Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason Todd had gone undercover before. He had slipped into gangs, arms deals, underground fight rings—you name it. He could put on an act, blend in, and get what he needed. But this?

This was new.

Standing in the middle of Riverton Elementary’s too-brightly-lit auditorium, surrounded by PTA moms and the smell of homemade brownies, Jason had to admit: this was a level of hell he wasn’t prepared for.

“I still don’t get why I’m doing this,” he muttered, shifting his weight as he scanned the room.

“Because you’re the only one who could pass for a parent without raising suspicion.” Oracle’s voice was crystal clear in his comm. “And because Dick was busy.”

Jason huffed. “So I’m plan B?”

“You were always plan A. You’re good with kids.”

That shut him up for a second. He wasn’t bad with kids, but he sure as hell wasn’t a role model. He wasn’t Dick, with his never-ending patience, or Bruce, with his I-am-the-law presence. He was Red Hood—Jason fucking Todd—and the idea of playing pretend as someone’s responsible guardian felt ridiculous.

And yet, here he was, pretending to be just another concerned parent while scoping out an elementary school that was definitely up to some shady shit.

He glanced toward the group of kids across the room, where teachers were making a half-hearted attempt to keep them entertained. That’s when he saw him.

The Kid.

Small. Too thin. Hair a little too messy. The kind of kid who had learned early that adults weren’t worth trusting.

Jason knew that look. Knew it too well.

He checked his comm again. “Tell me again why we’re using a goddamn orphan as bait?”

“It wasn’t my call, Jason.” Oracle’s voice was tight, controlled. “It’s messed up, I know. But the only reason we even found out about the school’s involvement in this operation was because of that kid. He’s the missing thread.”

Jason exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. He wasn’t about to argue, especially not with Barbara, but it didn’t sit right with him.

Not at all.

And, judging by the way The Kid was staring down at his untied shoelaces, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, Jason was willing to bet it didn’t sit right with him either.

Well.

Time to make some introductions.

Jason strode over, slipping into his best attempt at looking like an involved adult and not a vigilante playing dress-up. The Kid barely looked up as Jason crouched down to his level.

“Hey, kid,” Jason started, keeping his tone easy. “Figured I’d introduce myself, seeing as I’m—”

“You’re supposed to be my fake parent, right?” The Kid cut him off, finally glancing up with sharp, assessing eyes.

Jason blinked. Then snorted. “ Fake uncle, actually. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

The Kid hummed like that made sense, then kicked at the scuffed linoleum floor. “Still fake, though.”

“Yeah,” Jason admitted. “I am.”

A beat passed. Jason wasn’t great at this whole emotional honesty thing, but he knew bullshit wouldn’t get him anywhere with a kid like this.

“I’m sorry we’re involving you in this,” Jason said quickly, voice lower, just for the two of them. “It’s not fair. You shouldn’t have to deal with this kind of crap.”

He meant it. This kid had already been dealt a shitty hand—he shouldn’t have to be part of some sting operation on top of it.

The Kid frowned, like he didn’t know what to do with the apology. He shifted uncomfortably, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the floor.

“Yeah, well.” His voice was quieter now too. “Not like I had much of a choice.”

Jason felt something in his chest clench.

Yeah.

He knew that feeling.

He exhaled through his nose and straightened up, clapping his hands together. “Alright, kid. If we gotta do this, might as well make the most of it.” He smirked. “Tell me—what’s the competition like for this bake sale? Because I’m thinking about completely annihilating every other parent here.”

That got a real reaction. The Kid blinked at him, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard that right. “You’re doing the bake sale?”

“Oh, I’m winning the bake sale,” Jason corrected.

The Kid’s nose scrunched. “You bake?”

Jason grinned. “I have an old guy at home who taught me a thing or two. Trust me. We’re about to ruin some soccer moms’ entire week.”

The Kid studied him for a moment, then—finally, finally—smirked back.

“…Okay,” he said. “This I gotta see.”

Jason chuckled, then nodded toward the corner of the room, away from too many listening ears. “C’mon, let’s sit. If we’re gonna make this work, we gotta at least pretend we know each other.”

The Kid hesitated, but after a second, he followed.

Jason grabbed a couple of plastic chairs, spinning one around to sit backwards, arms resting over the top. The Kid sat more carefully, like he wasn’t used to someone actually inviting him to the table.

“So,” Jason started. “What’s your name?”

The Kid looked at him warily. “You don’t already know?”

Jason shrugged. “I do. But I’m askin' you.”

There was a beat of hesitation before the Kid finally muttered, “Elliot.”

Jason nodded. “Alright, Elliot. You got a favorite subject in school, or do they all suck?”

That got a snort. “They mostly suck. But… I guess science is okay.”

“Science, huh? You into the cool stuff? Explosions? Chemicals? Laser beams?”

Elliot gave him a flat look. “You know science isn’t just lasers , right?”

Jason grinned. “I mean, yeah, but those are the fun parts.”

Elliot rolled his eyes, but Jason caught the way his shoulders eased, just a little.

“Okay, fine,” Jason said. “What about books? You got a favorite?”

Elliot hesitated, then muttered, “I used to. The school doesn’t let me check them out anymore.”

Jason frowned. “Why not?”

Elliot shrugged like it didn’t matter, but Jason caught the way his fingers curled into fists. “Dunno. Just said I wasn’t responsible enough.”

Jason clenched his jaw. Yeah. That sounded like the kind of bullshit he was here to look into.

“Well,” Jason said, keeping his voice light, “good thing your fake uncle’s a book guy. Maybe I’ll smuggle you something good.”

Elliot eyed him warily. “Like what?”

Jason smirked. “Ever heard of The Count of Monte Cristo ?”

Elliot squinted. “That sounds old.”

“Oh, it is,” Jason said. “But trust me, it’s got everything. Revenge. Swords. Secret identities. And a guy who gets so rich he ruins his enemies just for fun.”

Elliot gave him a skeptical look. “…That does sound kind of cool.”

Jason grinned. “Told ya.”

And just like that, the ice cracked a little more.

Jason leaned back, tilting his chair on two legs. “Alright, kid. You and me? We got this.”

Elliot watched him for a long moment. Then—finally—he nodded.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think we do.”

Jason smiled.

Jason had learned a few things about Elliot over the weekend.

For one, the kid was actually kind of cool. Jason wouldn’t admit it out loud— God forbid —but he liked the kid’s sense of humor. Dry. A little sarcastic. Just enough bite to let you know he wasn’t about to roll over for anybody.

Second, Elliot was way too used to taking care of himself. That much was obvious from the way he never asked for anything, never expected anyone to check in, and had a way of disappearing into the background when adults were around. Jason had known kids like that. Had been a kid like that. The kind who learned early that relying on people only ever got you hurt.

Third? The kid had taste. Even if he wouldn’t admit it.

“I’m just saying,” Jason had said, leaning back against the orphanage’s rickety old couch, “theatre’s not a bad hobby.”

Elliot, who had just reluctantly admitted he liked it, had immediately backtracked. “I don’t like it,” he muttered. “It’s just… interesting.”

Jason smirked. “Right. Just interesting.”

Elliot shot him a glare. “I’d rather do something useful.”

Jason shrugged. “Acting’s useful. You know how often I have to lie to people just to get through the day?”

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “You’re supposed to be a concerned uncle. You probably shouldn’t be admitting you lie all the time.”

Jason snorted. “I mean, would you rather I was bad at it?”

Elliot considered that. Then, with a begrudging nod, muttered, “Fair point.”

And that had been that.

By the time Monday rolled around, Jason had a much better grasp on the kid. His mother had died of an overdose a couple of years back. His father had never been in the picture. He’d bounced around a couple of group homes before ending up here, and judging by the way he talked about it (or didn’t talk about it), Jason had a feeling it wasn’t great.

The more he learned, the more Jason didn’t like the idea of sending him back into this mess alone.

Unfortunately, until they figured out what the hell was going on with the school’s administration, he didn’t have much of a choice.

Which was how he found himself back at Riverton Elementary, rolling into the front office to officially sign up for the PTA.

Barbara, smug as ever, had way too much fun with that one.

“You know,” she had said over comms, “I never thought I’d live to see the day Jason Todd, the Red Hood willingly signed up for a Parent-Teacher Association.”

“ Fake parent,” Jason corrected.

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. This is for undercover purposes only, of course.”

Jason could hear the grin in her voice.

“You gonna help me out or just keep enjoying this?”

“Can’t it be both?”

Jason scowled as he stepped up to the front desk, plastering on his best concerned uncle face.

The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and an aggressively pink cardigan, gave him a polite but vaguely frazzled look. “Can I help you?”

Jason gave her a charming smile. “Yeah, I’m here to sign up for the PTA. Figured since my nephew’s spending so much time here, I should be involved and all that.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Oh! That’s wonderful! We’re always looking for more parent participation.”

Jason nodded along like this wasn’t the most absurd thing he’d ever done in his life. “Yeah, you know. Gotta make sure the kids are in a good environment.”

Her smile faltered, just slightly. Not enough for the average person to catch, but Jason wasn’t the average person. He clocked the shift immediately.

Interesting.

The receptionist turned, shuffling through some papers. “Well, let’s see, we have a few different committees you can join. There’s fundraising, community outreach, student wellness—”

Jason leaned forward, feigning interest. “Which one oversees, like, school policies? Admin decisions? That kind of thing.”

She hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second.

Then she smiled again, all customer service. “That would be the administrative board, but that’s mostly handled by the school staff. Parents usually stick to event planning and student activities.”

Jason hummed. “Right. Because I heard the PTA had some say in school policies.”

Her smile stayed frozen in place. “Only in an advisory role.”

Yep. That was bullshit.

Jason had a feeling if he started digging, he’d find out real quick why no one was allowed to question anything around here.

“Alright,” he said easily, leaning back. “Guess I’ll start with fundraising, then.”

He swiped the sign-up sheet before she could say anything else, scrawling John Todd across the line.

Barbara’s laughter crackled through his earpiece.

“John? Really?”

“Shut up.”

The receptionist took the form back, glancing it over before nodding. “Great! You’ll be added to the email list for our upcoming meetings. And, of course, we have our big fundraiser coming up next week, the bake sale.”

Jason grinned. “Oh, yeah. Looking forward to that one.”

And he meant it.

Elliot had already asked what he was making. Jason, because he was a show off, had declared he’d be making cinnamon rolls from scratch that would ruin lives.

Elliot had rolled his eyes, but Jason could tell the kid was excited. Even if he refused to admit it.

Which meant Jason?

Jason had every intention of showing up to this bake sale and absolutely obliterating the competition.

For Elliot.

And maybe— just maybe— because it was kind of fun.

Chapter Text

Jason pulled up to the orphanage on his bike, cutting the engine as he leaned back against the seat. The place wasn’t as bad as some he’d seen growing up, no obvious signs of abuse, no barred windows or sketchy caretakers yelling at kids to keep quiet. But that didn’t mean it was good , either.

The building itself looked tired, worn at the edges, like it had seen better days a few decades ago and never quite recovered. The yard was patchy, the brick exterior dull with age. There were kids outside, some running around, others sitting on the steps, talking in hushed voices.

Jason spotted Elliot by the door.

The kid had a backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie zipped up despite the early morning warmth. He was watching Jason, arms crossed, expression carefully neutral—like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be excited about this or not.

Jason snorted. Yeah. He remembered that feeling.

He swung a leg over the bike and strode up to him. “Alright, kid. Ready for another thrilling day of academia?”

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “You mean the part where I spend eight hours trying not to fall asleep?”

Jason smirked. “You could try learning something.”

The kid scoffed. “Yeah, ‘cause knowing how to do long division is super useful in real life.”

“Hey, you never know. Could help you out if you ever need to, I don’t know, split stolen cash evenly between your crew .”

Elliot huffed out a quiet laugh before catching himself, like he hadn’t meant to find that funny.

Jason shook his head and motioned toward the bike. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Elliot hesitated, eyes flicking from the motorcycle to Jason.

“You serious?”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “What, you scared?”

Elliot straightened immediately. “No!” He cleared his throat. “Just... don’t have a helmet.”

