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Chapter Text

It was a dark and stormy night. The grass damp and the street lights dim, well past dark when the screaming started.

The pained groans and desperate wails were muffled by the lid of the coffin and the six feet of dirt piled on top. The sounds of splintering wood and mangled flesh clawing through the earth grew in intensity the closer to the surface they got. The delirious pleas for help and calls for a father were met with silence, there was no one around to witness this violent and agonizing rebirth. No one to dig down and meet this small, scared boy halfway from hell itself.

How is it that this second chance at life was already more painful than the brutal ending to his first? The rotting flesh pulled taught over brittle bones suddenly blossoming and plumping in a matter of seconds. Air forces itself into vacant lungs, violently setting them into motion after too long unused, tirelessly working overtime to return oxygen to the body. The sudden explosion of movement and life tears through the worn down muscles, twisting and pulling, like they are trying to separate themselves from the bone. Trying to rework themselves into something new. The sheer force makes it feel as though his ribs were cracking, splintering and piercing into the pair of newly revived lungs.

Is there an opposite of a death rattle? It's the same sickening, wet gurgle that had come in the boy’s final breaths, but this time stronger. Less of a feeble and pitiful moan and now a desperate cry. Withered lungs achingly stretching after so long spent dormant.

Finally, after what may have been hours, though it was difficult to gauge, a bloodied hand breaches the topmost layer of the packed dirt in front of the gravestone. Fingernails ripped from the torn flesh so mangled it leaves the tips of cracked finger bones exposed. Blood caked thick onto the pale and sinewy hand before smearing and clumping in the dirt as the fingers grasped for leverage, pulling, pulling, pulling.

With dozens of pitiful attempts, he manages to slowly force a few measly inches of his forearm through the maggot rich soil, feeling them crawl persistently and swiftly across his fresh death flesh. With more insistence, the child twists his arm in an attempt to widen the hole out of the coffin, in return he slips his elbow into the cool night air and receives a new wave of loose dirt piling on top of him. The longer that his progression takes, the more desperate the boy grows. The reanimated corpse hooks his elbow and folds his forearm flush to the earth and pulls as strongly as his frail body allows while simultaneously digging frantically with his other hand.

A head of matted hair pushes through the loosening dirt. Up, up, up, until a gaunt face is exposed to the cold night air. The undead boy takes his first breath of fresh air, a gasp quickly turning into a hacking cough as the loose dirt swirls into his lungs. He coughs and coughs, trying to expel the rot and stench and death from his body, though it clings tight and won’t let go. Thick, coppery blood coats the inside of his mouth, the cloying taste of it sickening and grounding all at once. His tongue finds the gouges in his lips, split open from the stitches holding them closed being ripped apart in the midst of his senseless screaming.

The small child continues to struggle, trying to find leverage to lift the rest of his body out of the grave. The boy drags his broken fingers and palms through the earth, grasping for something, anything to hold on to in hopes of freeing himself. He finally manages to wedge his fingers deep enough in the soft ground to be able to anchor himself and start tugging until his torso and hips are free. He is able to then slowly pull himself forward with desperate hands tearing through the grass, uprooting it. His legs slowly escape their prison. Inch by inch, one handful at a time. The boy was free.

A burst of lightning streaks across the sky, briefly lighting up the night, illuminating the headstone with a mess of upturned dirt in front of it. The headstone that read “Here Lies Jason Todd”. The rumbling thunder that follows produces an unprecedented response in the boy: complete apathy. No minute jump at the sound or upturn of the head and lips welcoming the sight.

The frail boy struggles to his feet, haggard and slanted to one side, swaying like a willow tree in a harsh wind. The child stumbles across the graveyard, past countless rows of other headstones, his vision too blurry to make out any of the names. The undead boy finally makes his way through the tall, iron gates at the front of the cemetery and into the road. His ragged breaths loud in the quiet of the night, accompanied by a growing hum. The child turns his head, looking for the source, until he spots it. The headlights blinding him seconds before the car makes contact.

