Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I still know your takeout order. 

Do you remember mine? 

Jason could hear Alfred in his ear the entire time. Why not eat at the manor, Master Jason? It’s much healthier. You need those sorts of nutrients to fight crime. 

The nutrients actually needed are grease, salt, and carbonation, all wrapped in a takeout combo for $11.99. Specifically from the shitty burger place on the corner of New Eden Park. 

Jason doesn’t know how he found this place. Probably during his Robin days, some of the memories are still hazy. All he knows is that they're open 24/7, 365 days a year, and don’t care if you're a civilian, hero, vigilante, or villain. Hell, he’s doubtful if they even care if fucking Darkseid walked in. 

$11.99 is $11.99. 

And Jason doesn’t want to be at the manor right now. 

So instead he opts for getting his 11.99 burger, fries, and coke combo. Sit in his safehouse, read a book, and then attempt to get sleep. A great evening, in his opinion. Better than most evenings. 9pm still counts as evening? Right? 

So here he is standing in the line, hoodie and baseball cap, attempting to not look like a giant in the small shop. He reads the menu sign for the ten millionth time, as if he already doesn’t know what he’s going to get. 

“What can I get you?” the cashier stares at him. A teenage boy, blond hair pasted on his forehead from the smoke of the grill. Dead eyes, as is what every service employee in Gotham has after 7pm. 

“Number 5, no tomato.” 

“What drink do you want?” The cashier types away. 

“Uh—coke is fine.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. 

“11.99.” Before the cashier can even finish, Jason is sliding over fifteen bucks, muttering to keep the change. Grabbing the receipt and shuffling to the corner. The number ‘57’ in bold red font on the receipt. The exact moment another employee yells out “ORDER 50!” 

Damn, he was going to be here awhile. 

He’s content to just survey the place and get a feel for what kind of people are here tonight. His favourite game. 

Target one. The old guy in the opposite corner hunched over a table. Old torn clothes, so homeless. Shaggy white beard. So definitely old, has been homeless for a while. Single cup of coffee. One of the female employees is looking at him emphatically, so the coffee must've been on the house, or this girl got a real soft spot. Jason's guess is the former. The male employee, an older one with a manager name tag, is eyeing him though. Maybe he’s tried to rob the place once? 

Conclusion: Not a current threat. But might try and ask for some cash or cigarettes if Jason stares too long. 

The shop's front door opens with a soft ding of a bell. Someone else enters, a new target. 

A girl with her hood up. A dark blue Gotham University hoodie. Her face is relatively concealed. Brown skin. Nose piercing. Her shoulders are hunched. Likely a tired uni student trying to get some food in during studying. There are wired earbuds sticking out of her hood. Listening to music? At night? In Gotham? So maybe an exchange student from a nicer city? Or maybe someone who doesn’t believe they're actually going to get mugged. 

Conclusion: also not a threat. Maybe a little dumb. The least threatening person here. 

So why does Jason's stomach turn? 

The girl cranes her head up to the ceiling, cracking her neck. The hood falls off. 

Jason's stomach stops turning. Instead, it decides to drop. 

Anita. 

He hasn’t thought of that name in years. It can’t be her—no way. 

He’s been back in Gotham for almost a year now. Why only now has she crossed his path? Hell, why only now has the thought of her crossed his mind? 

Her hair is shorter. She’s got a grown-out wolf cut, and her hair is still frizzy as ever. Piercings sticking out from every part of her ear. The same glasses pushed up to the top of her nose. 

Anita Banshir. 

Anita fucking Banshir is standing in front of him, her neck crooked at a funny angle as she stares at her phone. A hand shoved into her hoodie pocket. 

When Jason came back, he knew he had a lot of people to reintroduce himself to. That all happened naturally. Naturally enough. But he never considered the civilian people he knew. More specifically the singular civilian he knew. He feels thirteen again. Thirteen and sitting on the couch of the manor, listening to her go on and on about the entire lore of her favourite movie series. He feels so small again. Because she’s standing right there—and to her he’s dead. Jason is six feet deep in a cemetery just outside Bristol. He’s not around anymore. 

His best friend is standing right there, and she doesn’t even know he is alive. 

What the hell is he supposed to do? Go up to her, take his hood off, and go, “Hey Anita, I know it’s been like eight years, but guess what! I’m actually alive! Don’t ask me how, though!"

No. Jason may be stupid, but he isn’t that stupid. 

Instead, he decides to be an even bigger idiot. 

When Jason came back, he came back…different. Of course he noticed the fact that he could finally see the top shelf in cupboards easier or that Dick had to crane his head a bit to make eye contact. Or the fact he went up a t-shirt size, and pant size, and boxer size. Yeah. He noticed. 

Yet he never realises that other people also notice. Case and point being that he is now side-stepping beside her. His phone is out, pretending to be busy on his phone. 

Yeah. He doesn’t notice how weird it looks. 

“You a Gotham U student?” he mumbles. Anita looks up. Her brows furrowed and lips in a slight scowl. He is used to that kind of look from most people now. She stares for a second too long before answering. 

“Excuse me?” Her voice is a bit deeper now. Not as high-pitched as when they were kids. 

“Your hoodie”—Jason doesn’t know whether to be hurt or relieved she doesn’t recognise him—“my brother goes to Gotham U too.” He tries his best to hide the disdain in his voice upon the word brother. 

She looks down at her sweater. “Oh yeah, what year is your brother in?” 

Jason doesn’t know. He actually doesn’t even know if Tim is still in school. For all he knows, good ole Timmy already finished his degree. 

“Uh—third year, I think,” he makes up. “Business and Economics” sounds like something Drake would be in. 

“Oh nice, I have a friend in that program.” 

Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Not good, abort. Abort mission. Run out of the store—leave the food, who cares—not good. 

“Oh—cool—cool.” Jason shifts on his feet again. “Are you in business?” Please say no, Jason brains keeps screaming.

“Nah, I’m in sciences,” Anita nods. 

Okay, so she’s lying. Anita would’ve never gone into science. Her dream was arts. It finally clicks to Jason how creepy he must be looking. A 6'4 beefy man in a hoodie and baseball cap asking a random girl about where she goes to school at 9pm in a shitty burger place. 

He might as well be asking her to get into his kidnapping van. 

“Nice,” he nods, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets. 

“ORDER 53!” one of the employees calls out, and Anita steps forward, grabbing the takeout bag. She looks through it before looking at the employee. “Sorry, but I ordered two fries; there's only one.” 

The employee frowns, looking at the receipt before sighing, “One minute,” before shuffling into the back. She takes the bag and steps back into her regular spot. 

Silence. Dreadful silence. 

“Forgot my fries,” she mumbles. To him. 

“They always forget the fries,” he shrugs. 

“Right? But eh, $11.99 is $11.99.” Right. That’s how he found out about this place. She showed it to him years ago. After a party.

“How’d you get your order first?” Jason furrows his brows. Didn't she get here after him? 

Anita looks up at him again, eyebrow raised as if he just asked if the sky is blue. “Ordered online?” 

“They take online orders?” Jesus, he sounds like an old man. 

“Yeah?” The employee returns, a mini bag of fries in hand. Anita steps forward, grabbing it and putting it in her bigger takeout bag. He’s losing time. If he doesn’t tell her right now, he’ll lose his chance—he’ll never see her again. 

He can’t lose her again—not after all this time—he has to—

And she’s gone. Right out the door. And Jason…he’s just stuck there. Feet planted on the sticky floor of the place. Unmoving. How can he? How can he go back to her—how can he tell her? He’d have to tell her everything—Robin, the League, the resurrection, Red Hood—how can he have the audacity to go back to her after so long? 

How is he supposed to go back to something he forgot?

Anita gets back into the car, confused out of her mind. She sits, the warm takeout on her lap. Her roommate finally pipes up. 

“Are you good?” Jess waves a hand over her eyes. 

“Yeah—yeah—just—” Anita shakes her head, shaking her thoughts back into place. “Do you remember I told you about my old childhood friend?” 

“Jackson?” 

“Jason.” 

“Jason,” she nods, “yeah, I remember him. Why?” 

“I don’t know—there was a guy in there—I swear his face looked just like him—it was like…uncanny.” Anita shudders. 

“Well, was it him?” 

“Nah, couldn’t be.” Anita shrugs as Jess starts the car, driving down the road. “He died when we were kids.” 

“Nita, this is Gotham; anything could happen in Gotham.” 

“Good point, but still, it couldn’t be him.” Anita looks in the car mirror back at the burger place, watching as it slowly vanishes from sight. “His eyes weren’t green.”

Chapter Text

You always liked flowers.

I'm sorry I never bought you any.

Jason knew that being adopted by Bruce Wayne meant his life was going to change. No more running. No more drugs. No more stealing. Decent meals, a real bed and real home, and a real school.

He knew all these things. The CPS lady drilled it into him for weeks before the paperwork was final. She didn’t account for two things. The whole “Bruce Wayne is Batman” thing and… parties. 

Wayne Enterprise Galas, to be exact. Jason doesn’t hate them per se. That’s a lie. He does hate them. The adoption is still fresh. Barely scabbed over news. So every single person at this charity gala is finding him, pinching his cheek, and going on and on about what a saint Bruce is for taking him in. The first few times it was fine. Jason smiled, genuinely smiled. Because yeah—his life is better now. By the tenth person the bit grew old. 

Just reminded him how different he was from this world. All these rich folks gorging down on food and champagne talking about the fifth car they’ve bought and “Wherever shall I store it?!” Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Every single time he hears an adult talk about the crime rate, all he can think about is , “Would that have been my life? If Bruce never found me?” It sends him spiralling. This isn’t him. This has never been him and probably will never be. 

He’s Robin, Batman’s sidekick, not Jason Todd-Wayne, second son of Bruce Wayne. So what does he do? He decides to pull a Dick and leave. It’s subtle; he sneaks away from the ballroom down the hall, slipping past the catering staff down to the courtyard. 

The courtyard was the first thing Jason noticed when he moved in, that and the beauty and the beast-sized library in the west wing. He quietly found solace in the garden. 

Of course he’d never admit to liking flowers. He’s a boy. Boys aren’t into flowers. He still remembers the time he bought a few roses for his mom when he was nine, with the change he scrounged up over a few months. He remembers walking home giddy and bright-eyed; he remembers the neighbour kids pushing him against the dumpster, stomping on the roses and tossing the stems in his face, calling him words he didn’t even know. He remembers slumping his way home, too scared to even tell his parents. Not because he didn’t defend himself, but because he was too scared they’d agree. 

Yeah. 

Boys don’t like flowers. 

So he sits on the little balcony overlooking the courtyard, with a little staircase on the side to descend down into the trail. The fence lights are illuminating the few plants still in bloom this time around. 

It’s quiet; he’s not used to quiet. Quiet means bad in his mind. 

A bush rustles nearby in the hedge maze. 

Someone's in there. 

Intruder. Jason thinks. This is his chance to prove himself, to be Robin. He’ll catch the bad guy all by himself and show Bruce how much of a hero he can be. He doesn’t waste time walking down the stairs, leaping off the railing and rolling onto the dirt ground just a few feet below. Running into the maze. Sure, he’s only been here three months, but he’s got the maze memorised. The bushes ruffle more. There they are. 

Slowly creeping around the corner, hand on a batarang he has tucked into his waistband. Turning to the intruder and—

It's a girl. 

A girl in a frilly red dress, a terrified look on her face, tears running down her cheeks. She screams, falling back on her bum. In the poor light he can make out some features: brown skin and long black hair tied into a loose braid. Small gold hoop earrings. His age, maybe?

“I’m sorry—” she whimpers, “I got lost…”  

“I—” Jason immediately moves his hand away from the batarang—what? This isn’t an intruder? It’s just a kid. Damn. He’s a bit bummed. “Are you okay?”

She stares at him; he doesn’t recognise her from the party—but she’s wearing party clothes. 

“I’m Jason.” He extends his hand to her. She stares at him, gaze flicking from the hand to his face and then back to the hand, slowly taking it. He helps her stand back up. 

“Anita,” she mumbles, swiping away the dried tears at her cheek, “I got lost.” 

“Oh, yeah, this place is tricky.” Jason steps back to give her room. “Do you want help?” 

She doesn’t answer, dusting off the tulle of her dress, trying to straighten out a wrinkle. Her eyes are on the ground, and she nods subtly. He gestures for her to follow, and she does, staying in step with him, fidgeting with the fabric of her dress. 

“I thought you were an intruder,” Jason mumbles, turning the corner. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles back. 

“Stop saying sorry; it’s not a big deal.” Jason doesn’t know why he feels a bit irritated hearing her say sorry. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles again. Jason sees from the corner of his eyes as she winces slightly.

He leaves it at that. There's no point in telling her to stop again. 

They don’t say anything for a while. He doesn’t even know how she managed to get this far into the hedge maze. She speaks again, a little louder this time, “You thought I was an intruder and came anyway?” 

Jason stops, turning his head to her, brows furrowed, “Yeah?” 

Anita stops as well, staring back at him, a small smile creeping onto her lips. 

“What?” Jason scoffs. 

“What if I was like a supervillain or something?” She laughs softly. 

“I’d have beat you up,” Jason says matter-of-factly. 

“With what? Your fists?” 

Jason almost mentioned the batarang in his pants before stopping himself, huffing. Anita laughs even more. It’s a nice laugh, soft and quiet. 

Maybe all quiet isn’t bad. 

“Hey, I could’ve!” Jason continues walking, picking up the pace. 

“Sure you could’ve,” she follows behind. 

“What were you even doing out here? What if I was a supervillain, huh?” Jason sees the exit of the maze straight ahead. 

“I don’t know! Scream? That’s what my mom said to do,” Anita shrugs. 

“My mom told me to run.” Jason steps out of the maze, the smell of flowers instantly hitting him. 

“And you did the opposite?” 

“If I didn’t find you, you’d have been trapped—or caught by a supervillain too,” Jason can’t help but snort. 

“Okay, yeah, that’s fair,” Anita laughs as well. 

“How’d you even get stuck in there?” He starts heading towards the main trail. Goodbye to his chance of sitting and watching over the garden. But maybe this isn’t a bad alternative

“I wanted to go look at the flowers.” 

“And you went in the hedge maze?” 

“Yeah,” Anita appears beside him again, her arms swinging at her side, “bad idea, I guess.” 

“Very bad idea,” Jason agrees, “but fair; these things suck.” 

“Right!” She lights up, grabbing his arm. Jason jolts but doesn’t move away. “I don’t even know why my parents bring me here!” 

“No, you’re so right,” Jason groans, “make me wear this stupid suit all the time.” He turns his head to look at the flowers decorating the path; he sees a bush of yellow flowers he doesn’t recognise. Not important. He shouldn’t be looking anyway. 

“Freesias,” Anita says as if reading his mind. 

“How’d you—” She lets go, walking to the bush, crouching, and touching a flower. 

“My mom—uh—oh my god, what’s the word? —she works with plants.” 

“Like Poison Ivy?” Jason stands behind her. Anita snaps her head around, a scowl on her face. 

“My mom is nothing like Poison Ivy,” she huffs. 

“Sorry…” Jason shifts under her gaze. 

“My mom says that Poison Ivy ruined her field.” Anita stands up, hands on her hips. 

They’re the same height, Anita and Jason, but Jason can’t help but feel the need to straighten his posture and make himself just a little taller. 

Just as Jason is about to say something back—honestly, he doesn’t even know what he was going to say—a man’s voice yells from the manor doors. 

“Master Jason. Is there a reason you are out in the courtyard?” Alfred. Standing perfectly poised on the balcony, staring down at them. 

Jason is still constantly surprised when Alfred speaks so calmly to him, even when he messes up. It always makes him think back to his dad. Willis screaming at him sometimes makes him think how he’d react. “Boy. Why the fuck are you out there? Get your ass back in that house, or I’ll come beat your fucking ass.” 

Alfred was much better. 

“Sorry Alfred,” Jason grabs Anita's arm, not roughly or tightly, just enough to pull them back to the stairs of the balcony, up the stairs, and in front of Alfred. 

Alfred stares them down, face stoic as ever. He takes a good hard look at their clothes, then at Anita's face. 

“Have you been crying, Miss?” 

Anita shifts in her spot, looking down at her hands. Alfred steps closer, crouching to her eye level. “Did Master Jason upset you, Miss?”

Anita looks up, shaking her head. “No, sir,” she mumbles, “I got lost in the courtyard.” 

Alfred looks at Jason. “Is this true?” Jason nods so fast his eyes feel like they’re going to shake out. 

“I thought there was an intruder, but she was lost in the hedge maze, Alfred.” Jason stuffs his hands into his pockets. Alfred rises to his normal height, simply nodding. 

“You children best be getting inside now; it’s not safe for you two to be out here at night.

