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Jason had always known the red helmet was a bad idea. Even when the thought had hit him those months ago, like a freight train had veered off path and slammed into his unsuspecting chest, he’d been filled with a sick, twisted notion of wrong.
He’d also entertained using a crowbar as his signature weapon, and wasn’t that just spectacular of past him , that he’d thought using the same thing which had killed him should be how he presented his return? He remembers why it seemed like a good idea at the time—he wanted to use the red hood as a reflection of his progress, as if to say, “Look, I made it out alive, and now I’m taking back what had been stolen from me.”
But, in hindsight, that analogy didn’t work either. It wasn’t his identity he was reclaiming: It was the Joker’s. And donning that mask to go out with callous, ruthless intensity had not helped that fact.
Which only left him reeling, months after he had cemented his reputation in Gotham completely, with the realisation that he had no idea who he actually was .
It was hard to separate everything, when what pieces of himself he could find didn’t even come from the same set. There was Jason Todd before Batman, and Jason Todd after. There was Robin and what that had meant to him, and then there was the surge of hatred in his chest whenever he saw those same colours on his replacement. And he couldn’t forget his death, which had presented itself with the starkest visible contrast—Jason still didn’t understand how he’d gotten so tall when he’d been dead for half of his growth spurt.
Then there was the League, who’d twisted and morphed everything he once knew to be true into something else, someone else—and wasn’t that just the crux of it all? Jason couldn’t be sure if anything he was now was really, truly his. His anger was the Pit’s. His identity was the Joker’s. His actions were the League’s.
Even his physical self was unknowable, with previous lanky limbs now bursting with muscle and a voice that rumbled instead of squeaked: His eye colour wasn’t spared from the confusion, either, and Jason would have been pissed about that if he didn’t have other, more pressing things to worry about—like making sure Nightwing, who was hot on his trail as he leaped over Githam’s skyline, didn’t catch up to him before he could get inside his safe house.
The scariest part, Jason thought as he forced his legs to move faster, wasn’t the fear of being chased or that his whole operation might be going six feet under, but it was the fact that Dick was wholly and utterly silent. Only the pound of Jason’s own feet on rooftops and the whoosh as he jumped off one ledge to another could be heard in the quiet.
It also didn’t help that Jason’s heart was in his ears.
He’d had encounters with Dick already, but not like this—those times had been at a distance, where Jason was able to catch sight of a twinge of blue in the shadows before swiftly removing himself from the situation. This was different; Dick was just behind him, and he had gotten close enough that Jason hadn’t noticed him until it was too late.
Jason was not getting the impression that this was going to end with his escape.
“Gonna chase me all night?” he couldn’t help but call out, breaths turning harsh and ragged while Dick seemed to be doing just dandy .
Honestly, he wasn’t expecting a response—the quips had disappeared the moment Dick had walked in on Jason, gun against a frankly disgusting criminal’s head, and then Jason had run. He wasn’t going to kill the guy—he hadn’t killed anyone in weeks, actually—but Nightwing, the presuming asshole, clearly hadn’t noticed that little detail.
Amidst the quiet, it came as a surprise to Jason when, from a vantage point much closer than he assumed, Dick said, “If that’s what it takes.”
Fuck, Jason thought, deciding now was probably an appropriate time to start panicking.
He hadn’t run with the expectation of beating Dick in a chase—that had something to do with new bodily limitations that he still wasn’t quite used to—but he had thought he’d at least make it to his safe house or find a way to lose Dick between the alleys.
But no such thing had happened, and Jason would bet his left arm that tonight was about to get a whole lot worse.
It was still a little disheartening when he stumbled over a piece of concrete that was jutting out, and he went from falling downwards to being flung sideways as Dick’s escrima stick bowled him in the sides. Jason recovered quickly, but he wasn’t fast enough. Dick already had him pinned down and on the ground.
“Anything you want to say before I bring you straight to Arkham?”
