Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨.

Crying? Isn't that a silly thought? Tears, cries, sobs, all are banned here. The thought of someone daring to cry makes Junior giggle, breaking through the soft cries he didn't realize he was making.

The boy blinks away the tears upon feeling them on his cheeks, the wetness of them against the cakey makeup on his face bringing him back from the fuzzy distance Papa’s buzzy machine causes. The buzzy machine? Oh yes, the one he's currently strapped to.

He wasn't a good boy for Papa this time. He had tried to frown and to not eat Papa's cooking. The food burns his mouth. It burns his throat. Just the thought of the burning makes another giggle escape him, because the pain has to be funny. It's funny because Papa says it's funny, and if Papa says something then it's true.

Junior sighs as the buzzy machine finally turns off, Papa seeming satisfied with his smile. He watches as Papa orders Mama to untie him and bring him to his room. His blank empty room. His mind still feels fuzzy, like he's not there. He watches distantly as Mama tucks him into the thin bed. He watches her leave. He watches the ceiling. The ceiling is blank. That's silly. A quiet laugh bubbles out of him at the silliness but he does nothing to stop it, the sound scratching at his vocal cords.

He doesn't feel real right now. Everything feels distant and silly. So silly. He spots a bat outside the window. Bat. Bats. Why does that remind him of something? Papa is always talking about how he hates Batman. Is Batman a bat or a man? Junior doesn't know. He just knows what's silly and what's not, and what to do to make Mama and Papa happy. Junior likes making Papa happy, so he supposes in his distant mind that he hates the Bats too. Maybe he'll hurt one of the Bats if they come into his room.

He doesn't really want to hurt one of the Bats though. Something about them feels familiar in a way, but he can't understand what it is. His hands start to shake as he tries to remember, tries to think outside of Papa. His skin starts to itch and his mind feels distant and buzzy again, even though the machine isn't here.

“Ohhh Junior~! I have a present~!”

Mama's singsong voice broke him out of his empty, oh so distant thoughts. Junior sits up in his bed, blinking for what seems to be the first time in a good amount of minutes. His eyes feel dry, and the painful sensation of blinking makes him giggle even through the fear of a present. Mama is nicer, sure, but presents are never good. They always bring bad things. They usually bring pain, but pain is funny and complaining brings pain, which starts the cycle again.

“Okay Mama! What kind of present is it?”

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne often prided himself on being the world's greatest detective. Of course he would, he's Batman, someone who's saved hundreds of people with his detective work. But how can he call himself the world's greatest if he can't find Robin? Tim has been missing for a while, more than two months by now, and despite Bruce knowing that he has to be in Gotham somewhere, he can't find any trace of his sidekick.

His phone buzzes and he groans, knowing exactly who it is from the ring tone. He's recently had to team up with an emerging crime lord who frustratingly teases information and his identity without actually revealing anything, only ever dropping enough of a hint of a clue to Bruce about the Joker to keep the man hooked on his help.

He lets the call go to voicemail.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Jason sighs as his phone rings before giving that automated message that his call wasn’t picked up. Jason knows damn well that Bruce is ignoring his call, and instead of sharing the info he has, he leaves a simple message of *”Fuck you”* to Bruce. The older man is annoyingly dense, much more so than how Jason remembers him being. It’s tiring, but Jason supposes that if Bruce isn’t going to answer him, then the detective doesn’t deserve to know the location of the newest Robin. Despite the fact that he hates his replacement and despises Bruce for bringing another child into this, he can’t let the kid suffer in Joker’s hands.

A few days ago, Jason captured one of Joker’s goons and interrogated (beat) the shit out of the guy. As far as the goon knew, Joker has been mostly inactive due to the clown working on something in one of the condemned Arkham locations. It's a perfect hideout, a place that was removed enough from Gotham that Bruce wouldn't think to look there. As much as Jason hates him, he's got to admit that the Joker is smart.

Jason takes a moment to survey the area, taking in the perimeter of the grounds and the lighted windows on the bottom floor before dropping down from a nearby roof. This place is definitely occupied. There doesn't seem to be guards or a security system though, at least not one that he can detect, yet his hand strays to one of the guns on his hip anyway as he walks towards the door. He kicks it open, his eyes wide and alert as he walks through the halls. There's music coming from a dark side corridor.

Chapter Text

Jason adjusted the grip on his pistols, scanning through the darkness with an dim flashlight. Somewhere inside, the Joker waited. And not just him — the little Robin was here too. Or what was left of him.

Jason’s boots crunched glass as he pushed forward. Spray-painted murals of smiling faces and bloody handprints littered the walls. It was their playground now. Joker and Harley's grotesque little funhouse. Jason grit his teeth, rage simmering under his skin.

He moved like a shadow through the abandoned halls, gun drawn, every nerve wired tight. The place still stank of madness: peeling walls, bloodstained tiles, cages hanging empty. Somewhere deep inside, Jason heard the soft, lilting hum of an old music box. It made his skin crawl.

Then he heard laughter.
Not Joker’s shrieking hyena-laugh—this was softer, higher. Tim’s.

He found them in the old family therapy unit, the previously brightly painted walls now faded and bloody, streaked with dirt and soot.

The lights flickered madly above, casting strobe flashes over the scene: Joker, lounging on a battered therapy chair, his grin wider than ever, twirling a bloodied crowbar like a conductor's baton. Harley Quinn pirouetted beside him in a tattered jester’s costume, her laughter sharp as knives. And before them –

Jason’s heart twisted.