Jason nods, grabbing Anita’s hand before quickly shuffling inside. He looks at Alfred once more. “Please don’t tell Bruce.” 

Alfred simply stares; Jason can make out the faintest of smiles, almost microscopic. “Our secret, Master Jason.” Jason smiles, quickly heading back inside, pulling Anita towards the ballroom. 

He stifles a laugh, and so does she; the second they look at each other, they begin laughing. 

“Oh my god, he is so scary,” Anita laughs. 

“Alfred? He’s not scary.” Jason pauses, his mind cutting back to the week before in the cave, Alfred lecturing Bruce about installing child locks on the Batmobile. That was scary. “Okay, he’s a bit scary.” 

“You’re telling me,” she snorts. 

Is this why Bruce makes him attend every gala? When he says to meet people “his own age.” Is this why? Because this, this he likes. Maybe Galas aren’t so bad. 

When they enter the ballroom again, the party is still ongoing, if not even more so. No one notices as the two swerve through the crowds of fancy dresses and tuxes, laughing. 

“ANITA!” A man's voice calls out, and Anita stops as if a sleeper agent has been activated. 

“My dad’s calling me.” She lets go of Jason, a bit of sadness on her face. “I’ll be right back.” 

Jason nods before hearing Bruce call out his name as well. He follows suit in the opposite direction. 

When Jason swerves through the crowd finding Bruce, he’s standing next to a woman talking. God, not this again. 

Is Bruce flirting? Maybe, maybe not. He appears by Bruce's side. 

“You called?” 

Bruce looks down at him, his perfected Wayne smile on. “This is Mrs. Banshir; she’ll be one of the teachers at your new school. 

Jason looks at the woman, taller, with light brown skin and curly hair tied back in a loose bun. 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Jason.” She bends a bit to shake his hand; he reluctantly shakes it. 

Please don’t pinch my cheek. He thinks. Thankfully she doesn’t. 

“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,” he smiles politely, a skill he’s perfected over the past three months. 

“Your father tells me you’re 11?” 

Father. 

What a strange word. Is Bruce his father? He doesn’t call him Dad. But the adoption papers could name him as the father. But they don’t share any DNA. 

Maybe this is an existential crisis for another day. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Jason nods; the woman just smiles, showing perfect pearly white teeth. 

“I have a daughter your age; she’s around here somewhere. I think she’s with her father.” She turns her head, and her eyes light up. “Ah, there they are.” She beckons them over. “Anant, perfect timing.” 

And an older man appears, balding with square glasses pushed up his nose. A girl appears from behind him, wedging herself between her parents. 

The girl in the red dress. Anita. She sees him and smiles softly, waving shyly. 

“This is my daughter Anita.” 

“Hi,” Jason smiles, a real smile. 

“Anita attends Gotham Academy,” Bruce says, to whom, no one knows. “Jason is starting at the end of the month.”

“Hi,” Anita whispers back. 

“How about you two get acquainted since you’ll be in school together?” Mrs. Banshir pats Anita’s shoulder. Anita looks up at her dad. Without missing a beat, her dad smiles. “Acquaint means get to know,” she nods. 

Is that how parents are supposed to act? So kind and loving, with such soft voices? Weird. 

Anita looks back at Jason, nodding her head to the side; he nods back, and the two quickly run off. 

As they run off, hand in hand, Jason can hear Bruce say one last thing to the Banshirs: “Good, he finally has a friend.” 

Jason doesn’t want to admit that his cheeks are so red. 

Weird. A friend. 

So this is what it’s like to have a friend. 

Long after the gala in the wee hours of the morning, Jason finds Bruce in the cave looking at the computer, doing what, he doesn’t know. But a question eats away at him. So he quickly creeps up behind him. 

“Yes, Jason?” Bruce says without even looking, having sensed his presence ages ago.
“I have a question.” Jason stares down at his shoes, having finally switched out of the dress shoes into his sneakers. Bruce swivels in the chair to face him. 

“Is something wrong?” Bruce tilts his head. Face expressionless. 

“Is—um—well—Mrs. Banshir said Anita is my age—so—I mean—” Jason stumbles over his words, his cheeks going beet red. “Is she going to be in my class?” 

“Possibly, but it’s not for certain,” Bruce tries his best to hide the amusement in his voice. “Why?”

“No reason,” Jason mumbles. ”Okay—that’s it—goodnight, B.” He quickly runs out of the cave.

Bruce chuckles, pulling out his phone and making a call. “Hello? Dean Thomas?” 

The person on the other end confirms. 

“Great, I was hoping to enquire about a student, Anita Banshir.” Bruce swivels in his seat to face the computer again. “How much can I pay you to make sure my son is in her class?”

From around the corner, Jason smiles.

Chapter Text

My family hates when I talk about you.

They think I haven't gotten over when I do 

Jason gave in two days later to Alfred’s nagging. The prospect of real food and lemon tarts got to him. 

Apparently it's to the rest of every kid that’s ever lived in the manor. According to the group chat that Jason refuses to ever text in, Tim’s wifi cut out at his apartment, Steph needed to restock on cuffs, Dick felt like visiting from Bludhaven, and all the kids still living at the manor decided to venture from their rooms to the kitchen.

In short terms: everyone decided to be home.

Which leaves Jason to sit and watch as Alfred finishes baking the tarts, everyone sitting in the living room socialising. Jason could sit with them in the living room and get in that good old-fashioned sibling hangout time. If you could even consider them ‘siblings.’ According to the law, they were siblings. 

But according to the law, Jason is also dead, so does that still apply to him? He’ll just jot that down in his little notebook of existential dead guy thoughts. 

“Master Jason, is there a reason you’re so keenly staring at the back of my head?” Even without looking at him, Alfred always knows when he stares. 

“No reason,” Jason murmurs, chin resting in his palm as he hunches over the island. Alfred just cleaned the countertop with his ‘secret cleaning spray.’ It feels like there's a flashlight of marble glaring into his eyes. 

“You know I don’t approve of lying.” Alfred takes out another batch of lemon tarts, setting them into the fridge.

“M’not lying,” Jason grumbles. 

“Yeah, you are,” another voice creeps up behind him, followed by a smack to his back. Of course it’s Dick. “That’s the voice you use when you lie.” 

This is why he doesn’t like being home, not after dying. Anytime he goes silent, everyone who knew him before death starts to psychoanalyse him. Every breath, every blink. Like a ticking time bomb waiting to commit mass crime and murder…again. 

Alfred slides out a tray of finished lemon tarts and an earlier batch. “Have a taste test before I finish making the rest.” Jason knows this is Alfred's way of showing favouritism. He knows the recipe perfectly yet always offers him and Dick batches to taste. 

Alfred always doted on Jason more. Jason could never figure out why, though; that didn’t mean he didn’t embrace it, though. Maybe because he was younger or because he’d seen so much pain. Hell, for all Jason knew, Alfred just flipped a coin on who he’d like more. 

Alfred did have a favourite above Jason. Anita. 

Anita. The second it pops into mind, it won’t go away. Won’t leave his mind. His stomach does that weird turning thing again. 

Anita was never allowed to taste test baked goods; Alfred always said she’d get the perfect one first. Not the mishaps. 

He blinks. Something isn’t right. His eyes fall onto Dick as he snags a lemon tart, biting into it. Anita was his friend too. Sure, she befriended him after Jason, but still. 

Anita was friends with all of them. Babs, Dick, and Alfred. She practically lived at the manor during the summer and when her dad was away. Wouldn’t he have naturally seen her again after coming back? 

“Dick?” Jason speaks before his brain has time to think it through. 

“Yes, Little Wing,” Dick hums, leaning against the fridge.

“Do you remember Anita?” 

Silence. Dick stops mid-bite. Even Alfred freezes while piping the lemon meringue.

It’s as if he just reminded them of World War 2 flashbacks. 

“Hello?”

Dick blinks and resumes his bite. “Yeah, I remember her.” His eyes dart to Alfred’s, then back to his lemon tart. 

“What a nice girl she was,” Alfred says simply as if she died alongside him in that warehouse. 

“What happened to her? Y’know, after I…” doesn’t need a detective to figure out what he implied. 

“Don’t know,” Dick answers a bit too quickly. “She stopped coming around after the funeral.” 

Jason leans back in his seat. “Really? Wasn’t she close to you and Babs too?”

“Really? I didn’t think so,” Dick shrugs. What a liar. He and Anita were basically following Dick around 24/7. Anita knew as much about Dick as she did Jason. 

Jason's eyes fall back to Alfred, his eyes laser-focused on piping the tarts. He’s hiding something. 

“Alfred.” 

“Yes, Master Jason?” Alfred doesn’t look up. 

“What happened to Anita?” Jason sits up straighter. Voice a bit deeper. 

“Who is Anita?” A younger voice snarls. Damian. It seems he’s finally ventured into the kitchen. Steph and Duke in tow. 

What’s he supposed to say? They weren’t around when Anita was in the picture. Oh yeah. Anita was the first real friend I ever made. And now Dick and Alfred won’t tell me anything about her. 

“She was an old friend,” Jason frowns. 

“Oh, what, like a girlfriend?” Steph snickers, swiping a lemon tart off the plate. 

“She wasn’t—” Jason’s face goes red, in anger, embarrassment, or a blush—who knows? “She was a friend.” 

“Sure she was,” he hears Dick mutter. Snapping his head back to him. 

“Hell’s that supposed to mean, Dickface?” 

“You two were definitely more than friends, ” Dick mocks his voice. “She was here like every weekend; at that point she was basically family.” Dick stops again, realising he spilt too much. 

“What?” Duke laughs, “We got like a secret sister no one’s mentioned before.” 

“God dammit,” Jason mutters under his breath. 

“Who knew teenage Jason had game?” Steph snorts while Damian makes a face of disgust. 

“She wasn’t my—ew—I—it wasn’t like that!” Jason stands up, the stool squeaking from the change of weight. “She was my friend from school. And it seems like no one is going to tell me shit about her.” 

“Master Jason—” Alfred starts. 

“No. Just no.” Jason huffs, “What the hell happened to Anita, Alfred?”

Alfred just stares; the room goes dead silent. No one raises their voice at Alfred. No sane person, at least. Perhaps this is how Jason will die again. Maybe at least this time he’ll stay in the ground. 

“I cannot in good conscience tell you what happened to Miss Banshir.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because she didn’t want anyone to know,” Dick answers, hands stuffed into his pockets. A tart crumb on his cheek, “After you died, she wanted no connection to us, not even a trace.”

Jason would rather have been shot. 

“What?” is the only word that can come out of his mouth. 

“It simply seems she could not handle the loss of a loved one. It’s very simple, Todd.” Damian pipes up. 

“You shut up,” Jason barks. His head feels heavy. Why would she—how could she—she’d never. 

“Jason—” Dick steps closer; Jason steps back. 

“No. Not another word from you—just—no.” His chest aches. “I’m going.” 

“Master Jason.” 

“Not. Another. Word.” Jason snaps. Snatching his leather jacket off the chair, stomping away. No one chases him. No one goes looking for him. 

Figures. He should’ve never come home. 

What the hell are they hiding from him? Why won’t they just tell him? He’s not a kid anymore. He’s not going to crumble into a billion pieces. He’s halfway down the stairs to the Batcave when a thought passes him. 

If no one was going to tell him. He’d just find out himself. Speeding down the stairs and beelining to the Batcomputer. 

Someone's already there. Of course there is. No one in this damn family can ever not be in his space. Tim hunched over the keyboard, typing away at some case files. 

“Move.” Jason grabs the back of the chair. 

“Got here first, Todd.” Tim doesn’t even react. 

“Move before I make you move, Drake.” Jason bends down to stand at eye level with Tim. Tim turns his head, still unfazed.

“Why do you need the computer, huh?” 

“Need to look something up.” 

“That’s what Google is for.” Tim deadpans. 

Jason might try and murder him again. “Drake. I swear to god—” 

“I’m just saying, man, you gotta give me a reason here,” Tim shrugs a shoulder.

“Need to find a suspect.” 

“Notice how I don’t believe you.” 

“Replacement, if you give me the fucking computer right now—” 

“Wow, I’ve been demoted back to replacement,” Tim snorts, rising from the chair. “I’m getting up, I’m getting up. Was going to get up anyway.”

“You little—” Deep breath, Jason. Deep breath. He shoves past Tim, dumping himself onto the chair. 

“You’re welcome,” Tim mutters. 

Right as Tim reaches the stairs, Jason speaks one more time, a bit softer, “You still attend Gotham U, right?” 

Tim cranes his head over his shoulder, eyebrow raised, “Yeah? Why?” 

“What major are you in again?” 

“International Business, third year,” Tim blinks in confusion. “Why?” 

“No reason.” Jason looks away, back to the computer, typing away. Faintly hearing Tim mutter “weird” before walking up the stairs and away. Jason types away. 

So she goes to Gotham U, likely for something in the arts. Animation? No. Something more classic—when he types it in, no match. 

Weird. Okay, maybe a more broad approach. He heads to the university website. She’d be in grad school by now. Gotham U only has a few grad programs, and all their students are public information. He types in her name. 

GOTHAM UNIVERSITY - GRAD STUDENT INFORMATION PAGE

          NAME: ANITA BANSHIR

          PROGRAM FIRST-YEAR GRAD STUDENT - GENETICS DEPARTMENT

          SUPERVISOR: DR. MICHEAL AMO

Genetics? So she wasn’t lying? Is she really in sciences? That can’t be right. In what universe would she have ever gone into sciences? 

Maybe someone is using her identity. Is that why Dick and Alfred won’t talk about her? Is she dead? But he saw her—she was definitely alive. 

More things pop up. Gotham U has a tradition in their grad programs to treat their top program applications like basketball drafts. It's a whole ceremony they record publicly. He finds last year's video. Students piled into the university auditorium in suits and dresses, the dean chattering away. Jason speeds up the video till he finds the science portion. A dark-skinned man walks up to the pedestal and introduces himself. 

“Good evening, students and faculty. My name is Dr. Micheal Amo. I am this term's head of genetics. Gotham U is very special when it comes to this program. It is one of the few universities in the country to even offer this grad program, specifically a research-based one. So you all understand why this event is so important to said applicants. Out of hundreds of thousands of applicants, we only select the eight best applicants.” Dr. Amo smiles. “That being said, I would now like to welcome the following recipients to the stage.” 

Dr. Amo pauses, taking out a folded piece of paper, pushing up his glasses, “Nailani Rogers, Mandeep Singh, Jackson McAlders, Hadley Wydham, Sunny McGill, Hira Nassim, Alex Young, and Anita Banshir.” 

Jason's eyes widen. Holy shit. The video continues as the people gather from the crowd, polite claps mixed with cheers muffling the audio, and he sees her. Zooming in on the video. She's in a plain green dress, her hair tied back in a low bun, grinning from ear to ear as she walks on the stage, shaking Dr. Amo’s hands as she lines up with the other applicants, cameras going off in the crowd. 

He should’ve been there. Should’ve been with her in that auditorium. See her win. 

He wasn’t there. 

The ache in his chest seems to dig even more. First he forgets her, and now it’s like he doesn’t know anything about her life. She has so many new piercings, she's in grad school for a program he never imagined for her, and she doesn't talk to his family anymore. Damn it, Anita. 

Before he can fully comprehend what he’s doing, he’s stalking every public website with any information on her. She was top of her class in undergrad and constantly on the dean’s list. President of Gotham U’s Science Society. Top grades at Gotham Academy. 

Wait. That can’t be right? An A in English?

English? Anita? 

She was terrible at spelling, let alone grammar; Jason had never seen her touch a book out of her own choice. Getting an A in English of all classes? Science and art, sure, but English? 

Something really isn’t right here. 

What happened to you, Anita? Jason thinks. Why is no one telling the truth?

Anita is hunched over her laptop, legs crossed as she sits on her bed; the desk is for wimps. Typing away in the night trying to finish her biweekly report for Dr. Amo. 

How are you supposed to write a progress report on a failing project?

In summary. The code to run the data overheated yet again. Current steps are to replace its hard drive and request further IT support from the administration. 

The computer caught on fire again, and Anita now has to request the admin office for another work laptop. 

She’s too scared to mention she has her own laptop, mainly because she fears that if she tries to run the code on her own laptop, it, too, will catch fire. 

If Dr. Amo asks, she types all her reports via the public library down the street. 

She looks up at the vase on her windowsill; the singular lily and white rose are wilted and drooping. Damn. She really hasn’t visited in a while, has she? She’s been so busy in her work. 

She should probably go visit tomorrow before her lab shift.

Chapter Text

It hurts everytime I see your birthday reminder on my phone 

I refuse to delete it. 

Jason knew for his twelfth birthday that he didn’t want a birthday party. He has and never will. Sure, it could be pointed out that Jason never even had the chance to ever have a birthday party. Though you can'y miss something you never had. 

