substance. “Look, the mothership is about to crash on us,” he tells it as a particularly large piece crashing sends him stumbling, “I’d really rather not do this ag-“

The Ankh connects to the Aether and Jason has just enough mind to think Greenwich, Greenwich, Greenwich as his body seizes and the world whites out to black once more.

Chapter Text

Hi! Not an update.

OKAY. SO. I have some questions for you all. The original Writing Destiny will not be continued. However, I have been considering a rewrite. Is this something you all would be interested in? I consider anyone who's read this far pretty devoted readers, so I value your opinions.

If yes, this would mean several things. One, it would not be the original Writing Destiny. While the same thing in spirit and overall intention, several key plot points that occurred in the original would not happen in the rewrite. This new one would be more structured and have more direction. Jason would join the Marvel universe later, probably during Fury's Big Week. Jason joining the Coulson, Clint, Nat trio would still happen. The Ankh would still happen. One huge thing that I'm toying with a lot is Jason's mutism in the beginning of the work, and on that I am still undecided. A lot of the snippet stuff I wrote is still up in the air as well.

My original goal was always to cover a majority of the MCU up to Infinity War, preventing The Snap before it happens and having fun along the way. Jason sticks his fingers in practically every pie originally. I would be more selective this time --- the enormity of what I was trying to cover is in part what led me to dropping the original fic.

My goal would be to write quite a lot before starting to post chapters, that way I have a plethora of back-up for when my life inevitably gets busy and overwhelming again. This would probably mean another several months of darkness after I finish posting the snippets (but that's nothing new, lol). The posting period would also likely be quite long, and it would ideally be spread over several fics.

And most importantly, I want to say there is no guarantee that this one would get finished in its entirety either. The main reason I have for not finishing fics is a mixture of being busy and overwhelmed in my real life and burnout with the fic itself. I think better planning and a scaled down undertaking would help with this, but again, no guarantees.

I'm curious (and, in part, in need) for all of your thoughts on this. If there's interest, I'll take it under consideration, and let you know my decision by the last update on this fic (three chapters from now) --- so, by the end of December. I'm happy to talk further in the comments or you can message me on Tumblr --- my user is lameunicorn.

Let me know what you think! (And thank you for reading. <3 )

Chapter Text

Jason enters the University, still tired from the shitstorm that was the past few days, and is prepared to be tired for a while yet. He’s tired from absorbing another goddamn Stone, and unlike last time he isn’t going to the premiere Asgardian resort to deal with the fallout.

He certainly isn’t letting a red stone that could potentially destroy the universe ruin his mood, (and is currently residing in his arm while he has very, very little idea how to control it) though. He’s not just on Asgardian clean-up after all.

He spots his target before they spot him, talking about the dreaminess of Thor, and his face parts upwards and warmth blossoms in his chest, “Coulson!” he yells, voice slightly hysterical.

It hits him, in this second, that some part of him still thought that Coulson was dead. Fury was known to lie after all. The relief sweeping through his limbs is enough to leave him shaky.

Coulson turns, eyebrows twitching upwards in surprise. A small smile breaks across Coulson’s face, and he asks, confusion lacing his tone, “Jason?”

Jason jolts over to him over the semi-organized squares of litter and SHIELD agents, crashing into him and wrapping him in a hug which is returned readily --- partly because he is probably trying not to fall over under the mass that is Jason that just got thrown against him. He holds him close, grip desperate in a way he’s usually not. “I’m glad you’re alive,” he whispers.

Coulson pats his back, murmuring, “I guess this means I’m joining your resurrection club.”

Jason laughs, something somewhere genuinely amused and slightly broken, and breaks the hug, eyes running over him. Coulson looks good-- healthy, alive, maybe a little stressed, but good. “Yeah, I guess you are.”

Coulson’s eyes flick to his head. “And you’re going white?” Coulson’s eyes are lined with worry. He knows what it means for Jason’s hair to be lacking its usual color.

“Oh,” he grimaces, “You know how it is. Evil Asgardian foes,” he shrugs, “Magical stones. The usual.”

Coulson gives him a look.

“I’ll fill you in later! It’s not the kind of conversation you have just standing around in a University.”

“Ah-hem,” a young woman with long brown hair and an amused look to her face grabs his attention, stepping around Coulson while holding a crate of space junk. “And you are?”

He glances at Coulson, who gives him nothing but blank amusement in anticipation of whatever his reaction might be, worry neatly tucked away, so Jason goes with, “Jay. I’ve worked with Coulson for a few years now. I’d offer my hand, but yours are kinda full.”

She looks him up and down, and whatever she finds she must deem alright because she answers him with, “Skye.”

The other, older woman he dismissed in favor of greeting Coulson looks him up and down in a much more frank and detailed manner than Skye. He feels like she can see every little secret he’s ever had. An older and much more blunt Natasha, perhaps.

“Jay, huh?” He can tell immediately that she knows who he is. “I’ve read some of your reports. I’m Agent May.” She doesn’t look all that impressed.

