Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason hits the ground with a grunt, a sharp pain emanating from his shoulder as he lands awkwardly. The first things he registers are the stale air and the mixed scent of blood and urine before he’s up, hand grasping the hilt of his dagger.

There’s a kid in a Robin suit, curled up on the ground, bleeding from various cuts and bruises. The walls are littered with pictures, headlines taunting with news of Batman and Robin. It looks eerily similar to when he’d been given the news of Tim Drake by Talia. But at the same time, he doesn’t remember being in a cell like this at any point in his life.

If this isn’t a hallucination…

Jason moves forward carefully, nudging the kid carefully with a foot. Robins have always been slightly feral when hurt. Case in point, himself. So whether Drake will jump up and attack him is in question, and he has no desire to go to a clinic for a rabies shot.

The kid groans, moving with Jason’s foot as he flops open, revealing armor and a costume that looks extremely different from the one he knows Drake to be wearing. It also gives Jason a glimpse at the kid’s face.

He freezes, sound rushing from his ears as he studies the features of a teenage Jason Todd.

Immediately, his eyes dart to the wall of pictures, reading quickly. Something within him twists in—dismay, uneasiness, fury. He knows better than to discount this as some clone of his, as some plot of the Joker’s.

While he hasn’t been on the trail of anyone with dimensional powers, he’s well aware that they might be on his trail. Considering his lineage as a member of the All-Caste, it’s likely that someone might’ve gotten it in their minds to do something about his presence before he can disrupt any plans of theirs. Why they might choose to send him to an alternate universe rather than kill him is a question that can be answered later when he returns to his home universe.

He sheathes his kris, crouching down to his alternate self, a careful hand reaching out. The mere touch of the kid’s shoulder has Robin groaning again, muscles spasming.

“Shit,” he swears as he finally takes in the extent of the injuries.

He can see burns, scars in the shape of barbed wire, scabbed-over wounds that look as though they’d come from a drill. Morbidly, he wonders if this is what might’ve happened to him if he hadn’t been tortured and blown up on the same day. If he had survived the Joker because the kid looks older than he had been when he died.

“You alive, kid?”

Robin (he can’t think of the kid as Jason right now. He just can’t) cracks a hazy eye open, the baby blue stark against the pale and emaciated skin. He bares his teeth, too. He’s practically snarling as he slurs with visible effort, “Fuck you.”

Spitfire. Probably got him those scars.

Jason catalogues the scars again, frowning deeply as he realizes that the injuries don’t add up for a short period of torture.

“How long have you been here?” he asks.

The kid just glares as best he can.

Jason takes another look around the room, lingering on the walls of newspaper clippings again. He remembers his own universe. Six months dead, and there’s a new kid in his suit. He wonders if that’s what happened here, too.

It’d take a sick, twisted person to do any of this, and he has an inkling of an idea about just who is behind all this.

“Alright,” he says then, voice tightly controlled so he doesn’t scare the kid. “I think I get the picture.”

That seems to get a reaction from the kid because Robin twists a little and spits, “No, you don’t.” Blood drips down the kid’s lips from where he’s gnawed away at the flesh. Any sort of enraged energy he has disappears soon after as his head drops down and his cheek touches the tile flooring.

Jason doesn’t respond to that. The kid has a point. He doesn’t understand what the kid’s going through, what he’s been going through.

Instead, he says, “If I try to help you, are you going to bite me?”

Robin’s eyes narrow. “No.”

Lie. Definitely a lie.

“Right.” Jason takes a seat for a moment.

He can’t ignore this, not that he wants to. The thought of leaving any version of himself, especially a younger one, at the mercy of the Joker for however long is too much for him to properly stomach. The anger he thinks he’s nearly lost in the aftermath of the confrontation between him, Joker, and Batman is flaring up right now.

Even in another universe, he can’t catch a break.

He needs the kid’s cooperation. He knows himself.

If Robin doesn’t want to go with him, the kid will be kicking and screaming and biting and generally being a pain in the ass. Not something desirable when Jason doesn’t know if Joker is here or if there are guards. He’ll have his hands full trying to sneak around with an injured Robin on his back without the kid fighting against him.

As for what happens after, when he finds a way back to his universe, he’ll figure it out.

For now, he needs to get some basic trust.

“Kid, I don’t know what you want, but I’m getting you out.”

Christ, Jason hopes Robin wants to get out. He’s definitely not equipped to deal with someone suffering from Stockholm’s. And he doesn’t think he can stay in this universe long enough to try to even tangle with that sort of thing.

“Not a kid,” Robin hisses. “I’m seventeen.”

Two years younger. Seventeen. Definitely a kid. Hell, Jason still thinks of himself as just a kid sometimes when he gets a little too much in his head about his missing time. Still older than him when he had died though.

“Who are you?” the kid continues, confusion seeping into his voice.

“Good Samaritan,” Jason replies. “Call me—Red.”

He can’t use his name here. It’ll be a little awkward, and he doesn’t want to have to deal with the kid’s suspicious looks at the name. He’s not even wearing his helmet right now, having been caught off guard. At the very least, he’s grateful that he still has a domino mask on. Once Robin starts healing and stops being confused, those detective skills will kick in, and Jason isn’t wanting to deal with having to explain his issues.

Robin gives him a disbelieving look anyways.

“Look, you can be suspicious all you want, but I’m getting you out,” he repeats himself.

“I don’t even know you,” Robin says, wheezing a little. “Why?”

Because someone should, Jason thinks. Because I will lose it if it happens again. Because you’re me, and I can’t—I can’t accept that this is what every single one of us faces.

“Because you’re a kid,” he tells him instead. “Doesn’t matter if you’re Robin or not. I’d do the same for any kid caught here.”

Robin’s eyes waver. His face scrunches up, and he takes in a shuddering breath.

Jason’s getting there. There’s a spark in the kid’s eyes now. Not anger or fear. Something a little like hope.

“I know you don’t trust me,” Jason says. “Hell, I wouldn’t trust me either if I was in your position. But if there’s anything that you can trust about me, it’s that I want you out of here. No kid should be in your position, you know that.”

Robin swallows, eyes blinking rapidly. “Yeah,” he whispers hoarsely.

“I can knock you out, drag you out of here, but I figure you want to make that decision yourself. You have to make the decision.”

If the kid disagrees with him, Jason will just knock him out. It’ll be a little harder with a lump of limp limbs, but he’s getting Robin out of here even if it kills him.

The kid swallows again, and his voice cracks. “Please.”

Jason nods in relief, getting up. “Okay. I’m going to pick you up.”

Robin stares for another moment before he nods, taking a deep breath. He looks like he’s bracing himself for more pain or betrayal.

He forces himself not to linger on that thought, sliding his hands underneath Robin’s bony figure and absently noting how thin and light the teen is. The kid feels hotter than he’s supposed to be. He cradles the broken bird to his chest, slow and methodical as he casts his gaze around the room for the exit.

Robin doesn’t make a single sound. It’s not a happy observation.

Jason strides over to the door, shifting Robin for a moment to grasp the doorknob. He keeps up a soothing murmur of what he’s doing, feeling the kid relax minutely.

“He’s not here,” Robin mumbles. “Broke out.”

He stills. “Who’s not here, kid?”

Robin’s blue eyes blink slowly at him. “Joker,” he says as if Jason should already know.

Jason has to take a sharp inhale to prevent himself from doing or saying something rash. He already had the idea that this is all the work of the Joker, but it’s another thing to have it confirmed.

“Okay,” he acknowledges after a moment.

An ugly thought occurs to him now that Robin has given him enough information. There’s only one place that the Joker breaks out of in the first place, and he doesn’t think that will change even in a different universe.

“Any guards out here that I should know about?”

Robin makes as if to shake his head but then stops, hissing. The kid’s forehead presses against Jason’s shirt and jacket. “Deathstroke.”

Jason takes another deep breath.

Okay. He can do this. He’ll just have to kill Deathstroke. It might be a bit difficult and time-consuming if it’s a head-on confrontation, but the mercenary doesn’t know that he’s here. He’s an unknown.

Even Deathstroke will have to die if he gets a bullet to the head when he’s not expecting it.

“Any other guards?”

Robin shakes his head into Jason’s shirt. “No,” he mumbles.

Is it just sloppy work, or is there just enough confidence that Robin won’t be able to escape Deathstroke?

It doesn’t matter. It just means Jason will only have to deal with Deathstroke and then somehow get himself and Robin out of Arkham.

He can do this. He has to do this.

“Tell me, kid,” Jason says lightly, hoping to distract the kid even just minutely. He steps out into the abandoned hallway, grimly noting how familiar everything is. He has plenty of experience walking in and out of Arkham, courtesy of his stint as Robin.

Even if this Arkham Asylum is completely different from his universe’s, it has to be similar enough that he can find his way out without too much trouble.

“How long you been working the suit?”

Robin is silent for a moment before he shifts slightly. A bitten back hiss sounds. “One.”

“Year?” Jason guesses even as he starts making his way towards where he suspects is a more populated area of the asylum.

The kid makes a noise of affirmation.

It’s a shorter time than Jason had as Robin. He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

Robin tilts his head back to watch the ceiling and tenses.

“I’m not taking you to anyone,” Jason reassures immediately. “The only ways I know how to get out of here are closer to the incarceration section. No one will see you.”

“Promise?” Robin’s voice is small, quiet. The voice of a child.

Something within Jason rages at it.

He remembers being headstrong and full of bravado when he’d been Robin, delighted with the responsibility given to him. He remembers hiding away insecurities and stubbornly trying to prove that he didn’t need anyone to back him up. He remembers thinking that if he ever got in trouble, Batman would be there to back him up. He remembers a crowbar and a bomb.

“On my mother’s grave,” he swears.

There’s the sound of his shirt shifting before Robin’s head leans against his chest, fully limp.

The terrifying Red Hood—bane of Gotham’s scum, crime lord, assassin, All-Caste member, internationally-wanted criminal—nearly has a heart attack. Then he realizes the kid is still breathing, chest rising and falling in shallow movements.

Robin is unconscious, and Jason can’t blame his alternate self. The poor kid looks exhausted, and he’ll have to do some research while he’s still in this universe to figure out how long the Joker had him. He doesn’t think it’s a few weeks.

He remembers the dried blood splattered on the walls of Robin’s prison, the injuries and scars and that fucking brand on the kid’s skin, the despair in the eyes of someone who is a teenaged version of himself.

He doesn’t think it’s a few months either.

Chapter Text

The convenient thing about Gotham, no matter the universe it seems, is the fact that Jason can just show up at some ratty apartment with an unconscious kid on his back and the guy taking the money won’t even bat an eye.

It probably bodes ill that no one is looking at him with eyes calling him out as a kidnapper.

But he’s willing to bet on Gothamites generally sticking to their own business; the fact that he and—Jay look a little too similar to be anything other than family after he’s peeled the domino mask from his face; and Jay being covered up by his jacket and bulk. He has no excuse for the no shoes, but no one seems to be asking questions so he figures he’s good on that front.

The point is that he’s got himself and Jay some shitty apartment in Gotham, and that is the most secure he’s felt since showing up unexpectedly in this universe. Which isn’t saying a lot considering it’s been pretty much all of less than a day. But he’s flying by the seat of his pants right now, and it’s the thought that counts.

The commotion at Arkham will probably hold Batman’s attention for at least a week if he’s lucky. A few days if he’s not. He’s usually not. He doesn’t expect the man to be hunting him or Jay down when it seems he’s already got Robin 3.0 laying down the law, but it’s the principle of the matter.

On the very unlikely, extremely slim chance that Batman is looking for his missing bird, he’s not going to be thinking that an alternate version of Jason Todd has kidnapped him and is currently living it up in a shitty apartment in Gotham proper. Hell, Jason won’t be thinking something like that if he’s in Batman’s shoes.

“Gonna go get you some meds,” Jason tells the unconscious kid on the bed. “Don’t wake up.”

Which kind of sounds like he’s wishing for the kid to die, but mostly he just means don’t wake up and freak out and run away. Because that is most definitely not what he did when he woke up choking in a Lazarus Pit with Talia shouting at him to run before her dad caught and executed him for defiling one of his precious Pits.

Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell is he doing? What the hell is he thinking?

Still, he shuffles out of the apartment and, instead of roaming the streets for a drug store like a normal person, climbs straight to the rooftop.

When he’d gotten the kid out of the asylum, he’d caught a glimpse of the city’s skyline. It had looked familiar but different. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it then, but at the time, he’d been more concerned about hightailing it out of there as the sirens at Arkham wailed behind them.

Now, he realizes the discrepancy. Like having the furniture in his safehouses moved by a few centimeters. Just enough that he knows this isn’t his Gotham but not enough to say that this is a different city altogether.

It’s unsettling as well as comforting, having that reminder that this isn’t his universe.

He needs to figure out Gotham again. Just like he had when he first came back as the Red Hood. Only this time, it’ll be because this is a new Gotham, not because he’d been dead and gone for several years.

And as he’s thinking about that, Jason starts to realize how much of an undertaking that will be.

He had Talia and her connections with the League before.

Now? He’s penniless, information-less, and essentially walking around blind about mob and gang territories. And that’s not even mentioning being able to keep track of Batman and his associates.

Shit, he’s not even sure if this Batman even has other sidekicks. He’s nearly certain that the current Robin is Robin 3.0 because Dick had been the one to come up with the sidekick gig and name. Not Jason.

But what about Barbara? Is she Oracle here? Or Batgirl still? Or maybe she’s not even involved?

Then there’s his universe’s menagerie thing that Bruce has got going on. That veritable zoo he’s got now with the arrival of Lady Shiva’s daughter and his own son with Talia. Then there’s that other girl, too—Spoiler.

There’s just too much information that he doesn’t know.

In contrast, the things he seems to know are quite simple: the Jason of this universe has been the captive of the Joker for however long, there’s someone running around in Robin’s name and suit, and he’s going to be utterly screwed if he doesn’t come up with a way to get cash and the lowdown on everything.

So the first thing on the agenda, the first step to getting the money and materials to somehow build a device that will allow him to return to his universe is obviously—

Jason grins sharply as he stares out at this strange Gotham’s skyline.

“Wonder if Black Mask is up for round two.”

Jason comes back to the apartment with meds, supplies, and takeout from the nearest and cheapest soup restaurant he can find.

He had some trouble with directions, but he got there in the end. It turns out that phones from one universe don’t survive being punted across universes or work with universe-centric satellites.

In completely unrelated news, an upstanding Samaritan who thought he looked like an easy mark graciously and generously offered him their cell phone. The man had also given him directions to the nearest drug store when he had asked. In return for this kindhearted charity, Jason had only given him a bruised shoulder and a warning.

So Jason’s in a good mood when he enters the apartment. That quickly disappears when he finds Jay crawling on the ground, inching forward with a single-mindedness that he almost wants to applaud. That’s the same single-mindedness he had when he went around the world learning from the worst of the best and then killing the even worse ones once their usefulness proved useless.

He probably shouldn’t feel so proud at the similarity.

For a moment, he considers just watching Jay go wherever the hell it is that the kid wants to go. But then he remembers the injuries and sighs.

He places the stolen phone and the not-stolen food and supplies on the counter.

Then he takes a seat next to Jay’s still-moving body. “So what’s the plan?” he asks brightly, causing the kid to pause and blink in sudden recognition of his presence. “You gonna crawl your way down to the street and then get run over by a car?”

Jay’s face morphs into a scowl. He mutters something sullen and incomprehensible that Jason is pretty sure will get the prim and proper elites of Gotham faint-hearted.

“Because let me tell you,” Jason continues, ignoring the kid, “that is the best plan I’ve ever heard. It’s even better than that one time Condiment King tried to rob a bank with nothing but squirt guns.”

The kid’s expression scrunches up as he stares at Jason. “What kind of name is Condiment King?”

What kind of—okay, Condiment King doesn’t exist in this universe. Or maybe he hasn’t shown up yet.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jason dismisses quickly. “What matters is that your plan is stupid.”

Jay doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks up at Jason and seems to consider him.

Jason lets him, getting to his knees to drag the bag of soup down to the floor between them. He flattens the sides of the bag down to reveal the container, prying the lid open. The smell of onion soup wafts from it.

“But I’ll give you that stubbornness to get going. So how about we start on that by getting some food in you?”

Jay’s eyes fall on the container before he meets Jason’s gaze once more, this time with narrowed eyes. There’s something churning in the kid’s mind.

He keeps himself relaxed. It occurs to him that he should probably pick Jay up into some sort of seated position instead of leaving him on the floor like this, but he’s not certain he won’t be bitten still.

Well, if Jay won’t ask, he’s not going to do anything.

Instead, his own stomach growls, and he ignores the kid to pick up one of the plastic spoons and feeds himself. Having to deal with Jay and the escape from Arkham hasn’t exactly filled him up with energy.

After a few bites, he hears Jay shift a little. Then, in a sullen voice: “Gimme a spoon.”

Jason flicks the other spoon into the kid’s face, which snarls at him for a moment.

“Don’t overfeed yourself,” Jason says. “I don’t know if you’ve been starved, but you should know what to do if you have. You should have that much self-control.”

Jay pulls himself up slowly and without wincing despite the injuries on him. His hand shakes a little as he dips his spoon into the soup, but right before Jason’s gaze, it smooths out. There’s an admirable amount of effort there to conceal his weaknesses.

If only Jason isn’t already aware.

Jason keeps his eyes away from the kid, focusing on the spoon in his own hand like he’s not listening to the quiet sniffle that happens soon after. He doesn’t imagine Jay had some good food in his captivity, and even with this being cheap food, it’ll probably be leagues better than anything he’d eaten in a while.

Eventually, Jay’s spoon smacks onto the floor, and Jason looks up to lunge forward, narrowly missing the container as he catches the kid with an arm.

“Jesus, kid,” he says, checking the fluttering eyelids and hazy eyes. “If you were tired, you could’ve told me.”

Jay mumbles something that probably isn’t anything particularly nice. He looks a little feverish now, which isn’t much of a surprise considering how hot he had felt at Arkham. It’s apparent that Jay’s been holding on for as long as he can to a clear mind up until he got some food in him.

Whatever trust between them is paper-thin, assuming there’s been any trust in the first place. For all Jason knows, Jay had only made the decision to ask for help because there was no other choice.

He’s in way over his head with Jay.

“Come on,” Jason says, adjusting himself and Jay so that he can get to his feet while carrying the kid. “Bedtime.”

Jay doesn’t exactly burrow into his arms, but he doesn’t not do that either.

And maybe the fever, food, or whatever else is making Jay a bit more vulnerable because as Jason tries to leave him in bed, the kid resists, hands clenched tight on his jacket. He peers hazy but focused eyes at Jason.

“Are you going to give me back to him?” Jay asks.

Jason doesn’t think Jay is talking about Joker, but it’s still a relief when the kid continues with a clarification.

“Batman.”

The thought had occurred to Jason earlier when he’d been out and actually thinking about his next moves.

He can just hand the kid off to Batman, wash his hands of the whole ordeal, and really focus on how to return to his home universe. But even as he had thought about it, the idea had sat wrong with him. Especially after his last confrontation with the man—with him, Bruce, and Joker in the same room and an ultimatum that had ended with Jason slinking away in extinguished hope, enraged despair, and numb emptiness.

Can he handle handing Jay over to Bruce, even the Bruce of a different universe?

Is it worse to have been killed and then later replaced while his killer remains on the loose, or to have been alive for it all and have Robin 3.0 shoved into his face by his torturer?

Jason doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to know.

But despite it all, some of his most treasured days had been as Robin, living with Bruce and enjoying the fact that his future wasn’t an unstable mess of struggling to survive on the streets.

So even as he resists the idea violently in his mind, Jason asks with a measured voice, “Do you want me to?”

Jay slumps into him, turning his face into his shirt. “No,” he rasps, choked emotions coming clear through his voice.

Jason’s arm snakes slowly across Jay’s shoulders, pressing him closer to his body. He remembers wanting comfort like this, wanting someone to hold him after his nightmares and fears. He remembers wanting Bruce.

There’s a hitch in Jay’s breathing. His thin, too-bony shoulders shake.

“He didn’t come for me,” Jay chokes out between wretched silent tears. His fingers are still caught in Jason’s jacket, tight and unwilling to let go. Even then, his fingers tremble, feeling much too hot for Jason’s liking.

Fuck, Jason thinks wholeheartedly, finding the words echoing so many of his previous thoughts—a coffin, the apparent months of roaming Gotham catatonic, a Pit, a batarang to the throat.

“He—he didn’t…”

“I know,” Jason manages to say past the lump in his throat.

“Why is it you?”

“I know,” he says again and then, “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry that it’s me. I’m sorry you lost your faith like this. I’m sorry it wasn’t him.

He holds Jay a little tighter and tells himself that it’s just for the kid.

By the time Jay manages to sink into an uneasy, feverish sleep, Jason’s feeling all sorts of exhausted and emotionally drained. He’s cleaned the wounds and bandaged them up before getting Jay in cleaner clothes, but the ordeal leaves Jason silently seething at the myriad of ways Jay’s been hurt.

He’s a little sorry that Deathstroke had died so simply.

Jason drops onto the couch in the living room, mentally cataloging the items he has on him and how much money he has left. He’ll have to start with the smaller gangs first, steal their money before he can move onto the next big thing. Then he’ll get a bigger and cleaner place for him and Jay because there’s no way Jay will be recovering in this shitty apartment.

He pulls out the stolen phone, ready to exhaust himself by spending the entire night researching the differences between the two universes.

The first thing he looks up is Bruce Wayne.

Everything seems to be the same there. Parents dead, recluse, coming back to the limelight years later in his late twenties around the same time Batman starts showing up. This Bruce seems to be less in on the ditzy public persona than his, ramping up his philanthropist tendencies and being much more serious about it.

Dick Grayson being much older than a pint-sized nine-year-old when he’s taken in is a bit of a surprise, but not too much since it seems that he still became Robin. There are a few good years of the press hungering for conflict between the two. A brief mention of a romance with Barbara Gordon so she exists here and is most definitely a vigilante. Then Dick goes off to Bludhaven as the tabloids speculate on some falling out between the couple as well as Bruce.

Following Dick’s tabloid presence to Bludhaven reveals what Jason’s already suspected—Nightwing.

He comes back to Bruce taking in Jay, which the press has an absolute field day about. Rumors of replacing Dick, an empty nest. Then the ones of Jay being from the streets and having a criminal record. Gossip about Jay being more of a charity case than the one before him.

Then Jay disappears from the public. Stony silence from Bruce Wayne. The only news is that Jay is studying abroad.

Jason pauses at that article, looks at the date, and nearly cracks the phone’s screen.

He’s right. It isn’t months. It’s at least a year.

Jay had said that he was seventeen now. His disappearance from the news puts him at around sixteen.

Jason’s going to murder someone. Joker definitely. Bruce a solid maybe, bordering on yes.

A whole year, maybe more, and no one could find Jay? In Arkham no less?

That cements it. Even if Jay had been wanting to go back to Bruce earlier, Jason won’t ever let him go back. Not on his watch. He’ll set Jay up with some type of trust fund with the money he’s about to collect from the crime lords in this Gotham. He’ll ship the kid off to Europe if he has to.

Bruce doesn’t deserve Jay.

Then, as he’s quietly raging about Bruce in his mind, he slips into the next article, and all thoughts of murder halt abruptly.

Holy fuck. Is that Drake? Why is he bald?

And why the fuck is he older than Jason?

Chapter Text

The symbol of the Batman shining against the cloudy night sky of Gotham is a common sight these days compared to the years when Batman was considered myth and an enemy of GCPD. So when the Bat-Signal lights up the night, Batman isn’t surprised. A little tired but not surprised.

He quietly climbs to the rooftop of GCPD, watching as Gordon smokes a cigarette while the man waits for his presence. He takes the moment to examine Gordon’s body language to see if today’s agenda is bad in the normal sense or bad.

Smoking is already a strike for the latter as Barbara has been very vocal about her attempts to get her father to quit smoking. The tense shoulders beneath the trench coat are another strike. There’s no way to see Gordon’s expression without revealing himself, but Batman already gets the idea just from those two things—this is bad.

“What’s the situation?”

Gordon flinches, nearly dropping his cigarette before he turns to look up and at Batman perched on top of the rooftop exit. “Sometimes I think you take pleasure in scaring me like this,” the man comments with little amusement.

Batman doesn’t respond, though the answer is yes. It’s the little things in life, especially after…

He tears himself away from that thought before it can get too far. “What’s the situation?” he repeats, unfurling and dropping down to come stand in front of the police commissioner.

“You’ve heard about the commotion at Arkham,” Gordon says, not a doubt in his voice.

“I heard enough.”

It’s all the news could speculate about—a contingent of GCPD patrol and SWAT vehicles speeding off to Arkham Asylum. An unidentified body had been found, sending the asylum into a frenzy. Details had been sparse.

“We’ve identified the body,” Gordon informs him grimly.

“Who is it?”

“Slade Wilson.”

Batman has to take a moment to digest that name. After their initial encounter and the man’s subsequent breakout, Slade Wilson had stayed away from Gotham. The last Batman heard of him, he had been making a name for himself as one of the deadliest and best mercenaries in the business. To hear that the body found in Arkham Asylum is Slade Wilson is a surprise. He hasn’t been aware that Slade has even been in Gotham.

“Deathstroke,” he states in confirmation.

Gordon nods, taking an inhale of his cigarette and blowing the smoke to the side. “His DNA is in the system from the last time he was caught in this city. It came up as a match for our John Doe. And considering who he is, I figured you’d want to know. He’s not the sort of guy GCPD is equipped to handle anyways, especially now that he’s dead.”

“I’ll take over from here,” Batman agrees. “Anything else?”

“Arkham’s already cleared for you to head over,” Gordon replies, dropping his cigarette and grinding its flame out with his boot. He sighs. “The cameras were scrambled so no footage was retrieved. All we know is that he wasn’t there one second and the next, his body shows up pinned to the wall. With his own sword at that.”

“He was stabbed to death?”

“No. He was shot in the head. I don’t think he was expecting it.”

Someone got the drop on Deathstroke then. His murderer is skilled. Batman might not have encountered Deathstroke since the mercenary’s breakout, but he knows that a man like Slade Wilson won’t be taken down by run-of-the-mill assassins. It’s even more telling that he had been caught off-guard.

“Robin will verify the remains,” he says, already rummaging through his mental list of assassins and mercenaries for the murderer. Maybe one of them had taken on a contract. Or maybe a new player has joined the ring. “If your men have found any of his other equipment—”

“We’ll hand them over,” Gordon interrupts with mild exasperation. “We’ve been working together for years. Give us some credit.”

Batman acquiesces with silence.

Gordon looks out at the city. “I don’t like to jinx myself, but I really hope his death isn’t the start of something.”

He quietly agrees, but he doesn’t vocalize his answer because he’s already taken the chance to stealthily disappear from GCPD’s rooftop. Disappearing without anyone noticing is also something that takes the edge off the exhaustion, even with the lingering thought that Jason should be here alongside him, grinning wide with joyful glee.

“Robin,” he says into his communicator as he perches on one of the numerous gargoyles littered on the GCPD building.

There’s a slight pause before there’s a click in the channel. “Robin here.”

“You’re needed at the GCPD morgue.”

Another pause. “Okay. What should I expect?”

“Slade Wilson. Investigate and verify that it’s him and collect whatever he had on him.”

“Slade Wilson… Wait, that’s—that’s Deathstroke, right? He’s dead?” Robin’s voice is incredulous. “Seriously?”

“Robin.”

“Sorry. It’s just… Wow, that’s not news I was expecting. He was the John Doe at Arkham?”

“That depends on your verification,” Batman says. “But the commissioner seems positive it’s him.”

“So then, who killed him and why?”

There’s another click. “I think the even bigger question is: what was he doing at Arkham in the first place?” Batgirl points out.

“That,” he says, staring out at the sleeping city and remembering Gordon’s last words, “is a very good question.”

Slade Wilson’s murder is a bundle of questions, most of it revolving around why. Why was he killed? Why was he in Arkham? Why did the killer pin him against the wall? Why did the killer announce that but not their presence? Why keep their identity secret when many will pay Deathstroke’s killer for grander contracts?

This case is bringing up contradictions before there’s even any evidence to be found, and Batman can already foresee the headache that will erupt because of this.

Examining the place Deathstroke had been pinned up has revealed nothing other than the fact that he hadn’t been killed at that location. He had been dragged from the primary scene—where he had been shot and killed.

It’s a mark for the idea that the killer wanted Deathstroke’s body to be found. But it doesn’t make sense, just like every piece of information he’s been given. The killer has made sure to scrub any evidence of their identity, which is the opposite of what one wants when trying to build their reputation in the international sphere.

Batman might be tempted to declare this as some sort of revenge-killing, but it doesn’t have the hallmarks of an avenger. There’s no emotion, no passion to this crime. Typically, avengers want to get up close and personal, to see their victim realize their identity and why they’ve been targeted. Yet, according to Gordon, Deathstroke hadn’t known his killer was there.

That has the markings of a contract assassination. It’s a professional stance.

There’s something he’s missing, but he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to figure it out from this crime scene. This might just turn into an unsolved mystery, buried in his cold files.

The primary location of the crime scene has the same characteristics as the secondary location—devoid of any identifying evidence save for a small pool of dried blood. Whoever the killer is, they really don’t want anyone to know of their identity.

Batman raises his gaze to stare deeper into the asylum. None of this makes any sense. Deathstroke’s killer should have come from outside of the asylum, infiltrating the halls and dodging patrols to get to the mercenary. Yet something tells him that the killer had come from inside, not outside.

Why, he thinks again, had Deathstroke been found inside an asylum in a city he’s been away from for nearly a decade?

The answer, when it comes to mercenaries, is almost always a contract. So what contract had Deathstroke been on? What would lead him to come to Arkham Asylum and die for it?

A Rogue could have hired him to break them out, but no breakout within the last decade had any mention of his presence, whether physically or by word of mouth. And honestly, while Batman doesn’t profess to fully understanding his Rogues, he understands enough about them to know that none of them will hire mercenaries when they can just do it themselves. There’s a sort of pride in his Rogues about breaking out of the prisons they’re kept in and resurfacing a week or two later in Gotham.

So another potential answer comes to him. Deathstroke hadn’t been here to break someone out; perhaps he’d been here to keep someone in.

Before he can fully explore that thought, a click in his comms brings him back to reality.

“Batman,” Robin says, and his voice is grim.

“The body?”

“GCPD was right. It’s him.”

“Anything of interest from his equipment?”

“No fingerprints from our killer. I’m gonna go out on a limb and say they didn’t leave anything behind for you to find either.”

“No,” Batman confirms, stepping past the crime scene to stride deeper into the asylum. “They were professional.”

“So are we thinking they’ve left Gotham or…”

“We assume they haven’t,” he says as he comes to a stop in front of a dead-end hallway. He narrows his eyes as he scans the area. There are a couple of cleaning supplies—a mop, a broom, a bucket—alongside a metal cabinet pressed up against the wall.

“Great,” Robin mutters. “Because unknown assassins lurking about the city is a comforting thought. Anything else you need me to do while I’m still here at GCPD?”

“No,” he answers. “Return to the Cave and begin researching on a timeline for his latest appearances.”

“Understood. I’ll see you when you get back then.” A quiet click indicates that Robin has turned off his mic, leaving Batman in the solitude of his own mind once more.

He directs his gaze towards the metal cabinet. It might be a normal fixture for storing cleaning chemicals, but it’s odd that it’s been placed down what is essentially a deserted hallway. He comes to stand in front of it. The cabinet is locked, but that’s not much of a problem as he quickly picks the lock.

The doors open to reveal an ordinary sight—to someone that is taking a cursory glance perhaps. There’s a panel cut into the back of the cabinet, large enough to fit a grown man. Its handle is obscured and hidden by clutter.

Batman sweeps everything out of the cabinet and pushes the panel open. It swings forward to reveal not a hidden room, as he assumes, but rather an empty, dimly lit hallway. This is an area he’s never seen before, whether in person or on the maps he’s downloaded of the asylum. This is an entirely new area that he’s somehow missed.

He steps through, eyes flickering about for any signs of danger. But there’s none. No guards. No sound. Nothing. It’s eerie how quiet and deserted it seems to be.

Doors line the hallway. Nearly all are open to rooms reminiscent of those that Arkham has for the less criminal of its inhabitants. It seems to be, for all intents and purposes, an abandoned wing—one hidden behind a panel of a random cabinet in an obscure hallway.

One, if Batman thinks correctly, that was guarded by a well-known mercenary.

The more he investigates this, the more he finds himself dreading and disliking this series of events.

The door at the end of the hallway, the only one closed, has him hesitating briefly before he pushes past it. The smell of blood and urine hits, but his attention is caught by the far wall—a wall of newspaper clippings, he realizes as he comes closer to investigate it.

Dread continues to pool within him, like a dripping faucet unable to be fixed. Each and every clipping centers around Batman and Robin. In a different place, this wall might be the wall of a fan obsessively keeping track of Gotham’s vigilantes, but this area is not a different place. This is Arkham Asylum, where many of his worst Rogues have gathered for rehabilitation and containment.

There’s a thought in his mind that he desperately doesn’t want to think about. It niggles at his brain, causing him a dizziness that he has to take a slow, calming breath to stop.

Please, he thinks, not knowing exactly what he’s begging for.

Except, as he turns around, the angle of the room, the scene, hits him with staggering familiarity. The knowledge that he knows this room strikes him so hard that his breath is lost.

Because he’s seen this room so many times. On the computer screen in the Cave as he obsesses over it. In his dreams as he watches in horror and grief and useless fury. As a hallucination as he suffers from Scarecrow’s Fear Toxin and Gas.

“Jason.” The name slips from his lips without his input, grief-stricken and strangled.

Finally—finally, he’s found where Jason’s been kept. It’s months late and without a child to save, but he’s finally found it.

Parts of him are shattering all over again, overwhelming grief surfacing from where he’s stashed it in an attempt to ignore it, to pretend to be okay like everyone wants him to be. It feels like he’s lost Jason for the second time as he stands in this room, much too late to do anything but wallow in his inadequacy.

He stares at this room, tracing every crack and bloodstain as he imagines Jason waiting, bleeding, hoping, despairing, dying on this very floor.

And then, as a very small part of his rational mind struggles to surface from the tides of grief, he registers that Deathstroke must’ve been guarding this room. An empty room.

Slade Wilson is dead. His killer had likely come from the inside, not outside. And he had been guarding an empty room.

An empty room that once held Jason Todd.

Batman’s mind comes alive, and for the first time in months, he hopes.

Chapter Text

The first thing he feels when he wakes is the ever-present pain that’s accompanied him since Joker has taken him. It begins, like always, with the tingle in his right leg where it’s been repeatedly snapped from all the times he’s tried to escape. Then the tenderness of the burns on his arms. The ache of his ribs as his lungs heave to get air. Hunger is a distant feeling—he was fed at some point, it seems. He also doesn’t feel cold.

It’s like a little checklist he has to go through, cataloging what’s new, what’s not, what’s about to be healed, what really isn’t. Despite its origins, the routine is comforting in an unwelcome way.

The ceiling is new. As is the blanket over him. And the bed underneath his body.

Jason calmly inhales and exhales, counting them.

Okay. He’s been in a situation like this before. When Joker had decided he’d had enough of the same old, boring torture and thought to spice things up by pretending that they were some sort of fucked up family.

He just has to…get through this. Like always, until Joker gets bored and throws him back into that cell. And then he can be alone again. With the blurry pictures of Robin and Batman staring at him. Judging him. Taunting him. Forgetting him.

His breathing quickens, but he forces himself to calm down as he sits up, the blanket sliding off. He realizes that his clothes are, well, not new, but certainly newer than anything he’s been given in a while. His wounds seem to have been attended to as well, considering the bandages around his arms and the slight itchiness of his torso.

The room he’s been given is clean in comparison to his cell. The furniture is sparse with just the bed, a chair, and a dresser. There’s a window, locked probably. He doesn’t have the strength to pry it open, and smashing the glass will alert his captor, assuming he can even break it.

He carefully stands to explore his new space but doesn’t get far when his leg buckles and he’s crashing down loudly and painfully.

Well, Jason thinks as he struggles to sit up, there goes that.

The door opens before he even hears footsteps, and there, standing in the doorway, is a stranger. A familiar stranger.

“Figures you wouldn’t obediently stay in bed,” Red says tiredly, bringing a hand up to rub at his face.

Jason stays silent, staring at the man. His memory is a little shot, most likely due to being sick, but he distinctly remembers the man before him asking him if he wanted to get out of Arkham and then a tight warm hug.

“C’mon, let’s see if you did anything to make things worse,” Red says, striding over and crouching down next to him.

Red’s eyes seem more focused on examining his injuries, so Jason takes the time to try to piece together what’s happening. He’d been in his cell. A man had appeared. The man, calling himself ‘Red’, offered to take him out of there. He remembers thinking with dark, delirious humor that his mind is such an unfunny thing, coming up with a hallucination of some random person rescuing him. Now, he’s here, wherever here is.

Good things don’t happen to him. And if they do, there’s always, always a catch.

His parents treated him kindly when they wanted him to get their next fix. For a large part of his childhood, he had thought he wasn’t a good enough kid for them, that he had to work to be treated kindly. Then he learned that when he was born, they had wanted to sell him off to the Falcones to settle their debt.

Bruce had taken him in to be Robin, fill in for Dick who had spread his wings and flown far from the nest. For a good while, he had thought that he and Bruce could’ve been more. When Bruce had shown him the adoption papers, he’d thought that maybe he mattered, that maybe this would be someone who wouldn’t let him down. A father, maybe, once he got the courage to think of him like that.

Where had that gotten him? Left behind, tortured, replaced, abandoned.

Bruce wanted a Robin, only a Robin. Jason had just been mistaken, he understands now.

Who is Red? Some random person who stumbled upon his cell and rescued him? Past Deathstroke twice? Who is this person who did what Batman wouldn’t?

“Well, your leg looks alright,” Red mutters, looking up into Jason’s gaze. His eyes are teal, more blue than green. He looks too familiar, enough that Jason’s trying to place where he knows this man, but his memories of pain and desolation are more present than the ones from before. “So long as you don’t keep trying to walk on it.”

Red’s not acting out his concern, at least from what Jason can tell. He’s gotten used to figuring out the thresholds for Joker’s henchmen and the criteria that Joker picks them. The kinder ones get killed pretty immediately. And yeah, there’s a bit of darkness that seems to cloak the way Red had practically ghosted over to him—the power, confidence, and threat radiating off him—but it’s not Joker’s brand of darkness.

Still, Jason’s never been known to rely solely on thoughts. “You’re a terrible Joker goon.”

“I should fucking hope so considering I’m not his goon,” Red responds without even missing a beat. He scoops Jason up, putting him close to where Jason can just bare teeth and rip into the man’s throat.

He’s done it, too, on unsuspecting goons. They learned quickly after that.

“You up for a shower?” Red asks, walking them out of the bedroom into a warmly lit, short hallway before veering into the door on their left and revealing a bathroom. “Because you kind of need one.”

Jason eyes the bathtub before looking back at Red, who raises an eyebrow at him. Eventually, he nods because he does feel like he needs one. He’s used to the feeling of not being clean but with a shower right in front of him, the feeling is quickly turning into disgust for his current state. Whatever he needs to understand and work out will be done after he gets clean.

Red lets him down slowly, gently, and for a moment, Jason clings to him as he adjusts to his weight. An arm helps steady him.

“I’ll get a chair,” Red says once Jason’s standing in the tub. “And clothes. Don’t fall again.” He disappears before returning just as quickly, tossing a towel onto the nearby cabinet. “If you need anything just knock on the door.”

Jason watches as the man retreats, closing the door behind him, before he turns his attention to the shower. He doesn’t use the chair.

The person in the mirror looks nothing like he remembers. His shoulders are thin, muscles having been lost. His reddish pink face, rubbed nearly raw, is a little gaunt, cheekbones poking out. He looks tiny in the fresh clothes, practically swimming in the hoodie. He looks weak, like a child.

The first thing that grabs his attention is, of course, the brand. The urge to reach up and peel it from his face in a bloody mess is overwhelming. He doesn’t do it, but the dark impulse is there, lurking as he stares at the letter scarring his face.

The second is his eyes. Flinty and cold like steel, they look as though he’s never seen happiness. The blue of the sky has disappeared into the blue of ocean depths. No longer bright, but murky and dark, foreboding and angry. He can’t imagine these eyes being those of Robin.

There’s someone in the mirror, and it isn’t him.

An ugly feeling rises the longer he stares at the stranger, and he raises a fist into the steamy air. Only, he stops as the familiarity of that person in the mirror finally clicks in.

Oh, he thinks dumbly, wanting to laugh or scream.

He knows why Red’s face has been nagging at his brain now. Because if he squints a little, sharpens parts of his face, fills it out some more, and imagines that his eyes are greener than they are, he sees someone in his place.

Jason lingers on the theories of clone, shapeshifter, and Clayface for a fraction of a second before tossing them out the window. Why would anyone do that to him? He doesn’t have any use at this point.

Willis and Cathy Todd had never spoken of any extended family. That doesn’t mean there isn’t any. It’s just such a coincidence that Jason would have family out there that found and rescued him. Not to mention that family member being highly skilled if he can get past Deathstroke twice, one of those times with Jason in tow. A coincidence but not an impossibility. There are weirder things out in the world.

He leaves the bathroom, limping his way through a somewhat spacious living room to an open kitchen and dining room. Red is already seated at the table, eyes focused on his phone as he flicks through it with a furrowed expression.

Jason takes a seat, and he knows that Red has noticed him because the man’s teal eyes have flickered up and back down to his phone. But there’s silence between them. He considers what to say first.

Are you a long-lost family member seems a bit much considering Red hasn’t said anything about it yet. And who are you to me is too broad.

“What do you want from me?” he asks in compromise.

Red puts down the phone, and just briefly, before the screen darkens, Jason sees an upside-down photo of a blurry Batgirl. “Nothing.”

Liar, he thinks.

“Everybody wants something,” Jason says. “You can’t just say you saved me from Arkham for nothing. Did someone pay you?”

He doesn’t think about the tiny expectation within him.

The way Red looks at him is indecipherable. “I didn’t save you because I wanted something from you. And no one paid me either,” he eventually replies with an even tone. There’s something tightly controlled in his voice. “I saved you because I could. Because leaving you there would’ve made me worse than the monster that put you there. And contrary to certain other people’s beliefs, I’m not a monster.”

There’s history in Red’s words, a reference to something.

“Then what do you want with me now? What are you going to do with me?”

“That depends entirely on you.”

Jason stares.

Thankfully, Red continues so he doesn’t have to ask. “Personally, I’d rather just send you away from Gotham. There might be a place in the Himalayas that’ll take you. They helped me when I was…when I was dealing with things.”

More history that Jason disregards. “You mean a place that will train me,” he says flatly because a place that helped someone like Red won’t be some pacifist organization.

“No,” Red says with a frown. “A place that’ll protect you.” He pauses and reluctantly adds, grimacing, “But yes, the moment they see you, they’ll most likely want to train you. And I can see you agreeing to it.” He sighs. “I don’t know anywhere else that would keep you safe on my word.”

He shouldn’t take everything this man says at face value. Still, even if what Red is saying is true… “Why do I have to leave?” he asks quietly as he presses the rage down into that dark place.

“You need space. Distance.”

His breath comes in quick as he struggles to keep that anger from exploding. It’s hard because the person before him isn’t the Joker, and he hates that he has that thought. He remembers being able to control himself, anger being a cold thing instead of this hot lava scorching his insides the more he tries to keep himself calm.

“I don’t need space,” he snarls. “I don’t need distance! I need—”

Joker’s body at my feet, Jason doesn’t say. His corpse cremated and dumped into some unmarked grave.

“I need to stay,” he says instead of expanding on the very small idea that’s slowly gathering steam in the corners of his mind. “In Gotham. This is my home. You’re not sending me away like some—some child.”

“I never said I was going to send you away,” Red replies. His lips are pressed tightly together. “I just know a little about how much it hurts, about what you went through. Your head’s a mess right now. You need some time away from Gotham so you can figure things out. To not do something stupid—”

“I’m not you!” Jason practically screams, the fury breaking away from his control, and he watches with glaring eyes as Red stills. The rage bubbles into his throat, turning his voice into a growl as he rises from his seat to tower over Red. “You don’t know anything about me so stop pretending like you care.”

Red stares up at him, something dark in his eyes. “Robin,” he states, and Jason flinches, “Jason Todd. Batman, Bruce Wayne. Nightwing, Dick Grayson. I don’t need to know everything, but I think I have enough pieces of the puzzle to put it all together.”

Breathe, Jason tells himself as his chest refuses to suck in air. He already had the inkling of an idea that Red might know his identity. Maybe Red’s telling the truth about saving anyone who was in that cell, but the fact that the two of them look so similar tells him that there might be another aspect to his rescue.

Many people have put together Batman and Bruce Wayne before. They’ve always been thrown off the trail. But there are also some who have stuck to that conviction, laughed at by the rest of the city. Vicki Vale, notably for one, though she’s been less likely to confront Bruce about it.

If Red really is his biological family, it makes sense that he would’ve kept an eye on him once news of Bruce taking him in as a ward reached the front pages. Considering his capabilities, it won’t be a far stretch to assume that it isn’t difficult for Red to connect Gotham’s vigilantes to Bruce, Dick, and Jason. Probably even Barbara considering Red’s phone earlier.

Who had Red been there for? Jason Todd or Robin? Or had the man just coincidentally stumbled upon him in the abandoned wing?

Jason doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to know the answer. It’s enough that he’s out now. “So, you know that,” he says, heart thumping loudly in his ears as the revelation of his identity being known cools his fury. “Then you should also know that Batman replaced me. That he abandoned me.”

“You want revenge.” Red’s words are flat. His voice isn’t incredulous or disbelieving. He says the sentence like it’s the natural order of things, like he’s been expecting this.

His fingers curl into fists, sharp nails digging into the soft flesh of his palms. “I want him dead.”

There’s no horrified gasp, no surprised blink, no twitch of astonishment. Jason is convinced there should be. Robin, even one who isn’t really Robin anymore, of all people, is saying that he wants to kill Batman. Not even some random person off the streets, a villain or a Rogue. Batman.

But all the reaction Red shows is an odd smile. “I figured.”

Jason stares. The reaction feels like a letdown somehow, deflating him entirely. He’d been ready to argue why. Now, he’s a little confused. “You don’t think it’s wrong?”

“I don’t.”

“Are you a villain?” he asks, already halfway to believing it. The only people who seem to be okay with Batman dying nowadays, or at least before his capture, are usually the Rogues and the criminals they bust. Most of the civilian population of Gotham seem to idolize Batman, and even GCPD has made it a rule to no longer shoot Batman on sight.

Batman, for all intents and purposes, is something of a symbol for Gotham now. An unbreakable, unkillable one.

“Some might see it that way,” Red answers with a shrug, unbothered by the question. He grins sharply, but there’s no amusement in his expression. “Pretty sure I’m registered as a crime lord.”

A crime lord for a family member. Considering how young Red looks, only a few years older than Jason, he must’ve been introduced to crime extremely young. No one shoots up to the position of crime lord at a young age unless they’re in a hereditary crime family and have been groomed to take over.

If either Willis or Cathy had been part of some crime family, they wouldn’t have stooped to trying to sell him off to the Falcones.

So, Red must’ve worked his way through the ranks, gained some experience before he either struck it out on his own or took over. Neither option indicates a nice, blood-free takeover.

As Robin, Jason should condemn him. It’s what he’s been trained against.

Criminals should be taken in to face the law, Bruce had often told him with steadfast and unwavering conviction. For someone who fought constantly against Gotham’s corruption, Bruce had a lot of trust in the system.

There’s blood on Jason’s hands now. Sure, it might’ve been under duress and would probably be called self-defense, but he’d still picked up the gun Joker had tossed at him and shot the goons beating him up. He hadn’t felt much about it. He wonders what Bruce would say about him now, and what he would say about the fact that Jason’s related to a crime lord, the very people Batman goes after.