Then what did he want? 

He wants to sit with his family in the kitchen, blow out his candles, eat his chocolate cake, and play cards with Anita. That’s what he wants. And of course, that’s exactly what he gets. Who is Bruce to say no to the poor boy's simple request? Jason has been adopted for almost a year now, and he’s never asked for anything grand; hell, he doesn’t even ask for anything, period. At least not directly. 

The ‘party’ was just meant to be Alfred, Bruce, Dick, and Anita. Dick may have invited one or two of his own friends that Jason didn’t necessarily dislike. He actually liked them quite a bit. Kori and Wally were cool. 

Dick could invite whoever he wanted so long as Anita was there with him. The week Jason started Gotham Academy, all his nerves and worries immediately melted away the second he saw Anita sitting there in her chair, doodling away in her notebook. “A friendship for the ages,” as Alfred put it. 

She practically lives at the manor anyway. Anita's mom teaches the biology classes for the upperclassmen; their school ends later. And Anita's dad works late. Which means for at least two hours every day, Anita sits with Jason in the manor and watches terrible action movies or sits in silence and does her homework. 

It’s safe to say the two were practically attached at the hip. 

“Alright, say cheese.” Alfred holds up Anita’s Polaroid camera; she had gotten it for her birthday a month earlier. She did have a party. Invited half the class to her parents townhouse out in Otisburg. For a while Jason assumed she was like every other rich kid in Gotham Academy till he found out she didn’t even live in Gotham Heights. Your regular middle-class Gothamite. 

Anita swings an arm over Jason's shoulder, the cone hat on her head just slightly tilted. Dick's hand rested on Jason's open shoulder, a smug grin on his face. Bruce right beside with a perfectly posed Wayne smile. The camera flashes, and a photo sputters out. 

“Alright, how about one of just Master Jason and Miss Banshir?” 

“Mr. Pennyworth, I told you, you can just call me Anita,” she groans softly. No matter how many times Jason tells her, she refuses to call him Alfred. 

“Apologies, Miss Anita,” Dick and Bruce chuckle, walking out of frame so it’s just the two of them. Jason and Anita both have identical wide grins. 

The camera flashes again, another photo spitting out. Anita runs around the table grabbing it, waving the photo in the air as it processes. She brings the two Polaroids around. Handing one of the group photos to Jason. 

“Ugh, Dick, you blinked,” Jason scowls. 

“My bad,” Dick snorts, grabbing the candles from the drawer. 

“We can take another,” Anita shrugs. 

“Nah,” Jason stares at the photo, “this one is fine.” 

Dick comes up from behind, placing a small chocolate cake in front of Jason, candles lit. 

Jason eyes Anita. “Nita, don’t. ”

“Too late,” she hums, looking at Dick, an evil look in her eyes. 

“You didn’t.” 

“Oh, we very much did, JayBird.” In an instant, Anita and Dick run around to the other end of the table, somehow both having matching microphones. Jason's face pales. 

“Happy Birthday to you,” Dick sings in a pitchy tone. 

“Happy Birthday to you!” Anita repeats in an equally pitchy voice. Jason sees Wally in the corner, phone out recording, with Kori towering behind him, stifling a laugh. He wants to curl into a corner and die. He opts to cover his face with his hands to hide the blush. 

“Happy birthday, sweet little JayBird!” Dick falls to his knees, still singing, the echo of the mic echoing. 

“Happy birthday toooo.” Anita spins around before pointing to him. “You!”

“Are you done?” Jason deadpans.

“For now, yes.” Anita hums into the mic; Dick gets up and high-fives her. Jason rolls his eyes, blowing out his candles as everyone claps. The smoke swirling around his face. 

Make a wish. What would he even wish for? He’s got everything he wants. A home, a friend, and he gets to beat villains up and play Robin. 

Sometimes he wishes he could tell her. He’s keeping the biggest secret of all time from his best friend. 

How many kids in the world know that Batman is Bruce Wayne or that Robin is a twelve-year-old named Jason Todd? Only one. And Jason hates that he’s the only one. 

He wishes he could tell her. 

Everyone crowds around, Alfred sliding the cake away to cut slices, and Dick and his friends setting down gifts in front of him. 

Anita looks around for a moment. “I left my gift in the living room. Wait a second—” She runs off. 

God. He wants to tell her. She understands. She goes on and on about how cool the heroes are, how cool Batman is, and how fast Robin is. He wishes he could just tell her he’s the one wearing the red tights. That the one who swings by her house every few nights is the same boy she fights over gaming controllers with. 

“So what did you wish for, Jason?” Kori tilts her head. She’s only been on earth for a few years now. 

“Kori, you can’t ask, or else it won’t come true,” Wally chides.

“I wish I could tell her,” Jason mumbles. Wally is right; you say it, and it won’t come true. But he knows he can’t tell her. 

“Oh, JayBird,” Dick rests a hand on his shoulder, “you know you can’t.” 

“But why not? She’s good at keeping secrets,” Jason sighs. 

“Because it puts everyone at risk,” Bruce reappears, a tiny gift bag in hand, the cone hat gone from his head.

“But—” 

“No buts, Jason. It’s for her safety and our own.”

“Okay, I’m back!” Anita runs back in, oblivious to the tension. Setting down a small pink gift bag in front of him, “Sorry, I didn’t have any other bags at home.” 

Wally and Kori gift him a new fighting game. Anita is way more excited than him about it. He remembers seeing her practically drool over it at the mall last week.

Bruce gifts him a pair of new running shoes. A note tucked into the shoe for only him to see: “for training.” Jason lights up. Not because of the shoes, god no. Because it means he still has what it takes to be Robin. 

Dick gifts him two first edition novels, Pride and Prejudice and The Count of Monte Cristo. Both hardcover and leather. A little note in the bag with a note saying, “Don’t be such a Darcy.” Jason didn’t get the joke. 

Alfred gifts him a watch, some old antique brand with a name he can’t pronounce. When Jason tries it on, it's too big. Far too big. Alfred simply says, “It’ll fit when you’re ready.” Always the cryptic.

Before he can even reach for Anita’s gift, she’s snatching away the gift bag, grabbing something. 

“Y’know those are my presents, right?”

“Yeah, but—you can’t see one of the gifts now!” Anita furrows her brows, not in anger or confusion, but in…worry?

“Nita…” Jason tilts his head.

Anita shifts under her gaze, sighing before sliding the bag back. He opens it.

A paperback copy of Pride and Prejudice, slightly worn from the corners, second-hand, underneath, a leather-bound journal. With a little tie in the front. He opens it, and the first page has a handwritten note in Anita’s scrawny handwriting, “Happy Birthday Jay, - Nita.” Wedged in the pages, a Polaroid—it’s of him asleep on the couch; he recognises the background. This was right after her birthday party. Jason had slept over (after much, much, begging.) Sprawled on the couch in her living room, blanket kicked off, hair a mess. 

It’s the best gift he’s ever gotten. Minus the photo. He’s burning that photo. 

-xoxo-

It’s only until later that he says something. Dick and his friends left a while ago, Bruce went to his “office” to finish some work, and Alfred is off doing whatever it is Alfred does in the off hours. 

Anita’s sleeping over. A thoroughly concocted plan by Jason. It took months of planning and begging to get Bruce to approve. The door to the cave stays on lock. There's no way for her to access it. The cave's alarm system is no longer connected to the major room, just Bruce's room. Robin stays off duty, and no one enters or exits the manor until the next morning when Anita heads home at eleven. They sit on the couch, Jason hunched over the gaming console trying to insert the new video game. Anita curled into the couch, a blanket over her shoulders. 

“Nita?” Jason says, looking over his shoulder, her phone up to her face, the blue light reflecting off her glasses. She got them a few months after he and she became friends: small rectangle glasses. 

“Yeah?” 

“Were you trying to take out the book from the bag?” 

“I’m not answering that.” She doesn’t look up from her phone. 

“Nita.” Jason now fully turns to look at her. 

“What?” 

“Dude, will you actually look at me?” He scowls. She slowly pries her eyes away from her phone, staring at him, unamused. 

“There I’m looking,” 

“Why were you trying to take out the book?” She shifts in her spot, adjusting the blanket. 

“Dick got you the same book,” she mumbles. 

He doesn’t need further explanation than that. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” she looks away. 

“I like the one you got me more anyway.” 

She all but scoffs, “Oh shut up, his was so much nicer. It had freaking leather!”

“And yours has a note, and you bought it with your own money.” The game finally boots up, and he grabs the controllers. Sitting on the opposite end of the couch.

She grumbles, and he sighs. “Look. I liked the present. Stop being such a dumbass about it.” 

Anita narrows her eyes at him. “Who you calling a dumbass, dumbass?” 

“You, dumbass, ” he smirks promptly before a couch pillow hits his head. “Ow! You’re so annoying.” 

“And yet you keep me around,” she snorts, taking the green controller from him.

“Hey, I wanted the green one.” 

“Womp womp” 

“It’s still my birthday.” 

“It’s almost one; it aint your birthday anymore.” She sticks her tongue out, and he huffs. Accepting his fate with the red controller. 

He’s never really put up a fight when it came to her anyway. 

An hour in and Anita is asleep. Curled into the blanket like a little kid, head angled weird against the armrest, her long braid tousled into a mess, drooling. 

It’s the perfect opportunity for Jason. He fishes her Polaroid camera out of her bag, snapping a picture while snickering to himself. 

Revenge is oh so sweet. 

He decides to not burn his own sleeping photo; he presses them together back-to-back and puts it in his new journal. 

In the morning Anita wakes on the makeshift bed on the floor. Jason just a few feet away in his own makeshift bed. She assumes Alfred must’ve moved her. 

She’ll never know that Jason was the one who did it.

Chapter Text

I wish you'd yell at me. 

Just so I could hear your voice again. 

Anita gets up two hours before her usual time. She gets dressed in twenty minutes, eats her toast and is out the door within half an hour. 

It’s always a hassle to go, to head up north to Bristol, do her business, then head all the way back to STAR Labs, do her required shift, then head down to the university for the class she TAs. Maybe Tuesday wasn’t the best day to go. But when the flowers wilt. The flowers wilt. 

Anita doesn’t really know when the tradition started. Maybe with her dad. But he kept the flower tradition for better reasons. Not this. If he ever finds out she uses the tradition for this. God, he might send her back to therapy. Or worse. Make her talk about him. He must never know. She heads down from her apartment to the corner store, the one where they sell shitty flowers for cheap. At first she scoffed at how low quality the flowers are there, but now she sees the good in it; it gives her reason to go more. She heads in and grabs three items: A bouquet of lilies, a bouquet of white roses, and a pack of cigarettes. 

The lady behind the counter barely bats an eye until Anita sets the items down. The lady, Mrs. Papathanasiou, or “Mrs. P,” as everyone in the apartment called her, gives a soft, understanding nod, scanning the item. 

“Morning, Mrs. P.” Anita fishes out her wallet.

“Good morning, Poulaki,” Mrs. P types into the register. “You want receipt?”

Anita shakes her head. When she first moved into her building, she didn’t know what poulaki meant. She assumed it was some kind of derogatory slur or something. It was only when she complained about this to Jess that someone (Jess) finally told her it was a term of endearment. 

Yeah, Anita couldn’t look Mrs. P in the eye for a while after that; the shame was too much. 

“Have a good day, dear.” She slides over her shopping items in a plastic bag, always free of charge on these days. 

“You too, ma’am.” Anita grabs the bag and walks out to her car. Getting in and driving up to the Trigate Bridge. 

She doesn’t listen to music. No, not on these days. Especially on these days. Because it feels wrong on these days. 

Usually the ache doesn’t hurt, not as much as it used to. It feels like sore muscles. It doesn’t take you out completely, but some days are worse than others. 

If she listens to music and hears a song that hits the muscle. She knows she won’t make it through the day in one piece. She can’t fall like that again. 

Anita's life is finally normal again. Everything is where it should be. No guilt, no anxiety, no Waynes. 

She turns into the cemetery; it's usually quieter in the mornings. It's also safer. 

She remembers that time a year back, when Two-Face and his goons got into a gunfight at the cemetery; the next morning Anita was there, worried the graves were damaged. It was pathetic of her, yeah. 

But no way in hell could she see the tombstones damaged. Her loved ones tainted yet again by the wrath of Gotham. 

She parks in the corner and gets out. She leaves the white roses and cigarettes in the car. Too scared to show her mother. She heads down the path and immediately spots it, in perfect condition as always. The old bouquet wilted and shriveled. She picks up the old bouquet, setting it aside, dusting off its remnants before placing the new one, and being sure to pick out one from its bouquet for herself. Sitting cross-legged on the grass. 

“Hey Mom,” Anita whispers, “I’m sorry I haven’t come in a bit; school’s got me swamped. Like actually swamped. God, when the application said intense, I didn’t think they were serious,” she speaks to no one and everyone. 

Anita sometimes wishes her mother could hear her; maybe somewhere she can. But she wishes she would just answer. Sure, it might terrify the hell out of her, and she'd run away screaming for an exorcist, but at least her mom would give her an answer to all her problems. 

“Dr. Amo says he likes my work so far; even though the computer keeps catching on fire, he thinks I’ll have a good chance at getting a PhD or finding a good contract with STAR Labs. but… I don’t know; what if I’m not the right fit?”

Still no answer. 

“God, this adulting stuff is hard,” she sighs, trying to think of what else to tell her mom. “Oh! I went on a date last week. He was, uh, interesting, kept going on and on about how close he is to the Waynes…yeah, you know, I immediately dropped him after the first date. He was too…clean. For my taste. And blond. So, so, blond.” 

Anita knows her mother would laugh. Tell her her standards are far too high. That she’ll find someone fitting what she wants. 

She did, a long time ago. But that was far. Wasn’t meant to be. 

Anita looks at her watch. “Damn, I should get going.” She stands up. “I’ll go visit Dad sometime this week. I’ve been pushing off our lunch plans.”

She stares at the tombstone. 

Here lies…

Zareen Bashir

Beloved wife, mother, teacher,

May you rest in peace

She hates looking at it sometimes. Because that's all her mother will ever be boiled down to. Just a wife. Just a mother. Just a teacher. She was so much more than that. Anita's mother, simplified down to just another tick on the lives Gotham has taken. 

It’s horrible. 

Anita clenches her fist before walking off, first to her car to grab the white roses and cigarettes, then further into the cemetery where the nicer graves are. The rich people's graves. Turning the corner, the tightness in her chest returned. The muscle pain is as evident as ever. 

She stands above his grave. 

Here lies…

Jason Peter Todd

Son, Brother, Friend

May you rest in peace. 

He doesn’t rest in peace. He rests in pain. In misery. At least Anita's mother went out quick. It's the one good thing she finds in her mother's death. That her mother went out painlessly. At least painlessly enough. 

But not him. 

She picks up the wilted white roses and repeats her ritual, dusting off the tomb and setting the new roses, pulling out a single rose to add to her collection. 

“Hey Jay,” Anita sits down, pulling out the pack of cigarettes. 

She hates having them in her pocket when seeing her mom. Like a guilt. A shame she never wants her mother to see. At least her mother never saw what he had become after Jason's death. 

“Still waiting on that video game I lent you.” She chuckles, lighting her cigarette. “I mean, I know I could just go and get it. But you know I can’t step foot in that house anymore. Not after everything.”

Never an answer. 

Anita knows that his family doesn’t visit his grave anymore, not for a year or two now. If they did visit, they’d replace the wilted flowers. 

But only she ever replaces them. She’s the only one who still comes to see him. 

“It was so weird; the other night, I saw this dude who looked like an adult you. It was so weird. I like—I froze because—Jesus, he looked so much like you. ” A trail of smoke dances around her. 

Anita can almost hear Jason's reply. “Did he have my charming good looks too?”

“He was mad tall, though. Like a giant. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if that guy was like a dwarf giant or something. I know he wasn’t you—because, like, you’re here. And his eyes were different. This, like, ominous-looking green,”

Is it wrong for her to have wished it was him? Anita doesn’t even know if she’d be upset if it was him. She takes another puff. 

Because, well, he’s alive. 

“Would you be upset if I told you I went on a date?” 

She wishes he would be upset; she wishes he’d crawl out of the grave and tell her to dump his ass. 

“He was meh; I told my mom he was flaunting his wealth, and that’s why I dumped him. God, what a lie. He wasn’t it. He was actually pretty nice.” She curls her knees up, resting her head on them. “He wasn’t you.” 

It’s a secret she refuses to tell anyone. Not Jess, not her dad, not even her mother. 

No one must ever know. She won’t be able to handle it. Handle the looks. 

“I got in my head about it. I started thinking about my future with him—if he saw me without my shirt one, he’d see it—he’d see it and ask questions—and I don’t think I could handle it.” 