Jason pulled an extra one from the bike’s side compartment and tossed it to him. “Already covered.”

Elliot stared at it for a second, then back at Jason.

“…You do this for all your fake nephews?”

Jason smirked. “Nah. You’re special.”

The kid rolled his eyes, but Jason caught the way his shoulders relaxed just a little as he pulled the helmet on.

They climbed onto the bike, and Jason waited until Elliot was gripping his jacket before revving the engine.

“Alright, kid. Hold on tight. And if you puke on my bike, I’m making you clean it.”

Elliot snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t crash.”

Jason grinned. “No promises.”

And with that, they sped off toward the school.

Elliot was quiet at first, arms locked around Jason’s waist, the wind rushing past them as they weaved through Gotham’s morning traffic.

Jason let him have the silence, knowing that sometimes, it wasn’t about filling the space with words, it was about letting things settle.

After a few minutes, Elliot finally spoke up.

“…You really think I’m special?”

Jason didn’t turn his head, but he heard the uncertainty in his voice.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

Elliot didn’t respond right away, but Jason could feel the tension in his grip ease just a bit.

After another beat, the kid said, “I like theatre.”

Jason blinked. “Huh?”

“I like theatre,” Elliot repeated, a little louder. “Plays and stuff. But I don’t really, you know… talk about it.”

Jason smirked. “What, scared the other kids are gonna judge you?”

Elliot shrugged. “They already think I’m weird.”

Jason scoffed. “Kid, I grew up in Gotham. You think liking theatre is weird? I knew a guy who talked to his puppet like it was his best friend.”

“…Was it?”

“Oh, yeah. Totally committed. He even dressed it up .”

Elliot snorted. “Okay, that’s actually kinda funny.”

Jason grinned. “See? Could’ve been worse. You could be that guy.”

Elliot shook his head, but Jason could tell he was amused.

They were getting close to the school now, traffic slowing as they hit the morning rush.

Jason glanced back at him. “You ever think about acting?”

Elliot hesitated.

“…Dunno,” he admitted. “I mean, I like watching plays, but being on stage?” He shrugged. “Feels kinda stupid.”

Jason hummed. “Nah. Not stupid. Acting’s just lying with extra steps.”

Elliot tilted his head. “That supposed to be a good thing?”

“Hey, lying’s a skill,” Jason said. “Used right, it can get you out of a lot of trouble.”

The kid huffed a laugh. “And you’d know?”

“Oh, absolutely .”

Elliot shook his head, but he was smiling now—just a little. Then, after a beat, he glanced at Jason, eyes flicking over him like he was trying to put something together.

“…Have you ever been in a play?”

Jason nearly stalled the bike right then and there.

He cleared his throat, gripping the handlebars a little tighter. “Uh. What?”

Elliot shrugged, all casual-like, but there was something sharp in his expression— curiosity . “You seem kinda into it. Like, the way you talk about it. Just wondering if you’ve ever, you know… been in one.”

Jason opened his mouth—then shut it.

He could lie. Could say nah, kid, not my thing and brush it off.

But that wouldn’t do Elliot any favors. If Jason wanted him to be confident in his interests, he couldn’t act like his own were something to be ashamed of.

So, with a sigh, he scratched the back of his neck and muttered, “Yeah. I, uh. I did a few when I was younger. Three or four, maybe.”

Elliot blinked. “Wait, really?”

Jason groaned. “ Yes , really. When I was in school. Before—” He cut himself off. Shrugged. “Before some things happened.”

Elliot didn’t push, but Jason could feel the kid’s eyes on him.

“…You still do it?”

Jason exhaled through his nose. “I, uh. Yeah. Actually.” He coughed. “Been doing some community theatre round where I live.”

Elliot gawked at him. “You’re in a play?”

Jason gave him a look. “ Doing theatre doesn’t mean I’m in a play right this second .”

Elliot smirked. “But you have been.”

Jason sighed. “…Yes.”

Elliot let out a short laugh, crossing his arms. “Man, you really buried the lead on that one.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, it’s not exactly something I go around broadcasting.”

That part was definitely true. Not even the Batfamily knew. Not Dick, not Babs, definitely not Bruce. It wasn’t like he was ashamed of it—okay, maybe a little —but he’d never seen a reason to bring it up.

And yet, here he was, telling Elliot.

Something about that felt big , even if he didn’t want to examine it too closely.

Elliot kicked at the sidewalk, a little more thoughtful now. “So… what kind of plays?”

Jason snorted. “Why? You gonna come watch?”

The kid rolled his eyes. “I just wanna know if you were, like, running around with a sword or something.”

Jason grinned. “Oh, definitely .”

Elliot huffed a laugh. “Figured.”

They were getting close to the school now, the usual morning crowd moving toward the entrance. Jason slowed the bike, pulling up to the curb.

As Elliot hopped off, he gave Jason another once-over, smirking just a little.

“…Kinda makes sense,” he admitted. “You’re dramatic as hell.”

Jason groaned. “ Get out of here. ”

Elliot just laughed, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder as he headed inside.

Jason watched him go, shaking his head—but there was a small smile tugging at his lips.

Guess he’d have to start memorizing scripts again.

Jason wasn’t just playing the long game anymore—he was officially all in .

The school was hiding something. The way the administration dodged certain questions, the way kids like Elliot were just left to fend for themselves , and the fact that Oracle had flagged weird financial inconsistencies in their records? Yeah. Something was off.

And Jason Todd didn’t do off .

So, after spending the day pretending to be a concerned uncle and PTA volunteer, he ditched the act, suited up, and went back in the way he worked best: through the shadows.

2:34 AM – Riverton Elementary

The school was dark, silent. A place that was supposed to feel safe but, at this hour, looked like the kind of place bad things happened. Jason had scaled the back of the building with ease, slipping in through an upper window where the security cameras had a blind spot.

Barbara had already done some of the digital snooping, but a place like this? A place with this much weird secrecy? There were things you could only find the old-fashioned way.

Jason moved quickly, silent in the way that came from years of sneaking around Gotham’s rooftops. The hallways were eerily still, lit only by the glow of emergency exit signs. His boots made no sound as he slipped past classrooms, checking locked doors, scanning for anything that stood out.

The principal’s office was locked.

Not a problem.

Jason pulled out his tools, picking the lock in under a minute before slipping inside.

The place was neat. Too neat. Not a stray paper out of place. But Jason had been in enough sketchy offices to know where to look.

First stop? The filing cabinets.

Old-school, but useful.

He pulled out a drawer, running his fingers along the labeled tabs until he found the student records. He flipped to Elliot’s name first.

Then he frowned.

The file was thin. Too thin.

A kid like Elliot? A kid who had lost a parent, bounced between homes? There should have been more here—progress reports, behavior notes, maybe even referrals to guidance counselors. But instead, it was just… the bare minimum.

Like someone had cleaned it up.

Jason’s stomach twisted.

This wasn’t just negligence. Someone had gone out of their way to make sure kids like Elliot didn’t have a paper trail.

Not good.

He snapped a picture of the file with his HUD before moving on.

There was another locked drawer at the bottom, more secure, heavier than the others. Jason jimmied it open, expecting more student files—

Instead, he found money.

Stacks of it, wrapped tight. Cash, not checks.

Jason’s jaw tightened.

Yeah. This place was dirty as hell.

“Oracle,” he muttered, pressing two fingers to his comm. “We’ve got a problem. Principal’s office has a stash of cash. Lot of it.”

Barbara’s voice crackled in his ear. “How much?”

“Enough that he’s not just skimming from the bake sale funds.” Jason grabbed one of the stacks, flipping through the bills. “These are new. Straight from the bank. Someone’s funneling money through here.”

“Damn.”

Jason stuffed the cash back where he found it, shutting the drawer quietly. His mind was already spinning through the possibilities.

The school had kids like Elliot—kids without guardians, kids without people checking up on them. Kids who could slip through the cracks.

And they had a money flow that didn’t add up.

Yeah.

This wasn’t just a bad school. This was a pipeline.

For what, exactly? He didn’t know yet.

But he was gonna find out.

And when he did?

Whoever was running this was going to regret ever messing with these kids.

Jason had just finished snapping a few more pictures—this time of some very interesting financial reports—when he heard it.

Footsteps.

Two sets, moving steadily toward the office.

He cursed under his breath, tucking his phone away as he scanned the room. There weren’t a lot of good places to hide—not for a guy like him. At 6’2 and built like a damn tank, Jason wasn’t exactly squeezing under a desk or slipping behind a bookshelf. But there was a supply room off to the side, its door cracked open just enough to be an option.

He slid inside, pressing himself against the wall, shoulders brushing against metal filing cabinets. It was tight , but it would have to do.

The voices reached the door.

The first one, he recognized immediately, Principal Harold Whitmore. Jason had spent the past few days buttering the guy up, playing the role of Elliot’s estranged uncle, making a show of “looking into custody.” It had been easy to get on the man’s good side—too easy, honestly. Whitmore was the type to smile wide and shake hands, but there was something else behind his eyes. Something Jason didn’t trust.

The second voice?

A woman. Smooth, professional, unreadable.

Jason didn’t recognize her.

That set off alarm bells.

“She wasn’t part of the deal,” Whitmore hissed, voice low but sharp. “You told me I’d have time to clean things up first.”

Jason stilled. She?

“You know how this works.” The woman’s tone was even, almost bored. “Things change. We need another shipment sooner than expected.”

Jason felt his jaw tighten. Shipment?

Whitmore exhaled sharply. “That’s not my problem. You know how delicate this is—we have eyes on us right now.”

“Then you’d better hope they keep looking in the wrong places.”

Silence.

Jason curled his fingers around the smoke grenade at his belt, just in case. If they came inside and realized someone had been poking around, he’d have to get out—fast.

Whitmore’s voice dropped lower, more desperate. “I have a reputation to uphold. If anyone finds out what we’re doing—”

“What you’re doing,” the woman corrected smoothly.

A beat.

Then Whitmore let out a frustrated breath. “Just… tell your people to wait. We can’t pull another set from the program so soon. If someone starts asking questions, we’re done.”

Jason’s stomach curled.

Set? Program?

They weren’t talking about money.

They were talking about kids.

The woman hummed, a quiet, knowing sound. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Whitmore was silent for a long moment. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he said, “I’ll figure something out.”

Jason heard fabric shifting, footsteps shuffling.

“I need to check something in my office,” Whitmore muttered. “Stay here.”

Jason tensed.

Shit.

He tightened his grip on the grenade, ready to drop it the second the door swung open—

A loud, blaring sound ripped through the school, shrill enough to make Jason flinch.

Outside, Whitmore swore. “What the hell?”

The woman muttered something, too low for Jason to hear, and suddenly their footsteps were moving —not toward the office, but away , fast and purposeful.

Jason blinked.

Then he smirked.

He tapped his comm. “Oracle, please tell me this was you.”

Barbara’s voice crackled through, laced with amusement. “What, you think I’d let you get caught? Give me some credit, Jaybird.”

Jason exhaled, shifting the grenade back into place. “What’d you do?”

“Oh, nothing major,” she said, her grin audible. “Just tripped a ‘faulty’ fire alarm two hallways down. Totally an accident. Oops.”

Jason huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re the best.”

“I know .”

Outside, the voices had faded, the sound of footsteps vanishing down the hall.

Barbara’s voice turned more serious. “You need to get out of there. Now. You can scout more tomorrow night, but if they come back and find you? This whole thing gets a lot harder.”

Jason sighed but nodded, already slipping out of the supply room. “Got it. Heading out now.”

He moved fast, silent as a shadow, already thinking ahead to tomorrow.

Because now, it wasn’t just about shady finances or corrupt school officials.

Now, he knew what they were dealing with.

And whoever was behind this?

They were going to regret ever thinking they could use kids like Elliot.

The next morning, Jason was back outside the orphanage trying not to think about last night. The bike was already parked, engine off, and he was waiting for Elliot to come out like he always did. He wasn’t sure why he’d been feeling a little more… relaxed about all this lately, but he supposed it had something to do with the way Elliot had been opening up. Even the little moments, like their conversation about theatre the day before, felt more real .

Jason wasn’t used to that. Real was hard. Real was when people didn’t just walk away.