The sickening crunch of bones and the wet gurgling of breath are accompanied by the sound of the body plummeting back onto the ground, limp after being tossed up from the impact of metal meeting flesh.

Chapter Text

The first thing Jason is aware of is the cold. Not the damp chill of the earth nor the brisk iciness of Gotham. This cold was all consuming, suffocating, and icy. It felt like he was drowning. The gasps he took, trying to get air, only made it worse.

The horrible ice slipped into his mouth, slithered its way into his lungs. He couldn't think, couldn't breath, and it was unbearably freezing . It shouldn’t be possible to be this cold, it went past numbing right back into agonizing. It was unbearably painful, he couldn’t escape it.

The sensation was so overwhelming that it started to blur the lines, his body not knowing what to think. The bite of the ice starts to feel so impossibly frigid it's not even cold anymore. No. He's not cold anymore. He’s burning hot. It feels like his flesh is melting from his bones, his eyes liquifying, every gasp for air, for some control, was met with a sweltering and nauseating wave of heat. It felt like he was being flayed alive, every single nerve exposed and singed.

He thrashed his body, trying to rid himself of the blinding pain. The horrible sensations continued, working themselves deeper into his body, through his muscles, blood, bones, sinking into his very soul. If he focused hard enough, he could almost envision what was happening.

It felt as though each and every muscle was shredding itself to pieces, smaller than he could grasp. Each tendon pulling, pulling, pulling. Pulling taught, stretching further than he imagined possible, until they snapped. Every single bone felt an unbearable amount of pressure, but unlike the muscles and tendons, the bones couldn't stretch. Instead, they cracked. Shattering into impossibly small pieces. His blood quickly changed from the sluggish icy flow into a boiling heat. Oh god. Could he be cooked alive from his own blood? It felt as though his body was trying it’s best to answer that question.

He was rapidly sinking further into a spiral of agony. The sensation of his body violently tearing itself apart only grew. Underneath the pain, there was something else. A slow, building itch. Growing, growing, growing like a parasite. He could feel it like thousands of needles being shoved beneath his skin, sinking all the way to the bone and somehow deeper. When the needles had found their place, they didn’t settle. Instead, they continued to shift. Moving as if trying to escape the confines of his flesh and stubbornly holding on all at once. Never halting for even a moment, never giving him a second to adjust.

Jason struggles, trying to escape the feeling. Each grasp of his hand and twist of his body was met with nothing but the icy cold-burning hot water encompassing him. He opens his eyes and is met with green. Something was off about it. It was luminescent, with an uncanny vibrancy and depth to it. Shrouded in the putrid color, Jason knew that something was deeply wrong, something about him felt deeply wrong. He couldn't think coherently. Couldn't explain his reasoning. He just knew.

The agony rose and rose, suffocating him, until it peaked. Suddenly the pain broke, it drained out of him, slow and languid.

The searing heat had cooled, no longer so blindingly painful. Now it felt as though he had been wrapped up in a soft blanket, curled into someone’s arms, rocked back and forth soothingly, gently. He felt himself go limp. Too tired to question the change, just enjoying it.

It seems that whatever was happening wasn't finished, but he wasn't crying out anymore with every shift of bone or pull of flesh.

It started at his feet. There was a surge of heat, not all consuming and destructive as before. More like propping his feet up in front of the fireplace.