He settles down into his seat once more and doesn’t think about it. “In Gotham?”

“Not yet,” Red says, leaning back in his chair, and the way he looks at this moment—sharp, relaxed, mean—jolts some of Jason’s memories from where they’ve disappeared. “I’m looking to make an investment into the crime scene here, put some order into the underworld. Won’t be too hard.”

Jason traces the features of Willis Todd on Red’s face and wonders how it took this long for him to figure it out. There’s no sign of Cathy on Red. His memories of the two are blurry, hazy, but he remembers enough of their faces to put it together.

Had Willis’s first attempt at paying off his debts with a child worked? Is that why he tried with Jason? Because the first time, whichever crime family had agreed?

“Batman will stop you,” Jason warns, trying not to think of the implications of those questions.

Red smiles again, amused yet not at the same time. “He’ll try.”

“You’re not worried?”

Teal eyes observe him, the smile turning icy. “The Batman is a symbol,” Red says, and his voice relays cold fact rather than speculation. “But Bruce Wayne is just a man. A man who can fail.” His knowing gaze cuts deep into Jason. “I’m sure you’ve experienced that yourself.”

Jason doesn’t reel back or anything similar. He doesn’t react outwardly at all, but the words slam into his chest like a battering ram, leaving him silently breathless and nursing a hurt he thought he’d gotten over. Because the thing is that it didn’t begin with the Joker. No, he had realized long ago that Bruce’s focus would never be fully on him, no matter how hard the man tries.

Between Jason and a crazed plan from one of the Rogues, Bruce will always choose the latter.

Red watches him closely. “My offer still stands,” he says in the silence. “You could finish high school, then go to college, a university, far away from here. Get a degree in something like social work. English. Engineering, if you prefer that. You could live life away from him.”

There’s no clarification on who he is. There doesn’t need to be.

“No.” The word slips from his lips with the same tone Red had previously, but instead of a chill that comes from the truth, it’s a chill that emerges with his rage and despair. “No,” he repeats, eyes glaring at Red. “You don’t understand. I need him to pay. He doesn’t get to pretend that I don’t exist and not face the consequences for it. He doesn’t get to just abandon me and have nothing happen to him.”

“I understand plenty,” Red replies coolly, gaze dark. “I did my own little ultimatum with someone who didn’t avenge me. You wanna know what that got me?”

Jason pauses at the bitter humor in the man’s voice. “What?”

Red tilts his head up and to the side, pulling at the collar of his shirt and jacket. A thin scar rests on a part of his throat, lighter than the surrounding skin. “I was lucky to be alive.”

He stares at the pale scar. A blade had done that, he realizes. Something sharp and thin. Had it been something like a throwing knife? A thrown blade even? Or had someone gotten close to Red and done that? If it had nicked Red’s jugular, the man wouldn’t be sitting here with him today and talking about it so easily.

“I learned my lesson then,” Red continues, letting go of his clothes to turn an even look at him. There’s something bleak in his tone, resigned maybe. “I thought I mattered to him. I was wrong. You shouldn’t have to go through the same lesson.”

“I’m not you,” Jason says again, this time with more difficulty and against the lump in his throat. His voice is small.

Bruce—Batman doesn’t kill. It won’t ever get that far with him because Red hadn’t gone up against a vigilante who’s adamant about not killing. If anything, it means that Jason will be at the advantage since Batman will always hold back, limited by his morals. What happened to Red won’t happen to him.

“No,” Red agrees quietly but intensely, “you’re not, and you shouldn’t be. I won’t let you.”

It’s a weird thing to say, to promise, but he doesn’t dwell too much on that. Because the way Red is saying that, the way he’s acting—

Once upon a time, back when Jason was still that wide-eyed, eager-to-please Robin, Dick Grayson had decided to grace his very welcome presence back into Wayne Manor. It hadn’t been a pleasant few days, marked with fighting and shouting, leaving Jason grounded after a series of admittedly annoying pranks.

One of those days, Alfred had politely asked the two of them to go grab some groceries, probably to get them to bond in some way. The paparazzi had found them and snapped photos. The one that made it to the front page was an annoyance of a picture at the time—Jason angrily glaring and scowling at the paparazzi as Dick, strained smile on his face and one hand up to his eyes to ward off the flashing cameras, tried to herd him away with his other hand.

Alfred had it framed immediately, even calling the newspaper to ask for an actual printed photo. Dick hadn’t cared too much about it. Bruce had stared at it more than a few times. It grew on Jason later, when the idea of being seen and known hadn’t been too much of a bother and Dick was at a far enough distance away that the annoyance lessened.

It might’ve been the only time that Dick had shown any sort of protectiveness towards him, though not the last kindness.

Jason averts his gaze, fingers twisting the fabric of his hoodie. The idea is already circling in his mind, and he hates the way that any kindness afforded to him is so intoxicating. He loathes the way he yearns for even the slightest scrap of protectiveness that Red’s voice gives him. Is he so weak after escaping from Joker that he’ll latch onto anyone who will give him sympathy?

“You wanna stay in Gotham? Fine,” Red says, causing Jason to look at him. He’s frowning. “But before you do anything, I want you to heal up first. Then you can think about revenge schemes or whatever.”

At that, he tenses because the mention of revenge reminds him of a problem. A very serious problem. “Deathstroke,” he says quickly, shoulders rising as he remembers Joker’s taunts and smiling, gleeful expression. “Joker’s hired him to—”

“He’s dead,” Red cuts in flatly. Then, at Jason’s stare, he continues with, “I killed him during the escape a few days ago. He won’t be coming after you.” He picks up his phone, fiddling with it for a moment before turning the screen to him so Jason can scroll through it.

The title says it all: ‘Famous Mercenary Deathstroke Found Dead at Arkham Asylum’. A smaller quote underneath it, given by Commissioner Gordon, confirms the information.

The relief that floods through him is a surprise. He hadn’t thought that the mercenary’s death would be such a comfort. Or maybe it’s not the death that does it. Maybe it’s something else that he doesn’t want to name right now.

Jason takes a subtle grounding breath. “I’m staying with you,” he demands, keeping his gaze even.

It makes sense to stay with Red. The man is competent, and if Jason gets in his good graces enough, he’ll be able to ask for guidance—on killing, on whatever the man can do. If he can kill Deathstroke, then Red is a treasure trove of talents. If Joker tries to hire more mercenaries to come after him, then Red will take them out while Jason’s healing. Maybe if the clown comes after him himself, Joker will end up dead. Not to mention, staying close to Red will give Jason a chance at understanding his own family history.

They’re all good reasons. Acceptable even.

Red raises an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t think you were going anywhere else.”

Jason doesn’t know what to say to that so he just blinks.

“Now then,” Red says, standing. He smiles. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”

Chapter Text

Bad news: Black Mask isn’t in Gotham. For some reason, he’s decided to fuck off to Bludhaven—which, really, Mask? Bludhaven?

Jason doesn’t have anything against Bludhaven. In fact, he appreciates it for the state that it’s in in this universe. Intact. Not blown off the map. A mess of a city still. Lots of people still alive within her borders. All that jazz.

It’s just he’s a little disappointed that Black Mask has backed out of their fight before it’s even started. Rather rude of the guy, but whatever. Jason is adaptable. He’s had to be with his life the way it is.

So, the good news: the Falcones and Maronis are still in business in Gotham, and they seem to be in the middle of a rather intense war with each other.

Meaning this is the actual best time for him to enter Gotham’s underworld. There’ll be blood flying on both sides, and Jason will just keep toppling lieutenants as they blame each other. One guy here and there, and suddenly, a swath of territory will be under fire, allowing the Red Hood to swiftly take control before anyone realizes there’s a third player in this war. For what it is and how little information and supplies he has, it’s a perfectly sound plan with lots of room for adjustment.

In the span of less than a month, he’s gotten a respectable amount of territory under his shadowy command. No one under him really knows who they’re working for, but they’re all aware that it’s not the Falcones or the Maronis. The rumors have been quiet so far, mostly because Jason’s been fiercely proactive about that. It won’t last long though once either group realizes that someone is using their war to bite away at their territories. It might turn into a three-way war, or maybe the two groups will team up to deal with ‘small-fry’ Red Hood—Jason’s always liked a fun challenge.

And once that happens, there’s a large chance Batman will take notice.

He’s still a little mixed on whether he wants the Big Bad Bat to find him out. For one, his operations will definitely be hindered by Batman’s interruptions. For another, there’s a sense of anticipation in him for a confrontation—not for himself, but for the kid still struggling with what’s happened to him.

Well, either way, his Red Hood operations are working smoothly for now, rules and all.

Jay, on the other hand…

Look, Jason knows he’s not the best example of prime mental health.

For nearly the entirety of his training through Talia’s contacts and hires, he’d been fixated on killing Bruce. It had scared her, he knew, because she loved Bruce.

She had wanted to nurse him back to full health, to share some sort of bond with him so that once she brought him to Bruce, Jason would be on her side. The shock of it all—his resurrection, the bond between him and Talia, her showcasing the depths of what she would do for Bruce—might’ve even covered up the anger that Bruce would have over not knowing about his son, both of them.

Instead, she got a Jason who wasn’t happy about the world after he died, who was furious that his death changed nothing. That in the end he didn’t matter. He wasn’t the boy she could use to win over Bruce. No, he was something that would’ve destroyed Bruce without a second thought then. It might’ve been better for all of them if she had just handed his catatonic self over. At least then, they could’ve had a mirage of something nice, assuming Jason never got his wits back.

Talia had done her best to stall him, and for what it’s worth, she eventually got her wish. He no longer wished to kill Bruce. He had his chance and found that he couldn’t go through with it. But that left him bereft of a pillar in his life, adrift in a world that he had never expected to see again after watching that bomb tick down to zero. So he moved onto another goal, a more painful one. One that, if he had the choice again, he’d never make now.

He has trauma. He knows that, and his coping mechanism is to become fixated on something—killing Bruce, learning everything he could to become just as good, building his criminal empire, enforcing those rules, forcing Bruce to confront him in that room with Joker. Maybe he should be glad that he got dumped into this universe.

The point is that Jason’s not good with coping because he doesn’t cope. He ignores, and it’s clear in the way that Jay acts that he’s the same. It shouldn’t be much of a surprise considering they’re pretty much supposed to be the same person, but it still grates on him when he sees the kid act like he’s just walking off some minor injury instead of a year of torture and isolation. To be honest, it’s the same way he acted after the adrenaline of escaping from Ra’s dissipated and learning, well, everything.

So the kid’s not in good shape, physically or mentally. And Jason doesn’t know what to do about that.

For all her fears, Talia had been good at corralling him in the beginning. She gave him what he desired but kept him occupied at the same time. He owes her many times over.

What does Jay want right now? Revenge.

Jason could do it. He could plan strategies, maneuvers, where he’s able to drag Batman, battered and trapped, to Jay. He’s done it to his own Bruce, luring him step-by-step to a desired confrontation, if not the desired conclusion. Doing it here won’t be too difficult.

But then what? Subject Jay to the same realization he had? The same realization the kid is already having but will be all the more hurtful once Bruce is there? Revenge happens because someone cares deeply. Jay might tell himself that he hates Bruce for abandoning him, but at the end of the day, it means that the kid cares so deeply that this betrayal is unthinkable, unforgivable.

No, the best Jason will do is help him. But he won’t do it for him, and maybe somewhere along the way, Jay will realize that the best thing for him is to let go. He’s better cutting off that part of his life and finding his own way.

Better luck telling the kid to go on a worldwide training trip than persuading him that though.

“I’m thinking gelignite,” Jay says as he hunches over the defused bomb sitting on the dining table. His hands, still slightly shaky but not so bad, hover over the stripped components.

From his spot leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, Jason gives him a look. “Not a hard deduction. Anything else?”

Jay parses through the components. “Not street made. More stuff here that indicates someone has a supplier. It’s put together—or well, was put together rather decently. They had experience with this, meaning this isn’t a one-off thing. Not military or mining.” He looks up at Jason. “Maroni?”

Jason’s lips twitch into a smile. “Maroni,” he agrees.

There’s no sense of accomplishment on the kid’s face, but Jason can just tell that there’s pleased emotion behind the stoic mask.

“Why not Falcone?” he asks, both as a test and as a way to get more information about the crime families in this Gotham.

“Carmine Falcone is traditional,” Jay answers, fiddling with the discarded components. He’s trying to put the pieces back together it seems.

Jason should probably try to stop that. Dangers of being blown up and all that.

“He’s been keeping things close to legal so he has a lot of plausible deniability when it comes down to it,” the kid continues, slotting another piece back into place. His hands are steady now, careful and controlled as he focuses on the bomb. “He uses explosives sometimes, but only when he has enough assurance it won’t ever come back to him. Third-hand, fourth-hand, things like that. It’s also too loud for him. He doesn’t like Batman coming down on him so anything louder than the typical shootouts…”

“Will bring the Bat down on him,” Jason finishes, and Jay nods sharply, frowning as holds another piece of the bomb.

“Sal Maroni doesn’t care. Well, not as much as Falcone. His ideas and methods are newer. Explosives are never off the table for him.”

“Sounds like you’ve got experience.”

Jay pauses. He stares at the last piece of the bomb for a moment before he meets Jason’s gaze. “Yeah, I do.”

He doesn’t ask if the kid means in his role of Robin or from living on the streets. From what he’s gathered, this version of him stayed on the streets way longer than he had. There are a lot of things that can happen on the streets of a crime-laden city. Especially one like Gotham.

“Where are you placing this?” Jay asks, completing the bomb and holding it in his hands like he doesn’t know what else to do with it.

Jason straightens from his spot to stride over and snatches it up, inspecting it with a keen eye. “A couple of Falcone’s lieutenants are meeting up at a warehouse in the West End.”

“Discussing?”

“Drugs. Trafficking. Murder. You know, stereotypical talks. The kind that deserves a big boom as a finale.” He looks up to smile at Jay. “Good work on the bomb.”

For the amount of experience the kid has, it’s great work. Better than what he might’ve done in his own stint as Robin. Maybe Jay is more into engineering than he thought. Just because the kid is another version of himself doesn’t mean that everything is exactly the same. The framework, some of the experiences, what makes a Jason who he is will definitely be there. But hobbies and all that? It’s a different universe for a reason.

A shrug answers him. “It was easy,” Jay says, acting all blasé like Jason can’t see how pleased the compliment makes him. “Give me a better challenge next time.”

Next time, like Jason had wanted him to actually put together a bomb when all he had been doing was testing the kid’s knowledge.

“Yeah, sure,” he replies instead of rolling his eyes. “You take your meds yet?”

The way Jay huffs out a sigh is good to see. Not because the kid is annoyed with him but because he can show that he’s annoyed with Jason. “Before you came back.”

Jason looks at the clock on the wall. “An hour ago. Bedtime then.”

“I’ve been through worse.”

Yeah, he’s not touching that statement. “Well, unless you’re dead, sleep is essential to healing. And from what I know, you’re not dead.”

The kid narrows his eyes but doesn’t protest. It’s kind of strange really.

Jason makes sure Jay doesn’t fall or anything like that as the kid settles in bed. The leg is still looking wobbly but moving past Jay’s stubbornness of pretending that there’s nothing wrong, it seems to be healing perfectly fine if he considers his own experiences with broken bones. When he feels more secure in his position in this Gotham’s underworld, he’ll bring a proper doctor over to check.

He’s about to make his way out when Jay’s voice behind him, faint and carefully neutral, calls out to him: “Have you found Joker?”

His breathing is calm. His muscles don’t tense. His voice isn’t at all frigid. He makes sure of that. “Not yet.”

It isn’t like he hasn’t tried. Between his information gathering and empire building, he’s also kept an ear and an eye out for the clown. Harley’s behind bars still so she’s not helping Joker right now. He’s hit several of Riddler’s goons by accident, interrogating thugs for information on the current events. No one knows where Joker is hiding or what he’s up to. Even Amusement Mile is a no-show despite being the clown’s usual spot.

For all intents and purposes, the Joker has vanished. It’s not a good sign, unless someone has taken him and did what needs to be done. But that has an infinitely low chance of happening.

So, all bets go to Joker planning something big.

“Oh,” Jay says, quiet and controlled.

Jason wishes he would scream or shout or rage at the information. Anything other than this blank tone that has Jason’s own rage sharpening further into a cold, freezing spear lancing through his chest.

“Don’t worry,” he says, still not turning around because he’s certain that his expression isn’t nice. “He’ll show up.” And when he does, there’ll be a bullet with his name on it.

“I’m not worried about that.” There’s a pause, a considering one. “I want him dead. By my hand.”

Jason remembers kidnapping the Joker, beating him to a pulp with a crowbar, strapping him to countless bombs. He remembers not killing Joker at the first possible moment and then thinking that if Batman couldn’t do it, the explosives would do the job. How had that ended?

“Yeah,” he says, understanding plenty about Jay’s current mindset. He hopes the kid doesn’t want to do anything similar to what he had done. “And if you need me to, I’ll do it for you.”

The Falcone meetup goes up in beautiful smoke and flames. From a short distance away on a rooftop, Jason admires his work, having collapsed just the warehouse, not spreading destruction to any of the adjacent buildings. It’s the type of work that requires precision and foresight to be so neat and aware of possible casualties. A good catharsis after the conversation he’s had with Jay.

That’ll be two lieutenants and a dozen or so thugs dead. Carmine Falcone will have people lined up to replace them, of course, but the message and the deaths will weaken his reputation in the underworld. He’ll have to retaliate.

And once he’s informed by his plants in GCPD that it’s likely an attack by the Maronis?

Maroni will deny it, but with the war already raging between them, the denial will seem like a quibble. The denial might even incense Falcone more than if Maroni had just falsely admitted to it.

Sirens wail as the city’s first responders finally begin to arrive, indicating that it’s time for Jason to ditch the place. But, as he’s climbing down the side of the building, the familiar sound of a grappling gun hisses in the night, and he freezes as boots impact the rooftop.

“I see it,” Nightwing’s voice says grimly, footsteps coming to a halt. “No, I was just in the area. I wasn’t planning on informing him I was in town just yet. Especially with tonight.” A long pause. “Halfway across the city—well, too bad for him. Just tell him this one’s being taken care of.”

There’s really no knowing who Nightwing is talking about, but Jason knows with his entire being that the vigilante is talking about Batman. Who else would he talk about with so much annoyance?

“Thanks, Batgirl. I owe you.”

The sound of the grappling gun firing enters Jason’s ears, but he waits another few moments before emerging back up onto the rooftop, looking after Nightwing’s form as the man traverses the city. He watches as this Nightwing—more openly armored than his home universe’s—flings himself off the side of a building to land in a roll, springing back up to dust his suit off as he strides towards the remains of the warehouse.

So. Nightwing is back in Gotham. The entire family has been reunited.

Jason’s tempted to confront Nightwing, to ask why they had just left Jay in the Joker’s hands, but he’s not impulsive enough to do that. If he does that, if he hints that he knows about Jay and the Joker, the Bats will be on him immediately. To keep their failure quiet perhaps, or the more likely scenario, to figure out how much he knows and whether their identities are in jeopardy. And that would be difficult for Jay because he had said quite plainly that he didn’t want to go back to Bruce.

He won’t break his promise just because he was impulsive.

Nightwing begins to sift through the wreckage as ambulances, police cars, and firetrucks finally arrive. The way the responders greet the vigilante tells Jason that Gotham’s government is cordial enough with the Bats, even if they’re still corrupted. Maybe they’ve managed to clean up more of Gotham in this universe.

Either way, he turns and starts to leave, only to pause at the sight of a small, hidden lockbox. He might’ve dismissed it as some idiot’s attempt to hide their money on the roof, but when he gets closer to inspect it, the subtle R carved into it and a little bird sticker on its side is enough to get him to stop.

“Don’t tell me,” he mutters in slight disbelief to himself. “Are these emergency supplies?”

It’s smart to have emergency supplies around the city, but to leave them on the rooftops like this? Where anyone who can climb can just access them? Any kid with knowledge of lockpicking will be able to jimmy the lock with little effort and steal the supplies within. Or maybe the Bats don’t care about the loss.

Jason kneels down, pulling out his picks, and swiftly cracking open the box. It swings open to reveal a wad of cash, bandages, a set of clothes, and a switchblade. He immediately pockets the cash after inspecting it for bugs or tracking devices.

Money’s tight right now and stealing from the Bats is an excellent way for him to get some small-time petty revenge. They won’t even notice it missing. Damn billionaires that they are. Maybe he should check around to see if there are more lockboxes?

Then he pauses at the sight of something he hadn’t been expecting to be stuffed in alongside the supplies. What the heck? Is that a copy of Brave New World?

Chapter Text

For the nth time that night, Batman checks the contents of a lockbox, this time hidden on a rooftop of a building near the surroundings of Arkham Asylum. Each of the lockboxes contains supplies—medical, monetary, clothing, even a small blade just in case. He’s tried to account for anything Jason might need, but even as he’s assured himself that he’s made list after list, narrowing things down to the essentials, he remains completely unconvinced that he’s giving enough.

He's certain, however, that the local bookstores are ecstatic at getting a bulk order of books and novels.

This lockbox is missing cash, most of the medical supplies, and notably the book. Batman checks the map and finds that he’s put The Prince in this one. He hopes that means this box has been used by Jason, though he knows the book could be used as kindling or something else by the less fortunate. The distinct fact that this box is hidden on a rooftop makes it more likely that it’s Jason who found this box; he’s always loved high places after his first time going out as Robin.

If it is Jason, then he’s well enough to climb buildings. Or maybe not. He’s always been stubborn, especially when he’s injured. He could very well be climbing buildings on broken bones.

Maybe a grappling gun should be added to the boxes? Make it easier on Jason because the teen definitely won’t stop. But that means random people—civilians, criminals, GCPD officers, Rogues—will have access to it. No. That won’t work. How about the components instead? Jason knows how to construct and deconstruct their tools, and if the components make their way onto the streets, most people won’t understand their full value.

He replaces the money, makes a note to add a new book and more medical supplies to this lockbox, and highlights this location on his map as a possible Jason location. That list of locations is pitifully low considering how big the city is and how little distance he can cover each night, but they’re better than nothing at this point.

The only thing he finds relief in at this point is that none of the escaped Rogues has launched some sort of plan. No major crimes have popped up either that require his utmost attention. He’d have to devote himself to stopping them instead of searching for Jason otherwise. He might not even be able to restock the lockboxes if he’s too tired.

Dawn is starting to peek into the city—he’s been out for too long. He’ll be lucky if gets more than a few hours of sleep.

Batman glances once more at the lockbox and closes it firmly. Then, he heads home.

What awaits him in the Cave is an ambush—Dick, Tim, and Barbara. All of them watch as he exits from the Batmobile, having fallen silent from whatever conversation they’d been having before he arrived. Dick leans against the computer, arms crossed with something unhappy in the way he stands. Barbara’s expression is carefully neutral as she toys with her cowl. Tim looks at him quietly before looking away, focusing on stocking the lockboxes Bruce had assigned him to do.

“Tim,” Bruce says, removing the cowl from his head. He doesn’t mean for the name to come out accusing, but judging from the way Tim tenses, that’s how it’s taken.

“Don’t blame him,” Dick says quickly, straightening. He’s frowning. “It was my idea.”

“Your idea to what?”

“Stop you. Figure out whatever this is.” Dick’s eyes are worried but also angry when Bruce meets them. “Get you to tell us what the hell is going on.”

“What he means is that we’re worried,” Barbara interjects before he can say anything in response. Her grip on her cowl tightens briefly as she looks between all of them before turning her attention back to him. “The things you’ve been saying—the things you’ve been doing… Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great that you’ve put emergency supplies out there. We should’ve thought of this years ago. But the reason you’re doing it is… Well, it’s not right.”

“Jason,” he says, realization dawning on him. He doesn’t mean for it to, but his voice turns low and angry. “This is about Jason. You think he isn’t—He’s alive.”

“We all saw the video, Bruce,” Dick says evenly, voice tight, and the mention is enough for Bruce to flinch. “From that close a range, with the number of injuries we could see on him, the number we couldn’t, you really think Jason would’ve been able to survive that? We went over this before. We’ve been through this before. I thought you were getting better.”

Bruce doesn’t laugh. “Better,” he repeats. “There is no ‘getting better’, Dick. I thought my son was dead. And now that he’s alive, you’re trying to convince me otherwise.”

“All I know is that you went to investigate Deathstroke’s murder at Arkham and came back with a wild theory that Jason is alive. Tell me that wouldn’t worry you if we were switched around.”

“I found where he was kept—”

“You found his prison, not him. And I know that finding out that it was in Arkham was a shock—it was to all of us—but that doesn’t mean you should just immediately think hey, maybe this means Jason’s alive.”

“The blood samples,” Bruce begins, only to be cut off once more.

“All that the blood samples prove is that Jason was kept in that room,” Tim says, looking up and closing his latest lockbox with a solid thud. “But his blood wasn’t the only one there. At least two other people bled in that room, and none of the samples were able to tell us how long ago they’d been there. It’s possible that Joker reused that room after he killed Jason.”

His grip on the cowl tightens, scrunching up the material in his palms. A glance around the room reveals that all three of them are looking at him with hardened expressions. Anger bubbles within him.

“Jason is alive,” he says again, hoping to get that idea through their minds. “You should be helping me find him.”

“What we should be doing is investigating who killed Deathstroke,” Barbara responds. She raises an eyebrow at him. “You know, the case my dad handed off to you because it’s important to figure out.”

Bruce opens his mouth to answer, but Dick points a finger at him.

“Do not,” Dick seethes, “say that it was Jason. Because if we follow your goddamn wild theory and say that he is alive, he’d definitely be too injured to do anything against Deathstroke, not to mention being able to erase the camera footage and escape so easily. I don’t care if you say that you have a gut feeling that it was him. You taught me that any gut feeling I have should be followed up with evidence. I’m not seeing any evidence here.”

He knows Dick is right. One of his core tenants has always been to use evidence to prove the truth. Gut feelings could be relied on, but only if they were backed up by proof. Everything he’s doing now is anathema to what he’s taught. But even as he knows that, a part of him is screaming that this is Jason. He’s failed Jason once, twice, who knows how many times in that prison of his. He can’t do it again.

However, he also knows that they’re worried about him. So, instead of insisting on it, he stays his voice and remains silent.

None of them look happy at that. Maybe they also know that he isn’t actually agreeing with them, that he’s just deciding not to continue this confrontation of theirs.

“Is that all?” he asks in the tense silence.

“No,” Dick says, sounding upset. He takes a breath in a clear effort to calm himself. “Are you aware of what’s happening with the mob right now?”

“War between the Falcones and Maronis.” He’s been working on that, but it’s slow going. It usually is with Gotham’s mafia. It’s been years at this point. It’d be easier if he could punch his way to a solution with them, but they’re not like the Rogues. Both Families are heavily entrenched in Gotham’s infrastructure, and if he tries to take them in like he does with the Rogues, they’ll simply walk out of custody the next day.

Tying both the Falcones and Maronis to actual tangible evidence of their crimes is difficult because they’ve modernized. Well, as much as they want to, anyway. The most he’s been able to put away are their foot soldiers, the ones that are set up to take the fall for any charges they can’t get rid of.

At the very least, Black Mask is no longer in Gotham. That’s one less crime lord in the city. He’s a little sorry that Dick has to deal with the man in Bludhaven though.

“GCPD has taken over the majority of the investigation,” Bruce adds when it’s clear that Dick is waiting for more information. “The two Families have been at a stalemate for the past few months. It’s possible they’re in the middle of a truce.”

Collaborating with GCPD isn’t his first or second or even his third choice when it comes to the Falcones and the Maronis. He’s certain that there are still mob plants in the police department, but with how much territory the mafia exerts control over, it’s a fool’s hope to think that he can collect evidence and respond to mob crimes by himself. Not to mention whenever the Rogues strike, tearing him away from his years-long investigation. It’s a decision made out of necessity and pragmatism.

“Well, you can scratch that off the list,” Dick mutters, “because after what happened tonight, whatever ‘truce’ there is is out the window.”

He frowns, trying to recall what else had happened tonight. “What happened?”

“That explosion you heard about over GCPD channels? I went to investigate it.”

Bruce’s frown deepens as he looks at Barbara. He does remember the call coming through, but she had informed him that she was taking care of it since he was halfway across the city from the site of the explosion. He hadn’t thought it was anything big considering no one had informed him of any pressing details concerning it.

It might’ve just been a chemical explosion—Heaven knows Gotham’s seen enough of those throughout the years that it’s not even warranted as an uncommon emergency anymore. No report had come in that it was the work of any of the escaped Rogues, and Batgirl hadn’t asked for backup. But now…

She gives him a shrug. “Sorry for lying, but I wasn’t close enough to get there immediately. Dick was in the area, so he took it.”

“I asked her to keep quiet about me being in the city,” Dick informs him right after.

“Yes,” Bruce manages to say dryly. “I can figure that out.”

Quiet, so they can ambush him like this. He still doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“The explosion took down some of Falcone’s known subordinates,” Dick continues with a grim look. “They weren’t run-of-the-mill thugs either. I only matched one body with one of his lieutenants, but judging from how many people were pulled from the wreckage, this was a meetup. This wasn’t a random explosion. This was planned.”

“The explosive?”

“Traces were found of gelignite,” Tim answers this time as he pushes the last of the lockboxes away from him. He looks at Bruce with a faint, frowning expression. “Common enough explosive, but I’m pretty sure we all know who owns a mining company and has been in a war with Falcone for years. And even if it wasn’t him, if we can put the pieces together to think it might be Maroni, then Falcone definitely will.”

Bruce nods in understanding because it’s true.

The pieces all fit together to paint a bleak picture for Maroni. He has motive. He has ability. He has materials. Falcone will instantly pinpoint it on Maroni.

And yet, some part of this rubs him the wrong way. After months of a stalemate, Maroni decides today is the day to escalate this war? It might break the quiet impasse in Gotham’s underworld, but he could’ve done something like this during the first stage of the stalemate. It would’ve made far more sense then. So why now of all times?

When Jason is out there? Or maybe that’s just his projection and worry. He can’t predict every crime in this city. For all he knows, Maroni might have a valid reason for this escalation.

“Gotham hasn’t seen a full-blown mob war in years,” Barbara puts in worriedly, a furrow to her brows. “Skirmishes, yeah, but they tried to keep all of it on the down-low.”

“Not since before I was Robin,” Dick mutters, running his fingers through his hair, “which isn’t saying much.”

“Once he believes that it was Maroni, there’s no telling what might happen,” Tim continues over their comments. “Except a whole lot of death. We’ll be seeing bodies, torture, arson. With Black Mask out of the way, there’s no buffer zone. All of Gotham will be victim to this territory war.”

It’ll be a return to when Bruce first started out as Batman. He gets that, understands that. Gotham will be under fire, her citizens scrambling for shelter and safety as mobsters turn the streets inside out, painting the walls red. Even with all four of them here, they can’t deal with the whole city. There will be casualties. But even as he thinks that, he’s more focused on the idea that Jason is out there on the streets.

When—not if—the mob war escalates, Jason will be caught in the crossfire. Injured, alone, and helpless, his son will have to deal with the fear and terror that erupts with such a war.

That, more than anything, is feeding his current desire to stop what’s about to happen. If he can’t find Jason, he’ll just have to make the streets safer so that Jason can rest and heal in peace and, eventually, make his way back home.

He doesn’t think about why Jason hasn’t returned.

“But we should also look at this as a good thing,” Tim says, and while Bruce nods in reluctant agreement, understanding his implied meaning, both Barbara and Dick give the Robin disapproving looks. “I don’t mean it like that. I mean, it’s not—well, it’s not good because people are going to be dying. But this is the best time to gather evidence. It’s been difficult to tie any of the major lieutenants and the Family heads themselves to the crimes, but with a full-blown war, they won’t have as much time to be careful if they want to remain ahead of the game.”

“It’s pragmatic,” Bruce offers, and Tim gives him a tight, thankful smile.

“Pragmatic yet disheartening that we have to wait for a war to happen just to put these guys away,” Dick comments. He sighs. “But yeah, I get it. Doesn’t make me happy about it though.”

“If we play our cards right,” Tim says with a special sense of intense determination, “we could put both Families out of business. This might be it. An actual cleanup of the city.”

“For the Falcones and Maronis anyway,” Barbara replies, but she smiles. “Tim is right. We might be able to finally run them right out of this city.”

“Here’s to hoping,” Dick says.

“A frustrating investigation, sir?” Alfred asks in observation as he serves Bruce a cup of coffee, placing it down by the stack of files marked with the GCPD logo. They’re the only ones in the Cave; Dick is still asleep up in the Manor while both Barbara and Tim are at work.

Bruce doesn’t groan exactly, but he does rub his eyes with his palms, attempting to drive the exhaustion from his body and mind. It’s a good thing he’s called off going to Wayne Enterprises today. He doesn’t think he can even come up with a decent excuse right now.

“Frustrating doesn’t begin to cover it,” he mutters, frowning deeply as he flips open one of the files again. The face of one of Falcone’s dead lieutenants stares at him, a mugshot taken before the mobster had been let go due to insufficient evidence. “The war has been slowly escalating over the past month, and no one seems to have even noticed, much less put it together. This isn’t the first occurrence of a major death, just the most visible.”

“Someone seems to be making a statement then.”

“Someone is,” Bruce agrees, reaching for the coffee and sipping at the hot liquid. The burn of it is just enough to keep him slightly more alert. “I just don’t know if it’s actually Sal Maroni.” He sighs in complete frustration. “It doesn’t help that there’s no evidence connecting him to the crime other than the gelignite and pure speculation. Anyone can get gelignite if they have the right channels.”

He very much does not think about his own supply.

“Lack of evidence does not mean he isn’t the culprit,” Alfred points out neutrally.

“It doesn’t mean he is either.”

Alfred hums thoughtfully. “You suspect another person is profiting from this?”

“I don’t know. The bomb has all the hallmarks of how the Maronis do things. The components are typical of their work, too. By all accounts, it should be Sal Maroni behind this, but…”

“But?”

“The two Families have been in a stalemate for months now, almost half a year,” Bruce says, setting down his mug to bring up the dataset gathered on the mob war onto the computer screen. The graph and data glares at him, mocking him for missing this and being blindsided by this sudden escalation. “Deaths plateaued. Fights were tapering off in both territories. It was starting to look like there might be an actual chance of a ceasefire, even though it would never happen.

“If Maroni is behind this bombing, it means he has something up his sleeve that allows him to feel confident enough to escalate their war. But the gradual nature of this escalation makes it seem he’s more cautious about it than anything else. Whoever is behind this was probing the situation.”

“Perhaps Maroni was simply uncertain as to whether his trump card truly could turn things around and sought to test his forces against the Falcones,” Alfred suggests, tilting his head to look at the data on the screen. “Once he was certain, he orchestrated last night’s explosion as a beginning salvo.”

“Maybe… I don’t understand how no one noticed this. How did I not notice? How did both Tim and Barbara miss this?”

Alfred turns his head to look at him, and Bruce is hit with the feeling that the elderly man’s eyes are boring at the side of his head in silent judgment. It’s not a good feeling.

“If I recall properly,” Alfred begins with an unimpressed, mild tone, “you were more preoccupied with certain other problems in the last month whereas Master Drake had been set to do something other than his usual duties. And in the meanwhile, Miss Gordon has had her hands full with investigating Slade Wilson’s death by herself.”

Bruce winces, refusing to turn his head to meet Alfred’s gaze. He looks instead at the lone file on the other side of his desk, paper-clipped with a mugshot of Slade Wilson, and slides it towards himself.

“You also think I’m crazy,” he states, staring down at the picture.

“I’ve known you were not a normal boy from the moment you came to me with a costume and declared that you would ensure that no one would suffer the same fate you did in this city. But crazy is not the word I would use. Traumatized, perhaps?”

For a few seconds, a rueful smile twitches onto Bruce’s face. “Delusional, maybe?”

Alfred is quiet. When he speaks again, his voice is soft. “I’m of two minds in this. For one, the thought of Master Todd alive and out there renews a hope in me that I thought had long died out. The world has seen far stranger things than a boy being alive when he was believed to be dead.”

“And the other?” He turns to look at Alfred, who meets his gaze with a steady sadness.

“For the other,” Alfred says, “I would rather he be dead because if he isn’t, it means we’ve all failed him miserably. We left him in the hands of that mad clown, reducing our efforts to find his body because we all believed him to be dead. I would rather he be dead, Master Bruce, because the alternative is much worse.”

Chapter Text

The body is covered up with a white sheet. Batman stares down at the uncovered face for a few more moments. The man looks almost peacefully asleep if not for the pale tone of his skin—and the bullet hole running straight through his forehead. He’s certain that if he lifts the sheet, there will be a Y-shaped incision on the man’s chest, neatly stitched up. The coroner had done a good job.

Briefly, the thought that his parents must’ve looked like this comes to him before he shakes it off.

He looks up at the commissioner who watches him back. “Where was he found?”

“21st Precinct picked up the call last night,” Gordon informs him. “Lady calling in a dead body on her nightly jog.”

Batman draws up his mental map of the city. “Otisburg.”

Gordon nods.

It makes sense that the woman was on a jog at night then. Although his efforts have reduced crime, Gotham is still one of the most crime-ridden places in the United States. Otisburg has been hit the least in terms of dangerous crime since it’s mostly commercial buildings with heavy policing. It’s an area where most people feel safe enough to wander around past midnight.

But that also makes this murder all the more alarming. Murders aren’t a usual occurrence there, though they happen from time to time. Coupled with the timing of it—a mere two weeks after the explosion that took out some of Falcone’s lieutenants—it’s suspicious. And even more than that…

“You recognize him,” Gordon states, reaching over to cover up the dead man’s face once more.

“He’s a Maroni lieutenant. Emile Ruggeri.” He gazes back down at the white sheet, envisioning the dead man’s mugshot over the sleeping face. Spending those restless nights in his files on both mob Families had kept away some of the nightmares after Alfred’s confession. “He’s in charge of half of Tricorner Island.”

“I’ll make sure to inform the precincts in the area to remain on high alert.” Gordon lets out a heavy sigh, looking weary as he glances at the covered corpse. “He’s not in our system for that.”

“He wouldn’t be. He made it a point to be anonymous.”

A frown flits across the commissioner’s face, but he doesn’t ask further. “Otisburg is a long way from Tricorner,” he points out instead. “Forensics suggests he was killed in Otisburg so either he was there for something, or he was lured there.”

It’s a tossup as to which is the actual answer.

His eyes catch sight of the numerous mortuary cabinets, sealed shut with locks. “How many bodies have turned up in the past two weeks?”

“Enough that I don’t envy the coroners for their jobs. If we’re lucky, the bodies will be intact. If we’re not…” Gordon grimaces. “We had a body turn up in the harbor. He’d been dead for a few days by then.” He doesn’t continue, but he doesn’t have to.

“Have any civilians been caught in the crossfire?” His question is genuine, but a flash of Jason’s face crosses his mind at the same time. He immediately regrets asking.

Gordon eyes him like he can hear his thoughts. “Not yet,” he says, and Batman’s tense shoulders relax. “But it won’t be long if this keeps up. The mayor’s already pressing us to do something about this war before his ratings fall.”

There’s an easy sarcastic quip there—the mayor’s ratings are the most important—but his mind is playing the words ‘not yet’ on a loop. For all the relief the statement provides, it also means that Jason is still in trouble. The danger increases by every day that passes, and if they can’t get this war to stop…

A flash of that day, years ago, pearls rolling on the ground, blood pooling at and staining his shoes. Only this time, it’s not his parents staring up at him with dead eyes.

He blinks the image away, hating himself for even imagining Jason’s bright blue eyes so lifeless.

“I know we all have our hands full with this war,” Gordon says then, “but I still have to ask. About Deathstroke—”

“Nothing has been uncovered yet.” He thinks about Barbara yelling in frustration in the Cave, having poured hours over the same old information, hoping to find something new.

Gordon’s eyebrows furrow in that same way Barbara does sometimes. “Not even a theory?”

“None,” Batman lies without missing a beat. He should feel guilty for lying to Gordon, after all their years of working together, the rapport they’ve built together. He doesn’t.

The weariness on the police commissioner’s face deepens. He doesn’t look at all suspicious at the lie he’s been given. “Great. Guess that’s just going to be labeled as another day in Gotham.”

For a moment, Batman thinks about confessing everything.

I think it was my dead-son-who-is-actually-alive that did it. It was Robin that did it, the Robin before the current one. The one the Joker took and killed. He killed Slade Wilson to secure his freedom. It was self-defense. He’s not a murderer, not an assassin. You have nothing to worry about. Gotham has nothing to worry about.

But then he’d have to explain the truth behind Jason’s disappearance. He’d have to show Gordon the video, watch it again knowing that Jason’s bare face will be enough for the man to recognize their identities. Any plausible deniability will be thrown out the window then. And much more than that, he’d have to show Gordon the cell.

After gathering samples, taking pictures, and even collecting those newspaper clippings, Batman had essentially sealed the room off without informing GCPD or the Asylum of its presence. It’s not a matter of him controlling the crime scene, wanting no one to interfere.

It’s a matter of knowing that his son was tortured in that room and wanting no one else to see that place. It’s private and personal in a sickening kind of way. Showing it off, having other people step into that room, seeing them treat it like any ordinary crime scene—even the mere thought of it is enough to send nausea to his stomach. It’s enough that the city’s vigilantes saw it. No one else should be allowed.

So he doesn’t say anything besides his lie and pretends that he’s not burning with unspoken words and blind justification.

The territory of the dead Maroni lieutenant in Tricorner Island is surprisingly calm despite the mob war engulfing the city. If Batman doesn’t know any better, he might even say that it’s operating as normal. There’s no fighting on the streets, no tension that comes from the thinly veiled forced calm that comes with people knowing that at any second, a shootout could occur if the Maronis and Falcones encounter each other.

It's too calm. Something is going on. Something is happening underneath the surface of this war, and he’s only just beginning to figure that out. He came here for information—whether Emile Ruggeri had been lured away from his territory or if he’d been on a mission—and it looks like he’s already hit something.

The problem is that he doesn’t have any sources here. With Ruggeri dead, most of his investigative work is useless. He has the typical Family foot soldiers on file, but they aren’t going to be told important information.

He’s about to give up on tonight and go to Otisburg instead when he spies a couple of discreet prostitutes hanging around a bench near the street.

We should go ask the prostitutes. If even they don’t know anything, then there’s no way we can find anything out, he recalls Jason suggesting during some of their toughest cases regarding the Falcones and Maronis.

Jason had been the biggest help with those cases, owing to his experience with Gotham’s mafia. Most of the files have his touches on them—sarcastic quips, humorous observations, street nicknames. Touching those files back then had been torture. Funny how even now, with him being nowhere near Batman, he’s still helping, reminding him.

He wishes Jason is here with him now as he lands a bit away from the group, watching as they tense and turn to him in wary fear. Jason knows how to talk to the prostitutes without getting them too wary.

The Batman mythos, for all the good it’s done against the criminals of Gotham, has grown too frightening to be of an advantage for speaking to normal people. Even if they aren’t frightened, they’re much too awestruck to be of useful help. The Robins, all three of them, have been of great help in that regard, allowing the myth to become greater and more strictly defined.

‘The Batman is Gotham’s boogeyman. If he comes for you, you’ve done something wrong. If Robin comes for you, they only want information. You’re safe.’

He’s never been more aware of his status in Gotham than when this group of prostitutes huddles together in fear and an attempt to gather courage from one another. Instead of approaching, he keeps his distance in hopes that they’ll relax enough to offer him information.

“I only want to talk,” he says, raising his voice slightly to be heard.

“So talk,” one of them responds eventually in a hard voice. She looks at him with a brave expression, stepping forward like she’s hiding everyone else behind her back.

He wants to reassure her that she has nothing to worry about, but after the first time he’d done that when the Batman mythos became too big, he won’t. He doesn’t want to send them scrambling away, shouting liar behind them.

“The Maronis in this area,” he prompts instead. “What happened?”

Her eyes narrow as a couple of her fellow prostitutes whisper behind her. “You mean other than the usual?”

The sarcasm and rudeness are defense mechanisms, he understands as she flinches back, realizing her tone and words.

“I mean, nothing’s happened,” she says quickly, stammering over her words. “Other than the usual. Everything’s fine.”

Her words are too quick and abrupt to be anything but a lie. Batman doesn’t press. If he does, she’ll clam up.

“You should get to some shelter,” he warns them. “Stay off the streets for the next few days if you can. The local shelters can help while things are happening.” He believes he doesn’t have to clarify what these ‘things’ are.

They all nod rapidly, but it’s clear that they won’t be taking his advice.

As he makes to leave, however, he still can’t help but ask, “Nothing strikes you as out of the ordinary lately? Anything can help.”

The way the lead prostitute looks at him is an obvious indication of her answer. “Nothing,” she says, closing off every avenue of questioning as she turns away. Her legs shake even as her spine straightens.

He takes that as his cue to really leave. Of course, he merely grapples to a nearby building, disappearing from the women’s views while he waits. There’s no indication that he’ll get anything from waiting around, but that’s just how these things go. So he waits a few moments, raising his head slightly to see the area and using the night to disguise himself.

The group is talking amongst each other, a couple of them seemingly patting the one who spoke to him in delighted praise. They’re too far away for him to properly see their expressions. Nonetheless, he’s sure that they’re wearing smiles. It takes about ten minutes before the adrenaline and euphoria dissipates because the atmosphere suddenly turns concerned at that point.

At that point, the leader reassures the rest and moves over a certain distance, pulling out what appears to be a burner phone.

Batman makes sure to keep still as she looks around and up near the rooftops. She must not notice him because she begins to concentrate on texting. It’s clear that she knows something about the situation, but this is a little too involved. Neither the Falcones nor the Maronis have done anything openly with prostitutes in a while, and no prostitute would be willing to give them a heads up. It’s suspicious.

It doesn’t take long before she tosses the phone into a nearby trash can. She hurries over to her companions, seemingly urging them to leave as quickly as possible. They all scurry away, wary glances given to the rooftops as if they know he’s still there.

He waits until they’re all out of sight before heading down to pick up the burner. The messages have been wiped. A deep search back at the Cave will be able to provide him with them, but it’ll most likely be just a general warning that he was in the area and asking about things.

A trace to where the burner had been bought might show a video or photo of the buyer. With how Gotham is, however, it’s doubtful that it’ll turn up anything.

At the very least, he now knows someone is keeping tabs on Tricorner Island through the prostitutes. Whether that someone is behind the murder of Emile Ruggeri is the current question. And if so, why?

“You’re looking for my husband’s killer,” the grieving widow says a few moments after he’s walked through the open glass door of the penthouse’s balcony.

Mrs. Ruggeri is seated at the dining table, a few tissues crumpled on its surface while she holds another in her hand. A wine glass, nearly empty of the red-colored alcohol, alongside an expensive wine bottle sits on the table. Despite the look, her expression as she looks at the Batman is calm and collected. Even her makeup, hair, and clothing are impeccable in their presentation. She’s young, much younger than her dead husband.

“You had the balcony door open,” he says, a quiet question implied in his words.

“For you,” she responds, a tight smile briefly flitting across her face. “Not me. I’m not stupid enough to jump for someone like him. And everyone knows if you’re connected to a criminal, the Batman shows up eventually. I just figured I’d get this over with.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s a price of becoming more known. He’s grateful that she isn’t suicidal though, at least as far as she’s telling him. It’s possible that the door really hadn’t been an invitation for him, but judging from her appearance, that seems more and more unlikely.

“My husband was a terrible man,” she continues without waiting for him to ask. She glances past him towards where the view of Gotham’s starry night sky shines into the dimly lit penthouse. “He was a bastard who was weak to the strong and strong to the weak. Probably why he got promoted to his role. The higher ups liked him sucking up to them. He deserved to die. Gotham’s better off without him.”

Batman doesn’t comment on that. There are times when he has the same thoughts about certain people, but just like the woman before him, he will never act on them.

Instead, he says, “I’m sorry for your loss.” Regardless of the dead man being a criminal, he was still a person, and she knew him intimately.