She doesn’t regret it. But every time, every time, she thinks she's a little closer to moving on, to being with someone else. It eats at her. It eats at her because no person with a normal relationship with their best friend would have that. 

Anita wishes she had hugged him that night. Wish she had told him the truth. Sure, it wouldn’t have saved him, but at least, at least he’d have died knowing it wasn’t for nothing. That that night, that night she will never tell anyone about, was important to her. 

She can never tell him now, at least with an answer. 

So instead she comes back every couple weeks, a new bouquet of flowers every time, telling her about her life. 

Telling him that her life didn’t end when he died. 

An hour after Anita's gone, Jason is there, not because of her, but because he felt the need to see his own grave again. A tug in him to go. For whatever reason, he doesn’t care. 

He’s shocked when he sees a bundle of white roses at his grave, fresh. A burnt-out cigarette butt and a pack of Marlboro beside the flowers. 

A peace offering, maybe? A gift? He doesn’t know. 

All he knows is one thing. 

He just missed her.

Chapter Text

You liked my long hair.

I cut it every spring. 

Jason felt like death. No, he wasn’t being dramatic. No, he wasn’t actually dying. 

He just has a very bruised rib and a cut on his leg. Thankfully the leg didn’t need stitches. But he’s benched for the next few weeks from patrol. It sucks. 

The damn Joker. Curse the clown ass. Three nights ago the fool decided to take him and B on a wild goose chase across the city in a fucking clown car. Like, an actual giant monster truck clown car. 

So around the city they went, from Old Gotham up to Somerset, back to Old Gotham, Chinatown, East End, Gotham Heights, then Otisburg, where the clown finally crashed. Hit like three cars, and in Gordon’s words, “There are going to be so many city damage reports.”  That was three days ago. Jason couldn’t get any proper sleep while he was confined to the med bay in the cave. Now Alfred finally allowed him to go to his room, with hourly check-ins, however. 

At least Jason could sleep in peace now, sprawled across his bed in sweatpants and a bandage around his ribs. Technically the bandage isn’t needed, but Alfred said something about padding the wound. He’s been Robin for almost three years now. It’s going pretty well. 

His life is good. 

Top of his class as always (although Anita keeps outscoring him in science and art, but he doesn’t care about that). Made some relative friends; really, they're just Anita's friends he just sees when she brings him along for things. Patrols have been going well. 

Life is good. 

His room is the perfect temperature of cold; he’s got his favourite bedsheets on, freshly showered, redraped the bandages, and finally about to fall asleep—

His phone rings and he groans. Patting around the nightstand and squinting at the bright light of his phone. 

Why is Anita calling? It’s almost one in the morning. Maybe she finally finished that level in Mario? 

He picks up. “Nita,” he grumbles. 

“Jason?” A man's voice picks up. Anita's dad. Jason immediately shoots up into a sitting position. 

Jason isn’t scared of many things. But of the things he is scared of, Mr Banshir is one of them. The man can’t even see Jason, but he still sits up with a perfect posture. 

“Mr Banshir? Is everything okay?” 

Oh shit. Anita’s dead, isn’t she? Or in the hospital or—

“Yes, sort of—there’s been an accident.” Mr Banshir's voice is weak, hoarse. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. She’s in danger. Jason can’t think, can’t speak. 

“Anita’s mother…” Mr Banshir’s voice cracks, “she got in an accident and—” 

Jason is already on his feet, pulling on a t-shirt and hoodie despite the pain in his side. Running around for socks and shoes. 

He doesn’t hear what else Mr Banshir says; he’s only focused on one thing. 

Get to Anita. 

“She won’t come out of her room. I thought if you came she’d finally—Jason, I’m very worried.”  

So is he. “I’m coming.” He’s out of his room and running down the dark hallway, turning the corner and facing Dick.

“Little Wing, why are you up?” He tilts his head. Why is Dick home? Shouldn't he be in Bludhaven? Not the point right now. 

“I need a ride.” 

Dick furrows his brows. “At 1am?” 

“It’s Anita.” He swallows; he feels like stone. Like, he can barely move. That's enough of an answer for Dick. He grabs his keys, and they're driving down to Otisburg. Definitely going over the speed limit. 

Before he knows it, Jason is at the front door, banging on the door like a police raid. It swings open. Mr Banshir looks a mess, his eyes sunken and red, clothes a mess. His skin was a tad too grey for Jason's liking. 

“Sir,” Jason swallows.

“She’s in her room,” he says simply, stepping out of the way. Jason kicks his shoes off and runs up the stairs, his socks padding against the carpet. He reaches her door on the top floor; it's shut. He suddenly feels still. Slowly stalking to the door. A fist raised and knocking softly. 

No answer. His heart quickens. 

“Nita. It’s me, Jason.”

Still no reply. 

“Please”, he whispers, “open the door. Anita…” 

The lock clicks and the door opens. 

Anita. She looks ever worse, her face with not a tear in sight, her eyes devoid of all emotion. Hair opens, long black locks falling down her shoulders all the way to her lower back. She doesn’t look at him, just staring at the ground. 

He steps forward, backing her into her room. It’s a mess, with pillows and blankets thrown on the floor. Picture frames face down. She steps back; he sees what's in her hand: scissors. 

“Woah okay—let’s get those away—” He quickly grabs the scissors; she makes no attempt to stop him. All she does is sit on the chair at her table, staring at her vanity mirror

He sees that small girl again, the eleven-year-old he found in the maze. Different, though. No tears, no screaming. Just… there. 

“Nita…” he slowly pads forward, scared to touch her, afraid she’ll crumble if he gets too close

What is he supposed to say? It's not like anyone told him anything after his mom died. All he ever heard after her death was “Good riddance”. 

This, this, is not good riddance. 

She idolised her mom. Everything about her. Did everything she asked of and more

Jason looks down at the carpet below Anita's feet. A chunk of hair lies just beneath her heel. His eyes follow back up; a small chunk of her hair has been cut. Jagged and not straight. 

“Anita,” he whispers. She doesn’t move, just staring at herself. He steps closer, taking a lock of her hair, smooth and black; it smells like coconut oil. A weekly routine she does. He lifts the scissors. 

SNIP. 

SNIP.

SNIP.

He’s never cut hair before. He wants to make a joke about it, hoping she’ll laugh. He doesn’t.

He looks up out the window, a pang in his chest of a memory. He passed this street while chasing Joker. Two blocks down the Joker swerved, another car swerved and hit a telephone pole. 

Jason thought the cops would deal with it. 

His hands shake as he cuts another lock of hair, her hair now to her shoulders. Her old hair pooling like snakes around his feet. 

Did he do this? If Jason stopped chasing the Joker, would she still be here?

SNIP. 

SNIP. 

SNIP. 

The last of her hair cut, a piece in the front of her face. Anita's eyes finally pull away from the mirror to look up at him as he stands in front of her. Jason sets the scissors down on the table. 

“Nita…” he whispers. His chest hurts. Everything aches. Muscles taut as he reaches for her. He cups her face, heart thumping so loud it's all he can hear. Anita's lip quivers. God no. Please don’t cry. 

“She’s gone,” she whispers, softer than anything he’s ever heard. 

“I know,” he murmurs, standing between her legs, her head resting against his stomach. 

“He killed her,” she whimpers. 

Joker or Robin. A voice sneers in the back of his mind. 

Joker or Robin. 

Joker or Robin.

Joker or Robin. 

Robin. 

“I know,” he whispers, smoothing down her now short hair. She cries. It’s not loud; it’s not shrieking. But it pierces him more than any knife ever could. 

He’s seen death his whole life; he’s sat in the same room as it. Watched time and time again as it’s taken everyone from him. He thought seeing another person he loved die was the one true pain. The worst to ever watch. 

Standing here. Holding his best friend in his arms as she sobs for her mother. He realises something. 

This is the worst pain imaginable. Because her pain will never end. It will never go away. And he can’t do anything to fix it. 

This is his fault, isn’t it? Is this what Bruce meant when he said he couldn’t tell her? If she knew. Knew that he was the one who didn’t stop him in time, knew that he was responsible for not saving her mother. Would she still let him hold her the way he is now? Would she still let him touch her? Laugh with her? Be her friend?

Maybe when Bruce said it was for safety, he wasn’t talking about physical safety. 

He can never tell her. He can’t. He’ll die before he ever lets her find out who he really is. 

She can never know that the boy who holds her through her pain is the same one who caused it. 

Hours pass; Jason finally manages to manoeuvre her into bed, her grip still tight on his shirt as she sits curled up in his arms. 

He knows there is nothing he can say to make everything okay. He knows she doesn’t want to hear it. So he sits in silence, listening to how her sobs have turned to soft whimpers and sniffles and how her breath is still uneasy but better. 

A thought pops into his mind. A strange thought. 

It feels like a solution. A solution to how many lives have been taken by the Joker. 

Why can’t we just kill him?

Chapter Text

It feels weird doing this major. 

Cause you used to dream about it. 

Jason shouldn’t be here. He really shouldn’t be here. Yet he’s here anyway. He’s stalking into a lecture hall filled with second-year biology students. He definitely doesn’t look the part. 

A hulk-sized man squirming into the large hall attempting to not look like a stalker. Except he is a hulk-sized man who is being a total stalker. 

How he found out she was a TA was a stroke of luck. A pure stroke of luck. He overheard Tim mention how shitty his TA was. Which clicked in his head. She must be a TA. After much further stalking on the internet. He found a very lengthy review of her on RateMyProfessor - Gotham U. Apparently TAs also have a section. 

The review was…well, it was something. To say the least. 

★★

Banshir is a good grader. I’ll give her that. 

But how in God's name did anyone let that bitch teach? I swear to god all she does is throw markers at people, and half the time she is googling stuff. Don’t they background check people before they get hired??? ISTG. Dr Amo needs to fire her ass. 

    - SallySassFace

Jason does admit that the second he saw that review, he wanted to track down this Sally chick and pummel her. 

He also admits that her anger was shortly redirected upon reading the review right below it, a five-star review with simply two words. “She hot.” 

But that is a side thing. Based on the reviews, he managed to figure out she TAs Anatomy 2. 

So he’s shuffling in a seat at the very back corner, hood up, with a fake backpack and fake notebooks, ready to see her. 

He’s got no plan, no goal, no endgame. Jesus, if he gets caught, it’s endgame for him. 

Once everyone's shuffled in, she finally sees her, hunched over a small desk beside the professor's desk, typing away at something, continuously checking her phone. Brows furrowed. 

A girl sits beside him, blonde hair tied back. 

“Hey,” she smiles. ”I haven’t seen you before. Are you new?” 

He grunts, not even looking up. The push-down seat is too tight for his liking. His thighs are being squeezed together by the armrests and pull-out desk.

“Nice to meet you too,” the girl giggles. “I’m Sally.” 

Jason's eye twitches. You don’t say? “Jay,” he mutters. 

“Nice.” She scoots her bag, pulling out a notebook and pen. “I must warn you though, it’s Tuesday.” 

“So?” Jason finally eyes her, a permanent scowl on his face. 

Sally is oblivious to it. “Tuesday is when the TA teaches, and she’s a real bitch sometimes.” She says it so casually Jason wants to scream. 

Would it be wrong to hit this chick? Is there any way he could defend that choice? 

She called Anita a bitch, duh. 

Valid point. 

Jason slowly turns his head to face her, a tight smile on his face, the jagged J scar on his face creasing. “Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Jason only notices now the blush on this girl’s face. 

Ah. So that’s what she’s trying to do? 

“Banshir is a friend of mine, sweetheart. I’m watching her class.”

Sally's face drops, pale skin going paler. “I—I meant—”

“Save it,” he grunts, grabbing his things and moving to the next row below. Right as he manages to wiggle into the seat, the guy beside him, a scrawny Asian guy, side-eyes him, saying nothing. 

“Alright everyone,” Anita’s voice booms around the room. He looks up, and she’s talking into a headset. “So Dr Amo is going to be running late today—meaning I can’t start teaching till he gets here. Which also means for the next twenty minutes we’ve got time to kill.” She’s walking around the stage, gesturing with her hands like a TEDx speaker. 

“Now last quiz you all got above average grades, much to me and the other TAs’ surprise.” She crosses her arms. “Dr Amo suggested we give y’all a reward. Though I don’t really get why—you’re grown adults.”

Ah. So that’s what Sally meant by that. She's a grump. 

Weird. That’s not Anita—she was always so… bright. 

She sighs, leaning against the table. “So, here’s the reward. I…for the next ten minutes…will answer personal questions.” 

Students gasp, and Jason feels like he's on the outside of some big joke. Leaning over to the guy beside him, “What’s the big deal?” He whispers. 

The guy beside him stares at him, a bit shocked. “Banshir never tells anyone about her life. No one even knew her first name till two weeks ago.” 

“Oh.” Jason scoots back to his seat. 

Anita taps on her watch. “Your time starts. Now.” 

Hands spring up. She points. 

“What’s it like being in the genetics programme?” 

“Long, hard and boring. But it’s fun when one of us actually makes a breakthrough in our projects.” 

“How’s your project going?” 

Anita snorts; it echos through the speakers. “I made a computer explode last week; that should explain enough.” 

“Why’d you go into genetics?” 

Anita raises her eyebrows, shifting in her place. “I want to help people. My project could possibly save lives.” 

“What kind of project are you doing?” 

She smirks. “That I am not allowed to discuss. Damn, guys. All you want to know is about my degree?” 

Some people laugh. “Okay, do you have any tattoos?” 

“Woah, okay—big shift—yeah, I got four tattoos.” 

She's guarding the questions. Keeping vague answers. Jason shifts in her seat. 

“What kind of tattoos?” Jason speaks up, not raising his hand. She looks around trying to spot who said it before answering, “My first was an ankle tattoo; it’s shaped like an anklet from my culture.” She lifts her pant leg, lifting her leg to show it. “Then I got one on my forearm; I got it after I got into the programme.” She rolls up her jacket arm, showing the DNA strand on her forearm. “Then I got two more at the same time, one on my shoulder and one on my ribcage. 

“What’s on those?” Someone else asks. 

She shifts her weight. “That’s a secret between me and God.” 

Some people laugh. Not Jason. 

More secrets. Is it related to everything else? 

There’s one large secret going on here. The report card, Dick and Alfred, cutting off ties, tattoos. 

What are you thinking? Jason thinks. What are you hiding, Nita?

A door opens and a man runs in. Dr Amo, Jason recognises him from the video. “Sorry I’m late, everyone!” His voice strained as he rushes down the steps straight to Anita, whispering something in her ear. Her face falls, looking at something, covering the mic as she speaks. He nods. Anita quickly takes off the headset. Grabbing her bag. 

Dr Amo puts on the headset. “Due to some issues, Miss Banshir will not be teaching today’s lecture.” 

Jason feels his stomach turn. Anita slings her bag on, quickly running out the door. A few students turn their heads to look before turning back to the front. Jason's up and at 'em. 

“Sir please sit down—” Dr Amo starts, but Jason's already out, pushing past the lecture hall door. He sees her down the hall, heading to somewhere, already on the phone. He pads over, his boots padded so he’s silent. In four strides, he’s close enough to hear. 

“What do you mean? No—and they said no.” Someone on the other end talks back, voice muffled, “Okay—okay, I’ll figure something out—don’t touch anything.” 

The call ends, and she just stands there, back still to him. Rubbing her face, “This can’t be happening—not now. Not right now.” She continues walking around the corner.

Jason's phone buzzes. 

Oracle: Got a case. STAR Labs break-in.

Jason quickly types back. 

Red: Why me???

Oracle: Tried to assign it to Dick. He said no. idk why. You’re next for open cases.

Red: k. 

STAR Labs? Isn’t that where the genetics majors—His heart sputters. Looking up as she turns the corner, concern is laced all over her face. 

Something is wrong with her work. 

Jason feels selfish, selfish for seeing this as an excuse to talk to her. 

He is so selfish, but he doesn’t have it in him to care. 

Anita's blood goes cold when she turns the corner. 

That guy, again. 

The one from the burger place. Here. Oh god, why is he here? 

She’s being stalked.

Chapter Text

Do you still dance at parties? 

I don't. 

Jason can’t seem to come up with a good excuse for why he’ll be leaving for a few weeks. The hell is he supposed to tell her? 

Oh yes, Anita, I’ll be leaving the city for a while to track down my mother. Turns out she’s alive, and the lady who I thought was my mother isn’t actually my mother. Oh yeah, and I’m Robin. 

That’ll fly over well. 

He needs to come up with an excuse soon. He’s going to see his mom next week, and he still hasn’t even told her. She’s gonna flip. He’s too scared to even bring up the word “mother”.