Timothy Jackson Drake, Batman’s newest Robin, his replacement, stands rigidly in front of Jason, clad in a warped version of his Robin suit. The colors are garish, the edges tattered and sewn to resemble Joker's suit more. instead of the usual emblem on his chest, there's a purple smiley face stitched over his heart. His hair was dyed green, the skin around his forehead and ears still a touch green from lingering spilled dye, and heavy makeup is smeared around his eyes. A collar hung from his neck like a leash, fastened to Harley's wrist.

“Well, well, Red Hood!” Joker sang, standing and tossing the crowbar into the air. “Come to visit the family? Harley, set another plate! Big brother’s here to save the day!”

Jason’s finger itched at the trigger. One shot. One shot and it would all be over.Tim tilted his head like a curious bird. He smiled — a twisted, uncertain smile — and then pulled slightly at the chain, making Harley giggle.

"Aw, puddin', he's shy," she said. "Our little Junior’s still gettin' used to the family life!"

Jason’s patience snapped like dry bone.

"I'm not playing games," he growled, stepping forward. "You’re not him. You’re not their pet. You’re Tim Drake. You're Robin."

Tim flinched at the name, a flicker of pain crossing his painted face. Joker noticed, and his eyes gleamed with savage pleasure.

"Ah, ah, ah! No fair saying the old names! That’s like calling a butterfly a caterpillar. Junior’s moved on!" Joker spread his arms wide, his shadow looming huge and monstrous against the peeling walls.

Jason took another step. "You don't have to stay here, Robin."

For a moment — a brief, breathless moment — Jason saw him. The real Tim, trembling under the makeup, under the madness. Then Harley yanked the leash, and Tim staggered.

"Stay, Junior," Joker whispered, voice thick with honeyed poison. "Stay where it's safe. Where you're loved.”

“Robin, Tim, you need to come with me. You don't understand what they're doing to you. This isn't normal, and they don't love you. You need to come with me.” Jason demands, glaring at Joker. His fingers are twitching, as if his body is begging him to pull out his gun and shoot the crazed couple in front of him.

Tim just shook his head, mechanical, empty.
Harley giggled. "Ain’t he just the cutest little psycho? Took to the family business so well. Better'n you ever did, Red."

Joker sidled up to Tim, draping a lanky arm around his shoulders. "You should be proud, Jaybird. Kid’s got real potential. Maybe even better than you, after you crapped out. Shame, really.”

Jason sees red. Because how dare this man corrupt a child? It doesn't matter that Jason doesn't really know who this kid is, that he feels a glimmer of relief that it's not him this time, because that's wrong.

In a moment that seems to creep by to Jason but go shockingly quick to the others in the room, Jason sprints forward and punches Joker in the jaw. What ensues is utter chaos.

Harley has run out of the room to either leave or get more weapons. The Joker stands up and wipes away the blood dripping from his cut lip, grinning as he returns the punch. Tim stands in the corner, watching as this strange man beats up his Papa. He doesn't do anything, shock overtaking his system as a quiet giggle bubbles through his lips.

The Joker smiles grotesquely as he throws punch after punch, Jason blocking each hit with little difficulty. He isn't like he was before. He's not young or little anymore, he's strong. He's an adult. And he has a gun.

As if the thought had just dawned on Jason that he has weapons at his hips, his hand flashes downwards and pulls out the Glock settled at his right hip. In a cruel mockery of his attempt, the bullet misses the Joker's chest, and that horrible, horrible laughter rings out.

“Oh Birdy, you really think that's gonna stop me? A measly gun? I don't think so. You're free to try again though, after Junior is done with you.” The clown sneers, grabbing onto Junior's arm and wrenching the boy closer. He pulls out a gun of his own, handing it to the kid with a twisted grin. “Come on my boy, let's put that practice to use. Make Papa proud.”

Junior lifts the gun, his hands trembling as he aims it at Jason. His finger rests on the trigger, and he doesn't meet Jason's eyes. He can't, not when he has to make Papa proud.

𝗕𝗔𝗡𝗚

Both Jason and Junior flinch, although instead of the pain of a gunshot wound spreading through Jason, a small flag pokes out of the barrel of the gun. Junior doesn't do anything for a moment, keeping it pressed there before pulling it away. He finally looks up at Jason, meeting the man's eyes. They look nice, Junior thinks to himself, like he's worried about me. I don't remember Papa looking at me like that before.

“Robin, come on. You've got to snap out of it. You need to get out of here,” Jason hisses, gently pushing the boy away from him. The gun was a fake. Figures. Instead of dwelling on it more, Jason pulls out his other gun and aims both at the Joker. The man is backed into a corner- he can't escape.

Junior stares. And stares. And then he slowly raises the gun again. His eyes dart frantically between Jason and his Papa, making a decision.

𝗕𝗔𝗡𝗚

The gun goes off again. This time it's a real bullet. Silence fills the air for a moment before a quiet gurgle breaks it. Joker has fallen to his knees, his green eyes wide as he chokes on his own blood. Junior freezes when their eyes meet, but Jason quickly pulls the boy away and hides him. He doesn't need to see this.

“Junior, go over there. Now.” Jason snaps, his eyes trained on the dying Joker. He waits until the kid is gone from the room before he pulls out his gun. Junior doesn't need to see this, doesn't need this blood staining his hands. The muzzle of the gun presses against the side of Joker's head, yet the mad man can't help but chuckle through the blood spilling out of the wound in his throat. No words are said, only a muffled bang sounding before a heavy thump. Jason leaves the room, holstering his gun as he walks over to Junior.

“Come on Junior, we're getting out of here.”

Chapter Text

The door shut behind them with a heavy click. Jason turned the locks by muscle memory—three deadbolts, a reinforced slide bar, and a biometric override. His safehouse, hidden deep in the Gotham Narrows, didn’t look like much from the outside. But it was secure. Quiet. Removed from the chaos.

The perfect place to hide from the world.