The widow laughs. “I’d thank you if I cared enough about him.”

“Did anything suspicious happen in the last few weeks?”

“Other than the war, you mean?” She picks up her glass, swirls it a little, and observes the red liquid. “Nothing out of the ordinary happened. He has a lot of enemies. People he trampled over to get his position. People he insulted. Family members of his victims. A lot of them are dead. Even more of them are alive. It could be any one of them that did it. Or it could be the war.” She shrugs. “Maybe he was just unlucky.”

Batman frowns. He’s not surprised by the list, but it’s still disappointing that he can’t narrow anything concrete down. “He was found in Otisburg. Do you have any idea why he was there?”

“Why is he anywhere?” Mrs. Ruggeri retorts, thoroughly unhelpful. She downs the rest of her wine and reaches over to pour more into her glass. “Otisburg’s upper end, isn’t it? Then he was probably there for drugs. Heard a lot of the uppers tend to buy there. He likes to take those himself. Makes him seem more important.” She eyes him suspiciously. “Allegedly, of course. I never had any part in it. You’re not going to take me in for that, are you?”

“No.” Others might, but he’s not here for that. Knowing about the Maroni operations in Otisburg is petty stuff in comparison to the murder and the war.

“Then yeah, last I heard, his boss wanted to widen the drug trade in Otisburg. Sounded pretty successful from how he was bragging about it. If he was there, he was there for a deal.”

“Any idea on a buyer?”

“Bruce Wayne,” she offers dryly.

Batman’s lips twitch slightly. “Anyone else?”

Mrs. Ruggeri smiles at him over her glass. Her appearance makes her look as though she’s seated at a gala, pretty and clean, rather than in the middle of an interrogation by the Batman. “Timothy Drake. Lincoln March. Maria Powers. Jacob Kane. You want me to sit here and list out every member of the upper class?”

Thoroughly unhelpful. And offering information that’s clearly just her speculation considering she’s tossed both himself and Tim onto her list. “Anyone concrete?”

A shrug answers him. “I don’t get to know things.” Her smile turns bitter and her expression fragile. “Why would I?”

“Mrs. Ruggeri—”

“Elena,” she interrupts, her face morphing into a look of disgust. “I might have his name, but I’d prefer you call me something that isn’t Ruggeri.”

“Ms. Elena,” Batman amends, “you seem like a sharp person. You’re certain you don’t know anything about a potential buyer that brought him to Otisburg yesterday?”

Elena regards him with a narrowed look before she snorts and turns her attention back to her wine glass. “He seemed pretty secretive, I guess. More than usual. But he was also proud of himself. Kept saying stuff like ‘I knew this guy wasn’t as clean as he seemed’ and ‘you wouldn’t believe me if you knew who hit me up for my stuff’. So I thought maybe he found someone big. Famous. That’s why I said Wayne. Who else would he be talking about?”

Batman holds his tongue. Certainly not Bruce Wayne, he thinks, because he of all people would know if he had contacted a drug dealer for drugs.

Her words don’t clear up whether Ruggeri’s deal had been a setup for his death, but it does provide a reason why he was in Otisburg. If he can find this mysterious buyer Ruggeri had been bragging about, things will become clearer.

He takes another look at her. At the wine, the dark penthouse lit only by a lamp, the immaculate dress. He wonders what or who she’s mourning, if she hates her husband as deeply as she implies.

“The Maronis won’t be happy if they find out you offered all this information,” he tells her steadily, keeping his thoughts to himself. “Do you have anywhere you can go? I can escort you to GCPD. There are a few people there that you can trust to be discreet.”

The half of her face that he can see twists briefly into an ugly expression before it smooths back out into that careless façade. “They won’t do anything to me,” she says, setting down the glass and nearly splashing wine across the table’s pale marble surface. “They won’t start a two-front war.”

Batman’s eyes narrow. “Two-front?”

Elena sneers at him. It’s a cold look, very unlike the indifferent attitude she’s given him so far. “Do you know what the mafia outside this city calls Gotham? Heaven and Hell. Heaven because there’s so much crime and corruption going around. Hell because of you—and the rest of the costumed freaks inhabiting this damned city. Anyone who manages to dip their toes in and stay standing becomes more powerful than they already are. My father, like many other Families, yearned to have that fame, that power.”

There are enough clues in her words and during their conversation for him to put it all together. “You’re the daughter of a Family head outside of Gotham. You’re in a marriage alliance with the Maronis.”

She picks up her wine glass and toasts the air. “Bravo, you’ve put it together,” she congratulates him before taking a swig, uncaring of the fact that it breaks her immaculate facade. She laughs, bitterness and sorrow lining her voice. “They won’t kill me. They can’t even hurt me. Not if they want my father to declare war. Not that he cares for me like that. I’m a bird in a cage. If I step out, I’m free, but I’m also dead. If I stay, I’m imprisoned, but I’m alive.” She pauses. “I’m alive,” she repeats quietly as if to remind herself.

The Ruggeris were listed as married five years ago, Batman remembers.

If Elena is as young as she looks, she’s probably a few years older than Dick. Five years ago, assuming she went the traditional schooling route, she would’ve just freshly graduated from a college or university. She might’ve been aware of her father’s work, but she wouldn’t have been involved. She had her whole life ahead of her.

Then her father and Sal Maroni got into contact, and presumably some deal had taken place. One that led Elena down a path she never expected, married to an older man, forced to be a trophy wife in a life she never wanted.

“I can help you,” he offers. He takes a step closer. “There are programs. You can find a life away from all this.”

The way she looks at him is filled with such pity that he wonders whether he’s said something wrong. “You mean change my name. My appearance. My life. Everything that makes me who I am,” she says. “You want me to run and hide.”

“I want you to have a better life.”

“You can’t help me, Batman. This is my life. This will always be my life.”

He could argue back, try and convince her. There’s such a sorrowful resignation in her that hurts him because she’s so young. Her intelligence is still there, sharp and at times caustic, but it feels muted, just like the rest of her. If he imagines Dick or Tim in her spot, it makes it all the more horrifying how her life has shorn her down.

“It doesn’t always have to be your life,” he tries one last time. “You’re still young.”

The only thing she does is smile at him over the rim of her wine glass, young body but shattered soul.

Batman has to stop himself from continuing. It’s futile, he knows. He’s seen these types of people before, so downtrodden by life that they don’t bother to fight and drown. There’s a stubbornness to them that he wants too badly for them to turn to other pursuits.

He turns to leave, but just as he’s one step away from exiting the penthouse, he recalls the wine and her appearance and his silent wonderings about her grief. His feet stop, becoming almost welded to the ground. He doesn’t turn around.

“There are grief counselors,” Batman says to the air in front of him. “People who can help with your emotions and his death. And if you don’t want a counselor, there are support groups. You don’t have to deal with it all alone.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds before Elena speaks. “I’m not grieving him. I’m happy he’s dead.”

“You don’t have to be grieving him to be grieving a death,” he responds, still not turning around as the implied meaning floats through the air. Death applies to concepts, too. “Someone who was a part of your life for a long time died. Even if you hate him, death is tragic and traumatic. Find someone who can help you, Elena.”

There’s no response behind him save for the slightest hitch of a breath that his ears can pick up. He doesn’t think she’ll speak again so he takes that as his cue to leave.

It’s unlikely she’ll take his advice with how deeply entrenched and powerless she seems to be, but if one day, she finds that courage and determination, his words will be there. If they can just remind her that there are others who are willing to help her and not push her down, he’ll have done his job.

That is what the Batman is supposed to be: hope in a seemingly hopeless world.

Both the burner and Ruggeri’s phone are unhelpful in his investigations. The burner comes up clean on identifying characteristics once the wiped messages are restored. They’re swift, short, and to the point. An informant reporting that the Batman is in Tricorner asking about the Maronis and an answering okay. Meanwhile, Ruggeri’s phone turns up nothing about his buyer. He had kept his transactions off the record, apparently.

Bruce still isn’t completely certain that whoever is on the other side of the burner is connected to Ruggeri, but considering events in Tricorner, it seems unlikely that it’s a coincidence. Ruggeri’s mysterious buyer. The murderer. The person on the other end of the burner. All three of them are connected somehow. Two of them might be the same person. Maybe all three of them are.

The computer hums quietly as he sets it to analyze the spread of death throughout the city’s boroughs. If there’s one thing to be happy about working closely with GCPD, it’s that he doesn’t have to sneak around as much to use their files.

A motorcycle roars into the Cave, and he turns his chair to see Batgirl swing herself off, pausing slightly to turn off the engine and pull her cowl away. “Didn’t think you’d be back this early,” she calls to him as she ruffles her hair, striding over to the computer. “Something happen?”

Bruce thinks about Elena Ruggeri. Her resigned way of looking at life. How young she is. The lost opportunities taken from her. “No.”

“Uh huh,” Barbara responds sarcastically, “because that definitely screams nothing happened.”

The problem with working with young adults like Dick or Barbara or even Tim is that sometimes they like to push things, get too involved, break into things that don’t require their presence or input. It probably means something when that quality is their greatest strength, too.

“The Maroni lieutenant in Tricorner is dead,” Bruce tells her instead of speaking of Elena Ruggeri’s depressing situation.

“Oh.” Her eyebrows furrow as she frowns. The reflection of the glowing computer screen shines in her eyes as she glances at the data slowly being compiled. “Do the Maronis know yet?”

“If they haven’t, they will soon. The problem isn’t that. It’s that Tricorner is silent.”

“Which it shouldn’t be if a Maroni lieutenant is dead,” Barbara completes for him. Her frown deepens. “The Maroni division there should be panicking, and the Falcones should be aware that something is wrong and take advantage of it. But if you’re saying nothing’s happened…”

“Someone is suppressing the situation there.”

“Someone,” she notes, raising an eyebrow at him. “Meaning not some fresh and upcoming Maroni mobster making a coup attempt in the area?”

“I would prefer it if it was a coup attempt,” he says, gesturing towards the burner phone lying almost innocently on the table’s surface. “Someone has decided to make use of the prostitutes in the area as an information network.”

Before either of them can continue the conversation, the computer pings quietly to confirm the completion of its research. They turn to look at it.

Bruce’s eyes narrow as he scans the map, watching as it quickly goes through the last several weeks before looping back to the beginning to start again.

“That’s a lot of deaths,” Barbara comments, hesitation and concern in her voice. “Way too many before the war even started.”

He pulls up the information they’ve gathered over the years on mobster lieutenants and some of the lower management, inputting it into the map. Names start popping up left and right, reddening at certain points as the computer clocks in their deaths over the last few weeks and beyond. The very last name, Emile Ruggeri, tips red on yesterday’s date, and the map pauses on today, allowing both a look at a red map of dead men and women.

“Oh,” Barbara breathes with the same terrible understanding running through her that’s turning the blood in Bruce’s veins to ice. “Oh, that’s bad.”

Bruce doesn’t wait as he starts disconnecting the computer’s access to GCPD’s files. He destroys the connection as quickly as possible, burning it nearly all to the ground. There’s no hesitation as he essentially gives up all the files he’s helped create and check over the years.

“Bruce, it’s too late,” Barbara says, an edge to her voice. “If I was them, I would’ve downloaded all of our files long before this.”

He shakes his head, frustration rising within his chest at the same time anger slams into him. “If they had downloaded all the files, the computer would’ve sounded the alarm. They chose the files relating to the mob. They knew what and where the files were.”

A part of him wants to take a sledgehammer to his computer, smash it to pieces, but the more rational part of him reminds him that he needs to make sure that all of his files have counterparts in the secondary computer before doing that. Even if this computer is compromised, there are so many files that it’s going to be a huge undertaking to not simply destroy every case he’s worked on and is still working on.

“They used the computer’s connection to GCPD’s server room,” she mutters, still staring at the map. “It wouldn’t take much for someone knowledgeable to reverse that connection, but to bypass our firewalls entirely? That’s not just good. That’s great.”

He’s grown too lax, Bruce realizes as he sits there, stewing in his own anger and failure. They all have.

Many people have bested him before—in intellect, in ambushes, in fights—but none have truly gotten a victory over him. His defeats and failures don’t stay as defeats and failures for long. If anything, he’ll swing back twice as hard, twice as faster, twice as better. Because the Batman cannot fail, not if he means to be a symbol of hope for the people of Gotham.

Yet, here he is, confronted with his own failure once again. His failures, it seems, have always been deeply personal.

First with Jason and now with his own files and information being turned against Gotham.

The person behind Ruggeri’s death. The person on the other end of the burner phone. The person suppressing the turmoil in Tricorner. The person using his files. All of them condense into a single shadowy criminal.

This is no mere mob war. It never has been. This war is the culmination of someone pitting both the Falcone and Maroni Families against each other, reaping the rewards and leaving everyone else in the dark. So much death, so much violence, so much fear all at the whims of a single person.

And worse still, Bruce has no idea who this figure is. No calling card. No name surfacing from the depths. No presence. Nothing. Someone is playing with Gotham’s underworld, pushing it this way and that, and none of the players are even noticing.

Then, as if that’s not enough, like the harbinger of doom here to truly proclaim his failure, the burner phone buzzes.

Bruce stares at it, something cold and hostile in his chest.

“Bruce,” Barbara says with uncertainty, looking at the burner. “Do you want me to…?”

“No.” He reaches out and takes it, reading the message that still lingers on its screen.

Only two words have been sent, a taunt and a confirmation: Hello Batman.

Chapter Text

Fifteen books sit on Jason’s nightstand, separated into three stacks. One book for each day since Red’s started bringing them back—Brave New World, Crime and Punishment, Eugenie Grandet, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Hobbit. Different books from different genres. Books he might’ve enjoyed once upon a time. Books he probably would’ve had to read in school.

He hasn’t read any of them. He doesn’t know if Red expects him to.

It feels a little like counting the newspaper clippings, watching those dates go month by month until the year changes. Something about watching the stacks grow reminds him of being back in that cell, having nothing to do but wait.

Red’s seated at the dining room table when he emerges from his room, a disassembled gun placed on a cloth as he cleans it thoroughly. He does that a lot, obsessively keeping his things tidy and clean, always aware of where things are. He knows when Jason’s walking across the apartment too, even when he’s trying his best to be silent as his training dictates.

Jason’s never been able to fully surprise him. He wonders what Red’s childhood was like, to be so aware of the things around him. He wonders if that would’ve been him if Willis Todd hadn’t been rejected.

“Morning,” Red says, staring intently at the part in his hand as though he can spy some unnoticeable dirt or dust that’s stubbornly sticking to the metal. When Jason doesn’t respond, he looks up and his expression turns. “Something wrong?”

Jason hates when Red does that—look at him and then instantly conclude that there’s something wrong. He hates it when he has a nightmare and Red is there with that distant cold expression before it morphs into something hesitantly comforting. He hates it when Red is everything he wishes Bruce could’ve been, knowing when to push and when to back off.

“No,” he says, taking a seat opposite Red.

Red hums, glancing at his disassembled pistol and then twisting the cloth around so that the parts are now facing Jason. He sets the part in his hand in front of Jason. “Put it back together.”

Jason does. He takes it slow at first, double checking to make sure he’s got the right piece and remembering where it fits. It speeds up a little as he gets through most of it. He’s aware of observant eyes watching him, probably testing his knowledge and abilities.

He presents the finished piece to Red, but the man just takes it, strips the parts, hands them back, and says, “Again.”

So Jason does again. And again. And again, until the actions feel practiced and automatic. Thoughts escape him as he tries his hardest to best his last time. There’s nothing except where this certain part goes and how his fingers and hands should move to take off a millisecond.

He’s still waiting for a stripped gun when Red finally says, “Feeling calmer?”

Jason stares at the cloth-covered table and hates himself when a stripped gun is passed into his hands. He still reassembles it. “You didn’t tell me Ruggeri was dead,” he says, not meeting Red’s gaze as he keeps his eyes on the gun.

“Wasn’t it obvious?”

He keeps quiet, refusing to respond. It’s obvious that Ruggeri is dead. He was there to help steal the files, being the voice in Red’s ear as the man quietly but confidently infiltrated GCPD Headquarters. He told Red where the files were located when the man hesitated over the sheer volume of files. He even helped plan some of those deaths.

It’s obvious as soon as Red left a few days ago that Ruggeri was a dead man walking, just like all those other mobsters.

As if Red can read his mind, he says, “It wasn’t a problem with the other ones. Why is Ruggeri different?”

Jason opens his mouth to reply that Ruggeri isn’t, that he’s just another mobster death in a long line of deaths. The words die in his throat the moment he looks up to see teal eyes looking knowingly at him. He hates the way Red can sometimes just understand him because it means the lies he tells are seen right through.

He sets the completed pistol down onto the cloth, wiping his hands while he’s at it.

“Because of Bruce Wayne,” Red answers for him when the silence continues.

Ruggeri’s death had been carefully planned because the man only stepped out of his fortress to take care of the upper-class clients. And who would be better to lure Ruggeri out than Bruce Wayne himself? A high-profile philanthropist who was vocal about helping the city secretly contacting Ruggeri in hopes of tasting the more illegal substances of the world? For all his skill at handling his territory, Ruggeri wouldn’t have been able to resist taking the bait.

All Red and Jason had to do then was prove that ‘Bruce Wayne’ wasn’t a fake.

Jason had thought it’d be a lot harder than it actually was. Red had proven to be an immaculate copy, able to imitate Bruce’s voice and mannerisms. The only problems were when Red leaned into a ditzy persona and acted a little too clumsy, which were quickly fixed when Jason pointed them out.

Ruggeri wouldn’t have known the difference since most people knew Bruce Wayne the philanthropist, tragic orphan of the Wayne murders. There was no need for Jason to correct Red at all.

Yet…

It’s unfunny how many memories seem to resurface from the depths of his mind, how much of Bruce’s public persona seems to have welded itself to the forefront of his thoughts. So much time spent memorizing how to act in public with Bruce, so many memories he wishes he can forget.

The warmth of his hand on Jason’s shoulder. The small and secretive commiserating smile he showed Jason sometimes. The bright laughter he let out when Jason said something not that funny but found funny anyways.

How is it that he can remember what Bruce prefers to pretend to drink in his public persona when the man can’t even remember that Jason is being tortured in Arkham Asylum? How is it that he can remember how much Bruce touts rehabilitation and restoration when the man is out there flying with a new Robin?

How is it that Jason can’t forget about him when Bruce can so easily?

“Was he surprised?” Jason asks, not really sure why he’s asking but feeling compelled to. “When he saw you instead of Bruce.”

“I didn’t give him a chance,” Red says. He eyes him with something indecipherable. “You really don’t care, huh?”

“Care about what?”

“The war. Crime. People. Anyone not named Bruce or the Joker. You haven’t asked about anything else.”

Jason stares at him. There’s no way to answer that. He hasn’t thought about it at all.

Red leans forward, fingers folded together with his expression completely serious as he asks, “Why are you helping me?”

Because you can help me deal with Batman, he thinks at first before acknowledging that the answer won’t be pretty spoken aloud. He shrugs instead. “Why not?”

The way Red looks at him indicates he’s unhappy with the answer. “Okay,” he says after a long while. He stands, taking his gun and tucking it away in its holster. “Okay, get up. We’re leaving.”

He stares again, something like panic rising within him that’s only slightly quelled by the fact that Red said we. “Leaving where?”

“A place in Southside,” Red answers, reaching for his jacket and gesturing with his hand for Jason to come with him. “I got someone to talk to. I was going to do this a little later, but this might as well happen now.”

Jason stands, fingers curling into his palms and cutting crescents into the soft flesh as his heart thumps loudly in his ears. The very idea of leaving the apartment fills him with such dread that he feels like just refusing to go. But thinking that Red might just leave and never come back after being disappointed in his answer sends him following step-by-step behind the man.

“One of your underlings?” he asks, wondering if his unease and panic is translating into his words.

Thankfully, Red doesn’t seem to notice, merely picking up the keys from the hook near the door. He opens the door and steps through. “No, not one of my subordinates. She’s not an enemy either. She’s just a civilian.”

Jason glares at his legs, willing them to move past the threshold of the doorframe. “Why are we going to talk to a civilian?” he asks in an effort to stall.

“Because,” Red says with something in his voice, “you seem to have forgotten.”

That gets him to look up to see Red’s gaze centered firmly on him. His question, annoyed and confused, gets stuck in his throat.

Red doesn’t encourage or push him to take that step outside. He just stands there, waiting as though he’ll stand there for decades for Jason to move past the door’s threshold.

He thinks about the fifteen books on his nightstand. How after tonight, it’ll probably be sixteen, and he’ll have to start a new stack on the already small amount of space he has left. The wall had plenty of space for the newspaper clippings, and it wasn’t like Joker kept every single clipping up there. Just the most hurtful ones.

Maybe it’s spite that fuels him to take that first step straight past the doorway. Maybe it’s desperation. Whatever it is, he stands outside the apartment for the first time since leaving Arkham Asylum and waking up somewhere that’s not a cell.

His body feels like it’s just ran a marathon. His hands are shaking. Heat radiates off him.

One step. That’s all it took. One step.

Red moves past him to close and lock the door, acting as though nothing has happened.

“I wanted to die,” Jason says after he sucks in a breath. He doesn’t know why he’s telling this to Red. He’ll probably regret this show of vulnerability later, but at this moment, filled with this empty feeling of taking that step, he doesn’t care. He just wants someone to know. “In that cell. I thought that if I died, everything would just stop. I wouldn’t have to care anymore about Robin or Bruce or Joker. If I was dead, nothing would matter.”

For a long while, so long that he almost thinks Red won’t ever respond, the air is filled with silence. There’s not even the slight click of a lock.

Finally, a soft voice, barely audible, says nonsensically, “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

The lock clicks. Neither of them speak on the way to their destination.

Red’s civilian is a sixty-year-old lady who looks delighted to have the two of them show up on her doorstep at nine o’clock in the morning. “Oh, Peter,” she says, causing Jason to send a glance at Red. “I didn’t expect you to show up so soon. I haven’t gotten the cookies cooled yet.”

Peter. Like Jason Peter Todd? Did Willis name Jason after his firstborn who was sold off? Did Willis regret it? Not enough to stop his attempt at selling off his only other son apparently. If Red tells him this name is just an alias, he’ll have to pretend to nod in complete agreement.

“Sorry for showing up so unexpectedly, Mrs. Medina,” Red tells her, looking properly contrite. It’s an odd look for someone Jason knows has murdered many people in cold blood. “I just thought I couldn’t wait to tell you the news.”

Mrs. Medina seems to notice the serious atmosphere because she opens the door for them to come in. “Your brother, Peter?” she asks as Jason steps into the living room behind Red, taking in the warmth of the decorations and furniture. There are pictures of a younger Mrs. Medina and another young lady around the room. “He looks a lot like you.”

Red doesn’t nod, but he doesn’t shake his head either. “This is Jason,” he introduces, a weird note to his voice.

Jason blinks. “Hi,” he says a little dully, sitting down on the couch. He still doesn’t understand why they’re here.

Mrs. Medina squints at him, most likely eyeing the bandage covering up his brand. “You look a little banged up,” she comments.

“He was in an accident,” Red excuses before he can come up with something past the burn of having someone stare at his cheek. “He’s still healing up, but he’s doing a lot better than before.”

“Oh,” she says and smiles at Jason. “That’s good. Lots of rest and healing? Bothering your brother and all that?”

He doesn’t know how to respond. Does planning a criminal empire and orchestrating a mob war count as ‘bothering’ Red? She’s probably not even aware that the string of deaths and the emergency warnings blaring on TV are the results of their actions.

“I’ll be right back,” Mrs. Medina tells them. “I still have some leftover cookies from yesterday. Oh, and the tea!”

“We won’t be here long,” Red says, but she’s already scurrying off down the hall. He sighs and takes a seat next to Jason.

“Peter?” he prompts, raising an eyebrow at him.

The man grimaces. “I didn’t really think it through,” he admits. “Didn’t think I had to.”

The first time they met, Red had offered a very obvious alias. At the time, Jason hadn’t cared for the hallucination giving him a color as a name. Then later, it hadn’t been worth it to ask since there was no need for him to know Red’s real name.

Now, he wonders if he should ask. If Peter is a name Willis gave him and stuck even through being sold off, or if that’s the name the mob gave him. In either case, he can see it as Red preferring to be called anything but that name honestly. Before he can give it any real thought, however, Mrs. Medina comes back with a tray of tea and two plates of cookies.

“They’re my own recipe,” she tells Jason proudly, setting it down on the coffee table and taking a seat on the lone armchair. “Spent a lot of time figuring it out.”

“The kids love them,” Red compliments, nudging Jason towards a plate.

He takes one to be polite, pretending to nibble on it while he mentally translates Red’s words to I bribe the street kids with your cookies.

Mrs. Medina smiles, pleased with those words. She pours each of them some tea, which Jason politely declines. “Those kids have good taste. Unlike old Frederick halfway down the hallway. He always tells me that my cookies are too sweet, too sugary. Bah! They’re cookies! Sugar cookies at that! What are they supposed to be if not sweet?” She sounds like she could continue her rant for days if they let her.

“Emile Ruggeri is dead,” Red interrupts before it ever gets that far.

“As if he could ever bake cookies. Who does he think—”

Jason sees the exact moment the words hit because Mrs. Medina falters and stills. She trembles and slowly sets down her chipped teacup with a clatter.

“I…” She takes a deep breath, and the expression with which she looks at Red is tinged with something like unbelieving hope and despairing disappointment. “Say that again?”

“Emile Ruggeri is dead,” Red repeats, bringing out his phone. The barest glimpse of its screen tells Jason that there’s a news article on it. A clean, smiling photo of Ruggeri is plastered on the page.

Mrs. Medina takes the phone with an unsteady hand, glancing down at the screen. She must read fast because her eyes flicker like lightning as her finger scrolls through the article. At some point, she laughs incredulously and with hate. “They call him an ‘upstanding citizen who’s contributed a lot to the city’ like he’s some sort of saint. Bastards all of them.”

Red doesn’t respond to that, so Jason doesn’t say anything either.

Finally, Mrs. Medina hands the phone back to Red. “Thank you,” she says to him, eyes moistening to glass. “I wish I could’ve done it myself.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Red lies, not even batting an eyelid. “I just wanted to tell you since it came up in my feed.”

She laughs again with a sob. “Thank you,” she repeats. “I’m sorry. I just—I need a moment.” She gets up and leaves the room at a rapid pace.

Jason waits a few moments to make sure Mrs. Medina isn’t coming back immediately before he turns to look at Red in a silent demand for an explanation.

“Twenty-five years ago,” Red tells him lowly, “her daughter got involved with him. This was when he was some upcoming kid in college. Bright guy, clean, handsome, had a bright future ahead of him. The type of person people would never think to have skeletons in his closet. So, Lara falls in love with him, and no one suspects a thing when she later gets addicted to heroin. Ruggeri’s too handsome and clean, people think. He wouldn’t have introduced her to heroin. No, it must’ve been someone else.”

Jason stares at the framed photos of a smiling young woman on the wall of the living room. One of them is at her college graduation, beaming brightly as she holds a victory sign up and her certificate in the other hand. Her mother has her arm wrapped around her shoulders, looking so proud that it hurts to compare her to the old woman that had started crying upon hearing of Ruggeri’s death.

He’s heard similar stories, experienced some of them by being on the wayside. He’s helped solve some as Robin. It’s just that he’s…forgotten a little.

“No one suspected?” he asks, knowing full well how people can deceive themselves and others.

“Ruggeri put her in rehab. He put up a front and swore that he’d be there for her through all of it. People bought it.”

“But not Mrs. Medina.”

“Who would listen to her?” Red asks rhetorically, shifting slightly in the corners of Jason’s eyes. “He isolated Lara, convinced her friends that she was blaming him because he put her in rehab when she didn’t want it. Her friends stayed away because they couldn’t handle her anger and screaming. He tried convincing Mrs. Medina too. Then, one day, Lara disappeared. A police report was filed. People were interviewed. The prime suspect was Ruggeri. He was dropped.”

Jason recalls the files on how much corruption had infiltrated the GCPD in the time before Batman. How much corruption parts of GCPD still had before he was captured by Joker. “The Maroni plants helped him,” he states with sheer certainty, turning to look at him.

Red glances at him, offering him a tight smile. “Yes. They alibied him. Mrs. Medina never stopped pointing at him for Lara’s disappearance, and as the years passed, people attributed it to grief. Ruggeri used her accusations to build his reputation as a wronged man trying to do right. Lara’s body surfaced seven years ago. No evidence was ever collected. Her case sits in a cold case box underneath countless other boxes in GCPD HQ. Meanwhile, Ruggeri’s living it up in a penthouse, making money on the sufferings of innumerable Laras.”

He turns his head to stare in the direction Mrs. Medina disappeared in. “She wanted to kill him.”

“Not everyone can do it. Sometimes, they just can’t. Sometimes, something or someone stops them. Sometimes, they stop themselves and hope that someone else will do it for them.”

“And that’s when you come in.”

“I wouldn’t make it sound so noble,” Red admits, a rueful expression crossing his face. “At the beginning, I only cared about getting revenge. I didn’t care who I was associating with so long as they gave me what I wanted. Then I found out one of them was a human trafficking piece of shit, and it was like something lit up in my brain. I wasn’t the only one that suffered. I wasn’t the only one still suffering. So I did what I had to: I killed.”

Jason takes a bite out of his cookie, chewing on it in the same way he’s chewing over those words. They hit a little too close to home, which is probably what Red’s banking on.

“Batman would tell you that death has no part in upholding justice,” Red continues with an even, tight tone. He does that sometimes when he talks about Batman. “Maybe he has a point in a perfect world. But in reality? I kill because sometimes that ‘justice’ doesn’t work. Because sometimes the best justice one can get is someone’s death.”

He thinks about Mrs. Medina surrounded by pictures of Lara, doomed to never grow past the college age she is in them. He thinks about the old woman bursting into tears of relief and clear joy at the news of someone’s death.

And much more than that, Jason thinks about his own decision to go after the Joker in the wake of that school bombing. The cold judgment he made to kill because he couldn’t handle seeing more bodies, hearing the desperate and mournful cries from the parents of the dead children, and knowing that all they will do is put Joker away behind bars yet again. Does he regret that? No, he doesn’t. What he regrets is that he was captured before he could actually do it.

Red is right. He’s forgotten. The things he once thought. The beliefs he had. Somewhere along the way, as hatred consumed him, as the torture took from him his convictions, he’s lost himself. It isn’t just Robin that he’s discarded in that cell.

“You don’t sound like a crime lord,” Jason comments quietly, because it’s becoming clear that Red really isn’t the typical sort. In fact, the opinion the man voices makes him sound a lot more like a vigilante than anything else.

“I didn’t become a crime lord because I like crime. No one can eradicate it. It’s an impossible task. So the next best thing…”

“Is to control it.” Jason looks up to see Red’s approving expression. “No one will thank you,” he can’t help but say, wondering if it’s Red’s experiences with the mob that made him think like this. “People will hate you.”

“I don’t need people to thank or like me.” The crime lord looks in the direction of where Mrs. Medina has disappeared. “I’m not doing this for fame or acknowledgment. I’m doing it because it’s what I believe in. Because this is what will make a difference.”

The noise of Mrs. Medina’s footsteps growing louder as she approaches stops their conversation. She comes back fully dressed in a nice black dress and a sunhat. A tension and sorrow have lifted from her shoulders and expression, leaving her looking much younger and brighter than before. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes with a smile, clutching her purse. “I know you just got here, but—”

“It’s not a problem,” Red interrupts, standing so Jason stands as well, finishing off his cookie. They all make their way to the door. “We’ll be on our way.”

“Wait just a moment. How could I forget?” Mrs. Medina says suddenly, frowning before she rushes back into the apartment.

Jason glances at Red, who merely shrugs.

Mrs. Medina comes back holding a clear bag of her sugar cookies, handing them to Jason. “Can’t have you leaving without a greeting gift.”

He stares down at the bag, baffled. “Thank you,” he manages to say, holding back the questioning tone that nearly slips out.

She smiles at him again as she opens the door for them. “Don’t be strangers. If you ever want more cookies, my door will always be open. Peter, make sure you watch out for Jason. Don’t let him get into any more accidents.”

Red nods cooperatively. “Of course,” he says, the words sounding like a promise.

“And Jason,” she says, turning to him, “take care of your brother. He’s a good one.”

He wonders if she would say the same thing if she knew everything they’ve done. For all that Red talks about controlling crime, it’s still a lot of blood and death on their hands. Normal people would be horrified at their actions.

“Buy her a pansy for me,” Red tells her, handing her some money while Jason steps outside.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Mrs. Medina begins, trying to return the money, but Red pushes her hand back. The two of them stare at each other before she relents. “Okay. A pansy, you said?”

As they return to their own apartment, leaving Mrs. Medina at an intersection waiting for a cab, Jason quietly observes Red.

“What?” the man asks, not even bothering to look at Jason but apparently able to sense his stare.

“Pansy?”

“Remembrance,” Red says, still keeping his eyes straight ahead, “and justice.”

For a moment, Jason remains silent, counting the sidewalk slabs underneath their feet. The bag of cookies crinkles in his arms. Finally, he opens the bag, rummaging through it for a perfect cookie before he elbows Red in the side.

Red turns to look at him, his expression turning puzzled as Jason offers him the cookie. He still takes it, holding the pastry as though he has no idea what to do with it.

“Thanks,” Jason says, smiling a little at his confusion. His face feels a little weird. Nice, in a way.

“For what?”

He thinks about Red bringing him to Mrs. Medina, to the story told to him, to her telling them to take care of each other. He thinks about Red’s expression when he said that he wasn’t in it for thanks or fame or for people to like him.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just eat your cookie.”

Red stares at him for a few seconds before he huffs and bites into his cookie. “Weirdo,” he mutters.

After another while, when Red’s done with his cookie and they’re halfway back to their place, Jason comments, “They’re good cookies, huh?”

“Yeah,” Red agrees wistfully. “Makes me feel a little regretful about giving them out to the kids.”

There’s a clear hint there, and Jason looks down at his bag to realize he’s eaten several of them already. Only two are left. “They’re my cookies,” he tells Red.

“Brat,” his older brother says without any anger. He sounds, if Jason’s not mistaking it, a little fond.

Chapter Text

Okay, so Jason’s made some mistakes. Some small ones, others not so small. Texting Bruce? Absolutely not a mistake no matter how much the logical side of him is arguing. Forgetting Jay has a sweet tooth and getting him a bitter drink by accident? Minor mistake, easily fixable by swapping drinks (doesn’t mean Jason drank it though). Not realizing Jay isn’t him, no matter how many things line up? Major mistake.

Like the-time-he-didn’t-kill-Joker-and-instead-decided-to-enact-a-convoluted-plan-to-give-Bruce-one-last-chance type of major mistake.

Different impacts but essentially the same type of mistake: overconfidence in being able to predict people, especially when it comes to people that he’s emotional about. Or maybe it’s just delusion in the Joker confrontation case?

He might be evil, hateful, terrible, a scourge on the earth according to certain people, but he’s not exactly unscrupulous. He has his lines that he won’t cross, rules that he places on himself and others. Only the most deranged of all beings wouldn’t have some morals. And Jason is many things but deranged?

The assumption that Jay would be the same, considering they’re alternate versions of each other, hadn’t been something farfetched. It’s not like the kid’s shown a desire to take over the world and take down Superman, just Batman. Which isn’t saying much on the evil scale considering Jason had his own bout of wanting to kill Bruce, and he turned out fine. Right?

Whatever Joker’s done to him, Jay’s moral compass has definitely deviated. Maybe he should ask instead of waiting for the kid to get more comfortable with him, but right now, Jay’s just getting back on his feet. Jason might’ve pulled him back from that edge, but he’s aware that if something happens Jay’ll go spiraling down that dark abyss.

He kind of regrets that he cares this much. It’d be a lot easier if he could just dump the kid on someone’s doorstep. But it’s too late. He’s invested, and he refuses to step away when he’s already this deep.

What a stubborn bastard he is, getting himself into these situations.

“If you don’t stop sighing, I’m going to shove my hat into your mouth,” Jay mutters. Despite his sassy words, his eyes glance at Jason in slight wariness.

Jason lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I miss when you were quieter,” he laments with a light tone to subtly reassure the kid that he’s not going to take those words the wrong way.

“Why are we here anyways?” the kid asks, a slant to his lips that’s decidedly something Jason would call a pout if not for Jay’s self-esteem. He looks around the park from where they’re seated on the bench. “No mobster’s going to show up in this place.”

Ah, but children need fresh air, Jason thinks. Being cooped up in that apartment isn’t exactly conducive to proper mental health. Probably. He keeps his mouth shut about that as he says instead, “Nothing’s concrete. You never know if people decide to deviate from established routines.”

Jay’s definitely-not-a-pout intensifies. “We could just hack the cameras.”

He doesn’t even blink as he lies, “Not enough cameras around to keep track of people.”

The kid gives him a skeptical look as he points out a camera stationed on a light pole. “There’s one right there.” His hand moves. “And that one.” Again, his hand points out yet another camera. “And that one—”

Jason’s feeling distinctly harassed. “They’re disconnected from the servers,” he interrupts before Jay can point out every single camera in the park. He also makes a quiet mental note to disconnect the cameras and erase the footage later. The things he does to get the kid outside.

For a few seconds, Jay’s face twists. Then he settles. “Fine,” he says grumpily.

Silence lingers between them, and while normally Jason would be okay with that, the knowledge that Jay is treating this like an actual mission is ruining the nice day that has suddenly fallen on Gotham. He glances at the basketball courts filled with noisy children and teens. His eyes narrow slightly in thought.

Finally, he nudges Jay.

“What?” the kid asks flatly, still scanning the scene for nonexistent targets.

“You’re making us look suspicious,” Jason says even though they don’t look suspicious at all. He nods at the basketball courts. “Go play.”

“I’m the one making us look suspicious?”

“You have a grumpy face,” he claims, ignoring Jay’s incredulous look. Okay, yeah, he hasn’t exactly thought that excuse through. “People don’t go to parks to be grumpy. They go to parks to have fun. Basketball is fun. Ergo, go play basketball.”

Jay frowns again. “Why don’t you do it?”

Jason gives up on the excuses. Whatever excuse that might come from his brain right now won’t be pretty anyways. “Because I said so.” Classic.

For a brief moment, it looks like Jay is about to argue against him, but then he hesitates as he glances over at the basketball courts. Something passes over his face—the same contemplation that’s been present ever since they visited Mrs. Medina.

If Jason’s being optimistic, he might call it a look at life outside of revenge. Perhaps Jay is starting to think about things to live for rather than to die for. That distinction is still something Jason himself is searching for because his problem is that he died for his cause, and that’s not even mentioning the utter disaster that was his final confrontation with Bruce.

“I was on the basketball team in school,” Jay admits to him quietly.

Jason makes sure to not react in a shocked manner at the sudden sharing of personal information. Even though Jay’s not an exact copy of himself, if he were in the kid’s spot, he would’ve felt embarrassed and upset at someone’s shocked reaction. “Yeah? Bet you were the star player. I was more of a track person myself.”

Jay blinks, voice confused as he asks, “You were on a track team?”

“Did you think I just sprang to life taking over criminal underworlds?”

He had only meant for the question to be a lighthearted joke, but Jay furrows his brows as if he actually thinks that way.

“But…” Jay trails off as Jason raises an eyebrow at him in question. Eventually, he shakes his head and turns back to look at the basketball courts. “Basketball,” he mutters with a complicated expression. “I don’t know.”

The indecision on Jay’s face tells Jason that he really only needs one more push. If the kid doesn’t have any longing for those courts, or perhaps just a normal teenager activity that doesn’t involve bomb-construction and death, he won’t have been so conflicted.

“Go on,” Jason urges nonchalantly as though he’s not growing more invested into giving Jay some semblance of the normal teenage life that they have both lost. “We can go for some smoothies afterwards.”

At that, Jay gives him a dirty look. “Nothing bitter.”

His lips twitch. “Sweet smoothies,” he promises. “So sweet that you’ll probably vomit.”

It’s a quick thing, so fleeting that it almost seems like an illusion, but Jason manages to catch a small, amused smile flitting across Jay’s face.

Jay gets up before Jason can react, striding away towards the basketball courts.

“Huh,” Jason says, blinking. Then a smile appears on his own lips. He raises his voice to call after the embarrassed teenager. “Don’t forget to actually have fun!”

That gets Jay to turn around with a scowl, looking very much like the teenage boy he still is when he glares.

“I could’ve kicked their asses,” Jay says grouchily around the straw of his smoothie as they walk down the street. The glow of the streetlamps lights their way in the waning glow of the darkening sky. “Five more minutes and I would’ve had them.”

“Uh huh,” Jason responds with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. It’s not that he doesn’t want to encourage Jay’s pursuit of beating people in basketball (and thankfully not beating up the people themselves), but he’s heard the same rhetoric for the past ten minutes and it’s getting old. “Was that before or after you decided to trip Blue Hat?”

“He tried to do the same to me,” the kid tells him seriously as though Jason hadn’t been there to watch Blue Hat guy trip over a rock and nearly accidentally slam into Jay.

Should he be glad that Jay hasn’t vowed murderous revenge on the unsuspecting basketball players of Robinson Park? Or should he be happy that the kid is acting like a normal moody teenager?

At the very least, Jay’s shoulders seem much more relaxed than before. This outing is a good idea, no matter how bored Jason had been sitting on that bench watching Jay play basketball.

“First of all,” Jason says after taking a sip of his own strawberry smoothie, “the guy tripped. On accident. He didn’t try to do anything to you.”

“Says who?”

“Says me. Second, your team was ten points down. There was no way you were going to win anything in five minutes.”

Jay grumbles a little. “I could’ve done it.”

There’s a quiet pause, and Jason notices out of the corner of his eyes that Jay is looking down at his feet. More accurately, he seems to be focusing on his right ankle.

“If I was in better condition, I could’ve done it,” the kid repeats softly. A complicated note hangs in his voice.

Jason recalls the information about him being on the basketball team. He had joked about Jay being the star player, but it’s not unlikely that he really had been the star player. Running around as Robin had improved Jason’s own fitness and coordination. Combined with eating properly and making up for the malnutrition of his youth, his time with Bruce had allowed him a glimpse of a life where he could be whoever he wanted.

Back before Bruce, he ran for survival. With Bruce, he ran for fun, exhilarated with the adrenaline of the competing. After Bruce, running is…

Well, running isn’t something he considers fun anymore.

Jason stops in front of the bank, forcing Jay to pause as well.

“What?” Jay asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

It’s an impulsive thought that Jason blurts out next. “Do you want to go back to school?”

For a few seconds, it seems as though Jay doesn’t register the question, but then he blinks and stares. The look on his face turns stoney, anger rippling through his eyes. His voice is calm, carefully controlled, but it’s clear that there’s something dark boiling beneath. “Why are you asking me that?”

Jason doesn’t answer.

When he had been in the throes of his hatred and feeling betrayed by Bruce after being dumped in the Lazarus Pit, there had been a few times where he dreamed about not dying. About a world where he continued his schooling and even moved onto college, where he got a degree in something like social work or psychology. They were nice worlds where Bruce was more of a father than he was Batman, worlds where he didn’t have to think about choking the Joker with his own hands and instead thought about where he would work and how he would help Gotham in a more official capacity.

Waking up after those dreams had cemented his hatred further. Because those dreams were merely dreams. Wishes that would never come true.

After the confrontation, they seem more like daggers to his heart than anything else.

“I already told you,” Jay says, practically bubbling with dark fury. His eyes are sharp. “I want revenge. I want him dead. I won’t stop. Ever.” There’s no indication on whether he means the Joker or Bruce.

“And what about after?” he points out quietly. Because this is the problem at the heart of it all.

What happens after?

For Jason, after meant controlling his criminal empire, bringing the crime rate of Gotham to an acceptable level. Being the underworld’s boss and ruling with an iron fist so that the civilian casualties were kept to a minimum. Being the Batman that the villains truly feared enough that they would keep themselves in line.

For Jay, it seems like the kid hasn’t even thought about it. And that is—that’s a dangerous mindset to have. Even ignoring how long it might take to get revenge, if Jay does complete his revenge, will he be able to face life after revenge?

From how Jay’s been acting so far, from the many clues Jason’s been picking up on, it seems like the answer is no.

When Jay’s revenge is completed, the kid will fall apart. And there’ll be no stopping that if this continues. Jay seems to be doing fine right now, but that’s mostly because Jason’s been trying to get him to think.

As much as he hates it, and Jay will definitely deny it if it’s spoken aloud, he’s been a pillar of support for Jay. Once he leaves for his home universe, will this seemingly well-adjusted persona be able to hold up? He’s been planning on leaving Jay his criminal empire ever since its inception, because who else can he trust? But at this rate…

Jay’s eyes flicker, and he takes a long sip of his smoothie, clearly gathering his thoughts. “After… Does it matter?” he asks finally. “School’s useless. I’m more than a year behind, and it’s not like I can even use my identity anymore.” His lips curl into a derisive snarl.

Jason is silent.

Those words hit a little too close to home for him. Not because of Jay’s hostile sentiments, but because of the fact that Jason is dead. He has a death certificate and everything. A funeral had taken place, even if it had been so quiet that he barely managed to parse it out from the gossip rags of that time period. His death had been publicized.

Jason Todd is dead in his home universe.

Here, it seems like Jay’s just missing still. No death confirmation has been told to the public. If Jay ever really wants to, he could have his identity back. It might come with the caveat of alerting Bruce, but Jay is still Jason Todd.

Suddenly, he’s feeling a little envious. He tucks the feeling deep down inside of him. There are better things to think about than something that can’t change, and honestly, it’s probably easier for him that he’s dead. No one will think about a dead boy as being the Red Hood.

“You,” he begins, not really knowing what he’s going to say, and then stops as he senses that something is wrong. The premonition that something bad is going to happen is something that comes from his time in the All-Caste. Not enough to be precognition like Ducra but enough to alert his instincts.

The last time he had this feeling was in the days right before his confrontation with Bruce. He had ignored it then and gotten a neck scar for his trouble.

His eyes flicker up and around the street. The faint sound of rubber on concrete screeching grows louder.

It might just be a chase, but Jason’s gaze catches on to the bank behind him. There’s not enough time to leave. Instinctively, his arm reaches out, yanking Jay behind him.

Jay bristles, muscles tensing beneath Jason’s hand before he lets go, as he snarls violently, “Hey, what’re you—” Jay falls silent as three vehicles screech to a halt.

Rough-looking goons pour out, armed with guns and bats and other weapons.

A high-pitched voice echoes from one of the cars, almost leisurely in its tone as its owner steps out of the front passenger seat. “Alright, bozos! Put your hands up, or the last thing you’ll ever see is my bat!”

Even before seeing who the speaker is, Jason has a pretty good idea of who it is that’s creating this hostage situation. And judging by the fact that Jay’s suddenly curled his fingers into the back of Jason’s shirt, the kid knows, too.

Across from them, Harley Quinn grins wickedly.

The Harley Quinn of his universe had stopped associating with Joker, according to Talia’s information network. Apparently, she’d been horrified to know that the Joker had killed Robin. No remorse for the countless people—men, women, children—that filled the graveyards of Joker’s victims. But Robin? Batman’s sidekick?

A step too far for her, shockingly.

Back when he had been planning out his first criminal empire, he had thought about using her to lure Joker out. Joker might not have cared for her as deeply as she did him, but the clown had kept her around for years. She had to mean something to him.

But after learning about Harley distancing herself, Jason had dismissed the idea. And in the end, Joker hadn’t been that hard to find, just sitting in the abandoned amusement park and laughably wallowing in whatever stupid, lame thoughts he had.

That doesn’t mean Jason doesn’t care about Harley. He cares about her in the way that if he encounters her, he’ll give her a nice little present in the form of a six-foot grave. He won’t purposefully go hunt her down, but he’ll track her trail down if one of her victims gives him the clues or if he manages to find out a scheme of hers. That’s about as much care as he’ll give her considering she hadn’t been a part of his death.

Just another villain in Gotham is what he would categorize her as. In this universe, it seems like that’s something that’s different.