The door opened, and Elliot stepped out, backpack slung over his shoulder. As he approached, Jason noticed the kid was looking a little sheepish—hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, head tilted slightly down.

“Hey, uh... I just wanted to say… sorry,” Elliot said, eyes darting up to meet Jason’s.

Jason raised an eyebrow, slightly confused. “What for?”

Elliot bit his lip, clearly uncomfortable. “For making fun of you yesterday. I didn’t mean anything by it, it was just, you know… I was messing around, and I shouldn’t have.”

Jason blinked, not quite expecting that. Honestly, he hadn’t even thought twice about it. He didn’t care if Elliot made fun of him.

But hearing the kid apologize? That made him feel… something. Something soft, and Jason wasn’t used to that feeling.

He shrugged it off, not wanting to make a big deal of it. “It’s completely fine, kid,” Jason said, offering a grin. “No harm done.”

Elliot seemed to breathe a little easier, his shoulders relaxing. But then, he seemed to remember something and his eyes flicked back to Jason. “Hey, you mentioned you were in a play before. What play?”

Jason thought for a second, leaning back against the bike. “Well, to answer your question from yesterday—” he started with a grin, “I was playing Jean Valjean in Les Misérables .”

For a split second, Elliot froze, eyes going wide.

“ Les Mis ?” he asked, almost in disbelief.

Jason nodded, watching the kid’s reaction closely. And then, Elliot’s face practically lit up .

“Oh my god,” he muttered, eyes practically sparkling. “That’s my favorite play. I—” He stopped short, suddenly looking more vulnerable than Jason was used to seeing him. He cleared his throat and continued, voice quieter. “I saw it with my mom. She… she took me when I was younger. We saw it at a real theatre, in New York.”

Jason’s heart clenched in his chest, a small, soft pain that he couldn’t explain. He shifted on the bike, leaning closer as he tried to keep his expression neutral.

“You… you saw it with her?” Jason asked carefully, not wanting to push.

Elliot’s gaze shifted to the ground, like he was trying to control his emotions. “Yeah.” His voice was quiet, but there was a distant, almost fond look on his face. “It was the best day. She was so happy. We sang the songs for weeks after that, even though I wasn’t really into it. But she loved it, so I just… went along with it.”

Jason’s stomach twisted, and his hand tightened around the bike handle. He wasn’t going to say anything, wasn’t going to be the one to mess this up, but hearing the kid talk about his mom… it hit him. It hit harder than he expected. He’d never had a mom like that, someone who shared things with him, made days memorable . The closest thing he’d ever had was the dead guy who’d made him, but that wasn’t much of a comparison.

“You sing?” Jason asked, trying to shift the mood, trying to keep things light.

Elliot looked at him, eyebrow raised. “Me? Hell no. I was bad. Terrible .”

Jason laughed, a real laugh, and leaned back on the bike. “I doubt it. You probably sound like a pro.”

Elliot snorted, but the way his eyes lit up told Jason that it wasn’t just a small talk moment. It was genuine .

“ Les Mis was a big deal for me, you know?” Elliot said, his voice quieter now, but more relaxed, like he was letting down some of his walls. “It was like… a moment I actually remember with her. I don't know if I’ve ever had another memory like that since.”

Jason nodded, holding the moment between them for a beat longer than he usually would.

He wanted to say something comforting, wanted to say everything would be alright , but he didn’t have those kinds of words. He was just here for the kid in his own way, even if he wasn’t sure how to make it better.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Well, maybe we should do some more Les Mis stuff. You know, acting , just like me. I can teach you how to sing, maybe.”

Elliot raised his eyebrow. “Right. Sure. We’ll work on your vocal chops first, then we’ll talk about my stage presence .”

Jason grinned. “Deal.”

Elliot gave him a look—half skeptical, half amused—and then stepped toward the bike. “Alright, Jean Valjean , lead the way.”

Jason hopped on first and threw a glance back. “You’re going to love my prison break scene.”

Elliot rolled his eyes, but Jason could tell the kid was into it . And for the first time in a while, he realized something—he wasn’t just doing this for Elliot anymore. He was actually starting to enjoy it.

Jason couldn't help but think that, maybe, this was the beginning of something more than just getting the kid out of trouble.

As the wind whipped past them as Jason pulled up to the school curb, the engine purring low beneath them. Elliot was still grinning from their last conversation, practically buzzing in his seat. Jason had barely put his foot down to steady the bike before the kid turned, eyes bright with curiosity.

“So, are you really gonna do the baking competition?” Elliot asked, like he half-expected Jason to back out.

Jason scoffed. “What, you think I’m a liar?”

Elliot shrugged. “I dunno, man. Seems kinda domestic for you.”

Jason smirked. “Kid, I could take down a gang operation and make a killer cheesecake in the same night. Don’t doubt me.”

Elliot snorted but looked more excited than skeptical now. “Okay, so what’re we making?” Then, realizing how that sounded, he quickly corrected himself, shifting awkwardly. “I mean—what’re you making?”

Jason gave him a side-eye. “ We are making—” He dragged out the pause just to mess with him, watching Elliot lean forward impatiently. “—brown butter chocolate chip cookies.”

Elliot’s whole face lit up like Jason had just told him they’re going to Disney World. “No way.”

“Way.”

“You know how to brown butter?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Please. I told you I had an old guy teach me things. This is nothing.”

Elliot sat back, clearly impressed. “Damn. Okay, this is gonna be good .” Then, like he was trying really hard to play it cool, he added, “I mean. If you don’t mess it up or anything.”

Jason snorted. “Yeah, yeah, keep talking, theatre kid. We’ll see who’s laughing when I wipe the floor with those PTA moms.”

Elliot huffed out a laugh, but as Jason turned the engine off completely, his expression shifted just slightly. He hesitated, fingers tapping against the helmet still in his hands.

Jason didn’t rush him. Just watched as Elliot seemed to debate something, lips pressing together like he almost wanted to say something but changed his mind.

In the end, he just handed the helmet back.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Jason took it, resting it against his thigh before reaching out to ruffle the kid’s brown hair. “Go on, get outta here. Try not to let the school crush your soul before lunchtime.”

Elliot swatted his hand away, making a face. “Ugh, don’t do that.” But he was smiling as he said it.

Jason just smirked as the kid hopped off the bike, slinging his bag over his shoulder before disappearing into the morning crowd.

Jason watched him go for a second, then turned the helmet over in his hands with a thoughtful hum.

“…Guess it’s time to go to the grocery store.” He revved the engine, smirking to himself. “Then snoop a little more.”

With that, he sped off down the road, already planning his next move.

Chapter Text

Jason had faced death before. He’d faced mob bosses, corrupt cops, assassins, and literal monsters . He had thrown himself into fire fights, battled against impossible odds, and clawed his way back from the grave.

But nothing, nothing could have prepared him for this.

The PTA meeting.

At this point, he wished Zeus himself would strike him down where he stood. Just a single, well-placed lightning bolt. Right through the chest. Quick and painless.

But alas, like Odysseus on his endless voyage, he too had to suffer through yet another heroic battle —one that required a level of patience he simply did not possess.

A battle not of fists, but of passive-aggressive comments, judgmental stares, and an unholy amount of floral-print blouses .

Jason exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back as he stepped into the school’s multipurpose room. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, illuminating the long, rectangular tables where the moms— and the occasional dad had already started gathering.

The air smelled faintly of hand sanitizer and those awful lemon bars someone had left out on a napkin-covered plate.

Jason had barely made it three steps in before he was hit with his first attack.

" Oh, you're Elliot’s uncle? "

Jason turned his head to see a woman, mid-forties, blonde highlights, pearl earrings. She had the kind of tight-lipped smile that screamed I think I’m better than you, and I need you to know it .

" That’s me, " Jason said, forcing his usual smug grin onto his face.

The woman’s eyes did a quick, judgmental sweep of his whole existence—his leather jacket, his broad frame, the general not-a-suburban-dad energy he gave off.

" How… unexpected,*" she said, sipping her iced coffee with way too much scrutiny.

Jason resisted the urge to very deliberately knock the cup out of her hands. Instead, he forced himself to play nice.

" Yeah, life’s full of surprises, " he said smoothly. " Now, where do I sign up to pretend I care about the ‘betterment of our community’ or whatever? "

Another mom—this one with short brown hair and a cardigan that screamed Pinterest Board Supreme —chuckled. " Oh, you’re funny. "

Jason raised an eyebrow. " I wasn’t joking. "

The blonde just sighed , clearly deciding she was already done with him. " Well, let’s get started. We have a lot to discuss. "

Jason followed them to the table, already feeling like he was deeply regretting this.

At least, he reminded himself, there was one upside to all of this—he could keep an ear out for any suspicious activity. Maybe someone here knew something .

That was the only reason he was here. Not because Elliot had given him some big, hopeful look when he’d said he was coming. Nope . Strictly business.

He took a seat, trying his best to look like a functioning member of society while the moms started bickering over who got to organize the bake sale signup sheet.

Outside, storm clouds were brewing.

Fitting.

Jason tuned out most of the meeting. It was mostly mind-numbing debates over fundraising, school board policies, and whether or not peanut butter cookies should be allowed at the bake sale. (Apparently, there had been an incident last year, and the trauma still lingered.)

But he was listening, at least half-listening because he knew something shady was happening at this school. And sometimes, you found leads in the smallest, dumbest conversations.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, looking like the least-interested PTA member in history. Which was probably true.

And then—finally—something caught his ear.

"It’s just strange," one of the moms was saying, her voice hushed like she didn’t want to be overheard. "Mrs. Holloway left so suddenly. No warning, nothing. Just up and quit. And she’d been working here for years…"

Jason’s gaze flicked toward her. Mrs. Holloway?

A different mom, the one with the iced coffee, of course made a dismissive noise. "Maybe she found a better job."

"Or maybe she saw something she wasn’t supposed to," the first mom muttered.

Bingo.

Jason kept his face neutral, but his brain was already clicking into place. A longtime staff member disappearing without notice? That wasn’t just weird. That was textbook suspicious.

"Mrs. Holloway," he said casually, leaning forward. "She a teacher?"

The woman looked surprised that he was paying attention. "Oh—no, she was the school nurse. She’d been here forever."

Jason nodded like this was just idle small talk. "Huh. And no one’s heard from her?"

"Not really." The woman sighed. "I mean, she sent a resignation email, but it was so… cold. Just ‘I resign effective immediately.’ That’s not like her."

"Yeah," another mom added, "and I heard she left town."

Jason filed that away. A school nurse suddenly quitting and skipping town? That reeked of foul play.

Now he just had to figure out why.

He sat up slightly, trying to look just curious enough without raising suspicion.

"Anyone know why she left?" he asked, keeping his tone casual.

The moms exchanged glances. The one with the iced coffee rolled her eyes, but the first woman, the one who seemed actually concerned frowned.

"No one really knows," she admitted, lowering her voice like they were gossiping about some scandal. "Like I said, she just up and quit. One day she was here, and the next? Gone. No goodbyes, no warning. Just that one cold email."

"And she left town," Jason repeated.

"That’s what I heard." The woman glanced around before leaning in slightly. "And the weirdest part? She loved this school. Always went above and beyond for the kids. I mean, she was the only reason my son got his inhaler refilled last year, she noticed he was running low before I even did. Does that sound like someone who would just walk away?"

No. It didn’t.

Jason tapped his fingers against the table, thinking.

"Did she ever mention anything weird before she left?" he asked. "Act off? Seem nervous?"

"Well…" The woman hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Now that you mention it… yeah. A little. I ran into her in the hall a few weeks before she left, and she seemed… tense. Like she was distracted. I asked if she was okay, and she just smiled and said everything was fine. But I could tell something was off."

Jason’s gut tightened.

That screamed someone who had seen something they weren’t supposed to.

"What about the school?" he asked, tilting his head. "They say anything?"

"Oh, they barely acknowledged it." The iced coffee mom chimed back in, unimpressed. "Just sent out some generic email about ‘thanking her for her years of service’ and immediately replaced her. No discussion, no assembly, nothing."

Jason bit the inside of his cheek.

That was convenient. Too convenient.