It’s been a year and a half since Mrs Banshir died. Anita's gotten a bit better. She doesn’t talk about it. But he notices. Notices the way she stares a little longer at mums and their kids when they're at the mall, or when they bring up Mother's Day at school, or when a classmate mentions their own mothers. He sees the way her eyes go null of all light, how she tenses a little, how her shoulders go square. He notices it. He doesn’t say anything, though. But he acts. He pulls her along at the mall, and he forces the topic to change among classmates. He glares at teachers when they mention her mother. 

He can’t fix what happened that night. But he can at least try to ease her pain. The way he wishes someone did for him when his own mom died. 

Fake mom, he guesses. Whatever. 

His phone buzzes. 

Nita: Jay

Nita: Jay

Nita: Jason

Nita: Jason Todd

Nita: Jason Peter Todd

Jason: What. 

Nita: Ah, thank you for finally gracing me with your presence 

Jason: What do you want

Nita: Upperclass men are havin a party tonite

Jason: *tonight

Nita: stfu. Whatever. 

Nita: plsplsplsplspls can we go? I got an in

Jason: tf you mean you got an in. 

Nita: I got an in, you dope. Dont question it. Pleasseee go with me

Jason: idk nita.

Nita: Jason please. My dad won’t let me go unless ur going…

Jason stares at the text. After the haircut incident, Jason was sure Mr Banshir would kick him out for good. Weirdly enough, it was the opposite. Mr Banshir adored him. Maybe because he finally saw Jason wasn’t some slacker rich kid and actually liked school. Though Anita was put on a slightly tighter leash after that. Maybe because of the haircut, maybe because Mr Banshir was a new single father, who knows. The rule was simple: Anita only goes if Jason goes. 

Jason swipes away from the text, texting Bruce instead. He’s out on a date with Selina.

Jason: Can I go to a party with Anita? It’s tonight. 

B-man: Jason. 

Jason: cmon old man. It’s for Anita’s sake. No drinking or drugs. 

B-man: be back by 12

Jason: Okay. 

Jason: B said okay.

Nita: YES!!! Okay—it's walking distance from my place, be at my place by 7

Jason: Okay.

Jason groans, flopping back onto his bed. What is he going to do with that girl? 

-xoxo-

7pm on the dot, he’s standing at her doorstep. Before he can even knock on the door, it swings open. Mr Banshir was standing there staring him down. 

Jason opted for black jeans and a rock band t-shirt with a red zip-up hoodie on top. Simple enough for a party? 

He suddenly feels scrutinised. 

“Evening, sir.” He stands up straight. “Is Anita—” 

“If I catch even a whiff of alcohol on her breath, you’re dead,” he cuts him off. 

“Yes, sir. No alcohol, no drugs, no nothing.” 

“Dad, stop harassing him.” Anita appears on the stairs, padding down. He blinks. She's wearing a green tiered skirt down to her ankles. A black top to match with it and more jewellery than he could count. Bracelets, earrings, rings, necklaces. 

She’s glowing. Absolutely glowing. His heart makes a weird noise; he’s happy no one can hear. 

“Ready to go?” he tilts his head. She nods, putting on her sneakers. Anita kisses her dad's cheek before standing beside Jason. 

“Bye, Dad!” 

“Curfew by 12,” Mr Banshir chides, “Have fun, kiddo.”

-xoxo-

Anita is such a liar. An actual liar. 

The party isn’t “a few blocks away from her house”. 

It’s in the fucking Gotham Heights. 

They walked two fucking kilometres. Well, he walked; she skipped ahead in infront of him, giggling her ass off. 

“How did you find this party?” Jason groans as they turn the corner.

“A girl from the art club told me about it, Lizzie.” 

“Lizzie, the girl who has a DUI?” Jason raises an eyebrow. 

“Maybe…” 

“You’re killing me, Nita.” 

“Love ya too, Jaybird,” she hums. His step falters a bit. 

She says it all the time; he hears it all the time. But god, he wishes she would say it to him in that way. 

He looks up, and sure enough. A giant fucking house party. Doors and windows open, blinding party lights, people everywhere. Some of them look like they're in university. 

Anita walks up the steps, immediately being stopped by a pasty blond guy with a backwards cap. 

“Where you think you’re going, little lady?” The blondie crosses his arms, smirking, “little far from the playschool.” 

Jason clenches his fist, standing behind Nita. He’s a little taller than her now, an inch at most. Anita's fucking tall. If she were a normal height, he’d have some stature against her, but no. She’s far too tall. 

“Lizzie invited me,” she crosses her arms, “Lizzie Antoniou.” 

The guy raises his eyebrows before surrendering, stepping to the side and letting them in. Anita smirks at Jason before they head inside. 

Holy shit. 

This place is a madhouse. 

People everywhere, red Solo cups, three couples all over each other. 

A girl appears from somewhere in the crowd, Lizzie, with poofy ginger hair and a red Solo cup in hand. “Nita! You made it!” She looks up, her grin faltering a bit, “and you brought a friend.” 

“This is my best friend Jason.” Anita pats Jason’s shoulder. 

It takes everything in him not to yelp. 

“Cool—cool—well make sure to get a drink and have fun.” Lizzie nods before disappearing. 

Anita spins around to Jason, grinning even wider, “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit,” he repeats. 

“We’re at a house party.” She grabs his hand, pulling him further into the party. The living room has been turned into a dance floor, with couches pushed against the wall, the dining table turned into a makeshift bar, every single type of drink imaginable. 

“Omg—” Anita’s basically vibrating. 

“Nope. No way.” Jason pulls her back. 

“Jesus, Jason, lighten up. Stop being such a sourpuss.” 

“Your dad said no drinking. No drinking.” Jason stands his ground. Anita stares at him. Letting go of his hand. 

“Jason.”

“Anita.” 

“I’m getting a drink.” She grabs his hand, stepping closer. “Jason, we have been the good kids all our lives. Can’t we do one teenage thing?” 

Jason stares. Dammit. She’s using the look. Those damn doe eyes that would make him agree to anything. 

“Okay—okay, maybe one won’t hurt.” 

She grins, pulling him along. “Hell yeah!” 

They reach the table, looking around. Jesus, he barely recognises half this shit. He spots beer. The memories of his dad pang at him. Yeah. Avoiding that. 

“You two need help?” A guy appears from behind them. A guy with jet black hair and tan skin. Dimples. 

Jason recognises him from Gotham Academy. Teddy Clinton. A senior set for a university in California. 

“Oh, hi, Teddy,” Anita smiles.

“Sup sweetheart,” Teddy nods. “Todd,” he nods. 

Jason nods back. 

“Yeah, actually, we have no idea what to drink.” Anita picks up a bottle, reading the label. Teddy immediately grabs the bottle from her. 

“That might be a little strong for you, sweetheart.” 

Teddy pours two drinks, tequila mixed with coke. 

He pours two, handing it to them. “Enjoy.” 

Anita and Jason face each other, cups in hand. 

“Ready?” Jason whispers.

“Born ready.” Anita hooks her arm around his, taking a sip. Promptly coughing, “oh shit,” 

He snorts, taking a sip of his own; it burns down his throat. Got a funky aftertaste. 

Teddy chuckles, wrapping an arm over Anita's shoulder. Jason clenches his jaw. “Cute, baby’s first drink.” 

Anita giggles. Jason clenches his grip around the cup. 

“I’m gonna go find a spot on the couch.” Jason murmurs, shuffling away. 

He keeps standing there, and he might commit a hate crime. He shuffles over to the couch, sitting in an open spot. He takes another sip of his drink. 

And another, and another, and another. Watching as the drink swirls in his cup. It's loud, it's warm, and Jason's brain is feeling hazy. 

Why is he here? Why is he letting her bend him to her will? He’s drinking. He’s out late. Why the hell is he here? 

Maybe because he’d do anything for that girl. He would sit on his knees and beg just to see her happy. 

He might be crazy; he might be stupid. 

For Anita he’d be anything. 

He looks up, and his eyes widen. On the makeshift dance floor. Anita and Teddy, his hands on her hips as they sway to the music. He whispers something in her ear, and she giggles. His blood boils hotter than the sun. He stands up. Chugging the rest of his drink despite the bitter taste. Tossing aside the cup. Beeling to them. Before he can comprehend what he’s doing, he’s grabbing Anita; she yelps as he drags her away to a corner. 

“The hell are you doing?” She hisses, cheeks a bit flushed from the alcohol. 

“The hell you dancing with Clinton for?” His grip on her wrist tightens. 

“Cause he’s cute?” She scoffs, “It’s called flirting, Jason.” 

“Not with him, it ain’t,” he snarks back. “That guy is eighteen, Nita.” 

“That’s only two years!” She snaps her wrist away, raising her voice a bit. 

“That’s pedo-behaviour!” God, why can’t she just understand?

“What is up with you, Jay! You’ve been acting so weird for weeks! You dodge our hangouts and avoid my texts. I take you to one party where I have fun without you, and suddenly you act like my fucking guard dog!” 

Why can’t she just understand? 

Why can’t she understand he physically can’t? Not after that night. That night he held her in his arms, brushing fingers through her hair, held her until her sobs became sniffles, and thought how he wanted more. How he wanted to hold her like that even more. 

Why can’t she understand how much it hurts him to know she’ll never look at him the way he looks at her? Why can’t she understand…

“I…” Jason doesn’t know what to say. 

“You didn’t even want to come.” She steps back, holding herself. “So just go home, Jason.” 

“Nita—” 

“Don’t.” She steps back, another step, another step, disappearing into the crowd. 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. 

Jason slams his fist against the wall. It doesn’t dent, thankfully. 

Fuck. 

He ventures back into the crowd. He sees Anita join Teddy again, smiling as she rests her hands on his shoulder, his hands on her back far too close to her ass. 

He wants to puke, wants to run away. But he can’t leave her here. He promised her dad. 

He ventures away from the dance floor and back to the dining table. Pouring another drink for himself. Pure tequila. Just a little bit before he downs it. He shudders. 

He aches. He wants to be the one dancing with her, the one holding her hips and watching as she sings off-key to the music. He wants to be the one to tell her flirty jokes in her ear and see her giggle. 

Why can’t she look at him like that? 

Why can’t she—

Someone pats his back, Lizzie. 

“Not hanging with Anita?” She tilts her head. His breath reeking of alcohol. 

“She’s dancing with Clinton,” he huffs, pouring another shot for himself. 

“Damn, you hold better liquor than me.” 

Yeah, well, as a kid I’d secretly snag sips from my alcoholic dad, Jason thinks but bites his tongue. 

“Couple of us are gonna play games; you should join us,” she grins. 

“No thanks,” he scowls.

“Anita’s going to be playing.” 

“Okay, I’ll play,” he says a bit too quickly. Thoughts a bit hazy.

Lizzie smirks, pulling him along to another part of the house, a dining room maybe? A bunch of people from school piled around the table, an empty beer bottle in front of them. 

Anita’s sitting there, Teddy’s arm around her shoulder. Jason frowns, sitting across from her. She looks up, eyes softening just a bit. 

He wishes he was a meta. Or a Martian, or something that could read minds. So he could tell her how sorry he is. 

“Who’s ready for seven minutes?” Lizzie announces at the head of the table, and people woo. Jason swallows thickly. Teddy whispers something in Anita's ear, and she chuckles, a little tenser though. 

Jason grips his pant leg. 

Lizzie dramatically grabs the bottle, spinning it. He watches as the green bottle spins round and round and round. 

It stops. Its mouth tipped opposite to him. Anita. 

People woo. Jason's brain short-circuits. Not good. Not good. 

All these guys are so much older. No. No. No. 

“Anita Margarita!” Lizzie gestures for her to stand. 

Anita stands, shifting her weight from side to side. 

Lizzie hands her the bottle. “You should do the honours!” 

Anita's eyes flick to Jason, then the bottle, swallowing as she sets it down, spinning it. 

It spins, every spin, and his heart rate goes up. It slows, and slows, and slows. It's going to stop at the guy beside him. He looks way too old to be in high school. He subtly kicks the table leg, and it nudges the bottle. It stops. The mouth is facing him. 

More people woo. 

“Jacob!” 

“It’s Jason.” He stands, eyes never leaving Anita’s. 

“Jason, right.” Lizzie nods, clapping her hands. A guy grabs Jason's arm, pulling him away. A girl grabs Anita, pulling her in the same direction. 

Jason's shoved in first. An emptied-out coat closet, then Anita. The girl snickers. “Seven minutes, have fun, kiddos,” slamming the sliding door shut. Bits of light spilling through the shutters. 

It’s small. Barely a centimetre of space between them. He stares down at her. 

“Nita—”

“I’m sorry—” she blurts out, brows furrowed. “I shouldn’t have said those things.”

“Nita,” he tries again, but it’s no use. She’s still going. 

“I made you come to this stupid party—you don’t even like parties—and—and I don’t know what I was thinking—” she averts her gaze down, rambling. 

“Nita.”

“I know I’ve been kinda nuts lately and—and that’s not an excuse and—” 

“Nita.” 

“You’re my best friend and I’m sorry—I should’ve listened to you—a-and now I’m drunk and—”

Jesus, this girl. 

Liquid courage shoots through his arm, gripping her jaw. She still doesn’t stop. 

“I know you have issues of your own and I’m being such a shitty friend and—” 

His mouth is on hers. Open, sloppy, not perfectly placed, she yelps, and god, that sound. He pulls away just enough to speak. 

“Anita, will you please shut up?” 

“O-okay…” she murmurs, and her lips are back on his. This time he groans. His free hand gripping her hip, pushing her back against the wall, crowding her, sliding up to her back, sliding over everything he can touch. It's not enough. God, it’s not enough. He wants to feel everything. Her lips feel so fucking soft, so perfect. 

“Jay…” she groans against the kiss, a hand gripping his shirt, the other trailing up to the hair at the nape of his neck. 

He understands the meaning of the game now. 

Her mouth opens against him, and he nips at her bottom lip. Copying the things he’s read in books. She groans and feels like he’s gonna explode. 

It’s probably just the alcohol in her system making her do this. If he was just a little bit more sober, he’d be stopping, stepping away. 

Good thing he isn’t sober. 

His mouth trails away from her mouth, and she whines softly; he trails to her jaw at the spot between the jaw and her ear, then down to her pulse point, wet open-mouth kisses. 

“Now do you understand, Nita?” He murmurs against her neck, and she shudders. “Why I act like such a fucking guard dog?” 

She doesn’t say anything; he looks up to make sure she’s okay, her eyes closed as she rests her head against the wall, lips parted. Oh. Oh she’s liking this. 

He doesn’t stop, kissing down to the bend in her neck, pressing his thumb below her chin to tilt it up. 

The door slams open. 

“WHAT THE HELL, JASON?” A voice yells. 

Jason snaps his eyes open, looking up. 

Oh fuck. 

Dick. What the hell is Dick doing here? On cue Anita pushes Jason off; his head hits the other side of the closet, and he yelps, rubbing the back of his head. Dick grabs his collar, pulling him out of the closet. People are staring; some have their phones out. 

“What the hell, Jason?” He pauses, sniffing Jason’s breath. “Are you drunk?!” 

“No—maybe—” Jason sputters. Dick snaps his head up, seeing Anita still in the closet. “Anita? The hell are you two doing?” 

“I—” Anita's face goes pink.

“In the car. Now. Both of you.” Dick snaps. 

Jason looks back at Anita one last time as Dick drags him through the house. Fear on her face. 

He fucked up, didn’t he?

They drive in silence for the car ride. Dick yelled for a good five minutes. He said he came to surprise him and Bruce. Only to find out from Alfred about the party. 

Bruce was going to kill him. Then Anita's dad. 

“I’m gonna find you two some food. You need to sober up and get the alcohol breath off,” Dick says flatly. 

“There’s a burger place around the corner,” Anita murmurs from the back seat. 

Dick grunts, turning the corner. He stops at the said burger shop on the corner. 

“Go get two burger combos. Get both of you Sprite or lemonade.” he pulls out his wallet, and shoves thirty bucks in Jason's hand. Jason shuffles out of the car silently and into the burger place. 

He heads in and darts to the cashier. “How much for a burger combo?” 

“11.99,” the cashier nods. He hands over the thirty, muttering to keep the change. He turns and looks through the window to the car. Dick is turned to face Anita, his face softer as he speaks. Her head in her hands. 

He really fucked up. She didn’t mean it, did she?

Just the alcohol.

Chapter Text

It's all gone. 

There's nothing left of you.

Anita practically jumps out of her car the second she parks. This can’t be happening. Not now, not when she’s so close to a breakthrough. It's quiet. That's good. STAR Labs likes to keep things quiet. Two cop cars standing outside talking. One is talking to another genetics major, Sunny McGill; the other is talking to one of the building's security guards. 

Sunny immediately spots Anita, quickly walking over, “Anita…” 

“Don’t.” Anita shoves past, walking up the stairs. The genetics department is on the third floor. When she finally makes it up the stairs, her heart drops. 