After Jason had gotten access into the Batcomputer, he had made sure to keep up to date somewhat with most of the Rogues in this Gotham. There were a lot of them but less than the ones he knew of in his universe. Of course, he hadn’t been able to dig deeply since those files were updated often and too much perusing into them meant a greater chance of being caught.

But he recalls this Harley Quinn being much more involved with Joker’s schemes than his home universe. Even disregarding that, the fact that she hasn’t distanced herself from Joker despite Jay being held captive and tortured tells Jason enough about her.

And if that’s not enough, he can hear Jay’s fingers crushing the Styrofoam smoothie cup and feel the tight grip the kid has on the back of his shirt. It’s almost strangling him from how hard Jay is pulling on his shirt.

The cold rational part of him makes him keep his hands raised and Jay fully behind his back as they back into the bank at the behest of Harley’s goons. His mind races as he tries to figure out a way to get them to safety while also keeping Jay’s mental state firmly in the sane category.

Another part of him is calculating whether this is his best chance at killing her, but looking around at the fearful atmosphere of the bank with its customers and employees silently afraid and cowering tells him he can’t. Maybe if he didn’t care about casualties and had body armor on, he’d take the chance.

“Tie them up,” Harley orders her goons, sweeping her narrowed gaze across the entire room. “And get to cracking that safe. I wanna be out of here before Batsy gets here.”

“Red,” Jay whispers to him, voice distorted and sounding thin.

The heat at Jason’s back is trembling, but he knows it’s not fear that’s causing Jay’s shaking. There’s no way to see the kid’s face right now, whether it’s filled with rage or a cold desire for revenge. He’s certain that it’s not a pretty expression though.

“Calm down,” he tells him quietly. “If we make a move right now, we’ll be killed.”

Harley’s goons finish securing the other side of the room and start making their way over to their side.

Jason calculates the likely chances of being able to escape if he manages to take a gun off one of the goons. He’ll probably get shot in the ensuing scenario. Others might get hurt in the crossfire. Jay could probably take one or two down in the chaos. If he really tries, he might be able to get a shot off on Harley, hopefully killing her. It won’t be pretty, and he can’t even say there won’t be any innocent deaths, but it’s possible.

He takes a quiet breath, muscles tensing as two of the thugs come closer to tie him up. But then there’s a flash of something dark at the edges of his vision, passing through one of the upper vents of the bank. He doesn’t make the stupid decision to look at it. Instead, his muscles relax as he resigns himself.

“Hands,” one of the goons demands, aiming his gun straight at his torso. The other goon is waiting with ties.

Jason slowly brings his hands up. He feels Jay shift behind him at the movement. Before he can think much of it, he shuffles a little to hide the kid and warns, “Jay.”

Jay stills.

It takes a moment before he realizes that this is the first time he’s addressed Jay by any sort of nickname or name. That’s… That’s not a good thing, is it? Something dehumanizing despite it being just his discomfort. Shit. He needs to think about this. Later, when they’ve gotten out of here.

“Shut up,” the goon with the gun snaps in annoyance.

The other goon moves to tie his wrists together, and that’s when the vigilante in the shadows takes action. There’s a loud sound of something cracking. Immediately, hissing enters Jason’s ears as thick smoke begins to cover his vision.

The two goons whirl around, and Jason takes the chance. He can’t kill them, not with a vigilante here, but it shouldn’t be too suspicious if he incapacitates them. So he does, and two thuds echo in the suddenly noisy room as the bodies fall.

Harley’s screaming, shouting at her goons. There’s no sound of gunfire yet; the smoke is still thick. Yet the sound of fists smacking against skin is loud and clear.

Jason presses Jay down low to the ground, inching closer to the walls.

He grits his teeth again, nearly grinding them. He can’t see a way to get out of this situation without drawing attention to him and Jay. The exit is covered by the smokescreen and entering it without knowing where anyone is in it is just an invitation to get hurt. Their only option, it seems, is to play pretend and be innocent citizens caught up in a heist.

It doesn’t take long for the smoke to clear, just in time for Jason to see the blur of a backflip taking down Harley as she yells all the way to her unconsciousness.

There’s only one person who would be so dramatic as to add a backflip to a takedown, and as much as he dislikes interacting with any Bat, he acknowledges that this one might actually be the best one to encounter at this moment. At least, for Jay’s sanity.

Nightwing straightens from his crouch, immediately heading towards the dazed hostages still tied up. It won’t take long for him to free the few people there.

Jason debates on the possibility of them escaping out the doors without Nightwing noticing and decides it’s practically zero. There’s no way the guy won’t notice immediately considering his training.

The footsteps heading towards them sound loud despite him knowing that it’s just a matter of his mind focusing on Nightwing’s every move.

Jay’s breathing grows harsh, but Jason can’t check on him as the vigilante’s step stutters and stops right in front of him.

Fuck, he thinks wholeheartedly, realizing that his face is going to get him in trouble.

Underneath the mask of Nightwing, Dick Grayson stares at him with a pale face and wide eyes.

Chapter Text

“The Red Hood,” Bruce says, face impassive as he looks at each of them individually.

Behind Bruce’s back, the screen of the computer showcases a steady encroaching of territory by a third party in this mob war between the Maronis and the Falcones. Outlined in red, stark against the yellow and green of the two Families, it’s become clear that this third party has been building up their power unscrupulously.

It’s so clear that Dick is having a little trouble comprehending the fact that it’s gotten this far without alerting any of them until now. Even taking into account the chaos of the mob war, it’s still astounding that they’ve missed this.

“According to the rumors, that’s the alias he’s going by,” Bruce continues, still tightly controlled, which is how Dick knows the man is absolutely furious.

“The Red Hood,” Tim repeats, shifting in the corner of Dick’s gaze at his position on Dick’s left. He frowns, eyebrows furrowing as he crosses his arms over his chest. “As in Joker’s Red Hood?”

Bruce’s eyes flicker as they often do at the mention of the Joker. “The Red Hood alias has been used by multiple people and gangs before the Joker.”

“But after him, no one’s used it since,” Barbara points out quietly, standing on Dick’s right.

Bruce inclines his head in her direction. “He’s known to be extremely possessive of what he believes to be his.”

Maybe it’s all the crazy talk recently from Bruce that conjures the image of Jason’s defeated face, stark with a branded ‘J’, in Dick’s mind. He feels a little sick.

“We have to worry about Joker attacking this guy, too?” Tim mutters in annoyance. “Villains running out of new names to call themselves?”

“Naming scheme aside, it’s not unlikely,” Bruce says, looking grim. “The rumors are small now, but once Joker catches wind of the Red Hood, it won’t be long before there’s movement. He’s messing with someone who shouldn’t be messed with.”

“So this Red Hood guy may or may not have a connection with the Joker,” Dick says, attempting to get them back on track. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk about preventing a potential murder, but he really doesn’t have much sympathy for a killer like the Red Hood who’s been mucking up Gotham. “Maybe he’s a fanatic. Or maybe he has a grudge against him. That still doesn’t explain why he’s going around messing with the mob.”

He looks at Tim and Barbara to see if they have any idea, but Tim merely shrugs while Barbara slowly shakes her head.

“His background is still under investigation,” Bruce tells him, which Dick knows is code for ‘I don’t know yet’. “Analysis so far indicates that his earliest appearance occurred three months ago. He’s taken over Tricorner, Southside, parts of Old Gotham, and is now encroaching on Westside.

“Judging from the situation, he’s an extremely trained and dangerous individual. He’s already displayed an expert level of computer engineering as well as an intimate understanding of Gotham’s underworld.” The longer the explanation goes on, the unhappier Bruce’s voice is, becoming low and tense.

Dick very carefully doesn’t look at the melted remains of the computer resting on one of the side tables. According to Barbara, Bruce had essentially stripped it to pieces and given it to Tim for explosives testing. She had been very empathetic in her description of how Bruce had stuck around to watch it go up in flames.

Turns out, Mr. I-Have-Control-Over-Everything can hold grudges. Who knew?

“Okay, we have a lot of hearsay, it seems. Do we have anything concrete? Like a description? Even a single clue?” Dick asks.

No one speaks.

“Gotcha,” he sighs. “Ghost in the system.”

“Just keep an eye out,” Bruce finally says before hesitating. “And…be careful.”

Dick makes sure he doesn’t react to that as Bruce retreats from the Cave, the man’s expression impassive but feeling extremely embarrassed. As soon as Bruce disappears, Dick looks at his fellow vigilantes in bewilderment.

Barbara is the first to speak in a doubtful tone. “He hasn’t been dosed with something, has he?”

“Full sentences, clear train of thought, no symptoms, Alfred hasn’t said anything,” Tim lists out on his fingers, looking uncertain. “He should be…fine. Right?” He doesn’t sound at all convincing.

“Maybe,” Dick says slowly, “he’s just worried?”

“Yeah, but he’s always been silently worried,” Tim points out skeptically. “Like taking on our cases behind our backs. Or butting into our operations. Or shoving new gadgets at us. He’s emotionally stunted.”

“Don’t say that,” Dick reprimands despite agreeing with him.

Tim raises his hands in surrender. “It’s true though.”

“Don’t say it out loud.”

In response, Tim rolls his eyes.

Dick’s smile fades when he notices Barbara gnawing on her lower lip. “Babs?”

She looks up at them, face creased in faint worry. “Sorry, I just… I was thinking that with this whole Red Hood thing and the war, the case with Deathstroke has fallen to the wayside. And we all know what Bruce took from that case.”

The knowledge lingers between all three of them in tacit understanding.

Barbara takes a breath. “After Jason’s death, he was never really the same. But if he thinks that Jason is still alive, maybe he’s trying to open up again.” She meets Dick’s gaze, something heavy in her green eyes. “He has hope.”

This is what Dick has been trying very hard to ignore: Bruce isn’t the same person he was over a year ago.

A few years ago, before Jason had entered their lives, Bruce had been much more open to asking for help and relying on others. Delegation wasn’t uncommon, and Bruce even handed some of the more challenging cases off to Dick and Barbara. Then Jason came into their lives, and it was as though Bruce had brightened up even more.

For all that Bruce could be taciturn, Jason had proven to be someone who could worm his way past those high walls in a way that not even Alfred could. Then Jason was gone, and the walls that were about to melt strengthened into nearly impenetrable steel.

Bruce turned obsessive. The trust that existed between all of them seemed to shatter. There was still care and worry, but their relationships felt increasingly detached and fragile, cold and almost unfriendly. The Bruce that existed after that video was someone Dick almost couldn’t recognize.

He knew the man, understood the reasons, acknowledged that tragedy, but in the end, Dick couldn’t accept that the distant man before him was the same person who gently encouraged him to stand up for himself.

And now that Bruce seems to be trying to gather the shattered pieces of himself back together again?

Dick breaks his gaze away from Barbara. “It’s good that he has hope.”

“Is it really?” Tim asks rhetorically.

He doesn’t answer. Neither does Barbara.

But Tim seems unwilling to keep his silence. “We all know that the longer this goes on, the worse it’ll get.”

Dick knows that Tim is telling the truth. But thinking of Bruce, he finds it difficult to continue with his originally stone-hearted stance.

Maybe it’s selfish of Dick to want to see the Bruce of yesteryears once more. The longer they indulge in Bruce’s delusions, the harder it’ll be for Bruce to extricate himself from those illusions. The more time passes, the crueler the fall.

He closes his eyes, wanting that reserve of determination and fiery resolve from within him to surge up. All he feels is tired and old despite being only in his twenties.

“Jason is dead,” Dick says firmly, opening his eyes to look at Barbara and Tim. “I’ll talk to him again.”

Nightwing has dealt with a lot of things in his life. For example, living in Gotham, which honestly deserves a warning sign of its own. He could probably say “I lived in Gotham” to someone and instantly be given some type of trophy with the engraving of wow-I-can’t-believe-I’m-not-dead-or-horribly-maimed-or-crazy. He might even be given a don’t-mess-with-that-guy card.

Another example: living in Bludhaven. No further explanation needed.

He’d like to think that he has a pretty good grasp on the unexpected things in life because of those two. And if living in those two cities isn’t enough, he’s decided to make a career of being a vigilante in said cities.

His life, now that he looks at it like that, is actually kind of depressing.

Which is why he thinks he’s perfectly justified in his conclusion that he is either a) having a mental breakdown, or b) hallucinating. Truthfully, he prefers the latter considering how many chemicals have seeped into the city with all the supervillain schemes Gotham has gone through. Unfortunately, and very sadly in his opinion, he’s also aware that option a is not impossible.

Very, very calmly, he continues to look at Jason and think with whatever’s left of his mind that isn’t in complete shock.

He had responded to a bank robbery. Check. Taken down Harley and her goons. Check. Rescued a bunch of hostages. Check. Seen a sudden wild Jason. Hm. Okay, well, check?

Nope, he’s not seeing any way he could’ve gotten hit with a hallucinogen. Unless Harley’s gotten into some new traceless hallucinogenic gas. But considering none of the hostages look affected at all, Dick’s inclined to believe that he’s just going crazy.

He’s never getting that trophy, is he?

After all that nonsense, his brain has finally cooled down enough to point out the distinct differences between Jason and the man before him. His image of Jason might be a bit blurry considering how little time they’d spent together, but Nightwing is absolutely certain that after what the Joker had done to him, there would still be a brand on his cheek.

The man before him doesn’t look as though he’d gone through torture either. The hair color is right, but black hair is pretty common. The eyes—were Jason’s eyes that shade? The general face structure, according to the pictures, looks to be off but is still recognizable enough. The age…

Did Jason have distant relatives, or long-lost ones for that matter?

He’s tense, Nightwing thinks, noting the crossed arms, raised shoulders, and narrowed eyes. Why? And then his brain hits himself on the head. Because a known vigilante has been staring at him for the past minute without saying anything, duh!

“Sorry,” Nightwing says, trying to gather himself so he doesn’t act like any more of a weirdo. “You’re fine over here? No injuries or anything? Harley likes to use chemicals sometimes, so be honest.”

He doesn’t think the guy-who-might-be-Jason’s-long-lost-relative needs the warning considering the way Gotham practically radiates off him. But then again, Gothamites tend to be extremely stubborn about concealing their injuries. Or maybe Nightwing’s just associating his family with everyone else. It really, really doesn’t help that this guy looks like Jason.

The man doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he just looks at Nightwing as though he’s waiting for something else. There’s an odd expression on his face that Nightwing can’t quite decipher. Then: “No injuries here. Can we leave?”

“Typically, victims of violent crimes are recommended to stay until they’ve reported to the responding GCPD officers,” he responds, smiling to try and ease the sudden unexpected tension that comes with his words.

“Recommended,” the guy repeats. “But not required.” There’s not a hint of a question in his voice.

Nightwing’s eyes lower slightly. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t leave, sir. GCPD is already on their way.” The bank’s alarm had already alerted GCPD, and his follow-up message to Commissioner Gordon upon arriving at the scene means that the response time will be shorter. “It won’t take more than a few minutes, I promise.”

The man still doesn’t look happy. He’s staring at Nightwing now with something verging on hostility, enough so that Nightwing subtly shifts his stance just a little.

His smile widens into a flippant style. “It’s a few more minutes that you can spend talking to the best vigilante in the neighborhood,” he jokes, observing the person in front of him for the moment it might turn dangerous. Batgirl might joke about his intelligence sometimes, but he’s definitely not oblivious to the fact that out of all the goons he’s recorded in this event, two of them didn’t fall by his hands. “Lots of people would be pretty jealous of you.”

A snort escapes the other party, but Nightwing can’t tell if it’s out of derision or humor. Maybe it’s both considering the words spoken with a sneer right after.

“Best vigilante in the neighborhood? Aren’t you based in Bludhaven?”

“Sometimes I like to branch out, return to my roots and all that. Get that nostalgia going.” He keeps his voice light. “Didn’t think Gothamites knew I was based in Bludhaven though. Got a hobby of keeping track of the local vigilantes then? Want me to sign something for you?”

Somehow, someway, the man’s gaze cools down even further than absolute zero.

Nightwing nearly bites his tongue at that look. He’s gone a little too far apparently. But it’s as he mentioned. It’s strange that any Gothamite would know that he was based in Bludhaven. ‘Nightwing’ has few appearances in Gotham in the first place, and while most associate him with Batman and Robin, his information is scarce to the common person.

Gothamites know that he’s a vigilante, and that’s all they need to know.

In contrast, those who tend to keep track of the vigilantes that appear in Gotham—or outside of it, really—are either extremely obsessive fans or criminals at the level of villains and supervillains.

Honestly, the idea that Jason’s (probable) long-lost family member might be an obsessive fan of his is already weird enough. But if this guy is an up-and-coming villain in the making?

“We’re leaving,” the man says firmly, breaking him out of his thoughts. “You got tons of other people here to get accounts from. Two missing won’t make a difference.”

Two?

Nightwing realizes that he’s been so fixated on the person in front of him that he’s completely ignored the extra pair of legs. If Batman was here, he’d probably be looked at with heavy amounts of disapproval and silent disappointment. But he’d also protest that the big bad Bat would most likely be just as stunned as he is in this scenario.

The person hiding hasn’t spoken at all this entire time the two of them have been having their pleasant conversation. In fact, they’re a little too silent and still, enough so that he wants to lean his head around the body in front to see if they’re okay.

Maybe his gaze is a little too intense, or maybe his expression is conveying too many of his thoughts, but the young man in front bristles and takes a step forward. The action forces him to refocus, which is probably the intent anyways.

“Got a problem, Nightwing?” The alias is bitten into two distinct parts, aggression leaking through without reserve.

Nightwing takes a steady, deliberate step back from the hostile atmosphere, attempting to deescalate before something can happen. “No, I just think it’d be better if you and your friend stayed to talk to the officers. Your testimonies can help—”

“I already told you. Are you deaf, or are my words just not getting through your thick skull?”

Nightwing’s mind is already calmly placing the ‘friend’ as the other’s reverse scale. While the conversation hadn’t exactly been the friendliest, it had been calm up until he showed curiosity about the ‘friend’. Then, the other party had blown up, taking all of the attention with him and forcing Nightwing to essentially assign a lower priority to the ‘friend’.

It’s suspicious. Extremely suspicious, in fact.

Now, more than ever, he needs to keep an eye on these two. If he can just make them stay…

“It’s okay.”

The sudden intervention of a third-party stuns both Nightwing and the hostile man. The voice is young, cold, calm, and seemingly devoid of any emotion. It’s not a voice that Nightwing has been expecting from the mysterious and silent ‘friend’.

“It’s fine, Peter,” the young voice says.

Nightwing has just enough time to assign the name to the man before the person behind Peter steps out, and then he’s staring into bottomless icy blue eyes in an extremely familiar face.

The kid that might just be Jason Todd lifts the corners of his lips into a chilly smile. “We can talk to the officers. We don’t have anything to hide after all.”

Thirty minutes.

That’s how long it takes between the GCPD officers arriving and the scene being cleared. At least, that’s according to the clock on the wall of the bank. If he checks his timestamps later, he might be able to narrow down the exact seconds and milliseconds as well. In essence, it’s really not a long length of time. Thirty minutes is the amount of time workplaces are required to give their employees for lunch.

But that’s thirty minutes of watching Peter and ‘Jason’ mill about, waiting patiently for the officers to take their testimonies alongside everyone else. Thirty minutes of his brain struggling to find harbor in a sea of waves so rough and violent that he wants to give up thinking all together.

It’s also thirty minutes of silence.

As Nightwing, it’s impossible to go up to ‘Jason’ and ask the questions he desperately wants to ask, especially in this environment. Linking Nightwing to this teenager is dangerous, on both ends. Rumors are easy and quick to spread, and gossip can be information that criminals act on. If this isn’t Jason and just someone who looks much too like him…

Nightwing’s eyes rest on the bandage covering the teenager’s left cheek. No, even if this is Jason, it’s much too risky.

And that’s not even mentioning the overprotective bodyguard, Peter.

The impulse to pluck a strand of hair from ‘Jason’ is strong, but with Peter watching him like a hawk all the while, Nightwing knows better than to try. Neither of them has shed any blood, and despite himself, the feeling of regret wells up inside of him.

‘Jason’ finishes his talk with a police officer, walking over to Peter, who has been unhappily staring at Nightwing. There’s a short conversation between the two of them before they head for the doors.

Almost inadvertently, ‘Jason’s’ head turns just as they exit, and his dark gaze meets with Nightwing’s before he looks away. He still looks unaware of the tracker Nightwing’s managed to flick into his jacket’s hood.

Nightwing brings up the map on his gauntlet, watching the red dot move steadily away from this place. He’ll give it another ten minutes before he follows.

He stares as calmly as he can at the cat that’s led him on a wild goose chase for the last twenty minutes.

The cat glances disdainfully at him, letting out a meow before it continues to groom itself.

Provocation, he thinks blankly. He remembers the look ‘Jason’ had given him at the end. Definitely provocation.

“I kind of want to ask, but I also don’t want to at the same time,” Barbara comments behind his back in the Cave.

Dick comes up with the bandages and antiseptic wipes he’s been searching for in the first aid kit and gloomily begins to clean up the scratches on his face. He turns to face her. “Don’t ask.”

“Hm, no, I’m asking,” she says after a moment of visible observation and thought. A smirk steals across her lips. “Did you have a sudden run-in with Catwoman and pissed her off by making another one of your stupid jokes?”

“My jokes are not stupid,” Dick protests, grimacing at the sting of the wipes doing their work. “And don’t you dare say anything about my puns. They’re the best part of me.”

Barbara rolls her eyes and takes the bandages, motioning for him to take a seat. “Agree to disagree.”

He gives her a charming smile before obediently following her orders. “Since you disagree, then what is the best part of me? My handsome good looks? My great sense of humor? My amazing personality?”

“Your surprising ability to stay quiet?” Barbara suggests, slapping the bandage on his forehead with her palm gently.

“Ouch, Babs.” Dick covers his forehead with exaggerated movements, looking pitifully at her. “Is this what you really think of me? I’m feeling hurt.” He presses against his chest where his heart is. “Right here.”

Barbara looks unmoved, putting away the rest of the bandages. “You’re funny.”

“Why does it sound like you’re not really complimenting me?”

She gives him an amused look. “Alright, enough playing around, boy wonder numero uno. You’re not getting out of this one. What’s with the scratches?”

Dick scratches at his cheek with a finger, feeling a little embarrassed. Can he really say that he was attacked by a cat? “It was a beast,” he begins solemnly. “Not quite as big as Harley’s hyenas, but it had claws and hissed violently. I was attempting to subdue it with my full efforts because it had something important—”

“Cat?” Barbara interrupts, unimpressed.

“No, I just said it was a beast—”

“Dick, I watched you trip over your own cape as Robin. Is being scratched by a cat that embarrassing?”

“Can you stop bringing that up? Tripping over your own cape is a Robin rite of passage!” Dick says righteously. “I bet Bruce tripped over his cape countless times. And it wasn’t a cat!”

“What wasn’t a cat?” Tim asks.

Dick doesn’t whirl around violently only by virtue of the fact that he’s still sitting down. He looks down at the floor momentarily before he turns his head to face Tim, who has his eyebrow raised and is looking between the two of them in confusion.

“Tim,” he says sweetly with false concern, “are you a ghost? Do we need to put a bell on you?”

Tim ignores his words, very obviously looks at the bandage on his head, and glances at Barbara. “Cat?”

“Cat,” she affirms seriously.

“It was a ferocious animal,” Dick continues to insist for a moment longer before he gives up. “It was a cat.”

“So,” Barbara says, crossing her arms, “what happened?”

Dick straightens his shoulders and lets the humor die from his expression. He wants to carefully choose his words, but thinking of his suspicions, he finds that there’s really no nice way to ease into the subject. “I think I met Jason.”

“Jason who?” Tim asks at first, furrowing his eyebrows. Then his expression changes. “Wait, you’re not talking about Jason Todd, are you?”

Dick stays silent in confirmation.

Barbara looks at him, eyes searching his face for something. “Dick,” she starts slowly, “we’ve just spent several weeks talking about how Bruce is delusional for believing that Jason is alive.”

“I know how this sounds,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “I’m still wondering if I’m going crazy, but unless his doppelganger has suddenly appeared, it’s him. I tried to put a tracker on him, but…”

“Cat,” she mutters in realization.

A rueful, self-deprecating smile appears on his face as he nods. “I should’ve realized that if he was Jason, he would’ve suspected that I’d put a tracker on him. I just wasn’t thinking.” He rubs at his face, looking at the two of them in turn. “I think we should at least consider the idea that maybe we were wrong and Bruce was right. Jason is alive.”

“Do you realize what you’re saying?” Tim stares at him. He raises a hand to keep Dick from speaking. “No, let’s put this into perspective. We spent months pouring over clues, locations, any piece of information that might give us any idea into where Jason was kept and what Joker was doing. Bruce didn’t even sleep at times, especially when that video came. We had to drug him at some point. You’re saying that all of us missed the clues.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Dick points out, struggling to not raise his voice. “We might think otherwise, but we weren’t exactly working at our best then. I had Bludhaven to cover at the same time, so I had to split my time and effort. Not exactly conducive to being eagle-eyed during the investigation. You were still training, and it wasn’t like Bruce was going to let you go out to investigate by yourself when you were still new. Babs, you—”

“I was training Tim and dealing with the Rogues that escaped during that time. Crime doesn’t stop for anyone,” Barbara says, frowning heavily.

“Exactly! And let’s not even talk about Bruce—he’s not a robot. It’s weirder if he wasn’t emotionally compromised during that time.” Dick pauses, hoping to impress the point on the two of them with a solemn expression and voice. “Face it, we weren’t at our best. I’m not trying to make excuses, but if we all managed to miss the clues, it’s not impossible.”

“I’m really hating you right now, Dick,” Tim says, but it’s clear that he’s not speaking personally. His hands have clenched into tight fists, and his face has turned heavy and shadowed. “Because if you’re right…”

“How certain are you that the person you met is Jason?” Barbara questions quietly.

Dick opens his mouth to almost confidently blurt out his answer before he stops and takes a breath to calm himself down from impulsive answers. “Ninety percent.” And that number’s only because he’s leaving room for any peculiarities in this strange world they live in.

She nods without commenting, keeping whatever thoughts she has to herself. “Have you tested yourself for toxins?”

He frowns briefly, annoyed but understanding her concerns. If their roles were switched, he’d ask the same of her or Tim. “No, but I’ll put myself in containment for the rest of the night.” He feels like he needs the rest anyways, and the containment cell in the Cave is honestly the quietest place to think and sleep.

“Okay,” Barbara says with finality. “Here’s what we’re going to do: until we find evidence that the person you met is Jason, we don’t talk to Bruce about this. There’s no telling what he’ll do with this information.”

“Agreed,” Tim mutters while Dick nods.

“Tim, you’ll go through the files we have on Jason’s case. I’ll look at Bruce’s records on the cell and Deathstroke again.”

“There was someone with ‘Jason’,” Dick adds, recalling the hostile man. “A young man by the name of Peter. It’s likely that he’s a relative.”

Tim’s eyebrows furrow as he tilts his head. “Jason Todd doesn’t have living relatives.”

“That we know of,” Dick counters before he looks up at Barbara. “If, according to Bruce’s theory, Jason was held captive until Deathstroke’s death, he wouldn’t have been in a good enough shape to be his killer. So, where did this ‘relative’ come from, and why is ‘Jason’ staying with him?”

“You think this Peter is the killer.”

“I think,” Dick says with mixed emotions and a complicated face, “there’s a chance.”

If this speculation is true, Peter has saved Jason Todd from the clutches of the Joker, Deathstroke, and whoever else kept him captive and tortured in Arkham Asylum—a feat that none of the so-called vigilantes of Gotham has been able to do.

Dick watches the door to the containment cell close as he takes a seat on the cot, shoulders slumping.

Outside, across the glass of the observation window, Barbara presses the intercom, voice crackling into the cell. “The door’s set to open in twelve hours barring anything going wrong. Alfred’s already been notified.” She pauses long enough that Dick lifts his head to look at her. Her expression looks faintly sad. “You know, I have to agree with Tim. I really, really hate you for this.”

He gives her a helpless, understanding smile as he clasps his hands together. “I know.”

Barbara shakes her head. “But I think I hate myself more. We’re vigilantes. Heroes. I know it’s impossible to save everyone, but all this seems so…preventable. How is it that we can save others, yet we can’t even save the ones that matter most to us?”

She seems to be questioning just herself considering her soft voice, but Dick opens his mouth anyways, only to find himself speechless. He has no advice to give her, no comfort he can say that he hasn’t tried on himself and failed to listen to.

She heaves a sigh, expression straightening somewhat close to her normal appearance. But it’s obvious that there’s something still wrong as her shoulders look heavy. “Good night, Dick,” she tells him before dimming the lights and turning to leave.

Dick watches her go, keeping his gaze on her back until she disappears from his sight. He turns to lie down on the cot, grabbing the blanket to wrap it around himself in an attempt at useless comfort.

The image of ‘Jason’s’ chilly smile haunts him, and he buries his head into the small pillow as though he can hide from it. His voice is a whisper in the dark.

“I hate myself, too.”

Chapter Text

Jason feels cold.

There’s something lingering in his chest after that sudden unexpected encounter with Dick, forcing him to take slow, deep breaths. The world has become increasingly silent, as though some unsettling power is watching him from beyond and is waiting for him to make his choice. It’s burst the bubble he’s been living in, rudely and violently ripped apart the façade he’s almost been lured into believing.

What are you doing, Jason? he asks himself.

The joints of his hands ache as he looks down at the cracked and scarred skin, gleaming silver in the moonlight streaming through the bedroom window—another persistent reminder. He curls each of his fingers slowly and watches as they creak and groan with every movement. The sound of a hammer smashing down is loud in his ears as does the scream of a voice he’d thought would go mute.

His eyes drop from his fingers to his left ankle, laid bare from where he’d pushed the cloth up his crisscrossed legs. His touch is gentle, feather-light even, but every nerve seems to have woken up, screaming out in protest.

Crack! go the bones in his mind.

Have you had enough fun playing house yet? The voice that sneers at him in his mind is dark, contemptuous, and full of ridicule.

Jason recognizes that voice. Within Arkham, it had been his constant companion. A delirious conjuration of his mind in the depths of despair and loathing. For the first few months, he’d shoved it aside in the belief that Batman would come rescue him, that if he held out just a little longer… But the longer time went on, the more Joker gloated about a new Robin and his abandonment, it grew louder and louder. The voice inflicted as much torture as Joker and Harley’s own games.

The voice also kept him alive.

When Red had gotten him out, he’d thought…

Thought what? That you didn’t need me anymore? Don’t be delusional. You’ve gone too far into your act if you’re beginning to believe that.

Act…

Jason lowers his eyes, quietly listening to the voice and making no attempt to deny it. It’s a part of himself after all—all his dark thoughts, his cold rationality, the part that discarded moral lines in order to survive in that cell. It understands him thoroughly.

Nightwing knows about you now, the voice continues in unkind judgement. It won’t be long before Batman does, too.

That gets him to work his mouth a little, but no sound manages to escape even as he mouths the word ‘Batman’. The mention should get him heated up, fiery as a volcano erupting. There’s nothing except cold acceptance, like his heart has stopped beating and is sleeping in frozen snow.

You should’ve used that tracker to lure Nightwing out, taken him captive, and see if Batman put as much ‘care’ into this tool as he did you, not tease that damn vigilante!

Indeed, his first thought upon unsurprisingly finding that tracker had been to follow that train of thought. He’s already aware of his role in Batman’s life, but he’s uncertain if that role applies to the other vigilantes as well. If Batman doesn’t care, then at least he can use that to persuade Nightwing to stay out of this fight—or maybe even join him.

If Batman does care, then Nightwing and the others are weaknesses he can use.

But what happened? The voice rages as if it’s consumed and taken all of Jason’s fiery anger.

Upon seeing the tracker, Red had smirked and whispered in a teasing, mirthful voice that there was a good way to use it.

The light-hearted tone had told Jason everything he needed to know: Red’s plan wouldn’t be hostile and might not even cause Nightwing any harm. He doesn’t know why he handed the tracker over, why he agreed to the idea.

Family, the voice sneers, breaking his thinly veiled deception. You’re still weak after so long. How many times will you go through the same thing before you understand that family means nothing? Willis, Cathy, Bruce—all of them abandoned you. You’re just a tool to them. The only one you can depend on is yourself.

“He killed Deathstroke for me,” Jason mutters, clenching his aching fingers into white fists.

He’s also distracting you. You’re not the only one playing house. He’s just better at it.

Jason stands, nearly stumbling as his left leg gives out suddenly before he manages to catch himself. He grits his teeth at the pain that travels throughout his body. It’s all mostly in his head, he knows. He’s healed most of it.

There’s no healing this, the voice hisses at him. Until the moment you die, you’ll always feel this pain.

He limps his way to the bathroom to stare at his dark face in the mirror. The bandage on his face is much too conspicuous. It tears away easily, revealing the brand and making him look harsher, meaner. He imagines the person in the reflection to be looking back at him.

“I want him dead,” Jason says almost calmly and watches his mouth in the reflection parrot it. “Crushed, broken, ruined at my feet as he realizes exactly who is the one doing it.”

The reflection in the mirror almost seems to smile. The voice in his head sounds satisfied when it speaks again. Then stop wasting time.

Wasting time. Has he been wasting time?

If Jason thinks about it seriously and in the pursuit of his goal, he has indeed been wasting time. Healing has been a priority since the moment he’d gotten out of Arkham, but it’s not like he’s an invalid. There are countless things he could’ve been doing instead of—instead of playing house.

He doesn’t want to doubt Red.

Red has been the only person who’s been looking out for him in the midst of a long list of letdowns. He found him in Arkham, rescued him, taught him whatever he wanted. It’s a little literary, but if Jason is a small boat drawing in water in the middle of rough waters, Red is the lighthouse guiding him to safe harbor, wanting him to be safe.

But.

The voice sneers. A guide? A lighthouse? He hasn’t even told you his name. You’re just guessing that it’s Peter. Even now, you call him ‘Red’. What trust can be built when all you know about him is what he wants you to know? Is he telling the truth, or is he telling you what you want to hear?

Jason admits that Red has an influence on him. Anyone saved by another will always be affected, especially even more so when the person saved is suffering from a long period of imprisonment and torture. He doubts that he will ever get rid of the influence already wrought on him, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be swayed.

If Red proves to be an obstacle to killing Batman, he’ll discard him—just like how he was discarded by Batman. A tool should be a tool. Even if…even if it’s someone like Red.

He takes one last look in the mirror, tracing his features and remembering the gleeful and anticipatory smile Red had as they lured the cat over. He touches the corner of his lips briefly and wonders if he had smiled then, too.

If Jason’s in a more generous mood, he might say that Wayne Tower shining in the night, lights illuminating the cloudy sky, is a nostalgic sight. But he’s not, so he mainly thinks that the sight of the building is an eyesore that should be demolished.

Getting in is… Well, it’s easier than he thinks it should be considering who owns the building and uses it as a back-up base.

The office hasn’t changed since the last time he’d been in this place. For some reason, a part of Jason had assumed it would’ve changed. Maybe a different desk, computer, anything to show that time has passed while he’d been away. But no, not even the books kept for decoration have been swapped out.

His eyes sweep the desk as he sets down the grappling gun, pausing at the three framed pictures placed proudly in view where Bruce would undoubtedly see them whenever he decided to come to work.

There’s one of Dick and Barbara absorbed in a board game as they sit on the floor of the Manor’s living room. Dick looks to be arguing something with wild arms while Barbara has her arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. The reflection in the window showcases the faint form of Bruce taking the picture, a smile on his face.

The second is a new addition showcasing Bruce, Dick, and the new guy—Timothy. All of them are smiling, Dick’s arms wrapped around the other two’s necks as he pulls them in. Timothy’s outstretched arm and the closeup angle indicates he’s the one taking the photo. They must’ve taken it during either the fall or winter since they’re all wearing coats and scarves.

The last picture—

Jason stops, eyes riveted on his own grinning face, wide and flushed from a victorious basketball game as Bruce slings an arm around his shoulders. There’s a proud look on Bruce’s face, almost glowing from how happy he looks. Bruce in this picture looks vastly different from the previous, brighter and with a light in his eyes.

Some emotion buds inside him, too obscure for him to figure out just yet.

The voice comes back, dark amusement tinged with irony in its tone. Look at that. Even when you’ve been tossed aside, he’s still using you. How many people do you think consider him a family man when they see that picture?

Turning away from the photos and feeling as though he’s turning away from something else, he focuses his attention on the computer. He hesitates as he stares at the waiting box, the text cursor steadily blinking as if patiently urging him to make a choice. Without allowing himself any more time to waver, he inputs his credentials, prepared to be rejected and have to try a different login.

Except he gets in.

With a low hum, the computer boots up the secondary database, a watered-down version of the one in the Cave. Perfect enough for any interfacing while out on patrol but without any of the details that an outsider could use to understand the information.

Spread on the monitor, right before Jason’s disbelieving eyes, are the unlocked files of Batman.

“Why?” The trembling word escapes his lips involuntarily. His chest feels tight as though something has squeezed all the air from his lungs. That tiny bud of unknown emotion seems to grow. “Why didn’t you…”

Jason cuts himself off from further questioning. It doesn’t matter why his credentials haven’t been revoked. What matters is that he’s in.

He goes immediately for the files that introduce the new and updated gadgets and gear, skimming through their information to get a better understanding of Batman’s current capabilities. There’s an inactive chat log in the system as well, from a few days ago.

[R: @BG area near CT is cleared

BG: Thanks. Payment will be delivered tomorrow.

R: Making sure, they’ll be premium?

BG: Same place you always get your coffee. I don’t know how you can drink it with how strong it is.

R: It’s an acquired taste

N: What’s this about CT? We moving up the timetable? Also, @R, stop ruining your tastebuds.

R: no

BG: CT has been acquired. Been setting up the systems there since “that” happened. Gonna be using it as a secondary location from now on.

N: “That”? What did I miss?? Wasn’t I away for only a few days???

R: Oh, you don’t know yet

N: ????

R: @BG

BG: Call me @N.]

Great. He now knows that Timothy Drake takes his coffee extremely strong, which means that if Jason ever decides to poison him, he won’t even taste it.

That information is useless, but everything else isn’t. CT—that stands for the Clock Tower.

He remembers that Barbara had been advocating for another base in the heart of Gotham. Different from Wayne Tower, the Clock Tower would be a place solely dedicated to the cause and not have the drawback of having a busy company work in it during the day. It would also be better for Barbara herself since she wouldn’t have to drive all the way to the Manor whenever she needs something.

If they’ve finally acquired the Clock Tower and are starting to use it, he and Red will have to be more careful about their presence with the cameras.

He minimizes the chat log, ready to continue his perusal of the files when his eyes catch on a video file labeled simply with his name. His heart thunders as he stares at it. He imagines that there are very few videos that could be labeled with his name and nothing else.

In fact, he can only really think of one. But that video should never be labeled with his name, not with him dressed as Robin.

Almost spellbound, Jason clicks on it.

“Jason.”

Bruce’s heavy face registers before his voice does, leaving Jason frozen.

A part of him is already cataloguing the differences between this recording and the memories he has. Even with the photo from earlier as a reference, it’s strange for Jason to see the lines on Bruce’s face, the heavy set of his shoulders, and an almost sorrowful expression. Bruce here is—He looks a little too human.

But the other part of him, the part that manifests the voice, is cold and waiting. What does Bruce have to say to the tool he’s tossed away?

“I don’t know if you’ll ever see this,” Bruce says, lowering his head slightly, eyes shadowed. “But I thought I’d at least make this in case you do. You’ve been avoiding me, after you…” He trails off, pausing as if the words are excruciating. After a subtle breath, Bruce continues. “After you escaped from Arkham. I don’t blame you.”

Jason’s fingers curl in on themselves, dragging his nails across sensitive skin.

“I failed you, over and over again.” Grief permeates every inch of Bruce’s body as his shoulders hunch and his head bows. “I don’t know what he’s done to you—what you’ve been through. I know it’s horrible and terrible and not something you should’ve ever had to go through. I should’ve saved you. I should’ve found you. I should’ve… I should’ve stopped you that day.”

For a moment, Jason thinks that Bruce is shaking or that the camera recording is unsteady, but then he realizes that his body is the one shaking. His clenched fists, pale and forming crescents in his palms, are trembling with restrained force.

He wants to laugh but his mouth refuses to open. All he can do is watch silently, feet glued to the spot.

Bruce raises his head to look straight into the camera, something wet and shiny in his gaze. It’s almost as though he’s staring directly at Jason. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a sudden cut, and the Bruce that appears after is much more composed. A hint of red lines his eyes. “If you’re seeing this video, then most likely, you’re still avoiding me. I haven’t revoked your access to our files as you can probably tell. If you need the money, your bank accounts are still open. The cards are hidden in your favorite book. Your ID, too.”

Jason stares blankly as Bruce hesitates before he starts stumbling over his words.

“If you—if you need anything else, my number hasn’t changed either. We don’t have to meet. We don’t even have to call. You could text me. It’s dangerous out on the streets right now. You’re probably aware of what’s happening between the Maronis and the Falcones, but there’s a dangerous third-party intervening, and I’m worried about you.

“Get to someplace safe. Don’t do anything dangerous. Wait until I stop this war. And, if you can, if you want to, send me a message. Anything. Let me know you’re safe.” Bruce stops, looking drained and as though he’s gone through sleepless nights fighting multiple villains. “Please, come home. I love you, Jason.”

The video ends there, frozen on Bruce’s tired face.

Ah, Jason realizes distantly as that nameless emotion ravages him. The emotion he’s been feeling is rage.

He doesn’t remember trashing Bruce’s office. It feels like there’s a gap between staring at Bruce’s face and coming back to full consciousness, standing in the middle of a whirlwind of destruction and paper with his chest heaving from exertion.

The sting of his hand reveals that he’s been clutching something all the while, edges digging uncomfortably into his skin. He pries his fingers open to reveal several credit and debit cards alongside an ID card with his face on it.

There’s a vague memory, almost frenzied, of him pulling a book from the bookshelves and flipping through its pages until he stopped. A glance at the desk reveals he’d left it there, open right on the page the cards had been hidden on.

Jason stares down at the cards. What use does he have for these? What does Bruce think that he’s doing? Does he think that Jason will accept these and use them so that Bruce can start tracking his location through his purchases?

He should toss them away. He doesn’t. Instead, he stuffs them into the pocket of his jacket, trying hard to not think about why he’s kept them.

Something shifts the scattered paper behind him, and Jason’s turning, shoulders raised and muscles tense, as a voice sounds.

“I admit, I’ve had my own thoughts on trashing his office, but I’ve never actually gone through with it.”

For months in his captivity, Jason had fantasized about meeting the new Robin and what his reaction would be like. He had thought about betrayal, hostility, and pain a lot. But mostly, it was anger—anger that he’d been replaced so easily, anger that his ‘successor’ was someone who was his total opposite, anger that Bruce couldn’t wait.

As Jason looks at Timothy Drake, he finds that none of those guesses are right. He feels nothing upon seeing Robin, just a cold emptiness that’s mixed with a vague stomach-curling disgust at seeing the suit.

Robin looks back at him, hood over his head and shadowing his masked face. “Jason Todd?”

Jason doesn’t respond, gauging the effort required to get past Robin to escape into Gotham’s night sky. It’s not that he didn’t anticipate someone showing up to his intrusion into Wayne Tower, but he should be out by now. An ill-advised demolition of Bruce’s office hadn’t been in the plan. Then again, that video hadn’t been a part of his plan either.

Robin doesn’t seem to mind the silence. He makes a show of looking around at the destruction, deceptively relaxed as if Jason can’t tell that his senses are all honed in. “If you wanna go for a career in demolition, I’ll definitely endorse you,” he jokes.

Jason reaches for one of the few books still intact on the shelves, still keeping his eyes on Robin. He hefts it, tossing it up slightly to test its weight.

Robin’s easy-going smile fades. He straightens. “Jason, wait—”

The book hurls itself straight toward Robin’s face, Jason darting after it and swiping his grappling gun off the table.

Robin reacts immediately, swatting the book out of the air. He reaches out, but Jason’s already veering off, sprinting toward the other balcony.

He hears Robin cursing behind him just as he vaults over the railing, freefalling. There’s a small noise barely able to be heard above the whistling of the wind buffeting him—the sound of a cape fluttering.

His grappling line shoots out, slowing his descent just enough. The landing on a nearby skyscraper is still painful. He disregards that. Puts one foot in front of the other. Leaps over a gap. His heart pounds in his ears.

The sound of footsteps follows. As does the swishing of a cape.

He vaults over the next parapet, using his hand to stop and twist his body to aim for the lower ledge of the building. He stumbles as the pain from earlier flares in his ankles.

Not yet, he thinks, gritting his teeth.

The footsteps above grow louder.

He runs. Sure foot by sure foot. Uncertain direction by uncertain destination. Way down below, the streetlights glimmer like small stars.

A grappling hook flies past, latching onto a building ahead of him. The line reels, louder than his breaths or the rush of blood in his ears. He briefly regrets not having a blade on him.

A gap between buildings presents itself.

Jason takes the other option, turning sharply with the building, feet nearly slipping from the ledge.

The whirring stops. A curse sounds.

Behind him, there’s a heavy impact of boots on stone before rapid footsteps begin to chase him once more.

Another turn and gap. He takes the gap, dropping further down onto a different ledge. His legs protest.

There’s no grappling hook following him, only a heavy thump and the flapping of fabric.

He doesn’t take the next gap. Then he pivots, ankles burning. One step, two steps—

Robin rounds the corner. His eyes widen. It doesn’t stop Jason’s foot from meeting his abdomen.

Off-balance, Robin reaches out, less panicked and more determined.

Jason’s scalp burns as he instinctively resists. But before he can do anything else, Robin lets go.

Hurtling down into the streets, Robin grins triumphantly.

For a moment, Jason stares after him, watching as the vigilante finally manages to shoot out a grappling hook to slow his descent. It’s not a smooth action, and if the other person isn’t Robin, Jason might feel some sympathy for the injury that’ll definitely occur.

He turns and limps away, reaching up to touch his hair and feeling the ache of having some of it ripped out.

He ends up somewhere he doesn’t quite recognize.

Gotham has always been home ground for him, her seedy streets an imprint in his mind and the rest a map he’s memorized from Batman’s files. Down below or high above in the skies, the city has always been his. Even if it’s been a while since he’s fully stepped into her winding streets and dark rooftops, he should have some idea of where he is. He doesn’t.

Jason gazes almost blankly at the unfamiliar city spread in front of him, silently listening to the occasional low hum of cars driving down below in the streets.

His ankle feels fragile, a familiar but unwelcome feeling. The skin of his palms and fingers are scratched to hell and back, little rivers of blood running down where stone has ripped his flesh. His lungs burn from exertion, and even now, his heart seems like it’s about to escape his chest.

He coughs, trying to get that congested feeling out of his throat and lungs, but partway through, it turns into choking laughs.

Send me a message, Bruce had said.

Does the demolition of his office count as a message?

Involuntarily, the laughs turn hysterical. He hunches over, clasping his hands over his mouth in an attempt to get himself under control. By the time he’s done, his eyes feel wet, and he wipes them calmly.

He pulls out his cellphone and dials the only number on it. “Red,” he says when the other picks up. His voice sounds tremulous.

Red pauses. “What do you need?”

That’s good. No questions about his well-being or where he is. He doesn’t think he can answer either of them right now.

Jason opens his mouth. “Help me.”

The voice doesn’t deny it either.

He instinctively knows he’s drowning. His little boat has taken on too much water too fast. The shore is too far. If he can’t bring himself there, he’ll just have to bring the lighthouse to him.

“Okay,” Red says.

Jason still feels cold.

Chapter Text

The Joker has never had good timing. Of course, Batman knows that Joker would say that he has impeccable timing.

Impeccable timing for the worst perhaps.

The mob war is already headache-inducing, but adding the Joker on top of that? There aren’t many things worse that he can think of. Unfortunately, the rumors that the Joker is planning something seems to be almost omnipresent in the city.

