Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason sped down the highway, hunched low over the motorcycle. He had only the clothes on his back and a backpack stuffed with the bare essentials. 

I forgive you for not saving me —

He was done. It was all over. Every part of the plan had worked, every part of the plan had gone off without a hitch. Jason had taken over Crime Alley. Delivered a dufflebag full of heads. Gotten ahold of the Joker.

Lured Batman into an abandoned building.

— I would’ve done nothing but search the planet for this pathetic pile of evil — 

He’d done what he came to do. Bruce had made his choice. Jason had a sliced throat and a hasty row of stitches that pulled whenever he swallowed as evidence.

— because he took me away from you —

Jason eased up on the throttle and shifted the bike up a gear. The engine roared. Louder than his fears. Louder than his memories. Louder than life.

He drove until he reached New York City and he didn't look back. 

He spent a week hiding out in a shitty motel, hardly sleeping, always looking over his shoulder. A week changing bandages over a cracked sink, a sickly green light flickering overhead. 

He found a cheap apartment after that. The kind no one else wanted because it was over a rowdy bar in Hell's Kitchen. He could feel the music in the floorboards and the vibrations lulled him to sleep. 

Jason had enough money in his backpack to last him a few months. He had more, in an offshore bank account. 

But money wasn't the reason he started looking for ways to make some cash. He poked his head around boxing gyms, found a few underground fighting rings in abandoned parking garages. 

It wasn't like the movies, though. They wouldn't let just anyone in on the action — hard to make money when you didn't know the guy. 

So, early one morning in May, Jason walked into Old Art's Boxing Gym. He pushed the hood off his head and tried to ignore the look on the old man's face, when he saw the healing wound on Jason's neck. 

He'd taken off the bandage the week before, but he had a feeling there would be a reminder of the worst night of his life permanently etched into his skin for a long, long time. 

"Can I help you?" the old man asked. He was so obviously a former boxer, with his crooked nose and cauliflower ear and big hands. He was probably in his late sixties, but Jason was sure he could still lay someone out. 

"I'm Jason," he said, sticking his hand out. He'd gotten a lot bigger since he'd died, but Art's hand drawfed his. "I'm lookin' for work."

"Well, I'm lookin' for someone to teach a few kid's classes, Monday and Wednesday nights. What kind of experience you got?"

"Brazilian jiu-jitsu, muy thai, boxing, kick boxing, other shit," Jason ignored the way the guy raised his bushy, salt and pepper eyebrows, "but that's not really the kind of work I'm lookin' for."

"It's what I'm offering. I don't facilitate that other stuff anymore." Art eyed Jason carefully. Considering. "How old are you, kid?"

Jason bristled at the word. Kid. He considered lying, but he figured Art was the kind to see right through him so he said, "Nineteen."

"You know how to wrap your hands, Jason?" 

"Yessir."

"Well, c'mon, then."

Art strapped practice pads to his own hands and they stepped into the ring. It was an audition, a dance. Finally, a test Jason knew how to pass. 

"How long've you been in Hell's Kitchen?" Art asked and Jason ducked under the swipe to his head, hitting the right-left combo right after. 

"Few months."

"What happened to your neck?"

He'd expected the question. He didn't falter. Art was just fast, for an old guy. The pad only barely brushed Jason's ear. He still dodged it. Still delivered a vicious strike to the pads. 

"Cut myself shaving," Jason said. 

Art dropped his hands. Jason did not drop his own. 

"There ain't no way you're shaving yet." 

Jason snorted. "Get a five o'clock shadow and everything."

"Alright," Art said, narrowing his eyes even as he huffed a laugh. "I'll see you here on Monday at six o'clock for the four to six year old class."

"I don’t like kids,” Jason lied.

Art rolled his eyes. “You are a kid. You’ll do it or you’ll find a different job.”

Jason left the gym, and then, on Monday, he showed up five-thirty and taught the goddamn class.

"You can't be showing up here lookin' like that," Art said, a few months in. 

Jason pointed dramatically at his black eye, feigning surprise. "It's a boxing gym, Art, people get hit in the face all the time."

"And yet you didn't."

"They don't know that."

"I do," Art said lowly and Jason finished tying his shoe with a bit more force than was strictly necessary before he stood up, hands on his hips. 

"What's the problem here?" And he knew he was being an ass, he knew Art was the only person on the whole fucking planet that gave a damn about him, but he couldn't stop. 

Art took a step forward, got in his face. "The problem is that I told you no fighting, I wouldn't set it up for you. So you, what? Go out and find some trouble for yourself?"

"Maybe."

"You're going to get yourself killed," Art said and when Jason laughed, he grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him closer. "You have no idea what's going on with a stranger. Someone is going to pull a knife or a gun or it'll turn out that everyone in that bar has their back and you're going to get yourself killed."

"I can handle it," Jason said, and he meant it. All of it. All of those scenarios, he'd seen them before and he'd dealt with them. Art must have seen it in his face because he let go and took half a step backwards. 

"Where the hell did you come from, kid?"

"Gotham," Jason drawled and Art pinched his nose in irritation. 

"Show up looking like you don't get into bar fights every night or don't show up at all, got it?"

Jason tipped his head back petulantly, grunted out an annoyed, "Fine," and stalked over to the speed bag to warm up. 

Monday nights, Jason taught the four to sixes. Which was a lot closer to recess than actual boxing. He taught them how to stand so they wouldn't fall over. He spent hours and hours showing them how to make a fist and how to hold their arms straight out from their bodies. 

Mostly, they fucked around. He taught them how to cartwheel and they played games that improved basic motor function. 

Some weeks, Jason was convinced he was just there to tire the kids out so they'd go to bed on time. 

Wednesdays were a bit more fun. Those were his ten to twelves. It was still, largely, fucking around. They still played games and Jason still spent an ungodly amount of time teaching them how to make a fist, but at least they were learning the difference between an upper cut and a hook. 

"Samantha," Jason said slowly, "if you keep tucking your thumb in to your palm, you're gonna break it. Cut it out."

"Sorry," Samantha whined, not sounding sorry at all. 

He didn't have time to talk her off whatever ledge ten year old girls were always on, because Mark and Eric were actually brawling in the corner. 

"Hey," he snapped, picking Eric up with one arm and pushing Mark away with the other. "What's your damage?"

"He started it!" Eric shouted, which wasn't an answer to the question. 

"I don't care," Jason said flatly. "You don't fight like that here. You have a problem? Put on some gear and actually practice."

"Who has a problem?" Art asked. He hadn't snuck up on them, his gigantic shadow and thundering footsteps had announced his presence long before he had arrived. 

"No one," Jason said, still holding Eric completely off the ground. "They were just messing around and definitely not doin' anything to embarrass me, right?"

The boys nodded. Jason released them and watched as they trudged over to the gear box. 

"Don't like kids my ass," Art mumbled before he lumbered away. 

"I can hear you, asshole!" Jason called once Art was far enough away that he probably wouldn't turn back around. 

"No shit," Art called back, and he didn't even look over his shoulder. 

Jason told himself it wasn't affection he was feeling. He wasn't getting attached, he just appreciated some good banter. He just needed to be on Art's good side, so he'd let him fight. 

He left the gym late that night, took his time closing up, saw off the last of the children. The problem with Wednesdays was that, when they were over, Jason was faced with the prospect of four days without purpose. 

He came to the gym almost every day anyway, trained with Art or one of the others. He watched the fighters train, memorized their habits and their weaknesses. But he could only stick around for so long. He had to find other things to fill his time. 

Jason spent a lot of time laying on the floor, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, smoking. 

He was, decidedly, not thinking about Bruce. He was, decidedly, not thinking about anything at all. 

He just needed to fight in a way that wouldn't draw attention to himself. Just needed to assuage the itch under his skin, the antsy-ness he couldn't seem to shake. Then things would be alright. 

For a guy who claimed to not be in the game anymore, Art had a lot of sketchy friends, the most interesting of which had to be a tall, slender woman named Jessica Jones. 

She was a private investigator, that much was clear from the leather jacket and combat boots and, mostly, the manila envelopes she dropped on Art's desk semi-regularly. 

"What's up with the PI?" Jason asked one night when he didn't want to go home and had momentarily forgotten he wasn't setting down roots. It'd been six months and every week felt closer to his goal. He couldn't get too comfortable, couldn't forget he was working towards something, that this was a means to an end. 

"What PI?" Art asked in that way that meant he was only half listening, parroting things back to Jason in an attempt to sound engaged in the conversation. 

They were in Art's office, the big man behind his desk, Jason sitting sideways in one of the armchairs in front of it, his legs up in the air. 

"The mean lookin' lady," Jason said idly, staring at the popcorn ceiling that was probably full of asbestos. "Jessica Jones or whatever." Art looked up then, but Jason hardly noticed. He pointed up and said, "You should get this redone. Popcorn ceilings have bad shit in 'em, I'm pretty sure."

"You're pretty sure?"

Jason nodded, still pointing, turning to once again stare at the ceiling. 

"Wait, what do you know about Jones?"

"Nothin', just seen her drop off envelopes. She's got an expensive camera in her bag, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't invoice you."

"Oh, just that?"

Jason furrowed his brow and swung his legs down so he could look at Art. "That supposed to be secret?"

"It ain't public knowledge. She doesn't want people to know she does anything for free."

Jason mimed zipping his lips, locking them up, and throwing the key over his shoulder. Art laughed. An honest to god, genuine laugh. Jason tried not to beam at the sound, his lips were sealed, after all. 

"Get out of here, kid," Art said, still smiling. 

The not-smile dropped off Jason's face and he slumped further into the chair. "Why? You got secret shit to do?"

"Nah I'm just gettin' sick of you, leave me in peace." 

And the smile was still on his face, fond creases in the corners of his eyes. He was joking, Jason was sure of it. Still, Jason said, "Oh. Yeah, okay," and dragged himself out of the chair. 

"Aw don't be like that," Art said, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose in a way that made him look a lot more like a grandpa and a lot less like a fighter. "You can stay if you like."

But Jason didn't turn around, didn't come back, just waved over his shoulder and closed the door on his way out. 

Both of Jason's classes were occupied with a good amount of kids in the system. He'd known it long before Art corned him a the week after Jason had brought up Jessica Jones. 

"She keeps an eye on 'em," Art said, blocking the hallway. 

"'Kay," Jason said, unsure why this conversation had to happen with his back literally against a wall. 

"You wanted to know, now you know."

"That's really cool, Art. It's a good thing to do," Jason said, but Art still didn't move. "You plannin' on living in this hallway?"

"You ever spend time in the system?" Art asked, and it was definitely the most direct the old man had been with him. He'd been trying to pry details of Jason's personal life out of him for months, he was just usually a lot more covert. 

Well, as covert as a man who used to get head trauma for a living could be. 

Jason stared at him for a minute. It wasn't a very risky question to answer. A lot less so than who cut your throat but more than what part of Gotham are you from. 

Besides, taking so long to answer was, in and of itself, an answer. 

"Yep," Jason said, popping the p. "Can I go now?"