Whoever was running the shady operation here must have known that Mrs. Holloway had learned something .

And now she was gone.

Jason needed to find out why .

Before he could press further, the conversation veered back into bake sale territory, and Jason had to sit through another fifteen minutes of arguing over whether someone should really be allowed to bring store-bought cookies ( scandalous, apparently ).

By the time the meeting wrapped up, Jason was already forming a plan.

Find out everything he could about Mrs. Holloway.

When she left, who she talked to last, whether she had any family in Gotham.

This was a lead. Small, but something .

As he stood to leave, the woman who had seemed the most concerned gave him a curious glance. "You’re really interested in this, huh?"

Jason gave her his most charming smile. "Just seems weird, is all."

"Yeah…" she agreed, still frowning. "It does."

Jason clapped his hands together. "Welp, this has been fun, ladies. Guess I’ll see you all at the bake sale."

And with that, he strolled out of the meeting room, already pulling out his phone.

"Oracle," he muttered as he stepped outside, the cool air hitting his face. "I need you to do some digging for me."

"On it," came Barbara’s voice, the grin clear in her tone. "Gotta say, Jaybird, I never thought I’d see the day you voluntarily sat through a PTA meeting."

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up." Jason rubbed the back of his neck, glancing up at the storm clouds above. "Just see what you can find on a Mrs. Holloway. School nurse. Went missing under suspicious circumstances."

"Consider it done."

Jason exhaled.

This investigation was finally starting to get interesting.

Jason rolled his bike into his safe house, one of the few places in Gotham that actually felt like his —a small, unmarked apartment tucked away in the heart of the city. It wasn’t much, but it was secure, and the only person who knew its location was Oracle.

He slammed the door behind him and dropped the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter. Cans of tomato paste, a carton of eggs, a couple of bags of flour for the cinnamon rolls. He was already mentally picturing how this would go down. He’d whip up the dough tonight, let it rise, and then bake the rolls in the morning.

Jason began putting the groceries away, organizing them with quick, practiced hands. He was reaching for a jar of cinnamon when his phone buzzed on the counter.

He frowned, wiping his hands on a towel before grabbing it.

Barbara's name lit up the screen, and a single message popped up.

"Check your computer. I sent everything I could find on Holloway. It’s all there."

Jason’s pulse quickened. He wiped his hands again, tossing the towel aside before heading straight to his desk. His computer booted up with a flick of the wrist, the familiar hum of the fan filling the quiet apartment.

As soon as the screen flickered to life, a series of photos and documents flooded the screen.

The first photo was of Mrs. Lena Holloway.

She was standing in what looked like a park, smiling wide, her dimples deepening as her orangey-red hair framed her face perfectly. Jason couldn’t help but notice how genuine that smile looked. She wasn’t just some faceless school employee, she was a person. A woman with a life.

Her hair contrasted sharply with her dark skin, and the vibrancy of the color made her appear younger than her 51 years. But what caught his attention wasn’t just the smile—it was the familiarity in her eyes, the warmth.

Jason clicked on the first document, which quickly expanded to show a detailed file.

Name: Lena Holloway
Age: 51
Height: 5'5
Occupation: School Nurse at Riverdale Middle School
Status: Widowed

Widowed … that hit Jason harder than he expected. It wasn’t exactly his own experience, but he could relate to loss, to the kind of isolation that followed. He lingered on that for a moment before continuing.

Bank Records:

• No recorded activity after her last paycheck.
• A final transfer, dated a week before she disappeared, to an unknown account. No other activity after that.

Jason furrowed his brow. That didn’t sound good. Mrs. Holloway had been financially stable up until that point— then nothing .

The next section showed her phone records:

Phone:

• Disconnected two days after she vanished.

Jason ran a hand through his hair. Disconnected phones were a major red flag. Someone was trying to cut off her connection to the world.

Then, under the Last Seen section, there was a grainy photo from a surveillance camera. It showed Mrs. Holloway leaving her apartment in a hurry, her bag slung over her shoulder. The timestamp was around 10:15 PM, just before the cameras cut out.

Last Seen:

• Apartment complex: surveillance shows her leaving in a hurry.
• No information on where she went—surrounding cameras were either obstructed, broken, or jammed.

Jason clicked on another attachment: a map of the area, showing the blind spots where the cameras failed. It didn’t take much to figure out that whoever was involved had planned this carefully.

The last part of the report was the most telling, though.

Emergency Contact:

• Sister: Laura Holloway
• Location: Blüdhaven
• Last contact: 2 days before Lena’s disappearance. Laura had not heard from her since.

Jason leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. He felt a deep sense of unease settle in his chest.

She had suddenly vanished—gone without a trace, her phone disconnected, bank accounts wiped clean. Whoever had done this had planned every detail. And the fact that there was no immediate family support in Gotham made it even more troubling. The sister in Blüdhaven hadn’t been contacted for help, and there was no sign that anyone had reached out to her for answers.

That was too calculated.

Jason clicked on the photo again, zooming in on Lena’s smile, that wide, open expression. He stared at it for a long while, feeling like he was missing something.

Who was she running from? And why had she left so suddenly, without a single word?

A cold chill settled over him, one that had nothing to do with the weather outside.

He tapped his phone, sending a quick text to Barbara.

"Anything else on the sister? Any links to shady activity?"

His phone buzzed almost immediately.

"Nothing so far. I’ll keep digging. Keep me posted if you find anything else."

Jason exhaled slowly.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, clicking the final document closed. "Time to pay a visit to Blüdhaven."

The ride to Blüdhaven was cold, even with his reinforced jacket cutting through most of the wind. Gotham and Blüdhaven weren’t that far apart, but the distance always felt bigger when you were heading into Nightwing’s territory. Jason wasn’t worried about running into Dick. Blüdhaven was big, and besides, Dick had a life here. He had people, responsibilities. Jason was just passing through.

He pulled up outside a modest apartment complex in the city’s quieter district. It wasn’t exactly run-down, but it was clear that the building had seen better days. The brick was chipped in places, and the dim yellow street lights outside flickered every few seconds.

He checked the notes Oracle had sent him one last time.

Name: Laura Holloway

Age: 44

Occupation: Social worker

Marital Status: Divorced, no kids

Address: 304 Kingsley Ave, Blüdhaven

Last Known Contact with Lena: A phone call two days before Lena disappeared. No contact since.

Jason had a gut feeling about this. Laura wasn’t just Lena’s emergency contact—she was her only known family. If anyone had insight into what had happened, it would be her.

He pulled out his phone, sending a quick message before heading inside.

JASON: Won’t be in town Saturday, got some stuff to take care of. But if you still want to make the treats, we can do it Sunday instead.

It didn’t take long for the kid to respond.

ELLIOT: Yessir. I will prepare myself mentally for ultimate baking warfare.

Jason snorted, shaking his head as he typed back.

JASON: Good. Because we’re going for complete and total domination.

ELLIOT: No mercy.

ELLIOT: Except for me. Because I’m a kid. You can’t destroy me. That would be child endangerment.

Jason chuckled, leaning against his bike.

JASON: Fine. You get partial mercy. But the other parents? Absolutely ruined.

ELLIOT: They’ll never recover.

Jason smirked but glanced at the time. Almost midnight.

JASON: Go to sleep, kid.

ELLIOT: Fineee. But only because I need to be well-rested to obliterate some soccer moms.

Jason shook his head, pocketing his phone. The kid was a smartass, but he liked that about him.

With that, he pulled his helmet back on, adjusting it before stepping into the shadows of the apartment complex.

Jason knocked twice on the apartment door, then took a step back. The hallway smelled faintly of old carpet and takeout, and the light above flickered like something out of a horror movie.

For a long moment, there was nothing. No sound of movement, no shadow under the door. He was about to knock again when he heard movement inside, someone checking the peephole, then hesitating. The lock didn’t turn immediately, but he heard a soft breath on the other side of the door.

“Laura Holloway?” Jason called, voice calm but clear. “I just wanna talk.”

Another pause. The chain clicked, but the door only opened an inch.

Through the narrow crack, Jason caught sight of a woman’s wary eyes peering at him. Laura Holloway. Early forties, tired but sharp. Dark skin like her sister, but with long black curls that were hastily tied back. The woman’s eyes flicked down to the Red Hood emblem on his chest, and immediately, he saw her body tense.

“You’re with the Bat,” she said bluntly, voice tight. “What do you want?”

Jason considered lying, but honestly, he wasn’t in the mood. He raised both hands slowly. “I’m here about Lena.”

Laura’s grip tightened on the door. “You one of those vigilantes that breaks in and beats people for kicks?”

Jason’s lip twitched. “Only the bad ones.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed.

Jason exhaled and, against every trained instinct, reached up and pulled his helmet off. His hair was windswept, and there was probably a crease on his cheek from the padding, but at least now he didn’t look like something out of a horror movie.

“I’m not here to scare you,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I know the cops aren’t helping. I just need some answers.”

Laura eyed him like she was weighing every possible way this could go sideways. Finally, she let out a frustrated breath and undid the chain. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Come in. But try anything, and I’m not the helpless type.”

Jason respected that. He stepped inside carefully.

The apartment was small but well-kept. Photos of Lena and Laura decorated the shelves—beach days, birthdays, holidays. Jason scanned them briefly, noting the absence of any recent ones.

Stacks of case files littered the coffee table, her laptop was open with several tabs running, and a corkboard in the corner was covered in sticky notes and printed-out emails.

Jason raised an eyebrow. "You’ve been digging."

Laura folded her arms. "Because the police won’t. They won’t even file her as missing —just ‘left voluntarily.’" She scoffed, pacing toward the kitchen. "That’s bull. She wouldn’t just leave . Not like this."

Jason followed, his gaze sweeping the room. "What makes you so sure?"

Laura gave him a sharp look, as if offended by the question. "Because she called me two days before she vanished. She was scared. She said something was wrong at that school."

Jason’s fingers twitched. He’d figured as much, but hearing it confirmed made his stomach twist.

"What kind of wrong?" Jason pressed, voice steady, careful not to sound too sharp, even though every instinct in him was already on edge.

Laura sighed heavily, dragging a hand down her face. "I don’t know," she admitted. "Lena wouldn’t give me details. Said it wasn’t safe over the phone. Just told me the kids were acting strange. Coming into her office scared out of their minds, but when she asked what was wrong, they clammed up. Like they were too afraid to say it out loud.”

Jason frowned. That wasn’t unusual when dealing with abused kids, but it still didn’t explain why Lena would disappear. “Did she mention which kids specifically? Ages, classes? Anything?”

Laura shook her head. “No. Just said they were younger. Elementary level. But she said it wasn’t just one or two kids—it was a handful. Different grades, too. Kids that didn’t usually have anything to do with each other.”

That made Jason’s stomach twist. Different grades, same fear? That usually pointed to something or someone with wide access. “Did Lena mention anything about the teachers or staff? Anyone making the kids nervous?”

Laura’s eyes darkened. “She said the administration felt... off. That’s the word she used. Off.” Her jaw tightened. “She worked there for years, she knew those people. But suddenly they were cold. Watchful. Like they were monitoring not just the kids but her too.”

Jason stayed quiet, letting her talk.

“She went to the principal,” Laura continued, her voice quieter now, like saying it out loud made it worse. “Told him something wasn’t right, that the kids needed help. But he brushed her off. Said kids fall down sometimes. Said they make things up. Said she should focus on her job and leave the ‘discipline’ to them.”

Jason’s fingers twitched against his thigh.

Laura gave a humorless laugh. “But they kept coming, even after that. More kids. Some with bruises, scrapes, even a broken wrist. And Lena swore up and down it wasn’t just kids being clumsy on the playground. She saw too much. The way they flinched. The way they tried to hide it.”

Jason’s throat felt tight.

“So she went back to the principal,” Laura said bitterly. “This time? He told her to drop it. Said it wasn’t her place. Told her if she didn’t want to lose her job, she’d mind her own business.”

He cursed under his breath, trying to keep his anger at bay. "What about the school board?" Jason asked. "Did she try going to them?"

Laura scoffed. "Of course she did. And they brushed her off, told her to ‘focus on her role’ and stop worrying about things outside her job description." She crossed her arms tightly. "Lena didn’t stop though. She wouldn’t let it go. Then, two days later—she’s gone."