It’s not a surprise. The war is taking away attention from the Joker, and the Red Hood even seems to be calling him out in a non-subtle manner. It’ll be a shock if the Joker doesn’t respond.

Batman slips through the open rooftop window of the warehouse, landing quietly on a steel beam. His sources, courtesy of some light interrogation, had informed him of this meeting an hour ago.

The open window is slightly concerning due to the tendency of Gotham’s criminals to try and lock every opening he can get through. But considering that these subordinates seem to be Joker’s, he’s more inclined to think that maybe they simply don’t care and may even want him to hear about their boss’s plans.

That’s the thought he has up until the moment he looks up from his perch.

“Hi,” the Red Hood says, voice modulated through the red helmet clearly and obviously denoting his alias. He’s quiet enough that he’s not heard by the gathered henchmen underneath them, but Batman feels as though his voice has exploded in his ears. His body is crouched on an adjacent beam, hidden behind a vertical bar, which explains why Batman hasn’t seen him until now. “Fancy meeting you here. Or maybe not.”

Batman coldly debates the merits of forgoing the investigation into Joker and instead going after the criminal right in front of him. He can investigate the Joker’s plans another time, but the Red Hood has proven to be elusive enough that it’s possible this will be the only interaction they have for a while. This might be his only chance at taking out the Red Hood before something drastic happens.

The Red Hood seems to sense his thoughts because the man waggles a gloved finger at him in a mocking manner. “Ah-ah-ah. You might wanna take a look at what they’re planning before you do something impulsive.”

He’s not in the habit of taking advice from criminals. They tend to be something along the lines of “give up” and “stay out of this,” both of which he ignores routinely enough that they simply don’t register in his mind anymore. However, the Red Hood’s words imply that he believes that whatever the Joker is planning will get Batman to reorganize his priorities.

Still, Batman hesitates.

“I’m not going to run, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the Red Hood says, being unnervingly accurate in reading his thoughts so far. He still hasn’t gone for the guns holstered at his waist. His getup is surprisingly utilitarian with a leather jacket over a Kevlar suit, the type of gear that’ll be easy to hide at a moment’s notice. “I have a stake in this little meet. And I guarantee that you’ll regret it if you don’t take a look.”

Ominous words.

He really shouldn’t listen to a crime lord that’s been labeled as manipulative, but he judges a quick look won’t hurt.

Batman peers down, attention split between keeping track of the Red Hood and figuring out what’s happening with the gathered henchmen.

“—figured out where the wiring leads,” one of them is reporting. “It’s still in good shape. Maybe a repair or two and the park’ll be up and running.”

“Is it really necessary to dress it up with all these lights?” another asks, complaint in his tone. “Seriously, powering all the rides is already gonna blow out the energy grid or something, and then we gotta add more lights? Does Joker want to send the city into a blackout?”

“That’s not how that works. We’re not taking enough electricity from the grid to cause an overload. In the first place, all we’re doing is siphoning electricity from the park’s original energy source,” the first man corrects, clearly more knowledgeable than his companion.

“Whatever. Point is I fucking hate putting up these lights.”

It’s not uncommon for the Joker to use Amusement Mile—because that has to be the park they’re referring to—as a hideout and sometimes staging ground, but it is uncommon for him to be planning something revolving around it. It sounds like Joker is giving the amusement park an entire overhaul, and if he’s doing that, then the park will undoubtedly be filled with entrenched traps and defenses. These henchmen likely won’t be the only group working on renovating the place for the Joker’s plan then.

Batman feels a little uneasy at the prospect of the Joker essentially building a fortress to keep him out. Whatever the clown is planning, it’s very clearly not good.

“Nobody likes their job,” one of the silent men says, and all eyes turn to him—a leader then. “But it’s all prep, and unless you want GCPD or Batman clobbering you immediately, don’t fucking complain.”

“What do Christmas lights have to do with prep?” the complaining henchman mutters.

“Ambiance,” another henchman suggests.

“Shut up.”

“Does anyone know who Joker’s planning on getting as a hostage?” a fifth henchman asks, looking around at his gathered group. “‘Cause it’s not like he’s gonna get some random nobody, right? Not with everything we’ve been doing.”

It’s a good question. There are many people in the spotlight whose situation as a hostage by the Joker will bring greater attention than the typical everyman, as much as Batman hates to admit it. The famous, the infamous, leaders, celebrities, those whose names permeate the public consciousness—all of them can be targets. The potential hostage pool has been narrowed significantly, but it’s not enough.

Unfortunately, none of them answer, with some shrugging and others shaking their heads.

“I know,” the Red Hood says quietly, bringing Batman’s attention fully back to him. His helmeted head is turned towards him; it doesn’t appear as if his focus has ever left. “Want me to tell you?”

Batman narrows his eyes. “And you’d be so kind as to give me accurate information.”

There’s a noise coming from the modulator that might be a scoff or a click of his tongue. “Is that really so hard to believe?”

“You’ve brought death and destruction to this city,” Batman points out, keeping his voice as level as it possibly can be considering the situation. He doesn’t mention stealing and using his files; that’s already known and bringing it up makes him feel at a disadvantage. “People are dead. People live in fear. You’ve thrived on that, used that to your advantage, and now, you’re attempting to offer me information that could stop more of that from happening?”

For a moment, there’s silence.

It’s impossible to tell what the Red Hood is feeling, if he feels anything at all about Batman’s words. His body showcases nothing but tense ease. Confident but wary of any sudden movements. The helmet hides his face well, and the only sign of anything is when he tilts his head.

“I can see why you think that,” the Red Hood admits. “But what I’m offering isn’t any different from information you’d get from, say Penguin. And don’t even try to lie to me by saying you don’t use information from him or any of the other members of your psychotic Rogues gallery. I know you, Batman. You use that information. You trust it.”

“I don’t trust it,” Batman responds sharply before he manages to soften his voice once more, preventing the henchmen down below from noticing their presence. “I verify. Information must be verified before it can be used.”

A noise of static escapes the Red Hood. Possibly a sigh or a huff considering his next words. “The problem is that you can’t verify this information until it happens.”

“Then why should I ‘trust’ anything you say? Because you’re a crime lord with a heart of gold?”

The Red Hood shrugs. “There are weirder things out there. But no, I think you should trust me just a little because if you don’t, there’ll be two people who you’ll fail. And I don’t think you want that to happen. Not to these two.”

There’s a heavy weight and certainty to his words that Batman doesn’t understand, but even so, he’s forced to concede that the Red Hood has a point. Whether the information is accurate or not isn’t the most important part of this. If the Red Hood does have information on what the Joker is planning, information that even the Joker’s henchmen don’t have, he has to hear him out.

“Who?” he asks, leveling his most intense stare at where he assumes the Red Hood’s eyes to be. It’s difficult to intimidate someone who has their expressions hidden, but he does his best.

“Well, actually it’s more one hostage and one…” The Red Hood pauses, as if struggling to properly find his words. “Collateral,” he finishes eventually.

Batman frowns. “Who?” he presses again.

“Think,” the Red Hood says, doing nothing to disguise his unimpressed tone. “Barring you, who amongst everyone in Gotham has stood against him the longest? Who has become a symbol of actual trustworthy action when it comes to crime and corruption? Who, in Joker’s opinion, would serve as the best example, broken and destroyed?”

There’s only one answer to those questions.

“Commissioner Gordon,” he says.

“Bingo.”

It makes an awful amount of sense for the Joker to target the police commissioner. At this moment, Gordon is heading the efforts to subdue the worst of the mob war, causing his already significant trust from the public to skyrocket. Bringing him down, with whatever Joker’s plan is, will serve to plummet the public’s sense of safety and belief. The Joker’s infamy, in contrast, will shoot to the forefront of public consciousness.

Batman might be able to take down crime without Gordon’s help, but he, Nightwing, Robin, and Batgirl are all just one person each. And at the end of the night, they’re vigilantes, not the figures of authority that the people of the city should be looking towards for direction.

Gordon is the culmination of power, prestige, and authority on how to take down crime and corruption. He’s the one charting the course of GCPD, proving to the city that there’s hope for persistent and everlasting change. Without him, it’ll be much more difficult to protect the city and keep that hope alive. It’ll be a setback that Batman isn’t sure anyone can truly prevent.

It’s just that…

Batman looks at the Red Hood, attempting to observe anything from the man.

“Talk,” the crime lord says, flat even through the modulator. “I can hear your gears turning.”

“You’re a crime lord.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure we established that between me starting a mob war and taking over their territory. There a reason why you’re pointing out the obvious?”

Batman doesn’t frown. “The commissioner has been hindering your efforts to ruin this city and build your criminal empire.”

The Red Hood’s body shakes a little as the modulator barks out harsh yet quiet laughter. “Oh, I see. You think it’s better for me if I just let Joker do whatever he wants to Gordon. So, I can ‘benefit’ from his absence.” The amusement abruptly stops, and the man leans in slightly, causing Batman to tense, hand readying a batarang. “Let’s get this straight, Batman, before you decide that I’m like one of your whacko Rogues who need to be put down like rabid dogs.

“You can call me a crime lord. You can call me a murderer. You can even call me a villain. But the one thing I’m not? Someone who wants this city to go to hell.”

The Red Hood’s words are strange for a crime lord. If Gordon is the type to take bribes and look the other way when it comes to the mob, it might make sense for the Red Hood to want him to be safe. But the commissioner is staunchly anti-corrupt and had even worked with a vigilante outsider over deciding to take the mob’s hand all those years ago. It’s a contradiction that only serves to deepen the mystery behind this new crime lord.

Batman lets the thoughts pass through his mind, trying to figure out the Red Hood’s motives. “Then what do you call what you’re doing? Your war has already sent this city spiraling down that path. You’re the one making this city into a hellscape of death and fear.”

“I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: you’ve never, ever truly understood Gotham. She’s evil, and to fight her, you have to fight her on her terms.”

While the first part confuses him, the Red Hood can’t be insinuating what he thinks he is. He can’t be, because if it’s true, then this entire mob war, all the senseless deaths and the constant fear, is because the man wants to fix this city.

“What you’re doing is nothing more than murdering people,” Batman says, holding back from a snarl.

A noise that might be a scoff escapes the Red Hood. “What I’m doing is cleansing a part of this city. You ever heard of controlled burns? A fire intentionally set to clear the land of dead and decaying material. Wipe the slate clean and control what comes after.”

“This city isn’t a forest. These are living, breathing people you’re affecting. Living, breathing people you’re murdering.”

Another quiet, mocking laugh echoes through the modulator. The Red Hood sweeps his hand across the warehouse at the unaware henchmen chattering below them. “Some might say that these ‘people’ are nothing more than animals. You live by the precept that every life is precious, that there will always be second and third and fourth and nth chances. I live by the precept that sometimes, it’s better if some things have permanent consequences.”

“No one gets to personally decide who lives or dies. We have juries and judges for a reason. What you’re doing is arbitrarily deciding on a person’s death, based on your own subjective code.”

“And how’s that working out for you? How’s that working out for this city?” The Red Hood’s voice turns dark. “I hear Joker’s still got his own private cell in Arkham, ready for him to come and go whenever he wants. And if you don’t want to talk about him, I’ve been hearing rumors lately about a cannibalistic murderer going by the name Killer Croc. All you’ll do to him is lock him up, and where would that put all the family members and loved ones of those who’ve been eaten?

“This city’s ‘justice’ comes far too late, or it never comes at all. Isn’t that why you’re doing what you’re doing, Batman?”

Batman disregards the question even as he registers that the Red Hood seems to have been studying him for a long enough time to have some theory on why he became a vigilante. He focuses instead on the sentence right before. It might just be him reading too much into the crime lord’s words, but he thinks there’s something personal there.

Something has happened to the Red Hood or someone close to him, and it’s caused a shift in thinking. No one becomes a crime lord to ‘control crime’ without a catalyst. This might be useless information, but it gives Batman an inkling as to the reasons behind the creation of the Red Hood.

It mirrors himself a little too closely. Instead of pursuing justice through fighting crime, the Red Hood has decided that bringing down crime means controlling it.

If Bruce had turned left instead of right, would he have become someone like this?

The anger at the Red Hood’s actions is still there, but an understanding has begun to accompany it.

“You’re perpetuating a cycle of violence,” he points out, calmer now. “At the end of the day, the amount of suffering you’re claiming to decrease is what you put back into the system. You say you want to clean up Gotham; this isn’t how you do it.”

“Then how should I do it? Your way? Sure, that’ll work a few times, scare them a bit. But what happens when they’re no longer afraid? What happens when the fear isn’t enough?”

“Even so, taking lives is never the answer.”

The Red Hood points at him, still annoyingly unreadable past the helmet. “You see that? That’s the attitude that led to the Joker. To Harley. To Scarecrow. To every single one of those psychotic mass murderers you got locked up and ready to escape in Arkham and Blackgate. At some point, you gotta realize that what you’re doing isn’t working. The only solution to them is a one-way trip to hell.”

There’s a fundamental divide between them. Even if the Red Hood isn’t a murderous crime lord, even if he hasn’t plunged this city into a fear-filled atmosphere, he and Batman will never be able to agree. They’re both too entrenched in their positions to concede to the other.

The worst part is that Batman understands the Red Hood’s points. He’s thought about it deep into the nights when he’s at his lowest, looking at crime and murder statistics. How futile his quest must look from the outside and even in the deepest parts of his mind.

But the Batman is a symbol of fear and hope—fear to his enemies and hope to his allies and the citizens of this city. If he kills—if the Batman kills, even if it’s Joker or the worst of his Rogues, it’ll set a precedent. The Batman then would just be a being of solely fear to both enemies and allies.

His hard-won trust will be lost. It’ll be a reversion to the years when he was public enemy number one in Gotham. He’ll just be another murderer, another person who’s ‘snapped’ in the public’s eyes. And once that happens, eyes will turn to Nightwing, Batgirl, and Robin, wondering if they’ll have to be feared as well. If the friendly heroes they’re used to will turn on them in the next second.

The Batman cannot kill.

For Bruce himself and the people he holds dear.

But there’s no need to tell any of that to the Red Hood. He doesn’t have the desire to justify himself to a crime lord.

“Enough,” he says harshly. He doesn’t know why he’s spent so long debating with the Red Hood about methods. There’s something inside of him that’s filled with dread, that little inkling that maybe the person underneath the hood isn’t someone he wants to believe he is. With every word, the feeling grows deeper and more suspicious. “No matter what you’re trying to do, what you’ve done is grounds enough for you to be locked up in Blackgate.”

The Red Hood rises from his crouch, helmeted head looking down at Batman. He raises his hands in a clear mocking surrender. “Oh, how terrifying.” There’s a pause as he tilts his head. “Try and catch me then.” He lifts his foot off the beam and drops.

Batman doesn’t hesitate as he follows.

“Hi,” the Red Hood greets the frozen henchmen just as Batman touches down. “You might wanna run.”

A flurry of actions happens at once then. Yells erupt from the henchmen, some scattering, others grabbing whatever makeshift weapons they can to hurtle themselves at either the Red Hood or Batman. With his bare hands, the Red Hood tears through the ones that attempt to take him on, leaving bodies on the floor, conditions unknown.

Batman deals with his own enemies, quickly making his way towards the crime lord. His focus isn’t wholly on the man, but there’s a certain familiarity to the few of the Red Hood’s moves that he manages to catch notice of.

A strike here. A jab there. A stance that shifts fluidly. A roll into a flip over a henchman.

The Red Hood moves with power and the intention to end things quickly. He fights dirty, takes every opportunity to do damage—a street-brawler. But there’s also a grace and steadiness to his movements that speak of long-term training. He knows what he’s doing. This isn’t a fool who believes that he can take on the entire underworld with nothing but determination.

He’s stripped it down to its core, incorporated it into his moves so that it barely shows, but the Red Hood moves like an operative of the League of Assassins.

There’s no need to debate the Red Hood’s danger level anymore.

Whether Ra’s al Ghul is behind all this or the Red Hood is a rogue League agent, Batman can’t allow either scenario to exist in this city.

Somewhere in the depths of his heart, something settles down. No matter how much of the Red Hood’s words are beginning to resemble a certain person’s, there’s not enough time between the prison break and now to smoothly incorporate League training into his move-set.

The Red Hood yanks a henchman by the arm, slamming his elbow into the back of his head and sending him tumbling unconscious to the ground. Smoothly in the same sequence, he slides a pistol from its holster, aiming at another henchman rushing at him with a blade.

A batarang leaves Batman’s fingers, and the Red Hood jerks violently back, the batarang missing wildly with the move. It’s an unexpected action considering how calmly the man has been dealing with every attack coming his way.

Maybe it’s a freak accident, maybe the stars have all aligned, but at the moment when the Red Hood is left wide open, the henchman with the blade stabs forward, forcibly ripping through Kevlar.

It’s a surprise for everyone involved.

The Red Hood reacts immediately, snapping the henchman’s wrist and retreating a few steps with his hand on the hilt of the knife embedded into his shoulder. A clank and an accompanying hiss sound above the noise of the henchman screaming in pain. Smoke begins to fill up the warehouse.

Batman raises his cape to cover his face, backing away as the Joker’s henchmen decide that now is the time to flee. In the midst of the chaos, his ears catch the barely noticeable noise of a grappling gun being fired.

By the time the smoke is clear, he’s standing alone in a warehouse filled with unconscious bodies.

There’s no point in chasing after the Red Hood. A man like that won’t take chances injured. And considering everything Batman now knows about him, it’s not unlikely that the Red Hood has a backup plan in case something like this happened.

Besides that…

Batman lowers his eyes to the cement floor where the Red Hood had been standing. Drops of scarlet blood gleam bright in the warehouse’s light.

“You’re back,” Tim greets him as he makes his way out of the Batmobile. He’s sitting on the chair at the computer in regular clothes, left arm in a sling while the other taps his finger idly against the tabletop.

Bruce’s eyes linger on the arm as he pulls the cowl from his face, striding closer. “What happened?”

Tim shrugs his right shoulder, a half-smile on his face as he turns to the computer. “It was a trade,” he answers cryptically. “Worth it in my opinion.”

He grunts and glances at the computer screen, noting the DNA comparison chugging along. “Are you using the computer for something important?”

There’s a pause before Tim looks at him. Something indecipherable peers out at Bruce from within his eyes. “That depends,” he says slowly. “Is what you’re doing important?”

Bruce brings out the small see-through container, bloody swab within it bouncing softly against the plastic, from his pouch. “I need to check if the Red Hood is in the system.”

Tim’s eyebrows shoot up. “You met him?”

“Yes.”

A frown flits across Tim’s face as he looks back at the computer screen. He’s thinking, though Bruce doesn’t understand what there is to think about. “What I’m doing isn’t vitally important. In fact, it’s more confirmation than anything else…”

“Tim,” Bruce says, because he isn’t getting a straight answer. “Is it important or not?”

“It’s not important to the city. Probably,” comes the answer. “It’s more personally important.”

“To you.”

Tim looks at him once more, his expression calm and unreadable. He doesn’t reply.

Bruce takes that as a yes. “We need to figure out who the Red Hood is,” he says, “He’s dangerous.” Even more so now that he understands why the crime lord has set the Falcones and Maronis against each other, why he’s turned Gotham into a warzone.

A murderous rogue vigilante, possibly trained by the League of Assassins, hell-bent on turning the city into his vision of Gotham is much more alarming than an aspiring crime lord unfortunately.

The chair creaks as Tim sits back, taking in a heavy breath through his nose before he sighs. “For the record, this isn’t my idea. It’s your idea.”

Puzzled, Bruce raises an eyebrow in question, but there’s no elaboration.

Instead, Tim holds out his working arm and hand and says, “Give it here. I’ll do it. You should probably shower and go to bed.”

“I look that bad?”

“You look,” Tim starts before pausing as his gaze flickers across Bruce’s face. “Tired.”

He thinks back to the encounter with the Red Hood, the conversation they had. Physically, he feels fine, like every other night working as the Batman even. But mentally? Debating moral codes and ethics with a crime lord vigilante isn’t his idea of relaxation.

Reluctantly and knowing from experience that Tim won’t take no for an answer, Bruce pries open the top of the container before placing it on his hand.

“Alright, get off to bed before I have to call Alfred,” Tim says, whirling his chair around to face the computer.

“Wake me up when it’s done,” Bruce says to his back.

He’s answered with a grunt and a shooing wave.

Bruce wakes to the sun glaring down at him through the open windows as he blearily blinks the sleep from his eyes. He rolls to look at the digital clock on his nightstand.

01:34 P.M.

He rolls back, staring at the ceiling and contemplating why he’s never listened to when he asks to be informed. Then he gets up because unless the equipment in the Cave has suddenly regressed a decade or Tim has decided to not start the analysis, the DNA comparison should be done.

Tim’s still seated at the computer in the Cave when he comes down. On the screen and standing in the newly renovated Clock Tower, Barbara tucks a strand of her red hair behind an ear, looking down the moment Bruce enters the camera’s range.

“It’s your decision,” she tells Tim. “I trust you.”

A sigh escapes Tim as his shoulders slump. “You know that really doesn’t help me.”

“Sorry. I should go.” Barbara hesitates. “Tell us what you decided when you have time.”

“Yeah,” Tim replies. He sounds unhappy. The call disconnects, and he mutters, “Thanks for your opinion then.”

“Something wrong?” Bruce asks as he comes to a stop beside Tim, who doesn’t move to look at him.

“No.”

He hums. “You told Alfred not to wake me up?”

“I did.”

“The DNA analysis?”

“Finished.”

Bruce slants his eyes at Tim, who has been doing a very good job of staring down at the keyboard as though it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “And?” he prompts.

Tim lifts his head and turns his chair to fully face him. He seems to be weighing his words. “He’s not in the system, but two matches come up as directly familial in nature for the Red Hood,” he eventually says with an even tone. He only breaks that voice out when he knows that there will be something to upset Bruce. It’s not a good sign.

“Mother and father?”

“Father and”—here, Tim hesitates momentarily before continuing—“brother.”

Bruce grunts in understanding. “Who?”

The way Tim looks at him with careful eyes is not at all reassuring. “Willis Todd,” he says, and already Bruce’s shoulders are rising in tension, “and Jason Todd.”

“Impossible,” is his first thought and word. “Jason doesn’t have any other family on record.”

“The Red Hood shares DNA with Willis Todd. He doesn’t with Cathy Todd.”

Bruce frowns. “A half-brother?”

“That’s what it’s looking like.”

He tries to digest that. It’s difficult. “The Red Hood has League of Assassins training,” he says, a part of him denying the connection while another part is resigned. “How would someone like Willis Todd get to know one of their members?” And much less get her pregnant and for her to carry to term?

“I don’t know,” Tim admits. “I’m just telling you what the DNA is telling us.”

The Red Hood is Jason’s half-brother.

Bruce wonders if either of them knows about the other. Is it a coincidence that Jason has broken out of Arkham around the same time that the Red Hood seems to have emerged on the scene? And if it isn’t, how do the two things relate to each other?

Whatever the answer is, the thought that Jason and the Red Hood are siblings is disconcerting.

“Bruce,” Tim says then, bringing Bruce’s attention back to him. He’s looking at him with that indecipherable expression again. “Considering this information, what are you going to do?”

“Nothing,” Bruce replies. “This doesn’t change anything.”

No matter what his relation is to Jason, the Red Hood is a criminal, a crime lord. This new information is just that—new information. It doesn’t have any bearing on Bruce’s thoughts or what needs to be done.

Although, admittedly, he’s a little uncertain as to what Jason’s reaction will be if he knows that Bruce arrested his half-brother.

“And if Jason is with him?” Tim continues, eyes still trained on his face.

The question is both expected and unexpected.

Bruce stays quiet for a moment, trying to think of a scenario where he would have to face that. Surprisingly and with dismay, he finds that it’s not that difficult.

Before his capture by the Joker, Jason had become increasingly critical about the way things were being done. It isn’t a far stretch to think that his dissatisfaction with it all could veer sharply towards the thinking the Red Hood has.

“You were pretty adamant that Jason wasn’t alive,” Bruce points out, avoiding the question.

“I’m keeping my options open,” Tim says, as though it isn’t a full one-eighty from his earlier stance. “I’m just saying, what if?”

The way Tim keeps pursuing this question is suspicious. Normally, if Bruce avoids something, he’ll let it go unless it’s something vitally important.

Bruce thinks back to Barbara turning away on the screen, the nervous tick of hers to tuck her hair behind her ear; to Dick quarantined a few days ago, normal considering the city but strange considering the timing; and now, to Tim with his newfound attitude and this question.

They’re hiding something from him. About Jason.

What if the Red Hood and Jason are together? What if Jason is condoning what the Red Hood is doing? Or even worse, what if he’s participating in it?

“The Red Hood still needs to be taken in,” he says, mouth dry.

Tim’s eyes are insistent. “And Jason?”

That, he doesn’t answer.

Chapter Text

There’s blood gushing from his throat, staining his skin and the gray bodysuit. A half-destroyed mask rests across his red-rimmed eyes, bruises just beginning to form on his face. He looks like he’s dying, like something has shattered within him. The reflection cracks.

Jason blinks, and the image is gone, a fleeting glimpse of that one night.

Get it together, he tells himself, leaning against the sink and letting the faucet run so he can pretend that he’s busy. He needs you. Don’t let it go here.

“He’s not even your Bruce,” he tells the reflection as though it’ll stop any of the roiling emotions within his chest.

The reflection doesn’t answer, just looks back at him with a blank expression. It’s better than whatever his mind has just conjured up before, but it’s not great.

“He’s not,” Jason says again. “So, stop—”

The skin on his neck itches, and the urge to reach up and scratch it, peel it off, is overwhelming. He presses his hand against it instead, rubbing at the thin scar he wishes will disappear. His fingers are cold, freezing even.

It’s an inevitable thing, their confrontation. Operating in Gotham without considering encountering Batman at any point is like diving headfirst into a pool without checking the depth.

But Jason had thought that he was ready. So what if he hasn’t seen Bruce in however long now? So what if he hasn’t stepped foot in Gotham since that night? So what if there’s a scar on his neck that showcases just how much he matters?

So what?

He drops his hand, swallows, and watches the scar ripple with the movement.

It had hurt and been largely inconvenient, he remembers. Beyond the emotional pain wrought by what it implied, by what it meant, the injury itself had left his throat aching every time he tried to eat or drink. His vocal cords hadn’t been cut, but they might as well have been considering how much of a struggle it was to talk. Not that he did much talking back then.

In a way, that batarang did more than just prove Bruce’s decision. It took away his voice, silenced him.

“He’s not my Bruce,” Jason says quietly, and his voice rasps. “He’s Jay’s Bruce.”

And yet he’s still Bruce.

The batarang had been something to disarm him, to stop him from shooting that goon. It’s standard even for a Robin. Too far away, too dangerous to get in close? Throw a batarang to distract them, to stop them from doing whatever they want to do.

It’s standard; his mind knows that, but his body has apparently forgotten.

He shoves his hand underneath the lukewarm water, unflinching as the temperature scalds his freezing skin. The feeling of it, of warm liquid flowing between his fingers, causes him to tense.

It’s just water, he reminds himself as he stares at his hands. Water, not blood.

Yet he gasps, chest pounding as his hands shoot back to his neck, clutching tight. The wet feeling makes it all the more worse. He chokes, curling over the sink, struggling to pry his own hands from his neck.

Stop, his mind insists. You’re bleeding out.

I’m not, Jason thinks back. I’m not. I’m not.

It wasn’t a ricochet. He threw it at you. You’re going to die. Again.

He’s starting to feel sick and lightheaded.

“Dodged it,” he manages to force out. “I dodged it.” Finger by finger, claw by claw, he pries his hands off, all the while muttering the same thing: “I dodged it.”

You didn’t dodge last time, his unhelpful mind continues to remind.

“I know,” he says, bowing his head, clutching the sink for steadiness, and breathing heavily as he greedily sucks in air. The words feel and sound hollow. “I know I didn’t.”

Jason pushes himself up, looking once more at the mirror and seeing the thin scar that has haunted him for so long. He squeezes his eyes tightly, takes a deep breath, and opens his eyes to an impassive face.

“Keep it together,” he murmurs to himself, hating how it sounds more like a prayer than an order.

Jay’s holding something in his hands when Jason meets up with him at their agreed rendezvous at Robinson Park. He’s seated on a bench, watching a laughing family of four have a picnic by the water’s edge. His expression is blank, but the moment he sees Jason coming, his body seems to relax minutely. He also, Jason notes, shoves whatever he’s been playing with into the pocket of his hoodie.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Jason says, taking the seat next to him. He places the bag of burger and fries down between them before handing Jay the soda cup. A twinge of pain hits him on the shoulder. “Got into some traffic on the way.”

Jay doesn’t say anything, just stares at his soda as though it’s an alien object. It’s not a good sign.

He tries to think of topics to talk about, to get some conversation going so that there’s not silence between them. Nothing comes up, and he sits there feeling a little useless. Finally, he lets out a sigh and leans back, throwing an arm around the back of the bench and wincing as the pain reminds him that he’s used the wrong arm.

Jay looks at him, eyes narrowed. “You’re injured.”

Jason goes to shrug, remembers that uses his shoulders, and doesn’t. “Just a little.”

“What happened?”

“Minor mistake,” he says, and his throat nearly locks up.

“You don’t make mistakes.”

Maybe he should be flattered that Jay apparently thinks he’s that good.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” he replies. He thinks of trusting someone he shouldn’t have when he was desperate for someone to love him first and foremost. He thinks of giving a second chance to someone he shouldn’t have because he wanted to see if he was important enough.

He thinks of the batarang and the blood and the Joker laughing wildly.

Every major mistake he’s made has led him to a result that has never been in his favor. Maybe he should’ve learned to stay away from anything Bat-related the moment he woke up in his coffin. Maybe he should’ve realized what was best for him the moment he couldn’t pull the trigger on the bomb he planted on the Batmobile.

Jay is quiet. He sips at his soda, staring out at the park and watching that family again. Their laughter echoes in the air.

“I met Robin,” Jay says suddenly, and the words are said so nonchalantly, so calmly that for a few seconds, Jason doesn’t register them.

Then it hits, and the only word that escapes his lips is, “Oh.”

If he’s being honest, he hasn’t really thought about Timothy Drake. Well, no. There might’ve been the inkling of a plan, a test, something in regard to the guy, but the timing wasn’t right. He had too many things to do in his (first) takeover of Gotham’s underworld. Too many things to juggle, to take control of, to consider, to counter.

Black Mask, his own territory, Deathstroke, the Society, Batman himself.

Where would he have found the time to travel across the country and back before things started collapsing?

But it’s never really been about Timothy Drake. It’s always been about Robin and what another person in the suit means. That his death has been swept under the rug, his role replaced and his murderer still alive.

As Jason looks at Jay, he finds himself unsure if that’s the same sentiment Jay has. Because while he’d been dead, Jay hadn’t been. There’s a lot of audacity to be had in taking over a missing kid’s suit.

Then again, there’s a lot of audacity in taking over a dead kid’s suit, too.

“So, what happened?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Jay replies in an obvious lie considering he’s called Jason for help. “I encountered him, evaded, and now I’m here.”

There’s a lot that Jay isn’t talking about. What he was doing before he encountered Robin for one. What really led to him calling Jason for another.

But Jason doesn’t ask. Instead, he thinks about what Jay needs right now.

There’s always one thing he’s been quietly concerned about—the fixation on Batman and the virtual disregard of the Joker as the primary cause of his suffering. Jay feels betrayal and hatred towards Bruce, and Jason understands that, can empathize with it. But other than that one night, mention of the Joker seems to have completely ceased.

To Jason, what the Joker did to him, being murdered, isn’t personal. Looking back, with Barbara and the rest of Gotham as precedent, being seriously injured or dying by the Joker’s hand seems almost inevitable in a way. Any of the Rogues could’ve done it. It didn’t have to be Jason either. It could’ve been Dick as Nightwing, been Barbara as Batgirl.

It was him because that’s how things lined up. It was him just because.

But Jay? A year in captivity, being tortured, having Timothy Drake shoved into his face, and God knows what? Staying alive for all of that? That’s personal. Viscerally, irrevocably personal.

Yet Jay attributes most of his hatred to Batman, to Bruce and, other than a seemingly token effort, ignores the main culprit.

“I have a lead on the Joker,” Jason says and watches as Jay stills.

For a long moment, Jay doesn’t speak. He bites at his straw, chewing it like he’s chewing over Jason’s words or even his own. He’s still watching that family. “What’s he doing?” he finally asks in that same calm tone he’s been using.

He’s going to cripple Babs, Jason thinks.

“He’s planning on going after Commissioner Gordon,” he says instead.

“Oh.”

Jason waits, but Jay doesn’t say anything further. “I have an idea on where he’s going to show up,” he eventually continues, casting a concerned glance sideways. “It’ll probably happen within a few days, so we have time to do a stakeout.”

“We,” Jay repeats as though he’s mystified at the wording.

“I promised you that you would get your chance,” he says.

Jay looks at him before his gaze drops to the untouched bag of food waiting between them. There’s no word of thanks, no acknowledgment of what’s going unsaid, but Jason takes it as a victory when Jay opens the bag to ravenously fill up his stomach.

There’s no guarantee that the Joker is going to go after Barbara. This isn’t his universe, after all, and there’s nothing saying that events that have happened in one universe are guaranteed to happen in the other.

Call it a hunch, intuition, premonition, but Jason has a pretty good idea that Joker will go after Barbara. Whether that means she’ll end up half-paralyzed like in his universe or dead is the question.

Because for all the differences between his and Jay’s circumstances, they all have one thing in common: whether the end is death or captivity, the Joker always gets his hands on them. If that hasn’t changed, it’s likely then that Joker won’t disregard Commissioner Gordon’s biggest weakness, his daughter.

He’s already given Batman a heads-up, but that means nothing for Jason. If he wants to get it done, if he wants a version of Barbara to not have to deal with what his has to, he’ll have to do it himself.

Plus, Jay will get his long-awaited revenge. Two birds, one stone.

“It’s been three days,” Jay says next to him as they look through the window of the apartment they’ve commandeered in the building across from the Gordons’ apartment. “Patrols will start to loosen up now.”

“Perfect time for Joker to work his ‘magic’,” Jason murmurs back, moving his binoculars from the inattentive officers in the unmarked car parked around the block to the yawning, bored officer standing openly on the corner. He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “‘Course, with these guys, seems like ‘perfect’ is a bit of an understatement.”

“You’re trying to attribute professionalism to GCPD?” Jay asks dryly.

“Oh, silly me, my mistake,” he replies, cracking a smile.

There’s a huff, but it sounds more amused than anything else. It’s a good sign after the last couple days of suppressed emotions. At the very least, a goal to focus on has been helpful to Jay.

“How’s your book?” Jason asks, searching the rooftops for any hint of a dark vigilante. There isn’t any. He doesn’t know if he’s more relieved or disappointed.

“Dorian is an idiot,” Jay says promptly, a hint of annoyance in his voice as he taps his book against the windowsill.

Jason goes through the book titles he’s given Jay in his mind. “Dorian Gray?” After an answering hum of confirmation reaches his ears, he says, “Well, what do you expect? Guy saw a painting of himself and wished for eternal youth. He’s not exactly getting an A+ in sane thinking. Now, if I had the ability to make a wish and have it come true, I’d—”

“World domination?”

“—wish for a lifetime supply of chili dogs.” He casts a glance at Jay, who rolls his eyes. “You have evil thoughts. Do I look like the type to go for world domination?”

Jay squints at him, even tilting his head as if to properly bring Jason into focus. “Can I abstain from answering?”

This time, it’s Jason’s turn to roll his eyes before he returns to his surveillance. “Anyways, Ra’s would probably be ecstatic if he could just wish for world domination. I don’t know if he’d give up the eternal youth thing he’s got going on with the Pits for it though.”

There’s a pause. “Ra’s. You mean Ra’s al Ghul?” Jay asks slowly. “You know him?”

He makes a gesture of ‘somewhat’ with his hand as he spies yet another officer yawning. “I know him in the same vein as he’s apparently called me a scourge on the earth. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside that he thinks I’m such a terrible person.”

“You mean you trained with the League.”

“Trained with the League is a strong statement,” he hedges, thinking of the All Caste and Talia’s forces. “I’d probably say trained by affiliates.”

“I thought you were a crime lord,” Jay says, and there’s something in his voice that prevents Jason from thinking lightly of this conversation.

“This was before I became a crime lord,” he replies eventually. He doesn’t like to think about the time between his death and waking up to full consciousness in a golden Lazarus Pit with Ra’s roaring and Talia urging him along. If he lingers on it for too long, he’ll start thinking about how he was in Gotham for however long before getting taken. “Something happened, and I got scooped up by the League. Spent enough time there that I started to pick up a few tricks.” His voice lowers into a whisper. “Not that it helped much in the end.”

Jay is quiet, and a quick glance at him reveals that he’s staring absently at his book. “Batman was the one that did it, wasn’t he?”

His hands tighten their grip on the binoculars. The skin on his neck itches, and his throat locks, voice dying. For a moment, he feels as though he can’t breathe. Then he realizes that Jay isn’t talking about the scar.

Before Jason can say anything, Jay must decide that the silence has gone on long enough because he continues with, “You would’ve said if it was Maroni or Falcone, and other than them, the only one who has any motive in coming after you is Batman. You’re skilled, trained by the League, and you wouldn’t put yourself in a situation where you’re at a disadvantage. Injuries mean that something out of your control happened, something you couldn’t stop.”

It’s easy to forget that Jay had been Robin, that he’s been trained to study people, when all Jason has been able to see is a version of himself who has it worse and needs help. Jay isn’t a traumatized, helpless teenager who doesn’t have his own thoughts. He’s a Robin who’s helped countless people and tracked down murderers, rapists, and the worst of the worst.

Jason stares through the binoculars, suddenly more interested in the texture of the bricks on the other side. “You’re wrong,” he says, and there’s a slight undertone of a rasp to his voice. He clears it as quietly as he can. “I was stabbed, okay? Batman doesn’t use…”

Batman doesn’t use blades? His mind scoffs. Then what happened to you? What happened to your throat?

“It wasn’t him,” he finishes instead of continuing with his previous sentence. It doesn’t make his argument convincing. “I already said I made a mistake.”

“But he was there.” Jay seems certain of this point, and Jason can’t deny it.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, before he spies a car coming down the street and parking nearby. It could be nothing, someone returning home from work, yet his eyes follow with the feeling that the person just getting out is who they’ve been waiting for.

The man’s uniform displays the proud logo of a nearby pizza chain, and he pulls out an insulated bag from the passenger side. There’s no unnatural movement, nothing strange to indicate that there’s something wrong with him. He looks, if anything, like a normal pizza delivery guy on the job.

Barbara had mentioned that Joker had announced himself as pizza delivery, he remembers.

Jason sets down the binoculars and opens the window before jamming his helmet on. “Go time,” he tells Jay, who jerks his head up.

“You’re not saying that just because—”

“I’m not,” he cuts him off even as a part of him is secretly glad that he no longer has to think about this subject. “It’s him, Jay.”

Jay frowns, peering past him. “How do you know?” he asks, standing to follow anyways.

I don’t, Jason thinks but says, “Because he’s not as original as he thinks he’s being.”

Before there can be a response, Jason shoots his grappling hook across the street and reels himself away. He lands against the window of the Gordons’ apartment, muttering under his breath, “Sorry, Babs,” as he pries it open.

Barbara is already there, aiming a Taser at him instead of running from her apartment like a normal person when someone breaks in. A spark of recognition erupts in her eyes as he climbs through into the kitchen, heedless of the threat.

The last time he’d seen Barbara, she’d been struggling with the knowledge that the rest of her foreseeable life was confined to a wheelchair. Seeing her here, with her legs intact, standing against him cements the growing certainty that this has to end tonight.

At his hands, or at Jay’s.

“Gonna shoot?” he asks her.

She doesn’t respond, not that he expects her to. Tonight, she’s Barbara Gordon the civilian, not Batgirl, and Barbara Gordon the civilian doesn’t know anything about the Red Hood—or whatever his blood might’ve told them.

A thump behind him tells Jason that Jay has caught up, and at the moment Barbara registers who else is coming through, attention sliding off him, he’s brushing past her into the living room.

“Jason?” Her voice is incredulous. “What are you—What’s going on?”

If Jay answers, Jason doesn’t hear it. He’s already sliding the lock off the door, inching it open to peek into the hallway. The elevator is still running, numbers on it sliding upwards as the cab carries its passenger through the floors.

He watches it halt on this floor and waits until the metal doors begin to open before he shuts the door. The gun is cold and heavy in his hand as he slides it out of its holster.

The calmness feels odd. It’s mixed with an anticipation that shortens his breathing. He knows that he can’t hear any footsteps through the door, but it certainly feels that way as his heartbeat thumps out a regular rhythm.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He imagines Joker stopping in front of this door, smile widening wickedly. He imagines Joker being giddy with glee as he waits for Barbara to open the door.

He remembers Barbara’s face stained with tears as she tries to come to terms with what happened to her.

Knock. Knock.

“Pizza delivery!”

Thump. Thump.

He has a brief moment to wonder if Barbara had, in fact, ordered pizza as he yanks the door open. Then the man raises his head, revealing a face that’s undoubtedly the Joker’s underneath the cap.

Everything seems to happen in slow motion.

Joker’s grin falters, confusion blossoming across his face. Jason aims at his abdomen, right in the general area where his Barbara had been shot.

Thump.

Bang!

Joker takes a shaky step back, dropping his weapon and the pizza props. His hand goes to his abdomen, shirt turning bright red. Then he goes down with a thud. It’s so easy, so simple, so effortless.

“Sorry,” Jason says unremorsefully to Joker’s gasping, writhing form as scarlet blood spreads across the hallway’s flooring. He picks up the Joker’s pistol from the ground, holstering his own. “We didn’t order pizza.”

Joker begins to laugh. It’s a choking sound, interspersed with trembling breaths. His green eyes glitter with something insane as he stares unwaveringly at Jason. “Red Hood, right?” he manages to get out, clutching at his stomach. “We know each other? Dressing up as me, waiting for me—seems personal. I kill your puppy or something?”

What color are the eyes of his dimension’s Joker? Red? Black? Green?

Jason finds that he can’t really remember. It isn’t important anyways. He stares down indifferently at Joker. “No,” he says, “we don’t know each other.” He turns away, the action being easier than he expects it to be.

From where she stands at the entrance to the kitchen, Barbara grips her Taser tightly, pale skin whitening even further. She looks back and forth between Joker and Jason, a sharp contrast to Jay, who stares only at Joker.

“Jay,” Jason calls, offering Joker’s pistol.

Jay tears his eyes away and takes a step forward.

“Jason,” Barbara says then. Her gaze touches on Jason before turning to Jay, apparently deciding that the more important thing isn’t to watch. “What are you doing?”

Neither of them answers.

Barbara’s voice rises. “Jason.”

Jay picks up the gun, aiming it slowly at Joker. His expression is closed off.

The moment Barbara takes a step to stop Jay, Jason has his gun out once more, aimed straight at her. She halts, drawing herself up in a way that’s distinctly not like a civilian. Her eyes are hard as she looks at him, accusing him.

“I really don’t want to hurt you,” Jason tells her, being entirely truthful. “But if you take one more step—”

“Do you know what you’re doing?” she demands, and that’s clearly Batgirl bleeding through, the tough woman who snuck out on her own to become a vigilante. It’s a sight that Jason hasn’t seen in a long time considering the last time he had seen his Barbara, she’d been attempting to stay strong in a hospital bed. “Jason, stop. This isn’t like you.”

Jay doesn’t respond.

Joker’s manic laugh starts up again, replacing the wheezing gasps he’s been using to stave off the pain of his injury. “It was you,” he says, voice turning dark and malicious and furious.

Jason turns his head to see venomous green eyes riveted on him.

“You were the one who stole him from me,” Joker seethes, still not paying attention to the fact that there’s a gun pointed straight at him. He doesn’t appear to even notice that Jay’s hands have tightened around the pistol. Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t even acknowledge Jay as a threat. “He was my toy. I wasn’t finished playing with him! And you stole him from me! Thief! Bandit! Robber!”

“You want someone like this to live?” Jason asks Barbara, a sick feeling growing in his stomach at Joker’s words. “After hearing all that?”

“I—”

“Do you know what he was going to do to you? What would’ve happened if I wasn’t here? You could’ve been taken as a hostage for your dad. You could’ve died.”

“Even if that’s true, he shouldn’t be the one to do it!” Barbara bursts out.

For a moment, his voice dies. He knows what she’s trying to say—the justice system, the government, should be the one to implement the death penalty on the Joker—and yet…

“You’re right,” Jason acknowledges past the lump in his throat. “But the one person who should do it didn’t.”

He can’t tell if he’s talking about just Jay anymore, or if he’s starting to mix them up, or if he’s only speaking for himself. This entire week has been terrible for him, reminder after reminder, parallel after parallel.

Barbara stares at him in horror. “You can’t mean…”

His next words are cold, unrelenting. “A father should avenge his son.”

The thin veil of plausible deniability for them both is cracking.

I know who you are, Jason’s telling her. I know who Batman is.

The implications are clearly startling and terrifying for her as she tenses. “Jason, don’t do this,” she addresses Jay, switching tracks as she gathers herself. “It’s not you. You’re not a killer.”

Joker’s laugh cuts in again. He’s starting to sound a little delirious from the blood loss. “Says who? Tell her, junior. How many thugs did you kill with me? We had so much fun back then. If only he hadn’t stolen you from me…”

Jay’s breathing has grown short.

“Jay,” Jason says, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder and squeezing tightly. “If you can’t, I can.”

“Jason, don’t,” Barbara pleads.

“He can’t,” Joker says, giggling as he chants those two words again and again. His words are starting to slur, yet his eyes remain soberly manic. “He can’t. He can’t!”

Jay looks at him, and Jason lets go of his shoulder. He knows those eyes.

Barbara takes a step against the tightening of his grip on his gun, and he has just enough time to consider what options he has to stop her without actually shooting her before there’s a crash and window glass flying about the place.

An angry laugh escapes Jason.

Late, he spits in his mind as Batman enters the scene, the word filled with fury and disappointment. Always fucking late!

He abandons stopping Barbara and goes for Batman. “Couldn’t get enough of me, huh, old man?”

“Jason, stop!” Barbara shouts, rushing towards Jay.

Bang!

Chapter Text

Barbara’s heart leaps into her throat.

There’s Batman staring at the scene, Joker most likely dead on the floor, Jason with the literal smoking gun, Red Hood moving to engage with Batman, and herself, stunned at what’s happened. There’s no delirious laughter in the air, not anymore. The only things that linger in the air are the scents of gunpowder and coppery blood.

Time seems to have frozen as she struggles to come to the conclusion that everything is pointing her towards: the Joker is dead, and his killer is a seventeen-year-old boy she once fist-bumped over building a small robot for his elective class.

She feels dizzy, head spinning. Bodies aren’t a strange sight for her; it’s an occupational hazard as a vigilante. Hell, she’s even seen murders being committed right in front of her before she can stop them. But this isn’t just any body, and this isn’t just any murder. This is Joker’s murder. Right on her actual doorstep no less.

Somehow, she’d had the idea that the Joker would never be killed, that he would just continue to exist until the end of the universe and perhaps even beyond it. It seems more likely that Batgirl, Batman, Nightwing, and Robin would cease to exist before they ever saw the Joker’s own demise.

He can’t die just like that. This is the Joker. Clown Prince of Fear. Scourge of Gotham. Mass murderer. Terrorist. Butcher.

Yet there he is, lying on the floor, blood leaking from his abdomen and the messy hole between his glassy eyes.

It’s so simple. A single gunshot and all the terror and fear that he could bring in the future is just gone.

Time abruptly restarts when Jason tosses the gun to the ground and books it through the door. The swishing of Batman’s cape as he dodges a blow from the Red Hood is quickly replaced by a solid thud in the same few seconds.

“Eyes on me,” the Red Hood growls, showing no signs of letting up, “or are you just growing slow in your old age?”

He’s distracted, Barbara realizes, brain rebooting. She takes a deep breath, shoves everything into the back of her mind, and yells, “I got him!” before sprinting after Jason.

