Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason whistles while he walks, in a relatively good mood. A literal new lease on life, with a backing from someone who sees the world how he does—plus, he managed to score where the local crime lords were planning to meet next week. He had already scoped out the generals and their timetables, schedules, and vices. The plan is going smoothly.

He is on the city sidewalk in Park Row, stepping over trash and vagabonds, not bothering to hide his face. Crime Alley rarely sees the shadow of the Bat. Bruce had a hard time when Jason was alive, could barely stand the stench of poverty. The lowest of the low. That’s his problem, Jason thinks, that he can’t stomach what he refuses to see. His whistles slowly dwindle as he thinks on Bruce.

He sighs. Hones his senses to the now.

The night air is cool. Spring giving up the ghost to summer, as the folks on the sidewalks swell in number. Summer is where anyone who can risk it, will. You’ll see all types, some that can afford to fly south in a few months, some that are new to the life, some that are the meanest, here summer, winter, fall and spring.

Jason focuses on pulling himself out of his memories and a cry echoes in the alley he is walking past. His instincts, still engrained from being Robin, all go on red alert. There’s another sob, a woman, and Jason is in the alley in a moment.

“Hello?”

Her breathing is labored. “Help, please…”

Tucked next to the dumpster, on a pad of cardboard, with a ratty blanket and an old, red bookbag, a woman sits with her legs curled up. The light of the streetlamp barely reaches in. Just enough that Jason can see the shine of water that surrounds her and is all over her pants. Her belly swells out, and her legs shake. His civilian check tells him he has to get her to a clinic, now.

“Hi,” Jason starts, makes sure his voice is soft. “My name’s Jason. I’m here to help. Can you tell me your name?”

She nods. “Clara. My name is Clara.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Clara.” He crouches down. “Is it okay if I touch you? I want to help you up so we can get you to a doctor.”

“No hos–hospital!” A flash of pain steals across her face and causes her to gasp mid-sentence. Clara’s eyes well up with tears. “No hospitals, please. He’ll find me.”

Jason holds up his hands. “Okay, we can go to a clinic. There’s one just a few blocks from here. They typically don’t ask questions they don’t need to.” He isn’t sure what the protocol is for birth, but he figures if she wants to give a fake name on the certificate, the nurses have heard it before.

She reaches out to grasp his hand. “Okay, okay. I’m ready to get up.”

A hand goes to her back as Jason uses his heels to lever her slowly off the ground. “You’re doing great, Clara.” He encourages her as they go from sitting to crouching to standing. She leans her weight on Jason when she stands and he can feel the minute trembles that rock her frame. “Can you walk for me?”

“I think so.” Her voice is wet. Clara’s crying, the tear tracks coating her face. “I can try.”

“Lean on me.” Jason takes as much weight as she gives him and makes sure that his foot goes out when hers does. It is slow work to get out of the alley. He turns towards the clinic. It’s not Leslie’s, but he’s noticed there’s two more in Crime Alley and figures she was right. Sometimes it only takes showing that it can be done for it to happen. “Do you know if it's a boy or girl?”

Clara shakes her head. “No, no. I didn’t want to know and then I was…well, I haven’t really been to a doctor for most of it.”

“That’s okay. As long as it’s healthy, right?”

“Right.” She pants, each inward breath a sniffle. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t raise a baby out here, and I can’t go back. I won’t. But I don’t want to give them up.”

“It’s hard.” Jason tries to empathize. The point is to keep getting Clara to put one foot in front of the other. “My mom did everything she could to keep us together. I’m grateful for it, but I could see it was hard for her. She died when I was young. I loved the time we had together.” And hated it, but this isn’t for Jason right now. He loved Catherine as much as he hated Willis. As much as he hated the pimps and dealers and moldy plaster and broken light fixtures and leaky sinks and no heat.

“Yeah?” Clara looks at him. She’s got blue eyes.

“Yeah. Maybe we could find you some public housing? I know a few people that might be able to help.” Talia could at least point him in the right building to break into and approve her.

“He’ll find me.” Clara says, miserable.

“Your…husband?”

“Yeah, he’s a cop.” They are within eyesight of the clinic. Though it is late, the lights are on. Someone is there and can help more than he can.

“Not the good kind?” It’s a common saying in the Alley—the good kind of cop that’ll throw you into a halfway house or group home and the bad kind. The ones that would rather put you in prison or in the ground. She must be hiding out here since most of the bad kind only come out here when they’re prepared to fight their victims.

Clara shakes her head. “Not the good kind.”

She gasps then and curls forward. Her legs give out and Jason buckles some under the sudden weight. Her hands clutch at his jacket, white knuckled, as she struggles to pull in any breath. Jason moves from calm and collected to worried and collected. He does a quick assessment on her—something taught by Batman. Check for shock, check for blood, check for breath. Her lips are pale and her pupils are way too small. Jason swings her into his arms and does his best to jog the remaining ten feet.

The doors to the clinic slide open. There’s a tired looking woman who mans the front desk, hair tied into a messy bun, who holds a folder in her hand. Jason watches as she looks away from the folder to greet them, and her eyes go wide for a moment before the cool mask of professionalism slides over her features. His heart clenches; there’s no way to tell how standard this is.

“Baby on board,” She says, and it echoes through the comm system that the clinic has set up. There should only be two or three rooms in the back but it works. An older looking woman in scrubs comes through the back door with a wheelchair and beelines straight to Jason.

“Alright, daddy,” She has a no-nonsense tone. Her name tag says Tonya. “You can put her in this and then Shelly will get you the paperwork while we get her settled in the room.”

“I’m not—” Jason starts to say.

Clara grips tighter to him as he lowers her. “Don’t leave me.” She begs, eyes wide like a horse’s.

“We can have you fill the paperwork out in the room. Come on, sweetheart,” Tonya soothes Clara. “Let’s get you all cleaned up and ready to have your baby. Do you have any names picked out? Shelly, grab the intake and follow us. Daddy, why don’t you push? I’ll lead.”

Tonya takes them all in hand with little effort. Jason pushes slowly, with Clara’s hand like a claw on his opposite wrist, and Tonya starts a more thorough evaluation before they are even in a room. She shines lights into Clara’s eyes, asks her to follow the light, checks her gums and starts up a timer on her wrist watch.

Shelly follows behind with a nervous hum in her throat. Jason’s not sure she’s aware she’s doing it—if she’s new, or if this is uncommon, or if this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

“What’s your wife’s name?” Tonya asks.

“Clara,” Jason says, not hearing the question fully.

“Okay, Clara, sweetheart?” Tonya directs her attention back to the woman in the wheelchair. “We’re going to get you out of those pants, and see how dilated you are okay. Do you want your husband in there while we do that?”

“Please,” Clara says. She’s crying, full heaving sobs of panic. Jason has to tap down on his own. “I don’t want to be alone, please.”

“I’ll stay.” Jason smooths down her hair. Tonya opens the door to their room, so tiny that it’s hard for all of them to fit. He helps Tonya get Clara on the bed and looks away as she unceremoniously cuts the pants off.

Shelly pushes him over to the wall, right next to Clara’s head. She goes to explain the intake paperwork, things like names and birthplaces and social security numbers. Before she can hand it off to Jason, who has no idea what to do with it, Tonya sucks in a breath. “This baby’s coming quick. Shelly—go grab Luke for me. Clara, sweetheart, looks like you’ve done most of the hard work before coming in. That’s real good. You’re almost over it.”

“That’s great news,” Jason says, and Clara’s gaze snaps to him. She smiles, with hair sweat-stuck to her brow, a wobbly thing of a stranger sharing a vulnerability. She raises up her hand and Jason doesn’t even hesitate to take it.

“All you have to do is just keep pushing. I’ll tell you when, but I suspect it will be over quicker than you know it.”

A large man fills the doorway, dark skin and pink scrubs, he looks like a real nurse. Shelly must be training. “Dr. Richards,” He says.

Tonya begins to rattle off what she needs from him, setting him in a dizzy to get the room in order, but Jason focuses on Clara’s hard grasp and scared face. All he can do here is hold her hand and be here. So he’s here.

She pushes everytime Tonya tells her to, screaming out and almost cracking the bones in Jason’s hands. Shelly disappears from the room and Luke takes up the other side of the bed. He’s set up a heart monitor and drip and a few other things. It’s forever and no time at all that a cry pierces the air and Tonya holds up a red, squirming infant. Clara looks at him and laughs.

“It’s a boy, mama.” Tonya says. She shows them the child before she hands it off to Luke. He sets to washing the child in the sink along the wall. Jason figures that’s what it must be for. “You did so good.”

“It’s a boy.” Clara looks up at him, eyes unfocused, face happy. “A boy.”

“Yeah,” Jason’s voice is soft. He has no idea what he’s supposed to say. Clara doesn’t even seem to really be here.

“We’ll get him cleaned up, get him named and clothed so you can have a little bit of rest.” Tonya goes to move away, forearms bloody, scrubs ruined. “We can’t get you cleaned up until you pass the placenta, though.”

“A boy.” Clara smiles and her eyes slip close. The heart monitor starts to go crazy. Jason’s seen enough of them to understand the distance between beats is much too much, that the way her body relaxes on the bed is wrong. He looks to Tonya who looks—concerned. It’s not an expression he wants to see.

Clara’s hand goes limp and slips from his grasp.

“Luke.” Tonya says. He’s got the child swaddled and tucks himself behind Tonya to get over to Jason. “Clear the room.” She sits back on her chair.

Luke puts the baby in Jason’s hands. He’s tired, eyes sleepy and bright. They look blue, but Jason knows all baby’s eyes are lighter when they’re first born. That’s what he focuses on, how children change in the first few days, while Luke ushers him out and into a chair in the hallway. It’s next to a small X-ray room.

He rocks the kid, tries to listen out to the room. Shelly rushes in and back out with buckets and tools and small, plastic-wrapped metal. Jason keeps his breathing steady—that’s what keeps a kid quiet, right? It’s like a horse; he can feel when Jason’s afraid and will respond accordingly.

They leave them alone for the next few hours. Jason wants to get up and demand what’s going on, even goes out to the lobby to hunt down Shelly, and sees they’ve locked up. There’s a closed sign on the door.

He sits back in his seat.

The baby gets fussy after about three hours. He’s hungry, so is Jason. He’s tired, so is Jason. They are both uncomfortable in the stale air and unknown. Shelly comes by with a warm bottle of formula. She says she can’t tell exactly what’s happening, she’s sorry, she’s just the receptionist. Jason nods like that’s okay and watches the baby as he drinks down his meal with a single-mindedness.

He dozes afterwards. Jason eyes the door, knows he can’t just leave the baby in the seat and step quietly into the night. The child has his entire hand wrapped around one of Jason’s fingers and they still haven’t heard anything about Clara. Jason decides to close his eyes for just a moment.

There’s a light touch on his shoulder some time later. It’s Tonya, in different scrubs. Her hair is disheveled, and she looks exhausted. As Jason comes to, she steps back to give him his space. The baby rests easy in his arms.

He looks over to the window and sees that the night hasn’t passed quite yet. “How is she?” Jason asks.

Tonya takes a deep breath. “It appears that Clara had severe internal bleeding that started early within her delivery. We did our best to staunch it, but we didn’t have the tools to catch it in time, not like a hospital. Her heart gave out. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Jason looks down at the baby in his arms. Dead mom, awful dad, a strange man holding him. An empathetic sorrow sweeps through him.

“I can get you a list of everything you’ll need.” Tonya says. “Did you two have any names picked out?”

This is the moment where Jason should say that the baby wasn’t his. That he was a helpful passerby for a homeless woman in an alley and he is neither legally or mentally capable of taking this baby. Instead, he opens his mouth and says, “Yeah. Thaddeus.”

The first night with the baby is a nightmare. Jason has to run to the store as soon as he leaves the clinic—using their sense of guilt to get out of providing any pertinent details about Clara besides her last name (Gunn, his grandmother’s) and birthplace (Gotham). He leaves with a seven-point-four pound baby named Thaddeus Clarus Gunn. Jason starts workshopping nicknames for the kid before they even leave the sliding doors.

He promises himself if he ever has a kid again, he’ll give himself three or four hours of sleep before deciding on the name.

They get to Walmart within an hour, and Jason has taken the newborn diapers up to the front first, and then into the bathroom to change Thaddeus, who has already ruined the one provided by Tonya. The men’s room doesn’t have a changing station, and Jason curses gender norms as he struggles to work on the limited counter space by the sinks. He almost gets into a fist fight with a drunk man who passed out in one of the stalls, speaking on how no one wanted to see shit like that.

Thaddeus changed, he continues on. He takes things out of boxes as he needs them. The baby bjorn comes out as soon as he spots them. Thaddeus free from his arms actually allows him to maneuver as he needs to. Jason reads the box—the kid is barely big enough, point four over the required minimum weight.

Formula, more diapers, because he has a feeling he’ll be needing a lot by the way Tonya underlined it three times, some toys, a few wraps, several onesies, burp rags, bottles, nipples for the bottles, rubber bulb syringe, walker, crib, baby powder, baby oil, weird sock things for his feet and hands, binkies, car seat, baby-safe clippers, baby tub. The list goes on and on and Thaddeus gets fussy right before they get up to the counter.

The cashier gives him the stink-eye as the baby full on wails while he checks out. Jason can’t help it. The lights, the noises, the smells. Plus, the kid’s probably hungry. Can’t the woman see how fucking young Thaddeus is and cut him a break?

Jason throws a Snickers on the conveyor belt at the end, because all he wants to do is shoot up the place with how everyone is staring at him. He’s not him when he’s hungry, and all that bullshit.

The early morning light greets them when Jason pushes the full cart out of the store. Thaddeus’ breath fogs up in the morning air, and he can’t feed him yet, but Jason fishes out a binkie and hopes it will help until he gets them home. Speaking off, he did not bring his bike—which Thaddeus wouldn’t even be able to ride. Right. Right, right.

He scans his pickings, before heading towards the side of the building. There’s more cars there, employees on the early shift. The cameras should work round this side but none of them blink red. Of course, corporations never really care about their employees and this works in Jason’s favor just this once.

Jason picks a car that is old, because the alarm system is either non-existent or broken, windows manual so he can pull them down easy. The majority of his time in the parking lot is reading the manual to strap Thaddeus in proper, sweat building on the back of his neck because every minute that passes that he doesn’t know how to thread the seatbelt in is another minute that one of the kids in there could come out for a smoke break.

“You know, I used to be really good at this. Well, not putting together a child’s car seat. Stealing a car.” Jason says to Thaddeus. He doesn’t respond, but the talking helps to calm Jason’s nerves. “Not just this—pretty much any crime-related thing with cars. Kinda how I got in trouble when I was younger.”

The seatbelt disappears into the carseat, but fails to reappear. He sighs as he yanks it out. “Not with the cops, no. With Batman. I was trying to jack his tires. I think if I knew how it would turn out, I wouldn’t have. Nah, I would have taken two. See, my problem was that I was greedy. Always wanting more than what I should.”

He doesn’t say, because he doesn’t want Thaddeus to cry, that it was what got him killed. He wanted more than an adoptive dad, he wanted his bio mom. Jason could go even further back than that—he didn’t want to be just Bruce’s kid, he wanted to be Robin.

The seatbelt goes in again, and this time it actually works. The rest of the process is smooth, just unfamiliar enough that Jason doesn’t have to think on things he doesn’t want to.

He pulls out of the parking lot like he’s got the devil himself giving chase. Jason parks it right up near his apartment and straps Thaddeus back onto him. Carries everything up—six loads, and he won’t put the kid down for any of them. There’s an anxious, hungry and sleep-deprived voice that tells him that if he does, Thaddeus will die. He’ll fall from where Jason placed him, or roll over, or hit his head. Halfway through, the binkie loses its charm and Jason has to learn how to make formula. He heats it up and runs up another load, then has to watch anxious out the window for any thieves while Thaddeus drinks it down.

Afterwards, well after the last load is carried up and Jason tucks the bjorn into the apartment as well, Thaddeus gets put back into his seat, and they drive the car six streets over. Jason uses the car seat to carry the baby back to the apartment and spies the box with the crib tucked up next to his ratty couch.

He looks up whether or not a baby can sleep in a bed with an adult. Would it be weird if he slept in the same bed as Thaddeus? No, he’s basically his dad. That’s not weird. Unless, what if Thaddeus got older and didn’t want Jason to be his dad? Would that make the past stuff weird? Go to bed, Jason.

The internet tells him he can, just to make sure not to suffocate the kid or give him space to roll off. Jason tucks him into the side of the bed, pillows on all sides, just to make sure that Thaddeus doesn’t hit anything hard. He’s starved, stomach so empty that it almost keeps him up, but sleep wins the battle.

In what feels like less than five minutes, he comes awake to Thaddeus crying. The blinds are closed, but daylight is still definitely a thing outside. Jason has a pounding headache, from lack of water or the Snickers he fucking purchased to prevent this. His eyes pulse everytime he moves, but move he must, because his kid is yelling and his neighbor has already decided enough is enough, given the banging. Thaddeus has gone to the bathroom again, black and tarry, but Tonya told him not to worry. He wouldn’t need to unless three days had passed and Thaddeus was still pooping like that. She had even written it on the list Jason had tucked into his jeans. That he slept in and now feel like they have become part of his body in a cursed way.

He sways while he changes the diaper. The smell, combined with his headache and nausea, threaten to undo him, but Jason musters up his courage. If he could—well, live through is inaccurate—take the Joker’s beating, he can handle this. Thaddeus is in a fresh diaper and still won’t stop crying, so Jason takes to the burping route.

There’s leftover meatball sub in the kitchen and he opens up his fridge to grab it, wincing at the brightest light in the house that’s on. He also grabs a bottle of water and has to use his teeth to open it, other hand supporting Thaddeus through the gentle bouncing.

Jason’s just downed half the bottle and started to feel like a real person again, or at least less of a corpse (and he would know what that felt like, fuck you very much), when he realizes that he did not put a burp rag down. Thaddeus’ spit-up is wet, hot and disgusting on his shirt. Jason tries his best not to gag as he puts his kid down and throws the shirt into the garbage, instead of into the laundry basket. He’s not touching clothing articles again, no siree, if he’s fucked up and got body fluids on it.

By day three, he gives up his promise to toss all the fluid-infected clothes. He’d be down to a pair of socks, and maybe a few sets of boxers that Thaddeus hadn’t managed to mess up. He also caves on believing he can do this himself, alone, and wonders just what he got himself into.

He calls Talia.

She picks up on the third ring. “Hello, Jason. How is Gotham?”

“It’s fine, T. How are things there?” She knows what he’s asking—how’s the Demon Brat, is she still off the chopping block with Ra’s, no one is coming to kill him, right?

“Things are well. Damian may be joining you in Gotham sooner than later.”

“You mean joining Bruce. I doubt you’d let him stick around under the Red Hood, or that he’d tolerate it.” He’s got a bottle of milk that’s warming up in the sink. Jason read on a Mommy and Me website that the best way to warm it up evenly is with hot water.

“I won’t say one way or another. Damian is a host in himself.” The microwave beeps, Jason’s sad Lean Cuisine meal, as the store was out of Stouffers, which prompts Thaddeus to scream. “What is that?”

“That is why I’m calling you.” Jason scoops Thaddeus up into his bjorn, as he has taken to wearing it every waking hour. His front feels weird when he isn’t wearing it now. Kind of like when he was young and would stop having to cart his backpack around during the summer months. An echo of a weight molded to him. “His name is Thaddeus, and he is my son. And, T, I’m fucking losing it.”

“Your son? How old is this child?”

“Three days old. His mom needed help getting to the clinic and well, she didn’t make it, so I kind of—took him. I lied and took him, and now I’m being punished, because I can’t get him to sleep more than an hour.” Jason checks the formula with his wrist, and he’s pretty sure it's warm enough, but he almost always under-heats it. Better not to burn the baby’s mouth. “I haven’t had a shower in three days, T. Real food, real sleep.”

“Yes, that’s the nature of a newborn. Give it a few months, and he will settle down.” Talia pauses. “If it is too difficult, or preventing you from your desires, we could always accommodate the child within the League.”

“No!” Jason shouts, winces and prays Thaddeus just keeps sucking down his dinner. He does. “I mean, no, that’s not necessary. Mostly, I’m just looking for advice on how to get him to sleep longer. What’d you do with Damian? Or did you just have a host of wet nurses take care of him until he was strong enough to stand?”

“I trust no one within these walls to be loyal enough to me to have taken care of Damian while he was that vulnerable. Well, besides you. I’m not surprised you don’t remember—while you were in your own fugue state, you took quite well to taking care of Damian. You would walk along the beach at night with him, and I would stand on my balcony and watch you two. He had a cry that could send birds flying. You’d walk him in the cool night until he settled.” Talia says.

“No, I don’t remember that.” The flashes Jason has before the Pit were mostly Talia. Feeding him, a cool rag on his face, hands taking out his stitches. The few images he has of Damian are the child, toddler age, bloodied, hurt, knife in hand and baby teeth red. He doesn’t like to think on them. Helpless to change them. “So you’re giving my parenting advice based on what I used to do while basically a zombie?”

“It worked quite well.” Talia sounds unbothered. “And most new parents are like zombies for the first few months.”

The microwave beeps again and reminds Jason it will be his first meal of the day. The chicken will be undercooked in the middle, and the macaroni will still have ice on some of it, but nothing sounds better right then. “Fine, I’ll try it. And T, if you could give me a few months before you send out Damian, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll keep him as long as he’ll let me.” Talia promises.

He hangs up and thinks about safe places to take Thaddeus on a walk. Daytime is too busy, too hot and loud and populated. Jason resigns himself to have a few more sleepless nights while he picks out a good spot for a baby in Gotham.

It’s two nights later that Jason takes Talia up on her advice. He drives them over to the park across from Wayne Enterprises. It was always nice when Jason would visit Bruce—grass green, and free of needles or dog shit—and they would eat lunch at a checkerboard table. He’d put his tablet away and Jason would put his book away and they would talk about oddities. Nothing cape related, because it was a public park. Bruce would just…be his dad.

He takes the meandering path, and Thaddeus watches the stars with big, awake eyes. The baby’s not crying, which is a bonus on his end of things, but not asleep. At this point, if he does fall asleep, Jason’s liable to put them both in the car and take a nap himself. They walk for a few hours, going round and round in a loop, and it's peaceful. No one is out.

“You know, kid, I used to love this park.” Jason starts. He isn’t sure why he’s talking aloud, but the Mommy and Me blogs say it’s good for the kid. Especially if you talk like you normally would. Though it didn’t say anything about cursing, it couldn’t be good if he foul-mouthed during the first year, right? Would Thaddeus actually remember it? “The one area in the city that was actually green. However, that’s only cause the rich like to come here—it’s kinda messed up how they wouldn’t take care of the rest of the city.”

Jason sighs. “Back when I lived in Park Row, all the kids wanted to go here, but we knew not to. During the daylight hours, there’d be cops roaming around everywhere. Best place to sleep in the city, most guarded. Anyways, I asked Bruce about it, and he said the folks that were this white-collared like to feel safe.”

He had laughed at that. Told Bruce that if they wanted to be safe they should take all that easy-earned money and up and leave Gotham. The park wasn’t safe, it just seemed that way. And he would know—back when he was Robin, they had fought Riddler and Ivy here.

“So when I became ‘white-collared’, or at least adopted by a rich enough guy, I would come down here whenever I could. I still wore my clothes like I was a street kid, but after the first few months, everyone knew I was a Wayne kid. It would be hilarious to watch the cops start to come towards me until the recognition set in.”

There were a few times it didn’t. Bruce, up top in the Wayne tower just a block away, would have to stop his meeting to come fetch Jason either from a cop car or, one time, the precinct.

“Bruce took to eating lunch with me here. I’d like to read under the trees, and the more he was seen with me, the more the cops would leave me alone.” He’d drop the Brucie smile for a minute, a glare that was nearly Batman, whenever he’d see a cop step to Jason. Say that it was profiling, say that it was unfair. That Jason had rights to the park like everyone else.

Bruce never had a response when Jason asked about why no one that didn’t work the business district wouldn’t come visit then. There was a swing set, and slide, and monkey bars, and you never saw no kids on it, because the cops were dicks and anyone who could afford to be seen in the park had their own private playground.

That’s when Bruce started getting into city planning. He was planning to get a few good parks up and going for the rest of the city. Jason doesn’t know if Bruce dropped it when he died, but it wouldn’t be surprising. He bounces Thaddeus’ hands while he walks, lost in thought.

Jason is ready to take them home after the last loop, but he turns a set of tall bushes to where the checker tables are, and freezes. He brings them back around to behind the bushes and is thankful that Thaddeus has dozed some.

Sitting at their table is Batman.

Jason watches him, the streetlamp and moonlight helping to give a clear outline. Batman’s got a milkshake from Batburger, one of Jason’s favorite places to eat. He sips on it slowly as he spins a red checker piece in his fingers. Quiet. So quiet Jason feels like he can’t even breathe. After the milkshake is finished, the sound of air pulling through a wet straw, Batman sets it down. He puts his head in his hand and weeps in such a way that Jason can see the breaths he heaves in. Jason backs away slowly.

He really doesn’t sleep much when they get home.

It’s been three months and Jason feels as if he’s slowly regaining his sanity. He only goes to the park in the dusk of evening instead of the twilight hours, and they settle into a routine together. Thaddeus sleeps through most nights, and he always laughs when he sees Jason, and grabs onto Jason’s fingers. There was such an attachment there that it almost burned Jason. He had thought, throughout the first two, three weeks, of dropping the kid at a fire station.

But he remembers what the orphanages were like. What the homes were like. And it stayed his hand, and now Jason can’t even imagine separating. The only heart-stopping development was that Thaddeus was learning how to roll and had almost rolled off the couch a few times.

Thankfully, Jason had managed to build his crib and his bouncer, so there was little chance the child would die by falling.

Jason was even thinking of getting a babysitter for some nights. That maybe, maybe he could pull out his Red Hood gear—having stuffed it in his storage closet when he got Thaddeus. The amount of work he’d have to put in would be huge. He knows that the generals have changed positions, and that the current crime lords are at least one or two different than before. Some have gone to jail, some have died, some fucked off to Cuba. Parents give it to their shitty kids, kids give it to their better cousins.

His plan will need new reconnaissance, a new board. Jason thinks on all of this while he jogs down to the trash—Thaddeus safe in his crib—and tosses it into the bin to the sound of a shout.

“Oh shit,” Jason says, swinging the door open. He expects to see an animal of some sort, but it’s a kid. A small, black kid who has torn through a different trashbag and is eating some pizza crust out of it. He flinches when Jason meets his eyes. “Kid, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He grabs the crust and tucks it tight into his tiny fist before he tries to climb out and away from Jason.

“Are you sure? Where’re you headed?” He steps back enough to let him out of the bin, has to stop himself from catching the kid before he hits the ground.

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing, kid. You just look like you could use a hot meal.” What the fuck are you doing, Jason thinks. It doesn’t stop the words coming out of his mouth.

This gets the kid to pause, eyes narrowing as he tilts his head up to examine Jason. “You a pervert or something?”

“No!” Jason throws up his hands. He remembers himself this age—the same question would’ve come from his mouth. “No, my kid—his name is Thaddeus—is upstairs. I’m making some cheesy potato soup. Enough for leftovers, or another mouth.”

“What kind of name is Thaddeus?”

“A family name, unfortunately.” He does wish Alfred had a different middle name, but couldn’t imagine not honoring him this way. No way was he naming his baby after Willis, or Bruce. “But I do have to get back to him.”

“I have a knife, if you try anything.” The kid says, but he doesn’t produce any blade. Jason expects a kitchen knife to be missing shortly from his drawers.

Jason nods and gestures for the kid to follow him. The boy does, stuffing the pizza crust into his pockets. It makes Jason wince. He’ll make something extra, easy to carry, easy to take, on top of the soup. The kid follows a step behind him but he gets into the complex with Jason. Steps into the elevator with Jason.

The doors ding open when Jason talks again. “What’s your name, kid?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Just don’t want to keep thinking of you as the kid in my head, is all.” Jason shrugs. It doesn’t matter really. His apartment door swings open to them. Thaddeus gurgles in his crib and Jason leaves the door open to go check on his baby. He picks him out of the crib, bouncing him on his hip.

The kid watches with a careful eye before stepping in and closing the door. “My name’s Mikey.”

“Well, Mikey, I’ve got a shower down the hall if you wanna use it. I ain’t got no clothes in your size—sorry—but you can at least get cleaned up before dinner.”

“And what if I don’t want to?”

“Then you best sit as far away from me as my table allows.” Jason pinches his nose before he laughs. “The food’s still going to be here when you get out. Might as well use some hot water while you’ve got it.”

“The door got a lock?”

“Yep. All the doors in my apartment do.” Jason gestures—there’s only three, one to his kitchen, one to his bedroom, and one to his bathroom. Oh, and the front door, he guesses.

Mikey twists his hands in his oversized shirt for a moment, eyeing Jason, who stands in the kitchen with the door propped open, and the hallway. After a minute, he nods. “Okay. But you don’t come down the hallway while I’m back there.”

“You got it, kid. D’you like hoagies?”

“I thought you were making soup.” Mikey’s gone back to suspicious.

“Yeah, in the pot right here. It’s just a question.”

“I like hoagies.”

Jason nods. “Cool. Towels are under the sink.”

“Thanks.” Mikey darts down the hallway, and Thaddeus hits at Jason’s arm in that uncoordinated, twitchy way babies do.

“I know, my conversation skills need work.” Jason sighs. “Wasn’t sure how to ask him. I just want to make sure that I can pack one or two—y’know something that he can carry. Though maybe I should make something that keeps? I’ll give him some fruit, too. I think we’ve still got some energy bars, don’t you?”

Thaddeus has been responding to him lately. A good developmental sign. He blows some bubbles out of his mouth when Jason looks at him.

“Yeah, I know we do. You wanna get into your bjorn?” Jason goes to the living room and puts Thaddeus down on the couch for a minute. Hoagies are easy to make and easy to keep, though Mikey will have to eat it before the meat goes bad. There’s some pastrami in the fridge—pepperoni, too—that Jason will use to give it some more time. He tucks five tens into the bag. Thaddeus wiggles some while Jason slides him into his seat.

The kid will be a menace once he learns to crawl. Walking will be a second death to Jason, he’s sure.

Mikey comes in after Jason’s tucked away the to-go bag he’s made for the kid, his skin clean, but the shirt still filthy. Jason wishes he had something he could give the kid that wouldn’t fall off of him. He stands near the table and watches as Jason spoons some soup into bowls, and brings over a platter of cheesy bread. It’s got a spinach butter base.

“You can sit where you want.” Jason says.

“Do you wear that often?”

“The bjorn?”

“Why’s it called a bjorn?” Mikey sits with the wall to his back, door in his view. Jason’s familiar enough with the setup to recognize the spot was chosen. Not random.

“I dunno. Figured whatever person invented it called it baby-holder in their language, and now it’s what we call it. It’s helpful, since Thaddeus is starting to be able to really squirm around.” He slides the bowl over to Mikey and nudges the platter closer to him.

“What language is it?”

“Nordic, maybe? Danish? I don’t know. European, that’s for sure.”

“Well, my mom used to carry me in one, when I was younger. She had pictures. But it wasn’t like that—hers was a wrap.”

“It probably had a different name, too.” Jason takes a minute to get Thaddeus out of his bjorn, because the thing is a nightmare to eat in, and get a bottle going in the sink. He slips into the seat across from Mikey, Thaddeus in his lap. “Speaking of your mom, where’s she?”

Mikey does his best to stab at the soup with the spoon provided, not saying anything. Jason can be patient though, and takes a few sips before fetching Thaddeus’ bottle. “I ain’t going to a group home,” is what Mikey ends up saying.

“I understand that. I wouldn’t take you to one.” Jason wouldn’t take his worst enemy to a group home. Actually, considering who his worst enemy is—no, no, that wouldn’t be fair to the others in the group home. “I grew up ‘round Crime Alley, too. I know the homes are just fronts. Or at least, they were when I was growing up.”

“They say the Todd ones are better, but I don’t trust it. I had a friend from school, got held back twice, went into a home and just stopped showing up to school. Nobody did anything.”

“The Todd homes?” Jason hasn’t heard about them.

“Yeah, Mister Wayne made a new set of group homes and called them the Jason Todd homes. Something about his dead kid.” Mikey shrugs. “I think it would be nice if they were actually safe, but my dad used to say that you can’t trust a rich guy to do anything right. They just don’t have enough on the line.”

“Yeah.” Jason stirs his soup and tries not to think on what the homes are like. He made plans, before his death, that he had shared with Bruce. Checklists and stop gates and room setups so no one would be scared of going into a home like he was. Regardless of how similar it was to his original idea, it obviously didn’t work. “What school do you go to?”

“I went to Park Row Elementary.”

“Went to?”

“Well, the teachers know about my parents, and they’ll turn me over and then I’m in a group home.” Mikey looks away from Jason. “Or worse.”

“I know how it is. But education is important. Maybe you could stop by the library?” It’s where Jason used to go, when the days were cold and school wasn’t an option.

“I go there sometimes. My mom got me a library card, so that’s nice.”

The soup dwindles and the sky gets pink as the sun goes down. Mikey pushes the bowl away and Jason, well, he doesn’t have another bed, or another room, but. “D’you got a place you can stay tonight?”

“Yeah. One of my friends from school is letting me stay. They let me crash in the shed, so their mom doesn’t know, and give me some of their clothes.”

“Okay. That’s good.” Jason nods, knowing that near Park Row Elementary are a few shotgun home neighborhoods that actually have tiny, carved out backyards. Almost like an actual suburb. Jason, himself, has broken a window in a shed before—and a warehouse, and a car, and a storage facility, and the abandoned mall, and—to get to sleep somewhere safe from the rain. “Hey, if you need anything, you know where to find me, alright?”

“Why do you want to help me?”

“Consider it payment for hitting you with my trash. I’ve been on the receiving end of that, too, and it’s never fun. Oh, before you go, I packed some lunch stuff for you.”

“What is it?”

“Hoagies.”

Jason gives it a week and a half before the worry goes from small and insistent to large and persistent. He hears Thaddeus sigh in the crib next to him, fat baby legs kicking while he’s asleep, and Jason is awake because he doesn’t know if Mikey is okay. It’s been raining for the last three days, a consistent downpour that’s flooded out the rats from the sewers, lifted the trash and ruined everyone’s moods.

After a fitful sleep, he walks a floor down to Marci’s apartment. She’s a mother of three, who saw Jason struggling the first few days and gave him the Mommy and Me website, as well as some easy-to-heat food, and a promise that she’d help whenever he needed it. Marci, like Tonya, assumed that he was a widowed new parent. There’s a protective curl in his chest that says he can do it himself which has stopped him from asking for much.

He knocks on the door with Thaddeus in his arms, intent to grab some groceries after checking in. There’s the sound of a young kid’s squeal, and an older one yelling. Marci swings the door open, curls everywhere, apron tied around her waist. “Oh! Jay, dearie. How are things? Aw, and how are you, baby Thaddeus?”

Jason shifts so that Thaddues bounces a little on his hip, head wobbling for a minute. “We’re good, Marci. How are you? How’s the family?”

“Oh, it’s a madhouse, but that’s just life for you. Johnny’s pulling doubles at the factory right now, so that hopefully we can get Trinity braces this summer. Here’s praying that the car doesn’t quit on us, or that any of the kids break another bone.” She laughs, that strained laugh that comes from poverty. The kind his mom would sometimes have, that life isn’t as bad as it could be.

Jason smiles and ducks his head. “Yeah, I understand. The hatchback’s been making a sound, I just haven’t had time to look at it.” He bought a used ‘94 hatchback a day after having Thaddeus. Stored his bike, and a fair amount of his gear in a storage unit, under a different name for a pretty penny. Talia hadn’t even blinked when he told her the price, had just said it was good he was keeping the explosives away from the infant. That it was one of her mistakes with Damian.

“As long as it keeps running.” She wipes her hands on the apron. It’s green, with outlines of blue flowers. Bright, but faded. Well-used. “What can I help you with?”

“I know it’s short notice, but—” Jason grimaces. He doesn’t want to leave Thaddeus with someone else, but he’s going to start seeing sleep demons if he doesn’t get rest. “Would you be able to watch Thaddeus tonight? Clara’s grandma just got put into a home, and some of her cousins need some help cleaning out her place. They were wanting to do it after work. I shouldn’t be later than ten, maybe eleven?”

“Oh, dearie, that’s no trouble at all. I never hear Thaddeus anymore, he’s such a sweet boy. I’m sure the rest of the kids will love getting to spend some time with him, too.”

“And I can pay you.” Jason offers. He watches Marci bite her tongue, eyes wanting, but face hesitant. Someone who needs the money, but thinks the one offering does too. “Please. You’d really be helping me out. I could give you two hundred? The cousins said they’d pitch in for the help, none of them know how to drive a box truck.”

“That’s kind of them. It’d be kinder if they helped you with Thaddeus once in a while.”

“Yeah, it’s hard for them.” Jason lies. “I try not to take it too personally. And her life insurance, well, it’s been a godsend, so.”

“Good. You deserve time to process. I should let you get going, the kids have been quiet too long. When are you dropping him off tonight?”

“Would six be okay? I’ll bring the diaper bag and everything.”

Marci agrees, and Jason goes shopping. He grabs food for him and Thaddeus, who is experimenting with baby food, and then some canned meat and fried fruits. That type of food was accumulating in his pantry since the kid hadn’t come back yet.

Afterwards, Jason drops by a clothing store. It’s for kids—Thaddeus is growing faster than Jason can keep up with, and so he is trying to buy in advance. His eyes stray to the school clothes. Some are Gotham Private approved—patriotic ties, sharp blazers and pressed legs on the pants or pleats for the skirts. Little business pod-people. Other clothes are more stylized and Jason knows he’s fucked because he wonders what Mikey would like. If he would prefer the light-up shoes, or the ones with wheels in them (death trap). Should he get him a hoodie or is he the kind that overheats too much for that?

Jason stands among the tiny clothes he’s debating buying for the homeless boy when Thaddeus becomes fussy. He hushes his baby, fishes out one of the binkies that are now necessary on his person, and grabs a green raincoat. It’s a muted green, and is less likely to get Mikey in trouble than something bright yellow.

Home is a mess, but there’s leftovers in the fridge. Jason made some perogies the night before and they are a godsend now. He puts together a bag while he shoves his face full of the dough—energy bars, the dried food, the raincoat, some cash (all stored in different spots, and he hopes Mikey’s smart enough to stash them hidden and safe) and some socks and a new shirt, long sleeves but thinner. It’s just the turn of fall and days in Gotham still boil up the concrete. Jason throws in some chocolate bars, because everyone deserves one good thing, and some apples and floss and a fleece blanket. It’s not the thickest, but Mikey needs to be able to move with it. The process and thought behind it bring Jason back to his childhood.

He zips up the bag and puts Thaddeus in a baby swing. Pulls out his helmet, his pants lined with kevlar, and his leather jacket. His boots that are heavy enough to crack bones, with a spot to stow a knife.

If Jason’s hunting down Mikey through Gotham, it is a good time to at least start the whispers about the return of the Red Hood.

“You know,” Jason starts, strapping down his gloves, “I am aware I can’t adopt every kid I see, Thad. I’m workshopping how to help—better than Bruce, that’s for dam–dang sure. But Mikey? I don’t know, he just reminds me of me. He was smart, don’t you think so?”

Thaddeus giggles in his swing. “Okay, I’m not tooting my own horn. But when I was a kid, I liked to learn. Still do, but time is limited nowadays, you know? You know that, yes, you do.” Jason pauses so he doesn’t continue in the baby-voice. The urge to coo is strong with this one. “And, it was hard to. Granted, I wasn’t as young. I think that’s what got me so nervous. Ain’t no reason a kid that young should be on the streets.”

There’s no response from his baby. Jason sighs and tosses on a large hoodie. It’ll cover the symbol, and his jacket. He tucks the helmet into the gym bag that he’s also put the backpack in—it’s a child sized backpack, he does not need Marci wondering why he’s taking that to see Clara’s cousins.

“Maybe I could point him towards Leslie? She might know a place better than the homes, but she could also just put the kid with Bruce and I do not need to see a new Robin in four-to-six business years.” Jason runs a hand through his hair and tugs on it. Looks out the corner of his eye to Thaddeus, thinks it was just about time to upgrade his apartment size anyway. The kid will need space of his own sooner than later. “What’d you think about a big brother? Or at least, a strange kid that lives in the house with you and will definitely at least form a bond with you, since you’re an infant. Yes, you are,” Jason puts his kid high up as Thaddeus, shiny gums and all, smiles down at him.

Marci answers before he even knocks, and they both look surprised by it. “Sorry, you’ve just got heavy footfalls, is all. A good thing in a man—means you’re sturdy.”

“Thank you?” Jason laughs when she does, his traitorous cheeks heating up. It reminds him of Leslie complimenting his growth, of Diana on his fighting stance, of dozens of women at galas speaking on his sharp suit. Half the time, it wasn’t even the compliment, but embarrassment on the mention of his physical form. “And thanks for watching Thaddeus.”

“Oh, anytime. Text me if you get nervous, I know how it can be leaving your baby alone for the first time. And we should still be up—Matthew forgot to tell me his history project is due tomorrow, so it’ll be a late night.”

“Ouch.” Jason never put his assignments off until last minute, but he remembers Dick doing it in college all the time. At least Bruce didn’t have to get involved with that. “Also, I wanted to ask, do you know if any of the bigger apartments are opening up? I came to the realization that Thaddeus needs a room for himself.”

“Well, for the three-roomers up top, I don’t know. I do know that two of the four-bedrooms are coming up. Shannon’s moving to Minnesota, since both of her kids went out there for college. And the Ruckters are going down south for warmer weather. Honestly, as school is coming up, more rooms might become available. I can put a word in with Allan, if you want?”

“That’d be great, Marci. A little extra space never hurt anyone.”

He follows her into the kitchen, pots from dinner still on the stove, glasses still on the kitchen table. It's an open concept, different from his apartment. Roomy enough for a kid. Or two—even three, like Marci has. She puts the bag on one of the chairs, all mismatched and well-worn, before wiping her hands on her jeans to take Thaddeus. He hands over his baby with a thread of nervousness.

Jason knows he can trust Marci.

Her youngest—barely three—starts a wail up in the living room, which is closed off from him. “That’ll be Macey. I should go check on her, but you have fun tonight. As much as you can, at least, with it being moving.”

“Where’s Johnny?”

“He’s at the scrapyard. Some of the factory guys said they were going out since Riddler’s latest breakout resulted in a car garage getting blown up, and they were going to strip the metal from the ruins that they carted over.”

“The Riddler is out?” He’s not an awful mask to have escaped, more concerned with Batman getting the big picture than with causing actual damage—usually—but Jason hadn’t heard about it.

“Oh, yes, just a few days ago. I figure, now that he's done shown his hand, the Batman will have him back in by end of the week.” Marci shrugs. “I’d recommend staying ground-level, with a buddy, and not out later than needs be.”

“Yeah, I read you loud and clear.” Jason backs up as she goes through the swinging door to where a crying toddler waits. He closes her door behind him, locks the bottom one, just for safety. Not like Riddler was going to come to his apartment complex and do much damage there. The rogues might use Crime Alley as a hideout, from time to time, but Bats didn’t care to step foot in it, so they didn’t try to get his attention here.

No reason to blow up your own home.

Jason repeats this even as he pulls the hatchback away from his building and towards the storage unit. Cameras have been busted since probably the eighties, and it’s nearing dusk, with a mask out on the town, so no one notices when in slips a man and out, on a motorbike, comes someone in a red helmet.

Through his change, his worry morphs from his complex to wherever Mikey is staying. It’s more likely to get snatched or hurt during the games that the rogues and Bats plays when you haven’t got a place to hunker down. He tears out towards Crime Alley, the edge where the library is, trying to follow his gut. The library is a block from the elementary school, which should be close to whatever shed Mikey’s supposed to be in.

Approaches the working girls, half who stomp off when he makes it clear that he’s not interested in anything, but the others stay when he flashes cash. One tells him she saw a little boy get on a bus, matched his description, a day or two ago headed towards Burnley. Jason thanks her and heads that direction. There’s a soup kitchen, and more bridges than Jason can count, as it connects two of Gotham’s islands, and a bigger library that closes at midnight instead of seven. The scary fact, though, is that it is closer to Arkham than Crime Alley.

When he gets there, the girls in Burnley are more polished. They see his helmet, and the older ones avoid him. Jason doesn’t blame him. He bets, Arkham in the horizon, they get a lot of weird requests and weirder customers. The brave ones get a fair cut of his change for answering his question. Three come up to him together, and two of them know a kid that matches Mikey’s description. They say he’s been over near the Thai place right off the 52nd train station.

Jason bets he knows what the kid is doing there.

He ditches his bike near the area, because Jason may be letting his heart lead, but he knows that Mikey does not need to be aware of who the Red Hood is. There’s foolish, and then there’s stupid.

Climbing up to the roof, it feels like it's the first time ever that he's been this high, and like he never left. Jason can feel a wisp of magic within him, something that wasn’t killed when Robin was, but muted all the same. He runs and jumps across the roofs. Rolls out to his landings. He can see the light of the Thai place—True Thai—in deep purple and bright red. No food place, save Batburger, will use color pairings that could be associated with a cape or rogue in Gotham.

There’s a ring in his ear. Only one person has access to the communications in his helmet, currently.

“Talia. What do you need?”

“Jason. I wasn’t expecting to see you active this soon. Did you lose your child already?”

“I got a sitter.” Jason pauses, mid-roof. He doesn’t want to get closer and spook the kid.

“What business do you have tonight, then?”

“What business is it to you?”

“Jason, there’s no reason to be rude. I’m not there to help or intervene, anyway. I’m just curious.”

“You’re never ‘just’ anything, T.” It’s as much a compliment as a curse. Jason knows Talia will take it both ways too, without a flinch.

“No, but the other half doesn’t concern you. I am gathering intel on the state of Gotham for Damian’s arrival. I would rather be aware of anything new cropping up.”

“I ain’t got time for my plan, yet. If that’s what you’re asking. Just doing a quick stakeout.”

“On who?”

Jason hasn’t had a chance to rip out any camera she might have stowed in the helmet, or even to care, since he asked for most of it to be lined with explosives anyway, so it would be hard to finagle any of the machinery. If Talia is asking, he should tell her to avoid her checking later. “A kid. His name is Mikey. He’s out on the streets.”

“Another stray?”

“I just want to make sure he’s alright. He’s really too young to be out here all alone.”

“You sound like a man I used to know. Granted, the child he was worried about probably would have been safer on the streets, with what that man let him get up to.” Talia sounds amused.

“I’m not B.” Jason kicks some of the gravel away from him. “And if Mikey decides to take my help, I ain’t going to shove him in a costume.”

“We both know that only one of you was eager to get you in the Robin suit. And it wasn’t Bruce.”

“I have to go, T. Can we finish this catchup later?”

“Of course.” Talia agrees. “Call me when you inevitably need papers for your new child.”

He disconnects the line and refocuses on his mission for the night. The duffel bag is with him and stowed in it is the money and supplies that should keep Mikey until he’s had time to think and come back to Jason. Or until Jason can make up a new excuse to put Thaddeus in Marci’s hands for a night.

When he gets over to True Thai, he looks to the dumpsters. Sometimes, especially in a noodle joint, they’ll dump a pot if it’s sat too long. Stay close enough to the dumpsters, you could even get your meal hot. Sure enough, a busboy comes out with a heavy bag—full of empty sauce containers, and napkins, and table scraps—and dumps it in. The door clangs closed loudly in the night and there is a small shadow that ducks towards the trash.

Mikey slips into the dumpster, one side of the lids dented in such a way that he won’t be stuck when he decides to climb back out. He looks like he hasn’t changed out of the clothes that Jason last saw him in—liar. Jason watches for a moment, clouds heavy in the sky and pavement cold and wet beneath him. Waits as the rain starts back up for Mikey to swim out before he drowns.

Mikey hits the ground a second before Jason does. He screams when he sees Jason, which, fair. The helmet is supposed to strike fear. Jason puts his hands up, “Kid, quiet down.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Mikey’s pulled himself close to the trash, tucked up his body into his ribcage. Jason’s seen the pose before.

“No, but this weather might. What the fuck are you doing out here?”

“What’s it to you?” His glare is the same one that he leveled at Jason, a week and some change ago. It looks strange on his cowering frame.

“Nothing, really. Just would hate to see a city kid die because they’re acting stupid.”

“I’m eating, actually. One of the things to keep people alive.”

“Yeah, in the dead of night, in the rain. In a T-shirt. Take this.” He tosses the bag off his shoulder to Mikey, who fumbles it. Thankfully, it is water-proof, so when it hits the ground and splashes, only Mikey’s shoes are the losers. “And find someone who’ll help. Or who can at least identify your body.”

“What’s this?” Mikey pulls open the zipper and peers inside. At the very top, wrapping the rest of the items, is the green raincoat. He touches it before pulling his hand back like it burns. “You go around giving kids free stuff?”

“Most of them are smart enough to lay low in this kind of weather, but the dumb ones, yeah.” The kid scowls, looks like he’s ready to throw the bag back at Jason, hard words about how he isn’t dumb and doesn’t need his help (which is stupid, because the kid clearly does), so Jason pulls out his grapple and shoots out a line. “Keep it, toss it, I don’t care. But I meant what I said—if there’s anyone willing to help you out, get to ‘em.”

Jason doesn’t give Mikey a chance to respond before he’s away in the night. And by away, he’s hiding behind the True Thai sign to make sure that the kid doesn’t toss the bag. Mikey takes about ten minutes to go through the contents—putting on the raincoat as soon as he can, measuring up the shirt, and how wide his eyes go when he spots the cash. He hopes it doesn’t run out before Mikey comes back to his door—or to another’s, as long as it’s someone who is willing to house him. The plan was to give him a backdoor, to make Mikey feel safe enough that he could go back to the streets if he needed.

Bruce used to give him an allowance for the same reason. Wouldn’t say shit about finding non-perishables tucked up in tall parts of his closet, or the cash stuffed in the middle of his mattress.

After Jason is satisfied that Mikey will eat the food, and use the blanket, and hide the cash, he slips away into the night. Jason takes the long way back to his bike and stops a mugging on the way. The guy laughs when he sees Jason’s helmet—says something about cosplay—but stops when he breaks every finger in his hand, and then his foot. The couple he helps shakes with fear anyway, using his distraction to escape away from both of them. It’s not like it was when he was Robin.

He keeps an eye out for anything else he might be able to help, an hour to go before he has to be back for Thaddeus, since it’s a chance to put his face out there. It’s a slow night, it always is for petty crime when a Rogue is out. The bike is close enough that he could beep it when a shadow descends across the roofs. Batman.

Jason freezes, instinct in him to keep still and calm when the Bat is around. He watches Bruce roll into a crouch and see a gang of green following after. They are less capable on the roofs—you’d think they would take some lessons if they were going to hench for an enemy of Batman—but more than make up for it with guns. Batman ducks and weaves, uses the busted, old A/Cs and roof entrances to keep himself safe.

Jason watches it play out, hidden on his own, separate roof. It’s good to get a layout of how Bruce moves these days. It’s no less efficient, but a little rougher. A lot more mean. He packs weight behind his punches that Jason doesn’t remember from before.

Bruce knocks three of the henchmen out and is content to leave their bodies where they lay while tossing the guns over the side of the roof. Jason hopes he plans to come back and pick them up, it’s not like Burnley really needs more lethal weapons—a flash of annoyance, because the fight would be over so quick if Bruce would just use one. And Jason wouldn’t have to sit here, knot in his chest, trying to figure out if he wants one of the henchmen to get a lucky shot off or not. Nothing fatal, of course, but something to slow the old man down. Something to make him scared.

The answer is given to him when Bruce misses his left—which he does a lot, which is why Robin usually takes up that side—and one of the henchmen level his gun just so at Batman’s head.

“Left!” Jason yells, hand already at his holster, knife thrown to knock away the gun. The voice modulator distorts his tone, but not his meaning. Batman is fluid enough to spin and kick the man in the jaw. It brings the henchmen down and Jason is pretty sure that he saw a tooth fly. Thank god that Bruce can’t see how he winced.

The henchmen, all two that are left, split focus to try to develop an upperhand. Now that Jason is really in it, that’s a piss-poor move. He gets over to the other rooftop in record time. He uses the bob-weave method that Bruce taught him, since all of Talia’s teachers were more interested in showing him how to be on the other end of the muzzle.

Batman throws a batarang out to knock off a pole line, arm outstretched, and Jason’s still hardwired as Robin, all this time, all this awful time, and he ducks under the old man’s arm, skidding on his knees as he pulls lose a pouch on Batman’s belt, same as before, he hasn’t changed it—and throws out marbles to trip up their enemies. It lets Batman vault him, hand on Jason’s shoulder that feels like it sears him, and use the wrong-footedness to knock the lights out of one of them. He wrenches the gun from the henchman’s hands and hits the other one upside the head with it.

Jason’s breathing hard, heart going, when he realizes a few things. One, that he is out of shape for the game, and how did that happen in only a few short months? Two, he will definitely be late to pick up Thaddeus if he gets grabbed by the Bat. And three, Bruce is here. In front of him. Right now. Like, seventeen steps ahead of the plan.

The old man kicks out the marbles under his feet. His lenses narrow as he studies Jason. Jason knows that his homage doesn’t go unnoticed, but tries to tense his legs to be ready to run stealthily. He’s still in his crouched position.

After a few moments of tense silence, Jason relaxes up into standing. They stare at each other, neither of their faces showing enough to know what’s going on in their head, as Jason takes a cautious step back. When Bruce does nothing, he takes another one. It feels as if he’s attempting to not spook a feral creature. Jason makes it to the edge of the roof and has to decide whether to turn his back on Batman or free fall. It’s clear that Bruce is aware of this as well, a ghost of a smirk on his face. Jason wants to sock it off of him.

Bruce inclines his head and then turns from Jason. Actually puts Jason out of his sight, and ziplines away into the night. The feeling is not unlike winning the fucking lottery.

Two days later, Mikey shows up at Jason’s door. He’s got the bookbag that Jason gave him slung over one shoulder and new shoes on his feet. A smart purchase. Jason swings open the door and stares down at the kid. “You knick that from someone?”

“What if I did?” Mikey challenges.

“I’d say you were a pretty good thief and I hope whatever was in there was worth it.”

“Can I come in?”

Jason pushes the door fully open. If he had offered Mikey inside the second he knocked, it would make the kid skittish. He’s got to be the one calling the shots right now. “Sure, I got some ziti in the oven right now.”

He waits until Mikey’s fully in the home and has turned to look at him before Jason swings the door closed. “You make enough to take into work tomorrow? That’s what my mom did.”

“Don’t work right now.”

“Why not?”

“Got enough money. My—” Jason tries not to trip over his words. Feels dirty, as he always does, when he includes Clara like this. “My wife died. Her life insurance paid out so I took some time to be with the baby.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Jason shrugs. “Where did you hole up during the storms the last few days?”

“I didn’t.”

“Are you sick?”

“Going to kick me out if I am?” Mikey doesn’t look like he has a fever, doesn’t sound congested. If he isn’t, he’s got some of the best luck Jason’s seen.

“No, but I am going to make you take some cough syrup—which, unfortunately, tastes awful. And make sure that you don’t get too close to Thaddeus.” Jason hears a ding from the kitchen and goes into it. Mikey follows. “Is that why you came back?”

“Maybe.” He spies the boxes of stuff in the kitchen. Jason’s got approval to move into one of the lower units, and he’s been packing up. Already asked Marci if she’d take Thaddeus for a few afternoons while he walks them downstairs. A few evenings to let him stretch his legs. “Are you leaving?”

“Just moving downstairs, actually.”

“Why?”

“Apartments are bigger. I thought Thaddeus might want his own room some day.” The ziti steams as it is set on the oven. He had put some spinach in it, in hopes that Mikey would come by before the impressive pan was completely eaten. “It’s 2F, if you want to know.”

“Thanks.” Mikey clenches down on his bookbag. “Listen, I—”

“Yeah?”

“I need some help. I don’t want to—I can watch Thaddeus, and I can be quiet. I won’t eat much, and I don’t even need my own room. I’ll clean for you. But I can’t be out there when winter comes, and I can’t be in a home.”

Jason levels a look at Mikey. He has to make sure the kid is serious. “You trust me, who you’ve met twice, over a group home?”

“I’ve met you.” Mikey shrugs. “I haven’t met them.”

“Fair point, kid.”

Mikey waits for his answer.

“I don’t need you to clean, at least, not more than your share. I hate folding the clothes after laundry day—you can do that. But you don’t need to watch my kid and you don’t need to be a church mouse. The new place has got four rooms, so you’ll have your space. I just have one stipulation.”

Mikey gets wary. “What’s that?”

“You are going back to school.”

With the addition of a new kid—a smart one at that—Jason has to stop going out for a time. He calls Talia that weekend, moving the heavier loads while Thaddeus and Mikey were at Marci’s. The perks of Mikey being an Alley kid is that he knew that they’d need a lie and one they could stick with. No need to set off any flags that could get the cops involved. A cousin of Jason’s, mom in jail, and he was the one who took the kid in. Marci had almost cried when they told her.