Glass shattered, blood splattered on the floor. The inside of the large lab space is a complete mess. She walks in, jaw clenched as she looks around the lab. 

The genetics students get the left side of the wing; their space is divided into eight specific workstations. Everything else is free use. Most of the other desks are untouched. Except two. Hers and the one beside it, Alex Young's. 

Young is crouched on the floor inspecting broken glass. 

“Alex?” Anita furrows her brows, touching his shoulder. 

Alex Young is a short Asian guy who came down from Canada for the genetics program. A grown-out buzzcut and small reading glasses on his face. When he turns to her, her blood runs cold. 

A bruise the size of Texas on his right eye and a split lip already blooming into a puffy bruise. 

“Holy shit, man—what the hell happened to you?” 

Alex stands up; he’s only a bit shorter than Anita. “Jackson and Sunny went to go get lunch, and I stayed back. Some arsehole came in and jumped me, trashed the place.” 

“Oh my god—Alex, I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” he sighs, wiping his face, staring down at the shattered glass on the floor. “They destroyed my vials.” 

Alex was working on genetically modifying fruit. Something about making it easier to grow in harsh climates.

Anita stares at the glasses, a few broken shards with tape on them, labelled as each of his projects. She doesn’t know what to say, so she turns her head, looking at her own desk. It’s even more of a mess. Her microscope damaged and bent, and her papers were soaked. 

Her heart drops at a thought. Reaching for her locked drawer. It’s open. It’s empty. 

The hard drive. 

It’s missing.

“No—no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,” she drops her bag. Looking through the mess of things. 

Where is it? No—they couldn’t have—

Her knees feel weak. 

“Anita?” She hears Alex's voice, but it's no use. It’s gone. Those bastards took it. 

Her research is done for. Lives are at risk, all because she didn’t find a good fucking hiding spot. 

She’s such an—

“Ma’am, are you good?” A deep voice says from behind, modulated. She whips her head around, and holy fucking shit. 

The Red fucking Hood is standing in front of her. 

Is this a fever dream? Did she bang her head on something last night, and now she’s imagining her life going to shit and a fucking vigilante in her lab?

He’s just standing there, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. A giant red helmet just staring at her. 

Why the fuck have they sent a vigilante here? 

She snaps her head to Alex. “Sleep-check me.” Without missing a beat, Alex smacks her face with the back of his hand. 

The Red Hood grunts, and she shakes her head, jolting back into a state of awareness. 

The genetics kids started a weird tradition to stay up during long shifts.

Sleep check. 

Aka, smack whoever calls for a sleep check. Works for the smacked because then they're awake; works for the smacker so they get pent-up stress out. 

Anita blinks, turning her attention back to the Red Hood. She’s seen him around. Mainly on newspapers or online forums. 

Not that she stalks the vigilante family online. No, she definitely doesn’t do that. 

“What? The Bat busy?” She crosses her arms. 

He snorts. He sounds weird with that modulator. “Bat only works night shifts.” 

“Great. So I get the guy in the red helmet.” A hand grabs her arm, Alex. Despite the black eye, he’s glaring at her. She can hear his voice: “Banshir, you need to shut up.”

She shrugs him off, tilting her head. She’s never seen the Red Hood in person. He's tall. And built. Those abs protruding out of his armour have got to be fake. That's, like, physically impossible. 

“Eyes are up here, doll.” Red Hood leans down to her eye level. Even with that helmet, she can see a stupid smirk on his face. Whatever his face looks like. 

“Are you here to actually fight crime or just to mock me?” She grunts. 

“Can’t I do both?”

Anita scoffs, “And don’t call me ‘doll.”

Red Hood chuckles; it's a low rumble, really. “So what happened?”

“Some dude came in and wrecked the place,” Alex pipes up, “two hours ago.”

Red Hood eyes him up and down. “And I’m guessing you got decked in the process?” 

Alex nods. 

The lab door opens again, and someone comes in. It’s Sunny. She practically runs over, concern etched all over her face. “You okay?” 

Anita doesn’t know if she’s talking to her or Alex. 

“I’m fine,” Alex mumbles as Sunny basically motherhens him. 

Sunny's a grown adult, married with a kid at home. She wanted to finish her master's.

“Nonsense,” the older woman frowned, turning to Anita. “Are you okay?” 

“They took my hard drive.” 

Alex’s and Sunny’s faces both widen, Alex’s face a little less because of the swelling. “The hard drive?” 

Anita nods. 

“What’s on the hard drive?” Red Hood speaks again, arms crossed. 

“Data.” Anita chews on her lip. Why should she tell this guy anything? Vigilantes are of no use. All they know how to do is make things worse. They ruin everything. 

Sure, this guy wasn’t around during Jason’s time, so she has no real reason to be upset at him. 

But anyone with even the slightest connection to Batman can go fuck themselves. 

“Gonna need a little more information than that.” 

She sighs, “Participant data. Names, addresses, family history.”

“So it’s just a basic data leak?”

“ Basic?” Sunny scoffs, crossing her arms. It’s a bit comical; the lady is barely five feet. “that data—”

“Is classified.” Anita cuts her off.

“How classified?” Red Hood looks around. 

“The hell is that supposed to mean? It’s people’s personal data.” 

“Yeah, well, are these people civilians? High-status civilians? If I’m gonna find it, I need some more information.” 

“Who said I wanted your help finding it?” She snaps back, “Leave it to the police to handle it.” 

“Well doll, Gordon actually assigned me to this.” God, he sounds so smug. 

How badly would she crack her knuckles if she punched that stupid helmet?

She also was starting to consider formally sending a complaint to Commissioner Gordon.

“I find it incredibly disrespectful to send a crime lord to investigate a theft at STAR Labs. Police need to do better.” 

Yeah, she was definitely going to write a complaint later. 

“Meta humans personal data. Their medical histories, addresses, backgrounds, everything.” Anita sighs. 

Red Hood straightens at that. “Meta-humans?” 

“The drive can’t be copied, but if someone views it, they could manually write it down, and—” She feels her brain spiralling again. “These people gave me their trust in protecting the drive. This is sensitive information.” 

Forget about her research. Forget about the fact half her research data is missing. Forget all of it. People's lives are at risk. 

“I’ll find it.” Red Hood’s voice isn’t cocky anymore; it’s genuine, even through the distortion. “You have my word.” 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” She doesn’t mean it as an insult. She means it in honesty. 

Promises are meant for definitive things. Things you know are true. Or will at least come true. 

You promise to buy coffee for someone, you promise to be nicer, and you promise to keep secrets. 

You promise realistic things. 

Promises like that help no one.

“You’d be surprised, doll.”

“I don’t get surprised,” 

“Then let me be the first.”

When the Red Hood leaves, Anita grabs her bag. 

“He was flirting with you,” Sunny giggles.

“Don’t care,” Anita murmurs. “I’m going out for a smoke.”

Anita makes it down the stairs and to the back exit, rummaging through her bag for her pack. Once she knows she’s all alone, she stops looking for her Marlboro. She doesn’t need it right now, not really. 

In the silence, she’s all alone, with no one to see her. She finally allows herself to crack, to crouch down, one hand resting on the wet concrete, one gripping the shirt at her chest. 

She allows herself to feel small again. 

She allows herself to be scared.

Chapter Text

I can’t stand the sight of red roses.

They’re the same colour as your blood.

Anita was home alone when the call came. Her dad is on a work trip and not set to come back for another two days. Usually she’d just spend this kind of time at Jason’s house. Not like she’d have anywhere else to be.

That was until that party. She couldn’t look Jason in the eyes, let alone talk to him, after that. 

It was a mistake, right? Just alcohol messing with her senses and decision-making skills. They were drunk and in a closet and were feeling big feelings. 

It didn’t mean anything. 

So then why was it that every time she thought about it, her heart would flutter and her cheeks would warm, remembering the way he held her and how soft his lips were against her skin? And god, that voice. 

“Now do you understand, Nita? Why do I act like such a fucking guard dog?” 

Hearing that from him, it made her stomach do a weird coily thing she doesn’t know how to describe. 

The day she finally built the nerve to talk to Jason, she found out he was gone. Not dead. Just on a trip.

Why did he never mention a trip? He tells her everything. Something about a Wayne Enterprise-funded missionary trip. 

She never pegged Jason for the religious type; sure, she knew he was Catholic in name, but Jason? A missionary trip? Whatever. Rich people do weird things all the time. 

Until tonight. A week after Jason's trip. 

At twelve at night, she was hunched over her video games, her phone buzzing. A phone ringing at night in Gotham was never a good sign. 

Especially when the calling screen said it was from Dick. 

Her stomach feels uneasy when she picks up.
“Dick?” 

“Anita,” his voice cracking over the phone, “something’s happened.”

She sets aside her controller, her shoulders tense. “Dick, what’s going on?” 

“It’s Jason…”

“Dick.” She takes a sharp breath. “Dick, what’s going on?”

“I’m so sorry…”

She needs to throw up. It’s too warm in this room. 

“Jason’s dead…”

Dead. 

Dead.

Dead. 

Dead. 

Dead.

Dead. 

-xoxo-

Anita doesn’t cry at the funeral, at least not when she enters. She sits quietly beside Alfred in her old black choir dress. Her hair has grown out just enough to tie. She doesn’t look up at the casket. Not once. It’s a closed casket. She listens as Dick reminisces in the speech about Jason. She listens to Bruce talk about what a good son he was. 

Was. 

Dick offers her a chance to speak; she almost shakes her head before a stomach tug urges her to go. To stand up. So she does. She lets go of Alfred's hand and ventures up the steps. Refusing to let her eyes drift to the casket. She stands at the podium and looks at the people sitting in the aisles. She can see reporters standing outside at the ready. It disgusts her. Don’t they know shame? Don’t they understand now is not the time for paparazzi photos or to take statements? 

Her best friend is in a casket. 

“Jason Todd is a good man,” she speaks softly into the mic, eyes falling back down, inspecting the wood graining of the podium. “He is my best friend. We met when we were eleven. I got lost in a maze at his house. He found me. And he’s found me every time since then.” Her voice threatens to crack. “He is kind and smart – god, too smart for his own good.” 

A few people chuckle at that. “Every time my life has crumbled, he has been there. He cut my hair when my mom died, he tutored me when I was failing English, and he pushes me constantly to be my best self. I—I could not have asked for a better best friend.” 

A few people clap; she doesn’t notice, returning to her seat beside Alfred. Listening as the rest of the funeral goes on. 

Once the ceremony is over, Bruce offers to let her say goodbye to him before they need to carry the casket. 

So she stands in front of the closed casket, looking up at Bruce. “Can I see him? One last time?” 

Bruce purses his lips before nodding. He turns to one of the staffers; they quickly open the casket just enough for her to see. 

She almost wishes she hadn’t asked. He’s burnt beyond recognition. His hair burnt off in patches, scarred and bruised. 

There was a fire where he was staying. Dick said. He didn’t make it out in time. 

He’s wearing his choir suit. She recognises the school emblem on the chest pocket. A bouquet of red roses in his hand. 

“Red roses,” she murmurs, a hand resting on her shoulder. Alfred. 

“Master Jason’s favourite flowers,” he says softly. She just shakes her head. 

“He hates red roses,” she murmurs. “He likes white roses.” 

“Anita…” Bruce speaks up, but she’s still going. 

“He says red roses represent lust—they’re not right—he likes the white ones because you can dye them and—and—and he said—” 

“Miss Banshir…” Alfred squeezes her shoulder. 

“—and he said that—that in Alice in Wonderland painting the roses red was—was an analogy for lust tainting real love—” She looks up at Alfred, fat tears falling down her cheeks. “He hates red roses, Mr Pennyworth—he hates them!” 

She’s hugged and pulled away from the stage by Alfred as she sobs, repeating over and over again how much he hates red roses. He shouldn’t be buried with the very thing he hates. He should be buried with white ones—with the soft white ones that are freshly bloomed—and without the thorns so he doesn’t prick himself—and—and—

Alfred and Anita don’t watch the casket being lowered. Alfred's too busy holding her as she crumbles to the floor of the empty hall, sobbing so loudly it echoes all the way outside. 

She feels sick. She feels like every limb in her body is tight, like every muscle is cramping, and her brain is melting. 

Why didn’t she just tell him? Why didn’t she tell him earlier—so he could at least go on his trip and know she didn’t hate him—that it wasn’t the alcohol or the fighting or the closet? That she did it because it was him. 

Why does she have to be so stupid?

Before they lower the casket, Bruce stares at it. Stepping forward. Shoes soaked in the wet grass as he opens the casket one last time. 

“I’m sorry, son,” he whispers under his breath, only for Jason’s ears. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He takes the red roses from Jason's hands; the casket closes again. 

The casket is lowered. Bruce refuses an umbrella. 

He watches as his son is buried. He grips the roses tight in his hand. 

The thorns make his hand bleed.

Chapter Text

Are you cold down there? 

I wish you took a blanket with you. 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” 

Jason would rather she have just shot him. Yeah, he knows that she was just talking about the hard drive, that she wasn’t implying anything else. 

But damn. Hearing those words from her mouth might've killed him. He was thankful for the helmet, sweating like a man in a sauna, forcing everything in him to not take off his helmet then and there and beg. 

No. 

No, he has a job to do. He’s got to find the hard drive. 

When she first mentioned personal information, he didn’t have a clue where to start. There are hundreds of informants in Gotham, each one more and more difficult to catch. 

But Meta personal files? That cut it down to only a mere few. There are only a few informants that work in the Meta ring. And he had a sneaking suspicion he knew which one was responsible. 

So that’s why he’s strolling into the Iceberg lounge like he damn well owns the place, which technically he does own some shares in it from his mega crime lord days, but he digresses. 

Freezing as always, with ice crystals hanging from the high vaulted ceiling. Patrons speaking in soft murmurs. Of course some turn to stare as he stomps through, the icy floor echoing. Up the stairs to the VIP section. 

“Ronaldi,” Jason shoves past the guard to the suite, “we need to talk.” 

Nicholas Ronaldi, an information dealer. You need to know something: he’ll find it. Especially when it comes to finding out about people. 

Ronaldi is a short, pudgy man with a patchy goatee and an even patchier scalp. Smokes like lung cancer is fake and drinks like his liver's made of steel. 

When Jason enters, Ronaldi is spread across a singular couch, watching as a girl dances. Jason nods to the girl to go; she grabs her shawl and scitters away. 

“Damn, Red, the show was getting good.” Ronaldi takes a long drag of his cigar. 

“We need to talk.” Jason stands in infront of him. 

“You fuck up my trade deal, and now you think we still on talkin’ terms?” 

Jason lets out a low chuckle, the modulator making the sound crackle. “you’re right, you’re right. Let me rephrase.” He slides his gun out of his leg holster, clicking the safety off. “I’m going to ask you something, and you’re going to answer.” 

That seems to work for Ronaldi; he's staring down the barrel of the gun. “What you wanna know?

“Someone sell you a hard drive recently?” Jason sits on the coffee table in front of him, arm resting on his thigh, gun still pointed. 

Ronaldi laughs, taking another drag of his cigar. “Son, hundreds of people come to me selling hard drives; needa be more specific.” 

“Square silver hard drive, STAR Labs logo on the front.” 

Ronaldi tilts his head, tapping his chin.

“C’mon, you little shit, I’m gonna need a better answer than that,” Jason grunts. “And I’d really hate to stain old Cobblepot’s floors.” 

“Alright, alright,” Ronaldi sits up. “A kid did come in and sell one like it to me, but I sold it; it’s long gone by now.”

Jason’s jaw clenches. “To who?” 

“I don’t know the guy’s name; I can look around though,” Ronaldi pauses, “for a price.” 

“You’re really trying to squeeze me for money right now?” Jason stands up. 

“I’m a businessman, Red.” Ronaldi puts a hand over his heart. 

“Find who you sold the drive to, or I will shoot.” Jason grabs his collar. “By tomorrow. Or else, Ronaldi.” 

Ronaldi swallows, nodding his head frantically. 

“Good boy,” Jason smirks under his helmet. 

Jason hears someone pad up the stairs; he turns his head. The hell. Why is that Young guy here? What’s his name? Allen? Albert?

“Mr Ronaldi, you only gave me three—” The guy looks up, face paling, bolting out the door. Jaons is a bit pleased; it’s been a while since he’s had the chance to chase some. He drops Ronaldi, running out the door. Young slides down the stairs past the staff doors; Jason follows out the back door into the back alleys that connect the inner workings of Crime Alley. Doesn’t take him long to catch up to Young, grabbing his collar and shoving him against the wall of a nearby building. 

“There a reason you visiting Ronaldi, kid?” Jason tilts his head. Young’s feet dangle just above the ground. 

“I didn’t do anything, man—” His hand grips around Jason’s wrist, a weak attempt to fight back.