If there’s an answering acknowledgment, she doesn’t hear it as she focuses on Jason’s back and not on the fact that she’s just stepped over Joker’s body.

Ahead of her, Jason jumps over the railing of the stairs.

She speeds up, getting to the railing mere moments after. Even if she can’t keep him, she has to at least talk to him. Without the presence of the Red Hood—of Peter—maybe he’ll be willing to share something with her. It’s a long shot, she knows, but she has nothing else except to try.

Jason hops the railings down, but he’s slower than the vague memories she has of him. It’s a point to him being injured, or rather, still injured.

She hates the thought she has—that she’s glad he’s injured because it means she can catch up faster. Because it means he won’t be able to escape her as easily as he had Tim.

Tim doesn’t know how Jason moves, and that lack of knowledge had cost him.

By the time Jason makes it down to the ground, Barbara’s balancing on the second floor’s railing. She takes the chance to drop, stumbling into a landing and wincing at the sharp pain in her calves. Her legs won’t be happy with her in a couple hours.

Jason slams through the building doors and into the streets.

“Jason, wait!” she calls out, frustrated as she rushes to keep up.

He’s gone when she gets outside, and for a moment, she thinks she’s lost him. Somehow, in a matter of seconds while injured, Jason has escaped her. So much for thinking that she’s better than Tim at this.

Barbara takes a moment to think, recalling everything that’s happened. She looks up at the rooftops. The image of the Red Hood and Jason crawling through the window of her kitchen surfaces. “Grappling gun,” she mutters with a sigh.

Frustration and disappointment well up within her. It’s hard to keep any of her gear inside the apartment since her dad is a detective. And no matter how much she suspects that her dad knows something, it’s another thing to actually conceal her suit and gear inside their home.

There’s a stash close by for these types of situations, but that will take time.

She lets the emotions slide off her as she thinks further. If she can’t chase after him immediately, then all she has to do is show up where his endpoint is.

Jason Todd might’ve changed in the time between then and now, but if there’s one thing she believes won’t change about him, it’s that he’ll always prefer somewhere high to think things over. No matter whether the Joker’s murder was premeditated or an impulse, his death will certainly have some impact on Jason.

In that case…

Barbara raises her gaze to the nearby towers of Mercy Bridge.

He’s standing at the edge, gazing out at the city when she gets up to the top. There’s no way he hadn’t heard her as she came up, grapple clinking against the metal, but he doesn’t make a move even as she approaches him. Maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe that means Jason wants to talk.

For a moment, neither of them says anything.

The wind whistles past, and she shivers, regretting not putting on a warmer jacket. It’s not like she expected to be in this situation tonight though.

“Jason,” she says and stops because the words won’t come. Her throat feels stuck, clogged as though someone or something is preventing her from saying anything.

What can she say to him anyways? Apologies for not finding him? Condemnation for what he’s done? Questions on what exactly is going on?

Anything and everything feels so useless in the face of their circumstances now.

“The princess slew the dragon,” Jason says suddenly, quietly, and he turns to look at her. The brand, free from the bandage of earlier, is stark on his face, ugly and raised and sickening.

She doesn’t understand at first. “What?”

“I always thought it would’ve been more interesting if the princess took up a sword and broke free herself,” he continues without acknowledging her. “If, instead of requiring a knight to rescue her, she would free herself by slaying the dragon and then come back to her kingdom victorious. I thought it was a better ending.”

Something churns in her stomach. Her fingers curl in on themselves, slight pain surfacing as her nails dig crescents into her palms.

“I was wrong,” Jason says with a sense of finality that doesn’t give Barbara any good feelings. His dark eyes bore into hers. “The princess shouldn’t have to wait for rescue from a random knight, but at least that means the king tried. She shouldn’t have to slay the dragon herself either. The much better ending, I think now, is one where the dragon is already dead long before the princess ever had to be rescued.”

The Red Hood’s words echo in Barbara’s mind: a father should avenge his son.

Maybe it’s not just the Red Hood who believes in that statement.

Barbara swallows. “Jason, I’m… I’m sorry.” Her words feel lame, like a useless platitude said to assuage her guilt more than anything else. She is sorry, so very sorry, but the words don’t seem to encompass any of that.

“I don’t blame you,” he says, and she knows that maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe, for whatever reason, he doesn’t blame her for not rescuing him, for not finding him, for giving up.

It makes her feel worse, guilt deepening. If he blames her, she’ll welcome it, take it with a sense of responsibility. But now it feels as though her soul has been found wanting after she’s taken it for granted that she’ll be blamed.

“Besides, he’s dead now.” Jason pauses and turns his gaze towards the dark, sparkling city once more. His voice is small. “He is dead, right, BG?”

She hasn’t heard that nickname in over a year. She knows she should focus on the question, on Jason, but her mind seems stuck on the fact that it’s been over a year. That, more than anything, seems to be the deciding factor to her finally realizing that this is real.

Dick and Tim’s testimonies as well as the DNA evidence have been trying to tell her what she’s just now understanding.

Jason is alive, and for months, she had believed otherwise.

Barbara swallows the lump in her throat again, recalls the indifferent look on Jason’s face as he pulled the trigger and the blood pooling on the vinyl floor of her apartment building’s hallway, and answers, “Yeah, he’s dead.”

The silence between them is piercing, dragging the words into the open air.

For the first time, she lets herself think about the corpse at her front door, on what it means for the Joker to be dead.

Harley will be insufferable. She’ll escalate, no doubt. The obsession she has with Joker is nothing to scoff about; it led a somewhat respectable therapist into a career of mass murder, terrorism, and villainy after all. The only solace is that she’s still in a cell at Arkham, unaware of the events of tonight. But it won’t take long for the media to spread the news, and when she finds out…

The other Rogues, well, perhaps nothing will happen with them. It’s not like Barbara’s aware of the personal ties between them all. Maybe they’ll gloat at Joker’s demise. Maybe they’ll be indifferent. Maybe some of them might even feel pity.

Without the thought of Joker terrorizing this city, the future feels so much brighter. Yet years of being a vigilante have her thinking about after.

Will the next ‘Joker’ appear? Will that person be worse? Will this death be the prelude to someone who will take them all by surprise?

She wants to be optimistic that there won’t be a next Joker because he’s one of a kind, but there’s no future that she can be sure of.

“I thought it would help,” Jason says, bringing her out of her thoughts to look at him. He’s still gazing out at the city, hiding his expression from her. “I mean, it did, but I thought it would help more. I thought his death would make it better.”

Words fail her, stuck in her throat, stuck somewhere deep within her that she can’t dredge up. What can she say to these words? What can she say to this confession when she has no idea what Jason has gone through and is still going through?

The only thought Barbara has is that she’s glad she’s the one to chase after him. That the person standing before Jason, listening to his confession of how he doesn’t regret it, isn’t Bruce or Batman.

“Jason,” she starts and stops.

Come back, she wants to say, but she’s not sure that’s even in the options for Jason anymore. Maybe if Batman hadn’t come onto the scene, it could’ve been a secret between the three of them. The culprit would’ve been hidden, and maybe, maybe she would’ve taken it to her grave.

Because as much as she understands the code of no-killing, there are moments when she sets eyes on some of the Rogues and thinks about how much better the world would be if they were dead.

“The Red Hood—Peter, is he good to you?” Barbara asks instead.

At that, Jason turns his head, and his expression is not quite soft, but it might be something similar enough that she knows the answer before he even says anything. “He’s killed for me,” he tells her, and she’s reminded of the report of Deathstroke’s death still sitting on her laptop. “He’s my brother.”

A father should avenge his son.

She can say I’m glad or that’s good in response, but she knows they’ll be lies. So, she doesn’t say anything and hates the world that has divided them as Jason leaves her there on that tower.

Red and blue lights illuminate the buildings of her neighborhood as Barbara treks back home. Already, a crowd of curious and murmuring people have gathered around the perimeter of police cars and officers attempting to keep control. Media trucks congregate, emblems of news channels stark on their white paint as reporters swarm the designated few spokesmen.

Everyone seems to have discovered the scent of blood in the air, the hint of a hit story, the makings of history.

Nausea builds within her.

It’s a spectacle to these people. She shouldn’t blame them, but all she can remember is Jason’s quiet vulnerability and the blood on the floor.

Her phone rings, buzzes, dings constantly. She takes it out of her pocket to see an endless stream of calls, texts, and messages. Names pass by so quickly that it’s dizzying. Everyone she’s given her number to, even those who she only knows in passing, and their mothers seem to be trying to get a hold of her.

Barbara searches for one specific contact, but there’s too many people contacting her. None of it is allowing her the few seconds to even get into her calls either. In her frustration, tears forming, she nearly hurls her phone down at the ground.

She pushes through the crowd, attempting to get closer to the officers. If she can just get to one person, any person, she can try to use their radio and call… And she can call—

“Barbara!” her dad’s voice shouts desperately behind her, and she whirls around, whiplash nearly hitting her from how quickly her body moves.

It’s like she loses time because he’s suddenly in front of her, looking disheveled, unkempt, and absolutely relieved. He stares at her with such desperation that it feels like she’s been missing for years.

“Dad,” she says. Something in her voice or expression or body must leak because he takes one look at her, and suddenly, she’s crushed against his chest, warm and strong arms encircling her.

“I got you,” he says fiercely, and her eyes sting. “I got you.”

“Dad,” she says again, and her voice breaks. The tears fall, wetting his shoulder. She presses herself further into his embrace. “Dad, I was so scared.”

He doesn’t reply and only tightens his arms.

Barbara remembers the gun in Joker’s hand. If she’d been alone, if the Red Hood hadn’t interrupted, what would’ve happened? While she’s been aware of the Red Hood’s warning through Batman, it’s impossible to stay on alert all the time. Even the most superhuman have to relax their guard at some point.

It’s only just hitting her now that she could’ve died tonight.

“I would’ve opened the door,” she whispers into his coat.

“He can’t hurt you anymore,” her dad promises despite not understanding her, and she should be comforted by that, but all she can hear are the Red Hood’s words once more.

Would her dad have killed the Joker if she had died? Would he have avenged her? If she had been in Jason’s place, would she have wanted her dad to slay the dragon for her? The answers that once seem so clear feel blurry at this moment.

The dragon has been slain, but it doesn’t seem to have made anything better.

“Miss Gordon, whenever you’re ready,” the officer says gently, poised and ready to take notes the moment she starts speaking.

Barbara keeps her eyes pinned on the metal table of the interrogation room.

It’s not standard procedure for a witness statement to be taken in a room meant for interrogation, but her status as the police commissioner’s daughter has left people talking. Not to mention the identity of the deceased has sent the entire station into an uproar. This room, more than anything, is the only quiet, isolated place where she can speak without countless people attempting to eavesdrop or look at her.

She thinks about what she should say.

The gun used to kill Joker will have been picked up and dusted for fingerprints already. Attempts to match the prints to anybody will go through the Cave’s—and the newly added Clock Tower—computers and come up with nothing. Just in case, Tim has already texted her a coded message about how he’s on standby in the Clock Tower.

GCPD won’t be able to find anything from Jason’s fingerprints.

“I was watching TV,” she begins, carefully crafting the narrative in her mind, “when I heard a noise from the kitchen. I got up and when I went there, I found a man breaking in through the window. He was wearing a red helmet, and he had a pistol.”

“The Red Hood,” the other officer murmurs.

“Maybe,” Barbara says lowly. “He didn’t exactly offer up a name.”

“You didn’t run?”

The female officer holding the pen sends her partner a dirty look. “Jackson,” she warns but notably doesn’t tell Barbara not to answer.

“I… I froze,” she lies, looking up with just the right amount of shame. “I didn’t know what to do. He came in, and he didn’t even say anything. He just… He just walked right past me to my front door. It was like I didn’t even exist to him.”

“Well, reports of the Red Hood indicate he has strict rules about who should and shouldn’t be hurt,” the presiding officer remarks, writing a note down.

Barbara tries not to look at the notepad. “After, I heard a bang. That’s when I tried to peek into the living room. The door was open, and I saw that he was standing over someone. He picked something up from the ground—it was a gun—and he aimed it at—at Joker. He pulled the trigger. There was a bang. And then Batman came. I used that to run. That’s it really.”

“You’re saying that you saw the Red Hood, or at least someone who might be the Red Hood, shoot and kill the Joker?” Jackson asks in clarification.

She thinks about the cameras around her apartment building, in the hallways, and along the street where she ran to catch up to Jason. She thinks about Dick erasing every piece of evidence that anyone other than the Red Hood had entered her home.

For so many years, she and the rest of them have helped GCPD on cases, making up for what they’ve missed and going into places where the police department can’t go. She isn’t so delusional as to call herself law-abiding after being a vigilante and doing some very illegal things to get evidence. Withholding information isn’t anything new either due to the corruption within the ranks.

This is the first time she’s actively lying to GCPD about a murder case however, and she’s doing it because if they catch Jason, their identities will go up in flames. If someone goes after her dad because she’s Batgirl…

It makes her glad that her dad has distanced himself from this, that he’s not here to catch her on her lies.

He’s killed for me. He’s my brother.

“Yes,” she says firmly, meeting the officers’ eyes with a steely gaze. “The Red Hood killed the Joker.”

Chapter Text

“—officers responded to reports of a shooting at an apartment building near Mercy Bridge—”

Bruce changes the channel with a click.

“—events that transpired remain unknown, but the deceased has been confirmed to be the Joker—”

Click.

“—according to an anonymous source, the primary suspect in this case is speculated to be the Red Hood—”

Click.

“—motives in this shooting remain unclear, and considering the identity of the victim, it might be impossible to narrow down—”

Click.

“—to thank everyone who is worried about me and my family,” Commissioner Gordon says on a podium of many microphones, looking tired. Occasionally, flashes from cameras light up his face, reflecting off his glasses. “We are all safe and sound.”

Bruce pauses, setting the remote down on the armrest of the couch.

“Second, due to the personal circumstances surrounding this case, I’ve decided to step away and leave it to my fellow officers and detectives. I trust that they will approach this case with the same fervor that I would and that the culprit behind this will be identified and caught. I’ll take questions now.”

“Commissioner,” a reporter speaks from somewhere off-camera, “what do you make of the rumors currently going around that the perpetrator of the Joker’s death is the latest crime lord on the scene, the Red Hood?”

“I can’t comment on that,” Gordon responds, “but rest assured that GCPD’s investigations will bring the culprit to light.”

“What is your opinion on the celebrations currently happening around the city?” another reporter asks.

“I ask that anyone engaging in celebrations be careful and to call emergency services in case of anything happening,” Gordon says, avoiding the actual intent of the question. “Please also be considerate of each other and those not taking part.”

Suddenly, the camera switches to the audience of reporters, zooming in on a familiar face. Vicki Vale has her hand raised slightly, red lips smiling. It’s an expression that Bruce is familiar with, having been hounded by her for years, and most likely, considering the camera switch and how quiet everyone is, she’s in league with the other reporters.

“Commissioner Gordon,” she begins, still smiling as she puts down her hand, “the Joker has terrorized this city for years ever since his first appearance. His death—many will agree with me—is considered a blessing. Even reports of skirmishes between the Falcones and Maronis have ceased. Everyone is celebrating his death. If, as the rumors state, the Red Hood is behind this and suppose GCPD is able to capture him, no jury will convict him for the crime.

“And as I understand it, your daughter was the Joker’s target. You’ve already stated that you’re stepping away due to this connection, but not everyone can be as objective as you’re appearing to be. How can you be so certain that GCPD won’t simply let the Red Hood slip away?”

The picture switches back to Gordon, who stares presumably at Vicki with an expressionless look. The seconds tick by, and the frown on Bruce’s face grows until he feels pain from the bruise on his cheek.

“Miss Vale, again, GCPD is still investigating the culprit behind the Joker’s murder,” Gordon finally replies. “The fact of the matter is someone has been murdered. The victim being the Joker is information that shouldn’t be taken into account. Murder is a heinous crime. A life has been taken. As an officer of the law, I took an oath to uphold justice, and I would hope that everyone in GCPD has taken to heart that same oath regardless of personal opinions.”

Vicki’s still smiling when the scene flickers over to her once more. She opens her mouth to respond and—

Click.

The TV screen shuts off, cutting off whatever scathing retort Vicki most likely has. Bruce turns his head to see Alfred straightening by the side of the couch, hand retracting from where he has just used the remote.

“Still wallowing, I see,” Alfred remarks, unimpressed as he offers Bruce a new ice pack wrapped in a towel.

“I wasn’t finished watching that,” he says, taking the ice pack and handing over the watery old one.

“Indeed, it’s quite refreshing to hear of his death over and over again,” Alfred says, draping the old towel and pack over his arm, “but I imagine you’re not watching the news for that kind of joy.”

“The circumstances don’t inspire any sort of joy in me.” Bruce presses the cold pack against his cheek and jaw, twitching at the temperature.

“No, the circumstances surrounding the Joker’s death is a tragedy, that we can both agree on. But the death itself? I daresay I haven’t been this relieved in a long time.”

“Alfred,” he says, turning his head to look at him.

Alfred stares back with a level gaze, unrepentant of his words. Then, as if that isn’t enough, he opens his mouth to say slowly and mildly with a hint of blood, “In my opinion, this type of fate should have taken him a very, very long time ago. Perhaps if I were a couple decades younger, I would’ve made a new home behind bars, and we would be talking through a window.” A regretful look flashes across his face. “But alas, my old age has finally hindered me.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Bruce looks away. He stares at the dark TV screen, silently wishing that it will turn back on by force of his mind. Whatever Vicki’s next question is, he wants to hear Gordon’s answers. He wants to feel as though he isn’t a lone island in a sea of celebrations and jubilation.

“The Red Hood is being blamed for his murder,” he says to the air.

“A point to their ploy working,” Alfred remarks, still as calm and unruffled as ever. “Then again, from what I’ve overheard, the details don’t seem to have changed too much.”

“They’re lying to the police, Alfred. They’re aiding and abetting a criminal.” He doesn’t let it show just how much it hurts to call his own son a criminal, locking those emotions down tightly.

There’s a long pause before the shifting of clothing reaches his ears, and Bruce looks to see Alfred taking a seat on the lone armchair, placing his items on the nearby table.

When Alfred speaks, it’s slow and measured, a testament to how long he seems to have thought over this subject. “I have aided and abetted a criminal—multiple criminals in actuality—for many years. Despite my many misgivings, I have supported them time and time again without complaint. Sometimes, I even wonder if I’m doing the right thing, yet I turn around and give them that same approval each and every night in this accursed city.”

Some part of Bruce tightens, speechless. Another part rises to defend himself, indignant. “That’s different. You know that. The three of them are covering up for a murderer. I didn’t become a vigilante to obstruct justice. They didn’t become vigilantes to cover up a crime. We became vigilantes to solve them. To make this city safer. How is what they’re doing making Gotham safer?”

“True,” Alfred acknowledges, “the cover-up of a murder is without a doubt the very opposite of what you’ve all aspired to be. But I would suggest that this specific crime has made this city safer, and while I have no idea whether young Master Todd has any plans to continue killing, the cover-up of this one crime might not be at all undesirable.”

“You’re asking me to condone what they’re doing.”

Alfred clasps his hands together. “I’m not asking you to do anything. In my eyes, you’re already condoning this. After all, Batman was there. He was witness to what happened. He can clear up what truly happened. While his testimony won’t immediately invalidate Miss Gordon’s, it can at least shed some uncertainty on the situation. And yet where is he now?”

Sitting in his living room, making no move to stop it, Bruce hears the unspoken answer.

The silence suffocates. Something heavy presses on his chest. The chill from the ice pack on his cheek seeps into his very bones.

“It’s wrong,” he says eventually. He makes no effort to clarify if he means his own inaction, the cover-up, or what Jason has done. His mind is too jumbled to properly come to a conclusion.

“What is wrong,” Alfred corrects quietly, “is this entire situation that we’ve all been put in. There are no right or wrong answers here. No logic can prevail in this situation. The moment the Joker was killed by Jason Todd and not a stranger is the moment impartiality was thrown out the window. Even disregarding the roles of Batman and Robin, he is your son, and you are his father. Uphold your justice, and you lose your son. Compromise for your son, and you lose your justice.”

Alfred meets his eyes with a type of calm seriousness that Bruce has very rarely seen. “I cannot make your decision for you, just as I couldn’t make the decision so many years ago when you first left Gotham. This is yours, solely and wholeheartedly, for better or worse.”

Bruce feels cold, separate from the ice pack that he lets drop from his cheek onto his lap. He rubs at the skin, pain doing nothing to ground him. “What would you choose?”

“I am an old man, Master Bruce,” Alfred says. “My years are numbered. I know what choice I would make based on that. But you are young still. You have years and years ahead of you. Whatever decision you make will stay with you into the future.”

The words are on his tongue to refute Alfred, but then his eyes catch sight of the wrinkles and flecks of white hair.

He lets out a sigh, feeling tired. “It seems like I lose no matter which decision I make.”

“It’s an unfortunate fact of life that these types of decisions occasionally come upon us.”

Bruce pauses. It suddenly occurs to him that despite having lived with Alfred for so many years of his life, having spent so much time together, he knows practically nothing about him. For all that his life is predicated on secrecy, it seems that Alfred’s mouth is much more tightly shut than his.

“You sound like you have experience,” Bruce says.

Alfred smiles, slight and sad with a hint of what seems to be nostalgia. “I am an old man,” he repeats, and his voice reflects a wistfulness that Bruce has never heard from him before. “These decisions and their consequences are no strangers to me.”

Surprise surges within Batman as he lands on the edge of the rooftop of GCPD Headquarters, spotting the unassuming form of Commissioner Gordon standing and waiting for him next to the Bat-signal’s spotlight.

It’s been a quiet night, quieter than most with very few petty crimes and people in need of help. Ironically, he’s been taken to rescuing cats out of trees and helping the elderly cross the streets of celebration in the past hour or so. Not exactly the type of work he’s now known for but definitely work he enjoys much more.

“Commissioner,” Batman greets and watches as the man whirls around to face him. “What have you got for me?”

“Nothing,” Gordon says, dropping his cigarette and snuffing it out with a sharp twist of his foot. It joins a small, scattered group of smushed cigarette butts. “Officially, anyways.”

The words don’t bode well. Still, he asks, “And unofficially?”

“Unofficially,” Gordon repeats with a sigh, “I want to ask about what happened.”

Batman stays silent. Even without the subject out in the air, the request is obvious.

“Everyone’s telling me that it’s most likely the Red Hood,” Gordon continues without comment on his silence. “It makes the most sense. He was caught on cameras. You fought with him in the aftermath. And even though I’m not supposed to, I took a look at Barbara’s statement. It makes sense,” he says again, the emphasis in his words harsh and biting.

“You’re unconvinced,” Batman says, breath heavy in his chest.

“I don’t know,” comes the admission. Gordon fiddles with his brass lighter, hand moving for his inner coat pocket where Batman knows he keeps his cigarette pack before he aborts the action. His head lowers to look down at the on-and-off flame. “My instincts as a detective tell me to reserve judgment. There’s something wrong here, but I can’t tell what because all of the evidence is telling me that there’s nothing to be suspicious of.”

It’s a testament to Barbara, Dick, and Tim’s abilities that even someone as experienced and skilled as Gordon can’t find the evidence that Jason was there last night. That everything is pointing and leading to solely the Red Hood as the culprit. But there’s no sense of pride or joy rippling through Batman, no delight from the fact that they’re using their skills to cover up a crime. And yet the relief that forms is a stone sinking into place beside his heart, unbudging and solid.

Disappointment follows—at himself more than anything else.

“I know my daughter,” Gordon says, and the brass cap on the lighter clicks down on its case as if in emphasis, strikingly loud in the night air. “She’s strong, stronger than I’d like sometimes, but yesterday night, she cried in my arms. As a detective, I want to know the truth, but as a father, I want to believe her. It’s hard, reconciling those differences.”

The words that want to echo that sentiment nearly escape Batman’s lips. He knows. He understands even if their situations aren’t exactly alike, just similar enough to have the feelings twist in his chest like a writhing mass of turbulent currents. And now, he realizes what Gordon is truly asking of him.

Even then, he has to ask, “You trust that what I’ll tell you is the truth?”

Gordon looks up to meet his eyes. His expression is weary and almost sad, like the look on Alfred’s face when he smiled at the end of their conversation. “I trust you,” he says, “to tell me what I should hear.”

What he should hear, not that he wants the truth. It’s a careful distinction, one that Batman really doesn’t want to hear.

The trust is smothering. He understands now why Alfred had said that it was to be solely his decision and why impartiality has to bow to the messy feelings and relationships between all of them. There’s no way he can lie to Gordon without feeling the guilt of lying to one of his oldest partners, and there’s no way he can tell the truth without feeling the guilt and worry for Jason’s safety.

No matter which decision he chooses, it seems like he’s losing yet again.

“There was another person there,” is all he says, a compromise that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Gordon looks at him, meets his eyes, and they stare at each other for a few moments. Then Gordon breaks it, turning his gaze towards the cigarette butts on the ground. His expression isn’t exactly sad, but it’s not great either. “I see,” he murmurs, closing his eyes briefly before looking back up. “You don’t have to say anything more.”

The gratefulness that rips through Batman’s chest is guilt-ridden. “I’m sorry.”

A wry smile flits across Gordon’s face as he shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry. I never should’ve tried to look into this myself. There’s a reason why we’re not supposed to be put on cases that are personal. I knew that, but I just… Barbara’s my daughter. I needed—no, I wanted to know everything that happened. I keep thinking that if I had all the pieces, I’d be able to do something, anything. But that’s not how things work.”

Batman keeps quiet even as his fingers twitch slightly.

“I’m grateful to whoever did kill Joker that night,” Gordon confesses lowly. “I can’t imagine… I don’t want to imagine if I’d lost her. Maybe I would’ve gone after him myself.”

Collateral, the Red Hood had called Barbara.

A quiet exhale escapes Batman. It’s just like the Joker to try and break people using their most treasured people. It happened with Robin, with Jason, and for the Commissioner, it’s happened with Barbara.

“You wouldn’t have let him win,” he tells Gordon because it has to be true. Because Gordon is a stronger man than he is.

Gordon looks at him again before he turns his face away. “It’s not about ‘winning.’ Maybe that’s why I’m feeling so grateful. I didn’t have to face that choice. Someone did it for me.” He lets out a huff. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still arrest whoever it is, but there will always be a part of me that wants to thank them for what they did.”

It’s painful, this duality struggling within Batman’s chest. He almost wants to turn his gaze away from the facts and pretend that night hasn’t happened. But the image is pressed deep into his mind as are the scents of copper and sulfur and charcoal.

There’s no turning away from this.

“His cremation will be happening soon,” Gordon says after a long while of silence between the two of them. “It still doesn’t quite feel real. Maybe the feeling will disappear when I press that button and watch his body burn. Do you want to…?”

“No,” he responds without hesitation. That, at least, he doesn’t have to agonize over. One of the few blessings he’s had over the past few months. “You’ve made preparations? His body will be an enticing target.”

“It’ll be me and a select few in the know,” Gordon reassures. “I know the dangers of cults. Don’t worry.”

He nods and hesitates. “You should go home and spend some time with your daughter.”

Especially after what’s happened, he doesn’t say, but the words are out in the air anyways.

A spark of something lights in Gordon’s eyes, sympathy perhaps. “I know.” He smiles, fond yet sorrowful. “She needs her dad, not the detective.”

Jason’s room has gone untouched ever since he received that video from the Joker and verified its authenticity. The door has been kept unlocked, but with how avoidant Bruce has been about stepping into that room, it might as well have been locked shut.

Even now, he stands hesitant before it, a light hand on its doorknob.

Finally, ages later, he turns the doorknob and opens the door into a room he hasn’t seen in months. As he steps into it, he looks around quietly, taking in the various furnishings and posters and belongings that haven’t changed places at all. Nothing is different from the memories he has of this room.

Even with the cloudy day, the sunshine shines brightly enough through the tieback curtains that there’s no need to flick the light switch.

Bruce meanders over to the desk, seeing no dust on the tabletop or anything nearby. A history textbook lies open, a lined notebook on top of it with Jason’s well-practiced handwriting spread across the page. Next to them, a gray laptop sits unplugged, peppered with stickers of Batman and Robin on its cover.

Colorful sticky notes with reminders like ‘book report due Friday’ and ‘check assignments for chem’ litter almost every surface of the desk. There’s even a sticky note with a decently drawn cartoon Batman vigorously waving his fist and shouting ‘Study hard!’ pasted right where Jason will see it if he looks up in his seat. Little paper cranes slump sideways on top of a desk shelf, and Bruce gently flips them back into a standing position.

He turns, moving towards the bookcase. Engineering books fill the top shelf, but further below, spines bent and cracked and covers lovingly used, fiction reigns supreme. Fantasy, historical fiction, the classics, all of them have their own place, sorted in Jason’s own opinionated organization and alphabetized by author. The books are starting to pile up, and Jason has apparently decided to stack the volumes in front to squeeze out all of the shelf space instead of asking for a new bookcase.

His fingers trail across their spines, feeling the creases as though he can feel how many times Jason has opened each book.

The walls are filled with posters. Cars, sports, whatever Jason found interesting and just forgot to take down when his interest waned. It seems like Jason has just crammed everything he can think of into his room. Nearer to the bed, glued to the white wall, is a smattering of dull green stars which he knows will light up in the dark—a childish addition to the room of a teenager.

Unbidden, the memory snakes to the forefront of his mind.

He remembers hearing the quiet patter of feet late at night a week into Jason’s introduction to the Manor and following it to see Jason dumping his bedding and a pillow onto the couch in the living room. He had watched as Jason got himself comfortable in a practiced fashion, burrowing into his sheets, before Bruce made a noise to indicate that he was there.

Jason had stiffened and hunched himself, sheets nearly burying his face away.

“Can’t sleep?” Bruce had asked, taking care not to overstep his boundaries, and it had taken a long time before Jason spoke, weighing his words.

“It’s empty,” Jason had admitted. “It’s not…mine.” His face had disappeared into the sheets then. Even when his breaths undoubtedly made the air hot and humid in his hideaway, he refused to let go.

Bruce hadn’t known what to say to that, even as he belatedly registered that Jason was talking about the room given to him. Instead, he took a seat down on the floor by the couch and said as casually as he could, “Pass me a pillow. I’m not sleeping on the floor without one.”

Again, another long silence encompassed them, but Bruce waited.

Then, finally, Jason had poked his head out, a flush over his cheeks from the heat. “Stupid,” he had muttered. “There’s a chair right there.” But he had still tossed a couch pillow down.

Their impromptu sleepover had been discovered by Alfred in the morning, who hadn’t at all been impressed with Bruce curled up on the floor.

And the next night, before going to bed, Bruce had knocked on Jason’s door, been let in, and without warning, plastered the first glow-in-the-dark star onto the wall. “There,” he had said to Jason, who had stared at him in dumbfounded confusion, “now it’s not empty.”

An incredulous expression had passed over Jason’s face then. “I’m not five, Bruce.”

“I know,” Bruce had said as he offered the sheets of stars to him.

Jason had stared, eyes flickering from the star pasted on the wall to the ones held out to him. “Stupid,” he repeated in the same tone he had the night before. “This is so dumb.” Yet he had still taken the sheets.

Bruce opens his eyes to the present, letting his arm fall from where he’s been gently touching the stars. His gaze drops down to the nightstand, opening the first drawer to find a small pocket notebook. He flips it open to the first page, dated a month after the stars in Jason’s handwriting. And further below that, a message.

Bruce, it reads. Thank you for the stars. You’re still dumb.

He flips the page, and the date changes to a few days after.

Bruce, that page reads. Stop stealing my cookies.

Bruce, the next one reads. I stole your cookies.

Bruce, I got onto the basketball team.

Bruce, if you buy me this book, I’ll forgive you for the cookies.

Bruce…

Bruce…

Bruce…

The pages seem to blur as he flips through them. His cheeks feel strange, and it takes a moment to realize he’s been smiling so hard that the muscles in his face hurt.

But just as abruptly as he realizes that, his smile disappears. His eyes are stuck to the date of this page—a few days before Jason’s disappearance, before what he would later realize to be the day the Joker had gotten his hands on Jason.

This is the last page he’s read. The next will be entirely new territory.

If he thinks back to those days, he can remember the increasing fights, the frustration between the two of them. Will this next page be filled with angry words? Will the last thing Jason have written to him be words of blame and fury?

The page trembles as he flips it to October 30th.

Bruce, you suck for confiscating my candy. At least buy me ice cream to make up for it.

He slumps onto the bed, the urge to laugh helplessly rising within him. Trust Jason to lighten things up even when he’s not here, even during the most conflicted periods of Bruce’s life.

“Jason,” he whispers, fond and grieving as he sits in his son’s empty room, “I miss you.”

Chapter Text

The cool wind brushes against his skin, ruffling his hair as he stares at the darkening sky before him. A soft glow of pinks, purples, blues, and oranges spread out before him. Waves crash down below against the cliff face, a constant echo of noise that accompanies his silent watch.

He thinks it should be beautiful. It’s a sight not seen in Gotham, and he’s very rarely gotten the chance to appreciate something like the setting sun over the years. And yet…

The crunch of grass from behind alerts him to the presence of another person, but he doesn’t react.

“Jason,” Talia says, “return to the house.”

He tucks his chin into his arms, making no effort to move.

For a moment, there’s silence, and then the crunch of grass sounds again before, out of the corner of his eyes, he sees her take a seat beside him.

A familiar feeling nags at him the longer they sit there, voices unspoken between them and with only the sound of crashing waves to accompany the quiet. He’s been here before, but the memory escapes him, flowing through the cracks in his mind. Yet he finds that he doesn’t mind it, shoulders slowly relaxing and burying himself further into his crossed arms.

The stars start to twinkle in the waning sunlight and waxing moonlit night.

“I should be dead,” Jason finally says, voice hoarse and neck stinging. The admission is calmer and quieter than the countless times he’s thought about it in his mind, turning over the circumstances again and again.

Talia tilts her head up to look at the stars above them, expression hidden from him. “Yes,” she agrees simply.

“What about them?” He doesn’t clarify who he means, certain that Talia will understand.

She proves him right when she says, “Batman has returned to his patrols, and the Joker is incarcerated within Arkham Asylum.”

Jason lets the silence linger in the aftermath of her words. “So, in the end, nothing’s changed,” he murmurs, uncertain if the feeling in his chest is resignation or self-deprecation.

Like I never even came back, he thinks.

“It was a foolish plan in the first place,” Talia says. “He has always been very stubborn about the act of killing. Giving him the decision was always going to be a disappointment.”

She’s not wrong. Even going into the plan, Jason has always known that Bruce’s conviction in not killing is strong. That it seems like nothing will shake that conviction. Even if his ‘dead’ child looks him in the eyes and begs him to do it. But even so, he had wanted to ask.

Could Bruce look him in the eyes and tell him that he was not worth it? That even for the child who died and came back, he couldn’t kill the monster under the bed?

The answer has always been yes.

He’s just been unwilling to accept it.

“The Joker lives,” Talia says then. “Now that you’ve confronted them and gotten this result, you have the choice to end his life without any grandiose plans.”

“You know it wasn’t about him. Not entirely anyways,” Jason responds flatly.

“So, you would leave him be?” Her voice is cutting as she looks at him with narrowed eyes. Like she expects better of him. As though she expects him to be able to stand up and go out and kill the Joker at this very moment. “After everything you’ve shown me? What happened to your conviction? Is your belief so fragile that a minor setback will shatter it?”

It’s a low-level instigation. She wants him to be angry for whatever reason, and Jason wishes the same. That the font of anger that arose from within him when he learned the truth about the aftermath of his death and the new Robin will fill him with righteous fury once more. That he can feel. But the words that come out of his mouth are calm and collected.

“Security on the Joker will be high right now. Batman will be on the lookout for me, too—assuming he even thinks I’m alive.” He really doesn’t want to think about the fact that there’s a possibility that Bruce thinks he’s dead again and the man is still hopping around Gotham as though that doesn’t mean anything. The numb pain of his neck grows stronger the longer he speaks, but he pushes through it. “It’s impossible to plan something right now. When time passes and their guards are lowered, I’ll do it.”

Jason cuts his eyes towards her. “Sorry, whatever plans you need me to be a distraction for will have to wait.”

Talia is quiet. “It’s not always about plans, Jason.”

He wants to laugh. A half-smile appears on his face instead. “You took me in for your own gain, Talia. Don’t try and lie to me about that.”

“Yes, I took you in because I saw a use in you,” she admits, and the admission doesn’t feel like a painful truth.

“Because you wanted to use me to play house with Bruce.”

“It was an idea I toyed with.”

The smile fades. The honesty is unsettling, disarming. He’s expecting her to twist and turn his words, to lie and deceive with half-truths. She’s not playing his game, not rising to his needling, and it’s not interesting at all.

“Why did you save me?” Jason finally asks, voice hushed, a mere whisper.

Talia doesn’t answer for a long while. The wind whistles around them, blades of grass dancing in its wake.

“Perhaps it’s because some part of you has grown on me,” she says eventually. The expression on her face is almost fond, as fond as can be for someone like Talia al Ghul anyways. Her voice turns soft, so soft that he has to lean in to hear her next words. “Or perhaps it’s because I see myself in you—a hopeless dreamer who wishes for things they know won’t ever come true.”

The Joker is dead, and Bruce isn’t involved.

It’s not his universe, not his Joker, not his Bruce, not even him who went through all those things that Jay went through. But it’s all similar enough that he can live vicariously through them all. And given the circumstances, he’s changed everything that went wrong in his universe. Everyone gets what they want.

Barbara hasn’t lost the use of her legs. The Joker is dead. Bruce hasn’t been given that ultimatum that led to everything; in fact, he hasn’t even been invited to the party. And Jason Jay has gotten his revenge.

And yet…

Maybe I really am just a hopeless dreamer, Jason thinks in self-deprecation. He shoves another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth, savoring the sad but delicious taste of Neapolitan.

The sound of a door opening reaches his ears, and he turns his head to see Jay trudge out of his room before stopping at the sight of him on the couch with a spoon in his mouth. He wants to say something, anything, but the words won’t come.

After that night, Jay seems to have clammed up.

Now, Jason won’t say that killing Joker deserves some sort of celebration because he understands what the core of the problem is. But it shouldn’t warrant this silence. Then again, he’s the one moping on a couch absently watching terrible soap operas despite not even being involved in this universe.

So maybe he doesn’t really have a say in this.

Jay turns and leaves without saying anything, leaving Jason looking after him.

He glumly eats another bite of ice cream.

Another minute of Lady Elizabeth waxing poetic about her ex-lover’s eyes and his general demeanor passes before heavy footsteps announce Jay’s presence again.

Jason keeps his eyes on Lady Elizabeth dramatically placing the back of her hand on her forehead as she swoons, tracking Jay out of the corner of his eyes.

Jay comes closer and closer until—

“Move your fat ass,” he mutters, nudging Jason’s legs with his knee.

“This is my couch,” Jason says, moving his legs anyways as he notes the spoon in Jay’s hand and the blanket in the other.

“You stole my ice cream,” Jay shoots back unhappily as he plops down next to him and pulling up the blanket around himself.

Jason opens his mouth to say that there’s another tub but stops when he suddenly recalls running out of ice cream and running to the fridge in the middle of a monologue about the stars and Lady Elizabeth’s eyes. He looks down at the tub in his hands and feels like he’s done a terrible wrong.

“Okay, fair,” he responds, sighing as he offers the tub over.

Jay stabs his spoon into the ice cream with enough force that it feels as though he’s imagining staking Jason through the heart for the crime of stealing his ice cream.

“You want the rest then?” Jason asks.

Another stab at the ice cream.

Jason figures that’s not exactly a yes, so he sticks his own spoon in.

“Gross,” Jay mutters around his spoon.

“Hey, I was here first. If anyone’s gross, it’s you.”

“Gross,” Jay repeats, going for another spoonful.

“Hypocrite.”

“Ice cream stealer.”

Jason finds himself smiling, relaxing as he leans against the couch. Maybe there are things that need to be addressed, but at this moment, none of that seems important.

“What are we watching?” Jay asks, face scrunching up as Lady Elizabeth continues to bemoan her romantic struggles.

“I,” Jason says with as much haughtiness as he can muster, “am watching the latest and greatest episode of Gotham’s Eldest Lady.”

Jay’s expression turns doubtful as he turns to look at him. “Greatest?”

“There may or may not be some exaggeration.”

“‘Some,’” Jay repeats with a roll of his eyes. “More like all the exaggeration.”

“You don’t know that. You just got into this halfway.”

“Then what’d I miss?”

Jason tries to think back past his own moping and ice cream troubles. “Nothing important,” he’s finally forced to concede.

A smile seems to play on Jay’s lips. “Greatest, right?”

“Just watch,” Jason argues, having no idea whether this soap opera gets any better. “You never know.”

Jay snorts, settling back to turn his gaze towards the TV.

Jason keeps his eyes on Jay for a few more seconds before, as casually as he can, he throws an arm around the back of the couch, leaving his side open. Then he turns his attention to the soap opera, placing the empty ice cream tub to the side.

Sometime between Lady Elizabeth being told about her ex-lover’s shocking death that definitely isn’t a fake-out and her accusing her ex-lover’s girlfriend of murder, Jason feels a warmth nestle into his side. A quick, discreet glance reveals Jay stubbornly keeping his eyes on the TV screen, a faint blush on his cheeks.

The smile on his face feels soft.

“Shut up,” Jay grumbles sharply.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

A faint laugh leaks from Jason as he carefully pulls his arm in, slow enough that Jay can escape if he really wants to.

Jay’s shoulders are stiff underneath the blanket, muscles tense and almost shaking underneath Jason’s hand, but he doesn’t move. The sound of harsh breathing fills the air, and his head lowers, hiding his expression.

Jason keeps his attention on the TV even as he’s aware of Jay’s movements.

“Thanks,” Jay says suddenly, abruptly.

Jason keeps his mouth shut.

“For everything,” Jay continues quietly. His next words are stumbling, a jumbled mess of scattered thoughts. “You didn’t have to… I wish it was… If you were…” Frustration drips off his frame as a heavy sigh escapes him.

There are a lot of things that Jay could be trying to say, but Jason has a distinct feeling that the words are more of a wistful thing. The words of a person who saw what they had been given but wished for more.

Why is it you? The words of so long ago, of Jay’s fever-addled mind surge within Jason’s memories now. The cries of a broken person rescued from his prison cell by someone other than the man he’s been hoping for.

I wish it was Bruce, he hears in Jay’s unspoken words. If you were him.

In Talia’s words, the wishes of a hopeless dreamer.

But then Jay takes in a deep breath and turns sharply towards him with bright, determined eyes. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Jason stares, stunned. His cheeks feel warm, and he turns his head swiftly back to the TV. “Well, not like I had anything else to do,” he responds, hoping his voice is as nonchalant as he thinks it is.

Jay’s shoulder underneath his hand relaxes, so he figures that his tone and reaction must pass muster.

“Idiot,” Jay huffs, leaning his head against Jason.

There are still problems to consider, the pursuit of Batman to evade, the consequences of the Joker’s death to counteract. The world isn’t magically okay, just like how Jay isn’t healed from this one action. Just like how fixing certain events hasn’t solved everything. Just like how Jason isn’t somehow reconciled with what happened in his universe by helping this one.

But at the very least, everything seems to be all right at this moment.

A hopeless dreamer, huh? Jason smiles ruefully. Maybe it’s not all that bad.

After all, it’s those wishes that led him to this point.

“Lady Elizabeth deserves better,” Jay mumbles.

His smile becomes amused. “Yeah,” he agrees, something fond warming his chest. “She does.”

It’s only an hour later, when Jay’s asleep on his shoulder and the dark has settled around them save for the dim glow of the TV playing on silent, that Jason finally manages to gather the courage to whisper, “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

Chapter Text

Tim has a bad habit. A very terrible, horrible habit that has caused his life to go through a certain upheaval and brought him to the point where he’s dressing up in somewhat muted yet bright colors to fight crime at night.

It’s a very bad habit, he acknowledges, tapping his fingers gently upon the keys of the keyboard, gaze not quite locking onto a focal point as he stares down at the printed letters.

He could change the habit, stop doing it. All it takes, he knows, is just a little restraint. Self-discipline. Self-control. Like what Bruce is always touting.

The problem is his little habit has always let him come out on top. Maybe not always in some sort of victory, but there’s always been something he’s managed to figure out that others haven’t considered. So, is it really a bad habit?

Can’t it just be considered a good habit? Especially for a vigilante in this city?

Tim blinks his gaze back into focus, turning his eyes away from the keyboard to the corkboard set up nearby. A flutter of information and pictures have already been pinned on it, colored string connecting events and people.

The outside strings are clear, almost like a timeline in the way they orbit the center: the League of Assassins, Deathstroke, Jason Todd, Falcone, Maroni, Gotham’s underworld, Joker. His eyes trace each of the strings back to the center where a single note with the words The Red Hood lies.

It’s funny.

“We really don’t know anything about you,” Tim mutters, smiling wryly at the contrast in information stacked on the board from the other strings to the single center note.

Whether unknowingly or knowingly, the Red Hood, from the very first moment of his presence being detected within Gotham, has turned the city into a pool of uncertainty and chaos. The death of a world-renowned mercenary. The rescue of Jason Todd. The war between Maroni and Falcone. The rise of a new criminal empire. And now, the death of one of Gotham’s most heinous villains.

It doesn’t apply just to the city either.

If Tim turns his attention to his family—to Bruce, Dick, Alfred, Barbara—his little circle of vigilantes and beyond has been irrevocably changed.

It’s not every day that something, or rather someone, can have such a large influence on them. And it seems so coincidental. If someone else had rescued Jason Todd, would the same events have happened? Would Jason Todd have killed Joker? Would a criminal empire have popped up to take advantage of the mob war?

He doesn’t think so. The present has happened so far because the person who rescued Jason Todd is the Red Hood. It’s because he’s the Red Hood that the world seems to have shifted in Gotham.

All of these events that have happened so far can be traced to the inclusion of a single person. A single pebble in a still pond has pushed far-reaching consequences all over the city.

Tim gets up to come closer to the board, reaching out with his uninjured arm and tugging the note off.

“Who are you?” he asks the note representing the Red Hood.

And what do you want?

Someone who can overturn the situation to this current extent won’t be ruled solely by emotions. Jason Todd might have some sway on the Red Hood, but can a half-sibling relationship really influence the Red Hood to stay in Gotham? To do as he’s done so far?

And what of the League of Assassins that’s supposedly his background? Ra’s al Ghul… Is someone like Ra’s content to watch as one of his rogue assassins runs roughshod over Gotham, escaping from his control?

Questions pass through Tim’s mind, quick as lightning.

He lets out a small laugh. “I don’t know,” he mutters, smile still on his face.

It’s a challenge.

Tim likes challenges. He wouldn’t be standing in his position as Robin here today otherwise.

“You’re crazy,” Barbara says when he tells her what he’s planning under the cover of the din of a nice cafe. Her hands tighten around her cup of coffee as her eyebrows furrow in what seems to be worry and disbelief.

“I’m not,” Tim denies calmly, taking a sip of his cold tea before placing the cup down on the wooden table. He’s already anticipated that she’ll react like this, but at the same time, her reaction is the least threatening of the people he could’ve told.

“Considering what you’ve just told me, it’s hard to believe,” she points out flatly. Her voice lowers just a bit, as though Tim hasn’t chosen this rather noisy café just to cover up their conversation. “What are you thinking? Trying to contact the Red Hood?”

“I’m thinking someone has to,” he replies with a shrug.

“Tim,” Barbara says, eyes centered on him, “the Red Hood is… He’s dangerous.”

“I know. We’ve talked about this—”

“No, I’m not talking about his combat abilities or his background,” she interrupts harshly. “I’m talking about his intelligence. This is a man who has stirred the entire city into a frenzy. He’s changed the landscape completely. He’s not on the same level as Riddler or Penguin or some of the others. They have weaknesses, concrete goals that we can understand. All we have on him is Bruce’s argument on morals and controlling crime. We don’t know his weaknesses. We don’t have anything.”