Jason was sure the tension in his jaw was visible but he continued. "No signs of a struggle at her apartment?"

"Nothing. No forced entry, no missing valuables, just her leaving ." Laura exhaled heavily. " Running ."

Jason ran a hand down his face. This was bad.

Jason was sure his teeth would crack if he kept grinding them but he was doing his best to keep his composure. He’d seen enough, both as a kid and as Red Hood, to recognize exactly what kind of horror Lena had stumbled into. The kids were being silenced. The administration was covering for someone or something, and Lena had been the only adult who didn’t look away.

And now she was missing.

Jason stood, pulling his helmet back into his hands. His voice was quiet but firm. “Thank you, Laura. I’ll find out what happened.”

Laura’s shoulders sagged. “Just... if you find her... bring her home, please .” her voice cracking on the last word.

Jason nodded once, resolute. “I will.”

Without another word, he stepped out.

The night air bit against Jason’s skin as he stormed out of the apartment complex. His helmet clicked into place, hiding the fury twisting his face. His blood was boiling, bruises, broken bones, a vanished nurse, and kids too scared to even speak. He hated this. Hated when the people who were supposed to protect kids were the ones hurting them. He hated how familiar it all felt.

He hopped on his bike, tires screeching against the pavement as he tore through the dim streets of Blüdhaven. He didn’t make it far after leaving Laura’s apartment. He’d barely crossed into the next district before the anger fully caught up to him. The kind that didn’t just simmer quietly under the surface, it clawed at him, sharp and relentless. His gloved fingers flexed around the throttle of his bike, jaw tight, pulse pounding behind his eyes.

Jason knew that story too well. He’d lived it. Seen it happen over and over again in Gotham’s gutters.

And now it was happening to Elliot’s classmates. To kids with nowhere else to turn.

Jason veered hard, pulling into an alley and killing the engine. His fingers trembled, not with fear, but rage. He needed to hit something. Needed to feel his knuckles connect and make the world make some kind of sense again.

Luckily, Bludhaven never failed to provide as the city was quieter than Gotham, but it didn’t take long to find trouble. A group of low-level thugs were in the middle of shaking down a liquor store owner on 5th and Mason.

Perfect.

Jason didn’t hesitate.

He crashed through the front window, sending glass flying and scattering the terrified gang. His fist was already driving into the nearest guy’s face before the rest could even think of pulling a weapon. The next few minutes were chaos—broken shelves, fists slamming into brick walls, and blood smearing the tiled floor. Jason didn’t hold back. He didn’t have it in him tonight.

One tried to run, and Jason hooked him by the back of the shirt, yanking him into a metal rack hard enough to send him sprawling. Another came at him with a crowbar which just made his anger flare again. Jason ducked, twisting the weapon out of the guy's hands and bringing it down with a crack across his arm.

It wasn’t enough.

He kept going until the entire crew was laid out groaning, barely conscious, and only then did he realize he was breathing hard, knuckles bloody beneath his gloves.

“Geez, Hood,” came a familiar voice from the shattered front door. “You trying to flatten all of Blüdhaven tonight, or just these guys?”

Jason stiffened.

Nightwing leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyebrow arched beneath his domino mask. His suit looked slightly roughed up—he’d probably been on his own patrol, but the smirk on his face was all classic Dick Grayson.

Jason wiped at his helmet with the back of his glove, trying to act unbothered. “Stay out of it, Goldilocks.”

Dick just sighed, stepping carefully over a fallen display rack as he followed Jason out into the street. The sharp chill of the wind outside wasn’t enough to cool the heat still burning in Jason’s veins, but it did help him ground himself.

Behind them, the store owner peeked out from behind the counter, eyes wide and anxious.

Dick paused by the door and called over his shoulder, “Sir, sorry about the mess. I’ll make sure the department helps with repairs. You won’t have to pay a cent.”

The man gave a nervous but grateful nod, glancing at the pile of unconscious thugs and then at Jason, as if unsure who was more dangerous.

Jason ignored it and kept walking, boots heavy on the cracked sidewalk.

Dick caught up easily, matching his pace. The streets were quieter now, the flickering glow of the old streetlamps painting the road in uneven patches of yellow.

“You gonna tell me what that was about?” Dick tried again, voice softer, less like Nightwing and more like… him. The big brother Jason had once known.

Jason exhaled through his nose. “I already told you to stay out of it.”

“Doesn’t exactly inspire confidence when you’re throwing guys through walls like you’re trying out for demolition derby,” Dick pointed out, but there wasn’t judgment in it—just concern.

Jason shot him a glare but kept walking. The silence stretched between them like a taut wire until Dick finally backed off, running a gloved hand through his hair. “Alright. Fine. You don’t want to talk? I won’t make you.”

Jason grunted, half expecting Dick to keep pushing, but for once, he didn’t. The quiet settled between them like a thin sheet of ice—fragile, one wrong step from cracking.

Then, just when Jason thought he was in the clear, Dick spoke up again.

“So,” Dick said, falling into step beside him again. “How’s the undercover mission going?”

Jason sighed sharply through his nose. “It’s going.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Jason shot him a look. “I’m workin’ on it, alright?”

Dick hummed like he wasn’t convinced. “And how’s being a fake uncle?” His lips twitched, the corners of his mouth threatening to curl into a smirk. “Oracle told me you went to a PTA meeting.”

Jason came to an abrupt stop, leveling him with a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “You guys talk too much.”

Dick let out a laugh, failing—miserably—to suppress it. “You? PTA meetings? Jason, come on. I need details. Did you bring a casserole?”

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, I didn’t bring a damn casserole.”

Dick grinned. “So, what? You just showed up in your leather jacket and brooding aura, trying to blend in with the soccer moms?”

Jason shoved his hands in his pockets, rolling his shoulders. “Tolerated the suburban hellscape, gathered intel, didn’t commit homicide. All in all, a success.”

Dick snickered. “Man, I would’ve paid good money to see that.”

Jason just shook his head, starting toward his bike again. “Yeah, well, don’t hold your breath. I ain’t exactly planning a return visit unless absolutely necessary.”

Dick fell into step beside him, still grinning. “And the kid?”

Jason hesitated for a fraction of a second. “What about him?”

Dick raised a brow. “C’mon, Jay. Oracle said you’re spending a lot of time with him.”

Jason clicked his tongue, kicking at a loose piece of gravel on the sidewalk. “He’s alright.”

Dick’s grin softened into something more genuine. “You like him.”

Jason groaned. “I tolerate him.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Shut up.”

Dick chuckled but let it drop.

Jason exhaled, relieved. The last thing he needed was for Dick to start prying. Because the truth was, yeah, he did like the kid. Elliot was sharp, quick-witted, and had that same scrappy kind of resilience Jason had when he was younger. The kind that made him a little too easy to care about.

Which was exactly why Jason had to stay focused. Because at the end of the day, this wasn’t about him. It was about the kids, about Lena, about making sure whatever was going on at that school stopped before more damage could be done.

And right now, the best thing he could do for Elliot was figure this out.

Jason swung onto his bike, revving the engine. “I got work to do.”

Dick laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, I’m going. But seriously—” His voice lost a bit of its teasing edge, settling into something quieter, something genuine. “If you need anything, I'm just one chirp away.”

Jason tensed, fingers tightening around the throttle. He didn’t answer right away. He just stared at his brother, at the easy way Dick said it—like it wasn’t a big deal, like Jason asking for help was just as natural as breathing. It shouldn’t have made something tighten in his chest, but it did.

He exhaled sharply, not looking at Dick. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Dick didn’t push, didn’t say anything else. Just gave Jason’s shoulder one last pat before stepping back. Then, as if the moment had never happened, his grin returned in full force.

“But seriously,” Dick said, crossing his arms. “If you win that bake sale, you have to bring me something.”

Jason groaned, shoving his hand off. “Go patrol your own damn city.”

Dick smirked. “You’re avoiding the question.”

Jason revved his engine, letting the roar of the bike drown out whatever comeback Dick had locked and loaded. Then, without another word, he took off, tearing down the street and disappearing into the night.

Chapter Text

The city blurred around him as Jason rode, the cold night wind biting through the seams in his jacket no matter how reinforced it was. The streets of Blüdhaven were quieter now, but they never truly slept—just like Gotham. Same breed of crime, just with a different coat of paint. And like Gotham, the shadows here whispered things if you listened long enough.

Jason didn’t listen tonight. Not to the wind, not to the engine humming beneath him, not to the echo of Dick’s words still hanging stubbornly in the back of his mind. He kept his focus forward, eyes narrowed behind his helmet’s visor. The streets blurred into muscle memory, and before long, he was pulling into the hidden garage of one of his lesser-used safehouses tucked in a forgotten alley between a boarded-up bookstore and a tax place that hadn’t seen business in two years.

The door slid shut behind him with a mechanical groan. He killed the engine and swung off the bike in one fluid motion, boots hitting the concrete with a dull thud. The place smelled faintly of oil and metal—a comfort, in a strange way. Everything here was controlled, quiet. It was his space. His rules.

He stripped off the helmet, tossed it on the workbench, and yanked open the mini-fridge in the corner, pulling out a beer, cracking it open with a sharp hiss. The groceries he’d bought earlier still sat on the counter, abandoned where he’d left them, waiting to be packed away. He didn’t move to do it right away. Instead, he stood in the middle of the room, letting the silence settle like dust around him.

Then, he moved.

He booted up his laptop, the screen flickering to life. Oracle’s files were already loaded—photos, reports, scanned notes, and Lena Holloway’s profile staring back at him with that warm, dimpled smile that now felt like a ghost. He pulled up everything she had sent him earlier and opened a second monitor beside it, dragging over a blank workspace.

Time to connect the dots.

Victim: Lena Holloway, school nurse.
Last seen: Leaving her apartment in a hurry. No follow-up on transit cameras—either broken or jammed.
Phone: Disconnected shortly after.
Bank records: Dead silence after her last paycheck.
Emergency contact: Laura Holloway, sister in Blüdhaven. Confirmed concern. Confirmed Lena spoke of strange behavior in students and possible issues with school administration.
Reported Injuries: Multiple kids came to Lena with bruises, cuts and injuries not consistent with normal playground accidents. When reported to the principal, she was brushed off. When she followed up, she was told to drop it.

Jason leaned back in his chair, jaw clenched. This wasn’t just some runaway case. Lena hadn’t left because she wanted to. Someone made her go silent.

He pulled up the map of Gotham and its outer districts, placing pins where Lena’s school, her apartment, and her last known locations intersected. Then he added a layer for the other schools in the district and any child services buildings within the area. Social worker files too. Laura’s office came up quickly. Nothing out of the ordinary on paper, but that didn’t mean much.

Jason grabbed a notepad and scribbled out the questions still bugging him:

• What scared the kids enough to seek out Lena but made them refuse to talk?
• What does the administration gain by ignoring the injuries?
• How far up does this go?
• Was Lena targeted because she pushed too hard?
• Who’s keeping tabs on the school now that she’s gone?

He paused, then added a new one underlined twice:

• Where are the kids now?

Jason leaned back, jaw tightening. This wasn’t just a runaway case. Lena hadn’t vanished by choice, someone had made sure of it.

His mind drifted to Principal Whitmore. He was suspect number one, but Jason had a gut feeling he wasn’t the mastermind. He was a puppet, and the real player? That mysterious woman Jason had heard him talking to.

The more he pieced it together, the more it reeked. Not just negligence— deliberate obfuscation. Someone had made sure there were no easy leads, no easy surveillance. Someone had shut it all down with enough reach to erase a person like Lena and enough confidence to think no one would look twice.

Unfortunately for them, Jason Todd was very good at looking twice.

Jason stared at the spreadsheet Oracle had compiled, each line a quiet indictment. Names. Ages. Withdrawal dates. Case numbers.

He didn’t need to dig deep to see the pattern.