"Were they good people?"

"Jesus christ, Art," Jason laughed, but Art didn't back up. Didn't look away. Jason dropped the smile. "No, they sucked. Move."

There was a moment where Jason thought he might actually have to move Art. He knew he could do it, knew about the bad knee and the sore ear. Knew he was faster and stronger even if he was smaller. 

But emotionally? Jason didn't think he could do it, not unless he really had to. And then Art stepped to the side and Jason hiked his bag higher on his shoulder, practically fleeing the gym. 

It was snowing, by the time Jason actually kind of met Jessica Jones. He was draped across one of the armchairs in Art's office when she dropped off another envelope. 

"Thank you," Art sighed, not moving to open it. 

"Yeah," she said shortly, pulling a flask out of her jacket pocket. 

"Not in the gym, Jones," Art sighed. 

"It's not the gym, it's your office," Jason said and Jessica nodded her agreement. She held the flask out to Jason who might've taken her up on it, if not for Art's watchful eye. 

As it was, Art snapped, "He's nineteen."

"Twenty," Jason corrected, without thinking, staring, once again, at the popcorn ceiling. 

"What? When was your birthday?" Art asked and he sounded so genuinely distraught that Jason actually felt bad, for not telling him. 

"Uh," Jason said. "Back in August, don't worry about it, I don't like to do shit."

Art frowned at him. Somewhere between the words nineteen and birthday Jessica Jones had vanished. 

"When in August?"

"I don't know your birthday," Jason countered. 

"I'm too old for birthdays," Art snapped. "When in August."

And it wasn't a question so Jason said, "The sixteenth. Damn. Happy now?"

"No," Art said, picking at the edges of the manila envelope like he wanted to open it but not in front of Jason. 

Jason rolled out of the chair, springing to his feet with a youthful bounciness that he knew annoyed Art. 

"You need to get this ceiling redone," Jason said as he left. 

A week before Christmas, Jason woke abruptly and was pleasantly surprised to find it wasn't because of a nightmare. It was just his phone vibrating under his pillow. The relief was short lived.

The only people who had his number were a couple other trainers, the old lady across the street whose sidewalk he shovelled, and Art. 

"You're in charge for the next week or so," Art said the moment he answered, which was a weird thing to say instead of hello. Especially at four in the morning. 

"What?" Jason asked, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

"I have a — thing."

"What kinda thing?"

"Heart thing. They've got me in the goddamn hospital even though I'm fine," that last bit was shouted away from the phone receiver and so was, Jason assumed, directed towards someone else. 

Jason sat up, suddenly very awake. "You're okay, though?"

He tried to ignore the tightness in his throat. He wasn't panicking, he was just surprised. 

"I'm fine," Art said tightly. "Look, kid, I've gotta go. Don't do anything stupid. I'll be back before Christmas."

And then he hung up. 

Jason had, for a lot of his life, been accustomed to being awake at four in the morning. He had, however, over the last seven months, gotten used to being awake while the sun was out. 

Which meant that, although he didn't fall back asleep that night, he didn't realize what a strange command he'd been given until the sun started to crawl her way over the horizon. 

"The fuck does he mean I'm in charge?" Jason asked the coffee pot. He ran his hand through his hair and cringed when he caught his reflection in the microwave door. His hair was sticking up in every direction. The seam of his pillowcase was imprinted in his cheek. 

He was wearing Wonder Woman pyjama pants for fuck's sake. He didn't know how to be in charge of a boxing gym. 

Jason poured his coffee into a to go cup, forgot to add sugar or milk or anything that made life worth living, and walked to the gym at eight in the morning. 

As it turned out, being in charge mostly meant sitting behind the big desk, answering the phone sometimes, and telling everyone to deal with any real problems when Art got back. 

It was actually smooth sailing, until Jessica Jones walked in. She was pale as always, the only color in her face the flush in her cheeks from the cold. 

She stopped abruptly in the doorway, when she saw who was behind the desk. She narrowed her eyes at him, considering. Making up her mind about something.

"Where's Art?"

"Gettin' something taken care of," Jason said, because he didn't know if it was common knowledge and he wasn't going to find out by running his mouth. 

"What kind of thing?"

"You're the PI, why don't you just go find out."

Jessica pulled a manila envelope from her bag but didn't hand it over. She held it close to her chest and glared at him. 

"When's he back?"

"Soon."

Jessica closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath. "I'm gonna put you through that wall," she pointed at the brick outer wall of the building, "if you don't give me a straight answer."

Jason rolled his eyes and scrubbed his hands over his face. "Honestly I don't know. And I don't know if the reason is something I get to go around sharing. So feel free to do what you gotta do, but that's my answer."

Jessica didn't move to hurl him into any load bearing walls, but she didn't hand over the envelope, either. 

Jason pointed at it. "I can give that to him."

"You're lucky I have places to be," she said, tossing it onto the desk. 

"A bar stool at Josie's doesn't count as a place to be," Jason said, but he was already distracted by the name on the envelope. If she responded, Jason didn't hear it. 

He hadn't intended on opening it. Had truly meant to deliver it to Art and carry on with his life. 

Except, it was Samantha's name scrawled across the front. Except, it was Jason who'd told Art he thought something was going on. 

Jason pulled out a stack of photographs. And he'd seen so many terrible things in his life. He'd done so many terrible things. The pictures were nothing he hadn't seen as Robin, were nothing he hadn't seen on his world tour sponsored by Talia al Ghul. 

It was just that, it had bothered him then, too. Had bothered him enough to get benched. 

Robin, did Felipe fall, or was he pushed?

Had bothered him enough to leave a trail of dead teachers in his wake, later. 

Jason slid the pictures back into the envelope, then he slid the envelope into the top desk drawer. He locked the drawer, tucked the key into his pocket, walked into the now-empty gym, and hit one of the padded dummies so hard it skidded halfway across the gym. 

The next afternoon Jason arrived at the hospital, manila envelope tucked into his back pocket.

"I'm sorry, hun, visiting hours are almost up," an older nurse with kind eyes said regrettably. 

"Oh no," Jason hummed shifting his accent into something closer to New York and trying to look deflated and sweet and young. "I'm visiting my grandpa, Art Hackler, he runs that gym over in Hell's Kitchen," Jason hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "I've been keeping an eye on things for him, runnin' the kiddie classes and one of 'em, her mom forgot to pick her up so I waited with her so she wouldn't be scared. I'm so sorry I'm late. Do you think I could maybe go say hi to him, just so he knows we're thinking of him and wantin' him to keep being strong?"

Jason batted his eye lashes and drew his eyebrows together and grinned with genuinely delight and gratitude when she sighed and gestured for him to follow her. 

He signed Jason Hackler on the visitor sheet because he was sure Art would get a kick out of it. 

"Hi, Mister Hackler," the nurse sang as she pushed into his room. "I have your grandson here to see you."

Art choked on his jello at the news. "My grandson, eh?" he said, glaring at Jason who just smiled sweetly. "I had kids young. Very young."

"Sure ya did, sweetheart," the nurse hummed as she left. 

"I'm gonna kick your ass," Art said, but he didn't look like he meant it. 

"What?" Jason asked, feigning innocence. He dropped into the chair beside Art's bed. "How're you doin'?"

"I'm fine."

"Sure you are, and I'm the Prince of Wales."

Art laughed and Jason put his feet on the side of the hospital bed, pushing the chair onto just the two back legs. He wasn't thinking about Catherine. Wasn't thinking about the Cave medbay. Wasn't thinking about anything at all. 

"Notice the lack of popcorn ceiling," Jason said. 

"What do you want, kid?" Art asked and there wasn't any irritation in his voice. He looked healthy enough. Didn't look ready to keel over, so Jason fished the envelope from his back pocket and tossed it to him. 

"You look at this?" Art asked and Jason hummed an affirmative, eyes still on the smooth ceiling. "Why'd you do that?"

"I was right," Jason said, instead of answering. 

Art sighed and he sounded old enough to be Jason's grandpa, then. He sounded ancient. 

"What're we gonna do about it?" Jason asked the ceiling. 

And Art, who never, ever let anything slide said, “Thought you said you didn’t care about the kids.”

“No," Jason said, "I said I didn’t like ‘em.”

“You gotta let some of that anger out, kid, or it’s gon’ eat you alive.”

And Jason hadn't realized he looked angry. But he had to manually remove his shoulders from the vicinity of his ears, had to unclench his jaw and unflare his nostrils.  

After he did all of that, it was Jason's turn to sigh. To sound old as hell. “That doesn’t tend to end too well for me.”

Art didn't say anything for a long, long while. Long enough that Jason thought he might have fallen asleep.

Then, very suddenly, reluctantly, he said, “You want some fights?”

Jason let the chair drop back down, all four legs on solid ground. “Thought you were out of the game, old man. What happened to I don't facilitate that stuff anymore, huh?”

“You want ‘em or not.”

Jason laughed when he said, "Yeah, I want ‘em.”

Chapter Text

Jason was good at fighting. He'd known it long before he stole the tires off the batmobile. Had known it when he was fighting professionals in buttfuck nowhere, and he sure as hell knew it in the basement of Art's fucking gym. 

"Right below my fuckin' feet, huh?" Jason said, accusatory. 

"Oh fuck off, it's my shit." 

And, honestly, Jason couldn't argue with that. Besides, it didn't matter anymore. He was in. And, sure, the ring was more of a chalk circle drawn on a concrete floor and the rules were more like a handful of guidelines. But a fight was a fight. 

Jason was buzzing. 

"You bet on me?"

"Shut up," Art snapped as he finished wrapping Jason's knuckles from a little metal folding chair on the edge of the ring. He had to take it easier now. At least, that was what the nice nurse lady had told Jason Hackler when he'd picked up his dear grandpa from the hospital. 

Jason pulled his t-shirt over his head and the gloves onto his hands and ignored the look on Art's face. 

"Fuck off," he said, when Art opened his mouth. Jason knew he had scars, he knew some of them were gnarly, that they told a story he didn't want people to be able to read off his skin. 

He also knew he'd lost a lifetime worth of reading material in the lazarus pit. So, it could be a lot worse. Jason didn't tell Art that. Jason ignored Art, even when he poked one of his meaty fingers into Jason's shoulder blade. 

"Is that from a fuckin' bullet?" he asked. 

I used to have three just like it in my chest from when I was a child vigilante, Jason didn't say. Because he wasn't trying to give the guy a heart attack. 

"Don't work yourself up," Jason said, hitting his gloves together experimentally. He'd kind of expected bare knuckle brawling, had expected more chaos. It was still pretty damn chaotic, though. No rounds. No breaks. Just hitting someone until they went down. 

There was a small crowd standing around the chalk circle and they parted for Jason on one side and some guy called Calvin on the other. 

And Jason hadn't emerged from the pit a foot taller than when he died, but sometimes it felt like it. Sometimes the way that magic had healed his broken metabolism and stunted growth felt like violence. Sometimes, he forgot he was six feet tall, now. That his shoulders were broad from years of hard training. 