“Exactly!” Tim straightens in his seat, clenching his uninjured hand. “This is exactly why we need to talk to him. And not in the way Bruce had. There needs to be an actual conversation. Investigating him from afar isn’t working. We need to contact him. Personally.”

“Tim—”

“It’s the only way we’re going to get anything.”

Barbara’s lips thin, her expression unhappy. She takes a breath. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but do you really think your plan is the right way to do this? Assuming you even manage to lure him out, meeting him alone seems like a one-way trip.”

“To be fair, meeting any Rogue has a chance of being a one-way trip,” Tim points out, unfazed.

Judging from the way Barbara’s hands are contracting around her drink, she seems to be seriously thinking about either crushing her coffee cup or throwing it into his face. Either one seems equally likely.

To avoid the fate of being splashed by hot coffee, he continues with, “Look, that’s why I’m telling you this in the first place. Now, I’m not alone in knowing what I’m going to do. I could’ve just done it without telling anyone, you know.”

“You are very lucky,” Barbara says, “that we are in a crowded café.”

Her words are a warning, but Tim has never known warnings to stop him. Unfortunately. “Otherwise?”

“Otherwise,” she says with a cold smile, “your remaining uninjured arm won’t be uninjured any longer.”

“I think you’re making it out to be more dangerous than it actually is.”

Barbara takes another breath, exhaling tiredly.

“You’ve met him. Does he seem like the type of person to immediately shoot me when he sees me?” Tim continues.

“It was five minutes max,” she retorts. “And I’d hardly call what happened a meeting, especially considering…” She trails off, looking away.

Tim frowns, silently acknowledging the unspoken words between them. “Well, he didn’t kill you,” he says, which doesn’t sound great, but he pushes forward anyways. “It’s been established that he has pretty strict rules regarding civilians, too. I think it’s likely that he won’t do anything to me if I meet him as Tim Drake.”

“Do you consider yourself a civilian?” Barbara asks quietly. “He knows who we are.”

“He didn’t hurt you.”

“He had a more important target.” She doesn’t need to elaborate on that front.

Tim switches tracks. “You said he threatened you.”

Barbara looks at him quietly.

“He threatened you,” he repeats, “but he didn’t hurt you. In my experience, that’s practically harmless.”

He may be fibbing a little but considering what they go through on a nightly basis, he figures the sentiment stands.

“You’re filling in the blanks with reasons that'll make it work out,” Barbara points out. “You can’t just assume things like that. He’s dangerous, Tim. Confronting him like you want is suicide. Bruce and Dick would disapprove.”

“Well, good thing I’m not Bruce or Dick.”

She looks at him, expression unimpressed. Maybe she’s thinking about all the times he’s forged ahead on his own. Maybe she’s remembering how he got the gig as Robin in the first place. Maybe she’s cursing him out in her mind.

“You’re doing this whether I agree with you or not,” Barbara says, less of a question and more of a statement.

He nods.

“It’s stupid,” she evaluates. “You’re injured. I can’t back you up with everything going on. You’ll probably time this so that Dick’ll be in Blud. And Bruce is, well, Bruce. Putting him and Hood in the same vicinity after what’s happened is like detonating a bomb. You have no backup.”

“Put it like that, it does sound a little stupid.”

“Just a little?” she asks flatly.

Tim smiles brightly, pretending not to hear the scathing tone. “Just a little.”

A sigh escapes Barbara. “So, tell me, how do you plan on luring him out?”

“You were wrong earlier when you said we don’t know anything about him,” Tim starts, straightening and leaning forward. “We do know something about him—Jason is his brother. For someone who went to the trouble of ambushing Joker in order to give Jason the chance to kill him, what information do you think he’d want to know?”

Barbara’s eyebrows furrow. “You want to use information about us, more specifically about what happened to Jason.”

Tim nods calmly. “Think about it from his perspective. His brother was imprisoned by the Joker for a year. Wouldn’t you want to know what happened?” He pauses and lowers his voice, knowing that his next words will be provocative. “And why no one seemed to try to rescue your brother?”

Barbara’s jaw clenches at the same moment her hands tighten around her coffee. “Tim,” she warns, voice tightly controlled.

“That’s what it looks like from an outside perspective,” he says. “I’m not saying that we did nothing, but Jason’s been alive all this time. It’s not a good look for us. But it’s good bait, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t refute him.

“So, what do you think?” Tim asks. “This stupid plan of mine got a chance to lure him out?”

“You haven’t explained how you’re actually going to get him to meet you,” Barbara points out.

Tim grimaces. “Actually, that’s why I came to you. I know you’ve been trying to infiltrate his communications.”

Barbara stares at him for a few seconds before: “Unbelievable.”

He gives her a weak smile. “Please?”

“You owe me.” She looks down at her coffee and makes a face. “More than just this coffee.”

“I will owe you so much for this,” he swears.

Her expression is flat and unmoved by his heartfelt words. “You wouldn’t have told me any of this if you didn’t need me, huh?”

“I would like to abstain from answering.”

Answering seems like a dangerous action.

It’s the same café, the same brand of tea before him, but Tim feels as though his surroundings are completely different. It feels like he’s sitting in a bubble of stagnant air, conversations passing by like a sea of murmurs he can’t quite decipher. Probably because he’s waiting to see if his guest will actually show up.

He won’t say the anticipation is killing him. A part of him wonders if his bait will lure the Red Hood out, if the information will really entice the man into a meeting. The other part wonders if he should’ve told Dick about this just in case.

It’s a little exciting honestly. He’s done investigations on his own as Robin, but this is something completely different. It feels like coming up to Bruce Wayne and telling him that he knows he’s Batman. This is Tim Drake, not Robin, who’s confronting the other side of the world.

Sipping at his tea, he attempts to calm himself down. Whether or not this works is dependent not on him but on the Red Hood. All he has to do is wait.

The minutes tick closer and closer to the specified time. His tea has gone cold. He debates on ordering another teapot.

Then a man drops into the seat across from him, a slight frown on his face as he places his coffee cup down on the table. “You got guts,” the Red Hood in civilian clothes says.

Tim smiles, erasing the thoughts of getting up. “Thank you for the compliment,” he replies, secure in his victory but still on edge just in case the man decides to whip out a knife and stab him. A sense of thrill envelops him even as he tries to push it down.

The Red Hood—Peter looks extremely similar to the pictures of Jason that Tim had studied during the search for him. They’re similar enough that Tim understands why Dick had been so convinced that Peter is Jason’s relative even before the DNA tests. If he had been in Dick’s place, he’d make the same assumption.

“Get a good enough look?” Peter asks dryly.

Tim meets his unimpressed gaze. “You can’t blame me,” he says. “I know a lot of people who want to see the face behind the mask.”

Peter narrows his eyes. “Likewise.”

The smile on Tim’s face grows a little cold. A lot of people want to know the identity behind the mask, and while there are enemies who know, they’ve never quite used that knowledge to threaten him right to his face.

Of course, he’s also aware that if the Red Hood wants to declare Batman, Robin, Nightwing, and Batgirl’s identities to the world, he had the chance to before all this. It’s a bluff, but one that seems tenuous.

“You know why I’m here,” Peter says then. He leans forward, expression calm yet threatening. “Let’s skip all the introductions and get right to the heart of the matter.”

“I’m not going to tell you what you want to know without getting anything out of it,” Tim counters, rubbing his fingers against the teacup’s handle. He takes a sip of his cold tea.

“I didn’t think you would.” Peter’s eyes are dark, but his voice is light. His fingers play with his own coffee cup, tapping against the paper. “He wouldn’t train someone to be that stupid.”

The implication that his smarts are the result of Bruce’s training rankles. “My intelligence is my own, thanks.”

Peter smiles, amusement clear on his face.

Tim’s happiness at having bet right decreases with every sentence coming out of Peter’s mouth. He wants to paradoxically end this meeting as fast as possible and keep this conversation going as much as he can to gather more information. The consequences of his curiosity are ruining his mood.

“How about exchanging questions and answers?” Tim proposes.

Peter tilts his head, thinking over the proposal as he takes a slow sip of his coffee. “You trust me to be truthful?”

“Do you trust me?” he asks because they’re both in the same position for this conversation. Well, no, Tim’s a little on the disadvantaged side considering his current physical state. Also, Jason might’ve told Peter some stuff about Batman and all so there may be some information disadvantages. Still, his brain is sharp and that’s his best asset.

There’s a moment of silence before Peter sits back in his seat. “I could kill you right here,” he says eventually, something indecipherable in his expression. His eyes flicker around the café, ending on Tim’s arm in a sling. “You wouldn’t be able to stop it.”

Tim’s heart beats a little faster, but his voice and demeanor are calm and confident as he responds. “You won’t.”

Peter’s eyebrows furrow.

“You don’t kill civilians,” Tim continues.

A scoff escapes Peter, derisive amusement leaking into his face. “You know you’re not a civilian.”

“My name is Tim Drake.”

The formal words sound like an extremely late and unnecessary introduction. As though he’s just remembered that maybe the Red Hood doesn’t know his name.

But he knows that he’s reminding Peter that the person sitting in front of him isn’t Robin. It’s Tim Drake, a normal person. This isn’t a rendezvous between enemies in the middle of the night. They’re both in civilian clothing, and even though the words they’re exchanging aren’t civilian, the premise for them right now is that they both are.

Judging from the way Peter’s eyes tighten and his lips twist, he understands the unspoken reminder.

“So, are you going to kill me?” Tim challenges.

Peter sits back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. He looks unhappy, but there’s no sign of violence.

Another gamble that’s going in Tim’s favor.

“Ask your question,” Peter says flatly.

Tim doesn’t speak immediately. There are tons of topics he wants to ask about. The Red Hood’s plans for his criminal empire. Ra’s and the League of Assassins. The purpose behind Joker’s death. Where Jason fits in with Peter’s plans. What Peter’s goals really are. Anything and everything under the sun seems to be a burning question for Tim’s curiosity.

Yet he knows that this moment, this conversation won’t last long. Neither of them is content to exchange vulnerabilities with each other, and it’s without a doubt that the number of questions both he and Peter are willing to answer are limited. It’s just a matter of gauging how many can be asked and whether the question will be answered.

“Why Gotham?” he eventually asks. “You could’ve gone anywhere in the world. Even after you rescued Jason, you could’ve taken him elsewhere. You didn’t have to stay in Gotham, but you did. Why?”

Peter drums his fingers on his bicep, an indecipherable look on his face. It’s an expression that makes Tim start to believe he’s made the wrong bet, asked the wrong question, but then Peter answers, “Because it’s home.”

It takes everything Tim has to not immediately blurt something out in confusion. He’s sure that his own expression conveys everything for him though.

“Or something close enough to home anyways,” Peter says with a shrug. “And for Jay, this is his home. If I force him out of the city, I’d just be moving him from one warden to another.” His voice turns cold, hard, filled with disgust. “And I really don’t like that comparison.”

No one likes to be compared to Joker, Tim thinks before he mentally corrects himself. Well, except for Harley, I guess.

Is Peter’s answer truthful? At the very least, he gauges that the latter part is. The interesting part is Peter’s first sentence.

Because it’s home.

Does Peter mean that he’d lived in Gotham before training with the League? It puts a little damper on the current theory that Peter’s mother is a League of Assassins member, but it does explain the accent he has. Despite becoming part of the League, he still considers Gotham to be somewhat of his home?

Or does he mean that he considers Gotham his home because Jason does? As a League member, he most likely hadn’t settled down in one spot for too long. Judging from the information Tim and the rest of them have collected, even if Peter had been stationed at a base, he most likely wouldn’t have considered it a home.

The specific wording of ‘home’ is especially interesting.

Not to mention, staying in Gotham set them up for exposure. If Peter and Jason had left Gotham, no one would be able to find them. Even if Bruce still had the theory that Jason is alive due to Deathstroke’s death and the prison in the abandoned ward, everyone else would’ve simply deemed him crazy. By all rights, if the two never returned to Gotham, they would simply disappear into thin air.

Unlike now, where their presences are being announced loud and clear.

Tim pushes down the urge to ask for clarification. He has a limited number of questions. He can’t waste them on this topic.

“Your turn,” he prompts after taking a discreet, calming breath.

Peter observes him for a moment as though he’s trying to see if Tim’s gotten anything out of his answer. He unfurls his arms and leans forward. “How long after Jay’s capture did you take up the suit?”

It’s no surprise that Peter’s questions will be directed at what happened to Jason. That’s how Tim baited the man here in the first place—by offering up information on that topic. But he’d thought that maybe Peter would ease into it a little, start with the basics. What happened the day of Jason’s disappearance, for example.

This question feels like a punch to the gut, a completely unexpected one filled with cold venom. He’s blindsided by it because even though it does involve what happened, it’s directed at him. At his role in the story.

It’s not what he had expected Peter to focus on.

Something curdles in his stomach.

“I…” He nearly bites his own tongue. A part of him wants to lie, to fib, to deflect, but he knows that if Peter finds out, this little question and answer session of theirs will end immediately. And even if it continues, the suspicion that any answer could be a lie will taint the entire conversation.

He can’t lie. Not for this.

Tim grips his teacup as though the cold ceramic will bring him strength. “I officially took on the name at six months.”

“Officially,” Peter repeats, and his voice is dull, quiet.

That single word feels like a sudden denunciation.

“It wasn’t—I didn’t mean—” Tim takes a breath, stopping his scramble for words. “Unofficially, I was working with them around the three-month mark. I was mostly investigating Jason’s disappearance, helping to figure out where he was. I never intended to take up the role. After Jason was rescued, I was going to stop.”

Every sentence that comes out of his mouth sounds like an excuse, but the words are true.

Tim had never intended to become Robin. Somehow, it had just ended up being that way.

When Bruce as Batman began to go haywire. When Batman became more violent. When it was clear that Batman needed someone to keep him grounded in the field. When it became clear that Batman…needed a partner.

And Batman’s partner is Robin.

“You can’t ‘stop’ once you step in,” Peter says, gaze calm without a single ripple of emotion. “Whatever you ‘intended’ to do doesn’t matter. What matters is what you did. And what you did was take up the name and suit while he was being tortured. Can you honestly tell me that you want to stop now? After experiencing everything?”

Tim is silent.

The answer he wants to say is yes. But the memories of being a hero, of becoming friends with Dick and Barbara, of everything he’s experienced so far tell him no.

“I asked an extra question,” Peter continues almost apologetically if not for the even tone of his voice. “You can ask two.”

Tim closes his eyes, squeezing them shut.

Calm down, he tells himself. You’re still in the middle of a conversation with the Red Hood. Don’t let him get to you.

He opens his eyes and looks at Peter, emotions settled and expression flat. “What are your plans for Maroni and Falcone?”

The plan had been for him to ease into the questioning, cleverly tread the line between outright hostility and politeness, but with the sucker punch given to him, he has to abandon it. This is a man who won’t waste time, a man of action.

Peter doesn’t miss a beat in answering. “Kill the top, consolidate the rest, remove what needs to be removed, and create a new order.” He smiles, eyes narrowed. “Didn’t think you’d ask for such an obvious answer.”

“You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

An amused huff escapes Peter. “If you’re asking for concrete details on what I’m planning on doing next, I’m sorry to say I haven’t planned that far ahead yet.”

At worst, a lie; at best, part of the truth.

Considering everything he knows about Peter, Tim’s inclined to say the latter.

The Red Hood is not a man without a clear plan, even if the details are sparse, that much is certain.

“Considering what you’ve done so far, you’re not the type of person to take over the mob for power and prestige,” Tim says, scrutinizing Peter’s face for any changes in expression, but the man across from him merely hums in question. “Orphanages, shelters, food pantries. Once you take over their territories, you exert heavy control over the drug trafficking, prostitution, and gambling spheres, but those? The programs and businesses that the mob uses to help people and gain public approval? You go all in.”

Peter tilts his head. “So?”

“You’re squeezing the income that the mob makes,” he points out. “Right now, you’re profiting off Maroni and Falcone, but once they fall? With the way you’re running things, profits will decrease. You’re inviting resistance and rebellion if you don’t make a grand display.” Tim meets Peter’s narrowed eyes. “Your empire is thriving off the war, but once it’s over, it’s a question of whether you’ll be able to keep your ironfisted control. So, let me ask you again: what are your plans for Maroni and Falcone?”

A thin smile spreads across Peter’s face. “Huh,” he says. “You’re smarter than you look.”

Tim lets the backhanded insult slide off his shoulders. “Any outsider with enough knowledge can see what you’re doing.”

“These outsiders also have the guts to ask me this straight to my face?”

His voice is cool. “You tell me.”

Peter looks at him again for a few seconds before he seemingly easily admits, “You’re right. My plan has always been to squeeze out the others. Maroni, Falcone, Black Mask, Penguin, whoever else wants a piece of the share. Those who can’t be put away, those who can escape being put away, those who the law can’t do anything against. If the slate is wiped clean, there’ll be room for a new order.”

“One set by you,” Tim points out with a mild frown. “You’re a tyrant.”

Peter’s head tilts slightly. “I’m not stupid enough to try and prevent people from coming in. There’ll always be someone seeking money in the world. But if they follow my rules, I won’t do anything to them. A tyrant or whatever—so long as people are safer, what does it matter what I’m called?”

“You make it sound like you’re a martyr, but you’re just a hypocrite. People to you… Do you only count those outside the mob as ‘people’?”

“Is that a question?”

Tim’s jaw clenches. “No, consider it rhetorical. You’ve killed a lot of people. I’ll put it back to you in your own words: what you intend to do doesn’t matter; what does is what you did. Your new ‘order’ might come true, but how long will it take before someone takes you down and burns it all to the ground again? Right now, all that you’ve done is start a war, orphaned children, made widows. Each life you’ve taken is a person who has their own hopes and dreams, their own loved ones who might take the path you’ve done with Jason.

“You paint a ‘hopeful’ dream, but the bloody picture you’ve made makes it short-lived.”

The Red Hood is someone who paradoxically takes life sacredly and lightly. Those who cross his lines are swiftly executed, yet those he deems not involved are protected and sheltered with prejudice. If one only looks at the latter…

“You could be a good hero,” Tim tells him, and Peter twitches. “But you take things too far.”

Peter smiles again, eyes cold yet there seems to be a hint of something else lurking within them. He looks down at his coffee cup, reaching out to hold it in his hands. “Hero… You know, you’re not the first to tell me that.” A short laugh, almost bitter, escapes his mouth. “I don’t want to be a hero, not if it means that the ‘bad guys’ continuously get away. So, I’ll be a ‘villain.’ I’ll be a murderer and hypocrite because at least that way, those who harm others will die.”

Tim is silent. The words, does that include you, are on the tip of his tongue, but he changes it to a different yet similar enough question that’ll give him better information. “What are your plans for Jason?”

The expression that crosses Peter’s expression is odd. “What sinister plans can I have? I rescued him—something none of you did, I might add. I gave him the opportunity to avenge himself. He’s free to do whatever he wants to.”

“If you die, you’re handing the reins over to him,” Tim says, cutting through the evasion.

Peter’s face continues to exhibit that strange expression. “That was always the plan,” he admits. “Minus the dying part. I have no plans to die, but this Gotham is his home, not mine. Once he’s in a good enough spot, the Red Hood is his.” His next words are spoken in a soft mutter, clearly not directed at Tim. “Maybe then, the name’ll be a good legacy.”

“The Red Hood is associated with the Joker.”

Peter bares his teeth in a grim smile. “Yeah, well, now it’s associated with me, and I think Jay prefers that much better than the alternative.”

Tim can’t really fault that logic.

“My turn,” Peter says, and Tim tenses in preparation for another biting question. “How’s your investigation into the moles in GCPD going?”

Tim’s hand on his teacup tightens.

“You asked about my plans. I should be able to ask about yours,” Peter says coolly.

He’s annoying, Tim thinks. Of course, he knows that what Peter is asking is within the unspoken rules they’ve set out.

It’s not a question that threatens anyone and doesn’t involve anyone outside their ‘circle.’ What it is, is a question about their progress into clearing out the mob’s moles. But it rankles because it touches on Tim’s investigative efforts. Because he’s asking about information that will clearly shape how the Red Hood and his empire will move next.

“I’m not one hundred percent on everyone,” he eventually answers, “but with the war going on and their forces weakening, the moles are much easier to figure out. At a conservative guess, we’ll be able to dig out at least seventy percent.”

“You’re welcome.”

“We’re taking advantage of what you’ve done. That doesn’t mean we approve of it.”

Peter flashes a smirk. “Makes things faster and easier though.” He lifts his coffee cup and takes a sip. “Still, seventy percent is a pretty good number. Keep up the good work and I might actually respect you a bit more.”

Tim seizes on the particular wording, especially after the conversation so far. He has another question he wants to ask, but this seems like an interesting topic to talk about in regard to establishing the Red Hood’s character. “Respect? You respect heroes?”

Setting down his cup, Peter raises an eyebrow.

He nearly rolls his eyes. “Yes, this is a question.”

“Respect,” Peter repeats, tapping his fingers against the table’s surface. He gives a small nod, barely noticeable. “You’re right. I do respect heroes.” A smile, devoid of emotion, flits across his face. “Disregarding everything, if I just look at them as just heroes, then respect is the right word. People striving to help others, to put away the bad guys, to save the world at times. Even when it seems futile and fruitless, they’re the ones who stand up each and every time to fight against the odds. Who wouldn’t respect them?”

Tim keeps quiet. There’s something in Peter’s voice that’s almost nostalgic, wistful.

This seemingly unimportant question and topic has touched upon something important. If investigated correctly, it might give Tim the needed information to properly analyze the Red Hood. Yet the atmosphere and Peter’s body language feels wrong.

A bad feeling wells up in him, and he’s proven right as Peter briefly closes his eyes and opens them again, the complicated gaze turning cold as he speaks his next words.

“But at the end of the day, the person behind the mask isn’t infallible. I can respect the hero but not the person.”

It’s disillusionment, Tim realizes. Whatever Peter has gone through has disillusioned him with the reality of heroes. Whether that’s a personal experience or Jason’s.

Every child has a pure longing for superheroes. An admiration in them for the symbols of hope and courage that save the day. Even adults can’t get rid of it.

What happens when that admiration and longing is tainted? When a person learns that being a hero doesn’t mean that the person behind the mask is perfect? Heroes can fail, and sometimes, that failure is the worst sin.

A mixture of unclear emotions rises within him. Anger maybe because even if a hero has failed him doesn’t mean that Peter should turn into a murderous crime lord. Guilt perhaps because even though it’s not exactly Tim’s job, the title of hero is something that should bring hope to everyone, not despair.

Tim swallows the emotions back down and waits for the next question.

Peter studies his coffee for a long time, long enough that Tim starts to grow impatient, brushing the rim of his teacup with his finger in an attempt to be patient.

Then, as if he can’t even see Tim’s actions, he asks, “How’s Barbara?”

It should be considered a sign of how annoying the man is that he keeps going off the script Tim has set for him. What Peter should be asking is information on Jason, on information that’s important to Batman, on villainous and crime lord stuff.

Other than a single question, all he’s done is throw Tim off-kilter with questions that feel deeply personal and biting.

Not to mention, this question in particular is infuriating considering when Barbara and Peter ‘met’, the guy had threatened her with a gun as she tried to stop Jason from killing the Joker.

His expression must show something because Peter shifts, looking uneasy for the first time this entire conversation.

“Look,” Peter says with a sigh, “I didn’t mean… I don’t regret stopping her or what happened that night. What I do regret is aiming a gun at her. Threatening her.”

Tim keeps his mouth shut. He wants to hear what else Peter is going to say.

“I could’ve gone about it another way,” Peter continues. “I’m not going to do something to her. I just want to know if she’s okay.”

Is it sincerity, or is it something masquerading as sincerity? Tim doesn’t know, and he can’t tell just from this conversation.

By all rights, Peter is a stranger. Even though he’s related to Jason, he’s not a person any of them actually knows. He has no reason to be asking after Barbara, especially after what’s happened. It’s strange. A puzzle piece that doesn’t fit in the already complicated and confusing puzzle that is the Red Hood.

“She’s fine,” Tim answers after a period of hesitation. “Considering the circumstances, she’s doing the best she can. She’s pretty upset with you.”

Not too personal but not a perfunctory answer either.

Peter smiles, and it’s not the same sharp, amused, and almost condescending smile he’s been using. It’s soft. The type of fond smile Tim might associate with someone who knows them and might accompany the words, sounds just like her.

Who are you? The question burns fiercely, but he knows that a question like that is too broad.

“Last question,” Peter informs him.

Tim’s mind races again, searching for a proper question that will give him better information. He doesn’t know if this type of conversation can happen again between them. In the end, he settles on confirming one thing: “What’s your relationship with the League of Assassins?”

The teal gaze across from him narrows. “Benefactor. And enemy. Mostly enemy.” His next words are slow as if he’s thinking them through, though Tim doesn’t know what he needs to think about. “Ra’s is… Well, he’s not happy with me. There was a point where he might’ve tried to kill me. That or send me to a retirement home somewhere. Of course, I don’t have to worry about that here. So, really, my relationship with the League is pretty nonexistent.”

Utterly confusing. And absolutely annoying.

Before Tim can decide on whether Peter is messing with him, the man stands, his chair noisily squeaking against the floor. Startled, his gaze follows in confusion.

“Wait, you still have a question,” Tim points out.

Peter shrugs. “I’ll save it for later. I got what I needed.”

Tim wants to protest. All he was asked were questions about being Robin, Barbara’s wellbeing, and the one question that actually was of informational use. What did Peter get from all that? From his point of view, Peter got almost nothing.

“Well, this was fun. Maybe next time, you can ditch your babysitters,” Peter says, giving him a look before he turns to leave.

“You’re not even going to ask about Jason?” Tim blurts out, causing Peter to stop in his tracks. “About what happened?”

Peter turns, gaze calm as he looks at him. “I’ll tell you this one for free. I didn’t ask because I don’t need to. Because I know him, and the only way he could’ve ended up in Joker’s care is if he was trying to protect people.” He pauses slightly. “And I won’t ask because the person I should be asking isn’t you.”

It’s Bruce, is the unspoken sentence that lingers in the air.

Tim lowers his gaze and listens to Peter’s footsteps dissipating in the café’s din. A buzz makes him take out his phone from his pocket.

A text from Dick stares back at him: [Never again.]

Tim stares blankly at the words in incomprehension before another text arrives.

[Window. Rooftop. Hi.]

He turns his head to look out through the window and up at the building across from the street. On the rooftop, a small figure raises a hand in a wide wave.

Tim suddenly remembers Peter’s words and mechanically texts the group chat he has with Dick and Barbara. [Seriously?]

Dick texts back immediately. [You owe me for making sure you’re not about to be shish-kabobed by a crime lord.]

[I believe the phrase you should be using is ‘thank you’] is Barbara’s contribution.

A helpless smile spreads across Tim’s face as his chest warms. [Thank you.]

[You’re welcome. Never do this ever again] Dick replies.

Chapter Text

Jason stares down at his right hand, quietly forming the grip he’d had on the gun that killed the Joker. There’s no gun in his hands now. He can’t even recall what it had felt like, whether it was cold or if there had been a residual warmth from being transferred from Joker to Red and then finally to him.

His finger twitches, a pull of a nonexistent trigger, and his mind spits out bang.

“You okay?” Red asks, pulling him out of his thoughts. He’s looking at Jason from behind a blank ceramic mask, having turned his office chair sideways from the table. His eyes radiate concern.

Jason raises his gaze to the empty room, glancing at the ticking clock hanging on the wall. The shades have been opened, bathing the room with bright sunlight. It’s a strange sight to see, knowing what’s coming next.

As a vigilante, he’s always been focused more on criminal meetings held in the dark, set in warehouses in the deep of night like an almost cowardly move. Criminals thrive in the dark, where vigilantes can bust though the windows and ceilings to catch scurrying rats. Of course, he knows that corporate crime isn’t like that, but this is the mob.

Conducting a meeting like this in broad daylight feels a little unsettling.

“I’m okay,” Jason answers. He doesn’t release the shape of his hand.

Red hums, a neutral sound that doesn’t indicate whether he believes the words or not. His eyes flicker down to Jason’s hand. “If you need anything, just tell me.”

If he needs anything…

Jason drops his hands, shoving them into his pockets. “I know,” he mutters, distracted by the words.

Red’s eyes crinkle, and it’s not unreasonable to think that he’s frowning. But before he can say anything, a knock interrupts them. Red turns back to the table while Jason straightens in his spot a little behind him.

The door opens, well-dressed mobsters streaming into the room and taking their seats. Their escorts stand behind them in imitation of Jason’s stance. It’s an almost orderly sight. Ordinary.

Jason’s gaze behind his mask sweeps over them, taking in the hardened faces and clean, dark suits.

Like office workers about to be reprimanded, he thinks in dazed amusement.

“Gentlemen, ladies,” Red begins, smooth and dangerous. There’s a smile in his voice. “I’m sure we all know why we’re meeting here.”

The lieutenants making up Red’s criminal empire glance at each other before a particularly brave one speaks up. “The Bat’s been taking to cracking down on us.”

“Joker’s death really got him in a frenzy,” another says, and Jason’s hands clench.

As if those two sentences have released the floodgates, the other lieutenants begin to chime in their dissatisfaction with the situation.

“You’d think Joker’s death would relax him a little,” a lieutenant complains, a scowl on his face. “Isn’t he the one who keeps putting that clown in Arkham? Now that he doesn’t have to anymore, he should get that stick out of his ass.”

“I don’t see him cracking down on the competition as hard as he does us,” another grumbles.

“It’s ‘cause the Red Hood was the one to kill the Joker.” The murmur, spoken quietly by someone in the crowd, silences the room, and all eyes turn to Red, who merely rests his chin on his clasped fingers.

Despite himself, Jason lowers his head slightly. The image of glossy eyes flashes past.

“Go on,” Red says calmly as though he’s not being stared at by dozens of gazes. “You were talking so loudly just now. Don’t you want to continue?”

The silence remains. A quiet sneer appears on Jason’s lips at the sudden cowardice.

“I know a few of you are dissatisfied,” Red continues, head turning to look every lieutenant square in the face. “Some of you might have been contacted by certain parties, promising better deals. Protection. Amnesty.”

No one shifts, displays any sign of unease. They’re too well-trained by Gotham’s underworld for that, but Jason senses the unsteadiness in the atmosphere.

“I like to think that I’m a forgiving person when it comes down to it,” Red says. “I have to be, to deal with people like you. But I have hard rules. Ones we’ve discussed. Ones we’ve agreed on. If you have any objections, you should come to me, and we can talk it out. Person-to-person.”

For a few moments, no one speaks, eyes shifting from one to the other. Then a particularly brave lieutenant says, “The Bat’s slowed down our operations. At this rate, we’ll be swallowed up by Maroni and Falcone.”

The implied meaning is clear. If Red doesn’t do something to solve the situation, or at the very least lighten up the pressure, his empire is on the verge of collapse. If not by Batman or Maroni or Falcone, then by the crumbling loss of trust from his subordinates.

Jason has a moment to think, if I hadn’t killed Joker, before he realizes that’s a stupid thought. Whether or not the Joker died, Red’s empire was always going to be troubled by Batman’s harassment. It’s only more intense now because of the death, but it’s clear that at the end of the day, Red is a crime lord, a big bad of the criminal underworld.

And vigilantes are supposed to take down criminals.

Joker’s death and the subsequent shifting of the killer’s identity from Jason to Red has simply sped things up.

“Both Maroni and Falcone are walking on tightropes right now. If you can’t even resist them when they’re this weak, I’d have to seriously reconsider your abilities. As for Batman…” Red trails off before something cold enters his voice. “He’ll have other things to deal with soon enough.”

The lieutenants all glance at one another once more, but the silence this time seems to be acquiescence and submission. For now, it appears that they’ll wait to pass judgment on their loyalties.

A short hour filled with reports and plans later, the meeting is empty save for the two of them. Jason plops down into the seat next to Red, setting his mask down on the table, crossing his arms over his chest, and turning the chair to stare.

“I’m not a mind reader,” Red says after a while, pulling his mask off and rubbing at his eyes. “If you have something to say, just say it.”

He stares a moment longer, attempting to see through the other’s tired expression. “You’re keeping them alive?”

Red pauses, turning his eyes towards him. “Have they done something to warrant death?”

“They’re a danger.” Variables.

The longer the lieutenants are allowed to keep their wishy-washy stance, the more likely it is that they’ll become something that will drag down Red’s goals of achieving stability within his criminal empire. It’s already clear from how some of them are wavering that the danger is boiling just beneath the surface.

“We can’t kill them,” Red replies, and his voice is calm, the words contradicting his earlier implied threats to the lieutenants. “We’re new to the scene. Our prestige has been built on assassinating the Maroni and Falcone lieutenants as well as Joker’s death. We’ve shown that we’re capable of death, but what we need to show now is that we’re capable of protection. More killing will simply tell the world that’s all we can do.”

None of the words are anywhere related to any of Bruce’s teachings. In fact, Bruce would probably hate everything Red is saying, but if Jason substitutes the deaths and killing with beatdowns and fear, it feels a little like Bruce is lecturing him right now.

He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“You want loyalty,” Jason points out, to which Red nods. “But you can just…” He holds back the words on his tongue, frowning.

Red’s eyes seem all-knowing. “You’re right. We could replace them with people who’ll be more loyal. But there are two problems with that: first, the issue of time; and second, who’s to say that these new ones will really be loyal? They might start off loyal but over time, they might end up just as doubtful as these ones.

“Right now, everyone’s held together on the premise of transaction. They want money and protection; we want loyalty and order. Three things are preventing those things from fully coming into fruition.” Red raises a finger with each name he says next. “Maroni. Falcone. And Batman.”

“So, get rid of one, and the siege will be relieved, right?”

“It’s better to get rid of two in one fell swoop.”

There’s no need to think about which two Red is talking about.

“Maroni and Falcone,” Jason says.

Red nods.

“But if you do this, what are you going to do about Batman?”

Jason doesn’t worry about Maroni and Falcone being a problem. After everything, he thinks Red’s competent enough that there’s no need to think about mobsters threatening him.

It’s Batman that’s the problem.

Red drums his fingers on the table. “There are very few things that can catch his undivided attention,” he says quietly, and he sounds absolutely certain, as though he has experience with this. “A supervillain planning something big. A crime in progress that will affect a large number of people. And”—Red’s eyes meet his—“an emotional attachment or failure.”

Jason’s heart thunders in his ears. His hands shake in curled up fists on his lap. He doesn’t want to believe it.

“I’m not looking to do the first two,” Red’s still saying, but his voice sounds distant to Jason’s ears. “For starters, I’m not looking to become that type of person. And second, it’s easier and faster to move him with something he wants.”

If Batman really cared… If Bruce really cared, why was he left to rot? Why was he abandoned? Why—

A pair of fingers snap in front of his face, bringing him back abruptly.

“Jay,” Red says solemnly, worry wrinkling his face. “I’m not talking about you.”

Jason doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

“You’ll be taking on Maroni and Falcone while I distract him,” Red says. “I have experience with this, so you won’t have to worry about him showing up suddenly.”

“And what about the others? Nightwing. Batgirl. Robin.”

There’s a short pause. “Batgirl won’t appear. She’s still dealing with the aftermath and won’t be able to get away. Robin was injured recently and shouldn’t be able to jump out. So, it’ll just be Nightwing that’ll be the variable. If he’s here in Gotham, I’ll make sure he’s focused on me.”

“But that means you’ll be dealing with both him and Batman,” Jason points out, heart thumping in his ears. He doesn’t know why he’s protesting this when by all rights, it’s clear that if Red distracts the two, the fall of Maroni and Falcone will be much easier.

“Like I said, I have some experience with this,” Red responds calmly.

When?

Jason’s throat burns with the question. Red has never shown up when he was Robin, and they’ve only met Nightwing and Batman separately since Red has rescued him from Arkham. The only time Red might have experienced confronting the two of them together will have been the time Jason was still in Joker’s grasp.

The words that burst out of his mouth are impulsive. “What if I do it?”

Red’s eyes pin on him.

Jason lowers his head, gritting his teeth as his fingers grip his pants tightly. “What if I distract Batman? Then you’d only have to deal with Nightwing.”

The silence is almost oppressive.

“You said that he focuses on emotional failures. If I showed up, wouldn’t he be focused on me?” Every word feels like they’re tearing themselves from his throat. He raises his head to look at Red’s reaction.

Red touches the scar on his neck, slowly rubbing it. “I don’t like it,” he eventually says.

Jason lets go of his pants to curl his hands into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. “Why? If we split them up, it’d give us a higher success rate.”

“I’m not denying it would, and I’m not saying that you’re not competent either,” Red cuts in before Jason can continue. “What I don’t like about it is you confronting him. Are you really ready to meet him? Or is this just impulse? I don’t need a clean clear win, Jay. It’s preferable, but it’s not necessary.”

Jason’s chest feels heavy, as though something is pressing on it, and yet at the same time, warmth spreads across him.

“I’ve been through a little bit of what you’re going through,” Red says then, and his fingers touch his neck again. “I just don’t want you to end up like me.”

Red’s past is a mystery to him. The information he’s gathered is confusing and scattered. Every assumption is built on uncertainty. It’s not something that someone as trained as he should do, but before, none of it has been particularly interesting to him. The past has no bearing on the current situation.

But now, curiosity develops. A crime lord, trained by the League of Assassins, with a mysterious connection to him.

Jason sets his eyes on Red’s neck. He remembers so long ago, Red telling him that he’d given someone an ultimatum.

“Who was it?” he asks, and when Red raises an eyebrow at him, he swipes his thumb across his throat.

There’s no large change, no sudden action. Yet he’s suddenly instinctually aware that Red’s body language has shifted silently.

It’s quiet. The seconds tick by. A tension begins to form as he wonders if he should take back his question.

Then, Red’s emotionless voice echoes across the room, as though the words are anything but thunderous. “The man I once thought of as my father.” A sardonic smile spreads across his face. “I gave him a choice. He didn’t choose me.”

Something chokes Jason’s throat, preventing him from being able to say anything about the subject.

Eventually, he manages to say, “I’d choose you.”

It feels like a useless consolation, but Red’s smile softens. “Take some time to think it over. Make sure you really want to do this and that you’re ready. He’s not someone you can confront without preparation.”

Jason nods, but he already knows what his answer is.

Are fathers just destined to fail them?

Jason sits atop a skyscraper, looking out at the glowing lights of city and pondering over the question. Hours after that conversation and away from Red, his mind has cleared up somewhat. Enough that he can dispel the uneasiness and clouds surrounding his thoughts.

Maybe it’s some sort of familial curse on him and Red that’s giving them fathers who fail.

There’s no need to say much about Willis Todd. For Jason, the man tried to sell him as a baby, and as he grew up, Willis hadn’t been much of a father anyways. Red had never known Willis in the first place.

Bruce had been an attempt at a family. A good one, Jason might’ve thought. If not for what happened after.

And for Red, the man he seems to have called a father betrayed him. Not a betrayal in the same way Bruce has done for Jason, but it’s clear from the scattered information given that Red’s father chose against him and perhaps even tried to kill him.

Fathers, it seems, are bad luck for the Todd brothers.

The thoughts spiral, and his mind begins to wander. Would Bruce attempt to kill him in the same way that Red’s father might’ve done?

He doesn’t believe it. Thinking about Bruce leads to anger and hate, but he doesn’t think Bruce would ever try to kill him. If anything, Bruce’s stupid morality won’t allow him to do such a thing.

It feels like such a foolish thing to believe in after everything he’s been through, but Jason can’t help the feeling. Batman’s crusade is foolish in the first place, and he’s been going strong for so many years now.

Suddenly, Jason sneers at himself, clenching his fingers against the concrete of his perch. “Stupid.”

He’s had his faith broken in that dark cell, yet here he is, still believing in a man who abandoned him.

As he puts his hand into his jacket pocket to pull out his phone, the feeling of touching hard plastic makes him pause. Even without looking, he knows what they are—the spoils of his break-in at Wayne Tower. It’s only been a little over a week since then, but so much has happened that it feels like months.

I love you, come home, Bruce had said in that video.

“Liar,” Jason mutters. He doesn’t want to think about that stupid video, but the words circle to the forefront of his thoughts like buzzing flies.

Angrily, he reaches for his phone, dialing the only saved contact. As the dial tone sounds near his ear, his other ear hears a faint sound from below, almost like a ringtone. He frowns, pulling his phone away to look around. He’s on the terrace of a skyscraper. Who—

Without thinking about it, Jason hangs up. The faint sound stops.

Jason’s face heats up as a grapple latches onto a nearby gargoyle, and in the next few seconds, Red smoothly takes a seat next to him, unfazed.

“Did you hear me?” Jason mumbles, desperately thinking back for anything embarrassing.

Red lets out a short laugh. “You didn’t say much, so don’t worry about it.”

Jason glares as the heat fades from his cheeks. “You were following me? I wasn’t going to do something stupid.”

The smile on Red’s face disappears. He looks out at the city. “Didn’t matter if you were going to or not. Everyone needs a little backup from time to time.”

Completely different from the embarrassment of earlier, Jason’s face heats up again and he turns his head away. “Yeah, well, I guess you’re not bad backup,” he grumbles.

They sit there for a few minutes, taking in the wind breezing past them and the sight of the twinkling lights brightening up the city’s dark streets. It’s nice, soothing in a way, but Jason knows that the quiet is waiting for him to speak. For him to affirm what he’s already decided on.

But before he can say anything, Red speaks instead. “I almost killed him, you know.”

Jason’s eyes turn towards him, a question of clarification on his lips before he sees Red rubbing at the scar on his neck and he falls silent.

“Lured him away and planted a bomb under his car.” Red chuckles mirthlessly. “It was so simple, too. A little distraction and he was gone. Didn’t even think that anyone could get to him like that. Well, I could, and I did. All it was going to take was a single press of the detonator and he would’ve been gone.”

There’s been no indication that Red’s ‘father’ is dead from the very few pieces of information said.

“You didn’t press it,” Jason says.

Red smiles. “I didn’t,” he agrees easily. “I thought that it was too easy for him. To die without knowing why. To have him die without fixing his mistake.” He leans forward, blocking Jason’s view of his expression though not the tightening of fingers against concrete. “Or maybe it was that I didn’t want him to die. I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to talk to him and give him a choice.

“It was stupid. I never should’ve expected it from him, but I still did. I still had hope.”

Jason lowers his gaze to the streets below. Something suffocates him. “Why are you telling me this?”

“To be honest, I don’t really know,” Red admits as he leans back against the building. “Maybe it’s just from one hopeless dreamer to another.”

“You don’t want me to meet him.”

“I don’t.”

“But?”

Red doesn’t answer immediately. “I don’t want you to meet him because I think you’ll be disappointed. Whatever you want to get out of it, I don’t think you’ll get it.”

Jason is silent.

“But,” Red says then, sounding almost resigned, “I also think that you need to meet him, and I don’t think I can stop you.”

“I just want answers,” Jason eventually mutters.

Does he still have homicidal urges towards Bruce? Maybe a little. Maybe a lot. But at this point, with Joker dead by his hands and Red by his side, he just wants to know why. Why did Bruce leave him to rot? Why was he abandoned? Why wasn’t he enough?

Red clasps a hand onto his shoulder, heavy and firm as he pulls him into his side. “Don’t we all?”

Angry tears brim Jason’s eyes, and he buries his head into Red’s side, hand twisting in his shirt. His jaw clenches tightly in an effort to prevent the wetness in his eyes from falling.

Red doesn’t say anything, but Jason feels his arm tighten around his shoulder, pulling him in further.

Jason bites his lip, shaking. His inhales shorten as every draw of a breath feels as though he’s fighting against gravity. He closes his eyes and just accepts the hug for what it is.

“Don’t cry too much,” Red says after a while. “We’re ugly criers.”

Jason pulls away, lightly punching him in the side and glaring with red eyes. “I hate you.”

Red huffs, an amused smile spreading across his face.

Jason turns his head, wiping at his eyes and quietly mumbling, “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

The next night, Jason clutches the phone in his hands, staring out at Gotham’s skyline. A glance down at the screen reveals an answering acknowledgment from an unknown number—Bruce’s number—to his text of a location and a demand to be alone. He shoves it back into his pocket.

How long has he been waiting? A part of him had assumed that he’d be impatient, drowning in anticipation, but in the actual moment, he finds that the emotions within him are settled and calm. His heartbeat carries on without a care for the monumental scene that’s to happen today.

He returns his gaze to the skyline, filled with twinkling lights and the quiet noise of a sleeping city. What will he say when Batman gets here? He has a slight idea, but no plan can survive first contact when there’s so much that needs to be said. It leaves him wondering, thoughts trickling back to Red’s words of not being chosen.

Once things start over on Red’s side, what choice will Batman make?

There’s no telling what will happen tonight. Maybe they’ll fail in their plans. Maybe they’ll pull the rug over Batman. Maybe neither side will achieve what they want.

The only thing Jason is sure of is that what happens next will either change things or turn things into dust.

The cold Gotham wind whistles past him, and in its din, Jason hears it—the sharp snap of a cloak gliding through air and then the crunching footsteps of a landing on rooftop gravel.

His entire body seems to cool down. He turns and looks at the person who had abandoned him to the torture of a psychotic clown so long ago. The smile on his face is as cold as the wind biting at his face.

“Batman,” he greets. The missing rage of earlier boils within him, simmering beneath his skin.

Batman stares back at him, lips thin. “Jason.”

Chapter Text

“You need to rest,” Dick says.

Bruce grunts, unmoved from where he’s looking at the information gathered from his attacks on the Red Hood’s empire. His eyes feel a little heavy, but he forces himself to keep looking, keep searching.

Dick shifts in his spot leaning against the computer desk. “I’m gonna need more than a hm to understand you, Bruce. Speak like a proper human being.”

The words on the screen begin to blur together, and Bruce blinks roughly, harshly in an attempt to wake himself up. “I don’t need rest,” he says, aware of the weariness leaking into his voice and being unable to do anything about it.

“According to Alfred, you’ve only taken short naps since the Joker died. Last I knew, humans need sleep to function properly.”

“Jason is out there.”

For a moment, silence lingers between them. Then Dick very mildly says, “Do you mean that in a I’m-concerned-about-him way or in a I-need-to-arrest-him way?”

Bruce’s shoulders stiffen. “Concern,” he spits out eventually. He turns his tired gaze towards Dick, jaw clenching. “I’m concerned about my son, Dick.”

“You say that, but that doesn’t necessarily exclude wanting to arrest him,” Dick points out. He folds his arms across his chest. “Because let’s face it, you’re a stickler for certain things. If you find him—if you meet him, will it really just stop at a conversation? Or will you drag him to the Cave and put him in a cell for the rest of his life?”

He won’t ever admit that the option has been thought about. Admitting it will mean that Dick has a point for whatever argument he’s making. But the truth of the matter is that the best solution he’s thought of is to keep Jason under house arrest until he can be convinced that killing is wrong.

There’s no indication that Jason has killed anyone other than Joker.

Bruce isn’t happy about that, but he understands it even as he condemns it. Victims sometimes turn into perpetrators in their quest for revenge, and Jason is very much a victim of the Joker.

If the Joker is Jason’s only murder, then as much as Bruce hates to admit it, the public’s desire to arrest him will only lessen with time. Not that there’s much desire to arrest him in the first place with the Red Hood taking the blame and Joker being who he is.

And there’s a lingering doubt inside Bruce’s mind tormenting him. Even if Jason has killed others, can he really arrest his own son? Can he really calmly watch as his own son is put away behind bars?

It’s contrary to everything he’s fought for his entire life, but this is his son.

This is Jason.

So, he doesn’t say anything in response to Dick’s questioning. How can he when he has no idea of the answer himself?

“Bruce,” Dick prompts, unrelenting.

His shoulders slacken. “What do you want me to say?” he asks wearily.

What do you want me to say that will get you off my case?, is what he really wants to ask, but he knows saying that out loud will prove to make the opposite come true.

Dick doesn’t answer, but his eyes are still serious. A slight frown graces his features. Maybe he doesn’t know either.