Jason turned back toward the room. Junior stood near the center, unmoving, still dressed in that makeshift clown outfit. The paint on his face was smeared and cracked, dried blood streaking along his jaw and collarbone. His hands hung loose at his sides like the strings had been cut.

Jason exhaled and pulled his helmet off, tossing it onto the table. His voice was quiet, careful.
“Let’s get that crap off you.”

No answer. Junior didn’t move.

Jason stepped closer. “You’re safe here. No Joker, no Harley. Just us.”

Still nothing.

Jason didn’t press—not yet. He grabbed a first aid kit from the shelf, then returned with a towel and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. He crouched in front of the younger man, lifting the towel gently.

“Gonna clean your face. This might sting.”

He dabbed at the corner of Junior’s cheek, careful not to scrub too hard. The paint came away in jagged streaks, revealing pale, bruised skin underneath. A swollen lip. A cut near the brow. Joker’s handiwork, no doubt.

Junior flinched. Just slightly. But Jason noticed.

“You should let me check your ribs after this Tim,” he said. “That fall back there—could’ve bruised something.”

A pause.

Then Junior spoke.
His voice was low, brittle. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

Jason froze. “What?”

“Tim.”
Junior’s eyes—those same sharp, intelligent eyes Jason remembered—met his for the first time since Arkham. But they were different now. Harder. “That’s not who I am.”

Jason straightened. Set the towel down slowly.

“You’re saying…” He hesitated, trying to find the right words. “You don’t want to be Tim anymore.”

“I’m not Tim anymore.” Junior stepped back, wiping the rest of the paint off with his sleeve. “He died. Or he gave up. Doesn’t matter which. I’m what’s left.”

Jason’s gut twisted. He didn’t argue, didn’t try to correct him. He knew exactly what it was like to claw your way back from something and not recognize the person who emerged.

“All right,” he said after a beat. “Then who are you?”

Junior tilted his head. There was no smugness in it. No arrogance. Just a cold detachment.
“You called me ‘Junior’ back there. Guess that works. It’s what *he* wanted.”

Jason’s jaw clenched. “That’s not a name. That’s a leash.”

“Doesn’t feel like one anymore.” Junior turned toward the window, arms crossed tightly across his chest. “I know what you’re thinking. That you’re gonna fix me. Wash off the paint, get a haircut, and I’ll start quoting mission stats and acting like your little brother again.”

“I’m not expecting anything,” Jason said. “I know better than most—some things, you don’t come back from.”

Junior didn’t speak for a long moment.

Jason moved to the kitchenette, silently brewing a pot of coffee. The room filled with the sound of boiling water and humming appliances. A bit of life amid the wreckage.

He poured two mugs and slid one across the table. “It’s probably not the gourmet stuff you’re used to, but—”

Junior picked it up, wrapping both hands around the cup. “Thanks.”

That one word meant more than Jason expected.

He leaned against the counter, sipping his own mug, eyes on the younger man. “So. What now?”

Junior looked into the coffee like he expected it to offer answers. “I don’t know.”

“We don’t have to rush it,” Jason said. “You stay here. As long as you need. No pressure. No suits. Just space.”

“I don’t deserve that.” Junior’s voice cracked. Just a little. “Not after what I’ve done.”

“You didn’t *choose* this,” Jason said. “You survived it.”

“I didn’t stop it either.”

Jason slammed his mug down harder than he meant to, coffee sloshing over the rim. “Don’t. Don’t start blaming yourself for what Joker made you into. That bastard twisted *me,* too. You think you’re the first one he’s tried to break?”

Junior turned his face away. “But I broke.”

“So did I.” Jason’s voice softened. “But I got back up. And so will you. Even if you’re not Tim anymore...you’re still *you.* And I’m not letting Joker win by making you think you’re nothing.”

The silence between them thickened again, but it was different now—less like avoidance, more like processing.

Finally, Junior sat on the couch, hunched forward, cup clutched like it was the only thing tethering him to the present. He stared at the floor.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The apartment was quiet. Outside, Gotham groaned in its sleep — distant sirens, a barking dog, the hum of a streetlight that hadn’t worked in years. Inside, all was still.

Jason had crashed on the chair, arms folded over his chest, one gun half-concealed beneath a blanket. Always alert. Even when he slept, Jason Todd never truly rested.

Junior lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

He hadn’t said much more after the coffee. Just stripped out of the clown suit in silence, leaving it crumpled in a plastic trash bag by the bathroom. Jason had offered him an old black t-shirt and sweatpants. They didn’t fit quite right, but they were clean.

Junior had stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for a long time.
Under the makeup, under the cuts and bruises, there was still a face he half-recognized.
Still the bone structure of Tim Drake.

But his eyes…
Those weren’t Tim’s anymore.

---

The room was dark when he finally drifted off.

But sleep didn’t bring rest.

He was in the hallway again. Arkham’s walls stretched endlessly around him — filthy, breathing, pulsing with a wet, fleshy sound beneath the tiles. The lights flickered in pulses. Every few seconds, he glimpsed movement at the edges of the dark.

Footsteps behind him.

He turned.

There he was.
Himself.
Robin. The old suit. Red and yellow, clean, bright. His face looked soft. Unscarred. Innocent.
The boy Tim Drake had been.

“Help me,” Robin whispered. “He won’t let go.”

Then came the laugh.
Not Joker’s this time. His own.

Junior stumbled backward as his other self lunged forward, the smile splitting across his own face, too wide, too wrong.
The boy turned to *him,* paint seeping like blood from his eyes.

“You let him in,” the boy sobbed. “You let him *win.*”

“No—” Junior gasped. “I didn’t want this—!”

Behind him, hands clamped on his shoulders. Gloved. Familiar.
Joker.

