Work Text:
Jason doesn’t remember how long it’s been since he came back.
Truthfully, he was never all that good with time — he’d slept through his alarm countless times as a child — but death had somehow scrambled him even further. He’d crawled out of the darkness like a vengeful ghost, with a mouth full of dirt and guts twisted with hate, and…things had gotten blurry after that. It wasn’t like the Pit was puppeteering him; Jason doesn’t get the luxury of absolution. The Pit had simply seized what was already within him, the black, hardened lump of seething anger and insecurity that lay at his core.
The Pit had amplified it, but the rage was his. It had been Jason’s hands that battled the Batman, Jason’s fingers that squeezed the trigger and ended dozens of lives, Jason’s blades that carved apart Timothy Drake. And throughout every memory, it was Jason’s own sick, manic laughter that echoed in his head.
He’d come back wrong, somehow, in ways he can’t explain. He’d returned in a body that was too big, too strong, too well-equipped to handle his hatred and too efficient at piling corpses and sorrow on the broken streets of Gotham. He'd come home as something broken, an evil and abhorrent thing speaking with a familiar voice that sounded sharper and colder than before.
Jason doesn't recognize himself.
His list of sins is long, too long to be forgotten and too violent to be overlooked. He stomps through the city in boots stained with the blood of heroes and villains alike. He isolates himself, though even he can't say if it's strategic, or simply a subconscious form of penance.
He can't forgive himself, but he can't allow himself to drown, either. Not yet. He's still needed; the streets need a protector who will sink into the murk instead of flying above it.
Jason allows Gotham to swallow him whole.
// // //
It's nearly five in the morning when Jason finishes his usual patrol.
The city is relatively quiet — for once — but there's always a scrap or two to be found. He leaves four drug dealers, a pimp, and a crooked cop kissing the cracks in the pavement. A rusty blade had cut the back of his coat open, barely scratching his body armor, but he's not a fucking seamstress. The jacket will have to be replaced, and that's enough of a minor convenience to piss him off.
Jason's tired, and his knuckles ache inside his gloves as he tosses a heavy leg over his motorcycle. The bike growls to life, a comforting sound, and he leaves a sigh into the complicated filters of his helmet.
The streetlights blur into bright streaks as Jason races past, curving around corners that he's visited a thousand times. The tall spires of Gotham are so unlike the streets below them; the elite have always been out of touch with the real city. The streets are Jason's home, and keeping them clean is the least he can do.
He speeds beneath an overpass, and a flash of black passes through the edge of his vision. It isn't surprising — the Bats have always kept an eye on him, but the timing is strange. He knows for a fact that Dick is in Bludhaven, and Tim would never tail Jason through his part of town. Bruce would have already confronted him by now if they had something to fight about.
Jason snorts, the sound immediately vanishing into the wind. Why the hell did they send the baby bat?
He takes a hard right, the wheels of the bike squealing in protest against the asphalt. The black smear against the night sky manages to keep pace, springing from rooftop to rooftop. Inwardly, Jason has to give Damian credit for matching his speed. Outwardly, he rips the throttle and takes off like a rocket.
He has a safehouse nearby, and he knows he can shake his tiny pursuer if he takes the right route. Jason knows the concrete jungle of Gotham like the back of his hand. He pulls another turn, letting the bike roar as he twists through back alleys and shadowy side streets, speeding into an abandoned parking garage. He kills the bike, and the world falls silent again. Jason smirks in satisfaction.
He awakes the next afternoon to an open living room window and a still-warm thermos of soup on the cheap coffee table.
French onion, one of Alfred's specialties.
Jason glares at it like it's a bomb, but even he can't resist Alfred's cooking in the end.
// // //
A week later, some punk puts a bullet in Jason’s thigh.
It misses anything major, but it still hurts like hell. He can barely put any weight on the leg. He takes the kid and his gang down with more difficulty than he'd prefer, and he hisses in pain and fury as he clamps a hand against the wound. There's already blood seeping through his pants and fingers, and limping to his bike is going to be a bitch.
He slumps down in the darkness of the closest alley, still holding his leg. He knows he should tap into the comm line he always ignores and ask for help, because even if they hate each other, the Bats probably wouldn't let him bleed to death in the street, but he can't bring himself to do it. Maybe a second death won't be so bad.
A shape falls out of the sky in front of him, landing with a clatter that's loud enough to make Jason jolt like an alley cat.
It's a first aid kit, jarred open by the impact. Only the basics are inside, a bit of antiseptic and some bandages, but it's more than enough for a quick field dressing.
Jason grimaces as he gets to work. It isn't until he finishes that he sees the logo of the Bludhaven Police Department on the empty box.
// // //
Jason's flipping through channels on the sofa of one of his nicer safehouses, and he pauses when he sees the bland, fake smile of Timothy Drake-Wayne’s public persona. He couldn't care less about the interview — some uninteresting bullshit about corporate management strategies — but that isn't what had drawn his attention, anyways.
There's a small white flower pinned to Tim’s jacket. He never wears anything like that. It looks like he's attending a funeral.
Jason has to check his phone to remember that it's the anniversary of his death.
// // //
The lip of the rooftop behind Jason is cold and sturdy, supporting his weight as he leans against it, legs stretched out in a rare moment of relaxation.
Gotham is a terrible, lonely place so much of the time, but the city is quiet tonight and the stars are doing their best to break through the smog and the light pollution. Dim, distant pinpricks dance in the dark overhead. Jason sucks in a lungful of cold air, grateful that his helmet filters out most of the taste. He lets his head fall back against the stone behind him.
Jason is grateful for the peace, but against his better judgment, he decides to break it.
He lifts his hand, bringing two gloved fingers to the side of his helmet and giving it a quick tap. His comm link jumps to life with a quiet crackle.
“—was saying, we need a visual on Hood,” grumbles a voice, low and strong. The bass of it sends a tremor through Jason’s jaw. “Where are his last-known whereabouts?”
“I have checked four of his safehouses,” says another voice, flat and calm. “I cannot find Hood at any of his usual spots.”
A third voice sighs. “I'm not sure about this. If he doesn't want to be found, I can't imagine anything good will come of us tracking him down. Maybe we should give him space.”
A fourth voice dissents immediately. “Absolutely not. He could be in danger! He doesn't like talking to us, but we can't just leave him be. I'm not letting him go again.”
They devolve into arguing, weighing strategies and possibilities, before Jason clears his throat. The line goes silent instantly. It takes him a moment to think of what to say. “I'm fine.” He can't keep the frigid bite out of his tone, even though it makes him wince. “...thanks.”
He kills his comm before he can hear a response. He’s not ready for one, not yet, no matter what form it takes. He shifts his shoulders and listens to Gotham, drinking it in. It’s been so long since he’s allowed himself a moment of respite; it’s a rare treat.
Maybe he deserves it, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it isn’t for him to say.
Three capes and an ugly bodysuit come over the edge of the rooftop.
Jason lets himself smile.