His bones seemed to reform on their own, slowly molding into something tangible. It was a strange but not unwelcome sensation. And suddenly- oh. That felt familiar. It felt like the brush of Alfred’s fingers against the soles of Jason’s feet, moving up as he pulled brand new dress shoes onto Jason, ignoring his wriggling toes. Alred had continued to fix Jason’s sock where it had bunched up slightly, smoothing it out. Then, reaching back down to the shoe, Alfred started to tie the laces for him. Jason remembered feeling embarrassed, thinking that Alfred must think him incompetent. At that suggestion Alfred had simply laughed and shook his head, Then kindly said, “This has nothing to do with your capability Master Jason. I am simply doing something for you because I can. Because I want to. Now, if you would lift your other foot for me, it would be greatly appreciated.”. It had been such an inconsequential act but it had felt monumental to a newly adopted Jason. To do something for him that he could do on his own, just because someone could, just to make something easier for him or, heaven forbid, because someone wanted to take care of him? It had left Jason teary eyed for an embarrassingly long time afterward.

That soothing warmth continued up, piecing him together slowly. Over his ankles, smoothing out the lingering discomfort in his shins, then his knees. Then, as the comforting wave moved to his thighs, he was reminded of something else. His mother, Catherine. Jason had been young, maybe 6 or 7, and had been chased through a series of alleyways by some of the neighborhood children. He had climbed up on a fire escape to hide from them and he had gotten caught on a rusted piece of the metal. It had torn into his thigh, ugly and jagged. He recalled stumbling home and mom fussing over him, gently cleaning and bandaging him. Looking at him with worry and love. Giving him a reassuring smile and a gentle kiss over the bandage.

The liquid heat pushed up, up, up, now cradling his hands. And this too felt familiar. Every touch was haunting. The caress against his fingers was reminiscent of Dick doing that very same thing. Bruce and Dick had been screaming, not unusual, but this time Dick had sworn that he wasn’t coming back, his voice filled with a level of venom that Jason had yet to hear from him. He had taken a final look at Bruce, turned on his heel, and stormed out of the room. Jason, from where he had been watching around a corner, raced after him. He wanted to say goodbye. He knew Dick resented him, he maybe even hated him, but he wanted to say goodbye to the closest thing he had ever had to a brother before he lost that forever. Because he knew that if Dick and Bruce didn’t make up then he wouldn’t be seeing Dick again. He had no reason to want to after all, Jason wasn’t his responsibility. But he needed to say something. So he darted close behind him and grasped Dick’s sleeve. He remembered the man turning around, looking irate, before registering who had grabbed him. His rage transformed to guilt. Jason forced himself to speak before he lost his nerve, “Can I hug you before you go? I know you aren’t coming back and I just want to hug you at least once.”. Dick had looked surprised and perhaps a little ashamed as he stared down at the boy. He seemed to contemplate his choices for a few moments before reaching into his pocket and taking out a torn piece of paper and a pencil. He scribbled a series of numbers onto the paper and shoved the pencil back in his pocket. Then, the older boy had looked at Jason once again and grabbed his hand, placing the paper into his palm. “I’m mad at Bruce but that’s not your fault. I need time to cool down but I’m not cutting you out of my life just because of him. Call me in a few days and I'll come pick you up, we can do something together.”. Dick had paused, assessing him before continuing in a teasing tone, “I owe you a hug right? Well I’m not doing that now, so I guess I’ll have to come see you again.”. Jason stared up at his predecessor, clutching the paper in one hand before jutting his other hand out towards Dick. “You promise? You can’t break a pinky promise.”. Dick had interlocked their fingers together and looked at Jason with a small smile before responding, “If you need me, I’ll be there. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

The heat picks up its pace, rushing through every crevice of his body. Through his gut, up his chest and neck, finally to his head. The pressure and heat against his face felt like either side was being cradled in large palms. Like Bruce’s palms. Maybe six months after Bruce had taken him home, Jason had been tucked away in a corner of the manor’s library. Curled up with a book. Bruce had walked in, scrolling absentmindedly on his phone, before looking up and seeing him. It was like his whole face had changed in a single second. Fondness flooding though so quickly it was honestly impressive. He had slowly approached, footsteps silent like he was afraid he might spook Jason. Once he reached him, he had crouched down to the boy’s level. “Are you enjoying yourself?” Bruce has asked, voice barely more than a whisper. Jason remembered nodding tiredly, resisting the urge to fall asleep. And Bruce looked like he was practically glowing with adoration. Tentatively, he reached his hands out towards Jason’s face, giving him plenty of time to back away if he felt uncomfortable. Then, Bruce cupped each cheek in his hands and leaned forward to press a reverent kiss to Jason’s forehead. It was light, barely there, and completely lifechanging. Bruce leaned back and took in Jason once again, before standing up and slowly backing away. “I’ll leave you to it” was the last thing Bruce said before exiting the room, seemingly forgetting what he came there for in the first place.