He felt the pressure again—the iron collar, the knife to his lip, the taste of paint.
Laughter buzzed in his ears like flies.

“Let’s put a smile on that face, soldier. We’ve got work to do!”

And then—Tim—Robin—was screaming, fingers tearing at his own face as it melted, peeled back, became the white-painted grin again.
Junior’s own face.
A mask he couldn’t take off.

He screamed.

---

He woke up drenched in sweat, breath ragged, fists clenched so tight his fingernails had drawn blood from his palms.

Across the room, Jason stirred instantly. His hand slid toward the pistol before he fully registered the situation. Eyes sharp. “Junior?”

The name felt sharp. It anchored him. Just barely.

Junior sat up slowly, pressing a hand to his chest. His heart pounded like it was trying to escape.

“I’m fine,” he rasped.

Jason didn’t move from the chair, but he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Nightmare?”

Junior nodded once. The word felt too small. Too *safe.* What he saw wasn’t just a dream. It was a memory twisted inside-out. Something that *stayed.*

Jason didn’t offer platitudes. Didn’t tell him it wasn’t real.

“I used to get them every night,” Jason said after a beat. “Mine were…different. Crawled out of a shallow grave. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream.”

Junior looked at him then. Not pitying. Just listening. That helped.

“I saw him,” Junior said. “The old me. Like he was still in there. Screaming.”

Jason nodded solemnly. “Yeah. That happens.”

“I think I killed him,” Junior said quietly. “Tim. In there. In Arkham. I didn’t mean to but…” He looked down at his hands, stained with his own blood from how hard he’d clenched. “He’s not coming back.”

Jason stood. Walked over. Sat down beside him on the edge of the couch.

“Maybe he isn’t,” Jason said. “But maybe that’s not the worst thing. Maybe now you get to choose who you are. No masks. No mentors. No Joker.”

Junior didn’t respond right away. But after a few seconds, he let his head fall forward into his hands.

Jason didn’t say anything else. Just stayed beside him as the kid laid there, slowly falling back asleep.

Chapter Text

It had been three weeks since Arkham.

Three weeks of silence and slow healing.
Three weeks of scalding showers, tremors in the middle of the night, and long hours where Junior sat at the window, watching the city move on without him.

Gotham never stopped. But in Jason's apartment, time had become something else. It didn’t run forward here — it unfolded in jagged inches.

Still, progress had been made. Jason saw it in the little things.

Junior had stopped flinching when the coffee machine hissed. He no longer hesitated before opening the fridge or asking where something was. He spoke in full sentences now, mostly. He could sleep through the night. Not always peacefully, but without waking up screaming.

The clown suit was gone. Burned, per Junior’s request. The ashes were flushed down a Gotham gutter during a rainstorm.

He hadn’t asked to be called Tim again. Jason never pushed. Junior had become something real, someone growing out of the trauma instead of hiding under it.

Some days he would sit on the roof with Jason, sipping coffee, looking out at Gotham. Other days he would stay curled on the couch reading thick, worn paperbacks — strategy manuals, old classics, even poetry. He liked having information back in his hands. It made him feel anchored again.

He still hadn’t put a mask back on.

Jason didn’t bring it up. Didn’t bring any of that up.

He was letting Junior breathe. Letting him find his own voice.

Until one morning, Junior stood in the doorway, jacket zipped, a pair of sunglasses masking his eyes. He cleared his throat.

“I want to go outside.”

Jason looked up from the table, a spoon halfway to his mouth. “…You serious?”

Junior nodded. “I think I’m ready.”

Jason didn’t answer at first. He studied the younger man, reading every subtle twitch of tension in his jaw, his shoulders, the tightness in his stance.

But he didn’t see panic there. He saw resolve.

“Okay,” Jason said quietly. “We’ll take it slow. Just around the neighborhood.”

Junior exhaled — a sharp, shaky breath — then nodded again. “Okay.”

---

The city hit like cold water at first.

Even the side streets were louder than he remembered. Cars honked, tires screeched, voices bounced off brick like echoes of another life. Junior kept his hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed, sticking close to Jason’s side.

But they moved.

Past the boarded-up bodegas. Past graffiti-tagged alleys. Past people who didn’t look twice at them — two guys in dark jackets in a city that never made room for questions.

They stopped at a corner café. Jason handed him a paper cup with black coffee and no questions.

They sat on a bench beneath the scarred wings of an old angel statue, sipping in silence.

Junior stared across the street at a mural of Batman. It was weathered, paint chipping, but the silhouette was unmistakable. The cape. The ears. That impossible scowl.

“You ever think he looks ridiculous?” Junior asked suddenly, voice dry.

Jason huffed a short laugh. “Only every day.”

Junior smiled — brief but real.

“I used to think he had it all figured out,” he murmured. “But now I just think he’s surviving. Like the rest of us.”

Jason didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then: “You’re not wrong.”

Junior was still looking at the mural when he said, quietly, “I think I’m going to pick a name. A real one. Not… ‘Junior.’ Something new.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A beat. “Not yet. But I’m getting there.”

Jason didn’t press. “I’ll back whatever you decide.”

Then the air shifted. A chill ran through Jason’s spine a second before he heard the voice.

“Well if this ain’t the cutest little field trip.”

Jason stood instantly. Hand on his jacket.
Junior turned slowly, heart already hammering in his ribs.

Harley Quinn stood ten feet away, one hand on her hip, the other wrapped around a big red-and-black duffel bag. Her pigtails were shorter than before, messier, dyed pink where blue used to be. Her lipstick was smudged like a warpaint grin.

No hyenas. No clown getup.

Just Harley.

Jason stepped in front of Junior on instinct. “Don’t even—”

“Relax, Red,” she said, raising both hands. “I ain’t here to play mama clown. I just wanna talk.”