However, to get Mikey in school, he’d need more than that. He needs paperwork, verifying that story. A cousin of Jason’s. Or the alias he was using—Peter Jay Gunn. But his friends call him Jay. It was just close enough that Jason felt like himself, just far enough that Bruce would have to work to find it.

“Hello, Jason.”

“Hey, T. How are things?”

“They are good. Quiet without a child running around.”

“Damian’s not there?” Jason gets nervous. He knows there’s a new Robin running around—Tim Drake—but part of his plan included educating the kid on the dangers of being clad in the green tights. Damian will just kill him. Tim is not ready for the hellion.

“Don’t sound so scared. He’s not in Gotham, either. He’s on a mission.”

“Mission for what?” The demon brat’s only defense was how small he was. It always, without fail, threw the enemies for a loop. Jason dreaded the day that stopped working.

“Nothing that concerns you.” Talia pauses. “Unless, of course, Damian’s well-being concerns you.”

Jason grits his teeth, because, to her, he’s always been adamant that he wasn’t Dick’s brother. Wasn’t Bruce’s son. Which meant he wasn’t Damian’s brother. Admitting care was to admit he was lying. “You kill him, I’ll tell Bruce. He’ll have a fucking conniption.”

“I can give him another son.” Her voice is bland.

“You are not going to get me to say I care by acting like you don’t, T.”

“It was worth a try. It’s an envoy mission. He’s to deliver a missive to Vandal Savage, with the help of a team. We’ve sent him as he’s non-threatening to the immortal, while also high enough rank to not seem like a snub.”

“Yeah, Savage seems like the type that would care about shit like that.” Jason pauses. “Tell me you’ve got someone on the team that can actually get the kid out.”

“I’m not a fool. There’s a skilled magician who can open a portal for Damian, should the need arise. What were you calling for?”

“I need some papers.”

“Have you already burned through your first alias? It’s a very thorough identity, I mean, there are even people who will attest to knowing you. It’d be a shame to burn it over a slight inconvenience.”

“It’s not for me.” Jason says. “It’s for a kid. I need to get custody over him. Make it look like his mom gave it to me, and all that.”

Talia’s line is silent for a moment. “That other child?”

“Yeah, his name is Mikey. I can get you his information, but I’m a little lost on his social and other identifications. He doesn’t know them.”

“How old is he?”

“Eight. Old enough to know a lot, not old enough to know his social security number.” Old enough that he might be able to get to middle school at the right time, youngest in his fourth grade class before he had to drop. He’ll start this year late, but then turn nine right on time with the rest of them. “It should look like I just got custody of him, that his mom was related to me in some weird way, that social services tracked me down or something.”

“Is he from Gotham?”

“Yeah, which is why it’s got to be airtight. In case one of his old teachers decide to do some digging, or the school system.”

“Do you think it’s likely?” Talia asks.

Jason knows Park Row Elementary. He was able to stay in school for almost six months after Catherine died. “I don’t. But I’d rather prepare for something to happen then have to clean up the aftermath.”

“Okay. I’ll look into it. Shouldn’t take more than a week or two.”

“Thanks, T.”

“And I’ll give Damian your regards.”

Jason smiles at the phone. “Give him the finger for me.”

Jason’s alibi for getting out comes to him from the same person he needs one from. Mikey’s settled back into school—tested in to start late in fourth—and it’s been two months of coexisting. He had wanted to get the things for his room, save the bed, from an online store after seeing Jason’s beat-up hatchback. Said that his dad had a truck. A real man’s car, which could actually get things from places.

They had strapped the twin bed to the roof of Jason’s car and he had made the engine scream the entire way home. He wasn’t going to admit that Mikey was right—not about trucks being ‘men’s’ cars, but the hatchback wasn’t actually capable.

The last of the furniture they had bought had just been delivered. In Mikey’s room was his bed, and a dresser, and two bookshelves, and one of those huge bean bags that were bound to break and take weeks to clean up and now, now a desk. A pretty oak one. Jason has the same one in his room in the Manor. Or, well, he did. It’s probably trashed now, considering that Jason had to talk Bruce down to the price point of the desk.

Mikey had whistled when the truckmen brought it in. He was laying on the couch, an awful angle for his neck, playing with Thaddeus’s feet while a cartoon played on the television. Jason signed for the desk and waved the men out of his apartment. After closing the door, Mikey says, “You sure you can afford all this?”

All this would include the expansion to the living room—another couch, and an extra set of lamps, with side tables, and a new television—and expansion to the kitchen, with a new table, and how decked out Mikey and Thaddeus’s rooms were. “Yeah, it’s no sweat.”

“What kind of life insurance did your wife have anyway? This is like, a lot.”

His words give Jason pause. It was no sweat off his siphoned funds from vile crime lords and his allowance from the League. From Talia, really. However, it probably was more than what a life insurance payout would cover. Especially since he’d been out of work for the last five months, with Thaddeus. Everyone he spoke to knew how old Thaddeus was.

“Enough to cover this. But, besides that, I thought I told you I talked to my old boss about going back to partial hours.” Jason lies.

“Your old boss? Where’d you work?”

What was Jason good at besides vigilante work? “Mechanics shop down by the harbor. Mostly basic stuff—oil changes, tire rotations, recharges for the A/C, replacing the radio or windows. He said he’s got no space during the day for me, but if I wanted to work night, he could pay for a few hours.” Jason shrugs. “It’s not great, but it’s just a few weekdays. You wouldn’t mind hanging with Marci and Trinity, would you?”

Mikey ducks his chin at the mention of Trinity. Four and a half years older than him, smart as a whip, and he’s got a school crush. It’s infinitely cute. “That’d be okay, I guess.”

“Cool. I’ll let him know.” And Mikey doesn’t need to know how much he pays Marci to watch them, and Marci doesn’t need to know how much he’s not making, and no one needs to learn what he’s actually doing during the nighttime. Well, besides the criminal underbelly that is. They’ll learn quick.

Marci is willing to have Thaddeus and Mikey over, excited even. Macey loves to follow Mikey around, mimicking what he does. And Matthew, her oldest, has a soft spot for Thaddeus. He’ll leave his room to come hang out with the baby. Marci can’t get him out for anything else, she tells Jason.

He leaves them around six, and comes to pick the kids up at ten, eleven. Mikey’s straight to bed afterwards so he can get a full eight for the next morning, while Jason uses the extra time to either practice rolling with Thaddeus, cook for the next few days, or catch up on the news. The routine comforts, even while it drains.

Jason is on his laptop one night, scrolling through a news site, when an alert goes out. Bright green blares across his screen, an automatic, aggressive alarm. He feels his heart stop. Joker is out of Arkham.

It takes a few minutes for Jason to be able to move again. To blink, to breathe. Thaddeus is curled up in one of his arms, and he went so still, it woke the baby up. He stares up at Jason, who stares back down at him. Thinks of him and of Mikey, imagines one of them growing up to encounter that monster.

The next day, he tells Marci his shifts have doubled up. A lot of cars are getting broken into, stolen, which is on par when Joker’s out. It’s like the whole town descends into madness with the clown.

The next night, he’s brutal. Jason’s held back on killing folks—not out of respect for the Bat, or consideration for the scum, but because he hasn’t had time to pull their rep sheets. Can’t figure out if they’re a good person in a bad spot or a bad person taking advantage of the filth around them. This, of course, is not his modus operandi when he catches someone doing an unforgivable crime. Things to women or children. His only wish is that he was more comfort to the victims, who flinch back when they see the shine of his helmet.

That changes tonight. He uses more bullets than he’s used for the last month. Most go into arms, legs, hands and feet but a few go into chests. Into heads. If he recognizes a high name face, he kills them. Jason’s got to get the Joker’s eyes to swing his way.

It won’t be the showdown he wanted, won’t be the choice he wanted it to be for Bruce, but his kids will be safe, at least.

Night after night, and the Joker is quiet and Batman is frantic. Jason watches it on the news, the way Batman jerks around at every sound, how Brucie twitches with every camera flash. Joker’s known who they were at least since Jason spit it out. He can never tell if Joker wanted him to say it so he’d know it, or so that Jason knew Joker broke him.

It’s the second week of that perilous half-quiet when Jason breaks into a warehouse where clowns were spotted. Joker dresses his henchmen to impress—smiling masks, circus clothes, bright paint on the guns. A full show. Jason knows he’s at least found the operation when he spots the vivid purple. He slams down from the rafters, guns loaded, and the goons go running.

The Red Hood has finally re-made the name.

A few try to get some shots off on him, but no dice. He’s not looking to kill tonight—not going to feel sorry if a few die—but send a message to the clown in charge. Put his piece on the chessboard that Batman and Joker have had a stalemate on for years.

Jason tracks a group of three out to the loading bay, shoots one in the shoulder and one in the leg. The two that can run, do, leaving behind their friend. He snorts. Bad guys aren’t even good to each other anymore. The last, he got right above the knee, and he crumples as he attempts to stand. The henchman starts to crawl away. Sharp breathing sounds from beneath the too-wide smile of a mask.

A moment of allowing the guy to make a blood trail, Jason moves in. He brings his boot down on the bullet wound, and the guy screams, high and panicked. He doesn’t even try to hit Jason away. It’s pathetic, really. “Please, please, don’t kill me. I only work on the trucks, please. I have a family.”

“Your family know where you’re at right now?” Jason bets he’s the kind of scum that treats his family like Joker treats him.

“No,” The man sobs. “No, they think I’m working an extra shift unloading cargo at the docks.”

“So, why aren’t you working there? You really think this is the place that you should be?” Jason applies more pressure on his boot.

“Don’t kill me. Docks won’t take me, except under the table—I didn’t finish school. Now, now, with the new Wayne initiative, they won’t take me at all.”

“I ain’t planning on killing you, quit your crying.” Jason processes the guy's words. “What new Wayne initiative?”

“It’s supposed—” The guy starts shaking. His adrenaline must be wearing off. “It’s supposed to make sure that every worker gets fair benefits. But all it’s done is make it where companies don’t hire those not allowed to work, so they can get the extra money from Wayne’s check.”

“Figures.” Jason mutters under his breath. It’s so low that the voice modulator doesn’t pick up on it. “All you have to do is deliver a message to Joker, think you can do that?” Jason puts more weight on his boot and can feel how the bone creaks under him.

“He’ll kill me.”

“Yeah, but if you don’t, I will.” Jason shrugs. “Maybe you should have considered running for Two-Face. Or Penguin. One of the men who care about their money more than they do fucking with Gotham.”

“No, no, please,” The guy is shivering. Jason’s seen people go unconsolable in shock, and he’s free to do it after he’s got the message that Jason’s not fucking around. He pistol whips the guy across the face, half an echo as the mask is knocked off and clatters to the ground. It splits the thin skin on the man’s forehead, and as he turns back to look at Jason, Jason recognizes him.

It’s Marci’s husband.

Jason’s moved back before he’s even thought about it, because Johnny is right—if Joker catches wind that he was speaking with Jason, with the Red Hood, he’s dead. Johnny looks confused as Jason takes the whole of his weight away. How does he even go about explaining this? How does he fix this? Johnny’s got a bullet in his leg that Jason’s not sure how he’s going to explain away to Marci. Oh, god, he won’t be able to work. Trinity’s not going to be able to get her braces.

He’s so stuck in his own mind that he doesn’t notice Johnny begin to inch away. It takes a slam into Jason’s side to bring him back to the ground. Literally. His gun lands somewhere to his left—and Jason rolls to his right to get back up. Knife in hand, the League trained him for this. Unexpected, violent attacks.

There’s street lamps that shine into the loading bay. Batman’s shadow looms large in Jason’s vision, and he can see the blood trail—what he thought was so pathetic before—grow longer. He can’t focus on Johnny right now.

Just like before, Jason and Bruce stand and stare at each other, both wait for the other to act first. Both wait for the other to give.

Batman throws a high kick that Jason ducks under. He tries to hit Batman with the butt of his knife, but Batman manages to block it. He brings up his arm to slam into Jason’s helmet. Ears ringing, Jason stumbles back. Batman advances. Jason brings his shoulders down to run at Batman and rams them both to the ground. Gets in three hits before Batman brings up his hands and tosses Jason off of him.

They get up and circle each other. Batman’s lip is cracked. Jason’s ears are still off.

“I understand you’re trying to help.” Bruce starts.

“I am helping.”

“You are hurting innocents.”

Jason misses a step, stumbles, and Batman swoops in. Arms up around his head, Jason focuses on ducking and weaving. He hooks one of his feet around the back of Batman’s leg and as he goes down, Jason slams Batman’s face into his knee. Batman rolls away to regroup. “I’m doing what’s necessary to find and get rid of the Joker.”

“What has he done to you?” Bruce wipes his mouth on his gauntlet. “I see how you’ve put on his old face—but you are trying to be a force of good. I know you are.”

“I am a force of good.” Don’t think about Johnny, don’t think about him.

“You’re misguided. I can help.”

Jason laughs, and the modulator turns it ugly. “You? How many people have you let him kill? How many children? When does it end?” He slides a step back. His bike is around the corner, he hid it close to the loading bay, expected to catch a fish out here.

“Killing won’t solve the problem.”

“You haven’t tried it. How would you know?”

He moves too quickly. Batman picks up on it and copies his feet. “It’s a dangerous game you are playing. I know you want to make the world better, safer, but you don’t know the Joker.”

“I know him better than you think.”

“Talk to me about it.” Batman steps even closer. Jason bets that if he kept the marbles in the same spot, his smoke bombs are on the third right still. “What has he done to you?”

Jason lunges and Batman’s expecting a punch, or a kick, maybe a shove, but not for Jason to grab at him and dance away. The smoke exits from the canister quickly and Batman falls back, gives Jason enough room to escape to his bike.

It’s quiet, and Batman’s taken to find him on the roofs. His bike isn’t silent and so he touches it with his palm and darts off to a manhole. Jason hates the sewers but so does Bruce. Fifteen minutes pass with him balanced on the descending ladder, hand on the metal plate, before he deems it long enough to get out and go back to the loading bay.

Johnny’s not here. Of course he isn’t. If he didn’t manage to run away while Batman and Jason were fighting, then Bruce would have rounded him up. Sent him along to the cops. He could be in jail, or getting his leg fixed up, or being beat silly by Joker and Jason has no way to tell which it is. None of the options are preferable—the only good one stopped being an option when Jaosn put a bullet in the man’s leg.

He gets back to his bike and attempts to keep a lid on his emotions. It’s not working—like a soup pot on too high of heat, he boils over. Jason kicks his bike, body hot and stomach tight. It’s not enough pressure off, so he starts hitting his helmet, teeth clenched to keep in a scream. How could he be so stupid? So careless? This is why he’s supposed to check before he puts someone down—he hasn’t even seen the Joker yet, and the man’s fucking with his head. He’s compromising for a chance at a shot at the clown and Marci. God, Marci.

Jason knows they struggle by, that Johnny’s gone morning, noon and night to make enough money to keep their lights on and their kids fed, but Marci blushes like a teen when she talks about him and the kids get stars in their eyes. Johnny’s a good man to his family and Jason put a bullet in him, for what? For doing what he needed to—for being willing to do anything to survive?

Johnny didn’t shoot at Jason. He bets the guy has never used the gun before, how quickly it was dropped in favor of scattering. He didn’t even try to hit him back when he was bleeding out. Jason feels sick and crouches down, head between his knees, struggles not to cry.

Thaddeus and Mikey have to be picked up tonight. Jason repeats it like a mantra all the way back to the storage unit. He strips with vicious efficiency and puts back on his street clothes. He’s Jay Gunn now, a dad of two, a mechanic, a good person who would never shoot his babysitter’s husband.

The drive home is silent. Jason usually likes to listen to some tunes and decompress before he sees his kids, separate work and home, but his head’s too loud. There’s an itch under his skin and he feels like puking as he parks in the assigned parking spot he pays fifty for each month. Fucking ridiculous. How is Johnny going to be able to afford this stupid spot? How is he going to drive?

Marci opens the door to him with a smile that quickly fades away and is replaced with worry. Jason works to school his features, but she puts a hand to his cheek and then up to his forehead. “Oh, sweetheart, are you sick?”

“I’m okay—just a rough day, is all.” Jason’s voice is scratchy. He can’t look Marci in the eye.

“I know just what will fix you up,” Marci promises. She moves them into the apartment and goes into the kitchen. “Come in, the kids are watching Lion King. Whenever Johnny has a bad day, he loves some of my sweets. I just made an apple pie, bought too many for my strudels and the kids won’t eat the apples plain, so I’ll send it on with you.”

Marci gives him a pie, still in the tin, perfectly browned with rock sugar on top, just like Alfred would make it. The lattice has a heart in it. His eyes fill with tears, but she’s turned around to get some saran wrap. “We’ve got enough sweets in the house right now—whatever job Johnny’s taken to get a little extra cash is really eating at him. I know it’s just dock work, but sometimes, well, y’know how that kind of work can be.”

“Yeah?” Jason prods, voice strained to keep from cracking.

“Yes, yes, sometimes he gets in this mindset that he’s got to do everything. I love him for it—Lord knows he gives all of himself—but sometimes I wish he’d say no to a job. We would still get by, I know we would. Trinity can wait a few more months for braces, we don’t need a new TV, or fancy couch.”

A tear hits the pie. Jason is the worst person in the world. His breaths start to shudder out of him, shaky, fast, painful. He can’t even look up, eyes locked on the small heart in the lattice work. The pie is taken from him and he stares at his hands. He shot Johnny with these hands. Warm, soft arms envelope him and it’s selfish to take comfort from her—but it eases the ache within him. Marci makes shushing noises and cards her hands through his hair.

“Why don’t you pick up the kids tomorrow?” Marci rocks them. “They’ll love a sleepover, and I get the feeling you aren’t ready to be on for them. Take some time, just breathe. Just breathe.”

Jason wakes up the next morning, early, and goes to Marci’s. She’s got sleep in her eyes still and the children are gathered around the table with plastic bowls and sugary cereal. The apartment is quiet in a lazy Sunday way. There’s a high chair shoved in the corner—one that Marci pulled out of her grandma’s house, said Thaddeus was close to the age where it would be useful. Though Jason is doubtful, he also ordered one.

“Morning.”

“Morning, Jay. Are you feeling better?” She swings the door open wider, able to see Thaddeus on her hip, step into the dining room.

Thaddeus swings his arms towards Jason and he catches his baby. Settles him into Jason’s arms. “Yeah, I’m better. Assh—buttholes, y’know?”

Marci smiles. “Tell me about it. Do you need me to take them tonight?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble, if you don’t have any plans.”

“The only plan I have is to watch Dancing with the Stars with Trinity in our matching PJs!” Marci dances towards the table and Trinity, who was bleary-eyed, blushes with embarrassment.

“Mom,” She grumbles and puts her head in her hand, hiding her face. “Oh my god, stop.”

“She’s just sour because she lost a bet and now we get to have mom night.” Marci laughs at her daughter’s face, the simple joy of being a parent. It was more Dick’s purview than Bruce’s, to make Jason want to melt into the floor while simultaneously putting a smile on his face that he couldn’t hide. Well, before. With all he’s seen and done, he doubts that Dick could make him blush now.

“Mom night?”

“It’s just where we do what I want. Sometimes it’s painting, or movies, or once we went to a pottery class down at the rec center.”

“What do Trinity nights look like?” Jason asks, which gets the girl to peek through her hands.

“Coffee and walking around the mall, usually. And when I say coffee, I mean a frappucino.” Marci says.

“Frappuccinos do have caffeine in them,” Trinity replies. “It’s like a coffee, but not so gross tasting.”

“You only think it tastes gross because you’re too young to be having any.” Marci shoots back, picking up Macey’s bowl, as she’s decided it’s time to play with the cereal rather than eat it. “Which is why she only gets them on her nights.”

“Does everyone in the family do this?” Jason asks.

“Oh yes, but rarely all together. Johnny and Matthew like to do more manly things.”

“Mom.” Matthew whines.

“Like pretend that there’s fish in Gotham Harbor, or watch a baseball game out in the backfield, or sneak into a monster truck show. Things your mother would just never been interested in.” She sniffs.

“Speaking of, where is Johnny? I haven’t seen him in a few days.” Jason tries to say this as casually as possible.

Marci pulls out her phone. It’s an old, old BlackBerry. Its screen is all scratched to hell, but she slides it open to the keyboard to navigate and that, from what Jason can see, works fairly well without the use of the touchpad. Messages pop up. “He texted me last night,” Marci starts, which floods Jason’s body with a sense of relief so profound that he almost has to sit down, “Said that he’d be home in the afternoon. Put Macey down for her afternoon nap and let me run some errands while the kids are at school. Speaking of, Mikey has a few papers he needs you to sign off on, and will need to get changed, but I can walk him down to the bus in thirty if you need.”

“I think I can manage. I was just going to take Thaddeus for his check-up.”

“Oh, his well-baby one?” She smiles down at Thad in Jason’s arms. “This is one of the big ones, right? Six months.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Dr. Richards said he’s developing normally but I still get freaked out thinking she’s going to give bad news.” Jason says. He thought he might have to bribe Tonya to do the well-baby check-ups, since the free clinic wasn’t a pediatrician office. However, Tonya had gotten her specialization in pediatric care, apparently, and was more than happy to help out.

“You’re one of those that never go to the doctor themselves, aren’t you? Too scared you’ll be told you’ve got three diseases and are terminal.”

They both laugh, but Marci doesn’t know how close to the mark she is. His alias would hold up well enough to a doctor’s office—but he would have to explain the scars. The autopsy Y. No matter which way he spun it, it would go in the report and when (not if) he got back to his plan for Bruce, it could be something he would check. Paranoid bastard.

“I’ll let you take the kids over to your place.” She says and Mikey slips from his place at the table and grabs his bookbag off the back of the chair. “See you tonight for some fancy feetwork!”

Trinity yells, an affectionate, sheepish one, as they close the door. Mikey walks ahead of them a little. He has his own key. Seeming to be in a hurry, so Jason asks, “Did you remember to lay your clothes out for today?”

“Of course I did, what makes you think I wouldn’t?” Mikey gets to their door while Jason is still coming up with Thad, and swings it open. He doesn’t bother to shut it when he dashes inside. Jason does it when he gets there and turns the deadbolt for good measure. It’s Crime Alley, afterall.

Mikey’s tossing stuff out of his closet when Jason pops his head into the kid’s room. He looks back at Jason but doesn’t go back on his words. “I thought you had set out what you were going to wear.”

“I did, but I don’t want to wear that anymore.”

“Uh huh.”

“Trinity hates the color yellow. Says it’s only for anxious things—like skin cancer, and allergies, and jaundice.” Jason happens to like yellow. Thinks about the sun and flowers. (And Robin.)

“So you don’t want to wear yellow anymore?” Jason asks.

“Not never. But what if I go over and she starts to get anxious around me?”

“You are four feet and two inches of bones. I doubt you are really going to spark stress in Trinity.”

“I think I’m four feet and five inches.”

“I think you are delusional.”

Mikey picks out a blue hoodie, navy, to go with his jeans. The days are chilly now, but snow holds out over Gotham like she wants to wait for Christmas for it. “I haven’t been to a doctor in like a year. So I guess we’ll never know.”

That gives Jason pause. He had completely spaced getting the kid looked at. Thought that they were in the clear because he didn’t have a cold or the flu from the storms. He’s kind of sucking at this whole, parental, thing. At least Thad and Mikey haven’t died yet. “Nah, we’ll get you to a doctor. Also, where are the papers I need to sign?”

Mikey gestures to his bookbag and then pulls off his sleep shirt. Jason beats a hasty retreat to the dining room—now that he’s sure that Jason’s not a creep, he’s surprisingly uncaring of where Jason is in the house when he changes and the like. The bookbag is the same one that Jason gave him as the Red Hood. He had offered to purchase a new one but the kid had said he liked his current one. And it was new enough anyway, so.

Jason rifles through it to pull out the school provided agenda and the workbooks that Mikey has. Part of testing in came with making sure that Jason signed off that he completed his work every day before arriving at school. Something something cheating his way in something something. He didn’t really look at the work because he knew that Mikey was good for it.

Case in point: Jason flips to yesterday, and in Mikey’s neat block letters, it states he was to complete page 89 and 92 of his math book and the book report for Number the Stars. What a thing to read in fourth grade, he thinks. It also says he was supposed to read pages 115-128 in his science book. Mikey’s written next to it in parentheses, Plants!, with stars around the word. Maybe he should get the kid some houseplants.

Initials go next to the line about the reading, because Jason will not sign a book, and on both pages of his math workbook. He has to check through each folder to figure out which is Mikey’s English folder. When Jason was in school, his was yellow. It made him happy—not anxious, not like how Trinity thinks. Whenever he’d get an A, or even was proud of a paper, he’d take it to Bruce who would hang it up with a gold star in the kitchen. Not on the stainless steel fridge, no, but on the whiteboard where they would jot down groceries that needed to be picked up next time.

Mikey’s is green. He’s drawn some leaves on it, and some stick people. There’s not as much love in Mikey for English as it was for Jason—the kid likes science way too much.

“Are you ready?” Jason calls from the table. He puts all the stuff back in and then tosses in a Capri Sun and two cookies, wrapped, for Mikey to find later. Zips up the bag and waits for the kid to call back. “Mikey?”

“What?” He shouts from his room.

Jason heaves a sigh, which makes Thad, being bounced on his knee, giggle. “My pain funny to you, huh?” He whispers to his baby and then calls, in a much louder voice, “I said, are you ready? You’re gonna miss the bus.”

Mikey comes peeling out of his room to grab his bag and hop-skip-stumble to the door. “I’m not going to miss the bus. And you don’t need to yell.”

“Did you remember your lunch money?” Jason asks while Mikey’s putting on his tennis shoes at the door.

“Yes. It’s in my pocket.”

“Good—and don’t forget to bring home your lunchbox for Friday. They’re serving ham, and I know you don’t like it.”

“You got it.”

“Also, bring back your gym clothes. It’s been like a week.”

“Okay.” Mikey stands up and goes to leave.

“And—”

“—I gotta go, I’m going to be late.” Mikey interrupts him.

“Bye, see you tonight.” Jason says quick as Mikey is prone to leaving without a goodbye.

“Bye, dad!” The door slams closed before either of them can process what Mikey said.

Jason blinks at the wood, can hear how Mikey runs down the hallway and the faint ding of the elevator. He sits there, idly bouncing Thad, heart in his throat. Dad, he had said. Dad, which he almost certainly said from habit, and didn’t mean, not yet, but still, it stirred something sweet and painful in Jason’s chest. He wonders if this is how Bruce felt the first time Jason had called him Dad, or when Dick did.

“I know you’ll probably call me dad, but still, wasn’t expecting to hear it so soon. Or from Mikey,” Jason whispers down into the wisps of Thaddeus’s hair. “I have no idea if I should bring it up later? Will he? Do I just act like it never happened? Do I tell him he doesn’t have to call me dad to stay here? Or is it like when you accidentally call a teacher dad?”

Thaddeus doesn’t reply, except to jolt and slam his head back directly into Jason’s nose. The pain blinds him for a moment. Eyes watering, Jason stands up with Thad. “Your answer is illuminating, really. Now let’s get changed to see Tonya.”

He puts Thad in a panda onesie—cute, gender neutral and fluffy. Thick enough that he should be able to swaddle the baby in one blanket for the ride there. It’s also good for Tonya, as she’ll need to check his heart and his lungs and his leg strength and a whole bunch of other things. As Jason straps Thad in, he feels not unlike he did in school. Like he was going to have a big test and was not prepared at all, and his teacher would kill him and steal his family if he didn’t pass. It’s more like a stress nightmare, really.

Traffic is horrible, and Jason knew he shouldn’t have made the appointment for early, but ten AM should have been long enough to miss the morning jam. It is not. He hums as his fifteen minutes early dwindles down to ten, and then to five.

Sweat gathers on the back of his neck. Tonya is only around thirty blocks from his house, and it would have been a walk, but he could have walked it. Now, what should have been a seven minute city-drive is fastly reaching thirty. Should he call? Does he even have the clinic’s number? Why didn’t he save Tonya’s number? Sure, Talia answers all of his baby-related questions, but when Jason puts it like that, it’s crazy to call an assassin for those questions instead of an actual fucking doctor.

He pulls the hatchback into a side alley that’s definitely a dead-end and throws it in park. They’re three blocks away. It’s nice and chilly outside, so Jason can run it to keep warm. He puts Thad in his holder, almost too big for the newborn one now, so that’s another thing on the shopping list which he forgot at home, is he really going to try to get home after this? Focus, Jason.

Late, sweaty, Thad crying because he probably has to throw up or pass gas with how much Jason’s been bouncing him, he slides into the lobby of Tonya’s clinic looking worse for wear. Shelly, ever the judge, suppresses a sigh. “Mr. Gunn. You’re late, I’ll let Tonya know.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I—thanks.” Jason manages to pass out the gratitude seconds before the door swings shut as Shelly goes to the back. He goes over to a chair to set down the bjorn and ease Thaddeus out to rock him. Quiet him some, before Tonya comes out and sees that he’s completely out of his depth.

Thad does settle, but his cheeks are ruddy and eyes are wet still when Tonya comes out. She looks at both of them with a critical eye. “You looked better during his four month check. Did you run here?”

“Yeah,” Jason says sheepishly. “Some of it. There was, an accident or something? Traffic was backed up bad.”

“Joker blew up the bridge that takes Bowery across the Sprang River. All of Bowery’s landlocked, I’m not surprised it’s starting to bleed up into here as well.”

“I didn’t hear about that.” Jason didn’t do his nightly routine, self-soothing as it was, last night. He felt sick to his stomach and went home. He’s relieved that Marci got a text from Johnny and will just have to increase her rate while he’s recovering. And investigate more before he unloads his fucking chamber. “Was it last night?”

“No, not last night. During the morning commute. It’s got a lot of folks jittery, since he usually don’t strike when we know the Batman’s returned to wherever he goes during the daylight hours. Dozens dead with no chance to be saved.”

Joker didn’t want to give Bats a chance to save shit, Jason thinks. But, he does enjoy making Batman think that he could, if he could just move a little quicker. The bridge fallout wasn’t that. It’s cruel and senseless, much like the Joker, but without rhyme or reason. Joker always has a reason—to fuck with Batman. A sense of unease steals over him.

“Are the other bridges okay?”

“Yeah, all the others over Sprang still accounted for, thankfully. Though it was the biggest bridge on the east side. The rest are clogged up, or so I hear over the radio.” Tonya gestures him back with her to one of the rooms that’s got equipment for babies—a little basket they get weighed in, and a bassinet to be put in so she can run all her tests.

“You live close, then?”

“I live in an apartment over the clinic, actually. Easier to deal with my hours that way.”

“Maybe you could hire on another doctor? Or a few extra nurses?” Jason lets Tonya take Thaddeus out of his hands.

She places the baby on the weigh machine, playing with his feet for a moment to keep him from rolling over, until a beep that signals it’s about to weigh. Tonya marks it down. “I’d love to, but the Wayne Foundation needs proof of need. I would have to show a marked increase in patient intake over an extended time. Which would probably kill me, Luke and Shelly. No, a slow trickle that keeps me busy is better than that. Though, with the new clinic being built on seventh, I might just do what Dr. Thompkins does and close for a day. Not Thursdays, though.”

“You know Dr. Thompkins?” Jason probably shouldn’t be surprised, but he is.

“Yes, we actually went to medical school together. Different residencies, but we kept in touch. She’s who inspired me to join on when the Wayne board announced they’d be funding some free clinics down in Park Row. Do you know her?”

“She’s been in Crime Alley a long time. Everyone’s heard of her.” Jason dodges the question. “Were you still in Gotham, before this?”

Tonya’s checking Thad’s eyes, and ears, and muscles while they speak. “In a sense, yes. But removed from it. I worked at Bristol Pediatric—and some folks count it as Gotham and some don’t. I understand. They’re removed from it all. The babies were nice, all babies are, but the parents were…” Tonya trails off.

“Uppity?” Jason guesses. He remembers being thirteen and introduced into Bristol Middle, the way the kids began to imitate their parents, how they sniffed at him. No invitations for the dirty adopted orphan, unless they could guarantee his dad would come as well. Bruce would clear his plans for the day if Jason even expressed interest in a social event—as the first time Jason showed up without Bruce, he was politely removed an hour in.

“That’s a way to put it. I’d take a man who just got shot, who still calls me ma’am and says please, over a parent who complains about how she doesn’t think it’s really necessary she brings her infant in. It’s worse when they say this over speakerphone from their nanny.”

“I can imagine.”

Tonya is quiet for the next few steps, listening to Thaddeus’s heart and breathing. She slides her stethoscope back around her neck before smiling at Jason. “Perfectly healthy, just like the last visit. One more, and then you’ll be moved to yearly check-ups.”

“That’s good. I was wondering, should he be crawling by now?”

“Not necessarily. A lot of babies are closer to the year mark to crawl, though it wouldn’t be out of the normal for him to start trying. Thaddeus should be sitting up soon on his own, however. I’d recommend purchasing a highchair.”

“Yeah, Marci—his babysitter—said that, too. So I went and got one.”

“Good,” Tonya says.

“Also, do you know any good pediatricians?” Jason knows Tonya is one, but he should probably take Mikey to someone that has all the fancy gadgets that an office for kids would have.

Her face falls just a tiny bit. “I suppose it would be best to have a fully-stocked doctor in case of emergencies for Thaddeus. I can definitely look at my referrals.”

“It’s not for Thaddeus, actually. Though you are right about that—just for emergencies. I, uh, kind of adopted one of my cousins’ kids.”

“Oh,” Tonya blinks.

“His name is Mikey, and he’s very sweet, and his mom is going away for a long time. She hasn’t taken him to get checked out in over a year, so I’m just wanting to get that done for him. Make sure everything is okay, and all that.”

“How old is he?”

“Eight. Though he’ll be nine come April.”

“How exciting for him. If you can stay here, I just have to pop over to see if my other patient’s cast is fully set, and I’ll grab a list of doctors I trust.”

“Thanks, Dr. Richards.” He will call her by her title in her office, Jason reminds himself. Even with the informal nametag of Tonya. She worked hard for her medical degree and people should respect it.

When the door swings closed, Jason scoops Thaddeus up. “You did great, my guy. Let’s make sure the car hasn’t been broken into and then go to the grocery store, alright? No need to run all the errands today with the bridge out. I don’t need to go insane again.”

Thaddeus doesn’t respond besides to wiggle in Jason’s arms. He puts his baby back into the bjorn, knowing it’ll last at least another month, but resolved to go get a new one next week when—hopefully—the bridge is back up. Tonya gives a sharp rap to the door before sticking her head in. He tucks the list into his jacket. At least that errand can be done on his couch.

Chapter Text

Marci’s eyes are red-rimmed and tight when she answers the door for Jason that evening. All of his senses ring out a warning toll. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

She ushers him in and shuts the door before talking. It’s quiet in the apartment, quieter than it’s been since Jason has known them. “Johnny didn’t come home.”

“What?”

“And now he ain’t answering my calls or my texts, and his buddy, Luke, says he worked a different dock last night so he don’t know where he is.” The Gotham accent is thick in Marci’s mouth, worry slipping out. “Usually, if he’s going to be late, he’ll text me, at least. It ain’t like him to not let me know.”

“Oh, Marci.” Jason’s not sure what to say, and that fear he managed to dissipate from Johnny’s text last night bubbles hot and thick in his throat. “I could maybe look for him? I mean, my shift is kind of fluid, I get paid for what I’m there for, so I could go late or leave early and swing by the dock he was working, if you know which one?”

Marci shakes her head and puts a hand over her mouth. Tears well up in her eyes and she just keeps shaking her head.

“Okay, that’s okay. Let me look for him tonight, okay? And I want you to call the police and the hospitals, and see if he’s there. Does that sound like a plan?” Jason’s using his victim voice. It sits wrong on his tongue because Marci is his victim. The stress, and terror, and pain was caused by him.

“Should I…should I call the morgues?” Marci whispers.

Jason takes her by the shoulders. “Don’t think like that.”

“You’re right.” Marci says, before she stands taller and takes a deep breath. “I’m going to put on a movie for the kids and call while I cook.”

“I can cover takeout, if you don’t feel like it tonight.” Jason offers. It’s literally the least he can do. Marci’s eyes dart to him, quick and cautious and hopeful, and he fishes out an extra two hundred from his wallet. “Get whatever type of food you want.”

Jason doesn’t wait until the sun sets tonight. It hangs low and heavy on the horizon, bright still but cold, as he takes to the rooftops. He brings a singular gun, the rest of his equipment tonight are knives, a set of baton sticks, and some corded wire. All things he has more control over with the damage they do.

He takes out his bike and stashes it, because it can still move fast along the lanes of traffic. Crime Alley is filled with honking and the smell of exhaust fumes as people struggle to get home. Thankfully, it doesn’t look like anyone’s abandoned their car to the road yet. Jason scales up to the roofs and thinks about his first move.

The smartest move would be to check the morgues. It would cover the most ground between him and Marci, but like a selfish child, he doesn’t want that to be a possibility. The clinics are on a different network than the hospitals, shareable, yes, but connected via a bridge, not unlike Gotham.

Tonya doesn’t know him like this, and she may not be willing to help. He has to go there anyway. Leslie is fully Bruce’s, and she probably has a button to alert the Bat the moment any other crazy walks in.

He slips into the window of the room he was in just hours ago. The bassinet and baby weigher are both stowed away, and it looks like a simple doctor’s office room. There’s the crinkly paper on the bed, a chair stowed away in the corner, the sink that houses way too many cotton balls and wooden sticks. Jason pulls out a knife, even as the thought of it makes him want to puke, because he doesn’t want to threaten Tonya or Shelly or Luke, but it’s more important to find Johnny right now. He has to fix his mistake.

He gets to the lobby, footfalls silent, without passing anyone. The other rooms are empty. Tonya was right that her patients more trickled in than flowed. Shelly’s at the front desk with YouTube on her computer. Jason puts the blade against her shoulder, flat, and says, “Lock the front door. Don’t press the panic button.”

Her entire body freezes for a moment, head not even daring to turn. The mechanical filter in Jason’s helmet hides how his voice wavers. Shelly stands up and he allows it. They walk, him a step behind, to the sliding front doors. The lock sounds heavy in the quiet of the room.

They’ve almost made it back to the front desk, where Jason will get her to search the clinics and hospitals, when the back door swings open. “Shelly, I was wondering if you could punch in these notes? It’s still just easier for me to freehand than to use that outdated brick they call a computer that the Foundation gave me.”

Tonya only looks up when Shelly doesn’t respond, both Jason and her stopped to see what Tonya’s reaction will be. There’s a split second of surprise, of fear, before she closes off her emotions. Jason’s seen it once before. When he brought Clara, he knew it was damage control. Her feelings were placed to the side to save lives.

“What do you want?” She asks Jason directly. It’s cold, not like how she speaks to him or Thad. She doesn’t know it’s Jason. She doesn’t know.

He tries to play it cool. “I just want to use your database, then I’ll be on my way.”

“I can look up whatever you need.” Tonya makes to go to the desk. Jason’s not sure that she won’t press the panic button, and yes, it may take a minute for the police to get here with the streets the way they are, but not Batman. He can’t afford that.

“No, I want her to.” For the first time, he reaches out to grab Shelly. He’s been letting the light threat of a knife motivate her, but now he needs to convince Tonya. Convince her that he really will hurt Shelly if they don’t give him what he’s asking for.

Tonya takes a step back with her hands up. Jason gets Shelly to the computer without bloodshed. She’s shaking a bit, trying not to cry, and he knows she’ll quit after this. Maybe in a week, or maybe a month, but she’s not Park Row raised, and she’ll fly to wherever in Gotham she was from. He hates it, hates himself, at that moment. Shelly’s fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to look up whatever he wants.

“I need you to see if last night a man came into any of the clinics. Or nearby hospitals.” Jason says. “He would have a gunshot wound in his leg, above the knee, and a head wound. Blunt force.”

Shelly starts typing, before Tonya speaks up. “We aren’t going to help you hunt down a man to finish him off.”

Her words give him pause. “I ain’t the type to kill the undeserving. But I’m just trying to make sure that this man is okay, and getting the care he needs.”

“The care he needs because of you. I’ve seen dozens of men in the last week with bullet holes from you, Red Hood. Men with wives, men with kids. Some even got mothers that care about them. Most of them make it off my table, but some don’t. How do you get to pick the undeserving?” Tonya’s conversation keeps Shelly from moving.

Jason rolls over the words in his mind. He didn’t mean to kill anybody, besides the ones that he made sure were dead, but he wasn’t really stopping himself. He wasn’t caring about the outcome. “I didn’t mean to. I’m just trying to make it right.” His voice is soft, barely picked up by his modulator.

Tonya still looks suspicious, but she nods for Shelly to continue. Her fingers fly across the keys. “Making it right would be not doing it in the first place.”

“Some that I’ve put down have made the Alley safer. You can’t deny it—Issac Palomino, Jerry Ludgis. Mean men who hurt everyone around them.” The kind that sell kids. The kind that kill sex workers, the kind that don’t care about no one but themselves.

“I’m a doctor. Do no harm.” The hippocratic oath, that Leslie also swears by. He can just imagine the two of them at school, younger, happier. Before Batman, and the Rogues, and people down the middle like Jason.

“Well, I didn’t swear that. What do you got?” He directs the conversation back to Shelly, feeling as if he has wasted time.

“I’ve got a few too many results. About thirty? Do you have a name or description?”

Giving a name would be putting it too close to Jason’s literal doorstep. “Early forties. Five-foot-nine, overweight. Black hair, brown eyes. Mole under his left eye. Burn scar on his upper left forearm.”

Shelly begins to punch in his characteristics, and Tonya takes the time to speak up. “You don’t have to kill people to make the world better. That’s an evil mindset, because it leaves you as judge, jury and executioner. Just look at all the good the Batman does.”

Mention of Bruce causes Jason’s hand to tighten. The knife’s handle squeaks in his grasp and Shelly flinches. He can tell she’s crying, that kind of cry where you aren’t blinking, eyes too wide but the tears don’t stop anyway. He works to relax his grip. “The Batman allows kids to die. What good is there in that?”

“He can’t save everyone. Not even Superman can do that.”

“He could save more,” Jason argues, and it sounds like, Bruce could have saved him. “If he would handle his Rogues, really handle them, do you know how many lives would be saved? How many families would still be whole? If he had killed the Joker, then the forty-seven that died today, would be alive.”

“Then why haven’t you killed the Joker?”

“I’ve found a match!” Shelly interrupts, voice high. Jason brings his attention back to her, and lets Tonya’s question hang in the air. “I’ve found a man who matches your description—a John Doe, he came in with no identification. Gunshot wound to the thigh that pierced the femur. Cracking along the bone indicative of pressure being applied. Bruising along the temple with a minor cut to the hairline.”

“Where is he?”

Shelly hesitates, and looks to Tonya. Jason does the same. She measures him with her eyes. “You really want to help?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do when you find him?”

“I’m going to alert the staff, who can then reach out to his next of kin to give them some peace of mind.”

Tonya nods. “They have a lot more panic buttons in a hospital. Maybe they’ll actually manage to get someone there to arrest you.”

“Arrest me?” Jason asks.

“You’re a murderer. If the men you’ve shot deserve what they got, then what do you deserve?” Tonya asks.

Jason doesn’t have an answer for that. Shelly tells him the hospital room he’s in, at Otisburg Hospital. It borders Crime Alley, but sits close to the Knight’s Stadium for events that get out of hand.

He goes out through the front and books it up the ladder in the alley and across seven block’s worth of rooftops before he stops. Takes a deep breath. Tries to think it through. If he goes as he’s dressed, then Tonya’s right. He won’t make it past the front door. If he goes as Jay Gunn, and Tonya’s alerted the old man, it will raise questions on his civilian alias. If he calls Marci and tells her, it also puts the spotlight on Jay Gunn for how he knew.

There’s got to be a way to let the hospital know anonymously.

Could he just…call the hospital? A burner he has never used, tucked into his left chest pocket in his leather jacket. It was to be useful as he built up his criminal empire, ready to be the first phone of many in his communications with his lieutenants, never traceable by the big bad Bat. If Bruce couldn’t hack it, then an understaffed hospital wouldn’t be able to as well.

The line rings. And rings. He thinks he’ll go to voicemail, until, “You’ve reached Otisburg Hospital. If you know your party’s extension, please input it now. If this is an emergency, hang up and dial 9-1-1. Please stay on the line to hear our transfer options, as our options have recently changed.”

Jason puts in four and the woman answers much quicker than the answering machine. “Hi, this is Lona, how can I help?”

“I have information about your patient in room seventy-two.” Jason says, no name, no pleasantries. He’s turned off his modulator but also adjusted his voice. He doesn’t want to make it easy for anyone to track him.

“One second, please.” There’s the sound of an old keyboard being abused. “I’m sorry, sir, it looks like we don’t have anyone in room seventy-two.”

“The John Doe with a gunshot in his leg?” Jason asks. “Did you move him?”

“A John Doe was transferred to the morgue about three hours ago from that room.”

“No, I just checked at the clinic, I—”

“I’m sorry, sir, but the information updates between clinics and other hospitals are delayed somewhere between three to eight hours. Are you the next of kin?”

“No.” Jason feels cold all over. “I—I know who is, though. How did he die?”

“We are not allowed to disclose medical information unless it is to the next of kin. Do you have a name for us to contact?”

“Her name is Marci Mahrez. Uhm, the John Doe, he was, his name is Johnny Mahrez.” Jason rattles off Marci’s number, and their address, and keeps his voice steady even as tears begin to leak out of his eyes. It’s just past seven, dark early in as the winter creeps closer. What’s Marci going to do for Christmas?

“Thank you. We’ll contact her. Is there anything else we can help you with?” The woman on the line asks.

Jason works his jaw, stuck between asking for her to call the cops on him, she’s speaking to Johnny’s murderer, and asking for some medical assistance. His entire chest aches like he’ll never breathe right again. He settles on, “No, thank you.”

The line clicks off. It leaves Jason, on this roof, in the cold air, with who and what he is. He doesn’t think he can fix this. Echoes of Bruce from when he was younger, when he was Robin, play in his head. How murder wasn’t an option because it was permanent. It was static. Jason knew it was permanent, liked it even, but finally understood what Bruce was trying to say. There was no option to tell Marci, or act any different, aside from a sympathetic neighbor stand-point.

He starts to move, because he can’t stand still, his mind screaming, he just wants it to stop. Roof after roof and the city blurs beneath him. There’s people down there he could be helping. People he could be hurting.

Jason needs to get out of his own mind and so he calls Talia. Surely, she’s dealt with something like this before, right?

Her voice filters through his helmet, cold and sure and questioning. Familiar. “Jason. What’s this call for?”

“I…made a mistake, T.”

“Did you?”

“I killed someone. Someone I shouldn’t have, someone who was good. I don’t know what to do now.”

“Ah,” Talia pauses. “In war, casualties, intentional or not, are inevitable. It is true for me, for you, even for the Batman. That was a fact that you should have known before you took up this endeavor.”

“I did know!” Jason defends himself, a bitter taste on his tongue. “I knew, okay? I just wasn’t expecting it to be someone I knew.”

“Every person who you have killed has someone who knew them. Someone who loved them.” Talia says with no hesitance. “Just because it was not you, does not make it untrue. That is a reality you will have to learn. You cannot change the past. You hold no pit to bring back the deceased. All you can do is be more careful, more cautious in the future.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’ve probably never regretted anything.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve taken a misstep that has caused me regret. But, I have felt it before. Jason, dwelling will do no one good. Use this emotion as a lesson.”

Jason doesn’t want Johnny to be a lesson. He wants him to be alive. “I want to help people. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, T.”

“You are helping people. More and less than you know. Your actions are not selfless, as much as I know you wish them to be. That means that some will get a short end of your mercy. But you need to ask yourself, is this worth it? Picture it, the Joker dead at your feet, unable to hurt you, unable to hurt another person.”

He does. The image propelled him forward in the early months of his return to Gotham, but with Joker dead by Batman’s hand. The unshakable proof that Bruce cared deeply about him, that he wasn’t a fluke to the caped crusader. In the darker moments, Joker would be dead by Jason, and so would Bruce, unable to meet the demand Jason had set.

“Jason? Is it worth it?”

“Yes.” His conviction returns to him. Joker is within this city, breath pushing past his putrid lips, rotting heart pumping poisoned blood through his body. His living body. Johnny would be alive if not for him.

“Then remember this moment. Remember how it felt to fail, and do not repeat it.”

The line goes dead. Jason pushes himself to the next roof. Talia’s words did not make him feel better, did not ease the ache within him, will not make it easier to face Marci. But her words do what they always have with him—taken his pain, crafted it into a weapon, and handed it back to him. Something useful.

Sweat gathers at the base of his spine as he continues to push himself forward. He waits thirty minutes after he had called the hospital to shoot a message off to Marci. It’s a lie, that Johnny got into an argument last night on the docks and had left to blow off some steam. Jason says he’s checking the hospitals and the bars, to see who has seen him last.

A response is not forthcoming.

Another roof, and down at his feet, a crowd is gathered. Across the street, there’s a building destroyed. The ruin still smokes. Gotham smog so heavy here that it blends in before reaching above the buildings next to it. Cameras flash and reporters, at the front, talk amongst themselves as a man steps up to the ruin.

It’s Bruce, because of-fucking-course it is. That’s what Jason needs tonight. He should turn and go, should leave in case the man catches sight of him up here, since their last encounter was less than stellar. Instead, his feet stick and he crouches down to hear better.

“Mr. Wayne, why do you think the Joker has targeted the Todd homes?” A reporter calls out.

“With this being the second home to be blown up within the week, do you think your son had any connections to the Joker?” Another question.

A hand shoots up in the parasitic mass. “Did you do any background check on Jason Todd before bringing him into your home?”

“Enough.” Bruce’s voice lacks the suave softness of his Brucie persona, enough of a growl to give a shadow of the Bat. It works. The crowd quiets at his voice, even without a microphone or megaphone to project it. “We will lay blame on the evil madman who destroyed homes for orphaned children, not my dead son.”

The crowd sobers. Jason, who just got his emotions under check, bites the inside of his cheek. A fragile warmth that burns and chars the inside of him flickers in his chest. “My son had always wanted to help whoever he could. I built these homes from plans he never got a chance to complete.”

Bruce tilts his head up to the sky, and there’s a sheen of tears in his eyes that he’s trying to keep from escaping. Jason can’t bear to look at it, and he can’t stand to look away. Bruce closes his eyes for a moment. There’s moisture on his eyelashes that shine in the streetlamp, so brightly that Jason can see it.

When Bruce opens his eyes, he looks straight at Jason. Both of them freeze for a second. Bruce recovers first. “The Joker is destroying anything that can better Gotham. He destroys the bridge that connects two of our islands, homes that protect underprivileged children, and the construction of a clinic that was meant to bring healthcare to the poorest of our people.”

He looks at everyone in the crowd. Jason used to call the look, ‘The Sweeper’. It was meant to make all of them feel seen. Then, he looks up to the roof where Jason is crouched. And he speaks, directly to Jason. “We will rebuild. We won’t allow this man to destroy the good in Gotham, the good in ourselves. In times as trying as these, it is important to remember just who we are. I will not sink to his level, and neither should you, just because he commits these senseless acts of violence.”

Bruce looks away from Jason, returns to the crowd. Jason watches a small smile make its way to the old man’s face. “He can do his best to tear us down, but Gotham has always been the best at rebuilding. I mean, we would have been washed away decades ago if we weren’t.”

The crowd claps as Bruce ducks his head, persona sliding back into place. Jason stands and turns away from it. He doesn’t want to hear the jokes and demureness that Bruce will put on now that he’s done crowd control. Sure, the building will be built again, probably in two weeks, and kids will go in and not come back out. And that’s not even counting the kids that were inside at the time. He wonders if Bruce knows how many children died in that house.

Sometimes, you have to sink into the muck to purge it.

Jason is aimless that night. It hits nine, and he thinks on calling it in, but then imagines going to Marci. He hasn’t decided if he will play the ignorant card, or if he will act like he had found Johnny. Surprised, either way, at what happened. Unmoored at the injustice of it all, and that is not part of a farce.

Crime is down tonight, with the streets still overflowing with traffic desperate to get home. There are pockets of empty—spaces to commit evil—found on corners with abandoned storefronts or boarded up homes. He stops a mugging, dislocating the guy’s shoulder instead of anything more aggressive. Letting the man stumble and run away. Maybe to Tonya’s, maybe to Leslie’s. He hopes they go to Dr. Thompkins, so he won’t have to think about the sour look Tonya’s reserved for the Red Hood.

He’s near the old theater, memories that aren’t his at his heels, a story he knows too well, when a car, old and beat up, screeches to a stop nearby. The window is down, and he can hear yelling. “You can’t just dump me here, fucker! You pay or I’ll make sure that Joe will bleed you for all that you’re worth, you limp-di—”

The sex worker is shoved from the car and Jason winces. Her pimp, Joe, will almost certainly take it out on her instead of the customer. He stands up from where he’s sitting to go down and at least get her some cash to deliver back, when the woman stands up and the street light hits her face. It’s not a woman at all. It’s a girl.

Messy eyeliner and too-bright a shade of red for her lips can’t mask how fragile her bone structure is, how underdeveloped. Her wide eyes and underfed frame are all rage as she grabs a hold of the car to keep it from speeding it off. The man parks, which is a bad sign, and the girl knows it too as she stumbles backwards in heels too high for her. Jason sees the moment it hits her, how alone she is with this man. A certifiable man, too, how he gets out and almost fills out as large and imposing as Bruce.

Jason fires a shot at the man’s feet. He should put a bullet in his brain—the careful and cautious talk from Talia still in his ear, but the rumpled clothing and stains on the edge of the child’s skirt show that this piece of scum would not lose Jason a second of rest. But, there’s a child there. Regardless of what else she’s seen, Jason is not going to put that in her mind.

It makes the man rear back. Gives Jason the room he needs to land between them. The man clocks who Jason is immediately, and gets back into his car post-haste. Jason turns to the girl, who’s going to go back to Joe, and he could give her money and make it easier tonight, or he could just…try to remove her from the problem.

He can do better. Be better, for those that need someone.

Jason grabs her and starts the walk to his place. It’s about seven blocks north, and he didn’t even realize when he bought the place, how close he was to where he met Bruce. She doesn’t try to pull away, but does start to argue, probably having seen the gun. “Listen, I don’t care what you heard from that, but I don’t do anything for free. You want me, fine, but you gotta respect my rates and you gotta pay up front. Are you listening to me?”

“I’m listening.” He wishes he wasn’t. The words, coming from such a young voice, bring bile up.

“Then stop!”

Jason does, just because he knows, deep in him in a small part he never, ever looks at, that this girl doesn’t interact with many men who actually listen when she speaks. She moves an inch away from him, and straightens out her hair and her shoulders. Gives him a smile as her hand smooths down her neck. Jason looks away. “We may have gotten off on the wrong foot, or the right foot, if that’s how you swing, but—”

“I’m not sleeping with you.” He can’t even let her finish her words, the idea that some men prefer this child in any context.

She blinks, lips turning down into a frown. “Well, then, I’ve got to get going. I’ve got to make up that asshole’s cut.”

“I’ll pay for it. If you don’t go back.”

“Ha! And go where?” She gestures to all the boarded up places nearby. How every third streetlight is out, and most others flicker and think on giving up the ghost.

“I have a friend who could keep you safe. Or you could go back to your parents?” Her expression turns sad, hurt, and he scraps that idea. “He works on my bike.”

“And then Joe tracks me down? Listen, you sound like you’re from here, but you clearly ain’t been on these streets if you think that rat is going to let me get away.”

“I can take care of Joe.” Jason says neutrally. He’ll have to scope out where the guy is and learn how many other underage girls he’s been peddling. There’s no way he can house them all, but maybe, since Bruce saw him there tonight. He could petition for a better system of the group homes. They probably don’t background check the cleaners and repairmen. Easy fix to make the kids safer.

She eyes him. “You a cop?”

“No.” Direct and simple is the best way forward. He figured that out with Mikey, quick. “I’m the Red Hood.”

“The guy who’s been putting bullets in the Joker’s goons?” The girl looks shocked, as if he wasn’t currently wearing a giant red helmet. “I guess I ain’t gotta ask how you’re planning on handling Joe.”

“You don’t. And if you don’t have a place to go, I can connect you with my friend. He’s got a habit of picking up strays.”

“I don’t have any money on me.”

“He’s not going to ask you to pay.”

“I mean,” She crosses her arms. “I mean, listen, you know this guy like a guy would, right? If he’s—if he knows, then what if he likes what he sees?”

“He won’t. Trust me.” It would be easier to tell her that they are one and the same, and right now, he’d like to put her in a hoodie and sweats, with maybe a bowl of pasta, so she can rest for a bit.

“And what if he does?”

Jason forces himself not to sigh. “How about I give you,” he does mental math of what he has in his wallet, “three hundred dollars right now? Then, you can keep it as safe cash, in case you feel you got to get away.”

“I could just take the money and run.”

“You could. Or you could take a warm shower, and use his guest room, and I’ll swing by his shop to let him know. You could rest, for a bit.” Jason suggests.