The other guy was big, bigger than Jason but not by much. Sometimes he forgot how much bigger he'd gotten. He wasn’t a little bird anymore. 

They circled each other for a few seconds, assessing. Calvin kept his guard up, white gloves in front of his face. Jason's arms hung limply at his sides and he moved lazily around the circle. 

Art yelled at him, but Jason didn't listen. Out the corner of his eye, Jason saw money exchange hands. He paid it no mind. 

Calvin lunged, the small crowd roared, surged forward, stopped just before the outline. Jason dodged, ducking and twisting so he was in the middle of the ring and Calvin had to be caught by the laughing spectators on the edge. 

Jason spared a glance at Art, who wasn't smiling.

Put your fucking hands up, he mouthed. 

Jason grinned at him and dodged Calvin's next attack without looking away from the old man. Art flipped him off. 

Jason put up his hands. 

It didn't last long, the fight. Calvin was a tough guy, but there were only so many times tough guys could completely fail to land a punch before they started to lose their minds. 

Jason dodged and danced around him, took a few glancing blows, when he started to actually attack. When he showed a small crowd in the basement of a boxing gym just how hard he could hit. 

The black of Jason's gloves didn't show off the blood, not the way Calvin's were meant to. It was Calvin's gloves that told the story. Calvin's gloves, that were still white at the end.

Jason fought his way through the winter. When he wasn't fighting, he attended the fights anyway, collected wads of cash from the spectators and handed them off to Art, who scowled from his little metal folding chair. He watched the others fight and he learned their weaknesses. 

"There's something wrong with you," Art said in early March, wrapping Jason's knuckles before a fight. 

"No shit," Jason said flatly. 

"You really don't care about the money, do you?"

"Who told you that?"

Art grabbed his wrist and yanked him to his knees in front of the chair. He didn't have to go with the movement, could pull away if he wanted to, but he didn't.

"Last week, you make exactly six-hundred and twenty-four dollars. The next day, d'you know how much money was in the donation box?"

"The donation box for the gym? That's none of my business, Art," Jason said innocently, and he meant that it was none of Art's business, either. Not the source of the money, at least. 

"Get the fuck outta my face."

And then it was April. Jason didn't like April. There was a whole week in April where he was always a little convinced he was still dead. A whole week where every bone in his body ached and he heard cackling laughter in every dream. 

A week where the beeping of a microwave or honking of rush hour traffic was the countdown of a bomb. 

It was ridiculous. But, Jason supposed, a week was what one got when one couldn't remember the actual day one had died. Ethiopia had been a blur. He'd been jet lagged and laser focused and he just — couldn't remember. 

"What's wrong with you, kid?" Art asked, finishing off a role of tape and reaching for another. 

"Nothin'," Jason said. He was lightheaded and cold and he could taste smoke and ash in the back of his throat. He felt like a corpse, like he had when he woke up in his coffin.

"Jason," Art said and that's how he knew it was serious, that he was probably too pale, the circles under his eyes too dark, his expression too dead. Art hardly ever called him by his name. 

"It's good," Jason said, shoving the gloves on his hands. 

It wasn't good, but it would be. He just needed someone to hit him, just needed to feel something. Luckily for him, he was about to step into a chalk ring with someone who wanted nothing more than to bash his skull in. 

Calvin was a nice enough dude. He hung around the gym, sometimes, even though he trained somewhere else. But he was prideful, too. They all were, even the ones that hated themselves. 

Jason's arms hung at his sides and he marched a lazy path along the outside of the ring and when Calvin's white left glove flew towards his face Jason didn't move. 

It snapped his head backwards, knocked him into the surging crowd. He was shoved forward, back into the ring. 

Calvin's gloves were still white. 

Jason let him hit him again. And it obviously pissed him off — first, he couldn't land a hit and now, in his so-called redemption fight, Jason was just letting him do what he wanted. 

It took five blows to draw blood. Finally, he could see it smeared across the knuckles of Calvin's glove. Could taste it on his tongue. Jason grinned with red teeth and raised his fists.

He dodged the next attack, hit Calvin in the kidney as he sailed past, his cocky momentum sending him face first to the ground. 

It was a real fight, after that. And Jason won real fights. 

He expected Art to be annoyed, maybe a little angry. He didn't expect to be cornered in the locker room, after he'd showered and changed. Didn't expect to be shoved into the lockers and accosted. 

"What the fuck was that?" he growled. 

"Don't work yourself up," Jason said, a little bit to piss him off more and a little bit because he needed to calm down. 

"Tell me what the fuck you were doing or you're out."

"Come on," Jason said, shoving Art back, a little. "I make you money, you'd be fucking stupid to cut me off. People like seeing me fight."

"I don't give a fuck about any of that if you're trying to get yourself killed."

Jason rolled his eyes. Art grabbed his jaw and tilted his head back and forth. Surveying the damage. It was nothing. A bruised cheekbone. A black eye. Split lip. He had a few bruises under his shirt that were hardly even going to progress past green. 

Jason yanked his face away. "Fuckin' hell, it's fine, Art. Things got boring, I made them less boring. Calm the fuck down." 

"I'm not fucking around here, kid." And that was obviously true, because he had a look in his eye that said Jason was going to have to physically move him, if he wanted out of the conversation. And that made Jason's heart hammer in his chest. 

"Artie? You in there?" someone called through the locker room door. 

"I'm busy," Art called back. 

Two men in cheap suits entered the locker room. One was blond and round-faced like a cherub, the other wore red-tinted sunglasses and carried a white cane. He was absolutely jacked under the suit. 

"We're looking for Jessica," the ripped, blind guy said. "She usually watches the fights doesn't she?"

That would be news to Jason. 

"Not anymore," Art said. "Check Josie's, I'm busy."

"Everything okay?" the blind one asked and Jason couldn't tell, under the glasses, but it felt like he was staring right at him. Lots of blind people had some amount of vision, Jason reminded himself. Maybe this guy could see his general shape. 

"You know kids," Art sighed, levelling one more sharp look at Jason before stepping away. "Always trying to get themselves killed in my building."

"Jesus fuck, Art," Jason said. 

"Shut up," Art said. He turned to the men. "Sorry boys, I don't know where your girl is. You didn't watch the fight, I hope?"

"We may have caught a bit of it," the blond one said, smiling in a way that probably made old ladies want to pinch his cheeks. 

"Well, Foggy watched some. I listened."

"Foggy?" Jason asked incredulously, before he could think better of it. 

"Foggy Nelson," he held out his hand and Jason shook it. "This is Matt Murdock, we're lawyers just down the block."

"I've seen your sign," Jason said. "You just got someone to write your names on a piece of printer paper, huh?"

Art smacked his shoulder but both Foggy and Matt laughed so Jason ignored him. 

"This is Jason, he was just leaving."

Jason offered Art a half-assed salute before he slung his bag over his shoulder and trudged out of the locker room. He was smoking outside, lingering, really, avoiding home and alone, when the lawyers reappeared. 

"Thought you were leaving," Matt said. Which was creepy because Jason was positive he wasn't making any noise. 

"I am."

"How'd that happen?" Foggy asked, pointing at his own neck to make sure Jason knew he wasn't talking about any of the other scars he'd probably seen earlier. 

Jason was about to offer Foggy Nelson a demonstration when Jessica Jones seemingly materialized behind them. 

"Get lost," she said, and Jason held up his hands, cigarette dangling between two fingers, and started making his way down the street. Their voices drifted down after him and he slowed his pace to listen. 

"We were looking for you," Foggy said. 

"I haven't found anything else about those kids," Jessica said. 

"We should go somewhere private," Matt said, and Jason could have sworn he felt the man's gaze on his back long after he turned the corner. 

Jason had a good fake ID. It said he was twenty-three and he only used it at the bar below his apartment. 

He wasn't in the habit of getting drunk, no need to see just how like his father he could become with enough practice, but sometimes he indulged. And, even more rarely, if someone tried to talk to him and it wasn't entirely the most annoying experience of his life, Jason would let himself be led into the bar's shitty bathroom. 

Would let himself be pushed against the door, would accept a mouth against his own and hands against his skin and he could pretend it was affection. Could pretend it meant everything and nothing at all. 

And so he did, after the rematch and Art's concern and barely shaking the feeling of death. Jason went to the bar and he tried to feel something. 

"Is that a hickey?" Art asked, the next morning. He sounded like he would rather not be asking, like he much preferred scolding Jason for his other methods of self-destruction. 

"How do you know what a hickey is?" Jason countered. 

"I'm old, not a eunuch."

Jason walked away. Eric and Mark were brawling in the corner again. 

Art benched Jason, after the fight. He benched him until Jason proved, apparently, that he was normal again. That he wasn't going to let someone hit him again. 

All Jason had resolved to do was be more covert about it. 

His next opponent made it easy. He was huge but fast, with a reach several inches longer than Jason's. It was easy, to let him get some reasonable hits in, just enough to make him feel alive. Enough to make it interesting for the people watching. 

Enough that the people roared, when Jason won. 

Art didn't confront him in the locker room again, so Jason shuffled up to his office, a towel draped over his head, feeling appropriately achy. 

When he got there, though, someone was sitting in Jason's chair. A huge, dark skinned man with shoulders the size of bowling balls and a big, shiny, bald head. Jason stopped in the doorway and tried to guess how many Jasons the guy could bench press until Art tossed him an envelope of cash and told him to get lost.

Jason caught the envelope without looking away from the man who was so clearly the biggest threat Jason had met in the city so far. 

"Jason," Art snapped, actually raising his voice. 

"Fine, fine, I’m goin’,” Jason said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t get yourself all fuckin’ worked up, old man.”

He left, pulling the door shut behind himself. Jason walked loudly across the gym floor before crouching down and creeping silently back. 

He was curious, was all. Just wanted to make sure his employer wasn't in any sort of trouble. 

“—know a Gotham accent when I hear one,” the big guy said. He was a lot softer spoken than Jason would have guessed. He needed to reassess some internal biases. 

“Don’t worry about him,” Art said.

“Don’t worry about the kid from Gotham with the slit throat that can take down career boxers? Whatever you say.”

“He’s a good kid, Luke.” There was something in Art’s voice that made Jason nauseous.

"Well, your good kid's letting himself get hit and he's still winning."

Jason didn't wait to hear what Art had to say to that, he was already halfway across the gym by the time the guy, Luke, was done talking. 

Fifteen months, he'd spent in Hell’s Kitchen, fifteen months of minding his own goddamn business. Laying low and keeping to himself. Fifteen months and he threw it all away in thirty seconds.

He was walking home after a fight, the kind that had barely been anything, that barely left a mark. The kind that didn't feel good, after. 

The sticky heat of early August hung in the air long after the sun set. Hell's Kitchen was never quiet, but it was rarely too loud, either. It reminded him a lot of home and Jason longed for it. 

Then he heard the sound of a scuffle. A small, familiar voice in distress and he was running before he could think better of it. 

There were four men in the alley. Four grown men and one twelve year old boy. And Jason knew he was twelve the same way he knew his name was Devin, because he was in one of Jason's classes. 