As the last bits of his body sew themselves back together, Jason feels a little more solid.

He could almost feel flames licking at his flesh, aching with the desire to consume him completely. The heat caresses him, painful, agonizing, tender, loving. He leaned into the embrace, desperate for any affection, even when he knew it would destroy him. He was no stranger to this feeling. Love always hurts in the end. And in the end, he was always a foolish child throwing himself willingly into the fire.

He will let himself burn, for that few seconds of love. Over and over again. Starved. It's never enough. He's greedy, he knows this, knows it will be his downfall yet again. And he can't make himself stop.

He is no less of an addict than his mother. The only difference was their vices.

The thick veil of fog starts to recede, his vision clears as his mind settles. As Jason Todd returns to himself, he slowly wades out from the viscous and putrid depths of the Lazarus waters. The slow tide attempts to lull him back into the cavernous pit, and yet he persists with one goal in mind, to see his father.

Chapter Text

Jason’s feet greet the dry stone just past the edge of the water. He looks around him and sees that he is in a large cave, with shadowy hallways leading out to unknown rooms. There are around a dozen masked and armed figures that surround the pit, though none directly in front of him and they don't seem to be attempting to attack him, simply observing. He moves forward, towards one of the hallways closest to him. He could now see a dimly lit room near the end of the hall. Jason could feel eyes on him, watching, but he continued to the room he saw up ahead. He needed to assess the situation and himself, he felt different, and he needed to know how to proceed.

Jason staggers in front of the large mirror and freezes. That- that isn't him. It must be, he’s staring at the man in the mirror, the man stares back, he knows it must be him, but it can't be. The man’s body is taller and broader than his own, than what it should be, maybe not that of a full grown adult but so much closer than his has ever been.

He could see some remnants of himself in the man’s appearance, but there was much less crossover than there should’ve been. His hair was almost the same, a little bit longer than he last remembered, but right in front was a shock of bone white hair. Baffled, Jason took into consideration the man’s body, deliberately steering clear from the face for now, afraid of what he might find.

The body in front of him is large, toned muscle fighting against visible ribs. Built on suffering and starvation, but still a strong foundation. And smooth skin, almost completely untouched, like porcelain. But that can’t be right. Where was the jagged split across his knee that wrapped around his calf? The one he acquired after getting caught on an exposed section of wire, trying to escape from the angry men from whom he had stolen scraps of food from when he was 10? Or the numerous straight, surgical scars that Jason himself had sliced into his flesh, desperate for punishment that he was convinced he deserved and even more desperate for control? What about the stab wound in his thigh that Bruce has fussed over after a slip up during patrol? Or the countless other slashes and puckers that used to litter his body? Did any of it ever happen? Nothing remained.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There was a dark, angry scar that bisected his now defined pectoral muscles, met at his sternum, trailed down his abdomen, and stopped at his pelvic bone. The quickly growing feeling of dread seeping through his body, only increased when he reached out to touch the horrific scar and noticed the thick tissue encasing the tips of his fingers. Every single finger, contorted and wrapped in scars. That wasn’t him. That couldn’t be him. It was like the image in the mirror was mocking him, every single reminder of his life, of his existence, had been wiped clean. Leaving him only with a mark of death and a memento of his abandonment.