The majority of the kids Lena had treated before she disappeared weren’t just foster kids—they were the forgotten ones. The quiet kids. The ones who didn’t talk back, who blended in, who didn’t have family showing up at school events or calling the office three times a week to check on their grades. Some were in group homes. Others in overcrowded foster placements that rotated them like playing cards. A few, like Elliot, were in underfunded orphanages, barely clinging to state support and forgotten by the city around them.

One by one, those kids had vanished from the school’s records.

Some had "official" withdrawal forms with forged signatures Jason could spot in five seconds. Others didn’t even have that—just vague notes in the system like “placed in alternative care” or “transferred out of district.” But there were no destination schools listed. No transfer confirmations. No forwarding paperwork. No CPS records or foster parent documentation. Just blank spaces where a child should be.

That wasn’t neglect.

That was erasure.

Jason leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, forehead pressing into his gloved knuckles. The metal of his knuckle guard was cool against his brow, grounding.

He didn’t need anyone to explain how this worked, he knew. He’d lived it.

He remembered being that kid—bruises hidden under threadbare sleeves, holes in his shoes, stomach empty more often than full. He remembered dirt under his nails, the sick-sour smell of the alley behind Ma Gunn’s, the silence that followed him into every classroom. He remembered how adults talked around him, never to him. How they wrote him off before he even opened his mouth.

But he also remembered what it felt like when someone did notice. A soup kitchen volunteer. A janitor who let him sleep in the back office with the lights off. A counselor who pulled him aside after class and quietly asked about the  bruises he claimed came from falling down the stairs.

People like Lena.

People who paid attention.

And now? She was gone. Because she’d looked too closely. Because she cared.

Jason’s jaw clenched as he sat back up, dragging the cursor across the screen and opening a flagged document. It was a nurse’s report. Basic stuff—school injury log, clinical language—but the emotion bled through the gaps.

“Student came in with injuries inconsistent with playground fall. Rib bruising, small laceration across upper back. No clear story offered. Student visibly distressed, refused to make eye contact, flinched at sudden movement. Escorted back to class after evaluation.”

The name had been redacted, or deleted. But Oracle had linked it to a withdrawal three days later.

Gone.

Another ghost in the system.

Jason clicked open another file. Then another. Same story on repeat. Burn marks. Swollen wrists. Bite scars. Bruises in strange shapes. Torn clothing. And in every report, Lena had made a note. Documented. Flagged. Recorded patterns. Tried to get attention.

She’d been building a case.

And someone had noticed.

Jason scrolled through the emails Oracle had recovered from the school’s internal servers. Most were banal. Calendar invites. PTA bake sale reminders. Custodial updates. But then he found it—a thread between Lena and Principal Whitmore:

“I understand the need for discretion, but this is the third case this month that I’ve had to report. We owe it to these children to do something.”

And Whitmore’s response:

“Drop it.”

Two words. That was it. No explanation. No concern. Just a command.

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, his gloved fingers curling into a fist against the edge of the desk. He’d seen this kind of apathy before—indifference masked as protocol, silence disguised as professionalism. But this wasn’t just someone covering their ass. This wasn’t fear.

This was complicity.

The kids weren’t being overlooked—they were being preyed on. The system meant to protect them was being used to make them disappear.

He pushed back from the desk and paced the room, thoughts racing. If Lena had kept pressing—and Jason was sure she had—someone had made sure she went quiet.

And if they could do that to her ?

Then the kids—

They never stood a chance.

Jason walked to the far wall, where he’d taped up a full map of the district. Red pins marked the schools Lena had worked with. Yellow for CPS buildings. Blue for every orphanage and group home in the area. Strings stretched between them, tracing the paths kids had taken before they dropped off the radar.

He stared at it for a long moment before he added a new pin. A black one. Elliot’s orphanage.

That was next.

He hadn’t wanted to press the kid—Elliot was already skittish enough, but this changed everything. Jason thought of Elliot’s crooked smile, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about old movie musicals, how he shrunk in on himself when voices got too loud or hands moved too fast. He didn’t want to believe something had happened to him.

But Jason didn’t believe in coincidences.

If Elliot was on someone’s list…

He felt the chill settle deep into his bones.

Jason returned to his desk and stared at the second screen Oracle had set up—thirteen profiles lined up like headstones.

Thirteen kids.

All withdrawn from Lena’s school. All orphans. All gone.

Some had photos—school portraits with stiff collars and fake smiles, or candid snapshots pulled from old case files. Kids huddled in threadbare coats, staring at the camera with tired eyes. Some looked like they hadn’t had a warm meal in days. Others looked... haunted.

He clicked through each profile, his throat tightening as he read.

• -Brandon Mills, Age 8. Fractured wrist, inconsistent story about a playground fall. School staff said he fell off the monkey bars. Lena didn’t believe it.

• -Sophia Reyes, Age 10. Bruises along her ribs, but when Lena asked, she flinched and refused to answer.

• -Damon Harris, Age 13. A busted lip, a swollen eye, and a fractured knuckle. He told Lena he fell down the stairs. She noted in her report that his injuries were more consistent with someone hitting him.

• -Elijah Carter, Age 7. No visible injuries, but he wouldn’t stop crying when he was sent back to class. Wouldn’t say why.

One after the other. Pain. Silence. Disappearance.

Jason leaned back, scrubbing a hand down his face, heart hammering behind his ribs.

He knew how easy it was to lose kids like this. The ones without names powerful enough to echo. The ones without parents to raise hell when their beds went empty. The ones the system expected to fall through the cracks.

But now he knew it wasn’t a crack.

It was a funnel.

A pipeline.

Someone was profiting from these kids going missing. That much was obvious now. And Lena had gotten close enough to see the pattern and they’d made damn sure she didn’t get a chance to sound the alarm.

But they hadn’t counted on someone else picking up the threads.

Jason reached for the keyboard again and typed a quick message to Oracle:

RED HOOD: I need every withdrawn student from Lena’s school in the last 18 months. Cross-reference with foster placements, hospital visits, police calls, CPS records. I don’t care how buried. Find me everything.

ORACLE: Already on it. But it’s bad, Jay. Really bad.

RED HOOD: Worse than we thought?

ORACLE: This isn’t just neglect. It’s organized. I think Lena stumbled onto something huge . Maybe trafficking. Maybe worse.

Jason stared at the screen. Let the weight of it press down on him.

This wasn’t just a missing persons case anymore.

This was a warpath.

And he was ready for war.

He’d start with the orphanage. Then the school. Then the administration building. Then the people hiding behind the paperwork and the polite smiles and the ink on fake documents.

Whoever had been using those kids—hurting them, discarding them, selling them—they thought they were safe behind red tape and broken systems.

But they’d never met The Red Hood.

And now?

He was coming for them.

Chapter Text

The next morning started quiet.

Too quiet.

Jason stood in the middle of the safe house’s kitchen, frowning at the pile of groceries he’d stacked on the counter last night—bags of flour, sugar, powdered cinnamon, cream cheese, milk (that he somehow remembered to put in the fridge), and the biggest damn bag of brown sugar he could find because the kid had insisted the secret was in the filling. He’d also picked up a couple extra things he didn’t technically need—apple juice, those mini marshmallows Elliot liked in hot cocoa, and a pack of colorful pens he wasn’t about to admit caught his eye because the kid doodled in the margins of every paper he touched.

He was halfway through stuffing everything into two reusable canvas bags when his stomach twisted.

He looked around the space—gray walls, bare floors, reinforced windows. It was functional, armored, strategically perfect. But it wasn’t... livable. Not for a kid. Not for Elliot.

The security cameras embedded in the ceiling stared down at him like blinking eyes. There was a rifle case under the coffee table. The hallway was lined with gear bags and field kits, and in the corner by the back door, a wall panel slid open to reveal a small cache of weapons. Jason didn’t even notice it anymore.

But Elliot would.

Jason let out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck.

Bringing a kid to a safe house was already questionable. This safe house? The one that doubled as a weapons locker and safe-crash zone for when shit hit the fan?

Yeah. No.

Elliot deserved better than that.

He glanced back at the groceries, then to his helmet resting on the entry table. The idea of hauling two full bags and a jumpy Twelve year old on the back of a motorcycle made him snort under his breath. Impractical didn’t even begin to cover it.

So, car it was.

Jason grabbed his keys and tossed the helmet aside, slinging the grocery bags over his shoulder with a soft grunt. He moved through the safe house one last time, locking up the gear wall, tucking away the file folders Oracle had sent over, covering every trace of the investigation he’d stayed up reading until three in the morning.

Because Elliot didn’t need to see that.

Not yet.

Jason stepped out into the overcast Gotham morning and loaded the bags into the trunk of an old, beat-up Dodge Charger he kept for civilian errands—matte black, unassuming, and most importantly, with a backseat.

He slammed the trunk shut and paused, leaning against the frame for a second as the city buzzed faintly around him.

I’ll take him to the other place, he decided, staring out at the empty street. The Narrows unit. It’s basically an apartment. Neutral ground. Clean. Safe. No bullet holes in the walls.

It wasn’t exactly cozy, but it had a kitchen, a couch, real sheets on the bed, and the faintest echo of a life that wasn’t completely wrapped in Kevlar and trauma.

It’d do.

Jason slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and listened to the engine rumble to life beneath him. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, exhaled slow, and muttered to himself—

“Cinnamon rolls.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Then he pulled out onto the road and headed toward Elliot’s orphanage.

Jason let Elliot ramble, the kid's animated storytelling easing some of the tension that had coiled in his shoulders overnight. It was stupid how good it felt—just driving with someone who wasn’t trying to stab him or lecture him. He didn’t get that often.

Elliot peeked into the bag at his feet, eyes lighting up. “You seriously bought three different kinds of cinnamon?”

Jason nodded. “You’re the one who said we needed options.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

Jason smirked. “Well, you wanted to win that bake sale, right? Gotta commit.”

“Okay, yeah, but now I feel like we’re entering MasterChef levels of intensity.”

“Good. Means we’re doing it right.”

They pulled up to the apartment building a few minutes later. It was one of Jason’s better places—clean brick exterior, low-profile but secure. The kind of building where neighbors didn’t ask questions and the super knew how to fix a leaking pipe without having to be bribed. He parked in the underground garage and popped the trunk.

Elliot hopped out first, grabbing one of the bags like he was trying to prove something. “Whoa. Okay, this is heavy. What even is in here?”

“Two sacks of flour, three pounds of butter, and your dreams of sugar domination,” Jason said, shouldering his own bag.

Elliot puffed out a breath and nodded solemnly. “We bake… or we die trying.”

Jason chuckled under his breath as they took the elevator up to the third floor.“You’re way too dramatic for a twelve year old.”

“Twelve and a half,” Elliot corrected with a grin.

Jason gave him a look. “Right. My bad.”

When they reached the door, Jason unlocked it and nudged it open with his shoulder.

Elliot stepped inside first and stopped dead. “Whoa.”

Jason kicked the door shut behind them. “Told you it was mostly normal.”

The apartment was minimal but cozy—well lit, stocked with basic furniture, and just enough signs of lived-in comfort to make it feel like more than a safehouse. A few books stacked on the coffee table. A record player in the corner. One of Alfred’s old teapots Jason could never quite bring himself to use, sitting on a shelf, next to it stood a few framed pictures, not many, but enough to feel human. 

“This is... actually kinda nice,” Elliot said, setting his bag on the counter and helping unload the groceries. “Like, you could almost pass for a regular adult or something.”

Jason arched a brow. “Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” The younger boy said, sticking his tongue out

They got to work unpacking. Jason tossing the heavier items onto the counter while Elliot organized ingredients with surprising efficiency. Flour. Sugar. Yeast. Butter. Eggs.

The smell of cinnamon and butter hung heavy in the air, warm and golden and smugly perfect. The trays of rolls were cooling on the stovetop, their swirled tops just starting to firm, steam still rising in lazy curls. Jason had to admit—these things looked legit .

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching as Elliot inspected their masterpiece like some kind of pint-sized food critic. The kid had flour on his elbow, icing on his cheek, and a gleam in his eye that made Jason instantly suspicious.

Elliot dipped a pinky into the icing bowl again, casually trying to disguise it as a structural integrity test. Jason raised an eyebrow.

“That’s the sixth time you’ve tasted that,” he said.

“Nope,” Elliot replied with absolutely no shame. “That was, like, the third. Maybe fourth.”