And Jason didn't think about it. He grabbed one of the men by the jacket and hurled him down the alley. 

It was almost a blur, the fight. It had been a long time since Jason could lose himself to instinct and intuition. He couldn't do that in the ring, where people were watching. Where there were rules. 

There were no rules in alleys. 

They had the advantage of numbers, but Jason was better. He ignored the slice of a knife across his forearm and the fist to his liver. 

He took two down and then he turned to Devin and said, "Get the fuck out of here."

Devin ran. Jason kicked a knife out of a hand and drove his knee into a face and then, very suddenly, he was standing in an alley and four men were groaning on the concrete and his chest was heaving and blood dripped off his fingertips, and he remembered why he'd made all of the choices he'd ever made in his life. 

And then two uniformed cops barrelled into the alley, guns raised, Devin right behind them. And Jason had to act relieved, grateful, even. Which churned his stomach and pissed him off so much he almost decked the one who wrapped some gauze around the wound on his arm. 

Jason's cover ID was good enough to withstand police scrutiny. It got him stitches at the hospital and a pat on the back from some sort of detective. It got him home before the sun came up. 

Jason went to the gym the next day, mostly out of habit. Everyone who had gotten there before him clapped when he walked in. Jason almost turned around and walked back out. Because they shouldn't know.

No one should know. 

Art had a small TV in his office and he grinned at Jason when he walked in. 

"Look at you, hotshot," he said proudly and Jason followed the direction of his finger. 

That was Jason's picture, on the news. The banner at the bottom of the screen read: Local Boxing Teacher Saves Young Trainee From Gang Violence. 

Everything turned to static. All Jason could hear for a moment was a high pitched wail. He felt his blood turn to ice. 

"Is that just the local news?” he asked, even though he knew it wouldn’t matter. Oracle would find it. Batman would find it. Which meant they’d find him.

Jason didn't wait for an answer, he turned on his heel and practically ran from Art's office. Practically ran from the gym. 

"Kid!" Art called after him, and Jason could feel the eyes of the gym on his back. "Jason!"

It was bright outside. Instinctively, Jason scanned the rooftops, looked for pointy ears or flashes of blue and black. Wondered if Bruce had even told Dick it was him. Wondered if Dick even knew he was alive. 

Wondered if Dick was even alive.

Blüdhaven had literally blown up and he hadn't exactly meant it, when he'd told Bruce one son had risen from the dead only for another to die, but he'd kind of believed it.

It was a stupid thing to fixate on, but it was a thought that, once he'd had it, wouldn't leave his mind. Jason ducked into an alley and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the hot ground. 

He made it several feet from the puke before he, too, hit the ground. 

It had been a long, long time since Jason had had a panic attack in an alley. A long time since he'd curled up as small as possible and waited for the feeling to pass. 

By the time Jason got home, the sun had long since set. He stood in the doorway, for a moment, before he jerked into motion, shoving things into his backpack. 

Then, someone knocked on the kitchen window.

Jason had a gun aimed at the glass before he could even think about it. There was only one kind of person that tried to enter an apartment through the fire escape.

It wasn't Batman, though. It wasn't Nightwing or the new fucking Robin. It was Daredevil. 

Jason stared at him for a long while. Took in the pointy devil horns and dark red kevlar. Eventually, he lowered the gun. Partially because he figured this might as well be happening to him. Partially because Daredevil was sitting on his fire escape with his hands raised, placatingly, if not in surrender. 

Jason tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans and slid the window open. 

“The fuck do you want?” he asked and Daredevil laughed.

“A mutual friend wanted me to check and see if you were in some kind of trouble,” Daredevil said and Jason narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t have friends.”

It was vaguely insulting, when the vigilante laughed again. “A certain neighborhood boxing gym owner would beg to differ.”

“Well, I’m fine. You can fuck off.”

“No offense, kid, but you don’t seem fine.”

Jason bristled at the word kid. He hadn’t been a kid for a long, long time but he figured saying that wouldn't get him anywhere, so he said, "Go away."

Daredevil didn't go away. Jason was trying to disappear without a trace and the local fucking vigilante wouldn't go away.

He was starting to think he was really and truly losing his mind. 

Jason was panicking, had been for hours, but he was usually quite good at hiding his feelings, usually quite good at making sure no one knew he was losing it. 

He must have slipped up, though, because Daredevil slid inside the apartment and held up his hands like that was any indication of safety

“It’s okay,” Daredevil said, practically radiating concern. “Who are you running from? Maybe I can help.”

And Jason laughed. Not a huff of annoyance or a dry snort. No, Jason doubled over. He laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe. He laughed in a way that was about two degrees away from full hysteria and at some point he ended up on the floor, head between his knees. 

Daredevil’s hand sliding up and down his back. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was comforting him and that just made Jason laugh harder. Although, at the moment, his laughter sounded a lot more like hyperventilating. 

“I have an idea,” he said, after a few minutes. And then he disappeared in the direction of Jason’s bedroom. Normally, that would elicit some outrage. Normally, Jason would tell him to fuck off, to leave his shit alone.

Instead, he sat on the floor of his kitchen and he waited until Daredevil returned wearing Jason’s clothes. A pair of sweatpants that were a bit too short and a hoodie that pulled at the shoulders. 

The stupid little mask was still on his head, under the hood.

“Are you serious?” Jason asked, incredulous.

“I can’t just walk around in the suit and I’m not taking you across the rooftops.”

Jason almost laughed at the lunacy of it all. Almost laughed at the fact that the most ridiculous part was that Jason knew how to travel across rooftops, that he probably had more experience with it than this fucking guy.

Jason finished packing his bag, shoved Daredevil's suit into a dufflebag and tossed it at the vigilante.

And then, for some reason, he followed him out of the apartment. He followed him all the way to Jessica Jones' office. 

“Why?” Jessica said, when she opened the door.


“Why?” Jason agreed.

“You’re both uniquely impossible,” Daredevil said. "Just hear me out."

"I'm busy. And you look ridiculous."

"I think this is something we can help with."

Jessica snorted. "Christ, dude, that was a one time thing. We're just shitty people who should probably stay the hell away from each other."

"I would also like me to leave," Jason said, raising his hand. 

Daredevil, his hands on his hips, made a sound of frustration. 

"He can stay if he tells me what's going on," Jessica said and it sounded a whole lot like a concession, and Jason was pretty sure she wasn't the kind of person to make those. 

"I don't need your help," Jason said, and it was a lie. He knew it was a lie and he could tell Daredevil knew that he knew he was lying. 

"I can't take you seriously like this," he said instead, gesturing to the vigilante's outfit and giving the mask a particularly unimpressed look.

"Kid's got a point," Jessica said. "But so does the weirdo in leather. Spill."

Jason chewed at the inside of his cheek. He kind of wanted to explain it. Kind of wanted someone else to understand. It was just that every time he tried to summon the words, every time he tried to think of a way to possibly begin to explain, he tasted ash on his tongue. He felt concrete beneath his cheek and the scrape of a crowbar against his bones. 

And if he skipped that part? Revealed himself as the Red Hood, the crazy motherfucker that put heads in a dufflebag — if he just told them about Batman? 

He could do that, maybe. I forgive you for not saving me. Could field those questions, maybe. I'm just talking about him. Just him. Could brush over the batarang of it all, if the thought of it didn't fill his mouth with blood. And doing it because... He could taste it on the back of his tongue, could feel it running down his throat. Because he took me away from you. Pouring down his neck. 

He brought his hand up to the scar, to remind himself that it wasn't still bleeding, wasn't gushing blood between his fingers. 

Too late, he noticed Jessica's sharp eyes following the movement. Too late, he dropped his hand. 

He'd known she was some sort of meta, there were a handful of articles here and there, but there was a difference between knowing and experiencing. She grabbed him by the shirt and manhandled him onto the couch, flat on his back. 

She was impossibly strong, Jason's heart hammered in his throat as he tried to twist out of her grasp. 

"Jessica! What're you doing?" Daredevil said from somewhere behind her. Halfheartedly, he grabbed at her shoulders but she shoved him away easily.

She didn't answer. Jessica pinned Jason easily, one hand on his shoulder and a knee digging into his hip. She used the other hand to tilt his head back. To get a better look at the scar he was trying to hide beneath his chin. 

"Jessica, leave him alone, what are you doing?"

Jason tried to shove her off but one of his arms was pinned between his back and the cushions and the other had a neat row of stitches along the forearm that still ached. That pulled against his skin, when he swung at her. One of his legs was draped uselessly over the arm of the couch, the other pushed fruitlessly against the hardwood, trying to find purchase, to gain some sort of leverage. 

He was the Red fucking Hood. He'd trained with the League of fucking Assassins, with experts all over the world. He'd forgotten more ways to kill someone than most people would ever even hear about. 

And he was fucking trapped. 

It had been a long, long time since Jason had felt helpless and he thought he might actually die from the panic of it. Thought that, maybe, his heart would explode or just stop completely. 

His vision was tunnelling, he hardly heard the door open, over the ringing in his ears. Hardly heard Luke, when he said, “What is going on?”

Jessica said, “You ever seen anything like this?” And she tilted his head further back and to the side so Luke could see the scar. 

And Jason was about thirty seconds away from losing his goddamn mind, from shedding some goddamn tears, when Luke said, "Jesus, Jessica, let him go.”

And then she did. Just like that. The impossible, crushing weight lifted and his shoulder clicked and his hip ached and he scrambled off the couch so fast he ended up on the floor, but he rolled back to his feet just as fast. 

He was lightheaded, what with all of the hyperventilating, and he almost fell right back over. Between the spots in his vision, he watched as Luke tried to grab him, to help — logically Jason knew that's what he was trying to do, but he lurched away anyway. Sent himself careening into a wall. 

“Shit,” Jessica said.

“Look what you did!” Daredevil was shouting, had been shouting for a while, Jason realized, and it sounded so wrong coming from him.

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry!” Jessica shouted right back. It sounded fine, coming from her. 

“We’re trying to help him not make things worse!” He gestured wildly in Jason's direction. "You almost gave him a fucking heart attack, what's wrong with you?"

“Alright!”

“Does someone want to tell me what I’m doing here?” Luke shouted over the bickering. "I thought we were past the mask?"

Jason’s periphery was static. His spine dug into the wall behind him. His chest heaved with shallow, rapid breaths he could not get under control.

"Secret identity," Jessica said, and Jason could hear the roll of her eyes in her voice. No one said anything after that. He knew they were looking at him. Waiting for an explanation. He didn’t say anything.

“Artie wanted me to check in on him, because he looked like he was running from something,” Daredevil said, when it became clear Jason wasn’t going to speak. “He showed the kid the news story and said he freaked out and ran off.” 

“Who slit your fucking throat?” Jessica asked and Jason flipped her off without taking his eyes off the baseboards across the room. “You can’t help someone that doesn’t want to be helped. This is a waste of time.”