Slowly, with growing apprehension, Jason raised his gaze to the man's face. God. Please no. That isn’t him. That isn’t him. He wanted to scream, cry, claw that wretched flesh from his skull. The skin was ghostly pale. Somehow paler than it already had been, reluctant to tan with the thick levels of Gotham smog obscuring the sun since before he could remember. That paper white skin stretched thin over a gaunt face. His cheekbones sharper, jaw stronger, each feature a little bit more defined. He supposed that he could pass as some poor imitation of a person but that face wasn’t his. Ever so slightly, in almost unnoticeable ways, it was all wrong.

Most people would explain it away as the slow development with age, but it was sudden, he didn’t get to grow with it. His nose was straighter, without that deviation in the bridge from too many breaks healed wrong. His cheekbones are more distinct, not just thin with hunger, but now the loss of baby fat and sharpening of his features. His jaw was more squared, rugged. Jason inched a bit closer to the mirror and noticed the snow white lashes interspersed with his familiar black ones. His mouth held the only other visible blemish he could find, dozens of paper thin scars carved vertically into each lip, almost unnoticeable at first. And his eyes, oh his eyes.

Bile rose in the back of his throat as Jason stared at what used to be clear cerulean blue irises, a small burst of brown surrounding his left pupil, none of it was the same. Now they were green. Bright, luminescent, inhuman green. Sickening and putrid. That same blinding and overwhelming green as the waters that he was still damp with. Green, green, green. It didn’t change no matter how long he stared. Those green eyes stared back, malicious and mocking.

Jason couldn’t take it anymore. He stumbled away from the mirror, tripping over his own feet, shaking violently as he crashed to the floor with bruising force. Barely having time to jerk to the side to avoid throwing up on himself. He couldn’t process this new body. This new face. It was foreign and terrifying and wrong. Viscerally and undeniably wrong. He needed answers but he needed to leave that horrible reflection even more. He needed to breathe. Hurriedly, Jason pushed himself to his feet and rushed from the room.

Chapter Text

Jason began running down the twisting corridors. Wobbling like a newborn fawn stumbling across a field for the very first time. He could see figures dressed in the same clothes of those that had been surrounding the pit now hiding in the shadows. It was quite bizarre really, the assassins were watching, not rushing to intervene, though he knew they could likely overpower him easily. Everything about this situation left him disoriented, overwhelmed and it certainly did not help that Jason was greatly outnumbered.

As he took a turn down yet another hallway, finally someone stepped in to intercept him. The figure moved quickly, sweeping a leg towards Jason’s that he only just managed to leap over. With his momentum carrying him forward, Jason drove his knee harshly into his assailant's stomach. Then when they doubled over, he slammed his fist into their nose, receiving a muted crunch in return. 

Jason quickly stepped over the groaning body and continued down the hallway, even more wary than before. This time it was a taller but slimmer figure charging towards him. Jason caught a fist to the jaw when he darted to the side to avoid a harsh swipe of a blade. He had failed to account for his sudden increase in size; misjudging the effects his bulk and weight would have on his speed and space he took up. His attacker followed him as he stumbled back a step. When the man swung the blade again, Jason caught his wrist in one hand and shoved his hand as hard as he could into the wrong side of the man’s elbow, forcing it to snap inward. Jason caught the blade as it fell from the screaming man’s hand, grabbing it just in time to slash the tendons to the assassin‘s other forearm as he reached out in an attempt to grab the boy. 