Honestly, knowing what he does about her, he’s not surprised. “May? A pleasure to finally meet you.” He offers her his hand, and he tries not to feel relieved that she returns the grip. He turns back to Coulson, “And Thor totally is dreamy. I’ve even seen him with his shirt off. Dreamy.” He sighs, just a tad despondently, “And straight as the day is long.”

“See?” Skye says, “If May and this stranger who’s apparently seen Thor half-naked both say he’s dreamy? He’s dreamy.”
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Skye looks up at him, curiosity quirking her eyes, “I hear you’re our resident expert on Norse technology.”

Jason nods, “Spent some time with them. When Thor went back to Asgard, Fury asked me to stay here to help with the cleanup.”
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He finds Coulson sitting outside. He lets out a breath, and sits beside him, arms on his knees.

They don’t talk. It’s nice, Jason thinks, but it doesn’t accomplish what he came out here for.

“You died,” he starts. He feels a little lost, scrambling for words, “I know-- I-- I wouldn’t want to talk about it… But,” he shrugs, “I’m here, okay? If you-- If you want to talk to someone who understands.” He doesn’t look at Coulson, and instead focuses intently on a patch of grass coming up between the concrete.

Coulson doesn’t respond for a long time. So long that Jason scrambles, maybe, maybe he was wrong coming here-- saying those things-- goddammit, he just--

“It...” Coulson’s quiet, reminiscent, so small Jason almost misses it, “It was beautiful, Jay-- It was-- peaceful…”

“Yeah,” Jason swallows the lump in his throat, swallows back the burn of memories of the first time he met Death, of flashes of pale skin and a kind voice, of her realm beyond, “it was.”

It’s quiet again, just the faint rustle of trees and the city beyond.

“I feel different.”

Jason closes his eyes. He doesn’t like how rough his voice sounds when he answers, “That doesn’t go away. We-- We came back in different ways. But Death… Death is the same. And coming back is… it’s-- it’s unnatural, Phil,” he sighs, a deep and heavy sound that had no place with someone so young. Young, he thinks, hasn’t applied to him in a long time. He opens his eyes, voice still raw, “I wish I had something better to give you.”

They sit in quiet, in shared memories of a place beyond, simply taking in that they’re alive, that they’re-- here. It could be peaceful. It isn’t. It’s just… quiet.

-----
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His hand touches the silver metal, curving around it as the runes underneath his palm glow red and---

Jason collapses to the ground, images flickering through his head.

The Joker has a crowbar--- “Forehand? Or backhand?”--- Laughter---

Tick, Tick, Tick of a red timer---

Flames lick his skin, smoke invades his lungs, and the weight of a warehouse is slowly crushing him and--- Where is Bruce?

Bruce!

Bruce, who threw a batarang into his throat?

The bomb goes off and he gets buried with the Joker this time.

Good.

But-- But--

Fire is licking him again, bright, hot, and he’s bleeding out--

Darkness.

Pressing, pressing darkness. He moves, but--- But he can’t---

There’s wood above him and he can’t break through, so he wrestles his belt buckles off, breaks through and---

Suffocates, chokes on dirt---

Someone touches his shoulder, distantly shouting his name, and he almost guts them before he recognizes the young face of Skye before him, (he can’t be much older than she is) fear shining in her eyes even as she tries to repress it.

“I--” He jolts off of her, but he doesn’t drop the knife, back pressing against the cold concrete of the tomb, “I-- Sorry-- I need-- I need out.” He tries to focus on breathing, in for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Again, repeat.

But he can still hear his laughter, hears the ticking of a bomb, and thinks the red light is from the timer, not seeing Skye’s eyes flicker to his exposed forearm.

Skye taps her ear, presumably a comm, and calls for Coulson, voice unsettled. A blink, he breathes, and Coulson’s before him.

“Jay?”

“Col — Coulson? I’m — I, I need out, I need out, I need out,” he pleads.

“Okay,” he hears softly in reply. “Jay, Jason, listen to the sound of my voice. You can get out. You have the Ankh, right? Just think of the Bus, okay? Easy.”

The — The Bus. Coulson’s new ride in the sky. He — He can do that, but — “Come with?”

Something broken washes over Coulson’s face, but before Jason can process it, Coulson blinks and it’s gone again. “Yeah, of course. I got you.” He reaches a tentative hand out towards Jason.

Jason breathes out in relief, and instead of taking it, he falls into Coulson completely. Arms wrap around him immediately, and with barely a thought, bright, electric blue wraps around them and they’re transported away.

Chapter Text

“‘Tasha?” His grip on the phone is tight and his fingers tap out nonsensical patterns on his leg. “Natasha, answer the damn phone.”

The phone clicks as the line connects. “Hello?” Her voice is perfectly blank.

“Nat, thank fuck, you’re alive.” A breath he didn’t know he was holding escapes his lips.

“Jason,” she pauses, “Is your line secure?”

He glances around, eyes hopping from face to face. “As much as it can be.”

“...Are you okay?”