“Not interested.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

Jason didn’t move. Junior stepped out from behind him anyway.

His voice was flat, guarded. “Why are you here?”

Harley’s grin faltered for just a second. “I heard through the grapevine you got out. Cleaned up. Didn’t think it was true till I saw you.”

“I’m not going back,” Junior said firmly. “To that life. To him.”

“Oh, puddin’, I know that.” Harley crouched, slowly setting down the duffel. “J’s dead. I get it. I’m not here to drag you back to any lair. I’m here because…” She trailed off. “Because I owed it to ya. You were *mine* too, ya know. Not just his.”

Junior’s expression didn’t shift. “You helped him.”

“I did,” Harley admitted. “And I can’t take that back. I stood there and smiled while he broke you. And I thought it was funny.” She looked him in the eye. “But then he started breaking you in the ways he broke me, and that—” Her voice cracked. “That stopped being funny real fast.”

Junior said nothing. His hands trembled faintly, but he didn’t hide them.

“I’ve been gettin’ help,” Harley added softly. “Real help. Ivy would kick my ass if I didn’t. And I wanted you to know—if you ever want to scream at me, punch me, ask me why—I’ll stand still and let you. That’s the least I owe ya.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Why now?”

Harley stood up. “Because he’s not the only one who needs to heal. And because that kid…” She gestured to Junior. “He’s got a shot at being real again. Just wanted him to know he didn’t imagine me giving a damn.”

She turned to leave, then paused. “There’s a burner phone in the bag. Nothin’ else. If you wanna scream later… you know how.”

Jason watched her disappear down the block until she slipped into the pulse of Gotham’s morning traffic like a phantom fading in daylight. He didn’t trust Harley Quinn, not for a second — but the way her voice had cracked, the tremble in her hands… It hadn’t been a performance.

Not this time.

Still, he stayed on edge, eyes scanning their surroundings, ears tuned to every shift in the air. Old habits.

Junior didn’t speak for a long moment. He stood over the duffel bag, staring down at the burner phone like it might bite, yet he slips it into his pocket anyway.

Then, finally, he said, “I don’t think I want to go back yet.”

Jason blinked. “You sure?”

Junior nodded. “Yeah. I want… I want to sit with this. Feel it. And maybe… eat something that doesn’t taste like panic.”

Jason gave a short huff of something close to a laugh. “I know a place a few blocks over. Greasy diner. Bad coffee. Great waffles.”

Junior gave him a faint look. “I already had coffee.”

Jason started walking. “Yeah, well, one of us drinks it like it’s penance. The other one is gonna need syrup.”

Junior followed.

---

The diner was the kind of place that hadn’t changed since the seventies — fake leather booths, a jukebox that didn’t work, cracked tile counters stained from generations of coffee spills and rain leaking through the roof.

But it was warm. And mostly empty. Just two older guys reading newspapers at the far end and a sleepy teenager behind the counter, chewing gum like it was keeping her alive.

Jason slid into a booth. Junior hesitated before following. The seat squeaked under his weight.

The waitress came by without a word, plunking two menus down and raising one eyebrow.

Jason grinned. “Two coffees. And waffles. Stupid amounts of waffles.”

“Banana slices are extra,” she said dully.

Jason shrugged. “Live a little.”

Junior didn’t speak again until the waitress was gone. He was staring out the window, drumming his fingers softly against the table. Not anxious — more like… alert. As if he were watching the city breathe from behind glass.

“Do you believe her?” he asked after a while.

“Harley?” Jason sipped his coffee. “I believe she meant what she said. Doesn’t mean I trust her.”

“She always laughed when it happened. When Joker hurt me. Hurt others. She laughed like it was a show.” Junior didn’t sound angry. He sounded tired.

Jason set his cup down gently. “Yeah. That’s how she survived him.”

Junior looked at him, dark eyes flat behind the sunglasses. “That supposed to make it okay?”

“No,” Jason said. “Not even close. Just… don’t make yourself small trying to figure out why other people failed you.”

Junior nodded slowly. Then his gaze dropped to the menu like it was suddenly fascinating. “I don’t know if I want waffles or just to feel normal.”

Jason gave him a small, sideways smirk. “They’re basically the same thing.”

That actually got a faint smile.

The waffles came out stacked high and dripping with butter and syrup. Junior poked at them cautiously before taking the first bite. Then the second. And the third.

Jason didn’t say anything. Just let him eat.

---

They walked home through the long way. No rooftops, no shortcuts. Just quiet city blocks and the distant rhythm of music pulsing from apartment windows.

Junior walked a little looser now. Shoulders less tight. Steps less calculated.

They passed a street mural of old vigilantes — Nightwing, Batgirl, Robin. Junior slowed.

“I don’t think I’ll go back to that life,” he said, still walking, eyes on the ground. “Not the cape. Not the mask.”

Jason nodded once. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t think I even remember how to be a hero.”

Jason gave a dry chuckle. “Most of us are just making it up anyway.”

They reached the apartment without another word. Inside, Jason tossed his jacket on the back of the couch while Junior walked in more slowly, as if crossing a boundary.

It still wasn’t home yet. But it was a safe place. That counted for something.

Junior sat on the floor, back to the couch, knees pulled up. He let the silence settle between them like a blanket. Not awkward. Not tense. Just quiet.

After a while, he spoke again.

“I think… I might keep the name Junior a little longer.”

Jason glanced over. “Why?”

Junior looked up. His expression was still, but his voice was clear. “Because even if I don’t want to be him forever, I earned it. That pain, that survival—it wasn’t for nothing. I need to carry that. At least for now.”

Jason didn’t argue. Just nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

Junior exhaled slowly. Closed his eyes. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For letting me be… broken. And not trying to fix me.”