“She’s right,” Jason said. The words felt like lead on his tongue. “It’s not your problem. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

“We’ve done more with less,” Jessica said and Jason laughed at the way she had bristled. He dug his knuckles into his sternum so hard it burned. Jason was tempted to tell her what a cliché she was. The reluctant hero. The one who didn't want to help then got offended when they were rebuffed. Classic shit. 

"At least tell us who it is," Jessica said,  and she wasn't pleading, it was more like she couldn't contain her curiosity. Like she wanted that piece of the puzzle. 

"It was Gotham," Jason said, pushing away from the wall. He was halfway out the door when he called over his shoulder, "Who the fuck do you think?"

Chapter Text

"What does that mean?" Matt whispered as soon as the door closed. 

"There are so many messed up people in Gotham," Luke said, sinking down next to Jessica on the couch. 

"It was Gotham," Jessica pitched her voice down to mimic Jason. "Who do you think." She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "What was he talking about?"

She pulled a flask from between the couch cushions and took a long swig, ignoring the look Luke shot her.

"Unless," Matt started but trailed off, staring at the window that overlooked the street below. She wondered if he was still watching the kid. Well, watching the way Matt could watch anything. Listening. Sensing. Whatever. 

"Maybe we'd know if you didn't pin the obviously terrified kid to the couch," Luke said. 

"Alright!" Jessica threw her arms up. "I said I was sorry, for fuck's sake."

"Did you?"  

"What if he was talking about Batman?" Matt said. 

"I did say sorry!" 

"I don't think you did. I think you said shit and alright but I don't remember you saying sorry."

"Fuck you, I did say sorry, Matt, didn't I say sorry?"

"Guys!" Matt yelled, finally turning away from the window. 

"Did you say Batman?" Luke asked after a moment, incredulous, and Jessica had to agree with the sentiment. 

“Think about it.”

“I am thinking about it,” Luke said, “and it doesn’t make sense.” 

“A batarang could do that,” Jessica said, sliding her pointer finger across her neck.

"So, he might be running from the literal Batman?" Matt tilted his head back. "What would you have to do, to get Batman to slit your throat?"

Jessica snorted. "Dude dresses up like a giant bat. I have no idea what's going on inside his head."

"He,” Luke pointed at Matt, "dresses up like the devil."

"Yeah, and I have no idea what his deal is.” Jessica took another swig. “Take the fucking mask off, you look like an idiot.”

Matt frowned, pulling off the devil horns. His hair was a mess, sticking up every which way. He scowled at the door, looking for all the world like a disgruntled tabby.

Jason went back to his apartment. The burst of anxious energy, the one that had been screaming run, run, run, was gone. He found that, very suddenly, he didn’t care. He was just tired. 

It felt a lot like it had that first night. The night he’d driven to the city and stayed in a shitty motel. He’d sat on the bed, facing the door with a gun in his hand that he knew he wouldn't use, and he’d waited for Batman to come for him. 

And then, when the sun peaked through a crack in the curtains of that shitty motel, he’d been confronted with the idea that he’d gotten away. That he had to do something with himself, now.

This time, he sat on the couch where he could see both the door and the window above the fire escape. A gun held against his knee. Safety off, trigger finger resting along the body of the gun. And he waited. 

He was tired. He didn't care. He imagined Batman bursting through the door and shooting him in the head. He wouldn't do it, probably. He wished it would happen, a little bit, so he could find out.

The thrum of music vibrated the floorboards beneath his feet from the bar below, a gentle reminder that the world hadn't ended. 

Jason sat and he waited. And waited. And waited and waited and waited and waited. He waited so long his muscles started to relax, instead of coiling tighter. 

He watched the sun set and then rise. And then he did it again. Two sunsets, two sunrises, and no one came. 

No one came. 

Sometime after the second sunrise, Jason heard heavy footsteps in the hallway. Heavy footsteps, approaching his apartment. 

He thought that, maybe, he would have shot Art through the door, if he didn't recognize those footsteps. Instead, Jason tucked the gun into his waistband and stood up. 

"What," he said, opening the door only a few inches. 

Art shoved his way into the apartment, narrowing his eyes when Jason stumbled backwards, a bracing hand on his hip — because Jessica Jones' knee and two days of sitting and waiting had done him no good. 

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“Fuck off,” Jason said. "And tell your fucking vigilante friends to fuck off, too."

Art grabbed his arm, a slew of emotions rippling across his face. Anger. Irritation. Guilt. "Jason, did they hurt you?"

Jason rolled his eyes, jerking out of Art's grip. "Not on purpose."

"Tell me what the hell is going on." Art’s heavy footsteps followed him into the kitchen. His weighty gaze rested on Jason’s back as he dug around in the freezer for the ice pack. 

Art stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorjam, waiting. Jason hopped up on the counter and held the ice against his hip. He waited as Jason sat and picked at the sharp plastic edges. He waited a lot longer than Jason expected.

"Please," he said, eventually, and Jason looked up, eyebrows raised. 

“Didn't think you knew that word."

"I'm not joking, kid."

Jason tipped his head back against the cabinet so he didn't have to look at the old man's face. So he didn't have to interpret the way his eyebrows pulled together and the softness in his eyes. “What do you want from me?”

Art narrowed his eyes. Crossed his arms. Adopted a posture that was so familiar it made Jason’s eyes burn, when he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye. So familiar, but Jason couldn’t remember why.

Was it Willis he saw in that doorway? His father’s stern but loving gaze? If Jason tried, if he really dug through the haze of his memories — so many lost to a crowbar and a grave and a glowing pit — he thought he remembered Willis standing like that, when Jason had been naughty. 

There was only one other option, if it wasn’t Willis, and Jason wasn’t going to think about him. 

“I want the truth,” Art said, and his tone was familiar in a way that Jason’s mind placed without his permission, and it hollowed him out. It burned like acid in the back of his throat.

“Too bad,” Jason spat, if only to get it out. To dispel the pit in his stomach. 

It didn’t work.

Art sighed long and hard and then he left and Jason hurled the ice pack across the kitchen and slammed his fists against the counter and the acid burned and burned and burned. 

Jason was alone.

Batman hadn't come for him. He hadn't come for him and Jason had realized sometime around the second sunrise what that meant. Had realized the only thing it could possibly mean. No one was looking for him.

And the only reason they wouldn't be looking for him was if Batman thought he was dead. 

Batman thought he was dead. They weren’t looking for him because Batman thought he was dead. Bruce thought he had killed him. Art had left.

Jason was alone.

He would have laughed at the irony of it all, if it didn’t make him sick to his stomach. If it didn’t have him leaping off the counter and bursting into the bathroom to heave over the toilet bowl so hard involuntary tears slid down his cheeks from the effort.

Between dry heaves — his stomach had long since been emptied — Jason heard the distinct sound of someone knocking on his kitchen window. 

He dragged the sleeve of his hoodie across his face, rinsed his mouth in the sink, and trudged out of the bathroom because Daredevil was once again crouched on his fire escape and Jason didn't want to be alone.

Matt heard Jason puking from three rooftops away. Heard the violent, shuddering breaths and the hammering of his heartbeat. He heard him spit and curse himself and, then, he heard him heave up a whole lot of nothing.

He’d meant to leave the kid alone. To watch from afar, make sure no one came for him in the night — in fact he had done that. He’d done that for two days straight. 

When Art showed up, Matt tried to make himself scarce, tried not to listen in on their conversation. And then he’d heard the puking and the heaving and the hammering heartbeat and suddenly Matt was on Jason’s fire escape. Again.

Jason dragged his feet as he shuffled out of the bathroom, the sharp smell of vomit and stomach acid heavy in the air behind him. It was overwhelming, for a moment. The smell of vomit and the sound of his heartbeat and the way Matt could almost taste the salinity of the tears still drying on Jason's cheeks.

"Fuck off,” Jason said and his voice was rough, his breath coming out in short puffs. 

Matt swallowed with difficulty, the sharp press of guilt against his ribs. They had done this to him. They had pushed a panicked kid to the breaking point instead of helping him.

It was only after Jason laughed and said, “Are you fuckin' Catholic?" that Matt realized he’d crossed himself.

He sighed, grateful that the mask covered the way his ears and cheeks flushed. "Yes."

"You're the fucking Devil of Hell's Kitchen."

"Also true."

"You're so fucked up, dude.” Jason was still laughing, his heart beating in a rhythm more suited for everyday life. 

Matt laughed with him, leaning against the window frame. "You have no idea."

“It’s fine, you know,” Jason said, and the steady chug of his heart didn’t change. “No one's coming. False alarm. Nothin' to worry about.”

And he meant it, that much was clear. But Matt could taste salinity and smell vomit and hear the tiny, sharp intake of breath whenever Jason put weight on his left leg and he thought that, probably, there was a lot to worry about.

"Do you believe in God, Jason?" Matt whispered and he wasn't sure why he said it. He wasn't in the missionary business, didn't generally believe in confronting the faith of others.

It was just that Jason struck him as someone who had lost faith in something, and he kind of desperately wanted to know what.

And it took him a while to answer, several moments of shifting back and forth, hands spasming into fists and then releasing at his sides.

Eventually, Jason said, "No."

And, by all accounts it was the truth, his heart hammered steadily on, didn't skip a beat. No new sweat beaded at his brow.

"Did you?" Matt asked.

Jason's reply came much quicker, a flat and conversation-ending, "No."

That time, it was a lie.

To say Jason slept after Daredevil left would be a bit of an understatement. It was more like he passed the fuck out for approximately eighteen hours. Then, he woke up sweaty and confused and so hungry he couldn’t move for a minute.

His phone, quite unhelpfully, informed him that it was five o’clock in the afternoon. That it was Monday. That Jason had to make a decision and he had to make it quickly.

He drank a protein shake in the shower. He ate a PB&J as he walked to the gym. He ignored every single person who tried to talk to him. 

He burst into Art’s office and said, “I’m teaching the class.”

“Steven is teaching the class,” Art said, glasses low on his nose, not looking up from the papers on his desk.

“Art.” Jason pinched the bridge of his nose and then, when he realized it was a habit he’d picked up from Art, jerked his hand away from his face. “Look, I’m sorry I was freaking out. Everything is fine, I promise it’s fine. Please let me teach the class.”

Art set the papers down and pulled off his glasses and, for a long while he just looked at him.

“Where are you hurt?” he said.

“It’s just a bruise.” 

“Let me see.”

Jason kicked the office door shut and hooked his thumb in his waistband of his joggers, pulling it down enough that Art could see the purpling skin across his lower stomach and hip bone.

“It’s just a bruise.”

“No fights,” Art said and Jason dropped both his arms to his sides but didn’t argue. “Not until I say so. Got it?”

Jason grit his teeth. Clenched and unclenched his jaw a few times. Said, “Got it.”

Art nodded curtly and said, “Go teach the goddamn class.”

Jason looked up pointedly at the popcorn ceiling and said, "Y'know that's probably full of asbestos, right?"  

Then he went and taught the goddamn class. 

Jason was familiar with the concept of being benched. Too familiar, probably. He'd expected Art to keep him at arm's length, to be colder. To treat him like any of the other trainers. He expected it, and still it stung.