That suggestion drains some fight out of her. He watches as her entire body sags at the idea of rest. Being this young, doing this, must mean she doesn’t have any other options. Jason refrains from asking, knowing it is not time or place. Mikey’s barely opened up about his parents, always goes silent whenever Two-Face is out sniffing around, so he doesn’t expect to get to learn anything soon from her either.

“Take the three hundred and I’ll get you in.”

And she nods, so he walks with her, lets her keep her space, and turns them down a corner, then another, keeps the quiet until they get to the glow of his apartments. They both look at them.

“I don’t have his keys.” Jason lies. “But I can go up the fire escape and let you in. You could also go up the fire escape, but this place ain’t got a key lock for the front door or anything.”

She looks down at her feet. “I’ll go up in the elevator. Do you know the floor?”

“It’s the second one. I’ll swing the door open from inside.”

The girl nods and moves towards the door like she’s sneaking in. Allan isn’t in the lobby, he likes to close up shop around eight. The only worry is Mikey needs something from the apartment and uses his key to get in. It’d probably shock both of them. Jason will get her in, grab his bike, go to the storage unit and get back as quick as possible.

The fire escape is rusty but solid beneath his feet as he heaves himself to the second story. Jason doesn’t keep any of the windows open, but the locks are shit, and Mikey almost always does if he can’t jimmy one open.

He’s pretty sure he breaks the living room lock and that turns into certainty when it falls as he slides the door open. Jason would like to take a second to clean up in here, Thaddeus’s toys scattered about—a piano that sings different nursery rhymes on each key, a set of rings, a box with big, non-chokable, shapes to put into it—as well as some things of Mikey’s. A gameboy, gift from Matthew, as Trinity has no interest in it, a few finger skateboards, a handful of cut-up poster board explaining to Jason the merits of Mikey getting an ant farm.

Instead, Jason has to walk past it all and feel fondness with the exasperation. His home looks lived in, loved. The door to the outside swings open and the girl—Jason needs to get her name—is standing near the elevator. He waves her on in.

She looks around curiously when she gets into the apartment. First is the kitchen and dining room, which Jason does dishes everyday alright, but there are three of them. The table has got some papers on it, different homework Mikey’s working on, as well as a pair of jeans that Jason was patching up for Marci. She’s awful with a needle.

Jason hadn’t even looked at them when he came in. He was so used to taking some of the frayed clothes of Marci’s off her hands to mend, he didn’t even think about it. Those are Johnny’s jeans, so they don’t have to buy another work pair for at least three months. There’s no need for him to be patching them up now. His eyes linger there. There’s no way he’s giving them back to Marci, can just imagine how her face will crumple and fall with the memory of her husband. They’ll have to stay here, to haunt Jason instead.

“Hello?”

Her voice is annoyed and slightly concerned. Jason snaps back to the current and turns his head towards the girl. She hasn’t taken off further in the house, but stands at the door that opens to the living room.

“What?”

“I was saying, do you know which room he’s got set up for guests?”

That would be a weird thing to know, right? Jason shrugs. “No idea. Good rule of thumb, if it looks lived in, then that ain’t it.” The only room that she might mistake for the guest room would be his own then, clothes always neatly put away, no pictures or posters on the walls. Just a large bookshelf that dominates the far wall—and a lot of people stash their books in the guest room.

He fishes out the money from his wallet, knows he’ll have to replenish before he gets back, just in case ‘Jay’ also has to offer anything to get the girl to at least wait until the Todd homes are back up. Back up and safer, his mind corrects. She eyes it like its salvation, like it made the shitty walk in shitty shoes to a less-than-shitty apartment worth it.

“Before I leave you, what’s your name?” The money is held by both of them, Jason pressing it into her hands but not letting go yet.

“Candy.” She says, automatic.

“Your real name.” That’s such a generic sex worker name, and Jason pulls a sour face at it. Thankfully, she can’t see that.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I gotta tell Jay what to call you.” He lies. “And with his kids around, he ain’t calling you that.”

“Do y’know his kids’ names?”

Yet again, weird thing for a vigilante to know. “No idea. He talks about them some, but not too much with me.”

She nods, looks down at the money he still hasn’t released to her. “Sabrina. My name is Sabrina.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Sabrina.” He drops the money and takes a step back. “Be up or don’t. He won’t get back for at least another hour.”

“Are you not going to go out the front door?”

“And let the lovely people of this complex get spooked? I think not. Though, that does remind me, you might want to lock the door. It’s still Crime Alley.” Jason slips out the window and resolves to fix it tomorrow as the pane slides shut but doesn’t give the characteristic click sound of locking in.

He’ll find Joe tomorrow, or by the end of the week. Moving on the guy is to accept that the kids under him will need someplace safe to go, and that’s just not feasible at this turn. It would be if either he or Bruce could get a handle—any handle—on the Joker situation.

His bike is stashed two blocks away from Tonya’s clinic, left there because it was loud enough that she could have called the cops and told them to chase after the red helmet on a bike. A walk, just like it would have been with Thaddeus, but made easier with the rooftops and his grapple.

During this time, he thinks of Marci. Does she know yet? They’ve had to tell her. And yet, the line between them has been silent. No request to pick up his kids, no call, nothing. He worries that she is in shock. Before he can ‘meet’ Sabrina, he first has to face the music there. He wonders what Mikey will think—wonders if he should look up how to have the death conversation with the kid. He almost certainly knows what’s up, but still, that’s got to be bad for the kid’s development.

Jason will hug Marci, and will be kind and considerate. He’ll offer anything she needs and then more. He’ll need to find a new babysitter, probably, just so she can have time to hold her family close and not need to worry. Maybe he can make it look like the docks paid out some of Johnny’s pension to her.

The plans, thoughts, guilt swirl around in his head. He’s off his game tonight and he knows it, which is why he doesn’t register the other presence in the alley with his bike until they are bearing down on him with a knife. And by bearing down on him, he means stabbing into his fucking kneecap and popping it out like a hubcap. Jason just barely manages to hold in his scream as his body falls, turning on his good leg to throw a punch at his attacker.

It hits a pasty-white, pockmarked cheek that still smiles down at him as he crumbles. “Well, I did hear you have fight.”

This is the worst of nightmares. Jason, at the disadvantage, laying on the ground in front of Joker. He scrambles for his gun, strapped to the thigh of his damaged leg, and finds it missing. Fucker must have taken it when he stabbed Jason. “Looking for this, are we?”

Joker dangles it from one of his fingers, and Jason should have brought more guns, all he has are fucking knives, he let sentiment and guilt trap him again. “You youngsters, so dependent on your fancy tools to get a job done. Back in my day, we had a little more pizazz. A little more show, if you know what I mean. And good men to get the job done.”

Jason kicks at Joker, but he’s standing just far enough away to dodge easily. All Jason has are knives, and they are close-ranged, but he pulls one out anyway. Gets into a moderately up-right position and hurls the thing at Joker’s head.

The quick, slimy bastard ducks and then tsks. “Now, the trouble with today is that good help is hard to come by. And when I do find it, someone’s got to go shooting at it.” Joker lunges in as he says it, and Jason throws an arm out to pull him down, punch his teeth out, but the man only brings his arm in range to run the blade against Jason. It cuts open his leather jacket, splits his skin. He kicks and it makes Joker stumble, not fall. The knife stings; it has to be one of his, but unless he wants to do a body pat right now, he’s got no idea which one Joker’s taken—only that it is not the one that Jason tossed.

He could have two more knives on him. He could have one. Jason cannot afford to reach for the wrong one.

His blood drips onto the stone beneath him in a parody of a memory. “You do remind me of me. Though I can’t say if it’s the whole getup, or your moxie. Either way, you’re behaving like a child starved for attention, like daddy just didn’t love you enough.”

“Shut up,” Jason has no idea why this psychopath can still get under his skin.

“Well, son, I’m looking now. Was there something you wanted to say? Do? Or are you just going to lie there and bleed?” He chuckles and it makes Jason feel sick, awful and small. His entire leg is on fire.

In this moment, he thinks of Johnny, and how the man must have felt, the pressure bearing down on him courtesy of Jason. It smarts to know that Joker’s affording him more kindness than he did Johnny. It burns. And yet, Jason won’t crawl. Won’t give Joker the satisfaction.

“All that mayhem, all that show, just to stare at me. I mean, I am assuming you are staring as you know—can’t really see—ah, you get what I’m saying.” Joker waves a hand in front of his eyes and then sighs, and tucks the knife away. “Heroes of my day, you see, really know how to put on a show. And, like the first pathetic act they send out at a circus to keep the crowd docile, you just don’t dazzle.”

He shrugs and aims the gun. “It’s tough breaks in show biz, kid.” Jason has one chance. He’s got to roll and roll right, fast and hard enough to forget his dislocated kneecap, and into the Joker’s legs to bring him down. Wrestle the gun out of his hand. Not get shot. Joker starts to shift the muzzle to Jason’s leg, stomach, head. “Eeine, meeine, miney, m—”

The sound of metal clangs as a batarang is thrown into the gun that Joker’s holding. The gun falls to the ground, so fucking close, a few inches under the dumpster and Joker snarls, eyes lit up like a deranged kid seeing his family dead at the table come Christmas morning. The shadow of Batman falls over Jason, eclipses him in it as Bruce descends from the roof above.

Knife back in Joker’s hand, eyes on the Bat, and Jason rolls so Batman can have his grand entrance. Rolls towards the dumpster, because he’s not the only one with surprises up his sleeve. Jason lays flat on his back—dangerous, bad, bad position—so he can reach under and grab the gun. The metal scrapes along his glove, just barely out of reach. Jason uses his good leg to shove closer to the stink of the dumpster while punches and laughs ring out above him. Joker dances away from Batman, and steps on Jason’s bad leg in the process. Agony courses through him, but it was a bad move for Joker, because Jason uses the easy reach to bring the man down.

He can’t get to the gun. But he has Joker in a headlock, has the fucker within grasp, and he still has a knife. He reaches to his boot and his hands hit empty, as a growing horror dawns. Joker squirms, and Jason can feel the dig in of the knife handle from his last one, strapped to the side Jason has Joker pinned to. The batons that are strapped to his back.

Can he roll both of them? Stab Joker up the back of the neck, straight into the skull, into that small part that tells your body to breathe, your heart to beat?

Seconds pass slowly and he sees Bruce, standing over the both of them—isn’t that ironic, how far Jason’s fallen—reaching out to separate them like squabbling kids. A flash of silver glints in the alley. Joker brings his own knife up to stab at Jason’s face, but it’s protected by design. The knife slides down the helmet and embeds itself into the meat where shoulder meets neck. Jason’s hands spasm, against his own will, and Bruce is able to wrench them apart. Slam the Joker into the wall, over and over again, until there’s red in the man’s smile and his laugh is more like a wheezing rattle.

Jason’s newly empty hands go up to the knife wound. There is the hindbrain part of him that screams at him to take the object out, out now, and a voice like Talia’s that whispers that if he wants to live, he won’t. He watches Joker and Batman from the corner of his eye.

He can’t win here. Too injured to stand, too many weak points to hit. If Batman manages to bring Joker down, he’s going to go take both of them to Arkham. If Joker manages to knock the Bat down, he’s dead. Jason can’t reach the gun. He can’t take out the knife. He can’t get to his bike. He uses his arm that doesn’t have a knife in the shoulder, hauls himself into a sitting position against the dumpster and inches along it to the side using his good leg. His pants are soaked through with blood, the other leg dragging uselessly, bottom half at a strange angle.

He’s almost out of the Alley when Joker says something, laughing, always fucking laughing, and sprays Batman in the face with his flower. Batman hisses, ducks and brings a hand up to wipe at the offensive liquid, and Joker takes the chance to escape. He darts around Jason, ignores him, but it doesn’t stop the instinctual freeze up. He could trip the man. Maybe even use his good arm to grab the knife on the same side, but more likely the one jutting out of the other shoulder junction. He could take the knife out and finish him, both of them dead in the ground, back where Jason ended up and where Joker should be.

Thad and Mikey flash in his mind. They’re on the couch, Mikey has Thaddeus tucked up under his arm and they are laughing. Joker disappears into the night.

Jason looks out to the street and blinks. How far did Johnny make it? Who helped him get to the hospital? There’s the sound of heavy, shifting feet behind him. It hurts too bad to grab his knife, good arm almost numb with the pain. He looks back to see Batman studying him. “I swear I’ll kill us both if you try to take me to Arkham.”

“You’re injured.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Jason says, sardonic.

“We need to get you to a doctor.”

Batman steps towards him, and Jason wants to scramble away, wants to attack, but he’s so tired. He’s betting on blood loss. “I ain’t letting you take me anywhere. What, get stitched up and then carted off by a dozen police you called while I was on the table?”

“If you let me help you, I won’t send anyone to arrest you. This time.” Bruce says, and Jason knows he means it. He’s not the type to lie to a clearly beaten opponent. He extends a hand down to Jason.

Jason keeps his dignity and uses the leverage on his good leg and good arm to hoist himself up. It gets tossed out the window the moment that Bruce wraps an arm around his waist to steady the both of them. “You can’t take me to a hospital—I won’t be taking this helmet off.”

“I have a friend. She has a clinic not too far from here, and she won’t ask any questions.” Leslie.

“How far?” Twelve blocks, Jason knows. She’s right next to the 7-Eleven that shoved its sign far enough up into the skyline to be seen anywhere in Crime Alley.

“Not terribly. About ten blocks.” Bruce doesn’t know the area as well as Jason. They limp slowly that way, sticking to the shadows, and Jason doesn’t ask for pressure bandages. Batman doesn’t offer them. About three blocks in, Bruce says, “You know, we could have caught Joker tonight. If we had worked together.”

“Catching him wasn’t in my plans.” Jason grunts. Next time, he’ll be ready. He’ll be better. Tonight was too hard, more going on than he can afford. To top it all off, he’s not even Robin anymore and he’s still getting a lecture from Batman. “And I don’t work with you.”

“You did, once, if you remember. I didn’t ask then—there’s been a few vigilantes popping up in Gotham to help. I thought you were like them.”

“I’m better. I’m actually helping.”

“Yeah? How?”

“Well, for starters, I’m going to kill that madman and bring Gotham some well-deserved peace.”

Batman hums. “You’re usually more heavily armed than tonight. If you were looking to kill him, I’d think you’d bring more than one gun.”

His observation brings Jason up short. It begs him to answer the unasked question, why isn’t he armed? Why only one gun? Tonya was judgemental, Talia was insightful, but callous. Maybe… “For starters, I wasn’t expecting to see Joker tonight. And. And, I shot someone I didn’t mean to. It felt wrong to go out with them on me tonight.”

“Johnny Mahrez.”

Jason stares at the side of Bruce’s head—incredulity all over his face, the face that Bruce can’t see. He also can’t tell what Bruce is thinking, with the cowl and mask on firmly. “Of course you fucking know about that.”

“I helped him get to Otisburg Hospital. He wouldn’t tell me his name, or anything. I put a tab on anyone calling into or about his room.”

“So you got a call when he…”

“Yes. They missed a fragment of the bullet in his femur. It was causing internal bleeding. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing to me?” Jason scoffs.

“Because I know you didn’t mean to. I could see it in you, when I saw you that night. I thought there was some bit of you that I could get through to—how you recognized what you had done.” Batman sighs. “How did you know him?”

Jason has a few different options available to him. He could tell Bruce to fuck off, but that would prompt him to go poking into Marci and Johnny’s personal life and well, that would be his undoing. Lying could set off the Bat’s suspicion as well. “I know his son, Matthew. Not him, not really.” There. Vague enough while being truthful.

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Would you?” Bruce opens his mouth to respond to Jason’s retort, but he cuts him off. “No, I want you to really think about it. Think about one of Joker’s victims—one of the ones that you could have saved, if you were just faster, smarter. I bet you’ve been to several of their funerals. Do you ever go up to their family and apologize? Tell them who you are and what you could have done?”

“I wasn’t the one who killed them.”

“I’ll give you the first few years of Joker’s reign of terror. But after that, any death is yours through inaction. That’s how I see it.”

“Is that why you’re doing this? Did I fail someone in your life? Did he take someone close to you?” Bruce stops for a second, leans Jason against a wall to observe him, give them both some space.

“Maybe. Did he take someone close to you?” Jason shoots back, wanting the heat off of himself.

“Yes. Yes, he’s taken someone I care about very deeply. Someone I will never get back.”

“Then why do you let him live? Why do you keep playing the same game, locking him up just for him to escape? It doesn’t work.”

Batman loops Jason’s arm back around his shoulder and starts off again. They have, maybe, four blocks left. Jason’s having a hard time forcing his head up to look for the sign. “Murder won’t either. If I kill him, you think it ends. But it doesn’t. Another monster fills the void, someone else steps up to the opportunity. The only thing in this world I can control is me. And I won’t become like them.”

“I heard something similar earlier. From Wayne.” Jason says. Batman does a remarkable job at not tensing up, but Jason’s not planning on giving up that tidbit of information tonight. “At the time, I thought that the only way to knock ‘em down was to get down to their level. I still do. You aren’t going to convince me tonight, and I’m tired. Drop it. Will you?”

Batman doesn’t respond, but they do keep up a steady pace. He can see Leslie’s clinic in the distance, the white building so similar to Tonya’s, before Jason speaks up again. “Speaking of Wayne, he funds you, don’t he?”

It was a rumor that Bruce had started when people began to put together the cost of Batman’s gadgets and how few people could afford that. Sometimes, he’d even have Clark run around in the suit around Bruce Wayne, just to avoid any identity questions springing up. Suffice to say, it was public knowledge.

“Yes. Why?”

“Can you pass a message on from me? Nothing sinister, promise. I just don’t think he’s ever got his hands actually dirty, and there’s lots of kids that could benefit from his homes or whatever. Just, what’s the vetting process for the help? The food deliverers, groundskeeper, cleaners? Not the folks who run the home, the dozens that have to go in and out but not stay.”

“I’m…not sure.” Which is code for nothing. Just like Jason thought.

“Well, he might want to tighten that up. I doubt he actually looks at how many kids just disappear from the homes, ‘runaways’ as the counselors would call it, but it would drop that number by at least half. It’s probably just a publicity stunt for him, but it’s these kids' lives.”

“And you care about that?” Bruce sounds genuinely curious. He doesn’t know what Red Hood’s priorities are.

“Yeah. A lot. And if he can help, and you can get the message to him, then I want him to.”

The door slides open to a tired Leslie Thompkins. She has more gray in her hair, a few extra age spots on her temples, but it’s her. Same woman that would patch him up after a fight too extreme for Alfred’s field training. It only hits him, now, in this room with both Bruce and Leslie, that she was probably the one to do his autopsy.

Her eyes narrow when they step through the door. Then, she sighs, grabs a wheelchair, and comes over. Turns her sign to ‘Closed’. Batman helps him into the chair, which is mortifying.

“It’s good that you are still awake.” Leslie says. “You can give me a list of your injuries yourself. Do you know your blood type?”

She turns him and he watches as Batman moves back to the door. Goes to leave. He nods once before he’s out into the night, keeping his promise. Jason focuses back on Leslie’s words. “O-, ma’am.”

“I can make do. Give me a rundown of what you need fixing.”

So Jason does, and she takes him to one of the rooms, helps him out of his bloodstained pants and jacket and takes the knife out of his shoulder. Sixteen stitches—ten in his leg, six on his shoulder. Some butterfly bandages for the slice on his arm. She makes him count to three before she pops his kneecap back in, but just like old times, actually puts it in on one. Doesn’t ask him to take his helmet off, but gives him instructions on how to check for a concussion. Even with the transfusion going, he fades in and out of the appointment.

A crutch, some antibiotics, and an empty lobby and street are what Jason ends up with. He hobbles back to his bike. Marci still hasn’t texted or called, but there’s no more time in the night. Jason was running late.

At his bike, on the seat, is his gun and the knife he lost. He’s got his last one in a medical biohazard bag tucked into his jacket pocket. Ruined jacket, ruined jeans, but the bike purrs when he turns it on. He knows who left him his things. Jason isn’t sure what to make of it, but he’s grateful that the Bat moved on from here already.

It’s slow going at the storage unit. Everything hurts—and that’s not just physically, either. He almost breaks down and calls Marci, once, twice and then wipes off with some baby wipes and drives home.

She answers the door to him, swings it open as if she can’t bear the weight of it. It’s worse than this afternoon. Before, there was worry and confusion. Now, her eyes are listless. Dull. The apartment is quiet. “Jay.”

“Marci…” His voice breaks before he can even—what? Apologize? It doesn’t matter how fucking sorry he is. “I—”

“You’re hurt.” She ushers him in.

“I was looking for Johnny.” Truth.

“Did you find,” Marci takes a deep breath and pulls closer to him. “The hospital called and—and they told me, but they didn’t know who he was. Said a man called. Probably the same one who did it. Guilt response, they said. Did you find the man who did this to him? To my Johnny?”

“No.” He didn’t need to. He won’t tell her that. The most important thing right now is to stick to the truth. “I don’t think so. I had a run-in with the Joker.”

That sparks something in her eyes, the kind of fear the boogeyman inspires in children. “Oh, sweetheart, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. How are you? How are the kids?”

“I haven’t told them yet.” Marci admits. “I’m doing my best to keep it together, Jay. And once I tell them, it’ll be real and then—then, he’ll be gone.” Her words are caught up in a hiccuping cry that steals over her features for just a second, before Jason watches her firmly repress it.

“I understand.” He remembers losing Catherine.

“You do, don’t you?” Marci’s eyes soften, and she takes a hold of his hand. Jason lets her. “How did you keep going when Clara left you?”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. A reminder, that no matter how friendly he is to Marci, how much he feels that he shares, she still knows him as a widowed husband and father. Clara hangs over the both of them—will hang over him with her, and Mikey, and whoever he ropes in. She’s looking for advice from one widow to another.

“You don’t.” He answers carefully. Thinks about how Bruce acted when Selina left, how Catherine acted when Willis died. Different, but fundamentally the same. “All you have to do is survive tomorrow.”

Marci squeezes his hand and then releases him to fetch the kids. He throws in extra money, stopped by an ATM for Sabrina, because it’s all he can do. Thaddeus is asleep in his arms and Mikey stumbles along next to him. He looks at his bandages, blinks, and nods, like it’s normal. It probably is to him. They were supposed to talk after school, but there was an impromptu teacher conference about other kids using Mikey’s homework to cheat, and Jason making a fuss for how he didn’t see that being Mikey’s fault, and then he took the kid out to fast food, eating in the car otherwise they would be late to Marci, since being accused of bullshit sucks, and Thaddeus had cried the whole time, but now Mikey looks too tired to tell him what he wanted to. They have tomorrow.

They’re walking down their hallway when Jason remembers Sabrina. “Oh, hey, kid.”

“What?” Mikey stifles a yawn.

“A friend of mine said a friend of his needed some help. She’s going to be staying with us for a bit. I’m not sure how long, I just didn’t want you surprised.” Jason says. He isn’t sure if he should be asking Mikey, but he doesn’t have a backup for Sabrina right now. “Her name is Sabrina.”

“Oh, a friend?” The kid fails to wiggle his eyebrows.

Jason can’t stop the look of disgust that steals over his features. The innuendo makes him think of how Sabrina offered herself, and how no kid should have to do that. “She’s a child who just needs some help.”

“So it is a thing for you.”

“What is?”

“Adopting random kids.” Mikey shrugs.

“One, I haven’t adopted her.” Jason puts a finger out from where his hand is holding Thad. “And two, two occurrences does hardly a ‘thing’ make.” Three. Three occurrences, which is a pattern. Not that Mikey needs to know that.

“I’m just saying, it’s a pretty weird way to deal with grief.”

“Rude.” Jason retorts, automatic. It probably did look that way, to them, that he was filling in the holes left behind by his dead wife.

Mikey opens the door for them, but doesn’t respond. The house is quiet, the lights off. If Sabrina is here, she went to bed already. It’s such a good idea that the rest of them follow suit.

Jason wakes up with bruises all over him. A giant one on the back of his leg, from where the blood probably collected for a bit. One on his arm, surrounding the cut. On his elbow—he probably used it in his fall and didn’t even realize it. More small ones litter his back. He puts on a hoodie, outside cold enough to justify it, and goes to make breakfast.

It’s Thursday. He can take a day off—or five, if what Leslie said was to be followed. Jason knew he should, but there was still Joker out there. The rational part of his mind argued that he’d just end up messing up his leg even worse, since Joker had the advantage of knowing what happened to it. But, on the other hand, Joe was out there as well. The debate continues in his mind as he cooks some eggs and pancakes. There’s the patter of feet and he looks over to say good morning to Mikey.

Sabrina stands next to the kitchen table. She’s wearing one of his old t-shirts, one that he uses to clean his guns with, and blames the stains on the cars he ‘works’ on. A pair of gym shorts that he thought he lost. They observe each other for a moment. Sabrina snorts. “You look even worse for wear than I do.”

“Thanks.” Jason says and gestures for her to sit down.

The chair scrapes against the quiet morning as she settles at the table. “Did Red Hood do that to you?”

“Why would he—what—no.” Jason sputters. He wasn’t expecting her to drop his alias so quickly. “And be quiet on that when my kid gets in. He doesn’t know about it.”

“That you work with a criminal? It’s chill. Pretty much everyone is a criminal in Gotham nowadays.”

“Do you want pancakes?”

“Do they have chocolate in them?” Sabrina asks.

“They can—if you don’t talk about Hood around my kid.”

“Oh, a briber. I like your style. Yeah, I’ll take a few and I can keep my mouth shut. He did say you had a couple kids, though.”

Jason nods and opens the pantry to fetch down the chocolate bars. He doesn’t have any chips, so he’ll chop them up. “Yeah, I have two. One’s name is Mikey. He’s eight. The other is Thaddeus. He’s just over six months.”

“A baby?” Sabrina’s face brightens. “Where’s ya wife then? Or girlfriend?”

He doesn’t want to lie again. Doesn’t want to keep it up. But…he has to. Tell Sabrina the truth, Mikey learns it, Marci learns it, she pokes deeper. All of them do. It’s too dangerous, for him and for them. “My wife died in childbirth.”

“I’m sorry.” And she sounds like she really means it, but that makes it worse. “How’s Mikey taking it?”

“He, uh, never met her.” The pancakes done, he brings them over to the table. She pulls over the chocolate ones to her as he divvies the rest up to him and Mikey. Birthday syrup, Mikey’s favorite, that apparently tastes like sprinkles, is set next to his seat. “I’m going to get Thad up. Do you need anything?”

“How about a winning attitude?” She jokes. Jason just blinks at her, and the smile she sports slips off her face. “Sorry, something my coach used to say during practice.”

“What did you play?”

“I was a cheerleader. For a bit.” The reminder seems to dim Sabrina further, and she focuses back in on the pancakes.

Jason decides not to push and goes to collect Thad. He’s recently moved his baby into a separate room. There’s four baby monitors around the room, because what if one of them doesn’t pick up Thad’s crying frequency? Or runs out of battery? Thaddeus, like every morning before, is resting peacefully on his back. Jason runs a hand down his forehead and the bump of his nose, which causes Thad to wrinkle up his face and blink awake. He reaches for Jason when he sees him.

They come back to the table to see Mikey and Sabrina eating together. Mikey’s moved his plate so he can keep Sabrina in a more direct line of sight. She’s red in the face, on her ears, too. Jason catches the end of their conversation. “I’m just saying that I get what he meant now. I thought it was weird that you wouldn’t know your mom—but she wasn’t your mom, was she? When did he adopt you? Is this like a,” Sabrina waves her hand, “habit for him?”

“It’s not a habit.” Jason interrupts.

He looks at Mikey, to gauge what’s going on, but the kid is pretty closed off. Mikey sighs and says, “Whatever you say. If it helps you sleep at night.”

“I am being attacked in my own home from all sides. Thaddeus won’t treat me this way.” As if to prove him wrong, Thaddeus then smacks him with his tiny baby fist made of fat.

It causes both of the kids at the table to giggle.

“Oh, Mikey, where’s your bag? I need to sign your stuff.”

“It’s in my room.” Mikey says. Jason looks at the clock, wonders if he has enough time to sit down with Mikey and Sabrina but the bus is coming and coming quick. He doesn’t want to give that asshole teacher anymore reasons to single Mikey out.

As he’s leaving, he can hear Sabrina ask, “So, why does he have to sign your homework?”

He takes Thad to the other room and lays him on the bed. The baby rolls onto his stomach, but fails to get his arms and legs beneath him. It’s still a valiant try. Jason is going through each of Mikey’s detailed assignments and signing them with today’s date. He’s zipped it back up and is about to take it to the kitchen to stow some goodies in it, when Mikey appears in the door. He looks upset.

“Is everything okay?”

“What? Yeah. Just wanted to grab a scarf.” Mikey shifts on his feet.

“Are you sure? What’s up?”

“I wanted to get to talk to you today.” Mikey admits. “Will she be here all day?”

“Probably.” Jason doesn’t want to lie. He isn’t going to send the girl away. “But, how about you and Thad and I grab dinner? Proper this time, not in the car.”

“Can it still be fast food? Sit down places are loud.”

“Yeah, I guess, if it can be Batburger.” Jason smiles.

Mikey grins, nods and grabs his scarf and bookbag before booking it out the door. Jason didn’t get to give him a treat to find in the bag, a somewhat tradition since Hood dropped it off for the kid, but he’ll make it up with a large milkshake today. He scoops Thad up into his arms to go see Sabrina, and the baby squeals in delight from the speed of it.

She’s still at the table, her plate and Mikey’s empty. She’s eyeing his pancakes, so Jason scoots them closer. “They don’t have chocolate in them.”

“I do have eyes.” She takes them anyway and snags the syrup as well. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Not particularly. The pain pills make me a little nauseous.” So does the pain. And the guilt. Jason’s issues are literally eating at him.

Sabrina shrugs and keeps eating, as Jason collects the plates to put in the sink. It may be a day for the dishwasher, as loath as he is to use it, just to minimize his work load. The dishwasher just doesn’t get them as clean as they could be. He manages to stall out until Sabrina has finished the second plate before he goes back to the table.

Thad is bouncing on his knee, hand around the baby’s stomach, when he clears his throat. Not sure how to say it, Jason starts, “So, Hood told me a little bit about the situation. Said he made a promise to you—he wouldn’t tell me what about exactly. Just that he was going to be looking into a Joe for you, that I could pass on any information you want to give him. You could even write it and put it in an envelope and I swear I won’t look.”

She’s quiet for a minute and then looks up with her eyes narrowed. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because everyone needs help sometimes, and I’m in a position to provide it. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you’d like. Plus, I know the group homes are getting rebuilt, and I hear rumors they’ll be better, so if you or I end up hating each other, you’ve got options.” Jason says the last bit as a joke.

Sabrina doesn’t seem to take it that way, scoffing, “The groups do background checks. I’ll be in for a week before they boot me back to my mom.”

“Your mom? Is there a reason you don’t want to be with her?” How could she be worse than Joe?

“You don’t get to ask that.” Sabrina snaps. “Sure, I could stay here, or maybe I’ll lie about who I am and then go to a group home. Maybe I will go back to my mom—or back to the streets. Don’t fucking look at me like that, I know Hood must have told you.”

“Language,” Jason says, automatic. Her loud tone and aggressive attitude have already set in motion what he can’t unset—Thaddeus begins to cry.

The baby wailing does chastise Sabrina, and she shrinks back some, face ashamed. Jason gets up to rock Thad and make soothing noises. It takes a few minutes for him to quiet down. He comes back to the table, but doesn’t sit. Sabrina won’t look at him. He sighs. “Look, kid, yes, Hood told me a little bit about you. I don’t judge you for what you had to do. Like I said—you’re welcome here. Or at a home, or wherever you want to go. I’m just trying to help you make a smart choice that you won’t regret.”

“Maybe I don’t want your help.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Sabrina looks up at him.

“Okay.” Jason repeats. “We don’t have to talk about it. When you make a decision, you can just let me know, alright? And if there’s anything you want to share about Joe, just let me know that, too.”

“I will.” She promises, fingers playing with the edge of the table. She seems keen to leave but hesitant to do so.

“You aren’t in trouble. It’s not my purview to ground you—though, I want you to be respectful to me and my kids while you’re here.”

“That’s it? What’s the rest of the rules?”

“There are no other rules.” Jason says. He remembers when Bruce took him in—how skittish and mean he could be. How fast his moods whipped around. Bruce refused to cage him too much, because he knew that if he structured their life too fast, Jason would see it as a cage and run. Seeing it from the other side is…helpful, here. “I have to go to the store to pick up some food for next week. Is there anything you like? Would you like to come?”

“I want to lay down.” Sabrina says. She still waits until Jason nods to get up, and she looks sad when she darts a glance over at Thad, but right before she leaves the room, she says, “I like teriyaki chicken.”

Jason will take the win. She goes down the hallway towards the guest room and his room, but Thad’s things are in his own down the other side of the apartment. Jason changes his baby into a yellow shirt with flowers and a pair of baby khakis and resolves to wear his day old shirt and sweat combo. They get out the door with minimal fuss, as minimal as a baby and crutch can be, and it isn’t until he’s strapped Thad into his seat and gotten into his own and closed the door on the shitty hatchback that it all hits him.

Johnny and Marci. How he has a third child living with him, one which he has no clue on how to approach, meaner than Mikey and with good reason. Mikey and Thad. Children legally bound to him—or to who he’s pretending to be. The wounds on his body and Bruce saying that he thinks Jason’s capable of change but that change doesn't help Johnny. Doesn’t help the lies he’s stacked upon himself.

There is a crushing weight upon him for a minute and he just—has to practice his breathing for a minute. His eyes go blurry and regain focus slowly. He pulls out his phone. He wants to call his mom. Jason dials Talia’s number.

“Jason. It’s rare to hear from you so soon. Are you well?”

“Yeah, yeah, I think.” Jason puts his head on the steering wheel. “No. I’m not, Talia.”

“How can I help?” Talia asks. There’s no judgment in her voice, which Jason is grateful for.

“I took in another kid. Her name is Sabrina and she, god, can’t be older than fifteen.”

“Do you need new paperwork for her?”

“No, not yet.”

“But soon.” Talia surmises.

“I don’t know.” His eyes are getting blurry again. Maybe this isn’t helping. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’re making choices. Adapting to the world around you, and being shaped by it. Otherwise known as living, which is something I know, before your death, you did not get to do much of. Congratulations.”

“I am so far off from my plan.” Jason didn’t want to be molded by the world. What happened to his carefully crafted decision to bring everything down around Bruce’s head, to really make him see? What happened to stopping at nothing? What happened to his conviction? What happened to killing the Joker—he could have last night, really could have. It would have killed him too. But did Jason actually expect to live through his plan?

“Jason.” Talia speaks in a measured, soft tone. “Your plan is a good one, but it would not have worked. Bruce will not change. I am glad to see that is not the case for you as well.”

“What?”

“It’s rare for me to meet someone not consumed by an ideal—vengeance, or power, or justice. It’s a terrible way to live.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” He pulls himself back up to look out his windshield. Thad’s asleep in his carseat.

“You may not know this, but my choices are, in fact, limited by my birthright.” Talia says. “Yours are not.”

“Are you saying I should give up?”

“No.” Talia’s voice turns sharp. “You are right that Gotham needs a protector that will do what Batman won’t. But you shouldn’t lose yourself to it, turn the world from knowing you.”

“I feel like I’ve already lost myself. I’ve told so many lies to keep this up, T, and hurt people. I’ve hurt people.”

“You already know how I see that. I cannot offer comfort beyond what I’ve already told you—but I can tell you that plucking yourself from those that care about you will not heal your pain.” Talia pauses. “No man is an island, otherwise, you wouldn’t have called me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He uses the back of his hand to roughly swipe at his nose. “Hey, I got a favor to ask. Can you make a deposit for someone and make it look like it’s coming from a pension?”

Jason comes home to drop the groceries off and start marinating the chicken—he’s planning on grabbing Mikey for an early day, and having a night in. The kids need it, Jason needs it, maybe Sabrina will even like it. The elevator opens up to his floor and he shuffle-slides out of the lift. The crutch is in the hatchback so that he can actually get the groceries and Thad up in one go. His knee feels like its going to pop out again, a strain on the stitches, the strangest, scary sensation he’s had in a while.

At the front of his door is Marci. She’s talking with Sabrina, a little confused, as Sabrina does her best to fill the doorway while also curling up defensively. “Marci,” Jason calls out, just to get their eyes his way.

Marci looks over. Her face is washed out, tired in a way that only death can cause, but her eyes are clear. “Oh, sweetheart, let me help with that.”

“It’s okay—if you could take Thad,” Marci doesn’t stop her forward movement so he offers his baby instead. The warmth and weight of Thaddeus calms him always and he hopes it provides her that same relief. It’s all he can offer.

Sabrina lets them both in and he starts setting the bags down on the counter. Sabrina hovers just next to the living room door, uncertain on leaving or staying. Marci looks between the two of them. “Marci, this is Sabrina. She’s going to be staying with me and the kids for a while.”

“Hi, Sabrina.”

“Hi,” The kid is shy around newcomers it seems, when she’s able to be. She presses her entire body against the frame of the door and Jason can read her desire to get away like neon lights. Before he has a chance to tell her it’s okay to not do this, Marci speaks up.

“I live on the floor above—well, actually. That’s what I was coming to talk to Jay about.” Marci bites her lip.

Jason nods to Sabrina. “Could you give us a moment?” Relief floods her features as she practically bolts. Marci raises her eyebrows, and Jason won’t tell her much, but, “She’s still settling in.”

“Ah.”

“What’d you want to talk about?” A thread of nervousness shoots through him, even though he knows, he knows, there is no way that Marci knows it was him.

“I told the kids.” She says.

Jason blinks, and tries to reassess what she needs him to say. “How did they take it?”

“I think we’re all still a little too shocked for it to have really hit. I kept them home from school today—which Trinity threw a fit about, said she had a history test.” Marci laughs and it’s wet and shaky. “She hates history. Her worst class. I think she just doesn’t want to be left alone with it—I don’t want to be left alone with it.”

“I’m so sorry.” Jason doesn’t know what else to say, or how else to convey it. He can promise that he means it down to the marrow in his bones.

Marci waves off his words. “I called my mom about it. She’s lost three husbands, so you know, definitely thought she could help.”

“Did it?” He would give anything to call his mom about this—which is not to say that Talia is a bad substitute, just so wildly different than how Catherine would have handled it.

“Yeah, it did. She offered to let me come stay with her downstate.”

“Leave Gotham?” Marci nods. “What do you think about that?”

“I think I am going to, Jay. Listen—there’s no way I can afford really anything in the city without Johnny. My mom’s got a house downstate, and she’s willing to let us stay for as long as we want. The kids will go to a good school, and I can find a part-time job, and maybe, maybe it won’t be so heavy.”

“I would help you. I could help.” Jason backtracks, because would she even want his help? His kids know hers, and he knows her, but he doesn’t know anything about Matthew or Trinity or Macey.

“I know you would, sweetheart.” She reaches out and grabs onto his wrist, squeezes it. Shifts Thad on her hip a bit. “I think it would be good for all of us. But I do need a little bit of help—it’s hard to watch the kids, at least Trinity and Macey, and pack. I figured you might be out of work for a little bit, and thought—”

“Of course. Of course I’ll watch them. I was going to take Mikey out for a short day today, and I’ll be home and in by three. You can bring them around anytime after that.”

“Thanks, Jay. I could pa—”

“No. I don’t need you to pay me for it, really, Marci.” He has to force himself to swallow, throat tight. “I just wish I could do more.”

“You’re already helping me so much.” Marci says, and it’s a lie. She doesn’t know it is, but every ounce of grief she experiences is his fault. Thaddeus wobbles in her arms, reaches for Jason and she helps to switch him over. “I’ve got to get home and make some lunch. It’s been a busy day—Allan’s letting me out of the lease early, and my mom’s willing to drive up to help with getting us down, but she’s planning on this weekend.”

Marci’s backing up as she talks, plans in her eyes and tasks to keep her hands busy, and Jason knows this dance. If she doesn’t slow down long enough to think, then it’s just like he left for a bit, and that he’ll be back. Just like with Catherine.

However, as she goes around the dining table, her eyes land on Johnny’s pants. Jason only had them half-mended, using a sturdy cut from one of the old, destroyed jeans that Marci had turned into rags. Marci’s whole face goes soft and sad and her voice trails off. There’s a moment where Jason thinks he should say something, do something, but she reaches out and stops her fingers right before they touch the denim. And then she leaves.

Jason stands in the kitchen, groceries surrounding him, Thad in his arms. There’s a low hum in his mind. After a few minutes, the door to the living room swings back open. Sabrina fills out the doorway and he does his best to pull himself together.

It’s not enough. There’s a twist of sympathy in her face before she comes into the kitchen. “You can’t put all of these groceries away with Thaddeus in your arms.”

“I was going to put him down for an hour while I prepped some food.”

“I can take him,” Sabrina offers.

Jason hesitates, even if the help would be appreciated. “Have you ever held a baby?”

She snorts and comes closer. “Yes, a few. A lot of my friends had little siblings.” Her hands slip around Thad. Sabrina pulls him over to her and onto her hip, grins up at Jason like it was a challenge. “I would offer to help put away the groceries, but I have no idea where things go.”

“It’s the way it is in a new house.” Jason says, thinking of the few group homes he went to and ran from before Bruce found him. How he went to the Manor and thought he would never be able to get the cabinets right with the breadth of that kitchen, only to wake up a year later able to cook there.

“You moved around a lot?”

Jason shrugs. “A fair amount when I was younger. I was going to make some chicken tonight, do you prefer your teriyaki sweet or spicy?”

“Spicy?” She asks, like it’s a crime against nature.

“Well, I’m glad we are of the same mind on that at least.”

“Do people actually like their teriyaki spicy?” She says, and Jason looks up to answer, half a minute behind because the words were so quiet, and realizes she’s looking down at Thad and asking him. Just like he likes to do when he’s alone with the baby. Sabrina takes the two of them to the living room, but leaves the door opened, so Jason can keep an ear out.

He puts up the vegetables and fruit that he got, using tricks he learned from Alfred. Putting the fruit in cups of water to keep, and wrapping the lettuce with wet paper towels. The chillers at the bottom of the fridge fill up with green and purple and red and blue, and just like the small, poor kid he was, a feeling of pride and security swell in him to know that they’re all taken care of. No one’s going hungry here. The meat goes up. He puts in the whole milk next, something he’s giving Thaddeus, and trying to give to Mikey. The kid makes a face whenever Jason slides a glass his way—he states that it’s gross by itself. He just wants to make sure that Mikey’s getting the nutrients he needs. Tucks the chocolate syrup into the side wall, with the dressing and ketchup he had to get again.

There’s a few frozen bags that help Jason when he’s real tired, chicken and fries and hashbrowns, and they take up a fair amount of the freezer. He cuts up the chicken thighs for tonight and makes the teriyaki marinade, uses honey, even though the recipe doesn’t call for it, and tosses all of it in a bowl. He puts some saran wrap over the bowl and slides it into the fridge. He’ll saute some carrots and brussel sprouts right before they eat.

The rhythm of the kitchen, the quiet sounds of life in the living room, all of it keeps his mind focused on the task. Once Jason is finished, he washes his hands, the cutting board and measuring cups and checks his phone. It’s almost ten-thirty, time to go grab Mikey.

He sticks his head into the living room, and sees Sabrina on the ground with Thad in her lap. They are both watching the television, one of the live Scooby-Doo movies on, bad CGI and better plot. “I don’t know if he’s old enough to watch that.”

Sabrina jumps a little at his words. “He won’t remember. Just have the faint impression of being inspired by a group of crime solvers.”

“A group of teenagers that are breaking and entering.” Jason corrects, like he didn’t love watching the shows when he was growing up.

“I mean, that’s what all the vigilantes of Gotham do, and we still call them heroes, don’t we?”

“I don’t think all of them are heroes.”

She shakes her head, “No, no one does. But there’s someone for every single one of them who does think they are a hero. And they do the exact same thing, just with less running and more punching.”

“I guess you’re right there. I never realized how passive the Scooby Gang was.”

“That’s what I’m saying! They just set one or two traps and catch and unmask the bad guy, and then the cops come, and somehow the day is saved. It’s simple and good. I bet Thaddeus thinks so too.”

“You think the vigilantes are a good thing?” Jason asks, not sure what within him prompted the question. (That’s a lie, he knows, but he isn’t sure why it made him ask her.)

“I mean, the cops aren’t cutting it. Someone’s got to step up and protect people. I think it’s really cool, and brave.”

“They could be less violent, though.” He argues.

Sabrina laughs, curls her shoulders down towards Thad. “This isn’t Scooby-Doo’s world. And the villains aren’t just interested in tax fraud, or spooking people for the fun of it. Sometimes you have to throw punches.”

Jason doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. He keeps talking, he’ll push, ask about murder and freak the poor girl out. There is a victory here that he was able to have a full conversation with her without an argument. Take the win. “I have to go pick Mikey up. I’m pulling him out for an early day.”

“Is it because of the whole thing with your neighbor?”

“Partially.” Jason admits. He knew that Johnny was gone the night before, and could lie and say that motivate his choice today, but he just wants to give his kid space and time to talk to him. Jason gets the distinct feeling that there won’t be much of that in the months to come, and knows he’ll have to make it.

“I can keep Thaddeus if you want.” Sabrina offers. “It’d be nice to have a buddy to finish the movie with.”

“I’m going to take Thad with me.”

Sabrina’s open face shuts down, mouth pulling into a frown. “You don’t trust me to take care of him.” “I don’t know you.” Jason corrects her—he would love to show that he does want to trust her, and have her trust him in return, but he isn’t going to risk his baby for that. “Why not ask again in a few months?”

“A few months? You’re going to let me stay here that long?”

“I told you that when you decide to leave, you decide. You just have to tell me when.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s how you get me at twenty-three, crashing on your couch, eight years from now.” Sabrina says, sardonic.

“You’re fifteen?” Jason thought it would be around that age, four years younger than him, much too young, and yet still older than him when he was in the same situation.

“Yeah. Supposed to be learning how to drive and shit.”

“Language.” He feels like Bruce. If Thaddeus wasn’t here, he wouldn’t give a shit how she spoke. But, impressionable young minds and all that. “Well, if you’re still here in a few months, I’ll teach you how to drive.”

“You got a car?”

“A hatchback, actually. Old, and eats gas like air, but it still drives.” Anything newer would get robbed in Crime Alley. “Now, I’m going to be late.”

“Yeah, probably. The bridge’s still closed down, while they rebuild. I wonder how you would even do that, since the middle was blown out. Do they make a hole to put equipment in the Sprang? How would they do that?”

“I have no idea. You should Google it.” Jason says. Sabrina passes Thad up to him, and he doesn’t even strap the bjorn on his body, since the crutch is still in the hatchback, and that extra weight will hurt his knee.

“With what phone?”

She raises a good point. Jason’s laptop sits on the coffee table next to the couch and he leans over and opens it up. “Password’s the number four, and then hand, capital h, with an exclamation point at the end.”

“You’re giving me a lot of power, here, giving me your computer.” Sabrina jokes. “I’m more scared of what you could do if I didn’t give you a distraction. I was a teenager once.” Still am, Jason doesn’t say, because Peter Jay Gunn was twenty-six, and he just had a really good skin care routine.

“Yeah, like a million years ago, by the looks of it.” Sabrina doesn’t even look up as she says that, misses the way that Jason’s jaw drops. Apparently, not that great of a skin care routine. Maybe he should start moisturizing.

“Okay, well, I’m leaving. There’s some food you can eat in the freezer, or some fruit in the chiller, but save space for dinner.”

Sabrina hums, already lost to the movie she put on, and to Jason, eyes focused on his computer. He does his best to quickly move out of the apartments and into his hatchback, no blood or popped stitch, thankfully. He wants to get to the school before eleven-thirty, since that’s when Mikey’s lunch break is—Jason having made the effort to show up at least once a month since the kid started staying with him.

Traffic is not as awful as the day before. News has spread through Gotham, and though everyone is inconvenienced by it, the day workers fall into line to take the smaller, out of the way, bridges. There’s really nothing else to be done. Thankfully, Mikey’s school is on the same island, only about a mile and a half from their house. It’s all the cars that make it take fucking forever.

Jason gets there with ten minutes to spare, and brings Thad in with him to check-out Mikey. He knows he looks rough today, and hopes it’s not Joan at the desk. She’s a bitch. Today is turning out better for him than yesterday—not that it would be difficult to do so—since Amber is there. She’s getting in her hours for her teaching degree, young and fresh-faced, and friendly. She waves at them when Jason gets into the office.

“How can I help you guys today?”

“I’m here to pick up a student.” Jason has to dig into his jean pocket to pull out his wallet and flip it open to his ID—a lie of a person, but real enough to hold up to even a cop scan. “His name is Michael Wilson.”

Amber is quick on the computer, too. She finds him in the system and checks his ID to make sure that he’s on the approved pick-up list, before she slides him back his wallet, and says, “If you can just sit down for a quick moment, I’ll give a call to his classroom.”

He nods, grateful to have a place to park it. Jason does his best not to sigh like a put-upon father when he settles into the plastic cushion covered by rough cotton. There’s no way he’ll be out in Gotham tonight—not even thinking about how he’s going to be watching six kids. He clears the rest of the week in his mind as well, ready to be there for Marci and her kids while they reorient their entire lives. It’s the least he can do.

Mikey walks in a few minutes later, face cautious until he spies Jason and Thad in the corner. He grins and moves over to them with a pep in his step. “Hey, kid, thought we could do a lunch instead. That sound good?”

He nods and they both say goodbye to Miss Amber before going out to the hatchback. It looks like it’s going to rain, just warm enough that it won't snow, just cold enough overnight to make tomorrow dangerous on the roads. Mikey gets into the backseat with no argument, which shows just how excited he is, since it’s a constant battle on telling the kid that he’s too small for the airbag up here, and that it was illegal.

“How was your day?” Jason asks, as he starts up the car and pulls them out of the school parking lot. It’s closer to the middle west bridge, and he’s going over it to the Batburger near Wayne Enterprises.

Mikey fills the car with his day, and yesterday while they slowly but surely creep closer to the main island. Stories about his friend Mellie, and how they were working together on a project for their science class about the different types of clouds. He goes into detail about the different types of clouds, and then the pictures they found on the school computer, and how one of the other students got in trouble for playing Diner Dash instead of doing their work. He tells Jason about how Trinity and Matthew have a bet going on who can get Macey to come to them without using her name—treats, and clicking like a dog, and awful, awful nicknames. Jason prompts him with soft questions and encouraging sounds as they get closer to the Batburger.

“What are you feeling?” Jason asks him at the microphone. He’ll be getting a number three—BatBurger deluxe with a side of justice, which is just fries, and Riddle-Me-Flavor milkshake. It’s just a Napoleton mix, but it’s yummy.

Can I get the…uh…” Mikey presses his face up to the window to read the options. “Robin-nuggets please? And some fries.”

“Do you want a milkshake?”

“Yeah! An Ivy-Green-Shake.”

“Mint?” Jason can’t hide the horror in his voice.

“Hey, mint’s good.”

“You think you know a person.” Jason jokes, before leaning his head out of the car. “Okay, we’re ready to order.”

When they get the food, he tucks it into the passenger seat, even though they are both hungry enough that it would be good to eat while driving. “Where are we going?”

“I was thinking about this park I know. It’s in the business district, so a little uppity, but we would at least get the freshest air in Gotham and greenest grass.”

“Oh, is it like a park with swings and stuff?”

“It does have a playground, if you want to spend a bit of time there. It doesn’t see much use.”

“Maybe,” Mikey allows. They turn into the parking lot, and there are a host of spots, because all of the businesses around here pay for their employees’ parking, and so this free parking doesn’t entice anyone to overflow here. If this was a park in Crime Alley, or the Narrows, or Little Italy, actually just most of Gotham, there would be campers parked out and run-down sedans and beat-up trucks for the folks working in shops close enough to walk to. “It is nice.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was saying.” Jason agrees.

He gives Mikey the food and takes Thad out of his carseat. There are granola moms running around the sidewalk that surrounds the park, the same sidewalk Jason walked Thaddeus as a newborn, and business men eating their lunches on the benches. The grass looks untouched and the playset pristine. “How’d you find out about this place?”

Jason shrugs and sets them on the path to get to the tables. They can stack the checkers to the side, just like he and Bruce used to do. “I came here a few times when I was younger. Not very often.”

They pass two cops, who don’t stop them, but do watch them as they pass. “I bet I can guess why.”

“They won’t bother us if we act like we belong here.” Jason tells him, which is what Bruce told him. And it worked. Sometimes.

When they get to the tables and the food is spread out, and they are both finally eating, Mikey grows shy. Eating takes longer for Jason, going at it one-handed, with Thad in the other. It feels like a lifetime ago but Jason remembers that just yesterday morning, Mikey called him dad. There’s no way it isn’t about that. He works to resolve himself to accept whatever decision Mikey’s made about that and try not to stick his foot in his mouth for any questions.

“How did you get hurt?”

The question throws Jason off. “I…uh…” Should he lie? Would Marci have told her kids what he told her? It feels wrong to layer his dishonesty, especially with Mikey, so he speaks as straightforward as he can. “Last night, I had a run-in with the Joker.”

Mikey’s eyes go wide. “How are you alive? What did he do? Did Batman save you?”

“Red Hood saved me, actually. Since I was near our house already. I had to go to one of the clinics to get patched up.” There’s a thousand to one chance that Mikey would actually get to speak to Batman, but he wasn’t going to risk it for the kid to give away his identity on accident.

“Oh. I thought you might have gotten to meet Batman.”

“What? Red Hood ain’t good enough to save me?”

“No! No, he’s cool, I guess. Batman just has that,” Mikey brings his hands up into tiny fists and shakes them in front of his face. “That, you know. No one else has it.”

Jason bites his tongue, trying not to say anything too unkind that would make him seem less Gotham than he was. “He’s something alright. Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?”

Mikey shakes his head. Jason keeps quiet to give the kid the space necessary to find his words. The park is quiet around them, cold but the clouds are holding above. “I wanted to talk about my parents.”

“Okay.” Jason encourages.

“I love them.” He says, but then he doesn’t say anything else. Mikey plays with his nugget box. “I love them, and they’re dead. But they are still my parents.”

Jason nods, but the kid just stares at him. He guesses it’s his turn to talk. “Of course they are.”

“They are my parents. I didn’t mean to call you dad.”

“Okay.” Jason doesn’t know what else to say. It hurts, just under his ribs, but he’s trying to be understanding. Holds a little tighter to Thad in his arms. He isn’t Mikey’s dad, not really. This is not the answer Mikey was looking for, apparently. He frowns and looks down and tears at the nugget box. The cardboard crinkles hard. “You can call me whatever you want.”

“I know that.” Mikey snaps. “You’re not getting it.”

“Help me, then?”

“I didn’t mean to. I love my dad, he’s my dad. But you’re who I live with and you pack me snacks and visit me at school and…I don’t want to forget them.”

“I lost my mom just a little older than you are now.” Jason says, trying to find the right words to soothe Mikey. “I haven’t forgotten her. I remember what she would make me for breakfast, and how she would comfort me, and the way her hair fell. Even after I got taken in, into group homes and fosters, I didn’t forget her. You won’t, I promise.”

“Why are you so nice to me?”

“Because I wanted someone to be nice to me when I was on my own. Because I can and I want to.” Jason pauses for a moment. “Even if you never want to call me dad, or if you decide at some point you want to live somewhere else, or don’t want to be around me anymore, that doesn’t change.”

Mikey nods, and then nods again. “Okay. But when—not if—I get an anthill, you can’t kick me out. Someone’s got to take care of them and you just don’t have the motherly touch.”

“And you do? What would you know about being a mother?”

“Well, you’ve got to sing to the ants to let them know that you love them. And feed them, and provide them fresh soil.”

“I could do that.”

“I’ve heard you in the shower. Your voice would kill them, trust me.”

Jason’s about to retort that Mikey’s singing isn’t that great either, when a shadow falls over them. He looks up to greet whoever’s come over and the smile slips from his face. It’s the cops from earlier. “Hello, officers. Can we help you?” All the Gotham bleeds from his voice when he has to sound proper enough to not get handcuffed with his two kids with him.

“Can we ask what your business is here?” It’s the man in the front, slightly older and much chubbier than the one standing behind him. The cop’s got his hands tucked into his vest.

Jason glances down at their empty wrappers, the Batburger napkins that litter the table. “We’re having lunch.”

“Shouldn’t he be in school?”

“I took him out for an early day.”

“You’re his parent?” The younger one speaks up.

“I’m his guardian, yes.” Jason does his best to step around the very wide issue that Mikey just brought up while still not getting arrested for kidnapping.

“How did you secure custody of him? And why did you take him out early? Do you go to school around here, young man?” The younger cop steps forward some towards Mikey, who shrinks back. They’re too Crime Alley to be here. Jason feels thirteen and scared again, waiting for his dad to come down and clear everything up, but instead, he’s got to be the one to do it, because it’s him and his kids. He bets Bruce never felt like this.

Jason opens his mouth to respond, because Mikey won’t, but before he can, there’s a throat clearing behind all of them. He turns around to see—

“Is there a problem here?” Lucius Fox asks. He’s got his briefcase with him, and he’s older, with more white hair than before, but still the same Lucius Jason saw at Christmas parties and about once every three months for new tech.