Jason leaned back. “You’re not broken,” he said. “You’re just in pieces. And some of those pieces? They’re still sharp. You’re putting them together in a new way. That takes guts.”

Junior didn’t reply, but he smiled — just a little.

Chapter Text

It started with a sound.

The soft hiss of a rooftop hatch opening in the middle of the night. Jason was careful, always. But Junior had always been better at patterns.

He waited until Jason had slipped into his gear—body armor, red helmet, twin pistols holstered low—and vanished into the dark. He moved quiet, fluid. Like a ghost.

But Junior was quieter.

He waited a beat, then pulled on his own hoodie, tugged his sleeves over his palms, and followed.

---

Crime Alley looked the same.

It always did. That was part of its curse. The streetlamps flickered like dying stars, casting shadows across boarded-up windows and concrete scarred with graffiti and gunfire. A perpetual ruin.

Junior kept to the rooftops, watching from above like he used to—back when he was Tim Drake. Back when he was Robin and believed that all of this could be saved.

Now? He didn’t know what he believed. But he followed Jason because he had to see.

And he did.

Jason moved fast. Efficient. Like a storm sliding over the city. He took down a group of gang-runners near Robinson Park with brutal precision—bone-snapping kicks and the deafening bark of gunfire. Junior winced as one of the men dropped, blood blossoming across his chest.

Not a warning shot.

Not a tranquilizer.

Real bullets.

Jason didn’t pause. He didn’t speak. Just wiped his knuckles on his jacket and moved on.

By the time the third body hit the pavement, Junior’s stomach was turning.

It wasn’t until Jason stood over a kneeling arms dealer—hands behind his head, mouth running a thousand miles a minute—that Junior finally moved.

The man was begging. Crying. Bleeding from a cut above his eye.

Jason raised his pistol.

Junior dropped from the rooftop. "Don't."

Jason froze. His helmet turned, glinting red in the low light. “...You followed me.”

Junior walked slowly forward. The hood of his sweatshirt had fallen back. His face was pale but steady.

“I had to know. I had to see what you do out here.”

Jason said nothing. The pistol didn’t lower.

“You kill them,” Junior said softly.

“They deserve it.”

“That’s not the point.”

Jason's voice came low, controlled. “He sells weapons to people who shoot kids. You want to put him in jail, let the courts decide? Those same courts that let Joker walk free a dozen times?”

“This isn’t justice,” Junior snapped. “It’s execution.”

Jason turned fully now, the gun still pointed down but ready. “I do what has to be done. Because someone has to. Don’t act like you’re still above this.”

Junior stepped closer, heart pounding. “Maybe I’m not. But you taught me that surviving what they did doesn’t mean we have to become them.”

Jason’s jaw clenched beneath the helmet. “I am what they made me.”

“Then why did you save me?”

The question dropped between them like a blade.

Jason looked away.

Junior pressed on, voice low and shaking. “Why did you drag me out of Arkham, patch me up, make me coffee—if this is all there is? If all we are is the worst parts of what happened to us?”

Jason didn’t answer. The gun dropped slowly to his side.

Junior turned to the arms dealer, who was frozen in terror. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

Jason looked down at the man for a long moment, then finally growled, “Get out of Gotham.”

The man scrambled away like a kicked dog.

Jason stood in the alley, breathing hard.

Junior stepped beside him, close enough that their shadows overlapped on the cracked pavement. “I didn’t ask you to be perfect,” he said. “Just don’t lie to me about what you are.”

Jason finally pulled off the helmet. His hair was damp with sweat, jaw rigid. “I never wanted you to see this part.”

“I was this part,” Junior murmured. “You just pulled me out of it.”

Jason stared at him, something unreadable passing through his expression. There's silence for a few moments until he eventually speaks again. “Come on kid, patrol’s over. We're going home.”

—

The door shut behind them with a heavy, final click.

Jason hung his helmet on the hook by the window. He didn’t say anything for a long time, and neither did Junior.

The silence was heavier now, charged by what had been seen—what couldn’t be unseen.

Jason stood by the window, jaw tight, arms folded as he looked out into Gotham’s shadowed veins. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.

“You shouldn’t have followed me.”

Junior dropped onto the couch without looking at him. “Would you have let me come if I asked?”

Jason didn’t answer.

“I had to know,” Junior continued. “I had to see it. All of it.”

He leaned forward, hands threaded tightly together, gaze fixed on the floor.

“I think I wanted to believe you were still better than me.”

Jason turned from the window. “And now?”

“I don’t know,” Junior admitted. “But… I don’t hate you for it.”

Jason blinked.

“I don’t agree with you,” Junior clarified, finally looking up. “But I know why you do it. I get it now. You’re not a monster. You’re just…”

“…Too far gone,” Jason muttered.

Junior shook his head. “No. You’re just tired of bleeding for people who never bleed for you.”

The room went quiet again.

Jason sat across from him, elbows on his knees. The burn of guilt sat heavy behind his ribs, but he didn’t deny anything. Not tonight.

“I used to dream about killing him,” Junior said suddenly.

Jason looked up. Junior’s voice was distant. Controlled.

“Joker. Every night, for months in Arkham. I wanted to do it. But I was always afraid that if I did, I’d be him all over again. I’d wake up one day and not know where Joker ended and I began.”

Jason swallowed hard. “And now?”

“I still don’t know,” Junior whispered. “But tonight? Watching you pull the trigger… I didn’t feel disgusted. I didn’t feel good, either. Just—empty.”

Jason nodded slowly. “That’s how it starts.”

“But I don’t want it to end there,” Junior said firmly. “I want… I want to be something more than revenge. More than trauma wearing a face.”

Jason looked at him then — really looked — and felt something shift in his chest.