By Wednesday, he was aching for a fight. He was irritable and agitated and trying not to let it show because Eric and Mark were actually nailing their stances.

“Great job,” Jason said, flinging the practice pads across the floor. “See how much better you do when you plant your fuckin' feet?”

Eric rolled his eyes, but he was grinning, showing off his half grown in front tooth.

“Mark, make sure you keep your hands up, okay?” Jason reached out and tapped the kid’s elbows, pushing his small, gloved hands in front of his face.

“You don’t put your hands up,” Mark countered, pouting behind his little boxing gloves.

“Oh yeah?” Jason arched his eyebrows. “Who told you that?”

Mark squirmed, a little. “Well, I was kinda listenin’ to someone talk about it.”

Jason nodded, relieved, at least, that one of the kids hadn’t found his way into the basement for a fight. 

“Do as I say, not as I do.” Jason ruffled Mark’s hair as he stood up. “Samantha! Untuck that thumb right now!”

Samantha threw her head back and groaned, but she untucked her thumb.

Jason didn’t realize how much he liked the way things had been, until they changed. Until he had to go home, after class. 

When Art said no fights apparently he’d meant no fighting, and no attending fights, and going home right after class. Which, as far as Jason was concerned, was so much worse than letting him self-destruct in the ring. Jason didn't tell him that, though.

The old man made it clear the bridge had been burned and Jason was lucky to still be around, looking at the ashes.

A week after he’d weaseled his way back into teaching his classes, a week of being confronted with his new reality, Jason stood outside Art's office. It felt like an eternity had passed, since Jason had hesitated outside this particular door.

"Christ come in or go away," Art said and Jason shoved the door open. He stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob and stared at the armchair he'd grown so accustomed to haunting.

"What?" Art said after a few moments of prolonged silence.  Jason frowned. Swallowed the thickness in his throat.

"Spit it out or fuck off," Art said and Jason couldn't tell if it was unkind. He couldn't place the tone anymore.

"Uh," Jason said, "never mind, I don't remember."

And he pulled the door closed as he left, Art's grumbled, "Thanks for wasting my time," following him out into the empty gym.

Jason burst outside, the sticky heat of summer fading only a little with the setting of the sun. He stood on the sidewalk outside the gym and he waited for nothing.

He smoked a cigarette and tried to will his feet to move, tried to tell himself there was probably a baseball game on TV. He had a 30 Rock box set he’d found at a thrift store and had been meaning to watch. 

He could lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling.

He could break into Art’s office and scrape the popcorn finish off his ceiling and, on Wednesday, he could pretend he didn’t know what had happened. 

That was, finally, the thing that got him moving, walking slowly down the sidewalk. He imagined every step of the process, as he went. Imagined it right up until he was met with another decision. Go into the bar, or go upstairs to his apartment. Seek out the closeness, the noise and the stench of other people, or be alone.

It was hardly a choice at all.

Twenty minutes later, Jason sat at the end of the bar, half leaning against the wall, half leaning against the bar top. There was a half empty beer in front of him, some hoppy IPA he didn't like but would finish anyway. 

The bartender — a new guy named Nick who didn't know to leave him alone — tried to ask about what ailed him. Instead of telling him to go fuck himself, Jason slid a twenty dollar bill across the counter and said, "Don't talk to me."

Bribery, it really did work. 

No one sat next to him, no one spoke to him, no one so much as looked in his direction. Hours passed. He drank a few more shitty beers, even mixed in a water here and there.

He wasn't being an idiot, wasn't trying to drink himself to death, he was just wallowing in the comfort and irritation of a room full of other people. And the universe couldn't even give him that. 

A brawl broke out around the pool tables. It started with shouting, a few shoves between a couple drunk guys, nothing serious. Jason hardly spared a glance in their direction. 

And then, very suddenly, the two men were locked together, not quite wrestling and not quite fighting. They tumbled and stumbled their way across the bar, crashed into tables and patrons alike. Beer glasses hit the ground and shattered.

Jason turned on his stool, back against the bar, and watched. He sipped the shitty IPA, made a face at the taste, and shoved them away, when they crashed into him.

Nick tried to break them up and was sent flying for his troubles, taken by surprise when the semi-brawling men turned their joint anger onto him. Jason sighed and set down his beer. 

He moved quickly, they hardly had time to coordinate their bodies in pursuit of their new objective: beat up the new bartender.

Jason grabbed one by the back of the shirt and tossed him away and then he punched him, when the guy tried to get back up. 

"Stay there," he flatly, turning back around in time to grab the second man mid-windup.

The man startled at the sudden restraint of Jason's hand on his arm and, in a feat of instinct, threw his elbow backwards. And Jason could have dodged it, he could have let go and saved himself a bloody nose, but he'd spent too much time doing things the hard way.

Had trained too long in the art of getting the job done, no matter the cost and, at the moment, his job was getting the drunk asshole away from the bartender.

So, the elbow snapped his head backwards and blood poured down his face because noses were drama queens and Jason ignored it all. He just kicked at the back of the guy’s knees and placed him face down on the floor.

“Aw fuck,” Nick the bartender said, after a few moments and Jason nodded his head in agreement. His shirt was brand new. 

The cops wouldn’t let him leave, afterwards, even though he wasn't in trouble. They didn’t care that Jason lived upstairs, they wanted to release him into someone’s custody.

Jason sat on the curb outside, a wad of paper towels pressed against his nose and stared at the place his middle knuckle had split as he smoked a cigarette. 

He planned to wait out the cops. He knew they’d stop caring, eventually. That they’d get another call and have to leave.

And then Art’s old piece of shit truck pulled up, the front tires stopping inches from Jason’s shoes. A few moments later, Art heaved himself down onto the curb.

“It’s not my fault,” Jason said, exhaling smoke. Bracing for impact. Art snatched the cigarette from his fingers and tossed it down the sidewalk. 

“I know,” he sighed.

And that — well, it wasn’t what he’d expected and so he wasn’t prepared to react to it. Jason just sat on the curb and stared at his shoes and, eventually, he said, “Oh.”

Slowly, awkwardly, Art reached over and ruffled Jason's hair and said, almost mournfully, “Happy birthday, kid."

Art still didn’t let him fight, after that, but he did let him hang around the fights. Let him collect the cash and stand behind his little metal folding chair. And it wasn’t enough, not really, but it was something.

August approached it’s end and, slowly but surely, Daredevil stopped appearing on his fire escape every time Jason had a panic attack. Slowly but surely, Jason stopped having panic attacks. Stopped thinking about Batman and Nightwing and Gotham whenever he had a moment to himself.

He started to settle, a little bit, and he should have known that was when things would go to hell again. 

It was a Wednesday, but Eric didn’t show up for class. Then, half way through, Eric’s mom walked in. 

Jason had seen her around, had talked to her a few times when she came to pick Eric up after class. She was kind and always in a rush, her dark hair usually piled on top of her head in a way that suggested she hadn’t seen a mirror in a while.

She always had a smile on her face and kiss for her son and so it was jarring, to see her crying. 

Jason told the kids to play duck duck goose and met her on the edge of the mats. “Mrs. Costas? What’s wrong?”

“Eric isn’t here, is he?” she asked, and it was clear she already knew the answer. She didn’t even correct Jason with a gentle but firm call me Monica.

Her tan cheeks were flushed pink from the crying and the intensity of the setting sun.  

“No,” Jason said, hands on his hips. “When did you last see him?”

Monica bit her lip and shook her head, a little. “He didn’t come home last night.” 

“But he said he was going home,” Mark’s tiny voice piped up behind Jason. There were tears in his eyes that he appeared to be desperately trying not to shed and Jason wondered if that was what he had looked like, after Catherine died. 

Wondered how anyone could want to do anything bad to a kid who looked like that. 

“Where were you guys last night?” Jason asked, trying to sound serious but not angry. It was harder than he thought.

Mark’s eyes darted between Monica and Jason. He chewed on his bottom lip. A tear spilled over his lashes.

“We went to that old apartment building by the pizza place.”

“I told you—“ Monica started, her voice sharp and too loud. She covered her mouth, abruptly cutting herself off. 

“What time did you leave?” Jason crouched in front of Mark, making himself smaller than the kid, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder. 

“Like, nine?”

“Did you see him leave?”

“He was walkin’ down the sidewalk in the other direction.”

“Mrs. Costas,” Art called from across the gym and Jason sighed in relief. Monica practically ran to him, hand still pressed to her mouth.

Then Mark burst into tears and Jason barely had time to share a wide-eyed look with Art before the kid was crashing into him, scrawny arms wrapped around Jason’s neck. 

Instinctively, Jason returned the hug, one hand on the back of the kid’s head, the other running up and down his back.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, over and over. “I know it’s scary, but it’ll be okay.”

“How d’you know?” Mark asked, snot and tears seeping into the shoulder of Jason’s shirt.

“‘Cause it has to be,” he said.

“I need you to find the kid,” Art said the second Jessica answered the phone.

“Huh?” She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and pulled the phone away from her face to check the time. Eight o’clock at night. Her sleep schedule was fucked. 

“One of the kids at the gym is missing and I think my problem child is going to do something about it. So I need you to find him.”

Jessica sat up. “You need me to find the missing kid? Or Jason?”

“The missing kid is probably part of whatever you’re working with the other two that I definitely don’t know about. So probably both would be good. Start with Jason, though. Might be easier to find.”

And he was, easier to find. He was, in fact, exactly where Art thought he would be. On the roof across the street from a run down apartment building where Eric Costas had, apparently, disappeared.

Jessica hauled herself up the fire escape and found she was, the moment she stepped onto the roof, staring down the barrel of a gun.

Jason didn’t lower it, when he saw it was her. He just said, “Art?”

“Art,” she confirmed, approaching slowly, hands at her sides. 

There was a cigarette perched between his lips and, after a few more moments of consideration, he put the gun away and took it between his fingers.

Jessica dropped down next to him and pulled the flask from her jacket pocket, took a swig, and then offered it to him.

“Heard through the grapevine that you’re twenty-one now, so Art can’t yell at me.”

He took the flask with a laugh, and handed her the cigarette in exchange. Then he laughed again, when Jessica coughed.

“I don’t smoke,” she said, and she wasn’t smiling. 

“Why’d you take it?”

She shrugged. “Seemed like a fair trade.” She took another drag, more carefully this time, and only coughed a little when she asked, "What're you doing up here, anyway?"

“That alley,” he pointed across the street, “is where I found them trying to take Devin." 

And he looked over the edge of the building with an expression Jessica didn't quite know how to interpret. This kid, in a baggy black hoodie and too-big, dark wash jeans, somehow looked like he knew what he was doing. 

“And then Eric Costas disappears from this building a few weeks later.”

“Yep. There was this truck out front that shouldn't be here," Jason continued, pulling a small digital camera out of his pocket and turning the screen so she could see it. 

"It's an abandoned building, why shouldn't there be a demo company around?"