The next attack came immediately after, with a hulking figure tackling Jason before he could make it more than a few steps. He landed on his front, winded, and the knife slipped from his grasp, sliding just out of reach. Both of his arms were harshly twisted at an uncomfortable angle, trapped in an ironclad grip. The person on top of him seemed to grow tired of his struggling rather quickly as they shoved something he couldn’t see into his side and volts of electricity shot out. Jason clenched his jaw and attempted to muffle his groans of pain, but he was fairly certain he had bit something as he tasted blood. The pain was blinding but not quite enough to incapacitate him to his relief. The boy felt a hand snaking down to wrap around his neck and panic flooded him. In a desperate attempt to escape Jason twisted his head and bit down harshly on the arm next to his head. He didn’t let go even after he tasted their blood mixing with his own. Not until his teeth started shredding muscle instead of just flesh and the arm was ripped from his mouth, leaving small chunks behind. Jason twisted around quickly and seized the person's head. Then, Jason pressed his thumbs forcefully into their eyesockets. After the figure dropped to the ground, Jason aimed a sharp kick at their head and the body went limp.

This started an awkward rhythm, Jason making small bits of progress in his path down the corridors before being confronted by a singular assailant at a time, receiving a harsh fight, but never losing. He had acquired several bruises along his side and jaw, scrapes on his palms from being shoved to the floor, and a few shallow cuts across his body. All things considered, it should have been worse. The interruptions weren't at a consistent pace, it was offputting and uncertain.

As yet another person entered Jason‘s path, he preemptively stepped out of the way, darting behind them to drive the handle of the knife into the back of their skull. They fell to the floor, unconscious, with a loud thump. Jason glanced around to make sure there was no one else approaching at the moment before grabbing the gun strapped to the fallen figure’s thigh. He holsters the knife for the time being before continuing on his journey. 

Something in the back of his mind was screaming that something was wrong, aside from the obvious danger. Jason knew he was competent, but he was so greatly outnumbered by professionally trained fighters. He didn’t understand why he was still standing, why they were approaching one by one instead of rushing him. 

Jason stops in his tracks as a tall woman steps in front of him, around twenty paces ahead. Eyeing her warily, he takes note of her thick green cloak that obscures her form, hiding any potential weapons from sight. 

She takes a measured step closer, one, two, three, before stopping as he raises the gun. Her head tilts up and he can make out her face. Sharp cheekbones, a strong, sloped nose, and her eyes, glowing and inhuman. An ominous green. The very same shade as the cursed waters, as his own eyes now. It feels like a stone has lodged itself in his throat and unease fills his body. 

Then, she speaks, her voice as smooth and comforting as a lullaby. “Jason, I mean no harm. I am Talia Al Ghul” 

“What do you want?” Jason demands, looking for another way out. There isn't one. “I wish to talk.” The woman responds, then she pulls back her cloak and Jason steadies the gun, his finger twitching towards the trigger. The cloak opens to reveal her dark gown and-

A child?

Jason lowers his gun as he gazes at a small boy with a chubby cherub face, peaking at Jason from where he is half hidden behind his mother’s skirt. The child is still for just a moment before slowly moving towards the older boy, now standing about halfway between Jason and Talia. Closer now, Jason can see the boy’s eyes, the very same unnatural and haunting green. But where they should be unnerving, they were only sweet and round.

“And I thought you should meet your brother, Damian”

Jason blinks up at Talia, breaking his staring contest with the chil- with Damian. “Brother?” he chokes out. Talia answers in an amused tone “Half brother I suppose. He is mine and my beloved Bruce’s, so, by extent, he is your family as well.”

“He has another child? Why didn’t he tell me?” The last part comes out as little more than a whisper. “He did not tell you because he could not tell what he does not know.” Talia replied simply, at Jason’s look she continued, “Damian was born in secrecy, the circumstances were… complicated and I never told your father.”

“But he would want to know,” Jason protests. “And he will, but it is not time yet.” she said in an almost wistful tone. Jason just nods shakily, his brain struggling to catch up. 

“What is all of this? What did you do to me?” 

“That is a… long story.” Was the halting response the boy received. 

“Well start explaining.” Jason demanded irritably.