“We’re just making sure that everyone in the park is safe, that’s all, Mr. Fox.”

“Well, it looks like you’re bothering this young family.” He gestures with his free hand to where Jason holds Thad with Mikey across from him. “They’re just having a picnic and I don’t see what’s dangerous about that. Do you?”

“No. There’s nothing dangerous about it.” The older cop wisely says, taking a step back.

The younger one opens his stupid mouth though, and says, “We just wanted to make sure this young boy wasn’t with someone who he shouldn’t be.”

“You think this man isn’t the boy’s father?” Lucius looks at both of them, and when his eyes sweep over Jason, there’s no recognition. “Have you never heard of adoption? Interracial families? What is your bias here?”

“I–”

“We’re sorry.” The older one puts his hand on the shoulder of his partner. “We’ll leave you alone to enjoy the day.”

As they walk away, Lucius lingers. “I don’t know how much enjoying can be done when it’s as cold as it is.”

“The area’s nice enough to make up for the weather.” Jason says. It seems rude not to respond. “Thanks for the help, but I think we were just about to head out?” He directs his question to Mikey, who nods.

“I’ll throw away the trash.” Mikey offers and scrambles off his seat to do so, and Thad, who has been dozing, startles from the sound of the loud paper wrappers.

“You don’t have to leave just because they’ve decided to stick their nose in your business.”

“Nah, it’s about time to get home. I’m babysitting tonight, so it’s a good idea to get a jump on the cooking now.”

Lucius nods, “I reckon that’s smart. My wife would handle it when my daughter would have friends over, so I’m not much an expert myself. But I hope to see you around again sometime, don’t let them scare you off. Lucius.” He offers out his hand.

Jason hesitates. Giving his nickname might trigger something in the memory, but he does have another, technically, legal name. “Peter.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Peter. And nice to see a kid in the park. My boss used to bring his son, and the cops would follow behind him as well, but no kids have really been here since then. It’s a shame, considering how much they must have spent on that playset.”

“More kids would come if the police were a little more about protect and serve, and a little less like…that.” He pauses. Shouldn’t say what comes out of his mouth, but he can pretend to be an innocent, dumb civilian, and Mikey’s still jogging over to the trash can. “Why’d your boss stop bringing him?”

Lucius’s face goes sad for a moment. “His son passed away, unfortunately. Car accident.”

That’s what the cover up was? Did the car happen to flip seventeen times and explode? “That’s a shame. Well, I hope you enjoy your lunch.”

“Thanks.” They do the awkward wave, hand halfway up like you’re unsure of the reception, before Jason intercepts Mikey to get back to the car. It’s only when they are all strapped in and Jason is backing out of the parking lot, tempted to give the finger to the cops watching their car like it’s an affront, that he remembers the other thing he wanted to talk to Mikey about.

His stomach bottoms out with it. That he’s going to have to tell Mikey—and he forgot—about Johnny. The drive home is slow enough. The first rush of afternoon traffic, early birds like baristas and warehouse workers. “Hey, kid.”

“Hey, old man.” Jason almost hits the car in front of them, too shiny, probably headed to Bristol over the bridge, the words so familiar and yet so strange being directed at him. A smaller part of his mind screams that they’ve got to get a moisturizing plan going on, yesterday. “What’s up?”

“I meant to tell you something at the park. I’m sorry,” Jason starts. The urge to ramble is strong, and he has to bite his tongue, hard, to keep on track. They have maybe a few hours before Trinity, Matthew, and Macey come over. “Marci’s kids are coming over tonight. It’s my turn to watch.”

“Is something wrong with Mrs. Mahrez?” Mikey leans forward in his seat.

“No, not exactly.” Jason starts.

That night, the kids curl around the couch, quiet and wide-eyed and aware of death, truly, for the first time, and Sabrina finds a spot on his recliner, but joins. Jason watches from the dining room table. The dishes are done and put away, a glass of sparkling water by his hand. He’s on his laptop.

The news has spread, hours after the occurrence. ‘The Batman apprehends The Joker once more—back in Arkham!’ Half the sites herald it as an era of peace, however short-lived, while the others sneer at the repeat movie. This information isn’t what Jason’s on for. He clicks over to a website that was given to him by Talia.

Jason orders a case of rubber bullets.

Chapter Text

Two days into his rest, Jason abandons the crutch and decides it’s time to take Sabrina to grab some clothes. She’s wandering around in all of his old, ratty, Saturday staples. He has no issue with it, but there’s the concern of her undergarments, and outfits that make her feel like a real person. He waits until Mikey leaves for school before he sticks his head into the living room where she has Thaddeus in her lab.

“Sabrina?”

“What?” Her head snaps up, eyes wide and alert.

“Would you like to go shopping today?”

“Shopping? I thought you just went to the grocery store.”

“Not for food. I was thinking we could get you some clothes.” Jason offers.

“Oh, I don’t have any money.” Sabrina lies. Or, maybe she isn’t. Jason hasn’t been keeping a trained eye on her, more than is natural, and there are a few times she could’ve slipped out and slipped someone some money.

“That’s okay—I can cover it. If you’re staying under my roof, I’ll treat you the same as Thaddeus and Mikey. They don’t have to pay for their clothes.”

“I’m not your kid.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Jason says. “But you are a kid, and I’ll treat you like mine while you’re here. Unless you’d rather stay in those gym shorts?”

“I’d like to burn these gym shorts, actually. Maybe in a ritualistic sacrifice.”

“I use those to clean the bathtub. I don’t want to get bleach on any other sets, if I can help it. Besides, what would you gain from the sacrifice?”

Sabrina thinks about it, cheek on the top of Thad’s head, before replying. “They aren’t worth eternal life. Like, forever calzones?”

“Oh, if that’s all. How about I get you one at the food court?”

“Sbarros?”

“Of course.”

“I suppose that’s a fair deal. Do you have any shorts that aren’t covered in bleach stains, grease or paint?”

“Yeah, feel free to poke through my closet. I keep all the presentable clothes in there. Gimme Thad, I’ll get him dressed and ready.” Jason steps over to take his baby, who twists in his grip and giggles when Jason lets him drop a micro-second to readjust.

“There is no such thing as a pair of presentable gym shorts.” Sabrina gets up and grabs her empty mug as she skirts past him.

“I bet I could find a pair that you could even wear to a wedding at the mall.”

Sabrina wrinkles her nose. “No, once the gym shorts become more presentable, they become cargo shorts. And those are only okay at like barbecues and maybe, backyard weddings.”

Jason leaves Sabrina to go through his bedroom—the most incriminating thing in it is his boots, which he could argue is for working with heavy equipment, as everything else was tucked away into his storage unit. He puts Thaddeus into a shirt that says “Biohazard” and then pulls an eyesore green sweater over the shirt. He would put him in a pair of cargo shorts, a good chance to get a laugh out of Sabrina, except it was the end of the October and he’d rather not freeze Thad. Delicate, baby immune system and all. Instead some sweatpants, fuzzy on the inside, and wool socks with some baby boots that the kid doesn’t quite need yet. He’s started to crawl, but no standing yet. His feet still don’t know how to be feet.

Sabrina comes out of the other side of the apartment in one of his hoodies and a pair of sweats. They bunch at her ankles, Jason too tall and wide for them to sit right on her. He can tell she also can’t wait to get something of her own.

In the car, it occurs to him that her room is also pretty bare. “Do you want to look at furniture as well?”

“What?”

“Like, a desk for your room. A dresser. Maybe a reading chair, or vanity. I dunno.” Jason stops himself from saying that he doesn’t know what girls like, but he thinks she hears it all the same. It sounds like something Bruce would say, just about kids in general.

“Oh.” Sabrina looks out the window. The construction crews are out today, making detours for the other bridges, and it slows them to a crawl to get to Gotham proper. “Not right now, okay?”

“Yeah, of course.”

The ride passes in quiet; Sabrina fiddles with the radio. She switches between the nineties and eighties stations. Jason bites his tongue to stop himself from telling her to untuck her top strap—the belt irrational at her neck, most likely. He remembers being short and how the fabric would dig in.

The mall isn’t too busy. They find a middle spot, a walk to the doors, but not a trek. Sabrina trails behind him instead of next to him. Every time he slows, Thaddeus on his hip looking to her, she slows as well. He can take a hint. When they get into the lobby, he turns to wait for her, since he’s not sure if there’s a preferred shop she’d like to start in.

“I can take you to Sears, or you can pick a place to start.”

“What’s my budget?”

“Does that matter?” Jason hadn’t thought about a number, sure that they wouldn’t hit an eyebrow-raising number. Her sly look makes him think twice. “We’re here to get you a wardrobe, basically. I’m expecting a fair amount of change.”

“Okay. I haven’t been in the mall in a bit. Let’s walk around.”

Jason follows her a step behind. It seems to relax Sabrina’s shoulders some, to have her space and be able to turn her head to still see them. They duck into a few shops and Sabrina touches a few shirts, pants, runs her hand along the material and peers at the price tag before putting it back. Jason grows exasperated by the third shop.

She’s got her hands on a red top, just about to release it after looking at the dollar amount, when Jason asks, “Why not try it on?”

“Oh—I don’t think it’s my style.” Sabrina says.

“What about that dress from before?”

“It was nice, I guess.”

“You should try it on.”

“I don’t know,” she hedges, playing with the hem of the hoodie sleeve. “It was kind of expensive.”

“You don’t worry about that. Just pick out what you want in each store, and I’ll tell you when that’s all I can get.”

She watches him, wary and mistrustful, while she picks up a few items and goes to try it on. It takes two stores, and five bags, carried in the one arm that doesn’t hold Thad. He thinks about his bjorn in the hatchback—how if it’s worth looking like a cool dad to suffer arm strain. “You wanna get Sbarro’s after the next place?”

“Yeah, if you throw in a cookie.”

“You don’t have to bribe me to get sugar—I want a cookie just as bad.” He looks at Thad in his arms, “I’d give you a cookie, man, but I don’t think your stomach could take it.”

“You portion out Mikey’s sugar.” Sabrina points out. They pass a few bright stores, a jewelry shop and a candle store.

Jason adjusts his hold on the bags, the stupid thin plastic sweaty and tight on his palm. “Have you seen Mikey with unrestricted sugar? The kid would rip the paint of his own walls.”

“Let’s go in this one,” Sabrina says; the store seems almost sterile with how white everything is. White models, white floors, white walls, clean and chic. Jason feels distinctly out of place. “I used to go here with my friends on the weekend.”

“The mall?”

“Yeah, to this store. We’d make fun of the crop tops with their weird sayings and the bedazzled jeans and boots.”

“I’ll have you know bedazzled clothes were very in when I was in high school.” He remembers Dick having this ugly jean jacket, faded baby blue that had diamonds studded into the back of it. It also had tassels. Jason thought it was so cool when he was thirteen.

“History repeats itself—the good and the bad.” Sabrina pulls a shirt off that has a cat with the body of a taco. It says, ‘Taco Time’. She laughs when she sees the wince on Jason’s face.

“You’d come here with your cheer friends?”

“Yeah, sometimes.” She pulls a non-offensive top off the rack and tucks it over her arm to go try on. “We’d go to Jamba Juice and walk around.”

“Did you like cheerleading?”

“I liked it enough. My mom wanted me to do it. I thought it would get her to go to my meets. If I had known that it wouldn’t, I probably would’ve stuck with theater.”

“I used to do theater.” Jason says. He’s not sure to what to say about the tidbit that Sabrina shares with her mom—Jason didn’t do anything at school when Catherine was alive, and Bruce went to every extracurricular Jason signed up for. “I played as Wonka in the Willy Wonka musical.”

“Can you even sing?”

“No, but I was the tallest boy there. And one of three.” He got to play most of the older men in the plays. “There were slim pickings then, so the teacher couldn’t be picky. Do you want to do theater again?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Sabrina picks a pair of pants. There’s no gems on them, or sparkly lace, they look the exact same as the other three pairs she got from the other places. Jason keeps his mouth shut. “It was nice. I didn’t do anything on stage—I forget the lines way too quick. But building the sets and helping with the hair and makeup, that’s nice.”

“You like painting?”

“I guess so. I like doing it when I make a set, but I haven't really done anything on paper. It’s different than like, art, art, you know?”

“It’s pretty similar. We could get you some canvases. Or maybe do some graffiti, though we’d have to be sneaky about that.” Jason never got into graffiti himself. However, he did know a kid that loved art, even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud. Damian’s home life didn’t lend itself to creativity though. Jason would be damned to foster the same type of environment.

“Graffiti?” Sabrina hums. “No thanks. Could I paint my walls? You let Mikey paint his red.”

A bright, jewel-toned red that Jason had picked out with the kid at the paint shop two months ago. Before Sabrina came, but it was shock comparative to the egg-shell white the rest of the apartment boasted. It wasn’t that Jason was looking to save his security deposit, it was just that painting was a lot of work, and it was likely that at some point they’d need to move to somewhere bigger—a place with an office for him, or a study room or library. An actual dining room. A home.

“What color are you thinking? Or are you thinking more of a mural?”

“A mural.” Sabrina grins, eyes bright and distant. He can almost see the way she’s envisioning the options.

“Don’t get any paint on the carpets, and we’ve got to get proper paint for the walls—not any of the stuff you get from Hobby Lobby.”

“Okay, yeah.” Sabrina clutches at her clothes that she’s going to try on. “But you’ll let me?”

“Of course, kid. It’s your room.”

“Maybe, after Sbarro’s, we could to a paint store? Just to get started, I have no idea what I’m putting up yet, but it’d be nice to have the stuff.”

Her enthusiasm, something Jason hasn’t seen before, is delight and youthful and makes Sabrina look like she should—an unburdened kid. “D’you think you have enough clothes? We can always come back if you want to go to Home Depot, but it might be a few weeks.”

“I’ve got enough clothes. Well, I want to try these on, first, but then,”

“But then, we get lunch.” Jason didn’t eat much this morning, and he’s got to jog out to the hatchback to get Thad some purée too, as the baby is probably an hour away from throwing a fit. “And after, we can go pick out whatever colors you want. As long as?”

“I don’t get any paint on the carpet.” Sabrina parrots back. He waves her to the changing rooms and waits for her to come out, handful of clothes she wants and the rest discarded on the rack. He won’t get to see what any of them look like—Sabrina’s not coming out to show him, and he respects that.

She bounces next to him while they are checking out, three shirts and a pair of pants to go into a white bag with the store name in an italic font in black. Chic. He knows Sabrina is going to scarf down the Sbarro’s, probably burn the top of her mouth, and ‘encourage’ him to finish his faster, too.

Sure enough, she pulls at his arm to tow them towards the food court once they exit the shop. They weave through slow moving foot-traffic and Jason can see the lights of the food court when suddenly, Sabrina stops and he almost barrels over her. He can’t see why she’s frozen for a moment, until a man, maybe ten feet away from them, calls out to her.

“Candy?”

Alarm bells go off of in Jason’s mind as this guy moves towards them. He shifts in front of Sabrina, who says in a high, shy, shaky voice, “Ronnie?”

It takes a second for Ronnie to clock Jason, eyes going from Sabrina’s hidden form to him. His eyes narrow. “Who’s your friend, Candy?”

“None of your business.” Jason speaks in a quiet voice. There’s no reason to scare the people around them.

“I think it is, actually. I’m a buddy of Joe. She tell you about him?”

Oh, it is so much worse than what Jason was thinking. He planned to step up to whichever client this was, brush off the man like he was paying for Sabrina’s time, but this was one Joe’s handlers. Jason steps to the side, slow enough that Sabrina can read his actions and follow him, and puts the bags on a bench. He looks to the shops around them—there’s a toy shop across the way, well-lit, full and safe.

Ronnie takes a step closer, but Jason’s concern is the kids. He turns around to face Sabrina. She’s looking up at him with terrified eyes, face bloodless, and he hands her Thaddeus, carefully. “Go into that store over there. Pick something out for you, Mikey and Thad. I’ll come get you in a minute, okay?” He keeps his voice low. Ronnie’s days are numbered, so he doesn’t give a fuck if the man hears him, it’s about being soothing for Sabrina.

She nods. Jason can see the tremor work through her as she clutches Thad. As Sabrina steps around and away, Ronnie makes to follow. Jason intercepts—watches as the man’s face scrunches up something foul.

“Listen, I don’t think you know what you’re buying, man. She’s cheap but she does belong to someone else.”

“If Joe wants her back so bad, he can come find me himself.” It won’t work to say she’s a human, she doesn’t belong to anyone, especially not scum like these two men. That’s not how these kinds of assholes think.

Ronnie steps up again, and they’re close enough now that some adults are throwing worried glances their way, holding the hands of their kids as they pick up the pace around the standoff. Jason can hear the snick of metal even if he can’t see Ronnie’s hands. A short, quick movement of Ronnie’s wrist, and Jason gets close—chest to chest—to grab at the man’s hand and point the blade to the soft of Ronnie’s own stomach.

He pulls close to make it look like they are two friends hugging, or lovers sharing a soft moment. Jason puts his hand on the back of Ronnie’s neck to pull his ear to Jason’s mouth. His words are barely-spoken, but he knew the fucker is hearing him. “You’ve got two options, Ron. One, you put that fucking thing back in your jacket and you tell Joe he can find me whenever he’s ready to. Or, you can try me.” He tightens his grip around Ronnie’s hand, can feel the way the handle presses hard into the soft of the other man’s palm. “Know what happens when you try me, Ronnie? I put this knife in your gut and hold it there while I walk you out to your shitty car. I’ll use those keys in your left front pocket and store your carcass in your trunk. Oh, don’t worry, I’ll make sure to stab you in your chest about six or eight times to make sure you can’t squeal your way out. Then, well then, either your car sits there ‘til spring, when it gets warm enough to smell you or, and this is more likely, they take your car to the pound to free up the parking spot. They’ll wait a few weeks before they crush it, but not long enough to find you, and then they’ll send that hunk of metal with your bones in it to the landfill where no one, and I do mean no one, will ever see or smell you again.”

Jason releases him and steps back, not too far, in case Ronnie really is that stupid. But he got the right measure of the scum, who looks more frightened than Sabrina did, as his hand disappears and comes back empty. Ronnie stares at Jason for a moment before he turns and walks the direction he came from quick. After watching for a minute, Jason turns his attention to the toy store.

He can see Sabrina from the window. She’s tucked far enough into the store that he has to search, but her cautious eyes aren’t pursuing the shelves—they are locked onto Jason. The bags back in his hands, Jason is grateful that they got this shopping done before this fuckup occurred, as he gets the distinct impression that the day is done.

Sabrina comes up to him the second he steps through the threshold, and he takes Thad from her. There’s no toys in her hands. He’ll pick something up for everyone later. The main priority is making sure she feels safe. “Do you want to go get food?” He asks, gentle tone.

Sabrina shakes her head. Her eyes dart around him, like they can’t settle now that he’s in range, and she’s his shadow as they walk out. Her earlier independence is gone.

They make it back to the car before she starts to cry. He was expecting the panic attack—the crash of adrenaline, a safe space to freak out. Thad is in his car seat behind them while Jason tries to let Sabrina work through it. Her breath becomes frantic and the worry that she’ll hyperventilate is insistent. Jason goes to put a hand on her shoulder, like Bruce would do with him, about to tell her to breathe, when she releases a strangled noise and startles against the passenger door. “Don’t touch me!”

“Okay,” Jason holds up his hands. “But I need you to take some deep breaths.”

“I am.” Sabrina snaps, the words airy and false in her mouth. “I just—oh, god, what was I thinking? Am I stupid? Am I fucking stupid?”

“Hey,” Jason tries to walk the line between stern and caring. It’s hard, which is probably why Bruce never tried it. “Sabrina—“

“Don’t! You don’t know what they’ll do. You have no idea what it was like and he was just right there—they’re always going to be right there, aren’t there? Even if he’s gone, others will recognize me.”

“It’s going to be okay.” Jason will do what he can to make it so. Starting with killing Joe. And Ronnie.

His words do not have the intended impact on Sabrina. She snarls and brings her feet up to the dashboard, tucks her knees up to her face and curls in. “You don’t know that! You don’t know anything.”

“I know you’re scared,” Jason says, reaching out to comfort. Sabrina’s a tight coil of fear and he’s pulling from everything that he knows—Bruce, and his stilted comfort, Talia, and her sparring. It’s the wrong thing to say. The wrong thing to do.

Sabrina turns to get away from him, kicking her feet out. One of her feet, in a pair of boots much too big, and too heavy, connect with his jaw. Jason wasn’t expecting it. His head cracks against the window behind him as she yells, “I said, don’t touch me.”

Thaddeus starts to scream. It’s an accumulation of the yelling and his hungriness, Jason would bet. It doesn’t change that the atmosphere in the hatchback that has gone from being tense to being unbearable. Sabrina is crying, hard sobs that she holds back, abortive breathing that looks painful. Jason’s jaw burns and he can only fall back on Catherine’s teachings now. “I’m going to give you some space.” He says, remembering how his mom would leave him alone to self-soothe. “Thad and I are going to be right outside.”

She doesn’t respond, not even when he unbuckles Thad and grabs his diaper bag. Jason props himself up on the back of the hatchback, leans his body against the cold metal and puts the bag on the ground. It takes about five minutes—-five minutes of people going in and out and side-eyeing him and his son—to calm Thaddeus enough to get him to eat. He puts the glass jar on the top of the car and does his best to keep the mess off Thad’s sweater.

The cold makes both of their noses red, cheeks pink, and breath frosty. He uses the baby wipes to clean off Thad’s face, bounces the baby to get him to laugh. Jason takes some time to organize the baby bag before he knocks on the back door and sticks his head in. Sabrina looks exhausted. Her eyes are red and puffy but her body language is loose.

Jason climbs back into his seat carefully. She watches him from the corner of her eye, gaze trained on what is probably a bright red bloom on his jaw. “I’m sorry.” Her voice is small, embarrassed.

“No, I should have listened to what you told me. I get your response—no, I do, Sabrina. I do.” He isn’t sure how much to share, how much he can, but he doesn’t look away from her. Sabrina deserves to be seen. “Can you do something for me?”

“What?”

“I need you to give me that list on Joe. Anything you have on Ronnie too—or any other friends of Joe that might be a problem.” Jason says. “I have to go to Johnny’s funeral tonight, but it should be over by eight. I can go to the car shop tonight. Pass it onto Red Hood.”

“Are you sure? You had to sit down in every store today.”

“I can sit down in the shop, too. I think it’s more important we can get it to the guy quick—I just can’t not show up for Marci.”

Sabrina frowns. “Do I have to go?”

“No, but I’m taking Mikey and Thad. You can order takeout and hog the living room TV.”

“I’m going to watch Teen Wolf.” Sabrina warns. Jason’s watch algorithm could be ruined.

“Make yourself an account then. I don’t need it recommending trashy, supernatural teen shows to me.” The hatchback sputters while he turns it on, but it drives smooth out of the parking lot. Maybe Jason should take it to an actual mechanic, or at least get a warehouse to tinker with it himself.

“Can I get a TV for my room?”

“Absolutely not. I’m not fostering that habit in my house—I don’t even have one in my room.”

“But I can’t watch Teen Wolf with Mikey in the room.” Jason raises his eyebrows. “It’s violent, okay? He’ll get nightmares over the SFX and stuff.”

“How about this? We can get you a laptop,” Jason begins his sentence. He can see Sabrina perk up at the idea of that kind of freedom—portable and shiny. “After we talk about getting you back into school and going to therapy.”

“That sounds like long-term things.”

“So is a laptop.” Jason could afford it and would buy her one, even if she decided she wanted to go stay with her mom, or a group home, as long as she didn’t go back to the streets, but she didn’t know that. Push comes to shove, it will be a goodbye present from him. However, Jason can’t just wait to see if Sabrina is going to work towards betterment on her own.

Sabrina tucks herself into her seat. “What about just being okay with whatever I pick?”

“I am okay with whatever you pick. But while you’re picking here, I expect the same things from you that I do from Mikey.”

“Mikey’s in therapy?”

“No, but Mikey didn’t kick me in the face.”

“I said I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do it.”

“I know you didn’t. You were scared. I’ve done things I’m not proud of when I’ve been scared, too. That’s why I’m saying we should find you a good therapist.” Jason keeps his hands on the wheel and voice steady. No accusatory tone, no anger, to lower the chance that it stresses Sabrina worse.

“You’re not scared anymore? Ever?” Sabrina asks.

He chooses honesty. “I’m scared a lot of the time.”

“D’you think you should get a therapist too, then? Since they are so important?” Her voice turns snide and cocky—like she’s trapped Jason in a predicament, to say that he also needs therapy or to let it go.

“I probably do need therapy.”

“So I’ll go when you do. That’s what’s fair.”

“You’re right. We’ll look tomorrow, after Mikey heads into school. Fair?” Jason gets to see the moment that realization sets in, that she’s not going to win this. It’s almost like winning an argument against Dick.

“Can we wait until…until the whole thing with Joe and Hood is done?”

She doesn’t know that’s going to be done tonight. “Yeah, for sure. Just don’t think I’m going to forget it.”

Jason finds Joe in a rundown motel sampling one of his own. Jason knows, he knows because he waits out on the roof across from the shitty motel. The lights flicker and reflect the water below, cold enough to frost the edges of the puddles and make the concrete feel all the more dangerous. Joe comes out and pushes the woman away from him, an actual woman, college-aged and angry-eyed but not a child like Sabrina. He can’t guarantee that she wasn’t one when she started, but he bets she’s got a legal way to get an apartment, a real job, her own independence. Things that children lack.

The fucker lights up a cigarette in the alley by the motel. Jason watches as the bud goes red with the inhale, fitting the silencer on the muzzle of his gun. Another glow of red lights up the thin slit of brick between the two buildings, the cigarette, and then the blood, brain, viscera splatter of Joe.

The gun smokes for a second as he disassembles his set up. Ronnie was taken care of first—he probably called Joe the second he hit his car, hands shaking as he fumbled his keys, seat wet with his piss. Jason couldn’t afford a runner.

He waits for the sound of a door clicking open, a gasp or scream, running feet or anything to indicate that someone cares—or at least noticed.

The night resumes the kind of quiet that Gotham has. Police sirens in the distance, dogs howling and car alarms going off. It all seems faraway. He’s done what he set out to do. So why does he feel shaky? The sound of the gun—the way that it sends vibrations through his fingers—his stomach feels off.

Marci had leaned on his shoulder the entire funeral. The cotton of his sweater was damp and his throat itchy throughout the ceremony.

Jason turns to leave, jumps two, three roofs before he hears a thump of another set of feet. He spins to face whichever Bat has decided to join him, hand over his ‘safer’ gun. Rubber bullets in the chamber. He relaxes when he sees Nightwing, then tenses back up. He knows how Bruce will respond, bets that Tim Drake has been told to give Red Hood a wide fucking berth, but he can’t tell how Dick will respond.

“I told Batman that he was expecting too much from you.” Is what pops out of Dick’s mouth.

“What are you on about?”

“He wanted to believe that you could be good. I could tell him right away that you wouldn’t, but he wants to believe. Hell, when he told me you put up a fight about Wayne and his group homes, I wanted to believe it.” Nightwing’s lip curls up. “You didn’t have to kill that man.”

“Do you even know what that man did? What he was doing?” Jason’s anger flares hot, real and violent, as suffocating as when his feet hit the Gotham tarmac off the plane.

“He didn’t hurt that prostitute, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

“I can bet he does. He’s her pimp, you idiot. And not just hers, or young women like her. He’s peddling kids, Dickwing. High school, maybe even middle school. You want to take a piece of trash like to prison? Fine, but don’t be surprised when it helps no one.”

Dick blanches, but rallies shortly. “Do you thinking killing him helped the kids? You think they all just got a memo that they are free to go, or know where to?”

Jason pulls the note from Sabrina out of his pocket. She’s been to Joe’s house, and he’s thankful she went to her room to write out what she knew, because he can just imagine the sick and hurt expression on her face while she pulled at her memory to recall exactly where his hideout was. “No, but I bet he’s got a list of his workers at his house. Find them, or their contacts, get them out. Without the threat that their pimp could make bail.”

Dick grabs the list from his hand. Jason doesn’t try to keep it from him, certain that he’s not going to recognize the bubbly lettering that indicates Sabrina’s handwriting. The lenses stop Jason from watching Dick read through the information. “Who gave this to you?”

“A concerned friend.”

“I don’t think you have any. No offense.”

“Offense taken, asshole.” Jason pulls the paper away. He’s got a night ahead of him. He’s going to swing by his apartment, make sure that the kids are settled for the night from a distance, and then start down the list. There’s no time to throw words with Nightwing.

“I can help, you know.”

“Yeah? And why would you do that? Worried I’ll shoot the sex workers?”

Dick avoids the question. “Call it a friendly gesture. I’ve got a few contacts that could make quick work of your list—if we find one.”

“I thought you said I don’t have any friends.”

“I said friendly gesture, not that we’re friends. I’m calling in the body but I want just as bad as you to take care of the kids.”

Jason snorts. The mechanical filter in his helmet doesn’t pick it up. “And I’m just supposed to believe that when you called the cops you didn’t point them my way, right?”

“I haven’t called them yet, actually.”

“You wanted to talk to me first?” Dick’s silence is as guilty as it is enjoyable. “I thought you said there was no hope for me, that Batman was wrong.”

Scowling, Dick says, “I was going to capture you. I do think Batman’s more optimistic than he should be.”

“Optimistic? Have you met the guy?” Jason pauses. “‘Was?’”

“I doubt you’ll go easy. And, you make a good point—about how the kids need some help.”

“You don’t actually care about that guy, do you?” Jason stops Dick from interrupting him. “Nah, you’d rather that he wasn’t put down like a dog, but you’re not going to lose sleep over it. See, Batman, now he would be furious. It’s more like…you’re going through the motions.”

“I care more about the people he hurt than him. But that doesn't make him less of a person, less deserving of a fair trial.”

There is a lot to unpick from Dick’s word choice, how he holds himself slightly to the side and gaze turned away. Right now, however, Jason would like to get home with enough time to sleep before finding a therapist with Sabrina. “If we meet anymore of his friends,” Jason starts.

“We’ll fight about it then.”

“Sure,” Jason says. “But I won’t hesitate to shoot you.”

“I think you might.” Nightwing jumps to the next roof over, happy to have gotten his way, and all sing-songs about it.

“I’ve got a round of rubber bullets with your name on them.” He goes to follow.

Nightwing looks back at him. “Rubber?”

“I am a man of many secrets. And many bullets.” Speaking of secrets, Jason can’t really head home with the bird on his tail. “Also, I gotta make a call. If you want to call in the body.” He doesn’t give Dick a chance to question, before he moves a roof over to call Sabrina.

The line rings only once, before she picks up, and as the questioning silence filters through his helmet, he curses. The caller ID would pop up on the burner he gave her as Hood. “Hello?”

“You keeping out of trouble?’ Jason pitches his voice low, scratchy.

“You’d probably know if I wasn’t.”

“I would.” Jason would certainly try to know. “Just letting you know that you don’t have to worry about Joe or Ronnie anymore.”

“Oh.”

“I have a—friend—who’s helping me get the rest of the kids out. I’ll be recommending they take a stop at the Wayne homes, if you’ve got anyone who you need to see again.” Jason doesn’t even want to suggest she think about a home-move, but he can’t deny that she’s most likely got a friend or two in the industry.

“Thanks. Who’s your friend? Is it Jay?”

The eagerness of her voice makes Jason laugh. She’s closer than she knows. “No, he’s not jumping around out here. I reckon you’re keeping the house locked down for him?”

“I’m babysitting, yeah.”

“No one dead yet?” Sabrina chuckles, and Jason watches Nightwing out of the corner of his eye. The blue bastard is on a roof over, but having finished his own call, has chosen to keep a foot on the edge, balance on it while he waits for Hood. “Just wanted to give you an update.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sabrina’s voice goes somber. “Thank you.”

“It’s just my job.” The line goes dead and he jumps over to Nightwing, going past and towards the high-rises that Joe lived in. He knows that Sabrina wasn’t in digs like those. And that thought helps ease the knot in his chest, the way he feels the blood on his arms and boots that isn’t there.

Nightwing lets them fly through the night in silence out of Park Row, further and further north. The roads are cleaner and the lights brighter when he speaks again. “Who was that?”

“My friend.”

“You sounded like you were talking to a kid, though.”

Sabrina would hate to be called a kid, Jason thinks. “I ain’t picky about where or who I get my information from.”

“Was she…involved with this?”

“The way you say it makes it sound like she was pimping. Have you ever heard of mind your business?”

“Whoa, okay.” Dick lets it drop for less than three minutes. “Is she like, your sister? Daughter? Oh, wait, is she how you know Matthew?”

“Who told you about Matthew?”

“You’ve got to know that me and Batman actually communicate. I mean, his form of communication is mostly sending me case files or reports, and then grunting at me when I ask follow up questions. But I do happen to be a good listener.”

“Yeah, you listen great—especially at the part where my life is none of your business.” Jason hits the next roof, two stories down, hard. He grunts. Still, it’s better that Dick’s got a partial idea that misleads. “Fucking detectives, man.”

“Can’t help it. It’s how I was raised.” Nightwing lands beside him, near silent. “We here?”

“Yeah, we’re here.”

Jason takes an additional patrol loop after Dick and he part ways. They had forwarded it to Babs—Jason knew that’s who Nightwing was talking about, but he called her Oracle, and said that it should be done come morning. Babs had become a tech genius while he was in the dirt.

He knew that Nightwing wasn’t following him, other things on his plate, whatever brought him to Gotham in the first place, but paranoia dies hard. It’s towards the end of the loop, near his home, that he decides to swing by his own roof. All the kids should be asleep. It wouldn’t be weird to just check to make sure they’re all in their beds.

The intuition proves well when, upon landing on his roof, he sees smoke rising up next to the fire escape. He stalks over to it, just to see which blue-collar, midnight man is taking a needed break, to see Sabrina. She’s tucked into a sheet from the guest room, a small, methanol cigarette between two of her fingers. Her eyes stare out to the city lights, unseeing. Jason takes off his leather jacket and drops it on her. Sabrina screams and the cigarette goes flying from her hands.

“Those things will kill you, you know.”

Her eyes stay wide until she sees him, and then she goes from scared to angry and irritated. “I’ll keep that in mind. They won’t kill me as fast as that stunt might.”

“You’re young enough. Your heart can take it.” The night air makes goosebumps on Jason’s arms. He should have switched to his thermal long sleeve a month ago, but he would have to fish it out of one of the boxes he has stacked up. Which means he’d have to move the entire set out, sort through them without anyone stopping by to remember their gam-gam’s wedding photos or the swing set their kid had in their own units, and then get it out and washed without drawing attention. Oh, and stack everything back as well. He rubs at his arms and resigns himself to do it in the next few days. Or weeks.

“I’ve been told I’ve got an old soul, actually. But go ahead, put in one of those commercials, you know, ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!’” Sabrina does a horrible impression of an older person.

Jason’s grateful the mask hides how blank his face is. Death robbed him of a lot of pop culture, and apparently an elder emergency commercial is one of them. “Ha ha. You should get back down before Jay gets back.”

“Uh huh. Wait, what?” Sabrina snaps back to attention, blinking whatever thoughts she had away.

“Jay should be back soon. How long have you been up here, anyway?”

“Not long. I made sure that the rest of the kids were asleep.”

“Don’t he got a baby?”

“Don’t you know?” Sabrina crosses her arms.

Jason shrugs, but decides then and there that he’s going in through the window to catch her. He doesn’t want her in trouble, but he did trust her to watch Thad. He’s not left the kid without an adult in hearing range since, well, since he was born. “Is that what you’re wasting your money on?”

“I don’t use them very often. It’s been a stressful last couple of days, okay?” She frowns, like she expects a lecture. Jason wants to give one, but he also was a smoker up until about a week into Thad’s life. Well, maybe less than that. He didn’t find the time to smoke, no matter how much his teeth ached for it, for the first few sleepless nights. Then, one morning, he came to with a stained shirt and unwashed hair and realized that he hadn’t smoked for a month and could actually get through the night without it.

“How much have you spent on them?”

“Just about twenty bucks.”

“So you’ve got a single pack, and had to get scalped to get it, huh?”

“Well, would you buy them for me at shelf price?” Sabrina shoots back.

“There’s not a price you could set to get me to buy it for you.” Jason laughs. “How’s the set up? Do I need to get you somewhere else?” It’s easier to ask if she likes it with his family when it’s not Jason doing the asking.

Sabrina shifts from foot to foot and looks out towards the city again. “It’s busy, here. I like it. Keeps my mind off of things.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’ll catch you around, kid.”

“I’m sure you will.”

He doesn’t bother to wave as he grapples to the next roof over—one, two more and then he circles back quick and low to the fire escape that his living room window is perched on. It takes a sure foot to level himself onto his own window and into it. It’s risky work, but he rolls his helmet under the bed and his guns into a safe on the top of his closet, tucked behind a box with Thad’s medical documents.

By the time Sabrina comes down, he’s in sweats and washing dishes at the sink. He hears the door open softly and he turns off the water. She knows she’s caught out when she sheepishly walks into the kitchen. “Where were you?”

“I was just upstairs! I needed some air.”

“You smell like smoke.” Jason says, and she does. Like smoke and a vanilla perfume, and Gotham humidity. She’s got his—Hood’s—jacket on, and it masks it some, but not all.

“You aren’t my dad.”

Jason suppresses a sigh. “I’m not, you’re right. But if you’re going to be watching the kids, can you at least take the baby monitor out with you?”

“You’ll leave them alone with me again?” Sabrina seems surprised.

“If I do, I promise to pay you. Marci told me about a college girl upstairs that could use a few hours closer to home. Her name’s Alexis.” Marci had also told him to keep in touch and that she would too, one foot in the car to take them inland as the funeral home let out. He promised he would. He knows neither of them will. “Go to bed, Sabrina. We can talk in the morning, and I know we both must be tired.”

“I bet,” She murmurs, before nodding. “Night.”

It all hits when he’s in the shower, all the kids safely asleep, the fire in his leg, and how itchy his knife wound is on his arm, and how sore his ankles are. Bruce can’t feel like this every night, can he? What type of yoga is he doing?

The pillow is sweet relief, and Jason oversleeps his alarm by twenty minutes. Mikey wakes him up, worried and asking that he sign his homework, quick. His eyes haven’t adjusted to the light streaming through the window, or the overhead that Mikey turned on, and so he scrawls large and wide in the general direction of Mikey’s finger.

Jason takes a few more minutes to himself, just to be interrupted by Thad crying. He heaves himself up to find the kid is sitting up in his crib, hands on the bars, snot-faced and red-cheeked. Thaddeus calms some when Jason picks him up, doing the night check and—yes, he does need to change the diaper.

Mikey stops by the room while Jason is fixing Thad up, and tells him that he took some money from Jason’s wallet to get breakfast at school—since Jason accidentally forgot to make any. He hollers out a goodbye, which Jason returns, and Thad stops screaming once the nasty thing is off him. The world slowly goes from chaos to morning. Jason washes his hands and face in the sink and takes Thad to the dining room. He’ll scrounge something up for the three of them.

The world slows again when he comes in to find Sabrina sitting at the head of the table, the Hood in front of her. He stares at her. “Don’t worry. I waited until Mikey went to school.”

“Where did you get that?” Dumb seems to be the best option.

Sabrina scoffs. “You know where—you stowed it under your bed, really?”

“I don’t know why—“

“Don’t lie to me, Jay. Last night, you gave me your jacket, and you’ve got this huge cut on your arm, and I come in and you’re in sweats with the same cut on your arm.” She gestures down to the arm that Thad is held in, and the cut from Joker is so large that he can see it peeking out the area that the baby takes up.

“Oh.” He was stupid, then. “Sabrina, you can’t tell anyone.”

“I know that.” She rolls her eyes. “I want to renegotiate my stay here, that’s all.”

“Blackmail? If you stay here, you’re going to go back to school, and you’re going to therapy. I already said I would go too, and we’re going to look this morning.”

“Fine. I’m not arguing your points—I just want to add one.” She bites her lip, and he can see how she pulls in her emotions. Too little bleeds through for him to pick up if it’s nerves, or excitement, or fear, or what. “I want you to train me.”

“Absolutely fucking not.” Thad, who had been squirming in his hold, goes still. He pats the baby’s legs to let him know it’s okay, even if it is really, really not.

“Why not?”

“It’s not safe, Sabrina.”

“Robin does it!”

Jason can’t help the mean laugh that comes out of his mouth. “You remember the last Robin? Go ahead, tell me it’s safe.”

“I’ll be safe. I’ll do everything you say, and will train and train until you think I’m ready. Please, I know I can help, too.” Sabrina puts her hands on the table, and then clenches them into fists. “You made so many kids safe last night, I know you did, and I want to be able to do that, too. I want to protect others.”

“There are other ways to do that—less dangerous ways.”

“Then why do you do it, huh?”

He has to bite back his first response, which is that someone has to. Someone has to be willing to play vigilante that can actually get the job done. It’s not the answer she needs. “I…can’t explain that.”

“That’s not fair! You don’t get to tell me I can’t, and then not tell me why.”

“I’m not going to train you.”

“And are you going to kick me out if I find someone else to train me?” Sabrina challenges.

“Good luck finding someone who’s going to give you the time of day,” Jason says, not thinking. She grins, like what he said wasn’t a no. He opens his mouth to continue, but Sabrina interrupts.

“Not like it matters right now, you know. Aren’t we supposed to be finding a therapist?”

“We’re supposed to be finding two, actually.” Jason decides to let it go. She won’t be able to find another vigilante who is going to treat her as anything but an overzealous civilian. “It’s bad practice for folks who know each other to have the same therapist. It makes it hard for them to be unbiased.”

“And we both know that my plight is so much more compelling than yours, and will sway them to agree with me.”

“God, you sound like a Shakespeare nerd.”

“Takes one to know one.”

The therapist is named Marcus Wiendhall. There’s a small plaque with capitalized letters on his desk that reminds Jason of this. He’s got a Newton’s cradle on his desk that Jason wants to use to fill the silence. The therapist seems unbothered by the quiet after their greeting. He asked Jason why he was starting therapy, and Jason hasn’t found an answer yet that he likes.

“I guess.” He starts, for the fourth time. “I guess I’m here because my kind-of-daughter won’t go unless I go.”

“Do you see her as a daughter?” Dr. Wiendhall’s first follow up question is good. Jason knows about tactical manipulation, and the first step is to focus on the target. Talia’s voice rings clear in his head about this, the next few steps of a proper interrogation, and he feels guilty for not calling her.

“Not really.” This isn’t an interrogation. Jason is here of his own volition. “I see her more like a sister?”

“Do you have any other siblings?”

Is Jason going to unpack that? He sighs. “Yeah, I have a brother. Actually, two.”

Dr. Wiendhall writes something down, and the session really starts. Jason says less than he thinks he should, and more than he wants to, and when he exits his office to wait in the lobby, Sabrina is there. She’s been crying and he offers to take her to get some ice cream. There’s a place only two blocks away, and all their lights work, and the counters are clean and the air is fresh. It’s nice. Sabrina asks if they can sign her up for the community theater on the way home.

He drops her at home, claiming errands. Alexis has Thaddeus in her apartment, so Sabrina will get the house to herself for the next few hours, which is always a bonus to the teenager. And Jason’s not really lying—though he can tell what Sabrina thinks he’s doing. It’s not too far off from the truth. He’s gone and purchased a safe house, and is planning on moving all of his things to that apartment. If Bruce can have a Penthouse, then he can have an equivalent. The weather is changing and he needs to get his winter gear out and pack the lighter, summer wear in.

While he’s driving to the storage unit, he rings Talia. She doesn’t answer. He frowns at his phone—Talia is never in a situation where she won’t pick up the phone, even if it is to the sound of a too-close gunshot and a vow to call back in a more opportune time.

Jason loads up his hatchback, or puts as much weight in it as he feels comfortable will not bend the car or pop the tires. It still groans under his boxes.

The other apartment is also in Park Row, but the other side of the tracks, to prevent his kids—Sabrina—from finding it. She’d have a better chance of being taken seriously if she got her hands on a domino, or grapple gun, or an actual gun. Scratch that—she’d go to jail if she went at any of the other masks with a real gun.

The new place swings open to a dusty, concrete-wall room. It’s all bare-bones, and the price reflects it, something he’s paying for in the cash he lifts from the big fish he drags down to the cops. He doesn’t want Talia, or Bruce, or Babs to be able to track it. There’s a small bathroom and kitchenette to the side. Big windows, which is its biggest draw. The room itself has enough space to stack his things along one wall and eat up the rest of the place with a training mat.

He’s setting down the floor mats when his phone starts ringing. The caller ID says Talia, and he answers quick. “Hey, T.”

“Jason. My apologies that I was unable to answer earlier. I was in the middle of a…discussion, with Damian.”

“Not that one, right?” That one is the one where he argues he is ready to join his father’s side and begin his training to become the next Batman, yada yada. Jason can recall the kid, through the tinny reception of his phone speaking, five and missing a tooth, talking with a lisp about his honor and legacy.

“That one, I’m afraid. He’s grown restless here with the League.”

“Send him on a training journey like you did me, then.”

“Unfortunately, someone decided the best way to conclude his teachings was to murder his teachers. I am in short supply of masters who are willing or able to take on another al Ghul pupil.”

Jason shoves one of the boxes into a corner, starting the base to be heavier for safety, while he laughs at Talia’s words. “Then tell them they got a Todd, and the al Ghul child promises to be sworn by his sacred duty or whatever to be on his best behavior.”

“I have introduced you, and will continue to do so, as an al Ghul. I did adopt you.”

“Not legally.” Jason says, body in the same type of shock it was when Bruce presented him the papers that stated Jason was his, his son.

“Well, to anyone who would view your adoption papers, it would appear that your adoptive mother and father signed them at the same time. So, perhaps not legally, but within the legal framework, yes.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Jason asks. “And how did you not expect Bruce to not know?”

“There are certain things that cause him more pain to investigate than is worth it, I believe. Regardless, he has not addressed it with me, so I doubt he knows. And I have told you this before. It is not my fault you are forgetful.”

“I wouldn’t say dying and being out of my mind should really be called, ‘forgetful’.”

“How are you, Jason?” It’s her way of splitting the conversation—of asking why he called in the first place.

“I’m good. I started therapy today.”

“Therapy?”

“Yeah, Sabrina only agreed to go if I did.”

“And did you enjoy it?”

“No,” Jason answers honestly. “The room’s too quiet and the therapist is too focused on me. There’s too much I can’t say, you know? Speaking of, Sabrina figured it out because I was a dumbass.”

“That you are Red Hood?”

“Yeah. She saw me in the getup with a cut on my arm, and then, literally like twenty minutes later as myself with the same cut. It was so stupid of me.”

“Well, she only knows about you, then. That’s mitigated damage. How did she respond?”

Jason pauses, remembers her demanding to be allowed the same training he has, too much like him at that age. He doesn’t want her to end up like him—fifteen, and dead. “She wants in, T. I told her no.”

“And I’m sure that will stop her.” Talia responds.

“She basically said the same thing.” He sighs and stacks another box. “But, I doubt she’ll find a vigilante in Gotham that is willing to take her under their wing.”

“I am coming to Gotham, soon.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll..I’ll tell Bruce about Damian.”

“While that would be an effective threat, you are missing two key components. One, he’d have to know who you were to trust that information and how you came about it. And two, I’d have to not be coming to Gotham to drop him off to Bruce.”

“Talia.”

“I won’t interfere with your parenting, though I would like to meet your children.”

“They aren’t really—mine, I guess. And you can’t see them if you’re going to attempt to get them to join the League, or train them to crime fight, or give them a knife.” Jason thinks he’s got his basics covered.

“I will be a perfect version of middle-America. I have gone undercover before, as you well know.”

“Playing my mother is different than pretending to be a exotic bimbo to get into a CEO’s penthouse and personal computer, T.”

“Acting is acting, dear.”

“Do you know when you are coming?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure I’ll have the dates secured soon enough. There are a few loose ends that we must tie up here, before I can take Damian anywhere. You’ll be the first I’ll alert.” Talia promises.

Jason’s running patrol, two weeks later, when he gets a call forwarded from his personal cell to his work phone. It rings through his helmet and the ID claims it is Alexis. He lands on a roof and steadies his feet before hitting answer. “Hey, Alexis, how are things?”

“Oh, hi, Mr. Gunn.”

“You can call me Jay.” Jason’s told her this maybe six times so far. Her hesitant voice is making him worried. “Is everything alright over there?”

“Yeah! Yeah, of course, everything is totally fine. Mikey and Thad have had dinner and Sabrina went to her room, she said she had to study for her test-in exam? Anyway, I was going to see if she wanted any of the broccoli cheese soup you made—which tastes great, by the way—but she wasn’t in her room? I swear she didn’t leave anytime I saw her. Should I…call the cops?”

His first instinct is to say yes, yes of course, call the fucking cops, adrenaline rushing through every vein in his body. Then, logic sets in and he bites his tongue. Sabrina would have only had exceptionally bad interactions with the police. “No, I think I know where she is. I’ll go grab her. Thanks for telling me.”

“I’m really sorry. I should have kept a better eye on her,” Alexis sounds like she might be sick from the panic.

“No, no. I hired you to watch Mikey and Thad. Sabrina’s a little too old to need a babysitter.” Jason should have known.

Once the line goes dead, he groans and changes course. He’s got to find the patrol route that either Nightwing or Batman is running. Preferably Nightwing. There’s no direct connection to Oracle, and he would owe them a favor for it, but better to find Sabrina on her first roof with stage fright than with two broken legs. Or worse.

He’s made it up to Gotham Village, ready to cut across to the Narrows, when he hears the sound of laughter. Too high up to be drunk kids playing down below. There’s a flash of purple, and green, out the corner of his eye. Jason circles back.

Robin’s over with a young vigilante all dressed in purple. She’s crouched down and helping another person to stand—in a black hoodie and jeans, with one of his dominos on her face.

Sabrina.

He’s almost there before any of the three spot him. The girl in purple notices him first, slipping into a crouch and hitting Robin in the arm. Robin and Sabrina turn towards him as well. “Don’t come any closer!” The girl yells.

“That’s not going to stop me.” Jason yells back. “You are so grounded when I catch you.”

“Shit,” Sabrina says, backing up. Robin looks between the two of them, but before either of them can make a move, Jason has his feet on their ground.

“Don’t you dare. You can’t run faster up here than I can chase you.” Jason marches up to them, past the girl in purple, who just looks—confused. Robin takes a step between them. “Really, Boy Wonder? Taking in strays? You should know better than anyone why kids shouldn’t be out here.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You can’t really think she’s not a novice, right?”

“Hey!” Sabrina steps up to Robin’s side. “You don’t get to tell them things about me!”

“And you don’t get to run half-cocked into ideas that could get you killed!” Jason retorts. In between their argument, Robin slides out from between them. The motion does not go unnoticed by Jason. “The whole idea of a kid vigilante—of Robin—is like asking to get a fast pass to a casket.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Robin says, mouth twisted up defiant but naive. So naive.

“I know all about the second Robin, newbie, so you can save that act for someone who’ll buy it.” Jason shoots back. “Furthermore, even if you didn’t know about Batman’s previous sidekick, you should know better than to take a civilian on a joyride.”

“Sparrow is an aspiring hero. Some of us actually want to encourage the next generation.” The girl in purple says. She puts her hands on her hips and—Jason assumes—looks him dead in the face.

“I am certain that you are part of that next generation, so it’s more like the blind leading the blind.”

“You’re not the boss of me. You can’t tell them not to hang out with me.” Sabrina, Sparrow, pushes to the front. How did they become such fast friends?

“I got a call from the babysitter that you snuck out. Do you have any idea what went through my head? That you had finally decided to try your Mary Poppins routine and break your legs—or worse, that I would get a call that you found yourself in a jail cell. You are under my roof, and I told you I didn’t want you doing this.”

“You’re doing this!” Sabrina yells back. The two other kids step away, slightly. “I can too. With or without your help.”

She’s got her arms thrown wide, and the domino hides her eyes, but not the rest of her face. Sabrina is frustrated with him. He’s not listening. He looks to the other two, kids, but just years from him. “Can you give us some space?”

“We’re coming back.” The girl says, before grabbing Robin’s arm and pulling them away. Jason figures he has maybe fifteen minutes.

The roof is all the best things when it comes to a roof in Gotham—lights on one side, to help you see, with darkness on the other, to help you hide. The ground is ‘soft’ gravel, and the slant from the other, higher buildings surrounding it blocks most of the rain and sleet. Jason goes over to the ledge and sits down. He pats the spot next to him.

Sabrina comes over, closed off and angry. Every action radiates aggression.

“You aren’t listening to me.”

“You aren’t listening to me!” Sabrina snaps back.

“You’re right. Go ahead, tell me what you want me to hear. I’ll listen.” Jason promises.

It takes a moment.

“I grew up poor and scared, like most of Gotham. I watched police do nothing and everyone knew the only person looking out for us was Batman. And Robin. I always thought they were—more, I guess. More than humans. Like Superman. Then came others that wanted to help. Batgirl and Batwoman and Huntress and Nightwing. And it never crossed my mind that they were just people, people who learned how to do this. Then I met you.” Sabrina looks at him. Jason’s kept his helmet on, because he doesn’t know where the the other two are lurking. They can read what Sabrina has to say, but not him. “And you’re definitely human. I’ve seen you with baby vomit in your hair. If you can, then why can’t I?”

“It’s not that you can’t. Sab—Sparrow, I know you can. But I’m going to tell you something, something that you can’t repeat right now, in case of watching eyes, you understand?” He waits until she nods. “I was a lot like you when I was a kid. I had a rough start—homeless in Park Row, and barely a teen. And, I did whatever I could to help myself. I wanted to be good, to be better, but I was hungry and broke. So, one day, I tried stealing tires off the Batmobile.”

Sabrina puts a hand over her mouth, leans forward, enrapt. “And I could have done it. I just got greedy. I wanted all four, so while I was getting the last one off, I got caught. By Batman himself. I thought he was going to beat me senseless. And you know what he did?” She shakes her head. “He got me burgers. Into a home—which I ran away from, in like, four days. He found me again, and we got burgers again, and a new home, which I ran away from. The homes back then were worse than the homes now, which I know is saying something. Finally, he takes me back to his house.”

“You know—”

Jason nods, cutting her off before she can say too much. “I know who Batman is. And when I found out, much like you, I wanted to help. The first Boy Wonder—Nightwing—had just graduated from Robin, so he needed a partner. I told him I could do it, that I would listen to him, for him to please train me.”

The night is quiet besides them. Quiet in a way Gotham rarely is. He can hear the sound of people, distant and happy, perhaps a late-night block party. No sirens. No car alarms. “And he did. He trained me, taught me how to fight and how to defend myself, how to use a grappling line, get out of traps and unlock doors. All the things you need to know to get the Robin getup. So, there I was, Robin. You know what happened to the second Robin, don’t you?” He doesn’t wait for Sabrina to respond. “He—I didn’t listen. I broke my promise to Batman and went off on my own. I got myself killed because I just couldn’t follow orders and wait for him. You see all the amazing, fun parts of this job. But there’s the other side, too—when you’ve got to set your bone because a thug hit you too hard, or spend weeks cleaning sewer off your skin, or. Or when you get put into the ground. I don’t know why or how I came back, but people don’t do that. Most don’t ever get a second chance.”

“Most didn’t get a first chance.” She speaks slow, not nervous, but thoughtful. “Most everyone goes through life without making a big difference—good or bad. But you did. When I was in elementary and middle school, you were my Robin. I remember you. I cried when the news came out. Everyone found out that you weren’t indestructible then. But I knew kids could die before that, I knew I could.”

Jason isn’t sure how to respond. A thousand scenarios go through his head on what made Sabrina aware of her own mortality, how young she was and how scared.

“I wanted—I want, still, to make a change. To make life better. For me, for Gotham. There are so many people who would help if they knew how, or if they thought they could. Well, I can. And I want to help with you. I want you to give me the chance. I would listen. I’d train until you thought I was ready to be out here. I’d wait and learn, and that way I would be ready.

“But, I am going to do this. One way or another. You—the Red Hood—saved me from a situation that I didn’t think I’d ever get out of. I can do that for others. I know I can, with or without your help.” Sabrina says. “I want your help, but I don’t need it.”

“You do.” Jason says. “Or at least, someone older than the two teens you’ve enlisted. They can help train you, but they aren’t teachers. How long has that girl even been doing it, huh? I’ve never seen her around before.”

“Her name’s Spoiler. And long enough.”

Jason can see himself in her, then—the jut of her jaw, and the way she’s turned her head from him. It reminds him of when he spoke with Batman. Bruce wasn’t sure he wanted a new partner, and Jason said he’d just start using the Batcave while B was gone, if he was going to be like that. What was Bruce going to do? Lock him out of it? Fine, he’d train in the upstairs gym. He’d find a way to get into Gotham and stop bad guys himself. He would have then, too. Bruce couldn’t have stopped him, once the idea set in, and Jason can’t stop her.

“No, not long enough. You’ll listen to me?”

“Yes,” Sabrina says, cautious.

“And you’ll train?”

“Yes.”

Mitigation. The name of the game is mitigation. “You won’t go running off without me? You’ll listen?”

“Yes. You’ll train me?”