"There's squatters in there," Jason said, like it was obvious. "They can't even think about demolishing until they get them out, and squatters rights in New York are great."

Jessica raised her eyebrows. 

"No one in their right mind would hire a demolition company at this stage. It could take years to clear a place of that size."

"Who the hell are you, kid?" Jessica murmured. He was wearing Vans for fuck’s sake. 

She didn't expect an answer, and she didn't get one. She pulled out her own camera and showed Jason a picture. 

"That's the same truck,” he said, grinning.

"Yep."

"In front of a different abandoned building?" 

"Yep." Jessica stood up. 

"Where're you going?"

“We’re going to the archives."

They spent several hours in the archives, alone aside from the older woman working the front desk. 

Jessica had frequented the Hell’s Kitchen branch of the city archives so often, she would be on a first name basis with the woman if there was a friendly bone in either of their bodies.

So, when six o’clock rolled around and the woman stuck her head into the back and said, “Time to get going,” Jessica sighed, tucking her phone into her pocket. 

“Keep looking,” Jason said, something young and mischievous in his expression. “I’ll be right back.”

He darted towards the little door that led to the woman’s desk, leaving Jessica alone with row after row after row of shelves. Shelf after shelf after shelf of little drawers of call cards and boxes upon boxes of files. 

And Jessica always did this part alone, had grown accustomed to the… aloneness of it. The huge room and rows of shelves had never felt eerie, the sickly fluorescent lights — simultaneously too bright and too dim — had never been spooky.

Jessica Jones didn’t get spooked but Jason darted after the old lady and suddenly she was alone and the room was too big, filled with too many little corners and shadows and sickly fluorescent light.

And then, very suddenly, Jason was back and he was grinning like an idiot. 

“She said the door locks on it’s own, so just make sure it’s closed when we leave.”

Jessica made a face. Probably one that was disbelieving and appalled and, maybe, a little bit impressed because he added, “You’d be amazed what you can get by being a little nice to people.”

Being young and cute helps, she didn't say. Or think. At all. She was not fond. She did roll her eyes, though. 

A short while later, Jason made a triumphant noise and ran over to show her the little card in his hand. “McKenzie Demolition!”

“That section is just back there.” Jessica scanned the rows and pointed behind Jason, which was probably why she didn’t see it. Why Jason had to tackle her moments before gunfire practically blew out her ear drums.

Chapter Text

Jason tackled Jessica and she had a single moment to be offended, before the sound of gunfire ripped through the archives. 

Before Jessica had even processed the source of the debris raining down on them, Jason rolled them behind the safety of the shelves. Immediately, Jason was on his feet and hauling Jessica to hers. Immediately, his gun was in his hand and he was crouching, peeking around the shelves.

They were a thick and dark wood, the shelves. Stretching from floor to ceiling, they were old and heavy in a way things didn't tend to be, anymore. And, apparently, they were capable of stopping several bullets. 

“You need to go get that file,” Jason said, when the gunfire paused and the dust literally started to settle.

“You should be freaked out right now,” she said.

Jason rolled his eyes. “There’s five of them, they’re reloading and then they’re going to fan out and try to get behind us.”

“What?”

“Just go,” he said, lunging across the hallway that bisected the large room. He dove behind one of the shelves on the other side, firing a shot as he went. And there was something so professional about the way he moved. Clinical.

She’d kind of assumed the gun was empty, earlier. For show. Not something the kid would use so casually. It might've been impressive if it didn't make her so nauseous. 

Jessica didn’t have time to sit around  and contemplate, though. She ran the opposite way, towards the edge of the room, and ignored the urge to help. If people were shooting at them in the goddamn archives, it meant they were on the right track.

Jessica kicked the step stool towards the correct shelf and started thumbing through files. 

Someone screamed and Jessica called, “You still alive?”

“Yep,” Jason called back over the sound of another scream. Jessica only glanced up briefly before she went back to the files. 

She pulled out the papers, folded them in half, and shoved them into the back pocket of her jeans. 

Then she heard a Jason-sounding grunt and looked up just in time to watch him slide down the center hallway on his back. Jessica crept towards the end of the shelf, waited for the deep thunk of boots on tile to get closer.

She swung her arm out and clothes-lined the mercenary — and that had to be what these guys were, dressed in black cargo pants and carrying fucking machine guns.

Somewhere behind her, Jason laughed. “That was sick.”

She turned her head, boot planted on the mercenary’s chest, and watched Jason pull himself out of the debris of a small set of shelves. He grimaced as he crouched next to the downed man, pulling the gun out of his reach.

Methodically, and seemingly without really thinking about it, Jason took the gun apart. 

With pursed lips, Jessica pressed her phone to her ear. “Mercenaries just tried to kill us at the archives.”

“What?” Matt said.

“Grab Luke and get down here.” She hung up and turned her attention back to Jason. “Where are the other ones?”

He jerked his head towards the front of the room. “Tied up and waiting. You get the thing?”

Jessica nodded. 

“You’re bleeding,” she said, gesturing to her own hairline. He raised his hand and made a face when his fingertips came away scarlet.

There was a sound, then. Like drywall under thick-soled boots. Before Jessica could even turn her head, Jason was standing, throwing the machine gun’s clip across the room.

It sailed through the air, end over end, a perfect throw. If the man hadn’t been wearing a tactical helmet, it probably would’ve knocked him out cold.

But he was. And it didn’t. And maybe there was something else going on with the guy because he hardly acknowledged the blow, just picked up speed as he barrelled towards them.

Jason and Jessica dove in opposite directions to get out of his way and when the man — who seemed larger than life with biceps the size of Jessica’s head — turned in Jason’s direction, Jessica grabbed him by the shirt and hurled him through the back wall. 

And, for one single, blessed moment, she thought it was over. Until more fucking super soldier mercenaries crashed through the ruined archive doors.

Jason, still on his ass across the hallway, said, “Fuck.”

Then he was scrambling away and the first meat head was climbing back through the wall and Jessica lost track of the kid in the frenzy that followed.

Jessica had never been much of a fighter, really. She was a bit of a brawler, sure, but she wasn’t a fucking boxer. She didn’t know any martial arts or whatever. She mostly worked on instinct and hoped for the best. 

That being said, Jessica knew some things. Such as: hitting someone in the solar plexus as hard as she could really hurt. In fact, it often sent them flying across the room. Even super soldier mercenaries. 

At some point, Luke appeared at her side, wearing a grimace that might’ve been a smile. When the tip of a machine gun poked around the corner, Luke grabbed it by the barrel, blocking a bullet with the palm of his hand. And Jessica found herself dizzy with the relief that he was bulletproof.

Not that she was thinking about that.

Not that she ever thought about that. 

There was a moment, where it felt like things were over. Where the archives fell silent and Luke went to do a sweep of the room with a quiet, “Matt should be here soon.” 

A moment, where Jessica just stood and panted and wiped blood off her cheek.

A moment, where she let herself be relieved. 

“Do you have eyes on the kid?” Jessica called. If Luke replied, she didn't hear him because when she turned around she found herself staring down the barrel of a gun.

Jessica swallowed. Static shot down her arms and legs, pulsed behind her eyes. It was a base instinct, the panic. It didn't go any deeper than that, didn't have her knees shaking nor her eyes watering. Jessica wasn't afraid to die.

“Give me the papers,” the mercenary said. 

She almost laughed when she spotted Jason’s mop of dishevelled curls behind the mercenary as he peeked around the shelves. 

He looked dusty and tired, moving so much slower than the kid who had practically skipped after the front desk lady earlier. The blood had moved past his hairline, down the side of his face — and there was a gun in Jessica’s face but she was worried about whether Jason had a fucking concussion.

Concussed or not, Jason crept forward with what appeared to be the cord from the landline at the front desk. He wound it around one hand, and then the other. Pulled it taut.

“The papers,” the man growled.

“Fuck off,” Jessica said, but she pulled them from her back pocket anyways.

Jason struck faster than Jessica expected. Fast enough that she flinched at the movement. 

He threw the cord around the mercenary’s wrist, jerking the gun towards the ceiling just as the guy pulled the trigger. Jessica flinched at that, too. In one movement, Jason dragged the mercenary’s wrist towards his head, wrapped the cord around his neck, and kicked at the back of his knees, sending them both crashing to the ground. 

Jason wrapped a leg around the man’s torso and pulled the cord tight, teeth grit and eyes closed, until the mercenary stopped moving.

Jessica stood, arms limp at her sides, jaw slack, staring like an idiot.

Jason shoved off the unconscious body and dragged himself to his feet. 

“What the fuck?”

“You’re welcome,” he panted, tipping forward to lean his forehead against a shelf. 

“Are you okay?” Luke said, skidding around the corner. “I heard a gunshot.”

He caught sight of the mercenary and raised his eyebrows, looking between Jason and Jessica, equal parts impressed and concerned.

“What in the world?” Matt’s voice drifted through the destroyed archives. The floor was strewn with papers and chunks of wood and insulation. And bullet casings.

“Over here,” Jessica said flatly, not bothering to raise her voice.

"What happened here?" he whispered, appearing around the corner a moment later. 

Jessica  pointed at Jason even though she knew Matt couldn't see it. Jason scowled at her. 

“I’m pretty sure you’re the one who put the holes in the walls,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut, a white-knuckled grip on the shelf.

Matt jerked forward a moment before Jason’s knees buckled and the vigilante, in his stupid red kevlar and devil horns, caught him.

“You late because you had to put on your little suit?” she asked, but her eyes were on the kid, who was putting in a valiant effort to hold himself up. “I think he’s got a concussion.”


“Oh yeah,” Jason said weakly, then he pulled a small dart from his hoodie pocket. “And this happened earlier.”

In an embarrassing show of unity, all three of them said at once: “Jason!”

It was almost irritating, how no one argued about what should happen next. How they came to an immediate, silent agreement to drag the kid to Claire.

While Daredevil wrangled the mercenaries at the scene and watched from afar to make sure the cops got them, Luke and Jessica brought Jason outside. And that, finally, was where the arguing started.

“We aren’t stealing a car,” Luke said.

“Hold him,” Jessica said, shoving Jason at Luke, who had to jerk forward to catch him before he face planted on the sidewalk.

She walked up to a Pontiac Sunfire and smiled, a little, when she found the door unlocked.

“Put him in the back,” she said, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“We aren’t stealing a car,” Luke hissed, not moving.

“Say it a little louder, I don’t think the whole neighborhood heard you,” she murmured, ripping out the panel under the steering wheel to expose the wiring.

By the time the car was running, Luke had shoved Jason into the backseat and was sitting next to Jessica, scowling.

Claire Temple wasn’t necessarily surprised to see Jessica, but she wasn’t happy, either.

“Who the hell is this?” she asked, jerking her head at Jason, who was practically drooling on Jessica’s shoulder until she gave him a little shake and his head shot back up.

“Jason, this is Claire. Claire, this is one of Art’s. Someone shot him with a dart at the archives. Some sort of tranquilizer.”

Claire’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“Sedative,” Jason mumbled. “Tranquilizers…don’ make ya…drowsy.”