“Then why’d you run, huh?” 

Young grunts, still flailing his legs.

“I suggest you answer me when I’m talking to you.” Jason snarls, pressing him further into the brick wall. 

“I owe money man—” Young almost squeaks, “Ronaldi said he’d give me cash if I sold him some shit—” 

“Oh, what, like hard drives?”
“I—”

“Yes or fucking no. Did you sell the hard drive to Ronaldi?” 

“Yes! Okay, yes, I did!” Young squirms.

“You stage a break-in too? Make it look like you a victim?” Jason doesn’t seem to notice the Jersey accent slip in, sounding a bit funny with his modulator.

Young manages to shake his head despite Jason’s grip. “Loan—loan sharks—”

Jason's muscles tense. Jaw clenched. He’d have given mercy this time. It's just a kid who needs money—but something in him, something in him just makes him want to punch, to imagine this guy as a grown adult—or a drug addict—or a sex offender, as anything else to give him an excuse to hurt him. 

“Hood.” A voice says from above, a voice he knows all too well. He grunts, seeing the swish of purple jump down beside him. 

“Not now, Spoiler.” He grunts. 

“Oh really?” Another voice asks, Jason turning his head. Red Robin. 

“Oh, so now you too are ganging up on me?” His grip loosens, and Young bolts. Before Jasons can even turn Youngs around the corner. 

“Leave him. Orphan’s around the corner anyway.” 

Jason grunts. Tim just crosses his arms. “We need to talk.” 

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do. ” Steph mirrors Tim, “Red, you aren’t exactly sneaky.”

“Hell does that mean?” Jason hunches his shoulders. 

“You didn’t delete your search history off the bat computer for one thing.” Tim taps the watch of his suit, a hologram screen popping up, every single tab Jason had looked at back at the cave now open.

“Fuck,” he mutters. These damn fucking detectives. Everyone in this damn family snoops. 

“ And you were at my class?” 

“What?” That makes Jason’s brain pause. 

“Anatomy Two? Ring a bell?” Stephanie stands beside Tim, tilting her head. There's no usual humour in her voice. 

“I—you—you were there?” Jason blinks. “Aren’t you a lit major or something?” 

“It’s my elective, and that’s not the point, Hood.” 

“Why are you stalking this girl, Jason?” Tim shuts the screen. 

“That’s none of your business.” 

“You were looking at her high school report cards, man.” Steph furrows her brows. 

“I—you—” Jason huffs, “What does it matter, huh?” He turns to face Robin. “You stalked Batman before you were even Robin!” 

“You’re deflecting.” 

“Am not!” Jason raises his voice. He feels like a child. A child being lectured by his mom and dad. 

“Jason. What’s going on? Even at the manner you were asking about her. You yelled at Alfred.” He sees the tactic they're playing. They're a shitty attempt at a bad cop/good cop. 

It would’ve been smarter to bring Damian. At least he plays a good bad cop. 

“I knew her as a kid, alright? Dick, Alfred, Bruce, and Babs – they all knew her,” he gives in. Why is he doing this? Really? To make up for leaving her? To find something that hasn’t been tainted by the life he’s lived? Why is he playing this roundabout game with her?

“They won’t tell me anything about what happened to her after I…” He mimics a neck being sliced. He wants to curl in on himself. Tim and Steph exchange looks. 

“You think something's wrong, right??” 

“I think something's happened. Something no one wants to talk about. I—” he steps back, staring at his hands, “if I could do one thing right. Fix one thing in her life. That’s enough.” 

He looks down at his hands. He doesn’t have a real plan. His plan is just… do. See where she works, see her live her life, see her have problems and fix them. 

Maybe it’s some fucked-up way of him redeeming himself, or his attempt at introducing himself to her. Or maybe…

Maybe it’s because he can’t stay away. He spent years by her side, then years without her. 

Maybe it’s because he’s selfish, because he wants to be at her hip again. 

Maybe it’s because he wants to be the little boy who held her as she cried. 

Maybe it’s because he wants to kiss her like he did that night in that closet. 

Maybe it’s because he’s scared.

Scared that if she too is gone, there will be nothing left of the old him. 

“I’ll look into it,” Tim says quietly. Jason snaps his head up. “I’ll do some digging around. No offence, Hood, but your online stalking skills suck.” 

Steph stifles a laugh; Jason ignores it, too shocked. 

It’s like Tim just spoke another language. 

“I…” 

“Usually people say thank you in this situation.” Tim says, a smirk at his lips before Steph elbows him. 

“Thank you.” Jason nods.

“It’s what family does,” Steph says softly. 

Huh, family. What a strange thing. 

Look at him, Anita. Look at him and admit to everything you’ve done. Look at him. Tell him what a failure you’ve become.

Anita's eyes snap open. Sweat running all over her body. Sitting up and patting the side table for her glasses.

Tell him what a failure you’ve become. 

Not again. God, she thought, the nightmares have finally ceased. There goes her sleep. She can’t get Mr Wayne's stupid voice out of her head. 

Quietly she wraps herself in her blanket, creeping out of her room to the living room. Jess sprawled on the couch watching some shitty reality show. 

“You okay?” Jess immediately spots her lingering at the doorway. She feels pathetic. 

Anita shakes her head, silently crossing over onto the couch, sitting down, “Can I have a hug?” 

She feels like a little baby. A pathetic, useless baby. 

Jess nods, concern in her eyes, immediately wrapping her arms around her blanket cocoon. 

“I miss him,” Anita murmurs ever so slightly. 

“I know,” Jess whispers, “I know.”

Show him how far you've fallen without him. 

Chapter Text

I don’t touch any of your things.

I’m too scared they’ll disappear. 

Anita was never allowed in Jason's bedroom. It was a simple rule. No matter how trusting Mr Wayne was of her, it was simple. 

No being in Jason's room. 

She never really understood why; Jason waved it off, telling her it was something about “boys and girls up to no good”. 

When he first told her that, she wanted to puke. Him? Her? 

But standing in infront of his bedroom door now, she wonders: if she had been allowed to be in his room, would they have done that sooner?

It feels wrong. To even think about entering it, a forbidden space. Her imagery of the manor only expanded to the living room, dining room, kitchen, library, sunroom and bathroom. Everything else was a mystery to her. One she never really considered exploring. 

But now. Entering the forbidden room feels wrong. It's been two days since the funeral; Alfred called up her father, stating he wished for her to visit. Something important. 

Not uttering a word when she arrived, simply guiding her down the hall, up the stairs and into another hall. The letter J is hanging off of the wooden door. 

“Take anything you like, Miss Banshir; after that I must lock it up.” 

Lock it away. He means. Lock away her best friend. She swallows, turning the knob. 

Green wallpaper, typical. One of the few things the two agreed on: green is the best colour. 

In the centre a large four-poster bed, the sheets unmade. In the corner by the floor-to-window ceilings is a large desk. Books and papers spread out. Homework. Of course. Ever the book nerd. Against the wall was a bookshelf filled to the brim. To the right is a walk-in closet and ensuite bathroom. 

Anita feels like she’s going to be sick. Like this place isn’t real. She turns her head, and Alfred's gone, probably giving her privacy. 

She was an embarrassment at the funeral. Sobbing like that. She hates thinking about it. Slowly, Anita ventures forward more into the room. A copy of Pride and Prejudice sits on the nightstand. The one she gifted. It looks even worse, the cover bent and stained, the pages curling. On the bed is a little Robin plushie. Anita laughs. 

They’d won it at the school fair. He was so grumpy about it, but she knew he secretly liked it. 

And she was right. 

Is that what she should take? The plushie? No. No, it wasn’t him. 

Anita turns her attention back to the table. Chemistry and English homework a mess across the table. He was never this messy, was he? This place looks like…well, what she’d imagine a teenage boy’s room to look like. On the top of a pile of paper sits a leather journal. The one she gifted alongside the book. The leather is a bit worn out now, but it’s in relatively good quality. She tugs at the string around it, opening the first page. “Happy Birthday, Jay, - Nita.” She laughs at her messy handwriting. It's definitely improved since then, mainly after a boy she liked when she was fourteen said it looked like chicken scratch. When she flips to the next page, two Polaroids fall out. 

The picture she sandwiched in the book is of Jason asleep on her birthday. She’s surprised he’s still kept it. The other…a photo of her, also asleep on a couch; she recognises it as the one in the living room. When did he even manage to take this? She flips to the next page. 

“Dear Diary,

Is that what you're supposed to write in journal entries? Am I supposed to address someone, or can I just start writing? Damn whatever….”

She immediately slams it shut. Should she be reading this? His private thoughts? Memories? That feels invasive. 

But what if he said something about her in it? About that night? About the party? 

Maybe she’d have some clarity, final words to remember him by?

She opens the journal again.

Dear Diary,

Is that what you're supposed to write in journal entries? Am I supposed to address someone, or can I just start writing? Damn whatever. Anita just gifted me this journal. I like it. The leather's nice. I can fill my inner thoughts in it, I guess. The ones I can’t tell Bruce or Anita. I guess I could tell Alfred, but like, he doesn’t get it. And Dick. Geez, he just keeps going on and on about “the good old days”. Whatever that means. 

I made my birthday wish; I know it won’t come true. But god, I wish it would. I want to tell her so bad. So so so so so so bad. What’s so wrong if I tell her, huh??? She’d be so excited. I hate keeping this secret from her. I tell Anita everything, and I can’t even tell her my big bad secret. Well, I guess it’s not bad. 

Damn you, Batman Bruce. Always has to be right all the damn time.

- JT

Batman? What the hell does Batman have to do with this? And what secret? Is it that he—no, no, it can’t be about that. 

She skips to a different random page, marked a few days before her mom died. 

Dear Diary,

Joker’s actually getting out of hand. He broke out of Arkham again. B says the clown is going to lie low for a bit before he does anything rash. What a loser, really. And I hate how the Joker keeps calling me little bird. Jesus, just say my name, man. The clown is too chicken to call me Robin. 

Anita finished that painting of the sunroom. Damn, it looks nice. She’s gonna go into the arts for sure. Maybe she’ll be a famous painter or something. No, but like, actually, how does that girl paint so well with just, like, hair on a stick? Weird. I think she did something different with her hair today. It looks nice. She kept it down today and put little braids in it. Would I sound weird if I said I wanted to braid it? Like so, I sound like a creep. I tried mentioning this to Alfred, and all he did was smirk. Like, what does that even mean? Maybe I am weird 

- JT

It keeps going. Pages upon pages. The same words keep repeating. 

Batman 

Joker

Nightwing

Patrol 

Crime

Justice

Robin. 

Her stomach twists and turns. The last entry. The day after the party.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck I’m so stupid. Like actually so fucking stupid. I kissed her? What the hell is wrong with me. Dammit I’m such an idiot. I messed up. I need to explain myself to her I need to go. She’s better off without me causing problems. I keep hiding things from her and from everywhere and I can’t do it. Maybe my real mom will have some answer maybe she’ll actually love me. Yeah. yeah i need to go. Not like Batman Bruce cares anyway. He alreadly makes me feel like such a fucking dissapointment. I’m too rash too angry. Just because I’m willing to do the things he wont? He lets Joker live because of a fucking “moral code”. He doesn’t actually care about me does it.  He doesn’t even care to help me find my real mom. 

Theyre better off without me. I’m better off without them. 

- JT 

Anita wants to throw up. Wants to scream. She barely notices the tears falling down her cheeks. Only when they drip onto the paper. 

Jesus, how many more tears must be shed? There's got to be, like, a tear limit in humans. 

Another feeling swells in her stomach. Something new, worse. Vile. 

She shuts the journal. Walking out of the room. Straight for the living room, where she hears voices. Dick and Mr Wayne. 

She stands right at the doorway, grips the journal so tight her knuckles are white, and her fingers go numb. Dick looks up first, seeing her tears. Standing up. 

“Anita… Are you okay?” 

“What is this?” is all she can say. Each word, each syllable laced with hatred. 

Dick looks down at the journal, brows furrowed. Mr Wayne rises.

She opens the book to a page she skimmed earlier, reading the last sentence of the log, “All I want to do is make Bruce proud. All I want to do is make Batman proud.” 

“Anita.” 

“You let him be, Robin?” She stares at Mr Wayne. His usual perfect smile gone, just a cold, calculated stare. “You let a fucking twelve-year-old be Robin?” 

She’s never sworn at an adult before. 

“Miss Banshir.” Mr Wayne starts.

“A child! You abandoned a child to go to fucking god knows where! And now he’s fucking dead! Dead! All because you were a failure to him!” She snaps her head to Dick, her voice so loud it echoes in the room, “And you! You’d go on and on and on about him and me being responsible. You berate him constantly? Meanwhile, you can’t even be responsible enough to care for your own fucking brother! Don’t even fucking stop him from leaving!” 

“Miss Banshir—please calm down—” she hears Alfred as he appears, but she’s still going. 

“If you had just fucking killed that clown! My mother would still be alive! But no, because you are all too fucking righteous—too fucking pompous to notice how many people have died, how many people hurt—too stuck up to even notice Jason struggling! Too much of idiots to notice how unloved he felt!”

She doesn’t know if she means that. But the words keep coming. They burn her throat, and it feels like she’s spitting out pure acid. She can’t be here anymore. The air is too stuffy. The room is too warm. 

“Anita…” Dick says, but she just shakes her head, tears rolling down her cheeks, stepping back. 

“You’re all monsters—” she runs. Runs out of the manor and down the winding driveway. 

She keeps running. She can’t stop—needs to get away—needs to be somewhere else. 

She needs to leave. 

Anita doesn’t know where she is. She got on the first bus she saw and just kept going till the line ended. She left her phone and bag at the manor, and she’s out of spare cash. 

She’s alone; God knows where. She doesn’t want to go home. Not yet. Not right now. 

So she sits on the kerb across from Grand Park. Wet and cold. The leather journal under her jacket. Her head swirling, mind rushing. 

A car stops in infront of her. 

The window rolls down—Lizzie, from the party. 

“Anita Margarita?” She points her nose down, looking over her sunglasses. Her eyes are a bit red. “What the hell are you doing out here, girl?”

“Just thinking,” is all she can manage to murmur. Thank god for the Gotham rain that hides the tear tracks on her cheeks. 

“Nice,” Lizzie nods. “Well, uh—wanna come think at a party we’re going to?” 

A voice in the back of her mind screams no. Her body doesn’t listen. 

“Sure,” she gets in. 

Who’s going to stop her?

Chapter Text

I hate using past tense. 

Especially when it comes to you.

Her dad hates when she’s late. She wasn’t originally late. She got dressed, had Jess drive her down to the financial district, went through her breathing exercises in the car and walked up the street to the restaurant underneath his work building. 

But God, staring at that building, the stupid red neon sign. 

She’s never ready for it. Not mentally, at least. She doesn’t understand how her father could still love her. After everything she’s done. She barely calls him anymore anyway. It’s not that she doesn’t want to see him; it’s just—sometimes he feels like another reminder of everything she’s lost. She takes a slow breath. In. Out. In. Out. Stares at the flickering signs. One step in, the doorbell jingles. 

The hostess smiles. A short dark-skinned lady with curly hair tied in an updo bun. “Welcome to Marios, table for one?” 

“No, I’m here with someone; he’s sitting here somewhere—” She looks around; it’s mostly businessmen having lunch meetings or breaks right now. In the corner by the window sits a man by himself, sipping water. There he is. She smiles at the hostess walking over. 

He always looks so much older every time she sees him. It hurts her heart. It sees her father getting older. 

“Hi Dad, sorry I’m late.” She sets her bag down. He looks up immediately, a soft smile on her face. He stands up, hugging her. 

She pretends to not hear his knees crack. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. 

“Hey kiddo,” she steps back, fixing the collar of her jacket.

“Dad,” Anita whines softly before being silenced with a look. They sit. 

After she started university, her dad, much to her surprise, insisted she move out. For a while she assumed it was because he couldn’t stand being around her anymore. Eventually he admitted it was because it was her mother's wish. For her to have some independence. 

God, how her mother would laugh now. 

“How’s school going?” Her dad nods; a waiter appears, handing them two menus. Her dad simply shakes his head. “We already know what we want.”

Every lunch they both order the same thing every time. 

“Chicken Alfredo for me please,” Anita says to the waiter, “and the Mexican Mostaccioli for him.” 

The waiter nods, writing it down before disappearing, her attention falling back to her dad. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes are more prominent, the grey beard almost shining in the sunlight. Glasses as usual falling down his nose. 

“Schools okay.” She looks down at her plate. 

She’s not going to tell him about the hard drive, or the exploding computers, or any of it. She can’t bear seeing his face if she does. After everything, she can’t let her dad see her in another failure. The day she got into university, she swore to herself. No matter how hard it gets, no matter how terrible her life is going. Never let him see. Never let her dad go through more pain. No matter how stressed she is, or depressed, or hurt. All he would ever see is a smile and the joy in her life. 