“I’ll start training you. But you’ve got a long way to go before you’re out here.” Hopefully, long enough that she finishes developing her frontal cortex. “And no skipping ahead, no side missions, no secrets.”

“No secrets.” Sabrina grins, wide and happy. She’s got what she wants—for better or worse. “Can Spoiler and Robin join for some of the training?”

Jason opens his mouth to shoot that down—seeing the new Robin, up close and with all his new upgrades, what makes him just so much better than Jason—and then closes it. His original plan did include showing the new bird just how dangerous Gotham could be, and banning Sabrina from them will just ensure she finds time for them elsewhere. It would work well for him. “Fine. But when they're in my warehouse, they also do as I say. I’ve got a lot of lethal material in there.”

“Can we go now?” Sabrina asks, excited. “They were trying to show me how to move on the roofs, but the only thing I’ve got down is the balance. Thank you, cheerleading.”

“Do you want to call them back?”

“Oh, uh.” She looks around, hoping to spot either of the other kids. After a moment, Sabrina stands up and waves her arms.

“You think that will work?”

“I think it already has.” From the north, two figures approach them.

“Good eyes,” Jason praises. He stands up as well, stretching and getting ready to wrangle three kids that all are trying to learn how to break someone’s rib cage without killing them. “My offer is on the table for them to join, but it is a limited time offer.”

“I’ll ask them.”

The two decide to join—Robin, in halting voice, tells him that they can’t be there the whole night, but they want to know what he’s about. Jason’s grateful he got his new place on the opposite side of Crime Alley as his actual apartment. Leading them there is an exercise in patience, with each of them taking turns to shadow Sabrina. She stole a back-up grapple gun. He bets his entire, spur-of-the-moment, stash at home is gone. Except for the gun.

He stares hard at her. Yeah, except for the gun. That should still be at home.

They’re almost at his warehouse when Alexis pops up on his caller ID. He bites back a curse, because either he answers now, or she freaks and calls the police. “Hey.” Jason tries to keep his voice neutral. Nothing to read in—no kindness for Spoiler or Robin, no aggression for Alexis.

“Hi, Mr. Gunn. I was just putting the kids down. I wanted to ask if everything was okay?”

“Yeah. I found her at a late night club meeting. We’re all good. Sorry I didn’t get back to you.” Don’t mention what type of club, or Sabrina’s name, or Alexis’. Nothing that could be traced by either of their guests.

“It’s okay! I just wanted to make sure. I’m glad everything is okay. Will this be common for Sabrina? Should I not worry?”

“Yeah, I suspect it will be. You don’t have to worry about keeping an eye on her—I’ll let you know if it’s a stay home night for her.” Jason says. He plans to keep it that way, Alexis having proved that she was trustworthy to tell him when something was up.

“That’s good to hear. So, you’ll want me to keep babysitting?”

“If you are able to, yes. I think the kids like you well enough. Anyway, I have to go. I’ll see you tonight.”

Alexis says her goodbyes and the line goes dead. They’re standing on the roof of the safehouse, each of the kids waiting to see where he’ll go, when Spoiler says, “Kids? How old are you?”

“Old enough.”

“What were you doing before you came to Gotham? Will I be able to find similarly colored helmet crimes in other major metropolitan areas?”

Robin and Sabrina chuckle. “It’s down the fire escape. And you’ll never find me or my stint in Metropolis.”

He jumps down the escape. Top floor, which may have been a poor choice for whoever is below him, but best to get in in a pinch. The window slides open easy after he disables the electric alarm. The kids file in after him, and Spoiler and Sabrina—Sparrow, he has to call her Sparrow—start poking around. Robin stands next to him. Jason’s not fooled by it, he bets the kid’s eyes are going everywhere behind the mask.

“What’s in these boxes?”

“None of your business, Spoiler.” Jason is going to have to get another, smaller safe house to hide his shit again. Somewhere where two vigilantes don’t know and can’t bust in and confiscate all his lethal goods. “Leave it. We’re on the mat tonight.”

“What are we doing?” Sparrow goes to the mat immediately, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“We’re going to do lesson one in how to become a vigilante. Any ideas?” Jason asks.

“How to use a grapple gun?” Spoiler guesses. He wonders who her trainer was and just how off their rocker they were.

“How to dodge a punch.”

Jason turns to stare at Robin, because Bruce trained him and Nightwing the exact same. Why would he make Tim’s regime any different? Especially starting with such a...violent first lesson. “No. Who taught you that?”

“Uh, Batman?”

“Why would he teach you that?”

“Because it’s important,” Robin says.

“I mean, yes, but it’s not the first—you know what, it doesn’t matter. Lesson one: How to fall so as not to roll an ankle.”

The night goes well, and he feels confident this is a lesson Sabrina can learn. It’s the same lesson that cheerleaders have to know before they can go up in the air. Robin and Spoiler escape up to the roof earlier than they’re ready to finish. Sabrina helps him stack up the mats, wipe them down.

“I’ll get you home before I finish up my patrol. If you can stay there, so Alexis doesn’t die of worry, I’ll appreciate it.”

“Thanks.” She says, after they finish cleaning the safehouse.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good. Sore, but good.”

“Oh, you’ll feel it tomorrow, for sure. For the first six months or so.”

“Any tips so I don’t move like a broken glow stick?”

“Bath salts in an actual bath. Soak for the night, it’ll lighten any bruises up as well. We can pick some up at the store when we go out for your wall paints. Any ideas on that by the way?”

“A few.” There’s a thud outside. Jason’s eyes go to the window, and there is a massive shadow filling in the frame. “Oh, shit.”

“Language.”

“Thad’s not even here. Do I need to…go?” Sabrina asks nervously.

“No, just stay in here. I’ll handle this.”

Jason doesn’t want to handle this. It’s gone from being a priority to being the only important thing to move his shit. He strides over to the window and does his best dignified crawl out of the apartment. “Batman.”

“Hood.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I was coming to see where Robin was, but it appears he already left. Is that Sparrow?” Batman looks around him, and Jason wants to push him off the fire escape.

“How has he already told you about her? Have you met her?”

“She hasn’t told you?”

“Don’t answer my question with another question. It’s annoying.”

“She’s your daughter?”

“I’m not doing a fucking interrogation with you right now.”

“Nightwing told me about the pimp the other night.” It’s the first non-questioning remark that Batman’s said, and like always, that directness renders Jason speechless. “And he told me about the kids that you made sure were taken care of, as well. You care for children. Why allow her into this line of work?”

“Why allow Robin? She was in a bad way and I helped her out. She wants to do the same for others now. The least I can do is make her as safe as possible.”

“Hm.” Batman looks out to the city. “I can’t agree with your methods.”

“I’m not asking you for permission.”

“I know. I also know I can’t demand it from you. And you should know that should I ever find you out and about, I promise I’ll stop you.”

“You can definitely try.”

“It would be helpful, however, if you could be in communication with the rest of us. Crime Alley is a…overlooked territory, for the most part.” Batman opens up his hand, and in it, is a comm. Small, black, discreet. It looks sleeker than the ones that he and B used to tote around.

“This hook me up to you, or to Oracle?”

“Nightwing told you her name?”

“It’s not hard to know that his friend who is hooked up to the mainframe is the hacker Oracle.” Jason says. “I already knew she was in Gotham, just wasn’t aware she was working with you.”

“It’s more like we work with her, on our request. This will connect you to her and you can ask her—or I can—to connect you to the rest of the team.”

“Don’t expect me to use this.” Though it would have been helpful earlier, when he had no idea where Sabrina was, or who she was with. He’ll keep it on him, but will only put it in when he needs something. Batman can find another helper elsewhere.

The next morning, Mikey marches up to Jason. It’s been about six hours since he and Sabrina got in, and both are more groggy than they should be, so it takes a second to get what Mikey’s saying. “I said, I want to join the robots club at school. You let Sabrina join the community theater. It’s not fair.”

“What?”

“Why can’t I join the robots club?”

Jason blinks and tries to get a handle on why Mikey is upset. “You…can join the robots club? When do they meet?”

“On Wednesdays.”

“Okay, yeah, I can do that. Why does it matter that Sabrina is doing theater?”

“Because I want to do clubs! Why does she get to?”

“You can do things—I just asked.” Sabrina interrupts. “It’s not like Jay ever says no.”

“I can say no.”

Mikey hits him in the arm. “I can’t?”

“No, you can join the club. I’m just saying I can say no.”

“Yeah, but you won’t.” Sabrina teases. She looks over at Mikey. “Isn’t it a little late in the year to start a new club, though?”

“It’s so I can start next year, actually. Since I’m going to be in school then.”

“Ouch.” Sabrina says, but it lacks heat.

Jason frowns. He can’t believe that Mikey would say something like that—Sabrina is studying for her test-in. Before he can respond, Mikey continues on. “It is the end of the year though. I was hoping you’d come to the school fair with me?”

“Sure, when is it happening? And is it still the whole, all the schools in the district get together? Which school is it this time?”

“It’s next month, December seventh. It’s at Cresthill Elementary.” Mikey recites.

That’s not far at all. A little ritzy, but most years it is a fancy school that gets the fair rights. “Okay.”

“Told you you don’t say no,” Sabrina mutters under her breath.

Three weeks, twelve sessions, into Sabrina’s training, and there is a knock on the apartment door one night, six P.M. sharp, with all the plates laid out for dinner. Everyone, including Thad, turns to look at the door. “Who is it?” Mikey asks.

“How would we know?” Sabrina shoots back. “You can see through the door just as well as the rest of us.”

“Well, are you expecting anyone?”

“No.” Jason can’t think of anyone who would come knocking tonight. He sets the casserole dish full of cheesy potatoes down on the table and wipes his hands on his jeans. It falls to him to check for stranger danger.

There’s no one in the peephole. He’ll have to actually open the door, the horror. When it swings open wide to the hallway, standing to the side is…Talia. She’s wearing a green blouse, with a thin gold necklace and gold hoops to match her bracelet and three rings. She has a pair of pale khakis on, light makeup, with her hair up in a loose, half-bun. With them just staring at each other, she drops the act for a second, mirth mixing into the innocent, happy look she’s sporting. Then, Sabrina calls from inside, “So, who is it?” And her expression slips back into, as she called it, ‘middle-America’.

“Uh,” Jason is not sure how to introduce her. Still.

Talia refuses to let his stumbling stop her. She glides into the house, leaving him to close the door behind them, and takes in the dining room with a look of surprise. “Well, I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve been in Gotham, so I’m sorry if my son hasn’t introduced me yet. My name’s Talia.”

“You’re Jay’s mom?” Mikey asks.

“Wow, you are so much hotter than him.”

“Sabrina!” Jason feels like he might die from the embarrassment.

Instead of apologizing, she shrugs. Talia laughs, bemused by this. “So if you are Sabrina, then you must be Mikey, and this little one is Thaddeus.”

“Yes ma’am.” Mikey says, eyes wide and excited. “You haven’t met Thaddeus yet?”

“No, I haven’t had the pleasure. I’ve been out of the country with Jay’s younger brother.”

“You have a younger brother?” Mikey looks to Jay like he has hidden important, valuable knowledge.

“I, uh, kind of.”

“He’s much younger than Jay. They did not spend a lot of their youth together.”

“Where is he now?” Mikey is on the edge of his seat.

“With their father.”

“Your father is in Gotham?” The kid is like a dog with a bone, and not in a good way.

“Yeah,” Jason gestures for Talia to take his seat, prepared to get a stool from the breakfast bar for himself. “We don’t talk much.”

“I’ll say. You have never once spoken about him.” Sabrina butts in.

“He also has a bad habit on not speaking much to me, about you three. Though, I do hear that you are in the theater, Sabrina?”

Sabrina blushes, nervous and delighted to have the attention on her. Jason’s so thankful that the microscope is off of him. He loads up his, Thad’s and Mikey’s plates with food so that they can get back on track for dinner. Alexis is supposed to come over at eight so he can take Sabrina out to train.

Talia makes polite small-talk for the rest of the dinner. She asks Mikey about what books he’s reading for class, and his favorite subject, and Sabrina about the play that they are working on, how Thad is doing for his milestones and the like. The night flows smoothly enough that when Alexis comes knocking, it feels like Talia has been here all along.

When Jason and Sabrina get ready to go, Talia also picks up her purse from the chair she sat at. “I was hoping I could accompany Sabrina tonight.”

She looks to Jason—he hasn't had a chance to speak with Sabrina about Talia, yet. Robin or Spoiler, or both, have been at each of the training sessions, and her tutoring for her test-in, plus Mikey being home more, half-days as the semester ties up, all together has made it hard for him to have a private conversation. Plus, he was told the timeline for Talia’s arrival was still a few weeks out. Closer to Christmas.

Jason nods. “Yeah, I’ll give you both a ride.”

“Thank you, son.” Talia smiles at him.

He waits until they are out to the hatchback until Jason says, “You are laying it on a little thick, don’t you think, T?”

“I think that my acting and my sincerity are too difficult for you to discern, simply on my innate abilities.”

“Innate?” He snorts and clicks open the locks on the hatchback. Sabrina shuffles to the back, watching both of them. “Sabrina, meet the actual Talia.”

Talia turns to make eye contact. “What Jason means to say is that my story is a little more varied than I have led you to believe. Let me tell you a little bit about it while Jason takes us to my warehouse.”

“Your warehouse?”

“You must know I keep locations in every city of interest.”

Talia tells Sabrina more as she directs him to the general location of her warehouse. It’s about how she found him, in Gotham and comatose, and how she took him home. A small bit about the League, and a lot about Damian. She calls Bruce, ‘The Batman’, exclusively, which he’s grateful for.

They pull up to a small, crumbling building. Jason knows it's to keep away prying eyes, because he can see the locations of the wire trips and the security cameras on a quick glance, and knows that the inside must be more put together than this. He parks the hatchback three streets over. He slips his and Sabrina’s hoods on before they get out, not knowing who T has stationed and watching. They walk to the back, where Talia slips them into the place. The lights come on, and there’s a boxing ring, weights, weapons on the side.

“I’m planning on taking care of her for the next few weeks, so that you can run patrol.” Talia says, as Sabrina walks along the area. “I even had the liberty of bringing your suit here.”

“Thanks. I’ll head out in a bit. I just want to make sure that I agree with your training methods.” Jason walks up to the ring, grabs a hold of the line and uses it to carry his weight into the arena.

“This is not the League. I know to handle her delicately.”

“Safely.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then you should have no issue with me staying to watch.”

And stay he does, to see Talia explain pain points, and where to grab someone to move them, which bones were easy to break, which were hard, where to kick, or punch, or palm-strike. They take a water break, and for Talia to rewrap Sabrina’s hands, when Jason slides away from his perch to go get suited up.

They wave goodbye as he leaves. He’s got a little bit of a journey back to Crime Alley—T’s warehouse tucked between Amusement Mile and the Narrows. He’s flying through the skyline and sees a shadow along his periphery. “Land!” Nightwing yells out to him.

The shock of someone being next to him, three hundred feet in the air, almost makes him lose his grip. Jason is more than happy to get solid ground back under his feet. He prefers to jump from roof to roof, or use his bike, and one of the few times he flies like the Bats, he almost falls. Figures.

“What are you doing here?” Jason asks, putting his grapple back into his holster. It’s on his side, much higher than any real gun.

“How do you know Talia al Ghul?” The conversation goes from what Jason would assume to be strained, but polite, to defensive automatically.

“What?”

“You heard me.” Nightwing steps up into his space. “She shows up with a kid—which I don’t believe you don’t know—and disappears into the night, but we didn’t think she’d go back to the League that quick. Instead, she’s holed up with you.”

“How did you even—” Jason feels like his heart is in his throat, how worried he is that Nightwing followed them, watching his beat up hatchback exit his actual apartment, knows who he is—who Sabrina is.

“We’ve had eyes on the warehouse the whole night.”

“What made you think it was her warehouse?” He asks, because then it wasn’t based on knowing where she, or Jason, was, but rather something to do with that location. “Unless. You didn’t think it was hers.”

“We thought you had a new safehouse.”

“The comm.” Slipped into his front pocket, tucked safe in case he wanted to speak to anyone tonight. “It’s a fucking tracker. I can’t believe—actually, I can. I can believe Batman would do this.”

“Don’t try to turn this around—he was smart to keep a closer eye on you. You can’t tell me that if you know Talia, and her kid, that you don’t know who we are. How long have you known? When did she tell you? What are you planning?”

“T didn’t tell me. I knew well before.” Jason can’t deny that he knows, because when Damian starts flying around, he knows the kid won’t be shy about knowing him. “And I’m planning on running my patrol route, so buzz off.”

“The whole time?”

“The whole time.” Jason parrots back. “I thought you were raised by a detective.”

Nightwing does not enjoy Jason’s quip at knowing his history, if his narrowed lenses are anything to go by. “You can’t actually believe I’ll let you go with that knowledge.”

“Oh, you won’t bring me in when you find me murdering a man, but suddenly I know what your middle name is, and you can’t let that slide?” Jason swivels around to march right up to Nightwing. “It is so hypocritical of you, Dickie. It must drive you Bats fucking wild that I know something that you don’t.”

“We won’t be blackmailed by you.”

“If I wanted to, I would have already.” Jason says through gritted teeth. He knows Dick ain’t this dumb, but he’s acting like it. “Honestly? I just want to keep my people safe in Gotham. I want to keep my kid safe, which is why Talia is here, to train her.”

“I can’t believe you’d leave her with Talia.” Nightwing says with a low voice. “Do you know how they train in the League of Assassins?”

“Yeah, I was trained there. Which is why I stayed for the first half of her session, just to make sure that she wasn’t pulling any of that shit.” Jason heaves a sigh. “I can’t tell you how many times we got into blows about it when it came to Damian.”

Nightwing’s stance goes from tense to drained after a few short moments. “That kid is something, isn’t he? Sliced me hip to shoulder when I met him.”

“He didn’t come by tonight?”

He frowns and furrows his brow. “No, Damian’s been at the Manor for about two weeks now. We assumed that Talia had just been hiding low with you.”

“Oh, she was hiding out, that’s for sure. Just not with me.” Jason wonders what she was doing. It’s an idle curiosity, but when he looks to Nightwing, it’s clearly more concerning to him. He pulls out the comm that Bruce gave him—he thought it was a gesture of trust. It wasn’t. “You can give this back to B. Fucker.”

He drops the comm at Nightwing’s feet and stomps on it. Dick’ll still have to pick it up, or risk some savvy new villain scraping out whatever ingenious design that Barbara built into the metal. “You have to understand why we had to do that.”

“I really, really don’t.”

“You kill people! Sure, it may be bad people now, but it may not always be.”

“Or you could trust me.” Jason suggests. “What have I done to you?”

“Me? Nothing. But I remember stitching up Batman’s head wound when you attacked him.”

Jason bites his tongue. “I’ve also helped him.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t equal trust. You blew a guy’s brain out in an alley, and then help me bring dozens of children out of forced sex work. You let the Joker go, but kill one of his cronies.” Nightwing throws his hands up. “I’m trying to get you, I am, but I don’t.”

“I didn’t mean to kill Johnny.”

“Johnny?”

“Batman didn’t tell you?” Jason blows some air out his nose. “Johnny was his name, and he wasn’t Joker’s crony. He was just in a bad way of things.”

“Like that. Like how you show empathy here, but not for the pimp.”

“He had other options in life.”

“What, you take it on a case by case basis?” Nightwing asks, incredulous.

“I try to. Obviously, I fuck up. But I don’t track someone just ‘cause I don’t understand them, and I don’t tail their kid either. And if that’s what Robin’s doing—”

“He’s not.” Nightwing interrupts. “He actually likes Sparrow. Speaking of, what made her choose her name?”

“I…don’t know.” He reckons it’s a joke on his time as Robin, but he can’t really say that to Dick. “I wasn’t going to let her do this, actually. It’s dangerous for kids her age, and I stand by that for Robin too, but I’m not really the boss of him.”

“But you still let her do it?”

“I’m not really the boss of her either.”

Nightwing chuckles, “You sound kind of like Batman.”

“What? Unable to keep kids safe? Yeah, that sounds like him.”

“You know about that?”

“All of Gotham knows about that. I ain’t special, or in the know, to know that he got a kid killed.” Or that the kid got himself killed. That the kid was reckless, and stupid, and Jason knows him well.

“I’ll take the comm back. It’s not really useful now that you know what’s up with it. And destroyed.” He hesitates. “Can I ask something, though? You don’t seem the League type. How did you meet Talia?”

“You going to run off and tell Batman?”

“I won’t.”

“You won’t?”

“I can keep a secret from him. Besides, I doubt it’s going to be much more dangerous than you knowing who we are.”

Jason shrugs and pulls out his grapple. The night’s not getting younger, and he has places to be, but he’s not going to leave Dick hanging. “She’s my mom.”

The school fair hasn’t changed since Jason was in elementary. Too many kids, in a too tiny space, with overstressed parents in a damp grassy area. Mikey prefers the inside portions of the fair, thankfully, with its book sale, face paint combatting Gotham’s rainy nature, and arts and crafts. He’s got a tiger painted over his face, the bright orange breaking against how large his smile is.

Outside, cold and bright, there’s some small rides, a sad pony ride, and some inflatable bouncy houses. Christmas decorations litter the halls—handmade cards, popcorn streamers, and miniature pine trees. Mikey points out his the differences between the schools with glee. Jason lists with half an ear, examining the empty rooms as they pass by. Mikey concludes that the school is nice, but that he bets they don’t have a class hamster, or snake, like the art teacher at Park Row does.

“And apparently, Louise gets to take the hamster home for the holiday. I asked the teacher, but she said he doesn’t do well with babies, and I don’t want Thad to be crying all the time.” Mikey shrugs.

Jason can hear the sound of a familiar voice down the hallway. “I don’t understand why I have to be at this. I won’t even attend here until next semester, Father.”

“It’s good to get to know your classmates.”

“A majority of these fools do not even attend this school.” Damian’s arrogant and clipped tones cut through the noise the hallway and Jason recognizes the deep baritone of the accompanying adult.

Fuck. Bruce. A sick heat sweeps through his body as his stomach does a flip—nauseous, shaky and without a plan. Mikey grabs at his wrist, and he looks down at the kid, who stares back with big, concerned eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I think I ate some bad peanuts.” Jason lies. “Help me find a bathroom.”

They head down the hall, back where Mikey swears the lunchroom is, and where there will definitely be bathrooms. He’s got the right of it. Jason ducks in and feels like he stepped into a world a size too small. All of the toilets are way too low to the ground, and the stalls are thinner than him. It’s a tight squeeze. Mikey stands watch outside while Jason sinks onto the toliet, knees near his ears, and he wonders if Bruce found him here—saw him here—what type of scene would he make? When Damian gave the game away that they knew each other, how long would it take him to connect the dots?

“Jay?” Mikey knocks on the stall.

The only way out is through. He cracks open the stall, lets Mikey peer in and see his pallid face, before grimacing. “I think I have to go home, kid.”

“Oh,” He sounds disappointed. “D’you think you can drive?”

“Let’s hope so. I don’t want to get the other people sick. You a reflexive yucker?”

“Reflexive?”

“Means if you see me puke, will you puke?”

Mikey’s eyes go wide, “No…?”

“Okay, well some of the other kids might. A real party of gross.” He splashes some water on his face. Knowing Damian, he’s gone to crafts. They’re in the library, doors opened wide to the back field where all the games are, well enough away from the cafeteria. “Are you ready to go?”

“I guess.” Mikey frowns, looking at the ground.

The expression tugs at his heartstrings. “What’s up?”

“I was kind of hoping we’d get to do more.”

“Once we get home, and I get some Sprite and crackers in me, we could watch a movie. Or play a game?” Jason suggests.

“Yeah. Thad and Sabrina and your mom are there.”

“See—more people for the game! That you actually like.”

“I like people here.”

“Oh yeah? You didn’t introduce me to any friends.” A few kids had waved to Mikey, and he had waved shyly back, but none had made moves to walk over. The one time Jason tried, Mikey had grabbed his wrist and tugged him back, frantic.

“Well, we haven’t seen any of them yet!” Mikey says.

“You’ll have to host a sleepover then, cause I can feel my lunch trying to make a reappearance.” He shoos Mikey out the bathroom and towards the front of the school.

Jason takes Thad in for his six month check-up, snow finally making landfall in Gotham, heralding in the end of the year. A new girl—Luna is her name—greets him and brings Tonya out. They talk about the new clinic and how it means that, once it’s finished, she can afford a day off a week.

Thaddeus is healthy. Tonya shakes his hand and promises to see him in six months.

Jason, as was his usual tradition, waits way too late for Christmas shopping. It’s the week before and Gotham bustles with lights, smells, noise and people. He’s especially irritated about the people.

He and Sabrina are back at the mall, picking things out for Thad and Mikey and Talia, who Jason has got to agree to stay in Gotham until the new year. He’s not sure how she’s avoiding Bruce, and frankly, he doesn’t want to.

“I don’t think Thad really cares what you get him.” Sabrina says, hip propped against the table that holds the baby shirts he’s been pursuing for the last ten minutes.

“Well, maybe I care what I get him. We’re going to be taking photos, you know?”

Sabrina groans. “No one wants your photos.”

“You will when you’re a little bit older, trust me.” He has one photo of Bruce and him that wasn’t snagged by the paparazzi, tucked into the chest pocket of his funeral suit, a small picture Talia gave him when he had regained his senses. It was the two of them in their suits. Happy. Bruce was even smiling.

“Whatcha planning on getting Mikey?” Sabrina asks. “Besides the new outfits and lunchbox.”

“An ant farm.” Jason had to drop Sabrina off for her test in, both of them nervous, but he wasn’t showing it, and could use that has his excuse for what he did while she was testing. “I was going to run by the petstore once I dropped you off at the school.”

“I’m not letting you hide it in my room.”

“I’m hiding it in Thad’s actually. He’s going to expect it in mine,” He’s seen his clothes in his closet rumpled and hastily put back a few times. Ever since they got the tree.

“If Thad knocks it down, he’ll eat the ants.”

“Good, it’s good protein.” Jason jokes drily. He was right about his baby being a terror once he got his legs under him. Thad’s not walking yet, but he’s getting his crawl under him. “I’m going to put it up high in his closet. It’s not like they need sunlight.”

“Mhm.” Sabrina hums. Jason picks up a shirt that has taco shells as the arms and filling in the middle, that would make him look like a taco. Cute, not weirdly gendered, and funny. He puts it in the basket. “What are you getting me?”

“Oh, that’s easy, what I’m getting you is nun-uh.” He looks up to see her grinning at him. “Why?”

“I want something in particular.”

“Uh-huh.” Jason can bet what it is.

“Let me go out with you. Just one night. Talia says I’m doing well, and she thinks some practical application would be good.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. She’s been training for a month and a half, five days a week—two with him and the teens, three with T—since Talia arrived, but he knows that Sabrina isn’t ready to be out, not as an active vigilante. Not yet. “You think so?”

“Yeah. One night, and I’ll stay back if anything happens, I promise.” She practically vibrates. “Please? It’ll be like, like a test, you know.”

“What if I tell you to go home?”

“Straight back to the apartment. I mean, first to the warehouse, to change, then to the apartment. Unless by home, you mean the warehouse? So Mikey doesn’t wonder where you are.”

“And if I cut the night short? Or not let you out of eyeline?” Jason presses.

Sabrina holds up her hands. “No fight from me. Promise.”

He watches her for a minute, just to make her squirm. It’s no harm to have her out around Christmas, most of the crime muted besides domestic, everyone not wanting to fuck with baby Jesus. Jason nods. “Okay. One night.”

“Really?”

“Don’t get too excited. It’s going to be after Christmas. There’s a little too much going on right now.” What with her test in, and Mikey’s sleepover, and Talia. Full stop. Talia.

Sabrina nods anyway, too much excitement in her body, the rest of the trip boyoued by her good mood. They throw the bags in the back, where a duffel bag lays that will serve as a Trojan horse of gifts. Even the drive to the school does not damper her mood.

Jason pulls up to the high school. It’s empty, save a car or two in the parking lot. One of them is the teacher that is going to see if Sabrina can go to ninth grade. “I’ll pick you up in an hour and half, okay?”

“You got it.”

“And if you need me earlier than that, just call, okay. I’m not going too far.”

Sabrina nods, hand on the handle. “You think they’ll tell me? If I passed?”

“They told Mikey.” Jason says. “Hey, I’m sure you’ll do great.”

“Thanks.” She climbs out and walks towards the double doors. Jason watches until she disappears into the school, and then peels off to his main errand. Yes, he has to get Mikey an ant farm, but Sabrina is either his or Talia’s shadow these days, excited to learn, hard to get time away from.

There’s a used car dealership sixteen blocks north of the school. Hatchbacks like his, old, trusty sedans and well-loved trucks. Jason pulls in.

That afternoon, Jason and Sabrina get home to a mess in the kitchen. Talia’s got Thad on her hip, and Mikey on a stool in front of the stove. Popcorn kernels litter the floor. There’s baby mush and spoons on the counters—half eaten jars. Jason raises an eyebrow. He had heard this when he had climbed in the window, just ten minutes earlier, to stow the duffel bag into Thad’s room undetected. He just hadn’t expected such a mess.

Talia’s hair has a few strands, ones that she blows out of her face, before looking at him, somewhat cross. “We have been performing Christmas traditions.”

“What tradition?” Sabrina asks, kicking off her shoes. Jason follows suit. It’s a hard rule for winter, with the sludge and salt that litters the ground outside, to keep only one part of the floor disgusting.

“Popcorn strands.” Mikey responds. “How was the test?”

She shrugs, stealing a few kernels out of a plastic bowl. “They didn’t tell me how I did. I think it’s cause it wasn’t just bubble answers. There were a few essays, too. I think it’s cause I’m trying to go to highschool. I’ve never made popcorn stands before. Is it hard?”

“My mom used to say it isn’t hard if you’re patient.”

“It should be no harder than threading any other thing. All strings are delicate.” Talia says as she peers into pot behind Mikey’s shoulder. “A very time-consuming, but family-oriened tradition. Did you have any like this growing up, Sabrina?”

“My mom would take us caroling.”

“You would be one of the singers going door to door?” Mikey asked, grin on his face. “Did you use to wear little costumes?”

“Yes, and it was awful, and no, I won’t do it with you. You have a horrible voice.”

“It’s not as bad as Jay’s is.” Mikey counters.

Jason gasps, the accusation true and funny. “Well, now we have to go caroling.”

“No.” Mikey and Sabrina say in unison.

“Help me out, T.”

“I agree with your much wiser children, son.” Talia responds, using the back of her hand to push her few stray hairs out of her face. “And as you two are so much wiser, you’ll both see it’s about time to start the clean-up.”

“T said that she’d watch The Grinch with us while we thread the popcorn.” Mikey grins up at Sabrina.

“You haven’t seen The Grinch before?” Sabrina asks. “Have you seen it before?” She aims her second question at Jason.

“Yeah. With my—dad.” With his not-living mom. Can’t say that. Can’t say that here, not with Mikey and his ears. “I doubt T will like it much.”

“I’m sure it will be just the correct level of delightful.” Talia says, which is code for, not delightful at all.

They clean up the kitchen, Jason ducking away to resecure the presents behind baby clothes and boxes of other things. Make it look like there was nothing there, should Mikey’s eyes start to get adventurous in their search. When he returns, the rest of the group has settled on or around the couch. Sabrina is loading up The Grinch, while Thad sits in T’s lap as she explains to Mikey the thin needle she holds in her hand.

Jason makes some hot chocolate for the group. Stays, watches the movie, watches how Talia is truly, truly not interested in it in the slightest. The sun sinks below the horizon as Mikey starts to suggest other movies—Charlie Brown, and the Nightmare before Christmas—and he stretches and stands. “You’ll be here tonight, T?”

“Yes. We have to finish the strands for the tree, after all.” About halfway through the movie, everyone but her had given up on threading the popcorn, so they would down several strands.

Jason nods. “Kay, I’m going to head out to do a few errands.”

“Shopping?” Mikey asks, his eyes huge and smile a little manic.

“Maybe,” Jason says.

He slips from his home, feeling strangely full and empty. His apartment is full, his kids happy and Talia, well, content is a word he hesitates to use. They’ve got a tree up, and movies on the screen, and mugs of warm chocolate. It’s different than any Christmas he’s ever had—the cold ones with his mom, where he knew any gift he got was stolen, or the ones spent sitting for a family portrait with Bruce and Dick, way too formal to feel any less than a movie production.

And yet.

A hollow space beats in his chest, next to his heart, an almost ache of a past wound. He misses Alfred’s hot chocolate, better than what Jason can make in his own kitchen, and the way Bruce would keep the fire roaring all night, and Dick and he would burn the cookies to leave out for Santa. The small traditions.

That feeling chases him through the night as he runs a perfunctory patrol. Crime is always down during this time of year, as long as a few key criminals are away. The clown. Riddler. Mr. Freeze. With all of them secure, or as secure as Arkham gets, the festivities do not turn from happy to horror.

Jason finds himself on a rooftop ledge, a small bit of snow gathered beside him, as he looks at the smog and twinkling lights of Gotham. How the big tree in the main part of the city looks blurry from all the pollution that coats the air. He feels someone land behind him. There’s a small crunch of snow that tells him they are ally, not enemy, because they aren’t aiming to be quiet.

“Hey,” Dick’s voice cuts through the cold.

“Hey,” Jason says. “What are you doing in my territory?”

“You say it like you meant it meaner than what you said.” Dick says in response, creeping closer. “I saw you near the Bowery about an hour back. Figured I was getting myself a coffee, might as well get one for you, too. Merry Christmas.”

He offers one to Jason, just barely putting the paper cup in line of sight, and waits until Jason takes it to sit down. “You didn’t fill this with all that sugary crap you like, right?”

Dick stills for a moment. “It’s black.”

“Thanks,” Jason says and sets the cup next to him. “I’ll drink it in a bit.”

“Okay. Why do you know how I take my coffee?”

Because Jason used to watch him make it in his dingy dorm, for the one semester that Dick went to college, and Jason would get to come up every other weekend to visit. How Dick would laugh and say the coffee was shit, but sugar is cheap and so was Hershey’s chocolate. Jason shrugs. “I know a lot about you.”

“It’s weird, when I know nothing about you.”

“You know Sparrow. That’s more than I want you to.” Jason admits, which isn’t a big admittance. They all pretty much believe that he’s her dad.

“Speaking of, why are you here, instead of at home with her? It’s the holiday season.”

“Why aren’t you at home?” Jason shoots back instead of answering. He had left because of that too-full emotion in his chest was making him nauseous when paired with the empty-missing.

“I came back to Gotham to be with family. This is just kind of how we interact—running patrol together.”

“You look like you’re running solo.”

“Robin and I split about an hour ago.”

“When you were going to get coffee?”

“Yeah.”

Jason lets that sink in. “Is the kid scared of me?”

“I think he’s more scared of Batman, actually. Last time he found out that Robin was with you and Sparrow, he was benched for a month.”

“Harsh. It’s not like I’d shoot the kid.” Jason also can’t recall a time where Robin was missing from his trainings with Sparrow for more than two weeks. They had scaled it back, with Talia taking over as the main trainer, to once a week, but still. Robin was there. He must be better at breaking out than even Jason.

“I know.”

“Do you?” Jason asks, watching Dick watch the city.

“Yeah.” Dick looks at him, face somber enough that Jason believes him. “Anyway, it seems strange to be out when you don’t have to. It’s almost like you’re avoiding your family.”

“I’m not.” Jason says. “I just—miss the rest of them.”

“Your family?”

“Yeah.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Then, Dick speaks. “You know pretty much everything about me and Batman, yeah? You know anything about Robin?”

“Pretty much everything for that kid, too.”

“What about,” Dick hesitates. “What about the other Robin?”

Jason can feel the moment his heart stops in his chest, not a small fade into quiet, but a hard stop that hurts his ribs and lungs. “The one who died.”

Dick nods.

“I know what happened to him. Who he was.”

“I miss him,” Dick whispers, like it’s not something he should be saying. “Every year, I miss him. It’s why I come back to Gotham every year. Christmas was…warmer, with him.”

“New Robin too posh?” Jason says, because he has no idea what else to say.

“He’s great. Wonderful. It’s different, you know? He’s not Jason.”

Chapter Text

Sabrina fails her test-in. The house is quiet for the day. There’s a new date on the paper, for when she can re-test, and after she cries for a good hour, she marches up to the fridge calendar and flips to the next year, February. Circles the date three times.

Jason catches Talia with a real smile on her face.

Christmas dawns as loud as Jason remembers it as a kid. Instead of him flinging himself into Bruce’s bed, however, Mikey launches himself into Jason’s. Jason comes awake to a pillow in his face and a loud, excited, “Wake up! Wake up, it’s Christmas!”

“Ugh,” Jason is not so eloquent at the current. He was up the whole night wrapping all the presents.

“It’s time to get up!” Mikey cries. “Everyone up!”

As quick as the weight arrived, Mikey disappears. He can hear the heavy sound of the kid’s footfalls, and the way he throws open the door across the hall. “Sabrina! Christmas!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Sabrina shouts, voice scratchy, and Jason pulls his head up to see a pillow go flying out of her room to hit Mikey square in the face.

“Language!” Mikey darts out of the way.

The loud noise and excitement serve to wake Thaddeus up, who starts crying at the sudden surprise, and Jason lets his head hit the pillow for a second before groaning. It’s not even eight yet. He musters up some of that iron will and rolls out of bed to pad down the hall and get Thad. Mikey is in the living room, standing on the couch, grinning when he sees Jason. “Breakfast first,” Jason says before he gets to the other hallway where Thad’s room is.

“I’ll get the bowls!” Mikey says.

Thad is standing, wobbly, holding onto the bars of his crib, face still wet but he stops screaming when he sees Jason. His eyes light up and reach for Jason. “Merry Christmas, kiddo.” Jason says, grinning, as he scoops his baby up. “Are you ready for the day?”

Sabrina is at the table, laying her head down next to her bowl, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. “D’you want Coco Pebbles or Fruit Loops, Sabrina?”

“Death.” She says to Mikey.

“I forgot to pick that up from the store.” Jason sits Thad into his chair. “Can you bring Cheerios for Thad?”

Mikey stands on the baby stool in the kitchen and just grabs all three boxes. “When is T getting here?”

“She said she’d be by in the morning.” Jason says.

“Do we have to wait for her?”

“Yes.” Sabrina says. “I had her keep your present from your snooping eyes. Unless, you don’t want…?”

“No, no! I want my presents.”

His over-eager attitude carries them through the meal. Mikey can’t keep his eyes away from the tree, glimmering with shiny boxes under it, and when there’s a gentle rap at the door, he runs at the door to swing open to reveal Talia.

She has a few bags in her hands, tasteful, matte colors and thin papers poking out of them. A quick way to ferry presents without needing to carry a bulky set of boxes. “Merry Christmas, T!”

“And a merry one to you, too, Mikey.” She smiles down at him before stepping into the home. “I come bearing gifts.”

“Presents?” Mikey says.

“After the table is cleared.”

“Jay!” Mikey frowns, being gently moved to the side by Talia so she can get to put her bags down.

“You can let the children off with the chores for one morning, son.” Talia says. Mikey cheers and abandons his bowl at the table. Sabrina watches how Jason responds before she also goes through the open doorway to the living room and curls up on the couch.

He unstraps Thad from his high chair and resigns himself to some very gross cereal bowls after the presents are all done. Grabbing a trash bag from under the sink, Jason makes his way to the rest of them.

Talia sits at the tree, handing off presents to Sabrina to pass around. Jason opens Thad’s for him—sweaters, and booties, and a new bouncer. Talia gifts Jason an empty box, and he knows that it’s due to whatever she got him not being family-friendly. He gets a few books from Sabrina and Mikey, courtesy of the used bookstore six blocks east and their allowances. Then comes the fun presents—Mikey and Sabrina’s. Kids old enough to want presents and to know when they got something good.

They swap first—a comfy looking sweater from Mikey to Sabrina, it’s got a blocky figure holding up a skull on it. “Hamlet?” Sabrina says with a smile. She gifts him tickets to the planetarium. It makes something in his heart clench to see both of them actually know enough about each other. My kids, he thinks, for a split moment, before he looks away, embarrassed and guilty. Kids I’m helping, he corrects.

Two small presents are wrapped from her in that matte, deep green, for the kids. Sabrina’s box is empty, which makes his eyebrows raise to his hairline, but, thankfully, she gifted Mikey a book. He squeals when he opens it, showing it off. It’s old paper, bound in a fancy, stiff cloth, and Jason would bet his left arm that it belonged to the League. It’s a study of Middle Eastern plants.

Jason gifts Sabrina a laptop—this sparks the same sort of joy. The only big presents left under the tree is Mikey’s anthill, which he takes with shiny eyes into careful hands, and a Switch for the two to share. The way that Mikey makes grabby hands lets Jason know that it’ll be mostly his.

The excitement of the morning dims down to a quiet contentment as the children scatter off with their various trinkets. Talia joins Jason in the kitchen as he does the morning clean-up. There’s an almost-domestic tranquility as she stacks the plates near the sink while he fills it with hot, soapy water. “I’ll have to leave soon.”

“Back to the island?” Jason says. Talia hums. “Does Damian know?”

“He would have thought that I left the moment I dropped him off, if not for that clever trick from my beloved.” Talia says. “Damian is aware that my time away from the League must always be short.”

“You stayed longer than I thought you would.” Jason says, then pauses, realizing how it sounds. “I’m glad I got to see you, T.”

“And I, you. As well as your children.”

“What—what did you get Sabrina?”

“A knife, technically. Like the one I’ve gifted you and the one Damian earned. League-steel, strong enough to cut through any wire.”

“Technically?” Jason would hate to sour the end of the visit with a blow-out about how Sabrina was not joining the League based on some ancient, dagger-gifting ceremony.

“What I gifted you is a gun, but it is not for you.” Talia says. “That is also, in a manner of speaking, Sabrina’s.”

“I’m not giving her a gun.”

“No, I do not believe that you would, yet. But you should teach her.”

“Teach her?”

“How to use one. How to handle it, and how to dismantle it. It is the one lesson my beloved failed to give you that I cannot comprehend.”

“He taught me how to dismantle one.” Jason says, remembering when Bruce showed him. It was in the Cave, mask off, with the small sound of water in the background. At the time, the gun looked huge, black and just like a police model. Bruce showed him how to pull out the clip, put the safety on, break it down to just its parts. Then he had Jason do it again and again, until he was certain that Jason got it. Jason had asked if Bruce was going to teach him how to shoot it. Bruce had flinched, and said, no. And that was it.

“You can teach her all the defensive moves you wish, but she may face an enemy where her only recourse is their death. Or hers. Better she learn how to handle a gun now, than to make do with whichever weapons you deem safe enough for her.”

“She’s not even ready to patrol, yet. I need her to know how to use the staffs and sticks and grapple gun before I can think about putting something like that in her hands.”

“Better she learn before she needs to, than not at all.” Talia says.

She says the most ominous shit, Jason thinks, sighing. “I’ll consider it. When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning. There are a few connections I must reach out to in New York, before the next year, for intel for the League.” Talia puts the cereal boxes back up. “Sabrina told me you were to take her out this week sometime?”

“Tonight,” Jason says. It’s where the actual present for her is—at the end of the patrol. “Will you watch Mikey and Thaddeus?”

“Of course. You’ll have to tell me how she does. I think she’s almost ready to start seeing the city.”

Jason frowns. He doesn’t, but he also has been giving Talia full-run on training Sabrina, to focus on patrols and Thad, and Mikey. Mikey deserves more attention than Jason has been giving him of late. “I’d like for her to wait a little longer.”

“She’ll be sixteen soon. A full three years older than when you started.”

“Sixteen?”

“January, my son. You must do well to remember your children’s birthdays.” Talia says.

“Besides—she hasn’t been training half as long. It’s only been two months.” Jason says. Talia hums, but offers no further comment.

The day bleeds into lazy, idyllic movies in the background, and slouching fully into the couches, with Talia propped at the kitchen table with a laptop. The kids come out of their rooms for food, or to see Thad, or to see what’s on TV. It passes quick—quicker than Jason would like. And then, dinner is eaten, Mikey having to be reminded to not bring his switch to the table with him, and Sabrina looks to him with large, excited eyes.

“Where are you going?” Mikey asks, when they both are standing in front of the door, jackets in hand. “The theather’s got to be closed tonight, right?”

“Right,” Sabrina says. She looks at Jason for help.

“We…uhm.” Jason should have thought this through better.

“They are going to collect the presents I got them, since they weren’t in this morning. And to grab my bag from my hotel room, and a few other things I asked of them.” Talia says, smooth as ice. “I hate to leave so soon, but we got word that my father is ill, and I didn’t wish to trouble you, Mikey.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“I believe so. I just need to return sooner than expected.”

“Can I come with?” Mikey looks at Jason.

“Couldn’t you stay with me and perhaps you could show me how to play that racing game you are fond of?”

“Mario Kart?”

“Yes,” Talia says. “I’d love some company, since I leave out very early tomorrow morning.”

“Well, that’s okay, I guess. But I get to be Toad.”

Jason folds his jacket over the chair and comes over to pat Mikey’s shoulder and pull him into a hug. “We’ll watch Transformers when I get back, if you’re still up, okay?” He promises before they leave.

Sabrina is quieter than he expected on the ride to the warehouse. He watches her from the corner of his eye, how she stares out the window to the snow white, quiet, streets. Already so dark for eight o’clock. He wanted an early-out patrol for Sparrow’s official debut.

She waits until they park, three streets and several blocks away from the actual warehouse. Jason doesn’t need Bruce to tag his hatchback as Red Hood’s. “We should tell Mikey.”

“What?” Jason’s hand is on the car door, ready to open it and brace himself for the chill, but this gives him pause. “Sabrina, no.”

“He can tell there’s something we’re hiding from him.” She says. Pauses. “It feels wrong to keep this from him.”

“It’s for his own safety, and yours. And mine.”

“He feels left out, because he’s being left out.”

“And you think I should, what? Tell him, and then have him also trained up? What do you think is going to happen if we say, not only have we been lying for the last several months, but the guy you’ve happened to be living with is also none other than Red Hood?” Jason asks, running a hand through his hair. He tries to keep his voice level. “He’s too young to know right now, Sabrina. He’s a kid.”

“I’m a kid. You’re a kid.” She’s liked to point that out since she did the math on his Robin years.

“I’m legally an adult, both under my fake name and my real one. I won’t say no, not yet, but can we table this? Just for a bit?”

“What happens if he finds out like I did? I only knew you for a few weeks at that point—not over half a year. He’s going to feel betrayed.”

Jason doesn’t have a good answer for that. “He’s going to feel betrayed no matter what, yeah? I just want to wait until he’s a bit older. Please.”

“Fine, but I’m not letting this go.”

“I know you aren’t.” Jason grumbles, finally getting out of the car. Sabrina, having said her piece, darts ahead on the sidewalk. It’s as if a weight was lifted from her. She moves quicker than Jason thinks is sensible on the icy ground. “Careful—you split your head open, I’m still counting tonight as your first run.”

“This is nothing! Besides, if I can’t move quickly here, how am I supposed to do it up there?” She says. He can see a flash of white from her teeth as she turns back to grin at him. “D’you think your mom actually left our presents here?”

The gun. “Yeah, yeah, I would suspect so.” He puts a little more speed in his step.

“I wasn’t expecting anything.”

“Why not?”

“Well…” Sabrina drags the word out. “She kinda already got me something, you know, for when it was time for me to go out. I haven’t used it yet!”

“A gun?” Jason asks, eyes wide, as they round the corner near the warehouse. He was going to—probably get his ass kicked, if he was being fair. But he’d voice his disagreement.

“No, why would you think a gun? It’s a suit.”

“Oh.”

“Jeez, she barely let me do any knife work for the first two weeks, said she didn’t want to roll you back into your grave.”

“Talia did not say that.”

“I’m extrapolating.”

“Big word.” There is no elevator to take them up, and the trek up the stairs brings blood up in the frigid temperatures. Jason can see his breath huff out of him on the stairwell. It takes two tries to get the keys in the door. “Did this suit T get you have any sort of winter protection?”

“Yeah, a thermal underlayer. Optional.” Sabrina says.

“Not optional for tonight.” The door swings open. “Go get it on, I’ll get the equipment out that we’ll be carrying.”

“What about you?”

“Mine is a different, albeit bullet-resistant, shirt and leather jacket. And a helmet. It’ll take two minutes to change into. I’m suspecting that yours is more along the leotard get-up that most of the rest are sporting.” Jason says, walking over to his high-stacked wall of boxes. He’ll be getting out some small knives, emphasis on small, baton sticks, grapple gun, pressure bandages, gas mask, a set of standard antidotes and three stun-guns. And a taser.

Sabrina leaves him be, and he can hear her, in the tiny bathroom, pulling out whatever she brought in her bag. He’ll have her stow it here. Better that it’s not in her room if Mikey is snooping, or if Thad crawls in.

After about ten minutes, he’s got everything out for her. He’s found Talia’s gifts—and put the sleek, clip-tipped knife with the rest of her gear. The standard-issue Glock that is ‘his’ is put into his belt. Talia’s words echo in his mind.

When Sabrina steps out, Jason looks at her suit with a critical eye. T would be good to make sure that it was properly armored and sized, but there was no telling for design. Dick did spend a year in his Discowing outfit, afterall, and Bruce lets all his kids walk around like a fucking stoplight, but he didn’t want a colorful target on her back. Instead, the costume is shades of muted browns. Most are darker shades, umber and carob running down her arms, with a tan on her palms, the lightest and most striking of the colors. She has a standard domino on, probably the one she flinched on her first flight out.

He shows her where her stuff is, and watches as she unzips her side to tuck in the medical equipment on the table. The rest go in a bronzen belt on her waist. It was a smart design choice—one he saw emulated on Robin and Spoiler.

“Now, I know you haven’t gone out before—at least, not out in a while. We’ll take it slow, and you don’t reel in your gun until I give you the all clear that it’s attached properly, okay? You’ll figure out the way it feels when anchored as time goes on.” Jason says.

Sabrina nods. “Where are we going?”

“Just around the Alley, to get you aware of where the boundary is.”

“I know where Park Row ends.” Sabrina says, but shoots her line out anyway, to the next roof over. Jason shows her how to do a small tug, and when it comes loose, and she shoots at a different spot, how it sounds and feels when it's secure.

It’s a slow going patrol, with every move needing to be checked for her, but about an hour in, there’s a surge of confidence and Jason allows her to start to show him, instead of watching, to check for a properly secured grapple.

They get halfway around Crime Alley before Jason feels as if he can relax his shoulders and make conversation. “I wasn’t expecting the color scheme, I’ve got to be honest.”

Sabrina looks over to him, perched up on this roof where he’s pointing out the different landmarks she can see from it. “What?”

“Your suit.”

“Why? This is what colors sparrows are.”

“There is no green in robins, though.” Jason pointed out. “Can I ask why you chose that name? It’s a good one, close enough to your own that I won’t mess it up, but I am curious. Nightwing asked me a while back.”

“They’re hardworking, and incredibly defensive of their homes. I read it in a book when I was in middle school. Plus, at the time, I didn’t know about Spoiler, so I was trying to keep with the bird-theme.”

“Batman ain’t a bird, and neither am I.” Jason says.

“Yeah, but you used to be. Nightwing is. Pretty much everyone who’s been a kid doing this has been. It felt right? Besides, it’s not like I have to keep the name.”

“Right,” Sabrina lacks a poker face, even with the domino covering her eyes, worried on what Jason thinks. “But if you like it, that’s all that matters.”

“What made you pick yours?”

“Well, I didn’t as I wasn’t the first Robin. You’ll have to ask Nightwing.”

Sabrina laughs, “No, I mean the Red Hood.”

“It used to be Joker’s old alias.” Jason says, eyes on the next roof, and the next, and the next. He’d rather not see how she responds to that.

“Why—I mean, what—uhm.”

“You can ask.”

“It seems a little—strange, that you picked it, then.” Sabrina says in halting tones.

Jason shrugs. “He took my old life, I’ll take his. When I came back, it made a lot of sense, and it still does, kind of.”

“If you like it,” Sabrina starts.

Jason leaves it at that, moving them towards her real gift. Sabrina is fluid in the air. Like Dick was, like an acrobat, a way that Jason could only mimic. It’s good, even if it makes him nostalgic for patrols where Dick didn’t feel the need to keep him within eye line, just to be safe. There is a small commotion of sound in a nearby alley. Jason nods towards it.

There’s a few guys in the alley scuffling over the nearby trash fire. Three older men, haggard, with layer upon layer of dirty clothing. It seems one has outstayed his welcome, but is arguing the point. “What do you see?” Jason asks Sabrina.

She frowns. “I see three homeless people. One has upset the other two—but not enough that he couldn’t stay.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Watch how they are waving him off. They aren’t chasing him off, it’s too cold to care that much.” Sabrina gestures at how the third has slunk back into the fire’s light, and the other two stay pressed close on the other side. “Or maybe, it’s the Christmas spirit that is keeping them from being too mean.”

“What do you think we should do? Anything?”

Bruce’s answer was to leave them be. If no one was bleeding, or screaming, then there were more important places to be in the city. Even with only Crime Alley to watch over, Jason kept up a similar mentality. Someone was always dying the in the Alley. Sabrina says, “We could leave them be and I think they’d all stay the night. But it’s Christmas. Maybe point them in the direction of a shelter?”

“If they’re out here on Christmas, they don’t want a shelter.” Jason says, knowing the churches and volunteers and social workers have swept through the city the last month to let everyone know where they could go for a warm night during the long winter.

“Then a meal.”

“A meal?”

She nods. “No one says no to food. And there’s a bodega that’s always open, it’s only like a block away.” There’s no hesitation before Sabrina zips that direction.

Jason follows at a pace behind to see what she’s going to do. Sabrina lands to the ground in a dismount that would scream gymnastics or cheer to anyone who was watching to see who she was, and walks up to the bodega. Walks in. His heart shoots up into his throat, worried that the attendant is going to pull a gun, thinking she’s a new Rogue, or call the cops, or god, Batman. He does not want to see Bruce today. He hurries after Sabrina.

When he gets into the bodega, an old Chinese lady is manning the front. She seems bored, with a magazine propped in front of her; she waves at his general direction. Sabrina is over near the Hot-n-Ready coffee, three pre-made hoagies tucked up in her hand. “Hold these, will you?”

He takes the hoagies so she can get all three coffees in a carrier. She uses the fourth spot to fill with little creamers and sugars, tucks the stir sticks there. There is no air of concern as she approaches the register. The attendant barely even blinks at them, hands them a receipt and bids them happy holidays. Jason echoes back the sentiment, a little bewildered, as they leave.

As they walk back towards the alley, he finds his words. “I was going to say we leave them be.”

“Why?”

“Since they don’t need immediate help.” Jason says. “There are people and places that very much may need it. Batman called it prioritization for the good of all, I just think it means we make sure that we focus on the big picture.”

“I’m glad that works for you and Batman, then. But if I see someone I can help—even if they aren’t the person I could help the most, I want to do right by them. A miserable life is not worth much, you know?” Sabrina pauses. “I don’t need giant, world-ending fights that decide the fate of Gotham. I just want to make those around me a little happier, a little safer.”

It’s pure, her desire to be good. It reminds Jason a lot of himself, a lifetime ago, and he rolls his shoulders to shrug off the past. Tonight is Sabrina’s patrol, so, “Okay. Let’s get them their coffee before they get cold.”

The men are wary when they see them, and then surprised, and grateful. Confused. The one on the fringes gets misty-eyed, and Jason stands back, an ominous presence in the shadows that lets Sparrow do the legwork. They’re back up in the air soon enough. Jason cuts a straight path to the alley he’s stowed a run-down sedan for Sabrina. He put it there the night before, with enough alarms to discourage theft.

When he stops on the roof above it, looking down at the small, gray car that still has all its tires and windows, Sabrina seems confused. She looks at the car, and then the surrounding buildings, trying to figure out why they’ve stopped. Jason fishes the keys out of his jacket, fob somehow still accounted for and active, and he hits the lock that causes the lights below to flash. Tosses the keys to Sabrina.

“Merry Christmas.” Jason says.

She stares down at the keys in her hands, uncomprehending, and looks back up at him. Back to the car. “For me?” She breathed out the words.

“Yeah. Well, you have to get your learners, and then your license, but the idea,” Jason’s words are cut off when Sabrina slams into his side, knocking the wind from him. Her arms are wrapped tight around him.

“What—why would you—thank you,” She laughs and covers her face with his jacket. “Thank you, thank you, oh my gosh, thank you!”

“You’ll need a way to get around, soon enough.”

“You’re fucking insane,” Sabrina says, but she has a smile so big on her face, he doesn’t think she means it in a bad way.

“Language.”

She shoves at him. “I mean it. You’ve done—so much, for me. You really don’t have to.”

“You’re a good kid, Sparrow. It’s nothing, really, we don’t have to talk about it.” His cheeks flame up, hidden by his helmet, just like when he was Robin and a random civilian would pour praise in his ears for a kind deed. He doesn’t know how to respond to them. “We’ll come pick it up tomorrow, I just thought it would be a good finish for your first patrol. How do you feel you did?”