“You think I don’t know that every move I make can alienate him further?” Bruce grits his teeth. “I want to talk to him, Dick. I want to help him. But if I let him go, what if another person dies? What if he continues to…”

The words don’t seem to be able to escape his mouth as his heart aches fiercely.

There’s something infinitely cruel about all this. Not just the rift between them, but the fact that Jason is using his training to stand opposite everything Bruce has attempted to instill in him.

Jason is a smart kid. From the very first moment they met, Bruce had recognized that fact. In a way, it’s part of what drew him to Jason in the first place. A smart, courageous, heroic child who was a little misguided in the way he did things but at his core wanted to protect and help others.

Bruce is certain that if Jason had been born with much better conditions, there would be a little genius blazing his way through the school system.

He had seen the potential and gave Jason the best schooling he could in terms of catch-up and beyond. And Jason had thrived. No matter whether it was vigilantism or in school, Jason had given it his all, as though there was no greater thing to focus on. There had been a desperation in how he had soaked up all the information given to him.

And now that knowledge is being used against the people of Gotham. Against the ideals Bruce has followed for so long.

In loving Jason, he seems to have inadvertently made his worst nightmare: his beloved son turning against what they stand for.

Dick lets out a sigh. “Anyways, all of this is premised on the fact that you even get to meet him in the first place.”

Bruce looks away.

Jason is avoiding him. Or maybe it’s just extremely bad luck on his part. Otherwise, what does it say that his first glimpse of his son is during the night of Joker’s death, months after the event at Arkham Asylum? And he still can’t figure out where Jason is now.

Conflicting emotions of pride and grief collide when he thinks of Jason using his training to avoid him.

“What would you do if I killed someone?” Bruce asks softly. He’s not hoping for an answer, but maybe recontextualization can help.

Dick raises an eyebrow. “That’s easy,” he says. “I’d cover it up.”

Bruce looks sharply at him, stunned by the unexpected answer, but Dick merely shrugs.

“Look,” Dick says, “I know you. I trust you. If you killed someone, I think they’d deserve it. Of course, I’d figure out if you were being influenced somehow before I did it. But if you were in your right mind and the victim isn’t some upstanding member of society, like say Joker, I wouldn’t be too bothered by it.”

“That’s not what we’re supposed to do, Dick,” Bruce says through gritted teeth.

“It’s what I would do. Between my family and a stranger, especially a terrible criminal, I’d choose my family every single time.”

Dick’s words aren’t a reprimand, but they certainly feel that way, as if by hesitating over and over again, he’s choosing against his family. As if Bruce is doing something wrong by being unable to make a choice between father and vigilante.

“Let’s put this in a simpler way since it seems like you still can’t understand,” Dick says quietly. “Do you want to lose your son?”

The answer is instant. He doesn’t even have to think before the answer is out of his mouth. “No.”

Dick looks at him, calm and composed. “Then choose your family, Bruce. Don’t give up on him.”

“It’s not that simple,” Bruce begins, shoulders tensing, before he’s cut off.

“No, it is that simple. You just don’t want to make it simple.”

“It’s not simple,” Bruce repeats forcefully, a flash of anger welling up within only to deflate immediately after. He takes a calming breath, pressing his hands to his eyes. “I’m… I’m afraid, Dick. What if he doesn’t want to stop? What if he doesn’t want help? What if I can’t help him?”

Dick is quiet again, but his gaze seems to be able to emit disapproval. “Batman doesn’t give up,” he eventually says. “Bruce Wayne doesn’t give up.”

The raw emotions that hit him force him to his feet, sending his chair rolling away from them in a noisy move. Dick doesn’t flinch as Bruce turns on him, grief and regret and self-loathing roiling in his chest.

“But I did!” His roar echoes in the humming quiet of the Cave. Bruce’s chest heaves from the force of his shout. His hands ball into fists. He wants to hit something, preferably himself. “I gave up on him! I left him there! All because I believed that video. If I’d found him… If I hadn’t given up…”

“So, you want to give up again?” Dick asks, and his voice is cutting, impatience and anger fighting for control in the calm. “I know you hate exceptions, Bruce. You always say that it’s a slippery slope. So, make that time the only exception. No matter how many times you fail, no matter how many times he rejects you, keep reaching out.”

There’s a pause. Then Dick says in a soft voice as if trying to remind him of a crucial fact, “Be his father.”

Bruce trembles.

The words tumble around in his mind, stumbling over themselves even though he’s not speaking them aloud.

I want to be. I want to be his father. I just don’t know if I remember how.

“Just think about it,” Dick says in the face of Bruce’s silence.

Think. He can do that. That’s the only thing he can do now.

“And go get some sleep,” Dick continues, and a teasing, light-hearted smile graces his lips with his next joke. “You’re a bit more useless emotionally when you’re sleep deprived.”

It’s not a funny joke, but Bruce’s lips twitch anyways.

“While you’re sleeping, maybe you can help me out with this riddle Tim gave me.” Dick rolls his eyes. “He’s been agonizing over figuring out what it’s called when something’s ‘similar but different.’”

“Two sides of the same coin?” Bruce mutters, covering up the yawn that’s escaping him now that the emotional tension has started to dissipate.

Dick sighs, gesturing halfheartedly. “See, that’s what I said, but he said that wasn’t right.” He eyes him. “Alright, off to bed. Before I call Alfred to get the sleeping darts.”

“Alfred doesn’t have sleeping darts.”

The roll of his eyes is pure sass. “My mistake. The sleeping gas then.” He gestures dramatically in a direction where Bruce knows they keep their supply.

Bruce surrenders and begins to drag his feet up into the Manor proper. A few feet away, he stops but doesn’t turn around.

“Dick,” he calls out.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Dick laughs. “Come to me for a verbal smackdown anytime you want, Bruce.”

Bruce’s eyes are dry. The white ceiling hasn’t changed from the last however long it’s been since he started staring at it. He glances over at his digital alarm clock and finds that only a few minutes have passed. His mind feels slow, but even his sleep-deprived self can figure out what’s happening.

I can’t sleep, he thinks blankly.

Imaginary sheep jump over fences. One hundred of them escape into greener pastures before he gives up.

He rolls onto his side and stares out the slight crack in the window curtains at the emerging stars and deepening night.

Maybe I should go on patrol, he thinks before his brain reminds him that it’s not a good idea when he’s this unsteady. And he’s already promised Dick that he would rest.

Speaking of Dick…

Maybe working on that riddle will help him fall asleep. At the very least, it’s worth a try. Brain puzzles will tire him out some more hopefully.

Something similar but different.

It’s easy for Bruce to know that Dick’s answers would have been phrases, metaphors. If Tim’s rejecting those answers, maybe he can start with something else.

Chemistry. Isotopes.

Viruses. Strains. Variants.

Fruit. Varieties.

Animals. Subspecies.

He’s mostly amusing himself, but then his mind slips in like an insidious whisper, people.

Bruce closes his eyes. He’s sleep-deprived. His mind is just wildly throwing things out there. But it’s that sleep-deprived brain that’s pestering him with the possibility.

The DNA is wrong, he thinks.

Variant, his brain insists back.

There’s no indication that something like universe traversal is possible.

That you know of, his brain argues. And it would explain how the Red Hood is able to evade you so easily. It would explain how familiar he feels and moves.

Ra’s knows how I operate, Bruce tries with growing desperation. Lots of people do. And Jason is with him.

Before his brain can continue, a buzz interrupts his spiraling denial. His hand is already moving to grab his phone, relief rippling him awake before he spies the message lingering on the blinding screen. The adrenaline that floods him then sends him bolting upright and any hint of sleep fleeing away.

The message is from an unknown number while the message itself is curt, representing only a location and the words, come alone.

It could be from anyone, a spam message, a wrong number, but Bruce knows almost instinctively that this is what he’s been unconsciously waiting and hoping for all this time.

A message from Jason.

For a moment, Bruce stares, clutching the phone tightly in disbelief. His fingers hesitate over the digital keyboard.

How are you? Are you okay? Do you blame me? Please come home.

A thousand questions and pleas cross his mind, but he only taps out a simple answer: okay.

Then without thinking too much, he dials a familiar number.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Dick says flatly when the call picks up.

Bruce disregards the words. “Jason contacted me.” Even spoken aloud, the words seem disbelieving, like a hoax or a dream. Yet the text is still there, solid proof of what’s happened.

Silence replaces whatever words Dick might say. Then: “Tell me what you need me to do.”

“I need you to be on standby for the Red Hood.”

A harsh breath reaches Bruce’s ear.

“Are you being serious right now?” Dick asks incredulously. “The Red Hood? You—”

“Jason asked to meet me. Alone,” Bruce cuts off before Dick can launch into some impassioned spiel. He hates what he’s about to say. “I just need to make sure. Please. You’re the only one who I can trust to do this.”

All this time, Jason has been avoiding him. Yet he’s now attempting to contact him?

Bruce doesn’t have much hope in somehow persuading Jason from the extremely brief five seconds they’d met during the night of Joker’s death.

The request for a meeting is suspicious, and he doesn’t want to doubt Jason, but he can’t take the risk.

The Red Hood is dangerous. He knows how Bruce works, how they work. Add Jason to that, and whatever this meeting is, it’s doubly important for them to make sure nothing big is going down tonight. And if something is happening, there should be someone to mitigate and solve it.

Variant, his mind whispers once again.

Bruce tries to ignore it.

The breathing coming through the phone lightens. “I’m only doing this because you said please,” Dick says.

Bruce lets out a breath of relief. “Thank you.”

“You know, this is the second time you’ve said thank you to me this night. It’s weird. I can’t tell if I should support you or tell you to stop.” A pause. “And Bruce, remember that this is your son you’re going to be speaking to, not a criminal. Your son.”

Bruce stares out through the crack in the curtains at the twinkling stars hanging high in the sky like the dull glow-in-the-dark stars of Jason’s room.

I know, he wants to say, but the words don’t escape his lips.

He’s thin.

That’s Batman’s first thought upon seeing Jason standing on the rooftop, waiting for him.

The hoodie Jason’s wearing is loose, not quite hanging off his frame, but Batman can’t tell if it’s a fashion statement or if it’s not supposed to look like that. Whatever it is, it makes Jason look thin. A fact that’s all the more accentuated when he turns and greets him with a cold smile.

It’s better than Jason being dead, but the sight of him being so thin pierces Batman’s heart. Even months after his escape, Jason is struggling to regain his weight, to become the boy he once was. The boy Batman failed.

A million thoughts form on the tip of his tongue, ready to be unleashed, but everything simply coalesces into a single name.

“Jason,” he says, and his voice is steady.

Jason raises his chin, but he doesn’t speak. The movement makes the skin of his scar, raised and ugly, more obvious as if he’s trying to remind him of the evidence of his failure. As though the distance between them that Batman can’t seemingly bring himself to close is not enough.

Batman’s hands twitch, wanting to form fists, to curl his fingers into his palm to ground himself. His heart thumps along, a drum in the painful feeling of his chest.

“What?” Jason says defiantly when the silence between them continues into uncomfortable stillness. “Got nothing to say? Cat got your tongue?”

Once upon a time, those words would’ve been spoken like a jest.

His lips feel welded together, as though someone has taken glue and smeared it all over his face before stitching his flesh together. Anything he might want to say has left itself stuck in the depths of his chest.

He hasn’t spoken a single word other than Jason’s name, and he’s already powerless.

The iciness on Jason’s face grows the longer the silence deepens.

A dull ache spreads across his chest. His lips tremble, and his supposedly brilliant mind struggles to find something to say, to bridge the gap.

He raises his gaze to the night sky above them, to the twinkling stars. He thinks about the stars in Jason’s room, and his hand raises to slide his cowl from his head. The cool night air strikes him as he looks back at Jason, who frowns at his action.

“I’ve missed you,” Bruce says, the words flowing from his lips like a revelation. “Every single day. From the day you disappeared.”

There’s a certain vulnerability in admitting these words to someone other than just himself. There’s no camera recording his every word, attempting to reach out to a person he isn’t even sure will hear them. This isn’t him speaking to Jason’s empty room, surrounded by the memories of days past. This is him speaking straight to the source, baring raw the pain he’s kept deep within him.

Decades ago, these were words he couldn’t say to his parents’ graves.

Jason doesn’t say anything. His eyes are dark like an impassive judge waiting for more, but his hands are clenched.

“I searched for you,” Bruce continues. He doesn’t know what Jason wants to hear. All he can do is offer his truth. “When I realized what you wanted to do, I went to find you, but I was too late. He took you, and I… I wasn’t able to find you.”

“A great detective that’s foiled countless evil plots, right?” Jason comments quietly, filled with snide sarcasm.

The city of Gotham holds millions of people and spans across five islands plus parts of the mainland. It’s impossible for a singular person to scour the land in search of someone deliberately hidden. While Jason’s final cell is undoubtedly housed in Arkham Asylum, it’s unclear whether Joker has moved Jason from place to place during the first few months.

Even if Joker has moved Jason just once, a change of location might have rendered all of Bruce’s efforts null.

But he doesn’t say any of that, doesn’t justify himself. He’s failed Jason; that is a fact.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, and he knows his apology is nothing. In the face of the pain and trauma Jason has gone through, his apology is simply a drop of water attempting to extinguish a blazing star.

“You know, I did my research when I was out,” Jason says, unblinking at the apology. “Joker said a lot of things about the new Robin, but one thing I was never fully sure of was the exact timeline.” He smiles, mirthless and cold. “Turns out spending my days being beaten up blurs time a little. Or maybe there was a bit of memory loss from the head injuries. I’m not too sure.”

Blades insert themselves into Bruce’s chest at how nonchalantly Jason speaks, at the casual shrug given.

Anger and fury at the Joker well up within him. He hates what Joker has done to his son, and in the deepest depths of his mind, he hates that Joker is dead.

Yet helplessness envelops him at the same time. What use is anger and fury and hate when all of that has passed and the culprit is dead? What use is there when all that’s left is the consequences of his inability to save and protect his own son?

“How long did it take before Robin was out on the streets again?” Jason asks quietly.

Bruce opens his lips, wanting to say something, anything.

Objectively… Objectively, Tim’s role as Robin hadn’t been cemented until after the video. A part of him had kept hoping that once Jason was rescued, the role would be returned and Tim, if he was ever willing, could become a vigilante under a different name. But as the days dragged on, the failures to find clues as to Jason’s whereabouts grew and Tim slotted into the role of Robin with greater familiarity.

A temporary arrangement turned permanent.

And now that permanence feels like a mockery of fate.

Jason looks at him, and a smile splits across his face. “Look at you,” he says with a sneer. “Can’t even say a single word.”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says again. “I tried to find you, Jason. I know I couldn’t protect you or even save you from him, but I tried.”

Jason’s response is quick and sharp. “Seems to me, you gave up pretty quick. After all, we got evidence in the form of a living, breathing person. Or are you going to try and argue against that?”

“I thought you were dead!” Bruce clenches his hands, the slight sound of his gloves rubbing together reaching his ears. “I failed you, Jason. I know that. I’ve lived with it every single day since then. If I hadn’t believed that video…” His teeth grind in his mouth, aching from the pressure. “If I hadn’t been so stupid.”

“That video,” Jason repeats, and his hand comes up to rub at a spot on his chest before it quickly returns to his side as though it’s merely a random, unrelated movement.

But Bruce knows better. How many hours, days has he spent staring at that video in a form of self-recrimination? Every word spoken, every action taken seems to have seared itself in his mind. Every suit is made to withstand bullets, but with how close the Joker was when he’d shot Jason in that video…

“You believed that video,” Jason sneers. “You believed Joker.”

The unspoken follow-up lingers in the air between them: but you didn’t believe in me.

No, he believed in the Joker’s propensity for cruelty. To Bruce, the cruelest thing at the time was to fail to save Jason, to have Joker kill his son, to have lost his son to the hands of death.

Now… Now, he realizes that maybe that isn’t the cruelest thing that could’ve happened.

“I know I wasn’t there for you,” he says.

Jason snorts. “Understatement of the century.”

Bruce ignores the sarcasm. “But I’m here now. And I’m trying. I want to help you, Jason. You and”—a flash of suspicion passes through his mind at the Red Hood’s identity, but he manages to brush that away for now—“your brother.”

“Oh,” Jason utters unimpressed.

“Please, Jason. After everything the Red Hood has done, you know that you’ll have very few allies in the city. Many are your enemies. I just want you to be safe.”

Is he lowering his standards, going against his morals? He doesn’t really know. All Bruce knows is that no matter what has been done, at the end of the day, Jason is his son. And every parent should want their child to be safe, even more so when that child has been tortured and failed over and over again.

“We’ve been doing just fine so far.”

“In a criminal empire, trust is fragile,” Bruce points out. “Lives are even more so. Is a world where you can only trust your brother to watch your back really what you want?”

Jason’s eyes blaze as he straightens. “What are you implying?” he begins angrily.

“It’s tiring to have no allies, Jason,” Bruce says, drawing from his own experiences in the early days of his career as Batman. Being hounded by the police, untrusted by anyone, cast suspicion on by the masses, having no one but Alfred in his corner—that life had been exhausting, sustained only by his burning desire to get rid of the void left behind by his parents’ murders. “It’s even more tiring to have the world against you. Is that the life you really want? Is that the life you want for your brother?”

Jason doesn’t speak.

Bruce presses further. “You two don’t have to be alone in the world.”

The silence feels deafening, but the beat of his heart is loud in his ears, paradoxically anticipatory and fearful.

Finally—finally, Jason quietly says, “I waited for you.”

A blade would be less painful, Bruce thinks. Any wound he’s ever encountered in his career as Batman would be less painful than the words Jason has for him at this moment. His chest squeezes tight as the air in his lungs dissipates.

“For weeks, months, I waited,” Jason continues in that same quiet voice. “I believed in you.”

Bruce swallows harshly, words struggling to find their way to his lips. His gloves creak from the pressure. This is his son, but he feels chastised like a boy before his parents. A visceral feeling that makes grief and heartbreak throb throughout his chest.

There’s nothing he can say except for a feeble, “I’m sorry.”

There’s nothing he can do to change the things that have happened, the wrongs wrought on Jason, the failures that have led them to this point. His apology is nothing.

“Do you know what he did to me? What he put me through?” Jason asks. “And I don’t mean that video.”

Bruce doesn’t mean to flinch, but his body betrays him in a barely perceptible movement.

Jason must catch the action because his eyes narrow and sharpen. “Oh, so you do have an idea.” He lowers his head slightly, bringing a hand upward to rub his chin. “Let me think about why.”

Jason has always been very smart, but for the first time, Bruce wishes he wasn’t.

Blue eyes rise to meet Bruce’s gaze. Jason’s expression is careless, but the emotions in his eyes are ripples. “You found it. My cell,” he says, no doubt in his voice as a slow smile spreads across his face. “After I left it.”

Bruce closes his eyes briefly. “Yes.”

“Late, and late again. Seems like you have a habit of being late to things you shouldn’t be.”

Bruce clenches his hands tightly before he relaxes them. He takes a step forward. “I know you must hate me,” he says under Jason’s scrutinizing gaze. “You probably never want to see me ever again. But I still want you to be safe. I want you to be happy.”

“What if,” Jason says, “I want to kill you?”

His heart aches. “Then I’ll stop you over and over. No matter how many times you try or however long it takes. But I won’t hurt you, not ever again. You’re my son, Jason.”

The silence that settles around them is deafening, but Bruce waits. He waits and waits and waits. Because there seems to be nothing more important in his life right now than Jason’s reaction.

Jason’s jaw works itself, silent words unable to be said. Complicated emotions flash onto his face before his expression flattens and his voice floats over. “It’s too late. You’re always too late.”

“No,” Bruce denies, taking another step forward, and Jason takes one back, keeping the distance between them. “It’s not too late. Even if you hate me, even if you don’t want me to, I’ll keep reaching out.”

He looks squarely into Jason’s eyes, determined to convey this steadfast vow. “I won’t be late. Never again.”

Jason averts his gaze momentarily. “I—”

Whatever he is about to say is cut off as a loud explosion sounds in the distance.

Bruce whips his head around to look. In the far off, a building sends dark smoke slowly billowing into the sky. There could be any number of reasons for an explosion in Gotham, but his mind immediately goes to the missing person he’s been worried about.

He turns to look at Jason in hopes of a clue and finds him staring in the previous direction, stunned.

Not him? Bruce is just about to speculate on who or what might be the cause when Jason jerks his head to stare at him.

Jason’s body is tense, eyes wide, hands fisted, and legs poised to run.

It’s restrained fear, Bruce realizes. Jason wants to run, probably in the direction of the building, but he’s wary of being interfered with.

The thoughts are already racing through his mind when his mouth spits out the name, “Nightwing,” into his communicator.

Silence answers him. His heartbeat thunders in his chest.

“Robin,” he spits out next.

Thankfully, without having to explain anything, Robin is already on the line. “I can’t connect with him,” he responds immediately. “But he was with the Red Hood.”

Bruce meets a terrified gaze and flattens his lips. He slips on the cowl and says, “Let’s go. The Batmobile is faster.”

Jason follows.

Chapter Text

There’s a dead man slumped against the wall in the hotel Jason’s currently infiltrating. His clothes are crumpled up in the front, and ugly bruises have bloomed across his neck and chest. Desperate, bleeding scratches litter his throat. His eyes are wide with terror and lined with red.

He’s not on Jason’s list.

Crouched down next to him, Jason stares for another few seconds.

Strangled, he judges. His trachea was crushed, and he was tossed aside before suffocating to death. The strangulation itself was quick. Someone strong did it.

Considering the current manpower crisis for both the Maronis and Falcones, it seems unlikely that either family would choose to send one of their henchmen to death. The culprit is someone they either couldn’t offend or needed for their purposes.

With Gotham as it is, there’s no way to narrow the suspect down, especially with how short on time he is.

Jason reaches out, feeling the still warm skin as he closes the dead man’s eyes. Rigor mortis hasn’t set in yet.

Less than two hours, he continues to deduce coldly. The murderer might still be around.

It makes things a bit more complicated, knowing there might be a metahuman in the building, but Jason’s not a stickler for strict plans. Adaptation is always a requirement when working with criminals and vigilantes.

He stands, casting one last glance at the dead man before continuing on his way. The hallway he’s walking down heads into the hotel’s ballroom where most of the mob’s surviving elites are meeting. Whether it’s for a truce or something else, this is his opportunity to take out the opposition and consolidate Gotham’s underworld once and for all.

The patrols feel sparse even as he takes three out, dragging their unconscious bodies into nearby rooms. Doubts and suspicions lurk in his mind. Is it just a lack of manpower? Or is it…

Jason sets his sights on the next patrol in his way, observing that the man seems a little higher on the totem pole than the thugs he’s been taking out. Hiding in a room, he waits until the man passes by before he yanks him in, slamming him against the wall.

“Who—” the man begins before falling silent as he registers the blade at his throat and the person holding it.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” Jason threatens.

The man doesn’t answer, defiance and fear entwined in his eyes. His shoulder flexes subtly.

Blood trickles down pale skin as Jason presses the blade against the man’s throat. “If you wanna bet on whether your gun draw is faster than my dagger, be my guest. But personally? I wouldn’t try it.”

The silence continues, but at least, the man seems to have stopped his movements, only attempting to make distance between his throat and the dagger.

“How many people are patrolling the area?” Jason asks, and in his gaze, the man’s eyes shift while his body relaxes slightly.

Lie, Jason thinks. He’s going to lie.

“Thirty-five,” the man answers lowly.

It’s definitely less than thirty-five. It can’t be more since it makes no sense to report a number less than what the actual patrol is.

Jason makes a conservative guess at twenty, maybe more, maybe less. He frowns. Even if the mob is low on manpower, having only this many people guarding the premises of where the elites are gathering is suspicious. Maybe they’re counting on that meta, but would a group of people who have been openly disdainful of the ‘freaks’ of Gotham really put their survival on someone they despise?

The instinct that something is wrong seems to be blaring at him now.

“Who’s the meta you hired?” he interrogates.

Surprise flashes across the man’s face. He doesn’t answer.

Jason flips the dagger, arm flexed to stab it straight into the man’s shoulder, when the man’s gaze shifts to the side. A strong premonition flashes within him, but before he can do anything, crackles of electricity send lightning near the skin of the back of his neck. He freezes, quietly cursing himself for being too focused on his thoughts and trying to weigh the pros and cons of being electrocuted in exchange for an attempt at flicking his dagger backwards.

“Drop him,” a low voice orders him.

Nightwing.

For a moment, Jason stares at the man in his hand.

Try and kill me now, the man seems to be taunting him with his expression.

The crackle of electricity grows a little louder, more intense.

Jason slams the handle of his dagger into the man’s head and drops his unconscious body to the ground, sheathing the blade before raising his hands in a surrender. He turns to face Nightwing and the electrified escrima sticks threatening him.

“Didn’t think you’d get here so fast,” Jason says, just to say something.

Nightwing’s eyes flicker down to the unconscious body before coming back up to look calmly at him. “I can come back in a few minutes.”

“Little too late for that, don’t you think?”

“You know, I was really hoping you weren’t going to do this.”

Jason tilts his head. “Do what?”

“Use Jason,” Nightwing says, and it takes a moment for Jason to realize that he’s talking about Jay. “He distracts Batman while you deal with the mob, right?”

Jason doesn’t respond.

“It’s a good plan,” Nightwing continues, unbothered by his silence. “He’s only one person, and there are two of you. Too bad I’m here.”

No, Jason thinks. It’s a good thing you’re here. You won’t be bothering them.

Whatever the outcome is on the other side, he wants to hope that Jay gets something out of it. That there’ll be less pain, however unlikely, and more drive to live life.

“So,” he says, “now that you’re here, what are you going to do?”

“Did you kill the man in the hallway?”

The question is a surprise, enough to raise Jason’s eyebrow, not that Nightwing can tell. “No.”

A few tense seconds pass before the electricity buzzing on Nightwing’s escrima sticks abruptly disappears. He lowers his weapons, regarding Jason with complicated eyes.

Jason waits a beat before he lowers his surrendering hands. “You’re not going to take me in?”

More than that, you believe me?

“I don’t like what you do,” Nightwing responds. “Actually, I think I might hate it. But considering your conversation with Robin, I think there’s merit in giving you a chance.”

He wants to laugh, whether in disbelief or anger is up in the air. “Giving me a chance? To do what? Repent of my killing ways and go back to useless platitudes for victims?”

“Back,” Nightwing repeats with a clear sharp look in his eyes. He stares at Jason for a moment, apparently expecting more information. “So, you didn’t always kill.”

Jason curls his lips in a sneer, but he doesn’t respond.

After a moment of silence, Nightwing continues. “You didn’t kill the patrols you encountered, so I don’t think you killed that man. If that were the case, you might as well have killed everyone. What’s the purpose of killing one person but leaving the rest? And if that’s not enough we’ve also compiled a list of your confirmed and tentative kills. You have a pattern.”

Annoying, Jason thinks.

He knows that it’s inevitable that he would’ve been studied extensively. It’s what he would’ve done himself if he was facing someone unknown. It’s not a surprise, just protocol, like the many files his own universe has on the villains in Gotham and beyond. But it’s still an irritation having someone investigate his movements and actions, inspecting everything he does with a fine-tooth comb.

More than that, he knows that his own little Red Hood file in his universe will have merged into his Robin file after everything. The only question is whether his status is ‘dead’ or ‘alive.’ If he’s feeling uncharacteristically sentimental, he thinks it might be ‘missing.’

The complicated emotions in his chest rising from that reminder make him frown.

“That’s what you’re supposed to do, right?” he says sarcastically in an attempt to get rid of those emotions, shrugging his shoulders carelessly. “Investigate, see patterns, solve people. Do you think you’ve ‘solved’ me?”

Nightwing regards him for a few seconds. “I think it’d be easier if I had.”

I want to punch him, Jason thinks.

“Back when we first met, you protected him, and he let you,” Nightwing says. “Someone like him—someone like us, we don’t trust easily. And everything I’ve learned about you so far tells me that you want the best for him. Killing will only make enemies, and I think you don’t want him to inherit a legacy consisting of just that.”

Mixing emotions with logic—Nightwing has always been good at mixing those two, and it seems like in this universe, that hasn’t changed. It’s manipulative. It’s scheming. It’s Nightwing.

“You’re stalling,” Jason responds, mind working his way around the words.

Jay talking with Bruce isn’t solely a judgement and chance for Jay. It’s a chance for Bruce to convince Jay that what they’re doing is wrong, that reconciliation is on the table.

For both Jason and Nightwing, the best thing they can do is drag time out. Hence why Nightwing hasn’t immediately attempted to arrest him. If either of them leaves now, the conversation happening between Jay and Bruce will be interrupted, and any attempt at reconciliation or catharsis will go down the drain.

“Aren’t you, too?” is Nightwing’s calm return.

Jason clicks his tongue, annoyed. “I’m not gonna get to finish what I planned to do, huh?”

Nightwing smiles, raising his escrima sticks threateningly. The crackle of electricity flickering on heightens the threat. “If those plans involved death and destruction, try me.”

He rolls his eyes at the theatrics even as he rubs his fingers on the hilt of his dagger.

It’s not like he hasn’t kept this option in the back of his mind when planning this mass assassination trip. Even the best laid plans can go awry when things happen too quickly or unexpected things pop up. And honestly, between Jay’s catharsis and the consolidation of Gotham’s underworld, he personally prefers Jay’s conversation to continue.

One of those choices will have multiple chances in the future to plan again. The other, not so much.

“Fine,” Jason says, resigning himself. “If you’re gonna be tagging along, we might as well figure out who killed that guy.”

Nightwing flicks the electricity off again, raising an eyebrow at him through the mask. “Playing detective?”

“What? Not in my M.O.?”

“No, just surprising. You care about the killer that much? You’re a bit softer than you let on.”

The urge to throw a punch at Nightwing’s face is overwhelming, but Jason holds back with momentous patience. “I don’t like people attributing deaths to me that aren’t mine.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Jason frowns at the suddenly quiet Nightwing with a complicated expression. He backtracks over his words and realizes that there’s been another situation like that recently.

He clicks his tongue once more. “I don’t care about the Joker thing.”

While he hadn’t pulled the final trigger, he was a major part of what happened. It’s not a big deal to throw the blame onto him instead of Jay. They’re both Jason Todd anyways.

“Seems a bit hypocritical of you,” Nightwing comments before adding softly, “but also protective.”

Jason ignores him. “Well, I’m sure you figured out our killer has some type of super strength and social power among the mob.”

“And that they’re probably still nearby?”

“Waiting in ambush most likely.”

“For you, or for me?”

Jason throws Nightwing a dirty look, not that he can see it due to the helmet. “I know we’re both stalling, but can you at least act a bit more professional and not like some dumb idiot?”

A smile flits across Nightwing’s face once more before seriousness takes over. “For you then. But if that’s true, the likelihood of this being a trap skyrockets.”

“It’s not even a likelihood. It’s definitely a trap.”

“And you were just planning on waltzing into this trap?”

Jason shrugs. “Sometimes you just want to break things from the inside out. And besides, you’re here. They won’t be expecting that.”

There’s something calculating in Nightwing’s eyes. “It’s reckless,” he comments and continues before Jason can respond. “You’re not used to having someone back you up. Or rather, you didn’t have anyone to back you up.”

Jason just walks out of the room first, heading down the hallway towards the ballroom. Behind him, rapid footsteps catch up before he can get far.

“You’re really unsociable,” Nightwing says before passing over it quickly. “You’re not afraid I’m going to electrocute you or knock you out from behind?”

“You wouldn’t trust me if I was the one behind,” Jason replies, tapping at one of his holstered guns and aware of Nightwing’s stare at the back of his head. “Dodging a bullet at close range is more impossible than dodging a blow or a taser.”

“Maybe not so unsociable after all.”

Nightwing speeds up just a little, falling into step next to Jason, who glances over at him. His movement seems casual, unhindered by any doubts, as though it’s natural to stand side by side despite the hostility between them. He even gives Jason a smile when he notices the gaze.

“Something wrong?”

Jason retracts his gaze, speechless. He can understand the logic behind the move—offer some trust to lower distrust and hostility—but it feels weird having it used on him.

“According to your files, have any metahumans popped up recently?” he chooses to ask instead of commenting on the manipulative but possibly sincere gesture. “Anyone break out of prison or Arkham recently?”

Nightwing hums. “No one coming to mind after spying on our files?”

“It’s your files, not mine,” he replies coolly. Besides, it’s not like he fully knows the differences between his universe and this one.

Condiment King still isn’t a villain here. Yet. Or maybe never.

“Ah, so you do know it’s theft.”

Jason ignores the jab. “So?”

“Super strength plus possible mob ties…” Nightwing trails off before shaking his head. “No one’s escaped. Everyone in prison or Arkham is currently accounted for. It’s surprisingly quiet considering what’s happened. They’ve even put triple duty on Harley just in case.”

“If she wants to come after me, I don’t mind adding another to my list,” Jason says nonchalantly.

Nightwing doesn’t comment.

Jason’s just about to give a quip about his silence when Nightwing stops in his tracks. He turns to look at him, but Nightwing raises a finger to his lips, eyes narrowed behind his mask.

Standing in the hallway, the sound of a faint, heavy thump echoes. Someone, or something, is approaching.

Then Nightwing says lowly, “Is it me, or did the guards disappear after we met?”

Jason doesn’t answer that. Instead, he lowers his own voice and analyzes, “Mob ties, super strength, heavy, big. Tsk. I should’ve known.”

It seems obvious in hindsight. He’s just glossed over it because in his universe, the mob ties have long disappeared, and well, the guy’s a supervillain in his own right.

Nightwing casts his gaze at him, a demand to be informed clearly in his expression.

“Killer Croc,” Jason elaborates before adding, “His real name is Waylon Jones.”

“Killer Croc,” Nightwing repeats, tilting his head. “Anything else you got on him besides cannibal?”

Jason’s eyes narrow. Nightwing must be on the line with Robin, the only possible backup available in the Cave besides Alfred, if he can bring that up so easily. But it also means that Croc has been flying mostly under the radar if no extra information has been found.

“He has a rare, degenerative genetic disorder resulting in a changed appearance.”

“I’m guessing that’s where the ‘Croc’ part comes in,” Nightwing says dryly.

Jason nods. “Other than that, I can’t tell you much.” Considering my knowledge comes from another universe.

He’s not certain that his knowledge will be of any help, whether this Croc will have the same habits as his universe’s Croc or if he’ll be completely different.

The faint thumps aren’t approaching anymore, but they’re not fading either. A predator is circling around, waiting.

Jason casts a look at Nightwing next to him. If he were alone, he might have retreated. Dealing with Croc alone is always a hassle and requires more extensive planning. But with Nightwing here… “Unto the breach?”

“We could just leave,” Nightwing suggests, gesturing towards the windows.

“But we won’t,” he points out calmly.

Because despite everything, despite being in another universe altogether, Jason knows that no seasoned vigilante will leave someone like Killer Croc to roam about free. And the Nightwing next to him doesn’t seem like he’ll make a different choice.

Nightwing looks at him as though their eyes can truly meet through the helmet. He twirls an escrima stick and takes a step forward without another word.

Jason’s gaze follows him briefly before he falls into step next to him, fingers flexed for a quick draw of his dagger.

Faint scratchy screeches can be heard up ahead, the sound of nails dragging alongside walls. The ground vibrates almost imperceptibly, the feeling of deliberately putting weight into each step. The once brightly lit corridor has disappeared into shadows. Croc’s playing with fear and terror.

Jason’s heartbeat is calm, and a quick glance at Nightwing reveals him to be just as composed.

They reach the main ballroom, doors flung open as if in enticing invitation. The nearby wallpaper has been scratched heavily. Beyond the open doors, the room is flooded in darkness—the mobsters have all retreated, leaving perhaps only Jason, Nightwing, and the killer watching them from the shadows.

There’s no hesitation. Whatever trap there is, must be sprung.

In the darkness, the ballroom is filled with circular dining tables, white tablecloths covering their surfaces. Chairs politely tucked in litter all around. If the lights are on, it’ll look simply like a regular ballroom, waiting for guests to arrive for an upcoming event instead of Killer Croc’s temporary playground.

The slight rustle of cloth moving has replaced the sounds of Croc attempting to intimidate and scare them.

Jason watches the tables, attempting to track Croc’s path.

A beat. Two. Three. Four.

Nightwing shifts quietly beside him.

Five. Six.

A nearby table shakes slightly. Jason’s eyes snap towards it.

Seven. Eight.

The chairs part. Jason abandons his dagger and focuses just on movements.

Nine. Ten.

“Left!” he shouts just as the table bulges and hurls itself at them. He flings himself out of the way, glimpsing Nightwing obeying and doing the same.

The table flies past them, smashing into several chairs and another two tables before coming to a ruined stop.

Killer Croc rises to his full threatening height, blinking yellow eyes as he narrows his gaze at them. “Red Hood. And Nightwing,” he says thoughtfully. “Well, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ll just get paid more.”

“I finally see where he gets the ‘Croc’ from,” Nightwing quips.

“Everyone and their mothers can,” Jason replies flatly.

Croc’s arm twitches, and Jason dodges a chair, separating further from Nightwing.

“It’s rude,” Croc says, coolness in his rough voice. Danger floats about as he rolls his shoulders. “Anyone ever tell you not to comment on someone’s looks?”

“Touchy subject,” Nightwing mutters before he flips out of the way of Croc charging straight at him.

What’s it like fighting with Nightwing? Working with him to take down a villain like Killer Croc? Knowing that Nightwing is offering him trust in watching his back?

Nightwing slips past one of Croc’s blows, using his momentum to climb up and kicking off to push Croc’s face straight into Jason’s fast strike. Croc falters briefly before he swings back, but Jason’s already ducking, scaley fist missing narrowly.

Electricity crackles, followed by the sound of an object whistling through the air.

Crack!

Croc roars, incensed, and his head turns to glare at Nightwing. Jason catches the falling escrima stick by the handle, only to use it to slam Croc as hard as he can in the stomach.

Fighting with Nightwing is like fighting with Batman at his back. Someone who can understand the flow of combat, the positioning, the possibilities. A Robin to his Batman. Partners.

Croc thrashes around, hurling chairs and tables about. Nightwing grapples onto Croc’s back as Jason dodges a chair, backing away quickly, and throws the escrima stick up into Nightwing’s free hand. The crackle of electricity is loud as Croc stagnates briefly before he yanks Nightwing off, sending him flying straight towards Jason.

He jerks away but gets clipped in the arm as Nightwing fails to reorient himself before it’s too late.

Two chairs brush past him on both sides as Croc steps heavily towards them. Behind Jason, he can hear Nightwing scrambling away before the chairs slam into the wall with loud thuds.

White crashes towards him, and Jason dodges the table, hand quickly gripping the tablecloth whipping past. Armed with the cloth, he sprints forward.

Something slams into Croc’s head once more. The sound of the escrima stick falling to the ground is louder than the slight noise of something rolling between Jason and Croc. Croc doesn’t react, incensed, bloodthirsty yellow eyes staring straight at Jason.

Just as Croc’s arm bulges for a punch, an explosion of smoke erupts between them. Jason ducks the unseen punch, throwing the tablecloth over Croc’s head. Swinging himself up, he pulls at it with his full weight as Croc roars and attempts to tear at the cloth.

In the smoke, flashes of electricity arc, quick and fast.

Each blow Croc takes is heavy but rapid. The electricity causes brief moments of stagnation.

Jason’s arms feel sore. He doesn’t know how long this cloth can last. Whether it’ll rip before Croc will get taken down. He wants to use it to choke Croc to unconsciousness, but right now, Croc’s sight is more of a threat.

“Any minute now!” he yells as Croc begins to buck like a wild horse attempting to get rid of its rider.

“Trying!” Nightwing shouts back.

“Try harder!”

“Enough!” Croc roars, ignoring the electricity coursing through his body to rip Jason off his back and send Nightwing flying with his other arm.

Jason slams into a wall, stunned. His ears feel like they’re ringing, as though something is beeping in a slow but steady manner in his head.

No. Wait. There is something beeping.

In front of him, Croc heads towards Nightwing, who flips around, circling around in an attempt to find an opening.

Jason tilts his head back, hearing that beeping grow slightly louder. He turns his head to stare at the wall he’s slumped against. The suspicion is heavy.

He reaches for his gun before changing his mind to unsheathe his dagger. Stabbing harshly into the wall, he peels the drywall back.

The beeping strengthens.

Jason stares at the explosives hidden in the crevices of the wall, wires linking each of them and branching off into parts he can’t see. His heart is cold. The ticking numbers seem almost mocking.

The mob’s plan becomes clear. Whether or not the Red Hood dies at the hands of Killer Croc, the explosives will take out them both. Meaning that the mob will have taken out their competitor as well as a ‘freak’ at no extra cost to themselves. They won’t even have to pay Croc for the job he’s been hired for.

It’s really…quite a plan.

But there’s not enough time to properly think about it all.

The glowing, blinking numbers count down dangerously fast. Jason pivots on his heels, spies Nightwing dodging a blow from Killer Croc near a window, and sprints.

Nightwing’s distracted, so it doesn’t come as a surprise that he’s unable to react when Jason hurls himself forward, swinging up and around Croc, and kicks Nightwing straight through the window. Jason’s a split second behind him when the bombs explode.

Fiery heat crashes into his back, and he’s gone.

Jason is twelve, and he’s watching very seriously as Bruce demonstrates the inner workings of a bomb, calm voice echoing in the hum of the Cave—

No.

Jason is thirteen, Robin’s cape hanging over his shoulders, and he’s just defused a bomb with steady hands but a tense heart while the hostage sobs with relief—

No.

Jason is fourteen, almost fifteen, and his hands are rigid and shaky, and the wires are doubling, tripling, quadrupling under his bloodstained gaze, but his biological mom is begging him to save—

No.

Jason is—sixteen, he thinks, and he’s on a rooftop in Gotham holding a bomb trigger, and the Batmobile is waiting patiently for its owner—

No.

Jason is seventeen, and Talia is in his ears, asking him if he needs more time as he stares at an armed bomb, knowing that it’s an exercise but—

No.

Jason is eighteen, and he’s on a bridge in London with a bomb, and an annoying police officer is yelling at him while he’s trying to defuse—

No.

Jason is nineteen, and he’s bleeding out on the floor, and Joker is laughing, and the bombs he’s wired for his confrontation with Batman are all around them, and—

No.

Jason is twenty, and he’s just kicked Nightwing out the window.

Yes.

Jason opens his eyes to his helmet still on his head and a starry sky that has dark smoke blending in with the overcast clouds. His body aches, cold from the concrete seeping into his skin. He’s alive.

He takes a deep breath, debating on getting up or just lying there for a few more moments.

A familiar if subdued voice interrupts his thoughts. “It’ll probably take five minutes before EMS gets here.”

Jason rolls his head to the side and spies Nightwing seated on the ground, his gaze heavy and quiet as he looks at him. He turns the words over in his mind, tossing them back and forth as if he can pick out the true meaning behind them.

“That an indirect invitation to a cell or a warning to scram before the cops get here?” he asks tiredly, noting that they’re near an alleyway. Perfect for a discreet getaway, it seems.

Nightwing doesn’t answer.

Jason snorts and winces when the pain flares. He lifts his head and reaches for the helmet’s latch, tugging it off his head and placing it carelessly to the side. His lungs take in the cool air, a much better alternative to the warm, stuffy air inside the helmet.

Nightwing makes a noise of surprise. “You still wear a mask?” he comments dryly in disbelief.

An amused smile crosses Jason’s face. “Dramatic effect,” he answers. “Then it just turned into a habit.”

“What? Dramatic identity reveal?”

A laugh startles its way out of Jason’s throat. “Something like that.”

“Must’ve been pretty dramatic then.”

He lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Would’ve been better if his expression changed. I mean, he obviously had an idea it was me, but it was really a disappointment that he didn’t even react.” He stares up at the twinkling stars, a bitterness in his softened voice. “But I guess that’s just what happens when you get people coming back from the dead every so often. Just another day in the life.”

Nightwing doesn’t respond, not that Jason expects him to. Instead, there’s a rustle before a body lays down next to him.

Jason looks at him as Nightwing rests the back of his head on his arms. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Slacking off,” he mutters. “You got a tired, dangerous criminal in front of you, and you decide not to arrest him.”

“I’m giving him a chance as thanks for saving my life.”

Jason lowers his eyes, not replying immediately. If he can treat Nightwing as just another enemy, everything will be much simpler, he thinks. But things are never that easy, never that simple and straightforward.

“I don’t have an interest in killing you,” he eventually says before adding flippantly, “Besides, Batman would be even more on my case if his first sidekick died next to me.”

The joking words pass through his lips before his chest suddenly tightens. Very naturally, Jason pretends that the words have done nothing to him.

“Not having an interest doesn’t mean you had to save me,” Nightwing points out.

“Whatever.” Jason can feel Nightwing’s eyes on him.

But thankfully, Nightwing moves on. “Do you think Croc survived that?”

“For Falcone and Maroni’s sakes,” Jason says, keeping his gaze stuck on the billowing dark smoke still rising into the sky, “they better pray he’s not alive.”

The sounds of sirens piercing through the air come closer, growing louder.

“There’s still time to leave,” Nightwing reminds.

But Jason isn’t listening to him. He’s listening to the faint sound hidden underneath the sirens—the sound of tires screeching against asphalt and the rev of a high-powered engine.

Suddenly, he thinks about the unplanned explosion and Batman and Jay in a distant place. His body aches, but he still musters the energy to kick at Nightwing’s foot. “Hey,” he says blankly.

“What?”

“Are you still on the line with Robin?”

“My communicator’s broken,” Nightwing admits easily as though he doesn’t see what the problem is. Maybe for him, it isn’t a problem.

Jason drags his tired body up, feeling the ache of his muscles and the pain in his back. Every step he takes is like pouring fire on him.

“You’re leaving now?” Nightwing asks from behind him alongside the sound of him sitting up.

If he doesn’t leave now, will he wait for Batman’s arrival?

Jason grits his teeth, willing his body to move faster, but the adrenaline from fighting Croc and getting them out of the building before it was too late has disappeared. All that’s left is tiredness.

Tires screech to a stop behind him, doors opening.

He’s halfway through another laborious step when he hears Batman’s voice.

“Wait.”

“No,” Jason replies flatly and rebelliously despite resigning himself.

“Red!” Jay’s voice cries out at the same time.

Jason stops abruptly. His brain isn’t working properly. He must be hallucinating. After all, why is Jay here at the same time as Batman? Surely if Batman is here, then Jay must have escaped.

But Jay has caught his wrist and is now looking him up and down, even attempting to circle around.

Jason forcibly holds Jay in place, wanting to think that his hallucination is pretty solid feeling. “You,” he begins before faltering briefly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Jay glares at him. “Where should I be?” he angrily demands.

Anywhere but here, Jason thinks.

He takes a deep breath and turns to face Batman and Nightwing, who are locked in what seems to be a heated but quiet argument.

With Nightwing’s willingness to look the other way just now, it’d be easy to leave. But now, with the addition of Batman, leaving seems impossible with Jason’s state. Jay can’t take on Batman, and Nightwing, though injured, is enough to slow Jason down.

Escaping is a losing battle, and rather than fighting to bottom out his own energy, it’s better to simply conserve as much energy as possible to facilitate a later escape.

The only problem with being taken in is what the mob war will look like now. The explosion isn’t something that can be hidden, and if he leaves the stage now, Maroni and Falcone might take it as him dying. Presenting such an enticing target as a leaderless crime empire in front of those weakened families is offering up meat to starving dogs.

Still, there’s nothing he can do now.

Jason watches Nightwing and Batman come out of their conversation before he offers up his wrists. “So, where to? Blackgate?” he asks jokingly, aware of Jay’s hand tightening on his arm.

Batman’s gaze feels intense, scrutinizing. His jaw clenches, and his response is a beat too slow. “No. To the Cave.”

Jason’s smile becomes even more false.

Right now, despite himself, he very sincerely wishes that Croc is still alive, if only to stem the possible bloodshed from the reinvigorated Maroni and Falcone families.