Jason crossed the room and plucked the bowl out of reach. “If we run out before the rolls are ready, you’re eating them plain.”

Elliot gasped like Jason had suggested cannibalism. “You’re a monster.”

Jason ignored him and set the bowl on the top shelf of the fridge, just to be safe.

They moved to the couch after that, both flopping down like they'd just run a marathon instead of baked for two hours. Jason stretched out with a groan, tossing an arm over the back of the couch. Elliot sat criss-cross, cradling a throw pillow like it owed him rent.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever done,” Elliot said dramatically.

Jason snorted. “You said that when we made grilled cheese.”

“Yeah, and I meant it then , too. But this? This is next level.”

They sat in companionable silence for a minute. The kitchen still smelled like happiness and sugar, and the hum of synth-pop had faded into soft background noise.

Then Elliot shifted, turning toward Jason with a weirdly serious look on his face.

“Hey, uh—can I tell you something?”

Jason blinked, instantly alert. He sat up a little. “Yeah. Course.”

Elliot leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Come here. Like, ear-level.”

Jason narrowed his eyes, but leaned in a bit, cautious but curious. “What’s up?”

Elliot’s expression was solemn. Too solemn. Like he was about to confess to murder or tell Jason he’d set the microwave on fire.

Instead— SMACK .

A puff of flour exploded against Jason’s cheek. His whole head reeled back as the kid pulled away, absolutely grinning .

“ Traitor ,” Jason said, blinking through the cloud of white powder.

Elliot was already halfway off the couch, laughing like a maniac and ducking behind the kitchen island. “Your face looks like a sad pancake!”

Jason wiped his face with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of flour across his nose. He looked down at the mess on his shirt and then toward the kitchen.

“Oh, it’s on , you little shi- goblin.”

Elliot shrieked and bolted as Jason lunged over the couch. There wasn’t much space to work with, but the apartment suddenly became a warzone—Jason armed with a handful of leftover flour from the bag they hadn’t put away, and Elliot diving behind furniture like he was in a spy movie.

“You started this!” Jason called, flinging a pinch of flour that hit the kid square in the shoulder.

“And I’m gonna finish it!” Elliot laughed, ducking and sliding across the tile on socked feet like a tiny stuntman.

Eventually, Jason cornered him near the oven, both of them breathless and covered in white streaks like ghosts who’d just run through a bakery.

“Okay! Okay!” Elliot wheezed. “Truce!”

Jason raised an eyebrow, one hand hovering near the flour bag. “Swear on the icing?”

“I swear on the icing!”

They held eye contact for a moment, then both slowly stepped back.

Jason turned toward the sink to grab a towel.

Elliot, of course, took that exact moment to flick more flour at the back of his neck.

Jason didn’t even react.

“Oh,” he said, voice deadly calm. “Now you’ve done it.”

Elliot’s eyes went wide. “Uh—”

“ Now, ” Jason growled, cracking his knuckles, “you’ve declared war. ”

The second chase didn’t last long. Eventually, Jason scooped Elliot up under one arm like a sack of potatoes, the kid laughing so hard he nearly fell apart.

They flopped back on the couch again after that, wheezing, still covered in flour, everything a mess—but in the best kind of way.

The kitchen timer dinged softly in the background. The rolls were ready for icing.

Jason gave Elliot a sideways glance. “You gonna behave long enough to help me finish these, or do I gotta lock you in the fridge first?”

Elliot grinned, leaning back against the cushions. “No promises.”

Jason laughed. And for once, it didn’t feel strange on his face.

The rolls had cooled enough to ice, and the kitchen was filled with that warm, spiced-butter smell that made everything feel like maybe the world wasn’t so bad after all. Jason had dragged the tray to the table, and Elliot stood on the other side, bowl of homemade icing in his hands like it was sacred treasure.

"Okay," Jason said, pulling over a butter knife. "Moment of truth."

Elliot handed him the icing like it was a precious artifact. “Don’t mess it up. I worked really hard stealing—uh, sampling this.”

Jason shot him a look, but there was no real heat behind it. He dipped the knife into the icing and spread a thick layer onto the first roll. “You’re lucky I didn’t make you start from scratch.”

“Please, I enhanced it,” Elliot said, grabbing a second knife and joining in. “This is a collaborative masterpiece. Like Van Gogh and... the guy who cut off his ear.”

Jason paused. “Van Gogh was the guy who cut off his ear.”

Elliot blinked. “...Oh. Right. Well. This is a solo act, then. But with backup dancers.”

Jason huffed a laugh, nudging a roll closer to Elliot. “Stick to icing, Picasso.”

They worked in companionable quiet for a few minutes, smearing thick swirls over the warm pastries. Jason was precise, carefully edging the icing to every corner—while Elliot was a little messier, opting for coverage over perfection.

 It was... peaceful. Weirdly peaceful. Jason didn’t usually do peaceful. He wasn’t built for it.

But here they were—flour on the counters, frosting on their fingers, and no one screaming, bleeding, or trying to blow something up. A rare moment of still.

Eventually, the shorter boy broke the silence, voice quieter than usual. “So… anything new at the school?”

Jason froze for a half-second—just long enough to feel it. That sting in his gut. The one that reminded him why he was here in the first place. Why he couldn’t afford to screw this up.

The mission. The kids.

Elliot.

He shouldn’t be here making cinnamon rolls with this kid. He shouldn’t let him laugh at his jokes or prank him with flour bombs or sit too close on the couch watching cartoons like it was just a normal weekend. That wasn’t what this was. Elliot was a witness. A thread in a web. A lead.

He wasn’t supposed to get attached.

But he did  was close.

Jason forced a breath in through his nose and schooled his expression before the kid could notice, and plastered on that crooked smile that used to get him out of trouble when Bruce was suspicious.

“Well,” he said, putting down the butter knife and leaning his hands on the counter. “You know how it is, Agent Trouble. High-level top-secret stuff. Classified. 'Uncle John’s' on strict orders not to reveal too much.”

Elliot looked up at him, skeptical but amused. “So that’s a yes.”

Jason huffed a breath, half a laugh. “You know I can’t give you classified intel, Agent Trouble.”

Elliot cracked a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “C’mon. Just a little bit?”

Jason put the spoon down and leaned back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest.

“We’re still looking into it,” he said. “There’s… a lot to untangle. Some shady stuff. But we’re getting closer.”

Elliot finally looked up at him. “Is it bad?”

Jason paused, then gave a half-smile. “It’s not great. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

It was the truth. At least, it would be.

Elliot held his gaze for a second longer, then nodded like he was filing it away in some private part of his mind. His expression was more thoughtful than worried, but Jason could see it. The questions behind his eyes. The little frown tugging at his mouth. He might think Jason worked for some covert agency—thanks to the vague “government job” cover Oracle had cooked up—but the kid wasn’t stupid.

He knew something bad was happening.

Jason hated this part. The look in the kid’s eyes that said he knew —knew something was off, knew this wasn’t just about cinnamon rolls and chill afternoons.

This wasn’t just some bonding exercise. It was reconnaissance.

He’d come here to keep tabs. To see if Elliot was connected. To gather intel.

And somewhere along the way, the lines had started to blur.

He watched Elliot smear a final stripe of icing on the last roll, tongue poking out in concentration. The kid was still too small for his hoodie. Still had bruises on his arm from rough housing with his friends, that hadn’t faded all the way. Still slept with a nightlight when he thought no one noticed.

Jason swallowed.

The mission mattered. It had to.

But so did this kid.

Elliot glanced up again, softer now. “You sure you’re okay?”

Jason smiled—small, but real. “Yeah, kid. I’m good.”

Then, to break the tension, he added, “Besides, if it does get too serious, I’ve got a secret weapon.”

Elliot perked up. “Laser cannons?”

“Nope.”

“Jetpack?”

“Wrong again.”

Elliot leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Tell me.”

Jason tapped a spoon against his forehead. “I’ve got you , Agent Trouble. Worst-case scenario, I just launch you at the bad guys. Flour bombs and sass.”

Elliot snorted and laughed, the sound warm and sharp like cracking sugar. “You wish you had that kind of firepower.”

Jason ruffled his hair, earning an eye roll, but the smile lingered on both their faces.

For now, that was enough.

Jason set the first cinnamon roll onto a plate, the icing still warm and gooey, dripping down the sides like molten lava. He handed it to Elliot, who was already licking icing off his fingers. He then grabbed one for himself. Elliot followed, careful not to drop the plate, eyes locked on the roll like it was sacred.

“This,” Elliot said reverently, “is the peak of human achievement.”

“I declare these a massive success,” Jason said, biting into his own roll. The sweet, buttery dough practically melted in his mouth.

Elliot grinned and bit into his, closing his eyes like he was ascending to another plane of existence. “Ten out of ten. Tell NASA to stand down. We don’t need space travel, we’ve got these.”

Jason chuckled, chewing thoughtfully. It was good. Sweet, just the right amount of cinnamon, warm enough to melt away any leftover tension. For a little while, they sat in silence, the kind that only came with full stomachs and comfortable company.

“We’ve got more than enough for your bake sale, plus extras for quality control.” Jason said.

“Quality control,” Elliot echoed around a mouthful of pastry. “Sounds way more official than ‘I wanted two.’”

Jason gave him a look. “Don’t push it.”

They made their way to the couch with their cinnamon rolls, the tray left on the counter like a trophy. Jason flicked the TV on low, not enough to really watch, just enough to fill the space and be background noise to a moment that felt just a little too peaceful for Gotham, while they both crashed from the sugar and effort.

Jason stole a glance at the kid—barefoot now, hoodie sleeves pushed up, legs criss crossed on the couch. He looked younger like this. Softer. Safer. How comfortable he looked. It was moments like this that made everything ache a little worse. Because it was too rare. Too fragile.

He finished his roll slowly, too slowly, then set the plate aside and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

And Jason knew better than to trust moments like these.

“Hey,” he said after a minute, tone shifting just enough to draw Elliot’s attention.

The kid blinked at him, mouth half-full. “Yeah?”

Jason met his gaze, steady. “I need to ask you something.”

Elliot swallowed and wiped his fingers on a napkin, instantly more alert. “Okay…?”

Jason hesitated, not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he needed to say it right.

“I need you to be straight with me. No deflections. No jokes. Not even brushing it off. Just the truth, alright?”

The humor faded from Elliot’s face. He sat up straighter, the warmth of their lazy afternoon dimming slightly, like a cloud had drifted in front of the sun. “Alright.”

Jason leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I need to know about the school. And the orphanage. If anything’s happened. If anyone’s hurt you—or tried to. I need to know if you’ve seen anything weird, anything that didn’t feel right. People coming in and out, kids being taken out at odd hours, teachers asking you to keep secrets. That kind of thing.”

Elliot’s brow furrowed. He didn’t say anything right away.

Jason pressed, gentler this time. “Elliot… have you been hurt? Physically? Mentally? I don’t care how small it seems. You have to tell me. This isn’t about getting anyone in trouble. It’s about making sure you and the other kids are safe.”

Elliot blinked. His mouth opened like he was going to toss out some sarcastic reply, then shut again. He looked down at his hands instead, picking at a bit of dried icing on his thumb.

Jason didn’t push. He just waited, giving Elliot the space to answer.

After a moment, Elliot said quietly, “Why are you asking me that now?”

Jason’s jaw ticked. “Because I’ve seen enough to know something’s wrong. You’re not the only kid to disappear off the records, and Lena—the school nurse—was trying to keep track. She was on to something. And I think she got hurt cause of it. So I need to know if you’ve seen anything. If anyone ever touched you, hurt you, said something they shouldn’t. I need the truth, Elliot. I need your truth.”

Elliot sat silent for a long beat.

“There’s nothing… obvious, ” he said slowly. “No, like, evil villain speeches or scary labs in the basement. Just… stuff that feels wrong.”

Jason stayed quiet, letting the silence hold. Waiting.

“B- but other than that” Elliot added quickly, forcing a weak, crooked smile, “nothing really happens” 

Jason’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t move. Just watched him with quiet patience.