Sabrina doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Jason looks over at her and she’s staring at the keys in her palm, cupped loosely, lips pressed tight. A tight sniffle works its way out of her nose. “Good.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” She says, wiping at her cheeks, even though nothing is there—a consequence to the industrial strength glue for the domino. “Though we still have a way to go before we get back.”

The warehouse is two blocks over. Tall enough that Jason can see his window from here. “Okay, next lesson for you is going to be studying the area.” He shoots off a line with the expectation she’ll follow.

“What do you mean?” Sabrina calls after him.

Two weeks later, school is back in, and Sabrina spends most of her days hunched over several packets at the kitchen table. Most of her nights, too, but those are maps of Gotham. Thaddeus is confined to the kitchen as well for her to watch so Jason can do house chores while Mikey’s out at school. Thad has taken up crawling, so eyes are needed for him at all times.

He’s scrubbing out the tub when Sabrina peeks in. “Hey, Jay?”

Jason startles from his crouch, knees covered in powdered bleach, back bent over the cranny that the sliding door enters. Sabrina stands in the doorway with Thad on her hip. “What’s up?” He asks.

“What’s the plan if I manage to pass my test-in?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I know anyone can take the test-in, but if I actually want to get signed up to the school, they’ll need documents. Like, legal shi–stuff. What did you do with Mikey?”

“T got me what I needed for Mikey, but it wasn’t hard, since he didn’t have anyone else to claim him. We could always forge your folks signature, or try to get them to sign, or Talia can do what she did for me and get you another identity. There are options.” Jason says.

“If my mom does sign, does that mean they’d be reaching out to her for all my stuff? Like, what if they want a parent-teacher conference and expect her? Or if I get sick, or hurt?”

“I suppose so. We could always make me a point of contact, though. There are workarounds. What’s got you worried?”

“I don’t want my mom to be the one in charge of that.” Sabrina says, blurts, really, like she had been holding it as close to her chest as the baby.

“Okay,” Jason says. He turns on the faucet to clean his hands and knees off, as he suspects this conversation got much more serious and he should not be tucked like origami into the bathtub for it. He takes a hand towel to dry off before stepping out. “What do you want?”

He doesn’t know what he said wrong, only that he definitely did, because tears well up hard and fast as Sabrina’s face breaks into pure despair.

“Here, let me,” He mutters, as he takes Thaddeus and ushers them all into the living room, where he can trap the baby in his jumper swing before he turns his attention back to Sabrina. She’s curled up on the couch, face tucked into her knees. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sabrina says, through a hiccupping sob. Jason sits an inch away from her. He knows not to touch her unless she asks, that unlike Mikey, Sabrina needs space to process. “Everything. I don’t know.”

“Okay?”

“I feel like an awful daughter.”

“You aren’t.” Jason says in an attempt to console her.

“It’s just—it’s been months, and you think she’d put up missing posters or something, but then, it works both ways, right? I could have had you look for her at any point. But I don’t—I don’t want you to. I don’t want to go back to jumping houses and wondering where she is, and what I should do for my next meal. Dad at least made sure everything was taken care of, but I just, I feel like I should be trying harder.”

“No.” Jason says, tone firm. “She’s the adult, you are the child. It’s not on you to keep it together for her.”

“I want to go back to school.”

“Then, we’ll get you back in school.”

“Would you—would you adopt me?” Sabrina asks, lifting her head up from where her knees are tucked to stare at him. “I like it here. And you actually want me.”

“I doubt it’s because your mom doesn’t want you, Sabrina.” Jason knows Talia has scoured the full scope of her background when he relented to train her, but he’s been incredibly unwilling to learn about it from anyone besides Sabrina. “What if we found her?”

“I don’t know. I mean, so what if we did? She didn’t stop me from running away before, she’s not going to want me now. I don’t want to see her.”

“I would have to find her to get her to sign over custody, if that’s what you want.” Jason says in a hesitant voice.

“You’d adopt me?”

“If that’s what you want.” Sabrina nods. “Why don’t we start with temporary custody? In case you change your mind.”

“I won’t.” She promises, face still blotchy but dry now. “I don’t have to see her, right?”

“No, I’m sure I can find her on my own. Are you sure you don’t have anything you want to say to her?”

Jason finds himself in Bludhaven, twice as foggy and just as rainy as Gotham, horns from the docks, car alarms, and the sound of heavy, factory machinery whir past his ears as he drives through the city streets towards a more dilapidated part of town. Jason had taken a week to get all the necessary paperwork in order, and then meticulously tracked down the last known whereabouts of Theresa Cohen to a shoddy apartment building.

The woman was crashing with a drug peddler, a lower rung nobody on the streets of Bludhaven. Jason even thought to ask Dick in on this. It being his city and all. But he wasn’t there for vigilant work, his suit on only as a precaution for where he was going. He’d take off the helmet when he was in eyesight of Sabrina’s mom.

The building is being overtaken by rot, some windows broken, and small patches of fuzzy black growing over the bricks and glass alike. The door at the front had a lock, once, meant to inspire feelings of safety with the residents, but it was rusted over and the knob couldn’t even close all the way anymore. Jason gets inside the stairwell, and stows his helmet in his bag. It’s got a few compartments, for his gear, for his suit, for the papers he needs Theresa to sign.

The third floor has an old carpet that lines the hallway, gray in a way that indicates it was not always, and the lights above dim and flickering. No one has cleaned the bottom of the walls, scuffs, mud, and some questionable reddish-brown stains that have creeped up the plaster. He walks over to 3C and tries the door, ready to lock-pick it, but it swings in easily.

It’s a studio apartment. The kitchen has a few dishes in the sink, and a set of slowly rotting bananas above the fridge. There’s a tiny table pushed against the wall, and a slight turn of a pseudo-hallway reveals an old, well-loved couch, box TV, and a mattress pushed against the wall. There’s a woman sleeping on it, same hair and nose as Sabrina, but her skin has an almost gray tint to it, splotches of deep purple under her eyes, too thin, thinner than Sabrina was when Jason first saw her.

Jason keeps his footfalls silent as he makes his way over to the bed. He doesn’t want to startle Theresa awake, but it’s better to be closer in case she does freak out. In a place like this, it’s unlikely a helpful ally would come running to her aid should she wake and scream, but he’d rather save them both the trouble.

She wakes up at a gentle shoulder shake, eyes groggy as she takes in Jason crouched next to her. He waits for the shock to kick in, fear or adrenaline, but it doesn’t come. Theresa’s eyes stay hazy. “What?” She mumbles as her eyes try to flutter closed, body still lax.

“Theresa?” Jason tries, worried for a moment that she might be dying.

“Yeah,” she sighs out, her arm coming out from under the cover to wipe at her face. The tourniquet is still tied around it. Jason catches her wrist, and though she lets out a small sound of protest, is able to turn her arm to see it.

Suddenly, he’s eight years old, and his mom is falling asleep next to him, while he frantically tries to keep her awake, but she can’t feel or hear him, not really. Jason drops her arm. Takes a few deep breaths, and looks away from her. There’s a TV here, he never had one in his old apartment with Catherine. They had a loveseat, not a full couch, and it was pink, ugly, ugly thing. Free from the side of the road. This is not his first home. He is nineteen, and the Red Hood, and he’s here for Sabrina.

He looks back to Theresa and peels the band off her arm. Then, Jason stands up with a grimace and walks over to the sink to fill a glass of water. He needs Theresa as alert as he’s going to get her tonight. He can’t help but wonder if Sabrina saw her mom like this, once her dad was gone, or if this is newer.

Theresa needs help to sip the water as Jason manhandles her to sitting. He stays next to her, the drink slowly empties over the course of an hour. Around then, her eyes get a little sharper, her movements more focused. “Who are you?” She asks, curious, but cautious.

“You can call me Jay. I’m here about Sabrina.”

“Sabrina?” Theresa asks in a confused, soft, halted voice. “Is she okay?”

“Sabrina is fine, great actually. She’s hoping to get back into school.” Jason says.

“What do you mean? It’s break right now, of course she’ll go back,” Theresa’s eyebrows furrow.

“Sabrina hasn’t been in school for a year, maybe more.”

“No.”

“She’s taking her test-ins right now. She’d have to start in eighth without them, but she’s hoping to be able to get into the tenth grade, but she can’t do that if she can’t get her guardian to sign her back into school.”

“Tenth grade? I didn’t mean to leave her alone so long.”

Jason watches as Theresa’s eyes fill with tears, and he can feel his heartstrings tug for a moment, before he thinks on Sabrina in a place like this, and his resolve hardens. “But you did. She’s been with me and my sons for a bit now, and I would like to be able to get her back into school, so hopefully, one day, she can go back to a normal routine. I just need you to sign some papers for me so I can make sure she’s all ready once she passes.”

“I—I meant to be good for her. I wish I was a better mom.” Theresa cries, body shaking a little as she comes down. “She must hate me.”

“Sabrina deserves better. Better than what you’re giving her.” Jason says. “I know it must hurt now, but if you want some help, I know of a few programs I could get you into. And when you are better, maybe then you can see Sabrina. But she needs someone now. Sign these.” He pulls out the papers from his bag, and a pen, one of the fancy ballpoint ones that Mikey insists on using.

“Sign away my daughter? I don’t even know you.”

“Sabrina knows me. She asked me to come.”

“I am her mother. I don’t care if she trusts you, she is not the adult.” Theresa snaps, moving quickly from grief to denial.

Jason takes a deep breath. Talia had warned him of this, as if he needed the warning. There’s no want in him to be cruel to this woman, but he can’t do a legal battle. His alias would almost certainly not hold up to that. “No, you are the adult who left her over a year ago. You are the adult who hasn’t tried to find her. You are the one who failed her, day in and day out. Instead of looking for your daughter, you are here shooting up, not seeming to care if she’s alive or dead or whatever. We can take this to court, and when they drug test you, and they will, you will lose. But the thing is, Sabrina didn’t want to see you, not like this. So you fight it, and you might just as well lose your last chance with her, too. Sign the papers, let me get you into a detox program.”

He watches as his words, harsh and confident, even if not all true, take the wind out of the woman’s sails. She looks older, worn down by the world and her place in it. When her eyes flick to the papers, he knows he’s won, but it doesn’t feel good. “Can I see her?”

“After you finish rehab, if she wants you to. I can tell her anything you want her to know, though.” Jason hands her the papers.

“Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I really do love her.”

Jason nods. He’ll tell Sabrina when she wants to know, not a moment sooner, and then he helps get Theresa up. He’s not as well-versed on where things are in Bludhaven, but his maps show a on-site location that could take her. They walk there, thirty-two blocks of mist and trash and buildings going from crumbling, to sturdy, to fancy and new. The building is sleek, all bright fluorescent tucked into white stone. It probably serves mostly housewives dealing with an over-prescription of opioids.

He puts the stay on his card. Theresa won’t look at him before they take her back, but the ink is dry and Jason trusts that Talia will get it through proper channels.

When he leaves, he ducks into the back alley. He had stowed his bike a few blocks from the apartment complex, but Red Hood was seen entering Bludhaven on it, and thus needed to be seen exiting on it as well. Jason puts back on his helmet and fires a grapple to get the roofs. It will be quicker than the walk he took here with Theresa.

There is a painful hope lodged in his chest that she actually makes it through the program.

The night is waning into blue-collar morning, three AM creeping up along the horizon, and the sounds of the city have quieted into a backdrop cacophony. The air is frigid. Jason gets back to his bike without incident, only to see a bright blue figure examining it. He whistles on the roof ledge and Dick looks up.

“What are you doing here?”

“I can’t come out for a visit?”

“Who are you visiting?”

“Is this twenty questions?”

Dick makes a face at him, which Jason automatically mimics, before realizing Dick can’t see. He flips him the bird. “Oh, boo,” Dick says. “There goes your chance for Nicolo’s Pizza.”

“You were going to buy me some pizza?”

“Well, not anymore.”

“Dang,” Jason says. “Guess I won’t take you where you need on the bike.”

“I don’t need a bike to get somewhere. I’m capable of using my grapple.”

“How far away is it?”

“What?”

“You’ve crashed your own, or forgot to do the oil change, for like, six months, and now it won’t start. But you suck at car jacking, always have, Dickie.” Jason shrugs and starts the quick one-two-three jump down. “So, how far is it?”

“Names,” Dick hisses out, as if they aren’t the only ones in this alley, or out this late. “And I need to get to the docks.”

“Ah, yeah, you can really grapple the non-existent buildings over on the water. Is Nicolo’s close to the docks?”

“Yeah, all-night pizza. Pretty good for being all-night, too.”

“Fine, but I’m driving.”

“You don’t even know where we’re going.” Dick says in an argumentative tone, but he takes the spare helmet Jason pops out of the back hatch.

“I’m sure I can follow the scent of overlaying oil and chum to the general direction. What are you even doing out this late?”

Nightwing explains that he needs to tag a shipment of outgoing bullets, meant for the police force, but having been rerouted to a particularly wily criminal family. How he was expecting it to come in with the rest of the cargo in the afternoon—something for the patrol cops to handle—but holdups in deep water checkins set the shipment back. Now, it’s too late for a set of cops to be there without raising suspicion.

It’s a quick runout, the biggest stress comes as Jason sits, idling, waiting for Nightwing to flip off the ship full of storage containers, and a black SUV pulls up on the other end of the yard. He keeps his light off as Nightwing and he slowly and quietly back up to the road. No need to fumble at the end of the first round.

He stays outside, after telling Dick that anything works, really, because pepperoni pizza with black olives and grilled chicken is too specific for him to request. Dick may be able to keep a secret from Bruce, but this isn’t news that the guy could keep his fat mouth shut for.

They find a ledge outcropping on an old bank and sit back to back. It’s small enough that Dick would have to fall off to see Jason under the Red Hood, so he pops open the faceplate to eat, the weight of his brother pressed against his shoulders.

“So, why were you actually in my city?”

“You know, you sound like you meant to say that meaner than you did.” Jason mimics, from their meetup last year. “If you’re worried about my habits, I didn’t kill anyone, promise.”

“I wasn’t worried about that—but, now that you’ve said something…”

“Ha ha.” Jason monotones. He can feel how every time he speaks, Dick tenses up at the sound of his real voice, not the mechanical whir that comes from his helmet’s speaker. “I was doing some personal errand for Sparrow.”

“Oh?”

“That’s all I’m going to tell you, so drop it.”

“Fair enough. Though, I am glad to see you. Saves me a drive into Gotham, at least.”

“Don’t you mean a swing into Gotham? Or a bus ride to Gotham?”

Dick laughs. “Batman will bring me a new bike if I need it, but I also have a car.”

“Cop car doesn’t count—I doubt they’d let you take it out of the city.”

“How,”

“I didn’t stop learning about you once you got out of the scaly panties.”

“Robin’s upgraded those, finally.”

“Y’think he was thinking about that when he was kid? Like, saw the last Boy Wonder, and went, it would be better if he had built-in knee pads? And something to prevent wind burn?”

“I never wore knee pads, and my body continues to hate me for it, but Jason did. He had the elbow ones, too.”

“B tried to get a helmet on there, too.” Jason says without thinking. “Like, just a straight bicycle helmet. You’d think he would make Lucius make something a little more sleek, something that looked like a Bat-helm or whatever.”

Dick’s quiet for a few minutes. Jason starts eating the crust, cold night air making the bread hard to chew. “You know, that idea never made it out of the Cave. I only knew about it because I found the helmet tucked in Jason’s locker, after.”

He forces his body to stay lax, heart rate down, breath even. “Really? Are you sure about that?”

“I was pretty sure, yeah.” Dick sounds less certain now. That’s good. That’s what Jason needs, just a seed of doubt—just to point his eyes elsewhere.

Jason has no idea what his plan is now, but there’s a few things he’s very certain of. One, Joker is going to break out again. Two, Bruce and he are going to come to blows over it. Three, to keep ahead, he has to keep hidden. Everything beyond or above it is murky water.

“Why were you going to drive out to see me, Dickie?”

“Oracle wanted me to give you something.” Jason can feel the way he shifts around, before there is a hand on his shoulder, a small, black earpiece clasped between Dick’s fingers. “She reamed out Batman when she found out he put a tracking device in one of her comms. I promise that he hasn’t got hands on this one.”

“That promise come from you or Barbie?”

“You know her, too?”

“Yeah, ‘course I do. I know every mask in Gotham.”

“The promise comes from Oracle, but I mean it, too.” Dick says, shaking his hand to make Jason take the comm. It’s an awkward angle his elbow is at. “Have you had a chance to meet her?”

“Not since she was Batgirl, no.” Jason takes the comm and rolls it around in his palm. He wonders what Babs thinks of Red Hood, how different they were in how they handled Joker’s bullshit. “That really should have been Batman’s warning sign that it was time to get rid of the Joker.”

“We couldn’t have known. And that’s not what Babs wanted, either, to finish her run with a murder.” Dick speaks after a moment of pause.

“Yeah, but I can sure as fuck bet that she didn’t want the kid to die, either.” At least, that’s what Jason tells himself. “Everyone should have seen that he was a rabid dog well past the time to be put down.”

“That’s not—”

“Our decision, yeah, yeah, save it for someone who might actually care.” Jason puts an elbow to the back of Dick’s ribs. Not hard enough to dislodge either of them, just to show his irritation. “No, but it’s Batman’s decision to take him back to Arkham each time, instead of dropping him off in a national security prison, or global security prison. I’m sure Waller would have no problem exercising her government authority on his clown ass if given half the chance.”

“You really don’t care if you take a life, do you?”

“Not a life as pathetic, low, and evil as his.” Jason says. He keeps his faceplate up so Dick can really hear the venom in his words. “I don’t kill like he does, you’ve gotta see that. It would eat me up inside if I were to shoot a good woman, or kill a kid, or blow out a bridge with a bunch of citizens on it. But some folks do have to die. Sometimes, sometimes, to be the better person, you have to be a worse one, you know?”

Dick’s quiet. Jason’s not expecting him to really get it, having grown up under Bruce’s wing and still be welcome into the coop, but he lets his older brother think on it. If he’s willing to think on it, Jason’s willing to shut up for it.

“You know, back when Robin first started out—the current one, not me, obviously—Batman really didn’t want him out here. Robin didn’t care what he wanted, because Bru–Batman was in a really messed up headspace. He needed help getting out of it, or he was going to do something he regretted, I can see that now. Thing is, well, I was also in a really messed up headspace. It had been less than a year since Jason had died.”

Body still warm in the ground when they let the new kid jump into his costume, a mean, old part of him rears up. Jason tamps it down.

“I was so angry at Batman. I had tried to be there for him, but he pushed me away, blamed me for Jason dying, since I was the original Robin. That there should have never been one.” Jason agrees that there should have never been a Robin, but he’s appalled, cold in the gut, when he hears that Bruce laid Jason’s death on Dick’s doorstep. “We both said some really messed up things. And I couldn’t help but think, it wasn’t my fault, or Jason’s, or Batman’s, really. All of the fault was the Joker’s.”

A sharp wind cuts through the air, the morning turning a deep purple. Jason will be lucky to get home before Thad and Mikey are up, Sabrina having probably sent Alexis home around midnight. He bets he’s got a text from her about it, too, in his hidden pocket on his jacket. Wondering where he was. How she was going to bed. How he was getting no sleep come tomorrow. None of that could get him to move before Dick finishes his story.

“Then, about eight months after Jason—after, and Robin is flying around again. And Joker breaks out again. It’s like, nothing changes, you know?” Dick says. “And then Tim got taken.”

“No,” Jason starts, even though he knows the littlest bird is safe, still annoying and way too clever for his own good, tucked somewhere in the Manor, probably, as they were speaking.

“Batman told me to stay out of Gotham, but I didn’t listen. I was going to find him. No way was I letting B tell me that it was my fault again for something I didn’t do. I was going crazy, I wasn’t sleeping, trying to avoid Batman and find the Joker, and not run out the clock.” Dick sighs. “I’m sure you know all this already, since you seem to know everything about me.”

Jason most certainly does not know all of this, but there was no way he was going to tell Dick that and get him to clam up now, so instead he just says, “It’s different how you tell it.”

“When I found him, he made a crack at Jason, and I just—I got so angry. It was like my heart started beating so fast that it was thrumming inside of me, my head and stomach so hot that I felt like I was going to throw up. And it didn’t matter where he was keeping Robin, not anymore. I wasn’t inside myself at that point. I just wanted him to hurt, like I was, and to stop laughing. I didn’t stop hitting him when he did, though. I was on top of him, and I could feel every bone in his face crack, his teeth dig into my gloves and break out of his jaw, his tacky blood hit my cheek and neck, and I just, I didn’t stop. Batman had to pull me off of him when he arrived.”

Dick takes a deep breath. “He had to give Joker a shot of adrenaline, and then he gave him chest compressions for three minutes. Three whole minutes before Joker came back online. And during those three minutes, you know what I felt?” He pauses. “Nothing. No relief, or fear, or confusion. I didn’t feel anything. It was like my anger had burned out anything that would have been left over. I remember thinking, how was I going to get his blood out of the blue? That’s all that went through my mind. So, no, I guess I don’t get it. I wouldn’t change it, but I don’t think I could do it again.”

“You…” Jason’s brain feels like an old computer, with a large whirring sound behind his ears, and an unbelievably slow ability to keep up. “Bruce…”

“Hood?”

“Why would he do that?” Jason asks—no, demands. He almost turns around to shake Dick, secret identity be damned, because why the fuck would Bruce do that? “Why—what—”

“I thought you knew.”

“That you beat the shit out of the Joker? Yes.” Nightwing had done that enough times that it was really not surprising anymore. “That you killed him and that overgrown excuse for leather brought him back? No, I did not know that!”

“Oh,” Dick says. “It’s just to say revenge isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, Hood.”

“You can’t tell me it didn’t feel good,” Jason starts, heart in his throat, and body strangely hot. It’s not unlike when Bruce adopted him—that surge of someone cares about me that washes over him. “To get rid of that fucker.”

“It didn’t. It didn’t bring Jason back. It didn’t give Oracle back her legs. It didn’t make Robin appear, safe and whole. It didn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything!”

“What?”

“All this time—all this time, I thought that no one gave a fuck. That keeping your hands clean was more important than that,” than me, “but it’s not that at all. No, it’s Bruce being the overstepping, insane, control-freak asshole that he’s always been.”

“Hey,” Dick says, tone admonishing, but Jason’s got the faceplate back on and his grapple out.

“Nice talking, Dickie, but I’ve got to bounce.” He half-expects his brother to follow, but he’s grateful that Dick gives him space.

Jason’s out looking for Batman, which is strange enough to say that he’s a little off-balanced by it. He took a week, actually, two, to get his head on straight from the revelation that Dick dropped. He’s been avoiding the man since then. Jason’s nervous he might do something he’d regret, like hug him, or spill his fucking guts.

God, it would be nice to have Dick really look at him. Know it was him.

That kind of lonely desperation eats at him, and the only thing he can bat it away with is the certain knowledge that Bruce went and fucked it all up. He could have come home. They could have all been free of it, free of the persistent, overwhelming weight that the Joker’s name carries.

Sparrow hits his peripheral vision, on a line next to him, and it derails his thoughts again.

Sabrina had been slowly, but insistently, ramping up the requests to go out on patrol once more. He’d allowed her out tonight because Jason needs to have words with Bruce, and she’ll make a good distraction for Robin, and she deserves a break from all the studying she’s been doing. Plus, her birthday is next week. Sixteen, and he already got her a car, so this is the only gift that might be as good as that. He sees her, and remembers that if he had gone home, she would probably be on the streets still. Maybe. Mikey would. And Thad—

Jason shakes his head.

He taps into the comm that connects him to Oracle, “Is this thing on?”

“On and live, hello, Hood.” Barbara says, voice clear and crisp in his ear. It’s not the first time they’ve spoken—courtsey of Batman’s tracker—but it’s the first private line they’ve had. “What can I help with?”

“I’m looking for Robin, or Batman, if you’ve got them, Barbie.”

She huffs out a small laugh. It’s strained with irritance, the kind that comes from having someone know who you are when you haven’t a clue about them. Jason would tell her if he thought she could keep it from Nightwing. Ha.

“Batman went dark a few hours ago. But I do have Robin’s tracker. What’re you wanting it for?”

“I’ve got Sparrow flying with me tonight. I thought she might like to say hello, since Robin hasn’t been by for her training sessions in a few weeks.”

“A falling out, you think?” Oracle asks, voice carefully professional.

Sparrow, who’s close enough to hear him, looks over at the next rooftop. She’s smart enough to know to keep her focus on her line when it’s out. “Nah, I doubt it. Though, I did hear there was a bit of fight between him and Spoiler?”

Sparrow’s lenses go wide and she gestures for him to shut up, arms frantic as he laughs and dashes to the next free space of air. Jason hasn’t been keeping up with all teen drama, not as interested in stalking Tim Drake as he was when he’d originally arrived, hellbent on teaching the kid to stay out of the sky, so all his news that he gets comes from his birdie.

“Teenage heartache, so I hear.”

“Mhm. Though, I doubt they’re any worse than you and Nightwing, back in the day. Y’think Batman’s getting war flashbacks?” He never had time for a petty vigilant romance and fallout, though he did think he was inching to one with Renegade, back in the day.

“I swear, Hood, I’m going to find out who you are. You were around long enough to know about the very quick, very quiet relationship I had with Nightwing. My board is getting bigger.”

“Okay—but circling back, could you send me Robin’s location?” It’s best to play cool whenever one of them start to sound like they’d rather rip off his helmet than do it the detective way.

His helmet beeps, a circuit way he set up for Babs to be able to hack, a one-way stream of information. At least, it’s supposed to be one way, but he’s paranoid, and reroutes it once every three months, just to keep her busy re-hacking in. A set of coordinates, over in Brumley, with the expected trajectory based on previous movement. Jason whistles. “You are terrifying, Oracle.”

“Thanks,” She says cheerfully before disconnecting from him.

Jason alters their path to intercept Robin. Batman’s not with him, having gone dark, but Robin will be able to point him in the right direction. Hopefully.

The night air is surprisingly clear for Gotham. The recent snow has cleared the smog for a few hours, the type of crisp wind that sits on high mountains or small towns. Jason’s able to stretch his legs a bit more with it, confident that Sabrina can see him, and that he’s not going that much faster than her. She’ll call out if she needs to stop.

Up ahead, he can see a different bird jump from one roof to the next. Robin’s form is a shadow in the night, darker colors than either Jason’s or Dick’s original costume. Jason gestures for Sparrow to land on the next opportunity. When he hears the soft thud of feet on the gravel, he throws down a hand, palm flat to the earth, his signal for stealth. She goes low to the ground, and may not see it, but it causes Jason to grin. He directs her eyes to the flying silhouette.

He’s going to prank the shit out of Tim.

Once Sparrow’s secured her vantage point, Jason springs to action faster than she’s certainly ever seen him. He flies through the air, all Robin training, until he is but a building away from Tim’s cape. It offers him the prime spot to see the glint of metal that soars from a nearby ledge, clean steel shiny, that cuts through Tim’s grapple line like it was butter. League-level blade. Jason’s heart plummets, not unlike Robin.

Tim is swallowed by his cape as he starts his freefall and it takes less than a second—it feels like forever—before Jason’s instincts kick in and prompt him to throw his line wider and swing lower. He slams into Tim, who grabs at him blindly, his fingers scrabbling with a feral desperation, and rolls them both into a lower-level building’s roof. “Are you okay?” Jason asks frantically.

Tim’s face is white as a sheet under the mask. He shakes under Jason’s hands, teeth chattering from the shock. “What—what happened?”

“Looks like you’ve made an enemy, kid.” Sparrow hits the roof, then, running towards them.

“Robin!”

“Sparrow?”

“Sparrow, stay with him.” Jason says, gives a gentle push to Robin to get him closer to Sparrow. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He begins a quick descent to the alley he saw the knife fall into. Jason would put money on who threw the blade, and that brat wouldn’t let that knife go if he had to climb into a lava pit for it. Sure enough, down at the ground, is Damian. He’s clothed in a League-style outfit, dark, loose pants and a tight, armored shirt. The boy’s got the knife back in his hands, and not unlike a bird, he cocks his head when Jason comes towards him. There’s very little behind those eyes for Jason to get a read on.

Thanks, Talia.

“Damian.”

“Todd.”

“Care to explain what the fuck you think you’re doing?”

“Claiming my birthright,” Damian says. He sneers at Jason, doing his best to look like he’s looking down at him, from his viewpoint of four-foot-nine compared to Jason’s six-something.

“Uh huh,” Jason says, nodding. “And what happens when B investigates what went wrong with Tim’s line? Reinforced steel wire don’t just snap.”

“He will discover it was cut. I am unconcerned with that.”

“There’s not many people with sharp enough blades in this city to accomplish that.” Jason says. “I mean, really, it’s just you and me.” And Sparrow, but Damian doesn’t get that particular bit of knowledge if Talia hasn’t given it to him.

Damian’s eyes avert for less than a millisecond but it’s enough of a tell. You fucker.

“You were going to let him think it was me? This ain’t exactly my territory.”

“And yet, earlier, you asked one of Batman’s associates the whereabouts of Robin. I did not foresee you attempting to save him.”

“I did save him, shrimp. How did you even get access—you know what, that’s not the most pressing question. Why wouldn’t I have tried to save Boy Wonder?” Jason can feel the headache coming on from this conversation.

Damian looks at him like he’s stupid, and it causes his temple to throb, because he is a child and Jason is not going to smack a child. “It would be mutually beneficial for both of us had Tim Drake fallen tonight. I was simply helping you with your plan.”

“...my plan?” The last time Damian and Jason spoke, Jason’s plan centered on teaching Bruce a lesson vis a vis Robin and then have Batman demonstrate his learnings on Joker. “I wasn’t going to kill him!”

“That’s foolish on your part. You should never leave an enemy alive to seek revenge.”

“Besides, it would not have been beneficial for you.”

Damian’s eyes narrow. He gets a tick in his jaw, so much like Bruce, but his features are too childish to invoke the same kind of nervous anticipation. “Explain.”

Jason sighs and tries to loosen his shoulders. “Listen, shrimp, if I didn’t catch Robin in time, Batman would have to figure out what happened. He’d question both of us, and when both of us adamantly deny it, and the road closes to unsolved, there would be no trust left. I’m already on the outs with B. But he won’t trust you either, if you can’t prove your innocence. And you can’t,” Jason stresses, when Damian opens his mouth. “Because you’re not. He won’t put you in the suit if he can’t trust you.”

“Father will see that I am the correct choice once there are not distractions in his way. It may be a temporary setback, but I will continue to prove myself worthy and he will know it in time.”

“You’re not getting it.” Jason says. “This isn’t the League. It’s a different battle ground. You have to learn the map and the players if you want to get what you want.”

“Perhaps,” Damian allows, “perhaps you are more versed in the dynamics at play.”

“Rule number one, Robin ain’t something you earn. It’s not like that. You try to rush it, you’re just proving you aren’t ready for it.”

“Any other rules you are inclined to share?”

“Don’t kill your family members.”

“Drake is not a family member. He is an interloper.”

“Fine. Don’t kill anyone. That shit don’t fly with Batman, and it’s the fastest way to get your ass benched and watched for the rest of your natural life.”

“I will take that under advisement.” Damian says. He’s about to leave, but before he jumps onto the nearest fire escape, he hesitates.

He wants something. Jason’s just not sure what. “How’s the Manor?”

“Small. And quiet. Father does not spend much time outside his study or his Cave.”

“Yeah, B can be like that. Don’t let it worry you too much. He has a hard time not caring about nearby sad-eyed kids.”

“I do not have ‘sad-eyes’”. Damian sniffs, and pulls up his hood. Looks like he’s ready to head out. “But thank you. For the reassurance.”

Jason stays in the alley for a moment longer. It’s colder in the shadows, but he needs the time to reorient himself. Once he leaves, he finds Sparrow and Robin perched on the same roof, feet dangling off the edge. He whistles, the mechanical filter in his helmet doing hellish things to the sound, and they turn around. Robin’s got a little more color in his cheeks—most likely from the cold, since Tim is ghoulish all of the time.

“Did you find out who did it?” Sparrow asks.

“No,” Jason lies. He doesn’t want to give ammunition to Tim about Damian, sensing that their relationship is volatile enough that the wrong statement from him will cause an actual mauling. Tim’s white-out lenses narrow with the lie. Well, he tried. “Watch your back, kid.”

“Sure,” Robin says. “Would you mind if I borrowed a grapple gun from your stock? I know your warehouse is closer than any of mine, and I’m lacking a backup. An oversight I’ll fix. I need to finish patrol.”

“Sparrow has a backup.” Backup grapple gun, and three backup knives, and backup bandages. He weighs her down by about thirty pounds in preventatives and safety measures everytime she comes out at night. “You can use it to get to the safehouse. No poking around.”

Robin nods, but Jason knows him. If Sparrow doesn’t keep her eyes sharp, he will. Sucks for him, then, that Jason moved all his goods that he wouldn’t want Batman seeing out when they turned it into the training center.

“You’re not coming with us?” Sparrow unclips the secondary, smaller, line before passing it to Robin. It’s good for a pinch, but Jason wouldn’t recommend using it for a full night. Just long enough to get to a safer place, such as a vehicle or safehouse. Too much weight on the smaller ones causes them to crack.

“I was hoping Boy Wonder here could point me in the direction of his boss.”

“Not my boss. I’m his partner.” Robin says.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that. D’you know where he is?”

He looks between the two of them before he nods. Jason is grateful for the helmet in that moment, because a look of relief washes over his features. Something going right for once in his life. Small victory. “He’s at the docks near Miller Harbor. The shipyard.”

“That’s usually Huntress’s haunt.”

“He won’t tell me what’s going on down there, just that I needed to run the standard patrol. Huntress is out of town for some League stuff, though.”

Huntress, though Jason has yet to meet her, is a woman after his own interests. Lethal with a crossbow, violently protective of her territory, and keeps to it. No wonder B had Robin stay back—it’s one of the places in Gotham that knows how to use the guns they have. “Okay. Do you at least have a spare comm?”

Robin pulls one from a small pouch on his belt, holds it up to show it is standard issue. Jason can’t even worry about it being bugged tonight. He was hoping to have the kids go get some pizza, or something, maybe hot chocolates, but Tim seems determined to finish out his patrol.

“Sparrow, you stay in touch with me. Use the comm. And you stay back if anything’s going down, you got it?”

Her eyes go wide. “You’re letting me go with Robin?”

“I’m letting you run a single patrol with Robin. Half a patrol, really.” Jason says. “If you see any Rogue, you turn and go the other way. You go all the way back to the safehouse and you stay there. You see any man with a gun, you get to high ground and find cover. Find hiding. Anything else, I’ll leave it to Boy Wonder’s discretion.”

“You want me to leave Robin to—to,”

“He’s right.” Robin says, interrupting Sparrow. “If you’re not ready to face one of the Rogues, or someone with a weapon, you shouldn’t. It would just distract me, worrying that you’re going to get hurt, if you try to help.”

Sparrow deflates. “Okay.”

“Stay safe.” Jason says. “I’ll see you in a little bit, promise.”

“I’m not the one going to Little Italy.”

“Good—you’ve been studying your maps. I mean it, though, Sparrow. Be safe.”

She waves a hand at him. “Yeah, yes, I will.”

They part ways, Jason’s skin prickling at the feeling that he must trust that Tim is going to put Sabrina’s safety above training. He thinks he’s right about it. But he wants to be sure, wanted to be sure, before letting her out on her own. Without a shadow, he takes to the ground. Highjacks a motorcycle, fancy and clean, so whoever it belongs to probably has insurance on it. Probably.

The roads blur into snow and streetlight color as he speeds down the highway. Miller Harbor’s a fair distance from Brumley, over the bridge, at least. He’s got to make time if he wants to catch Batman tonight. Maybe he’ll spin out on the ice and wound up so injured it will make the old man appear.

There’s the concern of scouring Miller Harbor’s entire shipyard when Jason gets through Little Italy, but he shouldn’t have worried. When he gets close enough, the sound of gunfire and screams lets him know he is late to the party. He’s upset at Bruce, pissed, so he pulls out a gun to handle it. However, he wants Bruce to fucking talk to him, so its the rubber bullet one, no other reason. Got to make him sweat a little.

He goes high, like B taught him, and Talia reinforced, spying through a dingy window the scene below. It looks like some of Black Mask’s men in a standoff with the Bat. They’re holding their own—scattered, so none of Bruce’s usual smoke and shadow shit is working as well as it should. Jason watches as he takes to the catwalk, over and over, to avoid the bright red flash of bullet fire, taking out light after light up top to give cover. After about ten minutes of this, he’s pretty sure he’s got the layout. Sliding open the window, slowly to keep the rusted joints noisy turns under the gunfire, he takes aim at the fluorescents above that Batman hasn’t got to yet. Pop, pop, pop and the lights go out. And the men below scream.

Jason’s helmet goes to blackout mode, allowing him the distinct pleasure of Batman’s swivel as he attempts to locate the friendly fire. The way that Jason shoots three of the men below at their kneecap, watching them crumble, but no blood, no splash of muscle on the concrete below, helps him. Batman observes him for a second before he drops down to the ground to dispatch the rest of the men.

Now that he’s down there, Jason stows the gun and follows. It’s better to save what’s left in the chamber for the conversation after this than waste it all on the blind men. He finds himself back to back with B, the shape and strength of his father still able to settle his frenzied heart rate, much to Jason’s displeasure.

The men groan on the ground at their feet, and Batman puts in a police request from his gauntlet, and Jason’s ready to turn and ask the guy to food—or at least, to some fresh air, when one of the goons that he had shot up high turns on the ground and levels his own gun at Batman. This one is not full of rubber bullets. Jason watches it in slow motion, how he could have swore that he knocked the fuck out, how he’s just inches too far to push B in any useful manner, mouth slower than a bullet.

It goes through the back of the left shoulder, lodges in the meat, because Jason does not see an exit wound. The gray scale of his helmet’s night scope means he can’t see the blood either. He catches Batman, who grunts and stumbles upon impact, and turns him so that the guy can’t get a second lucky shot, before B gets his legs under him once more.

Jason lets B go. Walks over to the man whose gun is now jammed. There’s clear terror in the man’s eyes. It transports Jason to a different time, a different man, with a different knee injury from Jason’s gun. It pauses him as he reaches for a knife. Instead, Jason kicks him in the head, hard enough to put the guy to sleep, careful enough that he’ll wake up with a hell of a headache.

He turns to see Batman watching him.

“Let me put a pressure bandage on that.” Jason says. He’s got some stored in his jacket.

“We should move, before the police get here.”

“Okay, come on then, old man.” They get out of the warehouse quickly, Jason making sure to keep only an arm’s length away from Batman, in case he needs the support. “I’m sure I can find us a car to make due.”

“I can call the Batmobile.”

“Yeah, but you don’t want to do that with Robin out running patrol solo, do you? I bet you’ve been having Oracle repark it within ten miles of where he’s supposed to be, like every hour. Which, honestly, I’d prefer, too. I left Sparrow with him.”

There’s a row of cars in a fenced yard, courtesy of the low-rise sprawl of apartment buildings behind them. Owned by sailors, ship hands, warehouse workers. He’ll have to get the car back here somehow, because it doesn’t sit right to steal from blue-collars.

“Why did you leave Sparrow with him?”

“Why do you care?”

“She’s…new. Robin is as well, in relative terms. I would think you would be worried for her safety.”

“I am.” Jason says, getting a window pushed down enough to unlock the inside of the door. It’s a red sedan, old, old model, with rust around the keyholes and door handles, under the tires and lining the hood catch. “It’s not really inspiring me to believe I made the right choice when it seems that you are also worried.”

“Robin is trained to keep civilians safe. He will apply that with her.”

“Oh, goodie.” Jason pulls out his pressure bandage and gestures for Bruce to turn around. It won’t work as well as it would if he could get Batman to release the shoulder clasp and let him place it skin to gauze, but it will staunch most of the bleeding. That’s the best he can do right now. “How did the bullet manage to get past your kevlar?”

“I had a run-in with Croc a few nights ago. He cracked the kevlar in the sewers. I haven’t had a chance to repair it.”

“Is Croc still out and about?”

“No.”

“You could have used one of your older suits.” Jason finishes tidying up the bandage. “That’ll hold until I get you to Agent A.”

“I’m not going to take you to Agent A.”

“That’s okay. You can be as stubborn as you like. You really think I don’t know where you live?” He says. He’s going to act like he’s clueless about the Cave’s location—it’s a good ace to have up the sleeve.

“Hn.”

“Get in the car, and try not to bleed on the seats. I don’t want to have to get this detailed before I bring it back.” He lets the silence stretch between them long enough to turn onto the main road. They’ve got two bridges and some time before they reach Bristol. “So, I had a talk with Nightwing.”

“I have not touched the comm that Oracle passed to him.”

“Trust me, I know. This time, I actually checked it. No, we ended up talking about something else. Joker.”

Bruce tenses so fast that he grunts in pain at how his shoulder seizes. Bingo.

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

“About?”

“Don’t play stupid with me. I’ll drive this thing off into the ocean with both of us in it.”

“You weren’t there. You may know what happened, the bare bones of the story told by whoever, learned by whatever magic you might possess, but that is different than experiencing it.”

“Yeah, well Dickie went into some pretty heavy detail, so, it’s like I was really there. I can almost hear the way you encouraged the Joker back to life.” Jason turns, sharp enough that it throws both of them in their seats a bit. He hopes it stings.

“I didn’t do it for the Joker.”

“Who’d you do it for, then?” Jason says, voice dripping with anger. “Surely not the good of Gotham. Maybe Robin? Or yourself? So caught up in the game you can’t let it go. Definitely not for Dick, not for Jason.”

“Don’t.” He’s never heard Bruce’s voice go so sharp so quick, and he becomes physically aware of the space between them, the hard cracks on Bruce’s knuckles and muscle that cords over his forearms. Eyes on the road, Jason squeezes the wheel a little tighter. “I failed one son. I couldn’t stand to do it again.”

“I don’t understand how that relates to bringing back the Joker. I mean, come on man, you want to give him another shot to knock down a Robin?”

“No, no I don’t want that.” Bruce says. “But you weren’t there. You didn’t see Nightwing’s face—the moment I pulled him off of Joker, the shadow that passed over him. It was a stain he’d carry forever. A wound he’d always have due to my weakness. I couldn’t allow it.”

“Your weakness. You could do it, just so it never falls to one of your sons again.” Jason’s heart beats wildly. This wasn’t how he planned to set up this request, to test Bruce. But he’s opened his mouth and let it fall out, let his heart dance between the two of them, begging to be put out of its misery once again.

“I can’t.”

“You could.” Jason insists.

“No, I don’t have the strength of will to do it and return. It would go from killing only the necessary, to adding in the deserving, to adding in the ones who aid the deserving, to laying my own rules on who deserves to live and die. I hold however much I can to the law of the land. It is…solid. Clear lines and rules that allow me to work.”

“There’s people who would tell you when you’re going too far. Superman, Dickie, hell, me.”

“Superman did pull me back once. After Jason, I hunted the Joker down. I planned to break every vertebrae in his spine, so that hopefully, he’d die, but at least he’d never move again. Superman stopped me.” They pull up to a stoplight. Jason stops, not because he respects the law at two in the morning, but because Gotham Village has mostly working stoplight cameras. And because he needs a moment, in his own head. “And he did so because he knows what I’m telling you is true. It would be all too easy to slip soft into the darkness. You couldn’t have helped me, because I would have killed you.”

Jason looks over at Batman, who stares at him, unflinching. “What?”

“I would have killed you.” Batman says. “The second you came into town, with the Joker’s old moniker, and used a gun to put someone down, I would have decided that you fell into the category of necessary.”

“You wouldn’t—” Jason stutters over his sentence, scared because Batman is too calm talking about this. It speaks to thinking on it, turning it over, considering it.

“I won’t. I won’t ever go down that road. But I take a single step on it, and I doubt I’d have the ability to turn back. Don’t you see how easy this would be if I could take the simple solution? The straightforward choice?”

“Uh,” Scary, scary, scary.

“All I’d have to give up is my family, the trust of Gotham, my own moral beliefs. Easy enough.” Bruce’s face is pale under the cowl. “But nothing is easy, nothing is straightforward, and Nightwing should not suffer because of that. Because of me.”

“Why won’t you let someone else do it, then? Send him to federal prison? A place where the death penalty is? A cop, taking a lucky shot?” Jason says.

“You, taking a lucky shot?” Batman corrects. “I know there’s good in you. There’s good in everyone, and part of being Batman is believing that. Knowing it.”

“You can be good and still kill one person.” Jason looks over at B. “Some people can.”

“That’s League thinking right there, if I’ve ever heard of it. I’ve had this conversation, round and round, with Talia. She’s set up elaborate ruses to trap me, force my hand, help me see. Because she believes she’s doing good and thinks I can be doing more.”

“Could you?” The Manor’s gates stand proud on top of the hill, the car slow-going up the salt and snow.

“Maybe. But not like that. And I think you know it.” Bruce looks to his home—Jason’s home, at one point, a lifetime ago. “Why didn’t you kill the man who shot me today?”

“That’s different. He was scared. Human.” Jason pauses. “There was no point to killing him, not when he couldn’t do anymore harm.”

“Hn. Thank you for the ride. Maybe, one day, you could visit. Daylight hours, without your helmet.”

“Ha—inviting me for tea isn’t going to get me to give up my identity that easy.” Jason grins, then realizes two things. One, Bruce can’t see it. Two, the familiar tug of muscle gave to such a bright smile, he bets it was Robin big. It fades off his face, unknown. “Goodnight, Bruce.”

“Goodnight, Hood.”

Thaddeus begins to stand up, holding onto nothing with wobbly knees and bright eyes, staying up just a little longer each time before he falls back onto his bottom. He shrieks with laughter when he does so. Jason becomes sick with anxiety that Thad’s going to brain himself on a sharp corner one of these days and baby-proofs the baby-proofed house.

Mikey makes a robot that wins in the school’s robotic tournament. He brings it home, all proud of the fat, short box that is made of such tough steel that it cuts ankles when it whirs by. Sabrina takes an afternoon to paint it in racecar colors, for Mikey’s next tournament. Mikey loves it.

Sabrina paints out the city skyline in her room. Her original plan had used greens and pinks, but when they get the paint cans, she goes for yellow, gray, white, black and blue. It’s the vantage point from their warehouse. Her training center. Jason recognizes it the moment he steps into the room and she’s grinning so big, staring up at him with hopeful eyes, that this isn’t going to give away their identity, and he laughs and tells her he loves it.

Mikey gets a book on sign language and starts teaching Thaddeus words. He says there’s a boy in his class that has little twin sisters and their mom does it, because then the babies can talk faster. Mikey practices his name over and over and it’s the first thing he teaches Thad. Then, he teaches him his own name. Watching Thad’s fat fingers try to shape letters is endlessly adorable.

Sabrina helps put on a two week play. They go to see it three times, and though she’s never on the stage, when the lights go dim, Jason strains his eyes to see her whisking away the props.

She retakes her test-in. Passes, with stipulation. It’s too late in the year for her to join the tenth grade—but if she goes to summer school, they’ll allow entry to the eleventh. Jason listens with a blank face, because he’s not sure how Sabrina’s taking it, but then she starts to jump in place a bit before throwing her arms around him.

Jason gets back the custody paperwork for Sabrina. He puts it in the box with Mikey’s papers and Thaddeus’s birth certificate.

Chapter Text

Jason’s patrolling the north edge of Crime Alley—the night cold, but it’s been over a week since the last snowfall, so the roads are clear. He’s taken his bike. On the scanner, there’s been an uptick in activity that he’s certain is traced back to Black Mask. The man may live in Crest Hill, but he doesn’t do his work there, leaving him a few options. Since his falling out with Penguin, the south side is removed from him, plus Huntress and Catwoman would kill him if the idea to move to their territories even crossed his mind. No, he’s either in Otisburg, or Park Row proper, hence Jason taking more care around the borders.

There’s a rundown factory that he’s checking out now. Some of the working women had told him they’d seen a few too many trucks, too many men, around the area. Cargo is a hard thing to hide the movement of. An advantage to Red Hood.

As it stands, the factory is dusty and rusted on the upper floors, but Jason’s careful with his feet. No one starts top down in this town, and he wants to get the jump on any goon—or maybe Sionis himself—before they do him. It’s good practice, and comes in handy here, as he slips to the walkway of the second story and spies forty or so industrial-sized boxes stacked around the factory floor. There are men milling about, maybe ten, maybe one or two less, Jason guesses based on his vantage point. They’ve got those stupid black balaclavas over their faces that Sionis insists on.

Three of them are in a semicircle, looking down at something that Jason can’t see propped up against a stack of boxes. He creeps in the shadows until he can spy over the corner what’s caught the goons interest. The lights are half-on, half-off, to avoid detection while providing some sight. It creates shadows akin to Jason’s nightmares, and when he sees who’s sitting in the chair, he has the uncanny certainty that he’s in one right now. But his feet hurt, and he’s got a bruise from a bullet on his left rib, and no matter how many times he blinks, Damian is strapped to a chair, blood on his temple, blood on his mouth.

The bindings aren’t well-done. Coarse rope from a barely remembered boyscout memory. Why isn’t he freeing himself?

The man at the front of the pack—the fucking thug—threads his hand through Damian’s hair and pulls his face up. Jason can’t see his little brother’s eyes, covered with a domino, but the twist of his lip indicates violence, indicates hate. He watches Damian swallow that instinct. And then Jason knows exactly what he’s doing.

He’s waiting for Batman to come save him, so he doesn’t do anything regrettable. Like a good Robin.

“Y’know, I wasn’t too thrilled when the boss asked us to teach a lesson to the Bat.” The man still holding onto Damian’s is not quiet. His voice booms and echoes. “I mean, he ain’t the type to fuck around with. And his new kid, well, he keeps that one on a short leash—so what about you makes it where he lets you run free?”

Damian’s eyes narrow. He fights back whatever was going to come out of his mouth. Jason presses his comm, one-two-two-one. An old code—as old as his Robin run—to signal that they need Batman.

“Hell, I’d probably keep a fair distance from you if I was him, kid. You’ve got a nice enough mouth that even the big, bad Bat must be tempted.” He speaks, hand moving from Damian’s scalp to his jaw, pressing his too-big thumb against the kid’s lips, pressing hard enough to make the surrounding skin white, to force the jaw open, and Damian tenses, but he doesn’t bite, doesn’t take the offending finger, and the man leans down, face-to-face, and Jason—Jason can’t—

The gunshot rings in Jason’s ears, and he’s holding the smoking gun, but no one is touching Damian now. The monster lays dead, in a pool of his own blood and viscera, Damian and the other thugs painted red and pink from the bullet. The men’s eyes swing from the boy in the chair up to Jason’s position, and fire begins to rain down on him. He uses what’s in his hands, and doesn’t feel bad about it, because everyone in this room heard exactly what the dead fucker on the ground was saying to his little brother.

Jason finds a chain to pull himself to the ground level, confident that Damian has freed himself and hidden somewhere safe, until he looks over to where the chair was. Damian is free, but his arm is drenched in red, knife clutched in his small fist, and there’s a man clenching his gut beneath him. He takes a second to take in the scene—the eerie dread of knowing that Batman is coming to this—before his attention diverts back to the other gunmen in the room.

When the factory quiets, all that’s left is him and Damian. It smells like a slaughterhouse and the air is stagnant. Damian stares at him.

“I wasn’t planning on crashing your party.” Jason says. He isn’t sure what else he can say, what Damian will accept or not.

“I did not choose to be here by choice.”

“Yeah, I’d’ve expected it to have gone a lot differently if you’d planned it.” Jason puts his gun away, and walks over, stepping around the bodies. Two of the three that surrounded Damian have slashed wounds. “You good?”

“I will live.” Damian says. “I had planned to not engage. I would like to have Father see that I am attempting his way of things.”

“Well, sometimes that changes. Don’t worry—I’ll tell B it was all me.”

“Will you?” Batman asks, standing and observing from above. Jason whirls around. His heart kicks up in the fear of being caught, a bad habit from a dead kid, but Damian doesn’t even flinch. When did the kid clock Batman?

“I know how much honesty means to you. So, I ain’t trying to lie. It was all me. I shot the first round.”

Batman jumps down, using the same chain that Jason did, and stalks over to them. Jason forces himself to stay still, not to run, or shift in front of Damian—neither would earn him points with either of them. Batman crouches next to the bodies. When he looks up, Damian has made no effort to stow his knife.

“Lies by omission are still lies, Hood.” Batman says. “I told you I wouldn’t tolerate this.”

“Oh, you’ll tolerate someone taking your kid, but not keeping him safe?”

“There are other ways to protect people.”

“Admit it, you didn’t even know Damian was gone until I paged Oracle. Do you know what they would have done with him if I didn’t stop them?”

“There was no need to kill them. I know you are capable of removing a threat non-lethally.”

“They deserved it,” Jason shoots back, voice tight. There’s so much venom in him that it takes him by surprise.

It seems that’s the end of the conversation, as Batman stands to his full height. He’s only given away what his plans are by the turn of his left shoulder and coiled backfoot. Things Jason notices because he’s seen it hundreds of times. Before B can kick him in the head and cuff him, Jason pulls out his gun. Rubber bullets.

“Try me.”

“You are not going to shoot me. Not with Damian present.”

Batman’s got a point, mostly because he’d find a knife in his ribs if he did that, but he’s not the type to fold that easy. Jason cocks the gun. “I said, fucking try me.”

“Enough,” Damain makes his way between them. “It is idiotic to fight tonight, especially over the lives of low-class scum, especially as I did not require—” He blanches, just for a moment, before rallying. It’s enough that Batman’s laser focus settles on him. “Assistance.”

Damian does have a habit of diverting conversations or interactions that have a no win scenario. Same as Talia. But as Jason stares down at him, to tell him to step back, he sees blood seeping through the back of Damian’s clothes. “You’re injured.” Bruce says.

“Did you get shot?” Jason asks. He didn’t even see that.

“I suspect my wounds would have been more if I had not defended myself.” Damian says, instead of a simple yes or no.

Batman and him look back to each other, and it’s been years since Jason has had to read under the cowl, but he knows a truce when he sees it. “Get him back to Agent A, old man.”

“This conversation is not over.” But Bruce lifts Damian into his arms, how small the boy is there, instead of continuing. Good. “For either of you.”

Jason cleans up evidence of Damian here. It sours his gut to fuck with the dead bodies, but he tears them up well enough that no one will be able to trace the knife wounds back to League steel. He leaves his tag on the wall, in tacky blood, so Black Mask knows it’s Red Hood and that he is not playing soft.

Once he finishes, he goes out to his bike and phones Talia. She answers on the first ring. “Jason. How are things? Damian?”

“How’d you know?”

“I doubt you’d be calling about any of the other children at this time. You usually even save your…moral concerns for daylight hours. Call it mother’s intuition.”

“Eh, with Damian it’s more like a sure bet.” Jason has a drive for the night. “I just wanted to give you a fair warning, since I’m not certain how much you and B talk—or you and Damian, for that matter. He was caught up in something tonight.”

“What did you do?”

“Hey,” Jason says. “I wasn’t even involved in it. Not really, anyway. I came in to the kid all tied up and helped him out of a tough spot. B ain’t really happy with the way I did it—or the way Damian handled himself.”

“So you are calling me to warn me of a potential scolding from your father?” Talia asks. “Trust me, his words are so routine that they hold little effect for me.”

“No—I was calling to let you know Damian was shot. Nothing serious, he was still up and speaking when he left, but I figured better to tell you than have you find out through your spooky spy channels that I kept it.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“What do you mean, is that all? Your kid was shot.”

“And, as you’ve reported, in good health all in all. It is not the first time that he has been shot, as you well know. It will not be the last. Not in his life. If I were to worry over every bullet, I’d go gray.” Talia says.

“Wow,” Jason can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“Don’t sound like that. I do not worry for it, because I have trained Damian to be able to protect himself. Defend himself. Do not paint me as uncaring, or calloused, for I have done all that I can to keep him living up to this point.”

Jason could point out that if she had treated him as a normal child, then he wouldn’t need to think at all about bullets, but then they’d be in their cyclical, Ra’s is Damian’s grandfather argument. “Okay. You’re right.”

“As I often am.” Talia sounds pleased, in that undercurrent way of hers. “Tell me, what was going on tonight? Before he was shot?”

“Nothing major. There’s a crime lord—Black Mask—”

“Roman Sionis, yes.”

“Anyway, me and B a few weeks back busted up an incoming shipment of his, and he took it personal. Thought he was going to use Damian to teach Batman something—like he’s the first guy to ever think of that.” Jason scoffs. The streetlights blur past him as his bike hits a hundred, roads sparse with cars, and he’s ready to be home.

“A poor choice of child to pick, then. Surely the Drake boy would have been more advantageous. For him, and for us.”

“You and Damian both, I swear.” Jason wonders if he should put a tail out on Robin, just to make sure he lives long enough to graduate the colors. “He won’t do it again. I made sure to make it clear that the shipment issue was a Red Hood special, not Batman’s.”

“And why would you do that?”

“He’s in my territory. And I don’t like him, or his lackeys, fucking around with kids.” Jason says. “Even Damian.”

“Surely not for Batman?”

“Nah, he wants to toe the line with B, that’s on him.” Even if both father and son got shot, way too close to heart and lungs, messing with Black Mask. Even if that fact makes Jason uneasy. “B tried to arrest me tonight.”