“Sure, buddy,” Jessica said, tossing him onto the couch.

“He needs to go to a hospital,” Claire whispered furiously, even as she pulled an IV bag and first aid kit out of a cupboard.

“Well,” Jessica said, hoping Luke would hurry up and ditch the car so he could take over the sweet-talking, “someone tried to kill us today, so I think hiding is the better option.”

“With guns,” Jason said into the couch.

“With guns,” Jessica agreed.

They wrestled Jason out of his hoodie — he was utterly useless, practically flopping around like a fish out of water — and Claire grumbled and wore a pinched expression, but she pulled on latex gloves and grabbed Jason’s arm, wiping an alcohol swab across the crook of his elbow. 

Claire shoved the IV bag into Jessica’s hands with a gruff, “Hold this.”

“What’ll it do?” she asked without really meaning to.

“It’ll re-hydrate him, hopefully push the sedative out of his system faster.”

The way the kid was sprawled across the couch, it reminded her of Trish, back in the day. Back when she would get high or drunk and tell Jessica every thought, every secret she'd ever had on the bathroom floor.

When Claire went into the kitchen, Jessica perched on the coffee table, pinched the IV line, and leaned in close.

“Who’re you running from,” she whispered.

Jason cracked an eye open to glare at her before closing it again. 

“Not gon’ work,” he sighed. “I’m…familiar with this, uh, tactic.”

Jessica made a considering sound. “That’s interesting. Who taught you that? You seem a bit young for it to be military. Was it some secret society bullshit?”

Jason snorted. “That’s dramatic.”

“Hey,” Claire snapped, coming around the couch with a bottle of antiseptic to wipe the blood off Jason’s face. “Cut it out.”

“Look at his fucking throat and tell me you don’t want to know what did that.”

Claire glanced down, then back up. Her hand froze. She looked down again, longer this time.

“That was deep,” she said quietly.

Jason hummed his agreement.

“What did that?” 

“What is Batman?” Jessica asked. And it wasn’t that he reacted — he expressly did not, but that was a reaction all on it’s own. A normal person would find that an appalling suggestion, if it wasn’t true.

Eventually, he said, “Batman doesn’t go 'round slittin’ throats, Jones.”

“Jessica, let go of the line,” Claire said, sticking butterfly stitches to the cut at Jason’s temple.

Jessica didn’t let go, though. Because Jason didn’t so much as startle at Claire’s touch, like he was used to this kind of thing, to the gentle hands of a medic after battle. 

The hair at the front of his head had turned to ringlets from sweat and blood. There was the beginnings of a bruise along his cheekbone. His breathing evened out slowly, naturally, and yet Jessica couldn't help but think he was faking it. That he wasn’t actually asleep.

He looked unbelievably young and he knew how to dismantle a machine gun with the casualness of someone tying their shoes.

“Jessica Jones, this kid’s heart rate is dangerously low, he’s been drugged with an unknown sedative, and you are withholding the only thing I can give him to help,” Claire snapped, eyes murderous. “Cut it out.”

Jessica didn’t cut it out, though, not until a knock at the front door drew her attention and Claire snatched away the IV bag.

Half an hour or so after he'd arrived at the archives, Matt scaled Claire Temple's fire escape. Jessica opened the kitchen window, when Matt gently rapped his knuckles against the glass. Her heart was pounding, and Matt was a little certain he would be able to hear it without the enhanced sense.

"What?" he whispered, sliding the window shut behind him. 

Jessica huffed, a little. A tiny sound, like she couldn't decide where to start. And Jessica Jones was a lot of things, but indecisive wasn't one of them. 

"The kid okay?" Matt tried. 

"He'll be fine," she said, and Matt heard the vague displacement of air when she waved her hand dismissively. 

Matt slid into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and contemplated pulling off the mask. The leather had practically adhered to his skin with all the accumulated sweat. 

"What is it, then?" He left the mask on. 

Jessica hooked her foot around the other kitchen chair, yanking it away from the table. She practically threw herself into it.  "He knows how to fight."

"He's a boxer."

"I know," she said, teeth creaking together. "I mean, like, tactical fucking training. Like, with a gun, under attack kind of training."

"Okay," Matt said slowly. "That's interesting."

"And then I asked if Batman slit his throat and he just—" Jessica laughed bitterly. "He didn't react. That's not normal."

"One would assume the normal reaction would be surprise, if it wasn't true." Matt steepled his fingers in front of his face. 

"A wound like that, it should've killed him," Claire said. Her shoulder hit the doorjam with a soft thump. The fabric of her shirt creaked, when she crossed her arms. 

What a strange kid Art had found. A kid from Gotham, trained to fight too young. Who had lost faith in something. And Matt wondered — anxiously, fearfully — if there was someone in Gotham waging some sort of war. Training kids the same way Stick had trained him. 

"So we have a kid from Gotham," Matt said quietly, "who is combat trained, who quite possibly had his throat slit by Batman." 

"The guy who supposedly doesn't do lethal solutions," Claire said. 

"Where's Luke?" Jessica sighed, slouching further into the chair. 

"Asleep in the living room," Matt said and there was a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The steady chugging of Luke's heart, the gentle puffing of his breath, it was comforting, in a way. 

"He fell asleep almost the second he sat down in that arm chair," Claire told him, and Matt could hear the smile in her voice. 

Luke woke to the sound of a door closing and hushed voices. He didn’t stir, though. He kept his eyes closed and his breathing as even as he could so he wouldn’t disturb whatever was about to happen.

And, a little bit, so he could listen. 

Claire and Art spoke quietly by the door, their voices not quite reaching the living room. Luke only caught pieces of it. Words here and there. Okay…drugged…sleeping.

Art’s footsteps, though more subdued than usual, were still heavy as he made his way over to Jason. There was the gentle scrape of wood on wood and Luke could picture the old man pulling the arm chair closer to the couch.

Only after he heard the long exhale that indicated Art had sat down did Luke crack open his eyes. Jason startled awake when Art's rough fingers brushed the hair off his forehead.

Art just shushed him and pulled his hand away. “Luke’s sleeping,” he whispered.

Jason nodded groggily. Clearly the IV hadn’t pushed the sedative out of his system yet. 

“What am I gonna do with you?” Art asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Jason snorted softly. “Ain’t gotta do…nothing.”

“If you think that, you haven’t been paying attention.” Art was earnest, when he said it. So much so that Jason cracked one of his eyes back open to look at him. He closed it again almost immediately.

“You’ll get over it,” he said softly and not unkindly. It was more a statement of fact. 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Art said, leaning forward like he was sharing a secret, “but I don’t give up easy.”

“You’ll get over it,” he repeated with a bit of heat. Insistent.

Art frowned, the expression pulling at the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, making him look older than his years.  

“I’ll do somethin’ you can’t… deal with. Make you let go.” Jason didn’t sound upset when he said it, but he did sound utterly sure.

“Life isn’t meant to be done alone, kid.” 

Luke had to fight to keep his expression flat, to not make a sound. Because, as much as Art was surrounded by people, as much as he had built a community around his gym, he was alone. He went home alone. He spent his holidays alone. He dealt with his own problems alone. 

Art was the kind of guy that fixed so many things for so many people that it was easy to miss the fact that he didn’t let anyone in.

Except for, apparently, a scrappy kid from Gotham.

“I’ve made it this far,” Jason murmured. His eyes were still closed and the scowl that pulled at his eyebrows looked so petulant and childlike and young. 

Art scrubbed his hands across his face and Luke could tell that he’d seen it too. “Where the hell are your parents, kid?”

The only light in the room was the silvery moonlight that crept in through the blinds and it illuminated the sad twist of Jason’s mouth when he said, “Dead.”

Art leaned back in the armchair and Luke pressed his eyes closed, just for a moment. Said a silent prayer.

“Mom OD’d when I was…” His eyes scrunched up, thinking. “Ten?”

“Is that when you were in the system? After she died?”

And Jason laughed, like there’d been a joke in there somewhere. “Split before they could find me,” he said gently, nuzzling closer to the pillow.

Art reached over and pulled the blanket higher on Jason’s shoulder. 

“OD’d a few times before that. They always take you away, when it happens, but then they give you back,” Jason continued slowly, like the words were peanut butter in his mouth. 

His voice was level, like they were talking about the weather or what to get for lunch. Although Luke was pretty sure Jason would discuss those things with a lot more passion than he was currently exhibiting. 

“Where’s your dad in all this, huh?” Art asked, and the gentle demeanor was slipping. He was angry, and it was starting to show.

“Jail,” Jason sighed, sounding half-asleep. “Got himself killed, later. Wasn't a bad guy, just...had a bad life."

Luke swallowed and closed his eyes. There was a tightness in the back of his throat that he didn’t really know how to dispel. His mouth tasted like vinegar.

“Where’d you go?” Art’s low voice  broke the silence that had settled over Claire’s living room.

“Hmm?” Jason hummed, sounding like he'd fallen back asleep. 

“After your mom died, where’d you go?”

“Warehouse by, uh, fuck. Oh, Sheldon Park. Could stay there if you boosted tires for some...fuckhead. Don’ remember his name.”

Luke had read an article, a few years back, about the youth homelessness crisis in Gotham. Had sighed at the tragedy of it over his morning coffee. It wasn’t a new concept to him, he knew plenty of homeless folks in Harlem, knew whole families sleeping in gas station bathrooms at night.

“He was an ass, though,” Jason murmured sourly. “Didn’ stay long.”

Luke had known teenagers hopping from couch to couch. Single folks living in their cars. Knew people who committed crimes just so they’d be sent to jail where they’d have three meals a day. Luke was no stranger to the cruelties of the world.

“Where’d you go, then?” Art asked and, Christ Almighty, Luke had never seen the man cry and he was grateful, suddenly, that he’d closed his eyes, so he only had to listen to it.

“Knew a few places…kept movin’.”

It was just that, when Luke imagined someone living on the streets, it wasn’t a child all alone. Luke knew the cruelties of the world, but he knew community, too. 

Pop would never have let it happen, would have done everything he could to get a kid off the streets. He’d been out of the crime game a long time, had turned his barber shop into a safe haven, a place for kids to hang out. He would have known someone that would have helped. 

Luke tried to imagine it. A ten year old kid on the streets of Gotham, stealing tires in exchange for a roof over his head. Tried to imagine what it would take, to give up any kind of safety. To be alone. 

Wondered what grown man would trade tires with children in exchange for a place to stay. 

No one said anything for a long time. Eventually, Luke heard gentle snoring and cracked one eye open. Jason was curled up on his side, one arm around the pillow, cheek smushed into the floral fabric. His right arm, with the IV in the crook of his elbow, stuck straight out, hanging off the couch.

And Art, hunched on the edge of the armchair, reached out and took the dangling hand in both of his own. He ducked his head until his forehead was resting against his clasped hands. 

Luke was pretty sure Art wasn’t a praying man — was almost certain he didn’t believe in any kind of higher power, but right then, in Claire Temple’s living room, he looked for all the world like a man seeking out divinity.