He exhales slowly, “No… not injured, but. --No. I don’t think I will be, either. Are you?”

“No,” she answers simply and without infection. “I’m staying at the Tower, for a bit.” Join me, goes unsaid, but heard. “Steve’s alive, if you’re calling. Tony has him in medical.” They listen to each other breathe, lacking words to say. “Stay safe, Jay.”

He chuckles weakly, “Never.”

Nat hums in amusement at the old joke and hangs up the phone.

Coulson finally looks at him, “She okay?”

Jason grunts, fingers tapping erratically on his thigh, “Yeah. Rogers too, but he’s banged up. I’m runnin’ on steam, C. Fuck!” He jerks off the wall. “I need a smoke.”

It must really say something about the day that Coulson doesn’t even reprimand him about how one day his habit is going to kill him, or call him back to prevent him from getting lung cancer.

Fuck.

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“I’ll be in contact, Coulson. I’ve been on Earth too long.”

“Still chasing the galactic threat?”

Jason hums in agreement, “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on the space stuff while you’re down here dealing with domestic threats.”

“Domestic,” Coulson repeats, “Earth-based, you mean?”

“Terran,” he corrects. At Coulson’s look he explains, “It’s what we’ve been dubbed long before we had any say in it.” He shrugs, “Means the same thing anyway. But yeah. We’ve already had one alien invasion, two if you count Greenwich. And… this Mad Titan, Thanos, he’s the real deal, Coulson. This isn’t the sort of situation where you’re safe if you’re ignorant.”

Coulson’s eyes search his face, “Keep in contact, Jay.”

“I will. You’ve got a good thing here, Coulson. You’re a vigilante, fuck.” He snorts. “See ‘ya, C. I’ll be around.”

“Bye, Jason.”

They don’t hug or shake hands. They trust they will see each other again. Jason simply nods his goodbye, stepping backwards and teleporting away, the familiar sensation washing over him.

He has a few more goodbyes to make before he heads to space.

-----

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Energy waves through him, white, yellow, blinding, there’s a tug in his arm, he thinks not again, and then he doubles over in pain as tremors rack through him from the Ankh.

He grits his teeth, falling to his knees. The stones embedded in the Ankh are burning, red, blue, and purple light scattering everywhere. At least it’s not a new one.

The thought is feeble.

A whimper escapes his lips, the energy, burning, pain increases a tenfold, and the world goes dark with a scream.

-----

His return to consciousness is rapid and painful. He’s on the floor of something biting cold, bars at his back.

He groans, “Pain means I’m not dead at least.” He looks around. He’s on the Zephyr with the team. It’s darker than normal, sounds are distant. “Maybe have a head injury though.”

“Yeah,” Coulson says from above, “About that. You don’t have a head injury. We’re not dead,” he gestures between the two of them, Reyes, and Fitz, “But we are in another dimension. The same one, in fact, that the ‘ghosts’ are from. Except we’re in deeper, we can’t interact with anything, and we’re only getting sucked in further.”

He glances between the three of them, sagging further back into the metals of the plane. “Damn.” He grits his teeth, glancing down at his right arm. The stones are shooting energy up through him, colored light flashing under his skin without his permission. He’s shaking, pain surging through him with each cackle of color. “Damn.”

“And,” Coulson continues, grimacing, “everyone thinks we’re dead.” Coulson has a strange look on his face as he studies him. “Jay.”

“What?” he rasps.

“You’re not using the Ankh.”

He glares halfheartedly at Coulson, “No shit.”

“Then why is your hair fading?”

“What?” He scrunches his brows together. “Oh,” he realizes softly, “the Stones are using me to get back. Fucking lovely.”

Chapter Text

He falls to his knees, the earth shaking under his weight. The Mad Titan’s face twists into a sneer. “Who are you?”

Jason straightens, feet planted firmly in the ground, the Ankh a scythe in his hand, the Infinity Stones embedded in his arm. He meets Thanos’s gaze with his own.

With a clear voice, he states, “I am Jason Todd, son of Catherine and Willis. I am the second Robin and second Red Hood, son of Bruce Wayne, the Batman. I am the Phoenix of Death and the Raven, son of Terra. I am the first reborn and the forewarning of war. I am Jason Ashla, son of the Ash tree, the Yggdrasil.” He tilts his head, a nasty smile on his lips, “A bit much, I know. I’m Jason.”

He raises the Ankh, a rainbow of electricity crackling along the obsidian darkness — and swings.

The scythe enters flesh and Thanos’s eyes widen — with fear, with realization. Not fear of Death, for he has long admired Her, but of failure. His plot will never come to fruition, and the universe — The universe will never cleave in two. It will remain whole, imperfect but unbroken.

Jason feels his jaw set in grim success as he holds eye contact with the Titan.

“Say hi to Her for me, won’t you?” and then Jason pulls the scythe from Thanos’s chest and back through his neck. With a thought, the thought, with will and with might and with all of who Jason is, the Stones in the dark nothingness of his weapon blink and pulse and like that one day so many years ago, and several times since, everything around him falls to black.