“Did he, now? It’s unlike him to stop halfway.”

“Damian was hurt, remember? He had to get the kid home—before he bled out on the factory tiles.”

“I seem to remember his car having an auto-drive function.” Talia says, voice lilting into suggestion.

Jason fidgets for a second, a nervous leg, before stilling himself back to the curve of his bike. He’s almost back to his safehouse. “I’m positive he just wanted to make sure Damian was going to make it home. He doesn’t realize how sturdy his son is—or maybe, he’s just not as desensitized to the sorts of injuries Damian gets.”

“Yes, he does seem to be taking better care of his wards now.”

“I’ve got to go, T. I’ll call you later.” Jason doesn’t want to talk about that. It’s a fresh nerve, one that slowly crept up on him until he could ignore the way it stung no longer. Tim is safer—when he listens to Bruce—and B is better at keeping the scrapes, cuts and bruises down. It’s like two is a handful for B, though, since he didn’t even realize where Damian was tonight. Is that why he let Red Hood go? As a thank you for saving his wayward son? He hangs up and does his best to put the conflicting frustrations out of his mind.

“What are we doing here?” Sabrina asks, as they pull up to an old, worn down building in the middle of a concrete wasteland. The building and the parking lot Jason owns, and he prefers to keep it this uninviting. He’s never brought Sabrina here. It’s so far from everything else—the edge of Toxic Acres.

“I figured we’d do some different training today.” Jason says. The gun Talia’s given him burns in his mind, so bright that he’s surprised that Sabrina can’t see it in the trunk. “I was going to teach you how to shoot.”

Sabrina’s face goes cautious—nervous—before she says, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Jason parks them around the back, where the lot is marginally less torn up. “You need to know how, not to go around shooting it on patrol, but if your back is against the wall. I can’t always promise I’ll be there before anything bad happens.”

“Did something happen?” Jason looks at her to elaborate. “I mean, I’ve been on three patrols now. If it was on the list before going out, I’d think you’d teach me earlier. Doing it now makes it look like something bad happened that’s got you spooked.”

“I ain’t spooked. I’ve just got some unwanted attention from Black Mask and I want you to be better prepared than I was when I was a kid.” She’s doing a better job at picking out details, which was part of her preliminary training.

“Still a kid.”

“I can vote—I mean, I could, if I wasn’t legally dead. Peter Jay can vote.”

“Why would Black Mask come after a kid? I thought he was a mobster.”

“He is.” Jason says. “But you won’t be a kid out there—you’ll be Sparrow, an ally to Red Hood, new to the scene, and easy pickings. You’ve got to look at it from that perspective. They don’t know who you are, they don’t know how old you are, and they don’t care.”

“I’m going to get to patrol again? Soon?”

“With me.” Jason clarifies. “Twice a month, with me. If Robin or Spoiler wants to swing along, then they’ve got to come to Park Row. I’m not leaving you with them again.”

“Nothing happened last time!”

“Oh, I believe you—I just don’t trust Boy Wonder, or Spoiler, to keep you safe. Not yet, not on their own promise.”

Sabrina quiets for a minute. She’s told him that her therapist is working on reactivity with her; Marcus wants him to focus on emotions surrounding actions, but that’s neither here nor there. “So, there’s a gun range in there?”

“Of sorts. Come on, I’ll show you.” When they get out, he shows her the codes to get in. One at the backdoor. One in the hallway once you get in, and two to the main floor. Jason doesn’t stow much here, but he still doesn’t want an ambush, so, security.

They get to the main floor, which is much like Sabrina’s training space, but spread out. There’s some mats laid on the ground towards the left, and bags, weights, two treadmills, because Jason hated the first one he got, and then, on the other side, a long hallway that dead-ins into a concrete wall. Jason has hung a paper person up in the hallway.

Sabrina takes it all in with big eyes. “Why don’t we ever train here?”

“Easy—too far for my patrol route.”

“Why do you have it, then?” Jason bought it before he even came back to Gotham. It’s original purpose was to be a place to take fuckers where no one could hear their screams, a place to really drive home that Red Hood was not to be messed with, crossed, but he’s coming to accept that plans change.

“It’s far enough away that no one will be able to hear the gunshots. At least, no one’s going to hear them and come looking—or calling the cops.”

“A gun range would have worked, too.”

“Yeah, but the closest is in Bristol.” The second closest sits in the East End, and both are too likely to have Bruce within twenty miles of Jason. That paranoia is hard to shake. “And not open in the dead of night.”

“It’s like, eleven o’clock.” Sabrina says. Early for him. “Okay. I’m ready.”

She makes grabby hands at the bag he has, and Jason stares in disbelief at her. “No, gun etiquette first. Go sit, pupil.”

“You just make yourself sound older when you say shit like that. Language.”

“Language.” They synchronize. Jason scowls, before setting down his bag and pulling out the gun that Talia had given him. It won’t be the one he picks for Sabrina to carry on patrol. It’s too heavy and bulky for her sleek look, but it’s a perfect training gun. “Rule one, always, always handle a gun like it’s loaded.”

Jason is helping Mikey put together those little Valentine cards that hold a single piece of candy with some cheesy line on it for his class—it’s the last week of January, and Jason was proactive in getting them before prices skyrocketed and not because Mikey’s been reminding him since January third. It’s nine o’clock and Sabrina is in the living room with the TV on low since she just got Thad to bed. No patrol, since Alexis is out of town for a long weekend, and Sabrina agreed to watch Saturday if he stayed in Friday with them.

Mikey’s picking out the specific candy and card he wants each person to have. It’s with a ruleset that Jason has no knowledge of, so he waits patiently until Mikey slides the next set over for Jason to put together and write the correct name on. As he waits, he stares through the open door to the living room window, at the glittering, smokey skyline of Gotham.

It’s during one of these moments that there’s movement at the window. Jason goes from idle and lazy to a sharp line in one second. Mikey doesn’t notice, too absorbed in the possible meanings of the puns, but Sabrina does. They look at each other, before Jason returns his attention to the window. It may have just been a bird, afterall.

Another small rustle of color—a flash of eyes and face, before it disappears. Quick, but now that Jason is really looking, not too quick. He looks down at his phone and sighs. That gets Mikey’s attention. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing, kid. I just have to make a call real quick. Can you line them up for me for when I get back? Should only be a few minutes.”

“Is it work?”

“Yeah, my boss.” Jason says. “I’m sure it’s nothing. He probably just misplaced the wrench set and thinks I can find it for him over the phone.”

“My mom used to tell my dad that he shouldn’t answer his job when he was off work. She called it boss-life balance.”

“Work-life balance?”

“Yeah, that.” Mikey says, waving his hand.

“It’ll be quick. I’ll be back before you even finish a second selection, with how slow you go.”

“It’s important to pick them specially. What if I give the wrong person one and they think I’m making fun of them? Or that I like them?”

“Do you like someone?” Jason asks, keen, as he gets his jacket on near the door.

“Jay,” Mikey whines.

“I’m going, I’m going.” He looks over to where Sabrina has filled the kitchen doorway. “I’ll be back soon.”

Jason’s suspicions are proven correct when he opens the door to the roof to find Damian. He’s in a puffer coat, scarf and gloves, and Jason wonders how he got here with all that weighing him down. There’s a bag on the ledge next to him.

“You going back to T?” Jason asks. Damian’s facing the city, but turns when he speaks.

“Of course not.” Damian says. He sniffs, but not in his usual, derisive way, but like a child that has too much snot in their nose. “Mother would never allow me to return with such a failure.”

“Oh. What’s the bag for, then?” Jason comes over to the ledge as well and sits down. Close enough that Damian can feel his body heat, but not close enough to touch. The kid doesn’t know how to handle affection and Jason’s liable to get shoved off the roof for it.

“I had an idea.” Damian’s eyes look everywhere but him.

“Okay. Is this like that idea where we use dolphins to propel a raft off of the island?” Damian was sure it would outpace them from League boats. He was five, then, and still held onto some childish wonder. He wasn’t attempting to escape his life, wasn’t aware there was any place unlike the League, but was hopeful to bring a new idea to Ra’s—and prove that animals had more merit than simple slaughter.

“No, that was foolish to think wild animals would obey the direction we’d want. Or that it would not be senselessly cruel to have them carry our weight.” Damian says. “I have come to realize that the traits Mother values are not the same ones that Father does.”

“Uh huh.” That’s an understatement.

“And like an untrained muscle, I find it difficult to prepare for what he will find acceptable. After our encounter two weeks ago, I do believe that your home may prove an adequate training ground for me.”

“Training ground?”

Damian looks at him. “I must learn the skills Father wishes me to have. But he is unforgiving in his teachings, and his punishments make little to no sense to me.”

“He grounded you, did he?”

“Yes. He removed my access to the Cave. But I do not see how that would stop me from defending myself as I did—it does not train me to find alternatives in my attacks. Your method of teaching, and your leniency in failure, for a time, may be necessary. Just as I took breaks in training as a young child because my legs did not yet know how to fully support me, if I had more time to learn his rules, I could return to him as his ideal son.”

“Wait—are you saying I’m the better parent?” Jason asks. “No, no, most important part is that B doesn’t see you as bad, Damian.”

“Father is an adequate parent. But he is also the protector of all of Gotham. He cannot afford to hold my hand while I learn the scope of my place.”

“That’s not how he thinks,” Jason says, bewildered. What is Bruce fucking up so bad that his kid is running away? “What is going on over there? He’d never want to make you feel unwanted, or that you can’t go to him about questions, he’s just an emotional brick that’s all.”

“At every turn, I have failed. You were correct—the rules here are different from the League. Is that what you wanted to hear? I will be a good housemate, and you can teach me what Father prefers in a child. He was delighted by you, so I know you’d be an excellent teacher.” Damian says. “Now that I’ve inflated your ego, will you allow me to stay?”

“I was not a delight, I was a menace. God, he had to bench me so many times.” Jason remembers everyone comparing him to Dick—how Dick was quicker to get it, how he listened better, how he was the original. One good thing he did for Tim was die. At least he probably won’t mess up that bad.

“That is not how Father sees it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Will you allow me to stay?”

“If you tell me what you meant. How does Bruce see it?”

Damian stares at Jason, face pink in the cold night, and Jason has no idea what the kid is looking for, unless it’s just to make him squirm. He knows what he is to Bruce—the fuckup kid who went off and died, who he couldn’t trust in the field, who was hot-headed, and rash, and the real Robin’s replacement.

There’s a sound behind them. A landing of feet. Everything in Jason goes straight to ice, and Damian can tell, eyes wide. He turns to see who it is while Jason stays facing forward. He didn’t bring a mask. He didn’t bring anything out. It was his little brother at the window, who would never knowingly lead someone else here.

“Nightwing.” Damian says.

“Damian!” Dick sounds relieved. “Batman, I found our lost bird.”

“Batman?”

“Yeah, Agent A called and said that you had slipped out, but took your stuff and we’ve been out here trying to find you.”

“I am not running away. There is no need to worry, or to be here.”

“Then why did you take your clothes?” Dick asks. Jason bets he’s got his hands on his hips, the big brother, ‘I know’ pose. “Seems like you were planning to skip out on Batman and come join Red Hood.”

Jason can’t help the way his shoulders shoot up. He’s about to do something stupid for the sake of this not being his reintroduction to his brother. “How did you know that I was not returning to the League?”

“Oracle said she saw you in a convenience store camera about twenty blocks north of here.” Jason buries his head in his hands. Thank god that Dick hasn’t turned his attention to him, yet. “I get that you and Batman are fighting, but—”

“This is not your business,” Damian says. He’s in Jason’s periphery. “You can tell Batman I will meet him elsewhere, if he is so concerned.”

“You tell him.” There’s the thud of another person behind Jason as Dick speaks, as the last guest to the party arrives.

Fuck. This is happening.

“You can’t run away like that. It’s too dangerous out in the city.” Bruce’s timbre washes over Jason, and his brain can’t think of an escape plan, stuck on his exposed throat.

“Dangerous for me, or dangerous because of me?”

“Damian—”

“No, you deemed me unacceptable, and now you act like I am wrong for finding recourse.”

“You did not call him—” Nightwing starts, same heat he used to fight for Jason. It’s jarring to be in this family fight, and yet, not.

“I said your actions were unacceptable. That does not mean I want you to leave and go live with a murderer.”

Damian scoffs. “You teach me nothing, and yet,”

“You haven’t been listening, clearly.” Bruce sounds as pissed as he gets, but that’s the thing—he’s the one who never listens.

“Y’ever tried talking different, then?” Jason tilts his head up, just far enough that his voice can travel up instead of away. “You’re blaming the kid for being so sick of your bullshit that he ran away—that is some serious mental jumps.”

“I’m not running away,” Damian says. That’s the extent of his defense for Bruce, and Jason waits for Dick to jump in. He doesn’t.

“Hood.” Bruce is still as far as he was, so small mercies. “You shouldn’t be involved in this.”

“Then get off my roof, and I’ll gladly let you take it elsewhere.” And then move. Immediately.

“But, you are, as my son has come to you, for reasons I can’t understand.”

Holy shit—Dick really didn’t tell Bruce about Jason’s sloppy emotional reveal of Talia being his kind-of-mom. “Maybe because I’m not going to ground his ass for defending himself.”

“There are better ways to defend.”

“Then teach him? Have you considered he doesn’t fucking know them? Or would you rather he take the punches like a good little Robin and hope that you get there before it’s last call?” Jason has to fight to keep his body turned away.

“Perhaps,”

“Perhaps nothing,” Dick cuts in. “I hate to say it, but Hood is right—not that you shouldn’t have benched him, no, just maybe that Damian really doesn’t know.”

“Do not speak about me like I am not present.” Damian says, voice acidic. “It is not my first instinct, and battle is all about instinct.”

“It’s not.” Bruce says. “It’s about rising above that instinct, being one step ahead of your body. I did not think that you would not know that.”

“I—” Damian is flustered. He hates seeing what he believes are deficiencies. Jason’s seen him blow up at lower ranked League members for the slight. “It does not matter what I do not know, when my teacher cannot even be bothered to show the slightest bit of attention.”

“Damian,” Dick starts, soft and pitying, the exact worse way to start an interaction with the kid.

“Bruce—do better. Damian, stop trying to run away. Get the fuck off my roof, now.” Jason refuses to let Dick put his foot in his mouth, and cause Damian to tear into him about how he is not in need of coddling.

“Turn around.” Bruce says, instead of leaving. Jason wonders if he’d survive a fall this high. It’s only like…eight stories? Even if he did, the whole family would probably jump down too, just to save his stupid ass, and then get to see his face with six broken bones in it.

“I don’t think I want to.” This is also the first time they’ve interacted since he shot down seven guys, and Bruce had promised him jail time for it. Woefully underdressed and underprepared. Three kids downstairs.

“Hood,” Dick says. “You know who we are, we know where you live. Besides, I’m pretty sure Oracle was close to figuring you out.”

“I wouldn’t mind her knowing.” Jason says, because she would have figured it out and kept it secret. She would have wondered why he was hiding.

He stands up. It would be better not to be forced up, because if there’s to be a fight, he needs the distance he can get. He’s not sure on Dick’s reaction, or if Damian will try to intervene again, or what Bruce will say. He expects anger—disbelief, that Jason grew up into this. The clenched jaw and hands are so stark in Jason’s mind, so he takes in the city for one more moment, because even if it is cruel, it never changes faces.

He turns. Looks at Damian, the only person here who he knows won’t flinch from him, and says, “Hi, Bruce.”

It is quiet for a beat too long and Jason finds the courage to look up to his father’s face. Bruce is—in the cowl, obviously, but pale under it. His face is loose, like it got stuck between expressions, like he’s seen a ghost. He has, but it is still more shocked than Jason would expect.

Dick’s even worse. His lenses move every time he blinks, which makes him look like demented babydoll, and his hands are twitching at his sides, like his sticks are on and digging into his back.

“Are you going to say anything?” Jason asks, now officially over the scrutiny. “I’ve got to get back in pretty soon, so—”

“Jason?”

“Yes.” Jason and Damian say it both at the same time. Jason, like he’s answering someone calling for him, but Damian says it like he knows it to be true.

“You—” Bruce cuts himself off.

“Died? Yeah, I guess I did. You can ask Talia about it, since I was kind of gone for most of it.” This is more awkward than he was expecting.

“Talia?” Bruce asks.

“Is that why you said she was your mom?” Dick asks, which causes Bruce to blink, so he’s going offline. “I didn’t—of course, I wouldn’t have thought it was you, but—”

“She is his mother.” Damian says. “She brought him to life, fed him, clothed him, trained him, kept him. What else is there for a mother to do?”

“Jason.” Bruce sounds helpless. “Jason, you’re here. Alive.”

“I can’t,” take this, right now. Not right now. “I have to get down to my kids. They’re going to start to worry.”

“Kids?” Dick says. “Oh shit, Sparrow.”

“Yeah, so, I just have to,”

“Go,” Damian says. He waves him away, and the other two stand there as he walks away, back to his door. Dick jolts, like he wants to follow, but Damian grabs on to him. It’s his way of apologizing for the mess. Jason is grateful, and hateful, because he needs a minute, but he also doesn’t know what they’re thinking. Is Dick happy to see him? Bruce? What are they thinking?

When Jason gets back into the building, he leans against the wall and puts his hands to his face. He presses against his eyes, wills them to be dry, hitching breaths forced down his throat. He wants to go back out and demand that they say something—say anything—while also wanting them to forget they knew him. Because now that they know that Jason is Red Hood, he can’t hide behind the wall of ‘what if’s’ he’s built up in his head. What if Bruce really did miss him? What if Dick mourned him, even without coming to the funeral? What if they’re sorry, what if they love him, what if they’re desperate to have him back? But then—what if they were glad he was gone? What if it’s a secret, guilty relief? What if Bruce never, not once, visited his grave or thought of him?

Jason has been able to pretend that both versions of Bruce and Dick exist, when he’s feeling particularly low or rather hopeful. Now, he gets to know which ones are the real ones. And he’s freaking the fuck out because of it.

Dick—Dick at least missed him, right? He said so, around Christmas. He said so himself. And Bruce doesn’t let anyone talk about him, but he also doesn’t tolerate conversations about Joker, his parents, his relationship with the Justice League, or his time spent traveling before becoming Batman, so that’s a mixed bag.

He has to get back down. He has to think of what to say, for Mikey, so the kid isn’t worried. And then Sabrina will want to know what really happened, and he’ll tell her, he will, just not tonight. One night, he gets to keep it to himself.

There’s a knock on his door the next morning. Sabrina and Mikey are bundled up on the couch, watching cartoons, as that is what Saturdays are about, so Jason gets up to answer it. Hope soars sick and feral in his chest for the unknown behind the door—could it be Bruce? He swings the door open before he can second-guess himself, wide enough for him to look out, but not for the kids to see. He hasn’t told Sabrina yet and he has no idea what he’s going to tell Mikey.

How he’s going to tell Mikey.

Standing at the door, fluffy jean parka on and coffee in his hands, is Dick. He’s nervous, twitchy, and when he looks at Jason, his whole face breaks with relief. Jason looks back to his kids before stepping out and shutting the door.

“Jason,” Dick says. “Babs got the right apartment—I mean, of course she did, but still, thought I might be having an awkward conversation with a total stranger this morning.”

You are, Jason doesn’t say. “More awkward than this?”

He laughs, but it’s pitched, forced. “You know me, I can get myself into some pretty strange interactions. I, uh, brought some coffee. Well, tea for you. Earl Grey with some sugar. I even nicked those cubes you like from Alfred for it.”

It takes a second for Dick to offer the tea, sloshing a bit out from the small hole at the top onto his hand. The cup has steam coming out of it but Dick doesn’t flinch. Jason takes it and takes a sip—it’s from the Manor’s cupboard, alright. Have they told Alfred about him? Did he think of him when he made this, Jason’s go-to before a long patrol? “Thanks.”

“It’s nothing.” Dick says, too quick. A small, strained pause. In a second, his eyes fill up with tears, and Jason can tell he’s been trying to hold this back since he opened the door. “I just—I didn’t expect to see you again. I missed you so much.”

“Yeah, so much that you didn’t even come to my funeral.” Jason winces as the words leave his mouth. It’s bitter, mean, and entirely uncalled for. He doesn’t mean that, not really. “Sorry. That’s not how I wanted this to go.”

“No, I’m sorry. Bruce didn’t tell me—and I was off-world, and I didn’t know.” Later, Dick will realize that he’s got nothing to be sorry for, maybe even get a little angry at Jason, but guilt eats everything else away. “I should have been there. I should have never gone to space, I knew you two were fighting and—”

“He didn’t tell you?” At Dick’s wet, wide-eye look, Jason sighs. “God, that is so like Bruce.”

“He couldn’t reach me. I didn’t come back for a few weeks, and by then, most of the news cycle had moved on. I had to hear it from—well, from Clark, actually.”

“That makes sense.” Clark is one-fourth of the people that do Bruce’s emotional lifting when the time calls for it, because he sure as shit doesn’t do it himself. “Thanks for the tea. It’s exactly like I remember it.”

“Can I come in?” Dick asks, aware as always when Jason’s trying to do a graceful exit.

“Uh,” That is not how Jason is telling Mikey.

“Or we could meet? For dinner or lunch or—food?” Dick’s voice takes an edge of desperation. “We don’t have to eat. We could go train hopping, like we used to, or you can tell me what you like now and we can do that.”

“Dick,”

“Please,” Dick says. He grabs onto Jason’s arm and Jason’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “Please don’t shut me out. I just—I just got you back, I can do better, I can be better.”

“You don’t have to do anything.” Jason realizes these are the wrong words, when Dick’s face crumples into barely contained grief. “I haven’t told my kids yet. I’m not sure how, since it’s a pretty big lie. But I wouldn’t mind dinner. As long as you aren’t the one doing the cooking.”

His joke lands, and Dick laughs, a real laugh, watery and weak and so relieved. “That’s fair. Alfred wants to see you, too, you know.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to go back to the Manor.” Jason confesses. “Why don’t we get some takeout when you’re in town and I’m on patrol?”

“When will you be on patrol?” Dick asks, eager.

“Tonight? I go out almost every other night, I’ve got a babysitter, so just pick a time.”

“Okay? Pizza?” His face scrunches up for a second, as if remembering the last time he ate pizza with Jason—Red Hood then, Joker conversation, back-to-back and oh, right, Jason’s a murderer now. Jason waits for it to hit Dick and then for Dick to hit him, but instead, he shakes his head, hard. “This time we’ll get it the right way, with your gross black olives and all.”

“At least I can tolerate a vegetable.”

“I don’t think olives are vegetables, actually.”

“What the fuck else would they be?” The absurdity of the conversation, of who he’s having it with, hits Jason, and he laughs. His brother is here. They’re getting pizza tonight. Everything else can wait.

Jason’s out on the town, expecting to see a flash of black-blue at any given moment. He had left a vague answer to Mikey’s curiosity—that he was catching up with his brother, and trying to reconnect with his dad—and promised to tell Sabrina everything Monday night when Alexis came to babysit. He’s just thankful Thad’s language is limited to grunts, coos, and a handful of signed words.

He sticks to his territory. Dick doesn’t have a set route in Gotham, so better he comes to find Jason than the other way around. Sure enough, just after ten o’clock, the acrobat swings into focus. Dick is looking every which way and when he spots Jason—standing on a roof—he smiles. Landing, Dick bounds over to him and throws his arms wide.

“You’re here,” He says, enveloping Jason into his signature Grayson squeeze. It’s so tight and so foreign that Jason tenses up until Dick steps away; he misses the warmth immediately.

“It’s my territory. Of course I’m here.”

“I mean, you came out tonight. I realized, after, that you said pick a time and I just went okay, like an idiot, and then you might have decided you could stay in tonight—so I would have been swinging around Crime Alley solo, and like, I can handle myself but I’m not their guy, so it would have been rough and I couldn’t have gone back to your place because—”

“Take a breath, dude.” Jason interrupts. Dick’s all nervous energy, rocking back and forth on his heels, smile just a bit too wide. “I’m here.”

“You are,” Dick says, and he says it with a tone too close to the morning, where he got overwhelmed at his realization that Jason was, in fact, alive. “Right, uhm, any good places around here?”

“Mikey likes one that’s not too far from the clinic.” Jason says and points them in that direction. He would pick it up after Thad’s checkups as a treat for everyone except the kid that went to the doctor. They were open until midnight, so now Dick gets to experience how great their dough was.

“Mikey?”

“I thought Babs would have told you everything about me when you gave her my address to find out my apartment number.”

“No, she just told me your apartment. Is Mikey…one of your kids?”

“Yeah,” Jason says. There’s a thousand things he could say about the kid—how good he is at videogames, and school, or that he really likes stars and plants, or that he’s the reason their building will one day have an ant infestation, or that he’s learning a new language just to teach Thaddeus. He doesn’t. He lets the single word hang between them.

“How is that?” Dick asks, hesitant, like he’s worried what pressing on will get him. “I mean, did you adopt him? How?”

“Kind of. He’s adopted under my alias. I found him in the dumpster outside my building and he’s just kind of stuck around ever since.” Jason aims to be casual. “His parents aren’t around anymore, and I suspect it was one of the Rogues, really, so I’m not his dad, but I’m helping out.”

“Does he know?”

“About me?” Dick nods. “No, I haven’t told him anything. He thinks I have a night job at a mechanic place.”

“How did Sparrow find out?”

“That’s something you’ll have to ask her, when she’s out on patrol again. Don’t go hunting my kids down without me around.” He doesn’t think Dick would, but he wouldn’t put it past Bruce, so it needs saying.

They get close to the pizza place, close enough to see the flickering sign, and Dick frowns. “This isn’t close to Leslie’s.”

“No—” Jason forgot that Dick’s probably never met Tonya. “It’s close to Tonya’s. She opened her clinic up some time after.”

“Oh, do you go to her because Leslie would have known it was you?”

“I actually haven’t had her stitch me up for any vigilant stuff, yet, Leslie is still the only one for that.” Jason says. He’s going to have to be the one to go into the shop and he’s gearing up for it. “I kept my helmet and shirt on for that, so there’s no way she’d know. Gimme a second to grab us some slices.”

Dick’s on the same ledge, terribly visible, pacing it like he didn’t expect for Jason to walk back, like a dog with bad separation anxiety. Even if it’s been a minute since he’s been in Park Row proper, he should know better than to silhouette himself against the skyline like that. Jason says as much when he returns, two generous slices stacked up on each other. They had his special, used to Jason stopping by as Jay at least twice a month on the weekend—having poorly timed it this weekend for that. He got Dick a slice of Meat Lovers.

“I can dodge, you know, if anyone decided to take a shot at me. But I’ve got a much more similar shape to Riddler than you—no one’s going to think I’m the Red Hood.”

“Hmm, he’s got better hips than you.”

“What? No way,” Dick takes the pizza, and they sit right there on that roof, tucked far enough in to be hidden, as they dig in.

“Yes way. It’s all the crazy.” Jason says. “They don’t spend their time working out, and yet, you notice, almost all of them are in great shape? Like, they’ve got to be getting that way with their schemes. Good ole acrobatics ain’t going to give you a waist like that.”

“Whatever,” Dick says with a laugh. “I don’t figure that most Crime Alley thugs are going to stop and assess the shape of my waist, though—probably just figure it’s best to keep their heads down and feet moving. I was fine, seriously. Bludhaven is just as dangerous as Gotham.”

“I’d give it a six out of ten on the dangerous scale. You’ve got a large drug problem, but it seems all the sellers are also sampling, so, it kind of slows the market down, you know?”

“Yeah, not that I’m complaining if they want to make it easier on me. It’s already enough work.” Dick wipes the grease around his mouth with his glove. Jason makes a face and fishes out the napkins he stuffed in his jacket—ones that would stay there due to the wind, but Dick could have asked for one. Now his glove is all gross. “When’d you end up going to Leslie?”

“Joker run-in.” Jason says. “I’m surprised Bruce didn’t tell you about it, actually.”

“I tend to steer clear when Joker is out, these days. Robin comes out to Bludhaven and I run patrol with him.”

“Ah.” Jason should let it lie, should keep his fat mouth shut, should not bring up what feels like the elephant in his chest, but, “You know, I asked B about why he brought him back.”

“I know why.”

“I don’t blame you.” Jason says, because Dick spoke too quick, too hard. “I’m—I’m trying not to blame Bruce either.”

“Really?”

“Not everyone’s cut out for it. I couldn’t imagine letting Sparrow make that call, ever, so clearly, it’s not a prerequisite for vigilante work.” Dick’s shoulders slump down, a relieved sigh, and this is the moment where Jason should shut his fucking mouth. But he can’t. “I am, though. I’m going to kill that clown.”

“Jason—”

“Y’going to tell me I ain’t owed it?”

“Can we not have this conversation tonight, please? Just tonight, just us being alive and together, and you being here.”

“Why? So next time I do something you or Batman doesn’t like, you can act betrayed? This is who I am, Dick. I’m not going to hide myself for your comfort—and you’ve got to come to grips with it or get a move on.” He had planned on at least one night before breaching this conversation, just like Dick, but everytime he looks at his brother, a small thought of how he killed the Joker, how it hasn’t stopped rattling in Jason’s head since he said it.

“You’re not a killer, Jaybird.” Dick says, before he catches the look on Jason’s face, the downturned mouth and ticked jaw. “I mean—everyone’s capable of change. You are. You’ve switched to rubber bullets.”

“I switched so I have options. I still carry live rounds and I’m not going to flinch to use ‘em.”

“You could end up hurting someone that doesn’t deserve it, like, really hurt them.”

“I know.” Johnny. “But the Joker does deserve it.”

“He does.”

Jason blinks, next argument trapped behind his teeth, because of the easy acquiesce. “What?”

“He does, he really, really does. But does it have to be you that does it?”

“You’re scared I’m going to regret it, is that it?” Jason stands up, stretching out his shoulders. “I’ve killed more men, bad men, than you know. Dozens more. I won’t regret it. Don’t you trust me, Big Bird?”

Dick takes the proffered hand. “I do.” He sounds hesitant, though.

“Then trust me to be a big boy and make my own decisions, huh? I don’t need you to be my keeper, I need you to be my brother.”

“Brothers are still allowed to tell each other when they’re going too far,” Dick points out.

“And I’ll listen then.” Jason says, staring at Dick. “I will. Now, do you want to find a train on Gotham Rail or do you want to stand here, freezing our asses off?”

Tuesday night, a whole four days after Jason’s reveal, and he hasn’t seen cape nor cowl of Batman. He’s getting a little twitchy with it—his mind telling him he was right in his shaky belief that B was actually glad when he was dead. He decides that tonight will be a training session, and through Oracle, invites Spoiler and Robin over. It would do Sparrow some good to have friends that are her own age. Oracle passes on the message, with an invitation for Jason to stop by the Watchtower when he has time.

Plus, he wants to see what Robin knows.

The night starts normal, stretches and light sparring, with both of the teens showing up. He’s got only a domino on, to see what their reactions are, but both of them are more focused on the other. Apparently, they’ve resolved a majority of their issues, but there’s a frosty wall between the two of them, a barrier that Sparrow tries to ignore. Jason winces everytime one of her jokes is taken by Robin or Spoiler to jab at the other.

He eventually splits them into two-person training sessions, making sure to keep Spoiler or Robin with him. It’s during this, a practice on disarming, that he raises the question with Tim. Asks him if B—or Dick—has told him anything. Alfred knows, so Tim’s got to, right? Robin stays silent for a few minutes.

“I know. I knew.”

“You—knew?” Jason lets his arm go limp between the two of Tim’s, the best way to prevent a break should someone try to rip a gun out of his hands.

“I figured out who Dick was when I was six. You were not nearly as subtle.”

“Hey, I’m subtle. The detective himself didn’t figure me out.” Jason argues.

Tim shakes his head. “He didn’t want to figure you out, or refused to believe the rabbit chase his brain took him on. You show up, wearing an old Joker face, and make yourself home at Crime Alley. You know things that only someone close to the family would know, but Dick says Talia al Ghul is your mother.”

“I thought he didn’t tell anyone!”

“No, he didn’t tell Batman. That was the promise, I remember.” Letter of the law bullshit. “Now, Damian doesn’t know all that you know, so it’s not because of her having ridiculously good spies. And you clearly didn’t grow up in the League—lower city accent, knowing where in Gotham you are, and the fact that you saved me from dropping to my probable maiming, if not death.”

“Any hero would have done that.”

“You save me, but you refuse to give Damian up, lending credence to a sense of brothership with him. So then, the requirements are: who would know Batman that long ago, spent enough time with the League to be considered family, and have a grudge against the Joker?” Tim rolls his shoulders and lands a flat palm to Jason’s ribs. It would wind him, if they weren’t mimicking the movements. “No one alive, that’s for sure. But then I thought about the Lazarus pits, and I realized that my suspect list didn’t have to be currently living, and you were the only option.”

“And you didn’t say anything? To Bruce? Me?” Jason almost misses Tim’s leg sweep, knocking his ankle back in just the right time. If this is a ploy to get him off-balance, it’s working.

“Batman believes in the possibility of good in all, but it would be difficult for him to reconcile who you are with who you were. It would be a detriment to his attempts to rehabilitate you. Also, a hunch is not evidence.”

“You make it sound like I’m a stray dog. It would be difficult or it will be difficult for him?” Tim shrugs, ducking under a lazy, telegraphed punch that Jason throws. “And knowing changed nothing for you?”

“I didn’t know you as Robin. I only knew that Red Hood was violent, that Batman wanted me to keep my distance, and then he was training a kid, just like how Batman trained me. We met once, as children, at a gala, where you tipped the punch bowl and destroyed your suit, but I doubt you’d be seen in a banquet hall these days. I find it better to get to know you now than to cling onto pre-held ideals of who—or what you were.” Tim says it all in a blank, bored voice. Like he had looked at it forwards and backwards. “I’ll reserve my thoughts on Jason Todd until later, thanks.”

He speaks like Batman—clear-cut, analytical, with little regard to what emotions are attached to the thought process—and Jason can respect that. “Okay, well, let me know when you figure it out.”

Tim nods. They fall back into the training routine.

It’s nearing the end of the night, Jason just as tired as the teenagers, all of them taking a water break on the mats, when there comes a rap at the window. Everyone—sans Robin—jumps from the sudden sound, swiveling their heads to look at the hulking black mass that is sat on the fire escape outside. Jason checks how Tim’s responding. Either he clocked Batman a few minutes earlier than they did, or he knew that B was coming.

“Are you…going to get that?” Spoiler asks. “Maybe if we all stay real still and quiet, he won’t know we’re here.”

“He’s not a dinosaur, and the window is glass.” Robin says in return, just a little edge of heat.

“Old enough to be a dinosaur, that’s for sure.” Jason gets to his feet. “But yes, I’ll get it. You three, behave while I’m gone.”

“I’m going to put glitter in your bombs.”

“Good luck finding them,” Jason says to Spoiler, before he’s at the window. He won’t look like a scared kid to these three, so even though he really wants to lock the hatch and hide, he opens it and steps outside. Batman makes room for him. He inclines his head towards a nearby roof, high enough that the kids can’t lipread their conversation, and Jason wants to argue, for the sake of arguing, but Batman is soaring away before he can get a word in. Really feels like old times.

He follows, because what else is he going to do?

They stand, facing each other, staring, and the silence stretches so long that Jason almost makes a joke about how they’ve got to stop meeting like this. At one time, he knows it would garner a sour twist to the lips and flat stare, but that was ages ago. A life ago. He has no idea what B thinks of his humor now.

“Jason.” Bruce says, drawing him back from his mind. Bruce doesn’t say it like he’s calling attention, though, more like he’s trying the word around in his mouth. Like he’s never said it before, and trying to see how to frame his tongue and teeth around it. “Son.”

That word sounds even more strange. The quiet confusion, paired with the halting tones, and how this is the first time Bruce has seen him since finding out, set Jason’s teeth on edge. He acts like he can just command Jason to a rooftop, then continue to keep him guessing on just what’s going on in his head? Fuck that.

“Y’think you still get to call me that?” Jason says, voice acidic. “I think the adoption stops counting after the kid dies.”

“Jason—” Wrong tone.

“Or, maybe, it stops counting when you don’t bury them in the family plot.” Jason plows on. “Or when you don’t engrave the family name on their tombstone. I don’t know, there’s several places the familial obligation could have stopped—but really, we should look at the first one. How about when you left me to die in a warehouse?”

Bruce makes a small sound, a grunt, not unlike those he makes when he’s punched, and his shoulders curl in just a bit. If Jason were anyone else—if Jason was never Robin—he would have never noticed it, but it’s broadcast to him like a neon sign. How his words hurt Bruce. And it takes the wind out of his sails, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“I was trying to get to you. I was coming as fast I could, I swear it.”

“Not fast enough.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need you to be sorry about that. We both know we’re human, and can’t be everywhere at once. Not even Superman’s capable of that. No, what I needed, you couldn’t give me. Wouldn’t give me.”

“Don’t ask me to kill the Joker. Don’t ask me to do the one thing I can’t.” Bruce’s voice has an edge of raw grief to it.

“He killed me. He killed me, dad.” Jason sounds no better, voice raw. He’s tired, tired of asking, tired of hoping, tired of missing. His tearline is flooded, and he struggles to keep them in, keep his shoulders wide and stance strong. “He took me from you. How can you stand it?”

“I can’t. I couldn’t.” Bruce says, loud in his deep timbre, like the admission was ripped from him. “You didn’t know, how I spent my days pouring over cases, and my nights on the streets just hoping someone would get a lucky shot in. How Tim had to drag me back from that darkness, how I stayed at your grave, went any place we had gone, chased your memories and clung to them. I hate him—for all the monstrous things he has done, but more than anything? What he did to you. I had to take you home, and pull your Robin suit off you, put you—” his voice breaks for a second, “put you in a car and make it look like an accident. I can barely stomach how your corpse plays behind my eyes, day in and day out, and now you’re here and I want more than anything to promise the world if you stay, but I can’t. Jason, please.”

“Bruce,” Jason is speechless, adrift, in Bruce’s brutal honesty. It rips at the core of him, right through his heartstrings and his defenses, and he wants to reach out to his father, who ached at the loss of him, the same photonegative pain that Jason’s felt. “I can’t live while he’s alive. I’m—I feel like he’s just a step behind, all the time. I don’t blame you. But if you can’t do it for me, can’t kill him for me, then I’m going to. For my kids. For Sparrow.”

“Jason, the weight of murder,”

“Is a weight that I’ve carried, one I know I can. I’m not Dick.”

“No,” Bruce says. “You’re not Dick.”

And that concession, even if it’s not the actual words that Bruce believes him to be capable, forces Jason to swallow his bitter, sour words back. He’s exhausted—in the same way he is after a fight with Mikey, or Sabrina, bone-tired because, “It’s not like it matters right now, anyway. Joker is locked up tight, and I’m not looking to break in. Can we table this for later? Was there anything else that you wanted to talk to me about?”

Please, please, let there be anything else. A softer admission that he misses Jason. An invitation, given out with more confidence that Dick’s was, or an interest in his life. Anything to show that he still wants to be Jason’s dad, regardless of how Jason threw that connection in his face.

“Thursday, Black Mask and his team are set to have a meeting at Blackfire’s. It’s a simple meetup to discuss trade prices between him and Luka Volk, who works as a third party between Mask and Penguin.” Bruce speaks with clear, confident tones. He’s back in his territory. It’s an easier conversation, but Jason is disappointed. Nothing personal at all. “Robin has been tailing Volk for six months now, in an attempt to gather enough evidence to bring him in. There’s enough. He’s meant to follow Volk back to wherever he’s staying for the night, and inform the police for them to raid.”

“Okay,” Jason says, slowly. He’s not sure why Bruce is telling him this, unless it’s really just a sign of trust. “I don’t have enough to warrant an arrest for Black Mask. And as much as I’d like to kill him, he’s not bad enough that I want to take my chances on whatever schmuck they make leader afterwards.”

“It would be a good opportunity to start gathering evidence that would lead to his arrest. Or adding to your file. Sparrow might want to tag along with Robin, and I hoped you wouldn’t mind an additional set of eyes on Sionis.”

“A team-up?”

“You did redirect his fire from me. I know it was for Damian, but that doesn’t change the fact. I can provide you with everything we have on Sionis, and with what you’ve collected, as well as tying him to Volk’s smuggling, it may be enough to accelerate his lockup.”

“I don’t want Sparrow in Black Mask’s crosshairs.”

“She would be with Robin. His only mission that night is to find Volk’s home base and report back to the police. Absolutely no interference.” Bruce says it like he’s speaking to Robin, giving those instructions, and Jason straightens his shoulders before he can help it. Shows that he’s listening. “I’ve seen her out a few times, but always on patrol, never on a case. To start learning that process would be good for her.”

“No interference?”

“Robin is under orders to remove and retreat if he thinks that Volk is aware of his presence.”

“And you think the kid will actually do that?” Jason is skeptical.

“He has, which is why it has taken as long as it has to accumulate the needed evidence for a clean conviction.”

“Uh huh,” Jason can picture it now—Sabrina, happy, because she gets to see more of the city and with a friend to boot, flying through the air after a tagged vehicle, or maybe just sitting on a roof ledge watching the red dot speed off to Volk’s lair, the sense of accomplishment, the knowledge of a job well-done. Plus, it comes with a promise of no interference. No possible way to get hurt, to have an errant bullet or knife her way. “I’ll let Sparrow know. I just can’t figure out what you get out of watching Mask with me.”

Bruce always, always has an ulterior motive. It doesn’t have to be a cruel one, or a cold one, but it’s always there. Like with the tracking comm, or with allowing Robin to hang out with Spoiler, or—and Jason still hasn’t puzzled this one out, has refused to—wearing cracked armor to a bust.

“I would like to spend time with you. In a setting you’re comfortable with.”

“You mean, in a setting you’re comfortable with?” Jason replies. He can’t imagine sitting down for food with him, not since the whole, I’d-kill-you exchange, but he can still make B think he’s more relaxed than he is.

“Yes,” Bruce says, no frills, as was his usual. It’s near startling, after his soul-wrenching words earlier. He must be out of his emotional battery.

“Okay. Thursday.”

On Wednesday, Jason swings by during his patrol to the Clocktower. It’s well out of his way, but he can’t determine how he and Bruce will interact on a mission together, and he wants to reconnect with Babs beforehand. There’s a small part of him, fed by her telling him that he’d never be Dick Grayson, that worries she’ll cut contact if Bruce does.

He plans to sneak in, or try to, to see how state-of-the-art her defenses really were. But the windows are sleek, with no ledge to cling to, and the walls are solid brick. He bets there’s solid lead under that, too. Jason gives up twenty minutes in and hits his comm.

“Jason,” Babs voice filters into his ear. “We’re on a private line. What can I do for you?”

“Uh, open up? I can’t find a way in, Barbie.”

“You’re at the Clocktower? I’ll give you this, you’ve managed to stay out of sight from the cameras. Where are you—just need to rectify the blind spot.”

“Yeah, well, I’m headed to the door, now—damn, are you not here? I wanted it to be a surprise, but it would be my luck that it’s the one night you’ve stepped out.”

“I’m here, and I can’t really ‘step’ anywhere, right now.” Babs says, voice full of dark amusement. Jason laugh-snorts. “The main door will let you in. Come on up.”

He goes up the tower, up, up until he reaches where she does most of her work. When Jason steps off the elevator and into her living room, he would never figure that she was Oracle. A clean kitchen, cozy den, open concept and floor-to-ceiling windows that show Gotham in all her twinkling glory. Babs calls him from a different room. It bounces off the hallway and he follows it to her.

Twelve monitors are hooked up, facing the door, wires coming from behind them like a living, electric Leviathan, the whir of fans and the buzz of machinery like background music and sitting in front of it all—controlling it all—is Babs. She turns to her chair to face him, and even though everything is different, in that moment, it’s like nothing has changed. “Hey, Boy Wonder,” She says with a smile.

Jason groans. “Ugh, that title is firmly in Tim’s court. Trust me, I did my time and have more than enough scars to prove for it.”

“You and me both. Though, I will say, it must be nice to still get to go flying.”

“It must have been nice to be alive through it.” Jason says, and then slaps a hand over his helmet, like that could block his stupid, stupid mouth. Barbara laughs. It’s good-natured, and it relaxes the tension in his shoulders. “I’ve got to say, Barbie, you’re taking this a lot better than the other two.”

“I’m trying. I know what it’s like when everyone’s gawking at you, for having the courage to be alive.” Her face twists, a ghost of a sour thought, before it smooths back out.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to visit you while you were in the hospital. It sounds like you would have hated it though, I’ve got a terrible poker face.”

“You didn’t come to the hospital, I didn’t come to your funeral, I’d say we’re even.”

“Good.” Jason says. “I hear it was a drag, anyway.”

“D’you want some tea? I was just about to make some.”

“Do you have any Earl Grey?”

On Thursday night, after Volk speeds off from Blackfire’s bar, and the kids after him, Jason settles in next to Bruce to see what else business Black Mask might conduct. He could whittle his hours away in his glass, but it’s more likely he’ll take another meeting or lead them to a secondary location.

Jason knows he’s got the right of it when another man, less clean than Volk, slides up to the booth Mask is in. Black Mask signals the waitress to bring a drink over. “Do you know who that is?” Jason asks.

“Computer.” Batman says. “Run face analysis.”

There’s a few moments of silence, while they wait for her to run her tests, and compare it with every face on the planet. That’s just reassuring Jason that he’s never been too paranoid when it came to Bruce. After a moment, she beeps back up. “Analysis shows a 99% match to Jonathan Schmidt. Current Arkham Asylum guard, un-married, parents in Vermont, no close ties within Gotham.”

“Wow, remind me to up my security game. Think Oracle can get me one of those?” At Batman’s look, Jason continues on with business. “Why do you think he’s meeting Black Mask?”

“Man of the guards are dirty. Trading information, secrets, toxins, favors. I’m not sure what he’s offering, but I will find out.”

“I thought I was in charge of the Black Mask recon?”

“You are. I’ll share what I find, but it would be better to split our focus to cut time.” Batman says.

Black Mask and Schmidt speak for a few minutes, heads ducked. Jason’ll give him this—Sionis isn’t stupid. He knows at any moment he could be watched. Lip reading is a skill, yes, but it’s easy enough to learn. After a few minutes drowned out by the chatter of the bar, the sound of the music, vibrating the roof access Jason and Bruce peer through, Mask slides an envelope over to Schmidt. It’s cut open at the table. Full of green.

“Do you think he’s paying in advance or—”

“That’s not how Sionis works.” Burce says. “It’s either information, then or something unrelated to Arkham. Unless you’ve seen Mask with any toxins, gas?”

“No. But I doubt it’s not related to the guard’s job. It’s not like he’s got a lot to offer besides that.”

After Schmidt leaves, Mask stands as well. He throws down two twenties, which Jaosn bets barely covers his drinks. Fucker. “We following?”

“Yes” Bruce stands. “Robin, what’s your status?”

Tim’s voice comes tinny and sure through the comm. “We just handed off the information to the police. I was about to reach out.”

“Good. Can you run a background check on Jonathan Schmidt? He was here with Black Mask tonight, but we are unaware of any business he might have with him.”

“Copy. I can show Sabrina how to work the database. We’ll go to the Penthouse.”

“Heard. Thank you, Robin.” Batman removes his hand from his comm.

Jason also sends a message to Tim, sure that he’s heard by Sparrow as well, but she’s been quiet. “Thank you, Robin.”

It’s silent down the line for a minute. “It’s nothing, Hood.” The connection goes to static.

They follow, in the air, after Mask’s car. Jason follows, like he’s Bruce’s shadow, still not as certain as his father in the night sky. He drives to the docks. It’s not where he lives—though he did purchase a condo near the water, probably to keep an eye on business. Instead, he steps out of the car to greet a ship worker. Jason and Batman follow quiet and careful, while the man leads Sionis towards a shipping container. It’s popped open to show crates stacked, full of bullets, guns, explosives. The standard type of cargo that Mask deals in. Jsaon keeps his helmet focused on it, all the video footage will be good to convict. “Well, that’s certainly not what he was paying Schmidt for.”

“No, but it’s still good evidence.” B says. Usually, this is the moment they would interfere, bust in and take their weapons, but Black Mask would go up like smoke, and be twice as cautious next go around. Jason is familiar with this step, and it makes him sick to his core, just like it did as a kid. Allowing evil to happen to prevent worse evil in the future.

Trucks come in, load up the boxes, drive off. The night ticks into the deepest purple, near midnight. Black Mask drives home. Jason stays perched near his father. “D’you think Robin found anything?” He asks.

“He’ll compile it into a report, I’m sure.” Bruce says. He pulls up his holographic interface, a map of Gotham, and in it all, is there a tiny red dot. “He’s not at the Penthouse, though.”

“Where is that?”

“Near it, looks like over the Gotham central entertainment district.”

“Did you have a tracker on me and Dick, too, B? Does Tim know about his?”

“Tim knows. You and Dick did not have one. It’s…newer. A new precaution.” An explosion, not knowing where your child is, not knowing if he’s alive, Jason gets it.

There’s not a smidge of judgment in him, either, when he reaches out to confirm with Oracle that Sabrina is in the same area as Tim as well. Bruce raises his eyebrows, only given away by how his cowl upticks just the slightest.

“I took the idea from you. Put a tracker in her comm. Only difference is that she knows about it.”

“I won’t apologize for that.” Bruce says.

“Wouldn’t expect you to.” Not that he doesn't think he’s owed an apology, but not for that. Worse things have been done, worse breaches of trust, in the name of the safety of Gotham.

“Do you think they’re on a date?” Jason has been waffling a suspicion of that. On the one hand, he can’t get a read on Tim when he interacts with Sabrina, but he had no idea the kid was dating Spoiler, either. On the other hand…

“Why would they be on a date.”

“Wel, I’m just saying, Sparrow’s got a similar complexion, and job, as Spoiler. Maybe Tim has a type. And no offense, but I bet you keep track of his love-life. Am I right? Does he have a type?”

“Why would I? I never kept track of you or Dick’s.”

“Yeah, but Dick’s was so messy that I don’t even think he could keep track of it. And mine was non-existent.”

“Was?”

“Is.” Jason says. Doesn’t help that everyone in his civilian life thinks he’s a widow. “Is non-existent. You want to grab a bite before we go bust them?”

“Batburger?” Bruce says it like a peace offering, like the first feeble rays of spring sun, warm and unsure.

“Yeah, but you’re buying.”

“Okay.”

They have to get to the Batmobile, Bruce calling it to them, and as they wait, ETA ten minutes, an altogether different voice filters through their comm. “Father? Hood?”

“Damian.” Bruce says, before Jason gets a chance to. “How did you get a hold of a comm? You are benched.”

“That’s unimportant. I’ve found Robin.”

“You’re not supposed to be out in the first place.”

“Oh, did you catch him sucking face?” Jason jokes.

“No.” And it’s the tone in which he says that, that Jason’s brain catches up with his mouth. Something’s wrong. “He’s injured.”

Bruce hits a button on his gauntlet, and the ETA goes from ten to two. “Where are you? We’ll be there as fast as possible.”

Damian rattles off the address where Tim’s tracker stated he was, and as they climb into the Batmobile, Jason asks, “Where’s Sparrow?” He says it on the open line, hopeful that she’ll say something back, like that she hid, or ran, and is awake and alive. She doesn’t.

“I don’t see her.” Damian says. “Was she to be here?”

“Ask Tim, then.”

“I can’t. He’s unconscious.”

“Babs? Can you confirm Sparrow's location?”

She’s been silent through their exchange, but the frantic clack of her keyboard gives her away. “Her comm says she’s with Robin. I’m not getting a response when I ping it.”

“Eta six minutes. Damian, stay with Robin.” Jason can hear how the car screams beneath them, pushed well past what it should, even for the ingenious work of Lucius Fox. He never recalls Bruce driving this fast, ever, and that’s the thought he clings to to keep his head above water while a distant part of him that he refuses to acknowledge screams, Sparrow is gone! It won’t help if he can’t focus. He can’t find her if he gives into that gut-wrenching panic.

He blinks, and they are in Gotham central. Batman grabs him before he can fire his own line, bringing them both up. Damian stands, off to the side, and in the center of the roof, is Tim. He’s tied to a chair. Rough rope that holds him up as he slumps towards the ground. Jason rushes over. Bruce, on the other hand, turns on Damian. “What did you do?”

“Really,” Damian says, all cold indignity. “Do you think I would have called you if this was my doing?”

Jason blocks out their argument, pulling smelling salts from his jacket to wave under Tim’s nose. He groans, shifts his body away from the sharp smell. As he struggles back to the waking world, Jason rounds his chair to start untying him. The small–smaller than Tim’s, much smaller than Bruce’s—detective part of his brain says, look, there’s only blood around the chair. Whoever took Sabrina didn’t make her bleed. Here.

Jason pulls out a knife and goes towards Tim’s wrists. As he’s about to cut through the rope, he sees a small card tucked between Robin's gloves. Damian has started yelling, words indecipherable to him, as Jason pulls out a playing card. A Joker.

Chapter Text

The world, that had narrowed down to the fraying rope and the smiling, shiny pictured clown, snaps back into his awareness in whole. Bruce’s low, annoyed gravel of a voice. Damian, throwing insults like he would blades. The soft, wet rattle of Tim’s breathing. Cars below. Planes above.

“Shut up!” He screams. It comes out of him raw, anything to get the father and son to stop arguing. “Bruce.” He holds up the card.

Bruce’s eyes narrow in on the card, then widen, as realization sets in. “Damian, take your brother and go home, now. Tim needs to be checked for any toxins in his blood.”

“Drake is not—”

“I said, now!” There's anger in Bruce’s voice, yes, but far too. It snakes through Jason, wraps his heart up. It puts urgency in Damian’s movements. Tim is still sluggish, leaning most of his weight on Damian, eyes blinking, unfocused. Concussion, most likely. An unhealthy dose of some gas or another if he was unlucky. They stagger away.

“Oracle. I need to know exactly when the Joker was released today. When did he break out.”

“What?” Bab's voice comes through. “There's been no alert that the Joker has escaped.”

“Schmidt.”

“What?” Oracle asks, half there, half digging into the cameras at Arkham.

Bruce understands what Jason is saying, though. “You think Black Mask is up to this?”

“Why would he take Sparrow, when Robin was right there for the picking?” Jason says. “Joker may not like me, but he don’t know me. He don’t care about me like he cares about you. Only reason why he’d fuck with Sparrow is a favor for someone else.”

“Schmidt releases him, on orders of Sionis, and then Joker targets you, to prevent you from interfering with his business.”

“I found it!” Barbara interrupts. “It looks like—like a guard just let him out! That’s why the alarm didn’t go up.”

“Do you have the guard in clear enough definition to determine who it was?”

“Uhm, a Jonathan Schmidt. He’s newer.”

“Fuck.” Jason swears. “We go to Black Mask. Now.”

“We need to find Sparrow.”

“He’s our best bet. Either get on board, or get out of my way.”

“Son, I’m—” Bruce cuts himself off. “To Black Mask.”

Bruce gave the boys the Batmobile, and it makes sense, considering that no kid around them is safe when the Joker is out to play. Refusing to grapple all the way to Black Mask, Jason jacks a car. Usually, he’d try to determine if the person who owns it needs it back, or would just like it back, but at this moment, he shatters the windshield, and the alarm screams out the night air. He rips the door open. “Get in.”

Bruce slides in without comment. Jason has it wired and running in under two minutes, peeling away from the small group that hard formed on the sidewalk around them.

The streets pass in a blur—not that they go too fast, but that Jason truly can’t focus on them. There’s a scream in his throat, and fire in his blood, and he is so, so scared. Bruce holds onto the car door and says nothing.

They make it to Black Mask’s upper city condo in under twelve minutes. The time that Sparrow was taken is somewhere between forty-two to twenty-eight minutes prior. Most likely alive. Relatively uninjured when taken. All these cold facts sound like Bruce, which is strange, because he’s sitting right there and not saying shit. They go up the fire escape. No matter how fancy the place is, it still has to have one, and in Gotham, that almost always means outside. Before Jason can break the window, Bruce grabs his arm. Slides it open. It was fucking unlocked, the nerve of Black Mask.

There’s good reason to go in quiet and stick to the shadows, but every slow movement is another second that they don’t have answers about where the fuck the Joker is. So Jason storms the castle, going to where he knows Black Mask sits at night, going over his ledgers and determining how he’s going to scam and cheat out a few more bucks. He’s there alright. He looks up, when they come in, like they’re an errant secretary, but the words die on his tongue when he realizes exactly who it is. Jason pulls out his gun—live rounds—and pistol whips the fuck. “Where is he?”

“You’re going to have to be a bit more clear,” Sionis says, once he's righted himself in his chair. A small line of red drips along his lip line. “I know a lot of guys.”

“This is not the time to be fucking with me.” Json warns, putting his gun right under Sionis’s chin.

There’s a moment of genuine fear in the man’s eyes, before his gaze flicks to Batman, who stands, imposing, in the doorway. “Hey, I ain't playing. But you might want to put that thing away—I hear that Batman here ain’t too fond of them.”