Elliot sighed, dropping the act like a too-heavy coat. “Okay. That’s not fair. I guess… sometimes it’s not what people do. It’s what they don’t do.”

Jason nodded slowly, encouraging without pressure.

Elliot shifted on the couch, curling one leg under himself. His voice dropped.

“At the orphanage,” Elliot continued, voice low, “no one hits you. Not really. But they don’t care, either. Like, if someone gets in a fight, they break it up, but that’s it. If someone has bruises or doesn’t eat for two days, no one asks why. You learn to just… deal with stuff. Quietly.”

Jason’s hands curled, leaving crescent shaped marks.

“There was this one guy,” Elliot added after a moment. “He worked the night shift last winter. Creeped everyone out. Always staring too long. I never caught him doing anything, but—he made the little kids cry sometimes. Just with looks. One of them, Sarah, she stopped talking for, like, a week.”

Jason’s voice was soft but steady, not letting any of his anger out. “Did you tell anyone?”

Elliot gave him a flat look. “Who? Mrs. Grady? She thinks we make this stuff up for attention. Telling her would’ve made it worse.”

Jason exhaled through his nose and shut his eyes for a second. “That’s not okay.”

“I know,” Elliot muttered, eyes dropping again.

“Sometimes… kids leave. And they don’t say goodbye. And when you ask where they went, the staff tells you something vague, like they got placed in a new home. But then no one hears from them. No phone calls. No letters. Not even the kids who used to write all the time.”

His hands trembled slightly as he held the now-empty plate in his lap.

“And sometimes… I wake up at night and hear things. Voices. Doors closing real late. Once I heard a kid crying, and then it just… stopped. Like someone turned off a switch. I asked about it, and they said it was a bad dream. But I know it wasn’t.”

Jason felt a cold knot of rage tighten in his stomach. His jaw clenched, but his voice stayed even. “And the school?”

Elliot took a shaky breath. “It’s not much better. No one listens to us there either. Like we’re just… numbers. If you get hurt, they write it off. Tell you to walk it off or lie on the report. I got shoved down the stairs once—really bad. My arm hurt for a week. I told the new nurse, and she said I should be more careful. That I probably tripped.”

Jason’s eyes darkened. He was quiet for a moment, then asked softly, “And Ms. Holloway?”

“She was the only one who actually paid attention,” Elliot said, his voice thickening at the edges. “She didn’t treat me like a problem. Used to check in with me, even if I didn’t say anything. Thought she was being nosey at the time, but… I really miss her. After she left… things got worse.”

Jason let out a slow breath, forcing himself to keep calm. 

He shifted closer and rested a firm but gentle hand on Elliot’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, kid.”

Elliot didn’t pull away.

Jason looked at him then really looked. This sharp, smart, too-old-for-his-years kid sitting on his couch, pretending like his world wasn’t falling apart because he’d had one good day and a cinnamon roll.

He felt something twist in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with the mission. He felt that coldness again. That quiet rage that he always resorted to.

This kid. This kid, who joked about fake missions and could bake a perfect cinnamon roll, who took care of the younger kids and still called himself annoying like it was armor—

He’d just accepted that kind of silence. That kind of danger. Like it was normal.

“I should’ve told someone,” Elliot said, so quietly Jason almost missed it. “Maybe if I had, someone would’ve helped. Maybe some of those kids…”

“No,” Jason interrupted, voice firm but soft. “Don’t do that to yourself. This isn’t on you. You were just trying to survive in a place built to keep you quiet. That’s not your fault.”

Elliot’s eyes burned, and he blinked fast, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Jason stayed close. “You were right about one thing. People should care about your stories. And I do. I care.”

Elliot glanced up at him, eyes wide and searching.

Jason nodded slowly, his voice dropping to something steadier. “And I’m going to fix this. I don’t know how long it’ll take. I can’t promise it’ll be clean. But I promise you —I’m not letting what’s happening to you, or any of those kids, go on.”

Elliot looked away quickly, pressing his sleeve to his face like there was just something in his eye again.

Jason gave his shoulder a small squeeze. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”

“I know,” Elliot whispered. “Doesn’t change much, though.”

“Maybe not. But you telling me?” Jason met his eyes again. “That changes everything.”

They were both quiet for a beat, the weight of it all settling.

Then, because Elliot could only sit in emotion for so long without cracking it with something, he said, “So… what now? What’s the next move, Agent Not-Actually-My-Uncle?”

Jason huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so heavy. “The next move is we keep digging. I keep you safe. And if anyone comes looking to cause trouble…”

He leaned back, expression sharp.

“They’ll have to go through me first.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Elliot’s mouth, a flicker of warmth returning.

Then, with a smirk creeping back in, Jason added, “Now. If you cry on the cinnamon rolls, I’m revoking your icing privileges.”

Elliot snorted, wiping at his face again. “Too late. I already licked the spoon like four times. You’re compromised.”

Jason leaned back with a sigh, pretending to consider the consequences. “Great. Emotional contamination. We’ll have to eat them all ourselves.”

“Tragic,” Elliot said, sinking back into the couch with exaggerated grief. “Guess we have no choice.”

Jason let the moment linger, then looked at him with something softer, more real. “You did good, Elliot.”

Elliot blinked. “I didn’t really do anything.”

“You told me the truth. That’s more than most grown-ups ever manage.”

“…It’s scary,” Elliot admitted.

Jason nodded. “Yeah. It is. But you’re not alone in it anymore.”

The TV murmured in the background. The scent of cinnamon hung in the air, rich and warm. And for just a little while, the world felt bearable.

Even with a long road ahead—

They weren’t walking it alone.

Chapter Text

The apartment felt too quiet.

Jason stood in the middle of the living room, still in the clothes he’d worn when he dropped Elliot off an hour ago—dark jeans, hoodie, jacket. The ghost of cinnamon and sugar lingered in the air, faint but stubborn. Two forgotten mugs sat on the coffee table, one half-full with cooling cocoa. Elliot had made them. Declared it a “post-baking ritual,” like they were some sort of dessert cult.

Jason hadn’t laughed like that in a long time.

And now the silence it left behind gnawed at him.

He should be getting ready. Should’ve been dressed ten minutes ago, out the door and haunting rooftops by now. The gangs were starting to notice his absence, he could feel it. Tag-ups were creeping into neutral zones. Two dealers had tried setting up shop near a school in the Narrows. The message was clear: If the Red Hood's gone, we take the leash off.

He couldn’t let that stand.

But he hadn’t moved yet.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed a hand down his face. The leather jacket creaked with the motion. His eyes drifted toward the duffel at the foot of the bed, gear inside. Ready to go. Always ready.

But something about tonight felt heavier.

He’d walked Elliot to the front gate of that damn orphanage. Same cracked pavement, same flickering porch light that hadn't worked properly since the Bush administration. Elliot had made a joke, something about zombie-infested hallways and snack contraband raids, but Jason saw the way his shoulders hunched a little tighter when the building came into view. How the laughter dimmed the second the lock on the gate clicked shut behind him.

Jason had waited until he saw the kid disappear inside before turning away.

Now, an hour later, all he could see was that look. That small shift in posture. That tiny resignation.

He stood abruptly, pushing off the bed. Moved to the closet. Pulled the duffel out and unzipped it with a harsh sound.

His armor clanked faintly as he pulled it piece by piece, layering the familiar weight onto his frame like it could dull the knot tightening in his chest. Chestplate, reinforced vest, gloves. Each click of a buckle echoed louder than it should’ve.

This was supposed to be simple.

Infiltrate. Observe. Report.

Get the evidence, and shut it down.

Clean. Controlled. Detached.

But Jason Todd had never been good at any of those things. Not really.

He stared at his reflection in the small cracked mirror above the dresser—what was visible of his face between the edges of his chest plate and the straps across his shoulders. His eyes looked tired. Haunted. Familiar.

He yanked the reinforced jacket over his shoulders, the familiar weight settling heavy against his back. He moved on autopilot now. Straps secured, clips locked, knives sheathed in their places. His body remembering the motions even as his mind churned.

He’d worn this armor so many times it should’ve felt like second skin by now. But tonight, it felt like a lie.

He dragged a hand through his hair, short strands spiking up awkwardly. The helmet sat on the dresser like it was watching him, silent and waiting.

Jason glared at it. At himself.

Because now?
Now this wasn’t just a mission.

Now he couldn’t just collect evidence, couldn’t just pass it off and walk away like the others before him had. Elliot was stuck there, night after night, locked behind those crumbling walls with people who saw him as a burden instead of a person. And worse the ones who didn’t see him at all.

Because underneath it, all Jason wanted to do was turn the bike back around and drag Elliot out of that place. Right then. Right now. Screw protocol. Screw patience. Screw whatever bullshit chain of command was pretending they had to follow.

But he couldn't. Not yet.

He shoved his fists into his gloves, hard, until the leather bit at his knuckles. If he lost control now, if he made a move before the evidence was solid, before he had the full picture, the whole thing could collapse.

Kids would get hurt.

Elliot would get hurt.

And that was something Jason couldn’t afford.

So he forced himself to breathe. In. Out. Slow and measured.

He clipped the final strap on his side holster and crossed the room to the weapons cabinet tucked behind a false panel. It slid open with a soft mechanical hiss. He grabbed his pistols, non-lethal rounds loaded, and holstered them with practiced efficiency. Then the knives. Then the comm.

His helmet sat on the shelf like a sentinel, watching. Waiting.

He paused before grabbing it.

His mind wandered again—back to the living room. To Elliot smirking as he made icing too thick, too sweet. To the way his laughter had caught Jason off guard. Like it had crawled out of a place in his chest that hadn’t seen daylight in years.

The kid didn’t know who Jason was— really was— but he trusted him. Looked at him like he was something good. Something solid.

Jason didn’t know if he deserved that. But he was damn sure going to earn it.

After this, Jason thought savagely, Elliot’s not going back there. No way in hell.

Jason would tear the place apart if he had to. Burn it down brick by brick. He’d find Elliot a real home. Someone who gave a damn. Someone who wouldn’t treat him like background noise or a file number. Someone who would look him in the eye and say I see you, and mean it.

Because Jason had lived the other side.

He knew what happened when no one came for you.

He wasn’t going to let that be Elliot’s future.

Not if he could help it.

He grabbed the helmet off the dresser, hesitating for a second as the cool metal touched his glove. His reflection stared back at him, distorted by the curve of the visor, red and cold and unrecognizable.
He hated it, sometimes. The mask. The persona.

But tonight?

Tonight it wasn’t about fear.

Tonight it was about a promise.

A promise made silently over cinnamon rolls and cocoa and the kind of quiet resilience that made Jason want to rip the whole damn world apart just to make it better.

He slid the helmet on. The HUD flared to life, casting the dim room in harsh crimson tones. The city came into focus, flashing across his visor in heat signatures and movement tags. Patrol routes updated. Crime markers blinked like angry scars across the map.

He ran a systems check with a flick of his fingers—ammo loaded, comms clear, routes mapped.

And with every click and buzz of confirmation, the tightness in his chest settled. Hardened. Focused.

Narrows first. Then East End. Then a quiet stop near that alley behind the school. Just to see if that van shows up again.

He turned off the apartment lights and headed for the fire escape.

The city welcomed him with a gust of cold wind and the low hum of far-off sirens. Below, Gotham pulsed like a living wound.

Jason crouched low, ready to leap, when something caught his eye on the rooftop ledge—a smear of flour on his glove.

He froze.

Some remnant from earlier, from Elliot flicking dough at him, from that stupid sneak attack with the powdered sugar.

He had no idea how it even got out here.

It was stupid. It was small.

But it grounded him in a way no armor ever could.

Jason stared at the white smear for a second longer, then brushed it off slowly against his thigh.

He wasn’t a hero. He never claimed to be.

But he knew how to fight. And tonight, he was fighting for more than just territory lines or scumbag dealers.

He was fighting for that kid. For all the other kids just like him.

Jason leapt into the night, rooftop to rooftop, until the apartment vanished behind him.

But even as the wind howled and the city screamed beneath his boots, that small ghost of cinnamon and sugar lingered like a promise.

He’d finish what he started.

And when he did?

Elliot was never going back to that damn place again.

Not while Jason Todd was breathing.