“You’re already more than that,” he said.

Junior blinked fast. “Yeah, well. Doesn’t feel like it.”

“It never does,” Jason murmured.

---

The two boys who had seen a little too much to be just boys were silent as Jason headed to the kitchen, throwing together food in silence. The hum of the fridge and the sizzle of something frying in a pan made the apartment feel less like a cage, more like a life.

Junior stood by the counter, still wearing his hoodie, sunglasses pushed up into his hair now. He looked years older than when Jason first dragged him out of Arkham. Not because of pain — but because of awareness. Of the weight that came from healing something traumatic and gaining a whole new outlook on the world.

“You ever think about leaving Gotham?” he asked.

Jason paused, then cracked another egg into the pan. “All the time.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Jason flipped the eggs. “Because this city is like a scar you keep picking at. Hurts like hell. But it’s part of you now.”

Junior leaned his elbows on the counter. “I don’t know if I want to leave or stay. But I know I’m not ready to be seen by them. The family.”

“I’m not telling them you’re alive,” Jason said immediately. “I haven’t talked to them in years. I’m not starting now.”

Junior hesitated. “Even Alfred?”

Jason’s hand stilled.

“…He’s different,” Jason admitted. “But even then. Not yet.”

Junior nodded. “Good.”

Jason slid the food onto plates and carried them over. They ate quietly, both watching reruns on mute like they were just roommates, not fractured echoes of lost boys trying to remember how to be human again.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The morning sun crept in slowly.

It filtered through the dirty window blinds in dusty golden stripes, casting warm lines across the worn carpet, the cluttered coffee table, and the two sleeping figures on the couch.

Jason had one arm thrown carelessly over the back of the cushions, his other hand dangling just above the floor, a forgotten remote barely clutched between two fingers. His head had tipped back enough that he'd probably wake up with a crick in his neck and regret all his life choices.

Junior was curled on the other end, wrapped in a blanket he’d dragged off Jason sometime after midnight. Legs tucked up, arms cocooned around a pillow, hair a messy halo over his face. The tension that usually lived in his shoulders was gone.

On the TV screen, a “Continue Watching?” box hovered, silent and patient.

Neither of them stirred for a while.

Eventually, Jason blinked awake.

He groaned softly, rubbed at his face, and squinted at the sunlight. “…Damn it.”

Junior mumbled something half-asleep, shifting under the blanket.

Jason glanced over. The sight of him like that—resting, relaxed, safe—made something ache in his chest. The kind of ache that wasn’t pain, just... unfamiliar softness.

“Hey,” Jason said, voice low. “You alive under there?”

A groggy hum. “Barely.”

Jason snorted. “We slept through dinner.”

Junior pushed the blanket down, revealing pillow-creased cheeks and blurry eyes. “I was gonna make grilled cheese.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “You, make grilled cheese?”

“I used to know how,” Junior muttered, dragging himself upright. “Before Joker fed me nothing but canned fruit cocktail and whatever expired garbage he thought was ‘thematic.’”

Jason stared at the green haired kid, expression blank before he grimaced. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair. I’ll take whatever you can make that doesn’t come with a psychotic monologue.”

Junior stretched, his joints popping like fireworks. “You ever think about just… not doing anything?”

“All the time.”

“No patrol. No trauma. Just—sleep, eat, watch cartoons?”

Jason grinned. “You’re describing a weekend. Normal people call it ‘a weekend.’”

Junior gave a soft, disbelieving laugh, the kind that snuck up on him. “Right. Forgot people had those.”

Jason stood, cracking his neck, and wandered into the kitchen. “We’ve got eggs, bread, and that sad box of cereal you claimed was ‘ironically nostalgic.’”

“I still stand by it,” Junior called. “It's got the weird dinosaur mascot. That’s art.”

Jason pulled out a pan. “Then you’re making it. Today’s your first day off.”

Junior blinked. “Off from what?”

“Off from guilt. Off from healing. You’ve been working nonstop just trying to survive your own brain.” Jason flicked the stove on. “Today, you rest.”

Junior didn’t reply right away. But then he stood and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

He didn’t say thank you, but he didn’t need to. Jason slid him a mug of hot cocoa instead of coffee, and Junior smiled into it like it was a secret.

---

They spent the day doing absolutely nothing.

No training. No rooftops. No secrets.

They watched a ridiculous animated sci-fi show with terrible voice acting and even worse physics. Jason insisted it was “so bad it looped around to genius.” Junior heckled the dialogue until his voice went hoarse and Jason nearly choked on his drink.

They made lunch together and turned the grilled cheese into a full-blown event—Jason burned one, Junior dropped another on the floor, and both declared themselves winners.

In the afternoon, Junior discovered an old box of Jason’s books and sat cross-legged on the floor flipping through battered graphic novels and field manuals. He paused now and then to ask something random like “Did you really dislocate a guy’s jaw with a paperback?” to which Jason always replied with a smug “Allegedly.”

At some point, Jason brought out a chess board, dusty but intact.

“You play?” he asked.

Junior narrowed his eyes. “You’re not going easy on me.”

Jason raised both brows. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They played for over an hour. Junior lost twice. Won once. Declared it a moral victory and demanded a rematch.

---

As the sun dipped behind Gotham’s fractured skyline, painting the windows gold and pink, Jason flipped off the lights and returned to the couch, dropping next to Junior with a heavy sigh.

Junior leaned his head back and let the quiet wrap around them.

“You think we’ll ever be… okay?” he asked.

Jason didn’t answer right away.

But then he shrugged. “I think we already are. Right now, at least. I mean, we had waffles, yelled at cartoon aliens, and I didn’t shoot anyone today.”

Junior smirked. “High bar.”