Jason turns to look—to see what Batman’s going to do. There’s a twist at his mouth, one that Jason is used to as a child. One that says that Jason has misstepped and Bruce wants to scold him. Instead, Batman lifts his shoulders. “I am going to reach out to Nightwing about this. I’ll keep an eye out.” And with that, he turns and closes the door behind him. He closes the door. Leaves them alone. Jason is—astounded.

Then his mind snaps back to the reason they’re there.

“Now, it’s just you and me. And we both know I don’t like your ugly mug enough to not put a bullet in it.” Jason says. “Where is the Joker?”

“You ain’t gonna shoot me, Not when he's standing right outside.” Black Mask is attempting to whittle down the clock. It just makes Jason aware that there is a clock he needs to be concerned about.

Jason aims his gun at Sionis’s leg. Low enough that it won’t hit the femoral, high enough not to strike the knee. Off-center, to avoid bone. Fires. Black Mask screams, and in his agony, Jason gets a hand around the back of his neck to force his face down on the table. Cocks the gun once more and presses the white-hot barrel to the side of Black Mask’s skull. “You sure I won’t? Sure enough to bet? Where is the Joker?!”

“I don’t know!” There's a rapid heartbeat under Jason’s hand, but Sionis has the good sense to not try to struggle out. “I just got him out and told him the debt would be settled if he handled you.”

“Well, he didn’t, Roman. Instead, he took my fucking Sparrow. And I can promise you—if you don’t give me anything else to go off of, every injury he gives her, I’ll return it on you.”

“You shouldn't have fucked with me, Hood. That’s all I know.” Black Mas grunts. “And every minute you try to wring more out of me that I don’t got, is another minute he’s got your kid, so.”

“If I find out you’ve been lying to me…” Jason warns.

But he’s right. Jason can’t afford to waste time. Even if Joker and him made a more solid plan, less nebulous, it would involve Jason having been taken. Obviously, Joker has gone off script.

He opens the door, to find Batman right outside. There’s two men at his feet, knocked unconscious. Once the door is open, Batman looks in, like he’s looking at the judgment of God. “I just put a bullet in his leg. He’ll live.”

“Bullets in legs are still dangerous, if you recall.”

“I watched where I shot. Besides, he doesn’t know anything. Just confirmed what we knew, with the added bonus that Joker was supposed to take me, not Sparrow.”

“Why would he take her then?”

“Probably the same reason he took me, all those years ago. ‘Cause it hurts worse when it’s your kid.”

“We’ll find her, Jason.” Bruce says. “Nightwing is coming from Bludhaven to help us. We just have to start with his usual roaming grounds.”

“No, we should touch base with Robin. Even if he didn’t pass along a message, Joker’s got a big mouth. The kid might have caught something before his lights got knocked out.”

Bruce nodes. “Okay. Crest Hill is less than a twenty minute drive to the Manor. Nightwing should be there by the time we get in.”

They use the same car, and Jason isn’t sure how Bruce will get rid of it, but when he parks it on the Manor grounds, it officially becomes his dad’s problem. The big oak doors crack open before they get up the steps, and standing there, as sure as a rock, is Alfred. “Sir, why are you—Master Jason.”

“Hi, Alfie. Is Tim awake yet? Did they get home?”

“Master Timothy and Master Damian arrived a little under an hour ago.” His decorum takes over for a minute, before emotions swell under the ribs and show on Alfred’s face. “My dear boy, where have you been? Are you alright?”

“We don’t have time for that right now, Alfred.” Bruce says, and he’s right, but it would be a relief to be enveloped in Alfred’s sure presence, in his care. And then, Jason’s mind flash to Sabrina, who is in the tender care of Joker, who Jason has intimate knowledge of how that feels and he’s guilty. “Is Tim still awake?”

“I do believe so, sir. I left him down in the medbay. If you’ll forgive me, what is this about? He did not say anything while I stitched him up, but we both know how reluctant he is to speak with Master Damian present.”

“The Joker has escaped Arkham.” They move through the halls. Nothing has changed. It feels like a dream. The same rugs, pictures, a few additions, everything gleaming, and the library. A descent to the Cave. “He’s taken Sparrow.”

“But she’s just a child.”

“We both know he doesn’t give a fuck about that.” Jason says, before he winces. Not like Alfred can see that, so, “Sorry for the language, Alfie.”

“Under the circumstances, I do believe it is understandable.”

The Cave is different. New trophies, the computer still where it was, but a place for the Batplane, and the Batmobile has shiny motorcycles lined up next to it. In the center of the Cave, right in front of the meeting table, is a case. Jason looks in it—such a strange place to put a display, it breaks up the walkway, and realizes a suit is in it. His. Before he creeps closer, before he sees why the fuck his suit isn’t with the rest of the family’s, Dick comes roaring into the Cave. Old entrance, new bike. He pulls his helmet off, hops off before the motor dies down. His eyes are wide. “Where’s Tim?”

“In the medbay.” Jason says. “We were just going to talk to him.”

It’s clean, a few extra cots, and on one, is Boy Wonder. He looks banged up, but his eyes are clear when they come in, and they focus on Jason. He starts to cry, which terrifies Jason. “Sparrow—”

“I didn’t stop him from taking her. I’m so sorry. I failed.”

“You did everything you could.” Bruce reassures.”Why were you there? What happened to going to the Penthouse?”

“There was a protest line for the makeup store across the street. They were testing on animals—and the line was blocking the whole road. Sparrow refused to cross it. We were headed to the Nest. It’s so close, I didn’t think anything would happen. I didn’t—didn’t think there would be any trouble.”

“Did Joker say anything? Anything at all about where he might be taking her?” Jason presses.

“He came out of nowhere. We didn’t even get an alert that he was out of Arkham—otherwise, we would have gone straight home, I swear. He knocks her out, before he attacks me. Probably just trying to keep his eyes on all his opponents. I go down and, it couldn’t have been more than a minute, but then I’m in the chair and he’s hitting me, and laughing, and he won’t stop laughing. He starts,” Timp pauses, looks at Jason. Jason takes off his helmet, because he doesn’t want the kid to have a panic attack before he can help, and so he needs to see that Jason isn’t angry at him. Just out of his gourd terrified. “He starts talking about Jason. About the last Robin. He, um, he said that it took him a minute to figure out, but he guesses like father, like son. That it would make sense you’d also adopt an orphan.”

“He knows who you are.” Dick says, aghast.

“Sparrow isn’t an orphan.” Jason says, but he hasn’t checked on Theresa since he put her in rehab. “Right, Bruce?”

“We can check, but the important thing is right now, he knows who you are.”

“Mikey!” Dick’s eyes are wide, as he realizes that Jason’s other kids are in danger.

“And Thaddeus.” Jason's brain catches up with him. If Joker’s figured out who he is, he might be able to find the rest of his civilian life. They’re in danger. “Alfred, could you—would you go get my kids?”

“Thaddeus?” Bruce asks.

“My son.” He’s so hesitant to call the other ones his kids, not because he wouldn’t claim them, but in case they didn’t want that, and it bleeds through that Thad is different in his words alone to Bruce. “He’s not even one yet.”

“Of course, Master Jason. I will go to fetch them right now.”

Jason rattles off his address, passes his keys to Alfred, and tells him the codeword he has for Mikey—something in case Alexis needs to pick him up from school. Something Mikey insisted upon. Afterwards, he turns his attention back to Tim. He has to trust that Alfred will take care of his two kids, because he knows for certain the other one is in danger. “Did he say anything else?”

“He made a joke about how history repeats, like a record, and he was going to break it properly this time. He said that he should make sure to do it where you met, ‘a real circle back of things’.”

“Ace Chemicals.” Bruce says, before he nods and goes to leave.

It’s too easy.

“Wait,” Jason holds up his hands. “What were his exact words, Tim?”

“‘If we’re going to go round like a record, we might as well finish it where it started, huh? Doesn’t that sound nice, back-up Boy Wonder? It’ll be like a real circle back of things.’” Tim says. His voice is empty, a rote recitation.

Dick frowns. “That makes sense, then. Joker was made in Ace Chemicals, it was the first place he and Bruce fought.”

“I don’t think he was talking about Ace Chemicals.” Jason says, because—it’s too simple. A joke, perhaps, that he thinks he’s the only one clever enough to see. “Maybe he’s talking about where we were?”

“He doesn’t have the time to get to Ethiopia. And the land that the warehouse was on is now a farm.” Bruce argues.

“No—no, I mean, the first time I fought him with you. Knight’s Stadium.”

“You said it yourself, Jason. Joker is more focused on me.”

“Yeah, we both know that.” Jason says. “But the thing is, if it was that simple, he wouldn’t have said it. He likes to blab, but he’s not stupid. Plus, he took Sparrow, when he could have taken Robin. He knows I’ll be after him, but he might not know that you’d also be following. It could be a waste of time.”

“So could be going to the stadium.”

“We should split our focus.” Dick breaks up the argument before it starts. “We’re on a crunch, here, and instead of bickering over who is right, we just need to go and find out.”

“I don’t want either of you alone with Joker.”

“Then me and Dick take the stadium and you take Ace Chemicals.”

“No,” Bruce says. “I’m with you, Jason.”

“I don’t think Tim is down to run a mission, tonight, though.” Dick looks over at Tim.

“I can—I can help. If I had just been a bit faster, a bit more aware, she would have never been taken in the first place. I should help.”

“Grayson is right.” From the rafters above, installed for the lights, Damian’s voice rings out. Dick jumps a foot in the air, but if Bruce is shocked, he doesn’t show it. Jason’s used to Damian’s voice causing his heart to go into an adrenaline rush, so he keeps his feet planted, too. “Drake has a fractured ankle and three bruised ribs. It makes the most sense that I accompany him, if you are unable to, Father.”

“You are benched, Damian.”

“Sparrow’s life is more important than petty punishments that are meant to teach me a lesson I’ve already learned. Unless you disagree?”

“No, he doesn’t.” Jason says for Bruce. No need for the two to devolve into debate, when there feels like a giant clock hanging over his head, tick-tick-ticking away.

“I need to trust that you’ll do the right thing out there.”

“You can trust me, Father. I will go with Grayson, and make sure that we return with the Sparrow, without lethally injuring the clown.”

“Or anyone else.” Bruce adds on.

“Or anyone else.” Damian promises, face solemn.

Bruce looks to Dick, “I can contact Spoiler, or Batwoman, or Catwoman. It would set you behind, but it’s your call.”

“I can take Damian. An extra set of eyes will help, and you can trust me to keep him safe.”

“Tt. As if I need you to protect me.”

“Take one of the old Batmobiles. Keep in touch.” Bruce waves Jason over to the one currently parked on the spinning display, and they are off before he buckles in. He clears his throat, “Computer, send a message to Selina Kyle and Kate Kane. Alert Purple, meet at Ace Chemicals.”

Jason should have known that Bruce wasn’t going to let his kid take his other kid to find the kid-killer.

Knight’s Stadium is in Otisburg, right next to Park Row. Thirty minutes, at most. With the way that Bruce hits the accelerator, it will be much less than that. He’s quiet as they travel—but Jason can’t sit in his own thoughts.

“Do you think it was a good idea to send the baby brat with Dick? Even with the possible backup?”

“No. But like Dick said, we’re limited on options and time.” Bruce says. “I can at least know that Damian can protect himself.”

“I think that’s the first time that you and Talia have agreed on something.”

“I don’t agree with how he became as resilient as he did, but I do recognize it.”

They lapse back into silence. Jason can barely hold onto a stream of conversation, but his head is full of red, and jackal laughter, and Sabrina crying. Of him failing.

“What was with the suit in the middle of the Cave?” Jason asks. “Why’d you stick one of my old ones up there?”

“It’s not just one of your old ones. It’s the one you—I stitched it back up. It deserved its own case.”

“You mean to tell me that’s the suit I died in?” Bruce nods. “Why did you keep that?”

“As a reminder.” Like how, when Jason was fourteen, he snuck around the Manor and ended up in the senior Wayne’s old room. Everything perfectly the way it was before, with a chair pulled out from the vanity, and cufflinks on the dresser, and a forgotten pen on the bed. Now that he thinks about it.

“Did you keep my room, too?”

“Of course.” Bruce says, eyes straight ahead. “Though, if you ever want to change it, if you want to come and stay a night, just say the word. We can make up some rooms for the other children.”

He bets his old homework assignments are still sprawled on his desk, wonders if his to-go box is rotting under his bed, or if Bruce has Alfred change out the snacks every few months. There’s a rush of—it’s an emotion, akin to affection, but painful—that pricks at his eyes. He coughs. “Why would you do that to yourself?”

“I didn’t want to forget you—the way you liked to have a wall of mugs on your desk, for the different colored pens you had, or how you would unlace to relace your shoes, your favorite pictures, and music, and books. It was like I could walk in, and for just a moment, forget that you were gone.” Bruce’s voice goes soft. The quiet of the Batmobile cradles the words like a secret.

“Then, why the suit?’ If anything was to remind Bruce that Jason had died, it would be that.

“So I’d never forget my failure.” Bruce says. “So I’d never let it happen again.”

Jason sinks a little lower into the seat. They’re maybe four minutes away now. He thinks about what might be waiting them—Sabrina, hurt, and Joker. Always the Joker, always fucking something or someone up. He doesn’t know how tonight will end, but he gets Bruce is sharing because he doesn’t know either. Jason can give him the same courtesy. “It wasn’t really your fault, you know. You told me to stay put. I didn’t listen.”

“I should have never expected that of you. Not when he had your mother.”

“Well, she turned out to be just about as great as most of my parental figures. At least you and Talia didn’t sell me out to the Joker. In all truth, I know I had it good, Bruce. I guess I just got greedy.”

“Don’t. You deserved the world—a good mother, a happy home, food and books and toys and friends and anything you wanted. I wanted to be the best I could be for you, and if that meant finding you someone that was linked by blood, then I was ready for it. You were a child, Jason. It was the adults that failed. Not you.”

“Geez, old man.”

“I’d still give you the world, but right now, let’s settle on getting Sparrow back.”

They pull up to the stadium, security system fried to let them in the underground parking lot. The field, though the most eye-catching spot, is empty. The stands, the normal seats, don’t hold any person or box that could lead them. The black boxes have no one in them. The announcer stand is a dead end, too. The concrete that encircles the stadium, where the vendors set up to sell food and badly-made bears and better-made hats, is silent.

Jason regroups with Bruce at the entrance they came from. “Nightwing, can you confirm if you have found anything?” Bruce directs the question into his comm.

“Negative, Batman. Besides Batwoman, who I’ve filled in.” There’s a slight thread of disapproval in Dick’s voice, but he doesn’t get into it.

“There’s nothing at the stadium, either. Get to Amusement Mile—start your search at the old carnival. Check the surrounding parks, then the theater, then the old courthouse. Jason and I will start with the doll factory, then check the destroyed school, and then the courthouse. We’ll meet up wherever he’s found. Nightwing, do not engage before alerting. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal. Batwoman will come as well. I’m sending Damian home.”

“Did he do something?” Jason asks.

“No, he’s been following orders excellently. But it’s almost three AM, and nothing good happens during the witching hour.”

“Get to Amusement Mile before sending off the old car.” Bruce says. “We’ll reconvene there. Batman, out.”

Jason also disconnects from his comm. They make their way back towards the car, with so much ground to cover, and he can’t help the crushing despair that filters into him by being wrong. He was wrong—the Joker almost certainly filled Tim’s ears with misleading information. There’s nowhere else where the history with the Joker could have started, unless it was before the Joker was who he was.

“Bruce, where did you first fight the Joker when he was the Red Hood?” Jason asks, hand on the car door. He can’t let it go, can’t accept that the Joker flat-out lied. That’s not how his games work—he likes red herrings, loopholes, hidden entrances. It’s no fun if the other party can’t join.

“At the old courthouse in Amusement Mile, which is why I haven’t ruled it out. He was attempting to steal a box of evidence that was being used to convict Falcone.” Bruce says. “At the time, I thought he worked for the man—I went over the list of known contacts with Falcone, but no dice. Now, I think he was planning to blackmail Falcone.”

Jason runs that over in his head. There’s reasons why each destination is liked by the Joker, and Bruce knows it. The carnival, in line with his theme, same as the doll factory. The surrounding parks, with their abandoned playsets, that set teeth on edge—same with a blown-up, half-standing classroom full of dusty desks. The theater, because life is a show, and because Bruce hates theaters and even the Joker can see that.

Bruce hates theaters.

“Bruce! It’s the theater.”

“The Amusement Mile theater? What makes you so sure?”

“No—the Park Row theater, The Monarch Theater,” Jason says it quickly, like it’s tumbling out of him. “The Joker knows who I am—which means he knows Batman is Bruce Wayne. Everyone knows your whole story. But, but! When the Joker had me, it brought him a sick sort of satisfaction to make me share everything. And I thought it’d buy me time, back then, so I did. So,” Jason pauses for a breath. “So, he knows that you and I also met in that alley, right across the way from the theater.”

“That has nothing to do with the Joker, though.”

“No, it doesn’t. But he said where it all started, not where he started. He’s the type to believe that all the bad that’s going on was festering beneath the city before he ever showed his ugly face.”

“We were wrong about the stadium.”

“I don’t think we were. The thing is, the thing you could never have known, was where I met Sparrow.” That cold night, her yelling at the car, the way he really wanted to put a bullet in that creep’s head. How she stumbled out and away in front of the theater, while Jason sat on the roof across the street, right above the alley where he met Bruce, where it all began. “It was right in front of that old theater. And if the Joker threatened her like he did me, she’d speak. If only to get a little bit more time. And if I was the Joker, and I found out that there was an even better place to tie us all together, I’d turn out of this stadium—or Ace Chemicals—in a heartbeat. Wouldn’t you?”

“We need to check the west-side entrances.” Bruce says. “There’d be tiremarks if he made a quick getaway, and if he came from the Gotham entertainment center, he wouldn’t have come through the north entrance, he’d come from either the western or southwestern entrance. I’m not going to leave Nightwing and Batwoman scouring Amusement Mile alone without some evidence.”

“But you’ve got to see that it makes sense! It’s the place that set you on your path of becoming Batman, me becoming Robin, her becoming Sparrow. It’s too perfect!”

“Exactly.”

But when they check the west entrance, the gate is down, the concrete is cold, and Jason’s manic energy fades some—he couldn’t be wrong a second time, could he? They’ll never make it in time to Sabrina if they have to check an entire section of the city. The Joker must have left them something, right?

The southwestern entrance’s gate is demolished. It looks like someone drove a van through the metal, none too kindly for their vehicle or the stadium. Jason spots tire tracks, and when they get out, even Bruce can’t deny they’re fresh. He stares at them for a moment, before reaching out to Nightwing. “Nightwing, report.”

“We’ve just got to the carnival. I don’t see any cars, but he’s not going to make it that easy on us. We’ve got a drone from Oracle looking high, while we tackle low. I’ll let you know what we’ve found. Have you made it to the factory?”

“No. We’re stopping somewhere else first.”

“In Amusement Mile?”

“Crime Alley.” Bruce and Jason slide back into the car. Otisburg sits to the west of Crime Alley, borders it, really. “Keep me updated.”

“Heard. Nightwing out.”

The drive is silent. Jason gets the feeling that Bruce doesn’t want to go down this particular memory lane, and unlike Jason, doesn’t find comfort in words to take his mind from it. They pull into the alley, right across from the theater. It’s dead quiet, and the city still hasn’t fixed the broken or flickering lights. The witching hour, as Dick would call it, is well into swing. The air is charged.

They go through a side entrance. The front doors are covered in graffiti and chains, too loud and rusted to go through easily. The side door is stuck to its hinges as well, but Bruce gives a good push, and only the smallest of sounds—the door grating against the carpet below it—echoes. They slip in and pause, listen.

There’s no footsteps, no men patrolling. If the Joker has any goons working for him, he didn’t call on them for tonight. Jason knows he’s expecting to be back in Arkham before daybreak, another generation ruined.

Stalking through the theater, Jason and Bruce take the rooms on opposite sides, pressing their ears to the door to see if they hear anything. Theater Eleven, Jason puts his ear to the wood, and he hears laughter. Not the kind of full-belly, tears-in-the-eyes, goodness a comedy inspires. No, the Joker cackle. He looks towards Bruce, who creeps closer. “Each showroom has a reel room. I’ll go in there, and you come in from the front door. He won’t expect me with you. Buy me some time to figure out how to get Sp—” Bruce’s word are cut off.

A gunshot, loud, jarring, and so out of place.

Jason’s inside in the room before Bruce has a chance to even grab him. He’s disoriented, like the chamber was fired right next to his head, ears ringing, heart too fast, and there, in the middle of the theater—Sabrina.

There’s a small part of him that wonders if the Joker pulled out the chairs to be more dramatic, or if vandalism created his stage. He definitely put the light that hangs bright and intensifies the scene; Sabrina, sprawled on the ground, smoking gun clutched between her white-knuckled hands, and the Joker, spread chest to the sky over a chair, not five feet away, hole red and damning over his heart.

Jason thinks, in another life, he might have stood and stared at the corpse. Felt some strange form of loss and elation seep through his bones, the realization that the boogeyman could not hurt him anymore. In this world, however, he spares the body no more a glance before rushing over to Sabrina. She’s shaking, and with a start, he realizes he is too. He was so scared to lose her. He pulls the gun from her hands and moves to cradle her. “I–I–he had a knife. He said–said—I didn’t know what to do,” Sabrina sobs.

“Shh. It’s okay. It’s over. You did the right thing, Sparrow. You did the right thing.” Jason tries his best to soothe her, but Sabrina keeps sobbing, frames wracking her body. He worries that she’s going to rip right out of her skin with how hard she’s shaking. “Take some deep breaths. It’s over, Sabrina. It’s over, breathe for me.”

Jason couldn’t tell you, in the moments that followed, where Batman was. What he was doing. Hell, the Joker himself could have got up and tap-danced away, and he wouldn’t have moved from his spot holding her. Eventually, the shakes and shudders subside enough for Jason to ask the most pressing question. “Are you injured? Can you stand?”

“I–I don’t know. I’m hurt.” Sabrina says. “He—he kept hitting me with this, this crowbar. It hurts so bad, Jay.”

“Okay, why don’t we get you in the Batmobile and get back to the Manor? Alfred is there, and he can look you over.” They’d go to Leslie’s, if it wasn’t Thursday. And Jason—Jason won’t do this to Tonya again.

“Alfred?”

“He’s part of the family. He knows how to patch people up.” Batman says, right next to Jason. He’s kneeled down, next to them, cowl on, but body open. The stance he’d use for victims. “Sparrow, can you tell me if you can move all your fingers and toes? Or if you feel cold anywhere?”

It takes a moment before she responds. “I can…I’m not cold, but it really hurts to move my left leg.”

“Thank you. Red Hood’s going to get you up, okay? He’s going to walk you to the Batmobile and after that, you won’t have to move until we get back to the Cave. But, he’s going to have to jostle you for that. It’s going to hurt.”

Sabrina nods. Her voice comes out tiny. “Okay.”

Jason waits until she sucks in a large breath before he tucks her into a bridal carry and lifts. She tenses, all over, and under her mask, Jason sees how fast her face loses blood. He moves slow and careful. He wants to run and have this part, the part where the adrenaline fades and leaves them to feel every ache, be over.

It’s only when he’s at the door to the theater that he turns to look at Bruce. “What about—”

“I’ve contacted Gordon. He’ll get it sorted.”

“Am I in trouble?” Sabrina asks. Her voice is unfocused, wobbly.

“No.” Jason says, before Bruce has a chance to say anything.

The night is welcoming when he slides Sabrina into the car. No one nearby to see how he puts her in, careful-like, and then stands at the door he’s closed and stares into the alley. The cursed alley. They should tear down the two buildings that reside next to it, and build something massive over it. Write it out of history. It takes a light touch on the shoulder from Bruce—his dad—to wake Jason from his thoughts. They get into the Batmobile. They drive home.

Tim is asleep when they get in. Which is all well and good, because Jason knows he doesn't have the bandwidth to deal with the tearful apologies the two teens are going to lob at each other when they’re both awake. Alfred takes Sabrina behind a closed curtain to help her get the suit off, all old practicality and clinical professionalism, and helps her get into an old pair of seats and a ratty t-shirt that Jason is pretty sure was once his.

Thad and Mikey are nowhere to be seen, but Alfred assures him that they are upstairs sleeping. He says nothing about how they took the news—well, how Mikey took the news. He has no idea what Alfred told him. What he knows, what he thinks, what Jason has to explain and beg forgiveness for.

Sabrina clutches his hand while Alfred sets the cast. A greenstick fracture, that if the Joker was allowed to continue, would have snapped fully. Probably into shards that would require surgery. She’s black and blue over her hands as well, but no cracks, and on her arms, shoulders, and ribs. Alfred gives her pain medicine that doubles as a sleeping aid. Jason stays until her breathing settles out, and then longer still, until he himself is drowsy.

Roused by Bruce, Jason blinks awake. Bruce has a hand under his arm, lifting him out of his seat, and Jason, incognizant, says, “Have I gotten too big to be carried to bed, B?”

“I thought I’d save you some dignity, but if you’d prefer,” There’s a moment of weightlessness, before Jason is righted in Bruce’s arms. It’s startling, and embarrassing, and Jason should have known better—this guy goes toe-to-toe with Bane and Killer Croc.

“No,” Jason says, but it lacks heat. They go up the elevator, and as they step through the library, a thought comes unbidden to his mind. “Hey, don’t put me in my old room.”

“You don’t want to sleep in your room?”

“It’s creepy. I’ll wake up and it’ll be like everything was a bad dream.” Jason’s breaking his words up through yawns, but he knows Bruce is getting the gist of it.

He falls asleep in a generic guest room. One of the few in the west wing, where the family stays. Only a few doors down from Bruce. It comforts him, knowing that in a few other of these rooms is his children, and just down the hall, is his dad.

Jason wakes up, disoriented, knowing he has overslept. Why hasn’t Mikey come pounding down his door to sign his agenda? Or Thad, crying to be fed? Why is the apartment so quiet? He’s halfway to the door by the time the plush carpet and twelve-foot high windows give him pause; the night before comes rushing back in.

Alfred must be taking care of the little ones. Good. Jason gets up anyway.

He hurries through getting his clothes on—a new set put at the foot of his bed, just a little too wide in the shoulders, so Jason knows they are Bruce’s—because his mind might say that his children are in good care, but his heart doesn’t give a fuck about that. After last night, he needs to confirm.

The Joker is dead. The thought comes unbidden and slams into the side of his head, and Jason actually stumbles a small bit from the shock. No more worries about the clown prince, and he hopes his nightmares decrease, and he’ll never get that tight chest-panic again when his phone or laptop blares the Arkham escape alarm. It’s over, but.

Jason recalls feeling frustrated that Brucce would revive the Joker, just so Nightwing wouldn’t have to face what he did, how he couldn’t understand why that life wasn’t worth his brother’s guilt. Watching Sabrina fall apart on the theater floor, he gets it now. He should have been quicker. He should have said no to her tagging along with Robin. He shouldn’t have allowed her out without him.

Sabrina’s world has shifted, and it is Jason’s fault.

He has to face the music. Answer her—and Mikey’s—questions. Beg forgiveness, be support. His hand is on the door when his phone rings. Bringing it up to his ear, he knows Talia’s on the other line, and says, “Hey, T, it is not a great time.”

“Damian has told me what occurred.” Jason hoped to get a day or two before he had to speak to Talia—any-murder-can-be-justified-mom—but no such luck. “Is Sabrina okay?”

“She’s alive.”

“And relatively uninjured?”

“Yes, she has a break in her leg. A bunch of bruises, but it could have been worse.” Jason knows just how much worse it could have been.

“Good. That’s good.” There’s a pause, and Jason lets it be, because it’s strange for Talia to trail off ever. “When Damian was six, my father sent him alone on a mission. Oh, he had a few League assassins with him, but when I say alone, I mean, without me. My father gave me no warning. I woke one morning to find that he had stolen away in the night, with no known direction to follow, and I waited. Two days. When Damian returned, he was covered in scrapes, and blood, but it was not his own.”

Jason bites his tongue, because he doesn’t have the time or care to hear this, but also can’t imagine starting up the argument that Damian’s early life was her fault. It sinks him in guilt, and he’s far enough in that hole.

“His eyes changed that day. Lost something, something I hadn’t seen in myself for so long and didn’t know Damian even possessed. It is a horrid burden to bear.” She almost sounds like she’s commiserating with Jason. “I feel as if I pushed you to allow Sabrina out into Gotham sooner than you wished. I pushed for her to be allowed to pursue this life. I pushed her training, suggested you to teach her lethal measures, and argued her freedom. I can’t help but to think that I have played a small measure in this.”

“Are you—apologizing?”

“Apologies are frivolous things. When people are truly sorry, they change their actions.” Talia says. “When Damian returned, that first time, I felt the sticky grief of guilt. I turned over what I might have done different, but, and here’s the truth of it, son—by nature of Damian’s birth, he would have always ended at the crossroads. I only hope that you won’t feel that weight as I did.”

“Sabrina isn’t Damian. She would have never got into this if it weren’t for me. We didn’t even—I didn’t even brace her for killing someone, not really. And for pain management? To suffer getting hurt? How could I be so stupid?”

“You thought you had longer to protect her. There’s no shame in that.”

“I was so scared, T. She could have been—the Joker could have killed her.”

“And yet, she was the one that came out triumphant.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?” He remembers being fifteen, months younger than Sabrina—who barely turned sixteen last month—and he couldn’t work up the nerve to do anything but wait for Batman to rescue him. The Joker, so big and bad built up by Batman, froze him. Sabrina’s head must be all over the place.

“You won’t know until you do. I have faith you will handle it well.”

“That makes one of us.” Jason says. “I have to go check on Sabrina. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Of course. If you need anything at all, for me to come up and help, please let me know.”

“Okay, yeah, sure. Thanks, T.”

He hangs up and makes his way downstairs. Once he hits the bottom flor, he can smell cooking. Alfred’s soft noises in the kitchen rawing him back to the heart fo the Manor. When he was younger, he would sit at the island while Alfred would cook and watch the way that Alfred would move like clockwork. It was always soothing. Jason would have chosen to eat there as well, if Alfred wouldn’t usher him and everyone else into the dining room for the proprietary of the meal.

Alfred is in his pressed suit, back to the door, standing over a few hot pots. He turns when Jason pads in. He’s got a sash on, and tucked inside it, squirming, is Thaddeus. “Ah, good morning, Master Jason.”

“Morning. I haven’t put Thad in one of those in a few months. Is he behaving for you?” Jason walks over. Usually, Alfred would shoo him out, but he just turns down the heat, and turns over.

“Well, he is a little big for it, but it keep my hands free. I assure you that he is comfortable. I just wanted to have a chance to hold him. He’s such a vibrant young boy.”

“Yeah, he’s great, isn’t he?” Jason puts his knuckle to Thad’s nose, watches the baby scrunch up his face, giggle. It eases something in him. “I’ve had him since he was born.”

“And did he come with his name?”

“Uh, no, I picked it. I hope you don’t mind.”

“My dear boy, I could never.” Alfred says, voice soft. “Would you like some tea?”

“I’d love some, but I’ve got to check on Sabrina and talk to Mikey. Speaking of, have you seen him?”

“He was shown to the library by Master Richard and Master Damian. I had spoken to him about it last night, as an incentive to come to the Manor with me.”

“What did you tell him? About, you know, everything?” Jason says, hesitating. It’ll help for him to frame his own conversation, but then again, Mikey could have taken it very poorly.

Alfred turns for a moment, to stir one of the pots—looks like oatmeal—before responding. “I spoke nothing of your night-time activities. I had to inform him of Master Wayne, which he was aware was in Gotham. I simply told him that Master Bruce was your father and that he was helping you locate Miss Sabrina. He was very worried for her, and wanted to stay home to welcome her once you had found her.”

“Has he had a chance to see her yet?” Jason asks. “Or, do you know if she’s awake yet?”

“She was not up when I went down into the Cave to deliver Master Bruce his breakfast. I do believe he is still down there, so we will be informed when she and Master Timothy do rouse.”

“Yeah, Tim’s not up.” Dick says, from the doorway. Jason didn’t hear him approaching. “Oh, also, knock-knock.”

“That doesn’t help when you’ve already spooked a year off my life, Dickwad.”

“Master Jason, there are impressionable young ears here.” Alfred scolds. Jason flushes, because no matter how old he gets, or tough, he can’t stand that disapproving tone or look.

“Sorry, Alfie.” Jason rubs the back of his neck. He’s the one to reprimand his kids, and now that he’s back in his childhood home, it’s like all that training has gone out the window. “Aren’t you supposed to be with Mikey and Damian right now?”

“I walked with them to the library, but then I peeled off to check on Tim and take a shower.”

“You left Mikey alone? With Damian?”

Perhaps it’s the tone, or maybe it’s Jason’s expression, but Dick winces. “Now that you’re saying it, I can see how that sounds. I mean, Damian loves you, so it’s not like he’s going to hurt Mikey, right?”

“Damian shows his love through acts of violence. I don’t think he understands the emotion, so he’d rather just stab someone than face it.”

“Good thing we have a doctor on-site?” Dick tries.

“I simply took field triage in my time of service, Master Dick.”

“Alright, yep, I’ll go check on them. Dick, try not to kill another one of my kids while I’m gone, that would be super helpful.”

“Does that mean I can’t hold Thaddeus? But you’re letting Alfred.”

“I am this child’s namesake, good boy.”

“Yeah, of course he can hold him—you, on the other hand, hold him with Alfred here.”

“I’m good with kids!” Dick argues. “I teach kid’s gymnastics.”

“What happened to the police gig?”

Dick’s face flashes with a myriad of emotions—surprise, confusion, and settles on guilt. His lip tugs at the corner, down, and Jason knows Dick’s not going to share whatever happened. It hurts, a sudden, unexpected wall between them. Alfred says, after a beat of silence, “There are always times of change. There is no shame in that.”

“‘Course not.” Jason hurries to agree. There’s a small sting in him, not being trusted, and he realizes that he was also dishing that out to Dick as well. He waves his arms for Alfred to hand over Thad. He comes, happy, reaching for Jason, who bounces him once and then, twice, before walking over to Dick at the island. He holds out Thad, and Dick’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Y’ever held a baby-baby, before?”

“Yeah, but, maybe remind me.”

“Well, you’re in luck, since Thad’s already got his neck control down. So you can either hold him like a baby-baby, but he’ll probably squirm, or you can hold him on your hip.” Jason transfers Thad over, and it takes a minute for Dick to find a good spot on his side, but then Thad kicks his legs and clings to Dick’s shirt, and he’s safe.

Dick grins down at Thad. “Aw, hello, Thad.” He coos. “I feel like I could be a stay-at-home dad.”

“One, that would require you to have a child. And two, you’d need to cook and clean.”

“I could cook and clean.”

“No,” Jason and Alfred start at the same time. Alfred continues. “Your strengths lie elsewhere, outside of the kitchen.”

“Far, far, outside of the kitchen. Now, really, I’m going to go check on the kids.” Jason says.

“Oh, Master Jason, when you do, will you let them know that breakfast is near ready?”

“Yeah, but I was going to talk to Mikey, if I could,” Jason trails off. He doesn’t want Alfred to think he’s skimping out on his first chance to taste Alfred’s cooking in this life.

“I find that a little food can make a difficult conversation easier.” Alfred says, and he’s not wrong. Jason nods and walks out the kitchen, towards the biggest library in the house. There’s a few small reading rooms on the second floor, and even one—if they still have it—nestled on the third floor that was Jason’s favorite.

He keeps an ear out for any screaming for help, but when he opens the mahogany doors to the library, Damian is sprawled along one of the chaises, book in hand, socked feet propped up on the armrest. He lowers the book when Jason comes in. “Yes?”

“Where’s Mikey?”

“I’m not your son’s keeper.” Damian sniffs. He’s pissed off, and he’s taking it out on Jason, for reasons unseen.

“Yeah, but Dick said he brought you and Mikey here. I thought he’d tell you where he went if he decided where he wandered off.”

“Well, Grayson clearly doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Are you—did Dick do something?” Damian’s got more vitriol in his voice than Jason’s heard in a few years.

“He does not trust me.” Damian says. “He does not like me.”

“Dick loves everyone, come on. Why wouldn’t he trust you?”

“He sent me home last night. When I was an asset. I could have helped—I did everything he asked, and it was still not good enough. Clearly, it is an emotional bias instead of anything grounded in logic.”

“Uh huh.” Jason moves over to the chaise, pushing Damian’s feet off of it, and sitting down. “And what reason would Dick have for this ‘emotional bias’?”

“Well, it’s clear that I am here as Father’s rightful heir. You have no interest in usurping me, and even Drake knows he is but tolerated, but Grayson was the first. The original. It is unsurprising that he feels replaced.”

“Dick’s been replaced like, three times at this point. He doesn’t take it personally anymore.” Jason says, grabbing Damian’s book, before he can block out everything Jason’s saying. “Also, I know him better than you, and I say you’re wrong.”

“Yes, because you are the epitome of empathy.”

“Big words, hot shot. Dick didn’t want you to get hurt—which everyone is liable to do when the Joker’s involved. He sent you home, because he had other backup, and cared enough about you to make sure you’re safe. Dick didn’t send you home because he doesn’t like you—he sent you home because he did.” Jason rolls his neck. “It’s called caring about your safety.”

“I can take care of myself.” Damian says. “I have done it for years, and I do not need him treating me like a child.”

“Damian,” Jason sighs. “You are a kid. Everyone here is going to treat you like it. Yeah, there’s downsides, but you’ve never looked at the advantages. No one is going to hurt you here, or punish you for not meeting the standards of a thousand-year old man, or send you by yourself out to the tundra to survive or die.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Sometimes you don’t—but it doesn’t mean it isn’t nice. Try luxury for once in your life, kid.” He dodges the kick that Damian half-heartedly threw at him. “Now, where did you hide Mikey’s body?”

“Tt. He’s down in the Cave. He wished to see Sparrow, so I pointed him in the right direction.”

“You let him go down into the Cave alone?” Jason asks.

“Of course not. Father is down there.”

“You let him go into the Cave with Bruce?” Jason stands up, and strides over to the clock. “What is with everyone in this house?”

He doesn’t hear whatever Damian has to say to that, because he has to go save Mikey from becoming Robin, as both the current Robin and Batman are down in the Cave with a lonely, do-good child. It’s quiet down the stairs, and maybe he should have taken the elevator, but it would ruin the element of surprise. When Jason hits the bottom step, he can hear a low murmur, but wherever whoever is, they are not near the computer.

Mikey and Damian are over near the suits—not Jason’s last suit, thank god, but the line-up. They’re standing in front of Barbara’s old suit. Jason watches them for a minute, across the Cave, just to see if he can tell what they’re talking about. Neither turn their face far enough that he can read their lips, so he clears his throat.

“I don’t think that suit’s gonna fit, Mikey.” Bruce turns, cool as a cucumber, but Mikey jumps and yelps a bit. It’s kind of funny, until he sees Jason, and his face goes hurt and closed-off. Shit. “What are you guys talking about?”

“Nothing that can’t wait.” Bruce says. “Does Alfred have breakfast ready?”

“Uh, yes, actually. I think he was making a full spread, by the looks of the kitchen.”

Bruce puts a hand on Mikey’s shoulder, moving him forward a little. “Sounds delicious. Mikey, why don’t you go up and get some food? We’ll be up soon enough.”

“O-okay, Mister Batman.” Mikey says.

“You can just call me Bruce. I’m not in costume right now.”

“Okay, Mister Bruce.”

When Mikey walks past him, Jason lets him go, but he does manage to work up the nerve to say, “Hey, after breakfast, do you want to talk for a bit?”

“Sure.” Mikey says it, slow and uncertain, but like he can’t say no. He can—Jason needs him to know he can—but he wants to explain. He doesn’t want the kid to think it was because of him. “Is Damian still up there?”

“Yeah, I forgot to tell him that breakfast was ready.”

Mikey nods and disappears up the stairs.

Jason waits a beat before he speaks to Bruce, just to give Mikey enough distance that if the conversation goes sour, he’s not there for it. “So what were you guys actually talking about?”

“I was sharing some of the history of the family. I thought a little more transparency would be helpful, so he knows the reason behind why you chose to keep everything secret.” Bruce says. So he was trying to help.

“And Barbie is part of that?”

“I decided the best place to start was why the Joker was as dangerous as he was. Batgirl and Robin have both been casualties, in one way, or another. Even children understand that. Would you rather I didn’t?”

“I…don’t know. I guess it matters how he takes it, cause I have no idea what I’m going to say to him. How’d you do this with Dick?” Jason’s own history dictated that he met Batman first, Bruce second. There was never any doubt to him on who the Caped Crusader was once he settled into the Manor. And Tim—well, if Tim’s to be believed, he figured it out before ever approaching Bruce. Which means Dick is the only kid that B had to have the conversation with.

“I imagine it was much more like Sparrow’s introduction to our world.” Bruce says, walking away from the cases. “Dick was attempting to solve the case of his parents’ murders, and I found him out and about one night. He had absconded from the Manor and I was unaware. He did a dangerous stunt, when caught, and knocked himself out. I took him back to the Cave to explain things.”

“So you chose to share? You didn’t get found out?”

“I realized Dick was going to continue on his path regardless of help. The best course of action was to be able to guide him and protect him.”

“Great, so you’re no help, either.” Jason doesn’t mean it, and he knows B knows he’s just grouchy and anxious—or maybe, they’ve fallen so far out of step with each other, and so Bruce can’t or won’t say anything that might drive that wedge deeper, so there’s no fear of an argument starting up. “Are the kids up?”

“Tim is still asleep. He has a habit of refusing to rest when he needs to, so when he does go under, it often takes longer for him to wake up.”

“Wonder where he gets that from.” Jason mutters.

“Sabrina woke about twenty minutes ago. Mikey went in to speak with her, though I cannot say what they talked about. I know there was no yelling.”

“You didn’t listen in on their conversation?”

“Every conversation in the Cave is recorded, by nature of the cameras, but I haven’t watched it yet, and I did not eavesdrop during it.”

Jason throws up his hands. “Great, I’ll just go in blind. Have you spoken with Sabrina this morning?”

“Briefly. I brought her some water, and made sure that her cast was settling properly. She was quiet.”

Frowning, Jason turns to the medbay. He’s made his bed—now he has to lie in it. “Kay, well, you can go up for breakfast, and I’ll come up in a bit. Let Mikey know, okay? I don’t want Dick to steal him away before I get a chance to speak with him.” Bruce nods, and stands still for a minute, making no move to go. Jason waits. “What’s up, old man?”

“I wanted to tell you—I’m glad you’re here, son.”

It’s simple, an open admission, but it warms the cracks of Jason and through them. “Yeah, well, we aren’t moving in, so don’t get used to it.”

“Of course not. Though, if you did want to move in—”

“I’m going to see Sabrina. I’ll bring her up, if she’s feeling up to it.”

Sabrina is sitting up in her bed, when Jason pokes his head in. She’s looking at her phone, which Bruce must have got for her last night, and looks up when he slides open the door. “Hey, you,” He says, so awkwardly. They both wince at it. “How are you feeling?”

“My leg hurts. But I broke it back when I was like, twelve, so it’s nothing new.”

“How’d you break it when you were twelve?”

“That’s when my mom started getting me into cheer tryout stuff. I tried to do this weird somersault thing off a beam, and slammed my leg into it. Needless to say, I did not get in that year.”

“Ouch.” Jason walks a bit closer. “And everything else?”

“I’m not really hurt too bad anywhere else.” Sabrina avoids the question.

“I’m glad, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I know last night must have been—terrifying, fucking awful—and I wanted to see what your thoughts were, what you were feeling. How you’re holding up.”

Sabrina stares off to the side a bit. Tim’s two cots over, curled up into an impossibly tiny ball, fast asleep. Jason could probably discharge in the room and not wake the kid up. “The Joker said, well, um, he said he was going to give me a smile. He pulled out at knife, and I was going to wait for you—I knew you’d come—but I freaked out. He wasn’t even going to kill me, and I completely lost my cool.”

“Sabrina. You were never trained to keep your head around the Rogues. There’s a reason why I don’t let you patrol when one’s loose.” Jason says. “They are full-scale crazy and all the scarier for it.”

“Yeah, but I messed up, I—”

“No,” Jason speaks with his whole chest. “You did not mess up. The Joker’s track record shows that even if that wasn’t going to be the moment he killed you, he would have killed you. You did the right thing.”

Sabrina looks down at her lap. She says, small and defeated, “Then, why do I feel so awful? Or, not awful? I keep waiting and waiting for the guilt, the horror, but I was just so scared, and now I’m not. Shouldn’t I feel bad?”

Jason pauses. He’s felt that way after killing as well, the adrenaline washes out, and there’s nothing left to it, but he’s also felt a soul-rending guilt with others. Talia would approve of what Sabrina is experiencing, and Bruce would be horrified. “There’s no right answer to that, kid. The Joker was a bad man, who hurt people. And I don’t think you should lose sleep over putting yourself before him. But I can understand the fear of not feeling what you think you should, afterwards, what it might say about you. For what it’s worth, to me, you’re still a hero.”

“Every vigilante is a hero to someone,” She says, harkening back to one of their first conversations. She sobers after the light joke. “I don’t want to go back out there, right now. I don’t think my mind is right for it.”

“Okay. You don’t ever have to put on a suit again, if you don’t want to.”

“Could I—could I talk to Ms. Laughlin about this?” Sabrina’s therapist, who is in the same practice as Wiendhall.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Jason admits. He didn’t vet their practice for how they feel about vigilantes, or any ties to the caped community. “But, I can talk to Dick and B and see if they know of any caped therapists?”

“I’d have to start over?”

“To talk about Sparrow, yeah. I know it’s rough. It’s one of the downsides, having to be careful with who knows what.”

“Do you think there’s someone who would be able to help? And know about Sparrow and all that?”

“Well, I’m not saying anyone in my family does therapy, but some superheroes do, that’s for sure. Superman? Really big proponent of mental health, surprisingly.” Jason says. “So, I can try to get in touch with him if no one here knows anybody.”

“Get in touch with Superman? How?”

“Well, B has his number. I’d just filch it from his phone.”

“Right, Batman. He’s—not going to arrest me, right?”

“For what?” Jason says, then hurries on, before the conversation can get dark. “One, he can’t arrest anyone, just get them to the police, and two, I’d pick us all up and move to New York before I’d let him have any of you.”

“I don’t know,” Sabrina hedges. “Mikey seemed pretty starstruck.”

Sabrina wants to wait until Tim gets up to come up to the Manor, so after they finish having their conversation, he trudges up the stairs alone. He follows his nose, and his memories, back to the dining room. The plates are being cleared, but Alfred clears his throat when he comes in. “Ah, Master Jason, I have put a plate for you in the oven to keep it warm. Perhaps you would like to eat it while Master Michael and I do the dishes?”

“It’s Mikey.” Mikey says, but he ducks his head, embarrassed and gleeful about it.

“Oh, I can help with the dishes, if you want, Alfie.” He doesn’t want his kids to feel like they have to chores around here. They don’t live here.

“Master Mikey,” Alfred hides a small smile, one that Jason only sees because he knows to look for it, “actually insisted on helping.”

“Okay, I can eat.”

“Where’s Sabrina? Is Tim up?” Dick talks around his food, graceless, mannerless, plate still loaded. Alfred takes a few plates into the kitchen while Jason slides into a seat across from his brother.

“Tim’s still dead to the world—metaphorically, at least.” Jason says. “Sabrina was going to wait for him to wake up before she leaves the Cave.”

Dick nods. Damian is nowhere to be seen, but he’s always been a fast eater. And slow to want to talk around a table. Bruce sits at the head, sipping coffee, with some bacon and toast in front of him, newspaper over his knee. Alfred sets a plate down—full of eggs and bacon and waffles—and bustles off to the kitchen. It’s so starkly from his childhood that all at once he feels transported.

“Where’s Thad?” Jason asks, desperate to feel like his current self again.

“Bouncer in the kitchen.”

“Where did Alfred get a bouncer?”

Dick shrugs. “I’m always surprised by what he’s able to dig up out of the third floor. He grabbed it while we are all eating—he gave Thaddeus some berries and oatmeal, is that all right? Bruce pointed out that the kid might have allergies.”

“Nah, I’d have told him earlier if Thad had any.”

“Which was what Alfred thought.” Bruce says, looking away from his reading. “The bouncer was mine. Of course Alfred would have kept it in perfect condition.”

“Yours?” Jason says, shocked.

“Yes, believe it or not, I used to be a child as well.”

It’s strange to think of Bruce as anything but the imposing man that he is today, and was when Jason was younger—how much larger than life he is. It’s hard to think of him as small and fragile as Thad, bouncing happy in his seat, only a few feet from his parents or Alfred. Dick interrupts Jason’s musings, “Yeah, but I bet you had the Wayne scowl even as a baby. Oh! You’ve never shown us pictures.”

Jason lets them talk—doesn’t join in on needling Bruce for photos of when he was an infant. He bets it hurts to see Martha and Thomas in them, that B doesn’t even relate to the child he once was. Jason knows, because that’s how he feels when he looks at the photo of him and Bruce. He focuses on finishing his meal, unsettled by how much he relates to his father.

Mikey comes out of the kitchen about twenty minutes later, hands wrinkled and a bit of chocolate on his cheek. Alfred must have given him a cookie for the help, which means he really likes Mikey, since those are usually after-dinner specials.

Jason stands up. He won’t have this conversation with Bruce and Dick present, because he wants Mikey to feel comfortable. And, well, he wants to be comfortable.

The best place to do it is out on one of the many terraces, facing the back wall, with its high ivy and stone, where no paparazzi might see them and wonder. Jason’s very much not ready to face that particular music. The morning air is crisp, with the weak sunlight filtering down to them, almost clear of smog. He can see the clouds. Jason leaves the door open behind them, to let the warm air escape and keep them from freezing.

Mikey sits on one of the chairs at the small table outside, facing the distance, body closed off. He won’t start the conversation if Jason doesn’t. And Jason, well, he’s just aware of how young he is, because he feels woefully inadequate for this. Did Bruce ever feel this way with Jason?

“I know you must have questions.” Jason starts. He wants to leave it open for Mikey. “I just want you to know that I wanted to keep you safe.”

“Yeah, that’s what everyone says. Mister Bruce told me about how you got hurt by the Joker, and Mister Alfred says you really care about me, and Sabrina told me that you didn’t want her joining either, and I guess you were right, ‘cause now her leg is broken and she’s sad but won’t tell me why.” Mikey frowns, hard and with his whole face. “Everyone wants me to not be upset at you, ‘cause you were just trying to do the right thing, but you lied to me. That’s not right.”

“No, it’s not.” Jason agrees. “I’m sorry, Mikey.”

“But you lied for like, a year! Almost.” Eight months. “And I bet you would have kept lying if you hadn’t been caught. I could keep a secret. Why didn’t you trust me?”

“It’s not that I didn’t trust you, kid. I just know what it’s like to be so young, and know so much, and people come after that. It wouldn’t be fair if you got hurt just because I thought I could help. I wanted to take care of you, and Thad, and Sabrina, but I didn’t want you involved with this. I don’t know what Bruce told you, but I died, Mikey. Sabrina could have died. There are people out there that don’t care how old you are, or who you are, or how well you keep a secret. They are bad and just like to hurt others. I wanted to protect you.”

“I know that! I know there are bad people that kill others for no reason. I’m not stupid. My mom and dad—” Mikey stops. “I get why you didn’t tell Thad, because he’s too young. But Damian told me about T, and that means I was the only one to not know during Christmas. You kept not being there, and I didn’t know why, and then, Sabrina goes with you, and I’m alone with Lexi and Thad.”

“I didn’t want to make you feel alone.”

“But you did! You didn’t want to lie, but you did. You do all these things, and then apologize, like that makes it all better.”

“It doesn’t. I know it doesn’t.” Jason sighs. “Sometimes, adults suck. We get it wrong, even when we try our best. I thought it would keep you safe to not know, but it just made you feel like you weren’t in the loop.”

“Yeah. It’s like you liked Sabrina more than me the moment she came through the door. Like I didn’t matter.”

“Mikey, of course you matter. You matter so, so much to me.”

“Why didn’t you trust me?”

“I trust you, I do.” Jason says. “It wasn’t about trust. When I—came back, I wished a lot of things. I wished I never met Bruce. I wished I had listened to him better. I wished, most of all, that he didn’t involve me, a kid, in his Batman stuff. And I never wanted to involve another kid, ever, not even another Robin. So, when I met you, and you needed help, I made that choice for you.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have. It’s not like I want to go out and be a superhero.”

“You don’t?”

Mikey shakes his head, hard. “No, I want to go to college.”

“You can go to college. You can do anything you want, but I don’t have it in me to not warn you when I think it’s dangerous.”

“You think college is dangerous?”

Jason shrugs. “Not that I know of, I haven’t been. But I mean things like superhero stuff.”

“Then warn me. Don’t just—don’t not tell me. Don’t lie to me.”

“You’re right. You deserve a say, but you also deserve to be a kid. Some of the stuff that I go through, it isn’t for kids.” Guns, murder, the League.

Mikey shrugs. “Okay.”

“I want to make it better, though. Spend more time with you, be more open. Would you like that?”

And Mikey dips his head in a nod, and Jason thinks about how neither of them yelled, and then, he gets to believe that this will actually be okay.

Sabrina ends up seeing Dinah, who apparently has her license, and likes to help out. It’s good, because it means that he can take her to someone who knows Gotham. Sparrow’s costume gets hung up, and he doesn’t see it get taken down for the rest of spring, but that’s okay. Better than okay, but Jason still can’t stomach why it is the way it is.

He also takes Mikey to Dinah. She knows how to reach children, and explain some vigilante stuff that he doesn’t know how to navigate. Sometimes, he gets to sit in. He’s surprised how much he learns.

He’s more surprised that the recommendation comes from Bruce, who apparently has been seeing Dinah for a year. He can’t help but wonder what they talk about.

Summer rolls in slow and sweet. It’s near time for Thad’s first birthday. The rest of the family is in full frenzy to make it memorable—for them, if not for the baby himself. Jason conceded to let it happen at the Manor. He’s seen the guest list, and while Thad won’t remember it, Mikey’s going to go out of his mind with excitement. Starfire, Superman, Wonderwoman, Green Arrow and Black Canary all made the list. Talia’s also invited. Maybe they won’t show up, though.

Jason knows that’s wishful thinking. Bruce and Dick probably told everyone who the kid’s dad was.

Damian’s taken a moniker, not Robin, not yet. But he sticks to the shadows as a Black Bat. He follows Tim around Gotham. Jason would be worried, if he didn’t know the look in the kid’s eyes, which speaks of a trainee learning from a trainer. Apparently Damian and Spoiler do not get along, and that endears him heavily to Tim, since the breakup flares up hot and mean sometimes.

Tim still comes to training, even with Sabrina sitting it out. They spend the first few weeks on the mats, until Jason realizes that the only things that Tim doesn’t know are things that Bruce would flip his lid if Jason taught. Then, it’s the skies and the trains and crannies where they can shove pizza or Thai food into their faces. The kid’s funny, in a dry wit kind of way. He catches Tim calling him brother, once, and he flushes so red, Jason can’t help but laugh and tease him mercilessly. Jason’s favorite nickname for him is now, ‘my little brother’, with whoever will listen. He’s pretty sure Tim actually loves it.

Jason finds out why Dick quit the police force. It’s the first big fight they have—and Bruce, as well—because he hunts down Flores and puts her in the ground. They find out a week later, because Jason wasn’t trying to cover his tracks, and just like he thought, they both felt betrayed. Even if he never promised to change totally. There’s a month of screams and broken equipment, and then apologies on both sides, and Jason takes his guns and makes them only accessible in the truly dire situations, not because the scum doesn’t deserve his wrath. It’s because he deserves his family. And they deserve him, and that’s a divide that will never be crossed, never be agreed upon.

Flores totally fucking deserved it, though.

Jason whistles while he sets up the picnic table he’s at. He’s not slinking around, trying to be quiet or unseen, and even used his comm to signal he needs Batman. It’ll be maybe three or four minutes before Bruce arrives. He spends a lot of time around the Gotham financial district, just because so many muggings happen around here.

Sure enough, the Bat descends into the park about twenty feet away from Jason. He walks over, slowly, making sure there is no trap that Jason can’t warn him about.

“Hood, what do you need?”

“A break, really.” Jason says. He’s in a relatively good mood, his plan for the night going accordingly. “I thought you might want to eat with me. Remember when we used to eat lunch out here?”

“Yes. You enjoyed reading in the park.”

“Yeah, I did. But I really liked when you’d come down from Wayne Tower and spend some time with me. You’d act like a dad, and I got to just be your kid, and it was nice.” Jason pushes the Batburger towards the other side of the table. He sits, waits for Bruce to do so as well. “I thought it would be good for us to start it back up.”

“I’d like that.” Bruce says, takes a fry. The only time Jason would see B eat fast food was with him, more a treat for Jason than for Bruce himself.

“Me too.” Jason digs into his burger, messy ketchup falling onto the wrapper, and a pickle sliding out. They aren’t at Alfred’s table. “Did I tell you about Sabrina’s summer school teacher?”

And they sit, and they talk, and that broken part in Jason that says he will never get his dad back slowly, slowly mends. The night is warm and they’ve been here before, and surely, they will be here again.