Talia hummed patiently “You woke up. In your grave. By the time you had crawled your way to the surface, you had been deprived of oxygen for long enough to render you catatonic. While in your vulnerable state, you wandered in front of a car and found yourself in a hospital for some time.” The regal woman took a breath before continuing. “You escaped and meandered the streets of Gotham until my people found you. You were not entirely present, as I’m sure you’ve gathered. But you still had remarkable reflexes and awareness. My father assigned me to study you, to find out how you came back and if you’d improve. We never did find out what woke you and everyone around me believed that you were not and would not improve.” 

Talia reaches down to rest a hand on Damian’s shoulder and that's when Jason witnesses the first crack in the confidant mask the woman wears. In the moment between her hand being unveiled from her cloak and before she makes contact with her son, Jason sees the faint tremble of her elegant fingers. Maybe the gentle grasp on the young boy's shoulder was equal parts comfort for him and stability for herself. 

As Jason desperately processes this information, Talia observes him slowly. “They were wrong. Very wrong. You recognized Damian and I, you were gentle, and – to some extent – could understand and process information. But that did not matter to my father. He deemed you as a failed experiment and wanted you sent away. I disobeyed. I plunged you into the waters of the Lazarus Pit and have restored both your mind and your body.” 

“If the old man was so against it, then why did you do it?” Was perhaps not the most important question at the moment, but it was the one to spill from Jason’s lips first. 

“I needed to. You were made – reborn as it were – out of love.” Was the response he received, Talia’s intonation implying that it should be obvious. 

“Love? So what, I’m just an extension of Bruce yet again?” Came Jason’s jaded protest. 

The woman’s eyebrows creased minutely. “Not my beloved, no. Perhaps at the very beginning but not now, not moving forward.”

“Then love for who? Me? Do you honestly expect me to believe that? You don’t know me.” The child responded incredulously. 

At this though, Talia looked amused once more. She caught his eye with her intense gaze, luminous green meeting luminous green. “Not completely but I know enough. You are caring, even when it is born out of violence. I know you enough to not fear you, I know you enough to trust you, as I hope you will trust me. A part of you already does, does it not? You are scared and suspicious, certainly, but deep inside you trust me to not hurt you, and I hope, to not lie to you.” 

Jason scowled because as much as he hated not knowing why, she was right. Despite all logic, it was as if his mind was at peace in the presence of both her and the kid who silently watched him. It was – however naively – how Jason believed he would feel when he found his biological mother. 

Jason simply sighed, slightly agitated before asking, “So where does this put us then? Where do we go from here?”

“Regardless of what you choose to do with the information I have given you, you are not prepared to go back to Gotham yet. The world now is not as you left it, Gotham has changed with both your absence and time. As has your father. And I’m afraid that months in the grave then spent catatonic don’t aid in your recovery or fighting ability. In the end, the decision is yours but I wish to extend an offer. Join me-” A gentle hand cards through Damian’s hair “us, while you choose the next course of action.”

Jason eyed her wearily. She wasn’t wrong but- “And what do I owe you in return?”

“Nothing, all I ask for is your time.”

Jason desperately wanted to go home, to return to Bruce. But Bruce had been very clear prior to Jason leaving for Ethiopia. 

Jason wasn’t enough. Not yet. Batman had taken him in with the goal of him becoming Robin. He had failed. It would be an embarrassment to return back to the manor even worse for wear. 

Jason hadn’t needed Batman like he needed Bruce, like he needed a father. But Bruce needed Batman, and Batman needed a Robin. 

What Jason needed was training, he needed to be better, he needed to be enough, for both Bruce and himself.

“Do we have a deal?” Talia asks while outstretching her hand. Jason, wary and hopeful, confused and conflicted, looked desperately into her vibrant eyes, searching for a lie, for some sign to not trust her, and finding nothing. Only honesty. With that, her eyes look a little less ominous, no less unnatural but the glow is no longer so uncanny, now turning into more of a light in the darkness. They look a little bit more like an opportunity, another chance, like hope. Jason allows himself to tentatively feel a bit of that hope and takes Talia’s hand in his, clasping into a firm shake.