“Hey, progress is progress.”

Junior pulled the blanket over both of them, and they sat like that for a long time—warm, quiet, breathing the same air.

Outside, Gotham still screamed.

But inside? For once, it was still.

Chapter Text

There was something unsettling about peace.

It crept in quietly, without warning, without asking permission. It arrived on tiptoe in the spaces between panic attacks and bloodstains, and then had the audacity to stay. Linger. Sit down beside him like it belonged.

Junior hated that it made him suspicious.

He sat curled up on the battered couch, knees pulled to his chest, Jason’s hoodie swallowing him whole. It still smelled like gunpowder and motor oil and that faint trace of old leather that clung to Jason like a second skin. It shouldn’t have been comforting. It wasn’t comforting. Not really.

Except it kind of was.

The TV flickered in front of him with some movie he’d already forgotten the name of, all glossy explosions and bad one-liners. Jason was in the kitchen, clanging pans around like a one-man band. The whole apartment smelled like garlic and burnt toast, and the window was cracked just enough for the breeze to sneak in and brush over Junior’s face like a question he didn’t know how to answer.

He didn’t know what to do with himself.

Not just today—in general.

It’d been weeks. Real, actual weeks since Arkham. Since Joker. Since the screaming. Since that look Jason had given him like he was made of broken glass and rage and second chances.

He was healing. Objectively.

Jason had taken down the blackout sheets. They’d restocked the pantry with real food. Junior had gone a full day without checking over his shoulder or twitching at the sound of car horns. They had a routine now—breakfast at noon, training when they felt like it, sleep at whatever hour didn’t feel haunted.

He had his own room now. Jason had offered it quietly, like he wasn’t sure if Junior would say yes. The mattress was older than him, the walls were blank, but it was his. That's all that mattered.

He was safe. He was warm. He hadn’t screamed himself awake in three nights.

So why did he still feel like he was vibrating out of his skin?

Junior tugged the hoodie sleeves over his hands and stared at the television, unfocused.

The thing no one told you about escaping hell was that afterward, everything felt wrong in a different way.

He’d grown used to adrenaline. To silence that wasn’t quiet but tense. He’d known how to navigate Joker’s chaos like it was muscle memory—when to laugh, when to cry, when to bite his tongue and when to act out because it was expected of him.

He didn’t know how to handle mornings where the worst part was burnt eggs.

“Food,” Jason called from the kitchen, like it was an announcement and not a threat.

Junior blinked.

“Food that I did not totally ruin,” Jason clarified, carrying two mismatched plates into the living room. “Don’t get too excited.”

Junior accepted the plate wordlessly, glancing down at the slightly overcooked pasta and uneven garlic bread. It smelled... good. He didn’t want to say that, because then Jason would smirk, and his ego couldn’t take that right now.

“Thanks,” he muttered instead.

Jason shrugged and flopped into the armchair, balancing his plate on one knee.

They ate in silence for a while. Not the heavy kind. Just the kind where words weren’t really necessary.

Still, something festered in Junior’s chest. It clawed at his ribs every time he tried to settle. This dull, persistent hum of 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

It wasn’t Jason’s fault.

Jason had been… patient. More patient than Junior deserved. He didn’t press. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask Junior to be someone he wasn’t.

But that was part of the problem, wasn’t it?

Because Junior didn’t know who he was supposed to be.

“Jason,” he said suddenly, halfway through his bread.

Jason looked up with a quiet grunt.

“…What if I can’t do it?”

Jason frowned. “Do what?”

Junior set the plate down and wrapped his arms around his legs again. “Be normal. Be… whatever this is.”

There was a long pause.

Jason leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the quiet hum of the movie behind them filling the space.

“You think I’m normal?” he asked.

Junior snorted despite himself. “No. But you know how to fake it. I don’t even know where to start."

Jason didn’t look away. “You start here. With a hoodie that’s too big and cartoons you hate-watch. With getting out of bed. With eating food that doesn’t come from a can.”

“It still feels fake.”

“It is fake. At first.” Jason’s voice was low. Steady. “You fake it until it’s not. You go through the motions. You build something out of the mess. Eventually, it starts to feel real.”

Junior wanted to believe him. God, he wanted that so badly it hurt.

But the fear was always there. What if one bad night shattered everything? What if he slipped up and started laughing like him again? What if Jason looked at him one day and saw nothing but Joker’s handiwork?

“I hate that you call me Tim,” Junior said quietly.

Jason blinked. “I haven’t—lately.”

“I know. I just…” Junior’s voice cracked. “I’m not him anymore.”

Jason looked down at his hands. “Yeah. I figured that out.”

There was no malice in it. No disappointment. Just quiet recognition.

“You get to be whoever you want now, we've talked about this already,” Jason said. “Tim, Junior, something else entirely. I don’t care what name you pick. I care that you’re still here.”

Junior closed his eyes.

It wasn’t enough to stop the doubt, but it softened the edges.

---

That night, Junior couldn’t sleep.

Jason had passed out in the armchair, still half dressed, with a book across his chest and the television blaring reruns of a show neither of them followed.

Junior paced the apartment barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, nerves frayed.

He hated how still it was. How safe.

He hated that some part of him missed the chaos. Not *Joker,* not Arkham—but the clarity that came with survival mode. The sharp edges. The lack of questions.

Now there was time. Time to think. To feel. To remember things that hurt.

He stood by the window and stared at Gotham’s skyline, glowing and broken.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever feel whole.

But maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe just… existing like this was enough. For now.

He stepped away from the glass and padded back to the couch, curling up at the end. Jason didn’t stir when Junior tugged the blanket over them both, but he mumbled something halfway between a grunt and a sigh.

Junior didn’t answer.

But he stayed.

And that was something.