Okay, Jason was…starting to feel a little worried now. Also claustrophobic. Very, very claustrophobic, and what was that harsh breathing noise? That couldn’t be from Dick, because he could see him, and—
“Get the fuck off me,” Jason growled, and, oh, the panicked breaths belonged to him. He rolled out of the way, able to somehow grab a flashbang from his belt so he could slam it on the concrete, giving him just enough time to scramble out from Dick’s hold and start running again.
Well, he was able to attempt it. Dick must have known what he was going to—and why wouldn’t he; it’s not like they hadn’t spent months sparring together when Jason was younger—because soon Jason was back on the ground and in a chokehold.
“Let me go,” Jason couldn’t help but rasp, scrabbling at the arms around him. There was a way out of this, he knew that, but fear was beginning to clog his throat, overriding his senses. “I wasn’t going to kill him, I swear.”
Nightwing only tightened his grasp, grabbing Jason’s hand and bringing it back as if to cuff him, and no way was Jason going to go to Arkham. That’s where the Joker was, and he couldn’t—
“That’s debatable,” Nightwing retorted back, oblivious. “Now, hands behind your back.”
Jason jerked in his grip. No no no—
“Don’t send me there. Dick, don’t send me there, don’t you dare, I can’t.”
Imitating the Joker’s mask had been such a bad idea, his brain reiterated, almost madly. Jason hadn’t stopped pleading, which would have been embarrassing if he wasn’t so determined. But even more disorienting was the fact that Dick had loosened his grip. Dangerously so—enough that Jason could wrench himself free.
His panic, latching onto something tangible, seized the opportunity on instinct alone. He yanked Dick’s arms down and pushed them out, wrestling himself out of the grasp. It was a move he’d practiced hundreds of times against Dick, back when they would train non-lethal takedowns and how to get out of different situations. Jason stumbled forward, catching his breath. Dick stayed behind, still with what seemed like shock. Jason didn’t know why Dick had let go, and he didn’t care; Jason just wanted gone.
Then Dick spoke.
“What did you call me?” he asked. And Jason froze. Dick’s voice was rising to a wild pitch, and Jason couldn’t move if he tried, his limbs locked tight. “You just— How do you know my name? That move… What—”
“Stop hunting me,” Jason gasped. In that moment, it was all he could think to say as every part of him screamed to run. To make sure Dick understood that he wasn’t a threat, not anymore, before he bolted so he didn’t have to hear his brother wonder what could have been. “I’ll stop killing. I haven’t in a while anyway—”
The red helmet had been such a bad idea.
“—And I’ll stay in Crime Alley, away from your turf. Just please…”
Jason wasn’t going to start begging again. Now that his senses were returning to him and his mind was clearing, he realised just how fucked he was. What was I thinking, saying Dick’s name?
He decided he needed to leave before Dick could return to his senses, too, but he wasn’t fast enough; he still heard what Dick said. It was one word, a whisper of a breath that held as much shock and desperation as Jason was feeling.
“Jason?”
And then Jason ran.
It wasn’t until he made it into his safehouse, locking every door and window he could, did Jason realise that Dick hadn’t even tried to follow him. Snarling, he ripped off his helmet and chucked it at the nearest table. It clattered to the floor, and Jason threw his head into his hands.
“Shit,” he muttered, crouching. Tonight had been a disaster of incredible proportions, and it wasn’t going to get any better after this. Dick knew it was him—he had to after saying his name like that. There was no way he wasn’t going to tell Bruce. Then Bruce would know, and Jason couldn’t—
He wondered what they thought of him now. Did Bruce see Jason as he was back then, fifteen and naive and so full of hope? Or maybe that image was so tarnished, so shattered and torn that there was nothing left of Jason to salvage; maybe he couldn’t go back after what he’d done. And even though he once believed he was right to kill those people, there was always the question of justice and mercy writhing in the back of his head.
Bruce didn’t know he'd stopped killing.
Jason hunkered down in his safehouse, unsure when he had pressed his back against the wall. What did the Bats see when they looked at him now? Was there something he hadn’t been able to find yet? He wondered if, maybe, they could help him find all the pieces. Or at least help him paint a better picture, because who even was he?
Yikes, Jason thought and brought his head back to stare at the ceiling. That red helmet really was a terrible idea.