He lost his daughter once; she can’t bear the idea of him having to consider looking for her again. 

It’s funny; when she was a kid, she’d go to him for everything. Every question, every fear, every tear. She’s going to him. She doesn’t remember when “I need my dad to protect me” became “I need to protect my dad.” 

“Good, that’s good, and how is Jess? She’s working now?” 

Anita nods. “She got an internship at Wayne Enterprises.” She feels the acid spill upon saying the name. 

“Ah,” her father looks down at his glass; the food arrives. They’re always so quick: “Have you started looking at jobs yet?” 

“I mean, I’m only in first year; I still have time.” 

“Better to start now than later.” Her dad stabs a piece of pasta with her fork. “The job market is terrible now these days.” 

“Yeah, but I think once my projects are published, a lot of places will be eyeing me,” she copies him. 

“Good point, good point. Have you considered a PhD?”

“Maybe, but I think I want to work a bit before I do it.” She likes this. The mundane conversation. No feelings, no memories. Just her, her dad, and pasta. 

Anita has lived enough of a crazy life; this is all she needs. To keep all those memories locked away for no one to ever see, to ever question. 

“You haven’t been drinking, right?” The question feels like a flashbang. 

There goes her mundane joy. 

“No, Dad, I haven’t been drinking.” She shoves pasta into her mouth, hoping it can stall a bit. 

“You know I’m just making sure, Anita.” 

“Dad. Can we really not do this?” She sets down her fork, swallowing the pasta in her mouth. She always has chicken Alfredo. She doesn’t even like it that much, but it’s easy to digest when he starts asking questions like this: “I haven’t been drinking; I haven’t been partying. I’m not depressed. Everything is okay.” 

Anita’s dad purses his lips. “Okay. I’m sorry.” 

Her stomach aches. She shouldn’t have snapped. “It’s okay.” She picks up her plate, moving a chicken piece around her plate. 

“Mr Wayne invited me to a gala next month if you’d like—” 

“No.” She isn’t stern. Isn’t angry. Her voice is soft and quiet. Always the same answer. 

“You know he’d be very happy to see you.” 

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to see him.” 

“Anita, you can’t keep holding this grudge—” 

“Dad—you know I can’t forgive him.” She sets her fork down, a bit too forcefully; when it clanks against the plate, a few people turn their heads before looking away. “He let Jason go on an international trip alone. I can’t forgive him.” 

“Anita the fire wasn’t his fault.” 

“No. It wasn’t. And I understand that I do. But he let him be reckless, and now it was all for nothing.”

Anita's dad furrows his brows. They always do this. They always start normal, asking usual questions; well, he asks questions, and she answers. Then someone hits the nerve of the sore muscle, and it's all over, and they're back to where they were all those years ago, fighting. 

“He helped us. He got you back on track.” 

“He threw money in our faces because he felt guilty.” She corrects, “I know that—and I’m grateful, Dad, I am—but him fixing one of my—our—problems doesn’t excuse what happened.” 

“But you can excuse what I did?” 

“Dad—” 

“I wasn’t around, Anita.” His brows furrow, the wrinkles at his eyes crinkling. “I let you on too loose a leash, and you broke off. And—and I didn’t look hard enough. I didn’t talk to you about it.” 

“That’s different.” She inhales sharply. 

“Is it? I finally got you back, and I tried to be better—but that doesn’t excuse leaving you.” 

“You didn’t leave me Dad.” Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. 

“I was never around Anita. I was always away on trips and—” She can see the tears forming in his eyes. Please no. God no. Not again. “I didn’t even come home when Jason—” 

“Dad. Please. Can we not talk about this?” 

“Then when are we going to talk about this? Anita, we do this every time. We sit and eat lunch—we beat around the bush talking about our feeling—” 

“You want to know so badly, Dad?” Her voice hitches. “Fine. Yeah. You weren’t around as much, but you were one man trying to support your daughter. Your not being around for major things in my life I understood. That's why I can forgive. Because you were doing your best. I can’t forgive him. I can’t forgive the man who let his son go when he had every opportunity to stop him.” 

Also because he is the reason my mother and your wife are dead. 

But she’d never tell her father that. She thought about it for a while. But then she ultimately realised, what good would come out of it? She’d never get her mother or Jason back. What did it matter? 

“I’m sorry, Anita.” Her dad reaches his hand out, resting it on top of hers.

“I’m sorry too,” she whispers. 

“Do you want to restart our lunch conversation?” He smiles a bit. 

“Yeah,” she can’t help but smile back, “I’d like that.” 

“So how’s school going?”

-xoxo-

The walk from the bus stop isn’t long. Sure, her dad could’ve driven her home. But Anita likes the bus ride. Sure, the Gotham Transit sucks, the seats are sticky, and there's always one crackhead on the bus at all times, but it’s nice. She can keep her mind empty, just watching as each street goes by. 

The stop is two blocks from her house, which isn’t too bad. Easily walkable. And her neighbourhood is safe anyway. 

She also has a taser in her bag at all times. A gift from her dad her second year into university. 

So she walks down the street, one earbud out, half listening to her music and half listening to the city around her. 

Someone whistles. She ignores. 

“Damn, sweetheart, really giving me the cold shoulder?” A man's voice whines behind her; she assumes it's the same guy who whistled. 

Again. She doesn’t answer. Just keep walking, keep her head down, and make it to her building in one piece. 

“C’mon, don’t be like that,” said another man’s voice. Two of them. Should she look over her shoulder and ID them? But that would mean she acknowledges them, which isn’t any better. 

  I always do love when they play hard to get.” The voice gets closer. She’s being followed. Her feet go faster. Faster, faster, faster. Her hand subtly sliding into her bag, gripping the taser. 

Her senses are heightened. The song in her ear drumming a loud 

“C’mon sweetheart, won’t you be nice to us?” Someone grabs her arm. She turns. Thumb flicking the taser on and— ZAP!

The guys on the floor are twitching. A lanky, pale blonde with a shitty bowl cut and raggy clothes. Beside the guy was his accomplice, a similar-looking guy with curly ginger hair. Carrot-top doesn’t step back, instead trying to grab her. 

ZAP. 

What an idiot. Doesn’t he know not to touch people? Especially ones holding tasers?

“Damn. finished the job before I even got here.” A deep voice says, and she spins around, taser at the ready. 

Red fucking Hood. Arms up in a surrender, “Woah—okay—easy with the taser.” 

“Hell are you doing here?” 

“Patrol,” he answers simply. Tilting his head to the side to look at Blondie and Carrot Top, “Damn.”

Anita's heart is racing. It’s not the first time she’s used the taser, but damn. “Came a little too late, man.” 

“I can see that.” He slowly lowers his hands. “Are you okay?” 

“Fine.” Anita shuts off the taser, setting it back in her bag. 

“Let me walk you home.” He doesn’t say it like a question. 

“I got it,” she lies. 

“I’m not asking, doll.” 

“I—” 

“Look, it’s late; you almost got—” Red Hood sighs, “Please. Just let me walk you home. I’m not going to bite.” 

Anita stares at him—did he just say please?

“Literally, I mean this helmet doesn’t have a mouth opening.” He looks so—funny—saying it. 

Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. 

A small chuckle escapes her lips. “Okay.” 

His shoulders seem to stand taller when she says that, gesturing, “Lead the way.” 

She adjusts the weight of her bag strap, walking down the street. He stands on the left side facing the road. How gentlemanly. 

“So…” Red Hood shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, “science…”

“Science?” 

“You’re in a science programme.” Red Hood looks around, like he’s waiting for another bad guy to pop out. “What got you into it?

Anita blinks. Is he really asking why she chose her major? Him? A vigilante? Making small talk?

“Uh—I don’t know—I guess I just realised I wanted to help people.” 

“Why not med school or something?” God, she hates that question. 

“MCAT was too hard,” she mumbles. 

He laughs. It sounds weird with the modulator. It's light. Not the deep chuckle she’d heard from him before. 

“Why? Thinking about applying for the programme?” 

“Me? God no.” Red Hood shrugs a shoulder, “Never was good at science anyway.”

“Yeah?”

“Was always more of an English guy myself,”

“Really?” She tries to picture that in her head. The Red Hood in a library hunched over a book, flipping pages as he reads. Or hell, reading to little children. 

“What’s your favourite book?” 

Red Hood doesn’t say anything for a while. Maybe that’s too much information? Anita doesn’t even know why she’s being nice to him. He’s a vigilante. Theyre good for nothing. 

“Pride and Prejudice” 

A weird feeling goes down her spine. “Oh, cool.” 

“You read it?” 

She shakes her head, “Hate books; I’m more of a movie girl, honestly.” 

“Bet your English classes must’ve been fun,” 

“To say I barely made it through them is an understatement.”

She sees her apartment nearing. 

“Pride and Prejudice is my best friend’s favourite book.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah—God can never get him to shut up about it.” She doesn’t want to use past pronouns. Over the years she’s noticed something. Bringing up dead people is weird. If she mentions her mother in the past tense, everyone always gets so sappy-eyed, because losing a mother is hard, but we all eventually go through it. When he mentions Jason in the past tense, everyone gets awkward. She feels like she’s pooped on some party every time she mentions it. Then everyone gets weird and gives condolences and—ugh. Everyone acts like that's her only personality trait. 

“He sounds like a nerd.” 

“He is,” she smiles softly. They stop. Her apartment looming over. “Thanks—for walking me back.” 

“No problem. Stay safe,” he nods. Moving his hands out of his pockets awkwardly. 

Anita swallows. What’s she supposed to do? It’s not like a vigilante had ever walked her home. 

“I—um—thanks—Mr Hood.” 

“Please. Mr Hood was my father.” The joke falls flat. Yet she still chuckles a bit, against her better judgement. 

“Goodnight,” she heads into her building.

Maybe all vigilantes aren’t that bad. 

The second Jason sees an apartment light up, he knows which is hers. Not creepy at all. It’s for safety purposes. Definitely safety purposes. 

That was the most pathetic thing he’s done yet. Walk her home and poke and prod about her life choices? Who does he think he is? 

His phone buzzes. Snapping him out of whatever rabbit hole we were about to fall into. 

Replacement: Found some stuff you might be interested in. 

Replacement: In relation to your girl

Damn. Another weird thing to hear, or see in this case. 

Your girl.

Chapter Text

I wonder if your family ever thinks about me

I hope not

Four months since his brother died. 

Four months since his identity was revealed. 

Four months since Dick had a sixteen-year-old tell him he was a piece of shit. 

Yeah, that was great. He was so ecstatic about that. 

He wanted to go after her. He really did. Tell her what really happened—how it wasn’t his fault. Shift the blame. 

Bruce told him no. Said she needed to cool down. 

Yeah, well, now it’s been four months, and there is no information about her. Completely off the grid. For the first month he didn’t act. The second month he got word she went to stay with relatives down south. To get away from it all. In the third month, Bruce told him to drop it; it was of no use anymore. She wanted out. She hadn’t spilt the secret to anyone, so it wasn’t a high-measure security risk. In Bruce's word, not his. That surprised Dick, honestly. Bruce? Not worrying about their indemnities being at risk?

So by month four she was barely a thought in his mind…most days. 

But damn. The girl had a mouth; he’ll give her that. And yeah, maybe those words stuck a little too well, keeping him up at night for a while while he grieved for his brother. He should’ve been there. Should’ve protected him. 

“Nightwing. You still there?” Barbara's voice plays into his ear. 

“Still here,” Dick murmurs, perched on a roof like a gargoyle. They got a tip on a trade deal going down. A new drug mule system. Quick. Easy. Efficient. 

Not for long though. His lenses sense movement down below across the street. A teenager, dark blue jeans and a black hoodie, a plain backpack. The mule. They don’t look suspicious, like your average kid heading home from wherever. 

That's the problem with drug traders. They never seem to remember to keep the story realistic. 

Because why in God's name would a kid with a backpack be in the Fashion District? The nearest public school is all the way in The Hill. Fifteen blocks away. 

No kid in the right mind would be at the port at this hour. 

“I got eyes on the mule,” Nightwing whispers. He can see a small light flick on his lenses' screen. Babs is broadcasting his lenses' vision to her screen. 

“Should I grab them?” 

“Not yet. See where they’re going first. We want the dealer, not the kid.” 

“Got it. A shame, really. I’d have loved to set a young mind back on track.” 

“You can do that after you’ve arrested the guy.”

“Boo. You’re no fun, Babs.” 

“Just go.” 

Nightwing drops down slightly. Perched on a balcony of the next building. The kid turns the corner down to a back alley. Practised. A routine. He follows from the rooftops.

A short build, likely a girl. But the hoodie is a size too big—so borrowed. 

The kid stops. Looking around. A man appears from the shadows. 

“Ah ha.” Night murmurs. 

“Not yet.”

He swings down to a lower-level balcony, just enough into the shadows to remain hidden. 

The man doesn’t speak. 

“There’s a good takeout spot in Chinatown, right on the pier,” the teenager speaks. A girl. “They make some damn good spring rolls.” Dick furrows his brows. What the hell is this? 

“Never one for spring rolls,” the man gruffs, “but this place in The Cauldron got some good shit.” 

The girl nods, taking off her bag. “You got the money?” 

The man pulls out a wad of cash. “You got the shit?” 

She nods. Unzipping the bag. More keys than he can count. All wedged into that bag. 

“Let them make the handoff first.” 

“Affirmative.” Dick grabs the cuffs from his belt. 

The man takes the bag, rummaging through it; the girl takes the envelope, counting through the cash. The girl nods. 

“Good. And don’t be late next time. Getting antsy.” 

“Got it. Night,” the girl shoves the cash into her hoodie pocket. 

“Now.” 

“You could tip the poor girl,” Dick laughs, jumping down right on the dude. 

“You bit—”

“Hey now, that isn’t very nice now, is it?” The cuffs clink on. He looks up, and the girl’s on the run. 

“Oh no, you’re not—” He gets up running after the girl, tapping his comm. “Get GCPD to Port Adams. Going after the kid.” 

“Nightwing that’s not a good—”

No. If he can save this kid. Save another lost soul. Maybe that’ll make up for losing his brother. 

He runs down, turning the corner following her. Down another corner and into a back alley. He grabs the ladder of a fire escape, propelling himself forward. Grabbing the girl. 

“I didn’t do shit, man—” He holds her against the wall as she tries to fight back. The hood falls off. 

Holy shit. 

Anita? 

Why is Anita here? 

Isn’t she supposed to be down south right now? 

Why is she selling drugs? 

What the hell?

“Anita?” is all he can manage to get out. 

“Dick,” she hisses. He doesn’t know if she’s saying his name or an insult. Honestly, it could be both. 

“What are you—aren’t you—” He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. “Why the hell are you a drug mule?” 

“I need money.” 

“You’re dad—” 

“Don’t fucking talk about my dad,” she all but snarls. 

His brain's going twenty miles a minute. Every memory of her is playing in his mind. Jason's 12th birthday, every sleepover, that time Babs and he took the two of them out for ice cream. Everything. All he can see is that little girl who used to run around with his brother. 

So then who is in front of him? 

A girl with sunken eyes and chipped glasses. Thinner, paler, shorter hair; eyes that were once full of light are now full of hate. 

What has become of her? 

She kicks upward straight into his groin, and he yells out. Letting go. She runs. 

“Anita—” She’s gone. He can’t move. Not because of the pain. But because of the sight. 

That's not Anita anymore. 

“Oracle—” 

“Already looking her up on the portal.”

“Okay.” Dick swallows; his throat feels like. Breathe, Richard. Breathe. 

“Got it. Anita Banshir. Reported missing almost a month ago. She told her dad she was staying with relatives until relatives verified she wasn’t with them.”

Why lie?

“Notify Bruce.” 

“Got it.” Babs pauses, “Dick…”

“I’m going on a break for a bit.” He taps his lenses, shutting off the connecting footage. 

He needs silence. He needs to not be Nightwing right now. 

He needs to be Dick. 

-xoxo-

He’s not surprised he ended up here. Standing over his brother's grave. At least he can’t run away this time. 

“Little Wing,” he mutters. “This is my fault, isn’t it?”

He can almost hear Jason’s snarky voice, “Of course it’s your fault, dickhead. You were supposed to protect her.” 

“I was supposed to protect you.” He clenches his fist. 

“Couldn’t even do that, could you, Dickhead?” 

“I’m sorry, Little Wing,” he inhales sharply, “I’m so sorry.” He sits down on the grass. 

“Your girl’s got a mouth.” He can’t help but laugh. “She found out—I’m not surprised; she’s a smart kid. But damn, that girl had a lot to say.” 

“She always has a lot to say,” Jason would say. 

“She called me pompous.” He can’t help but laugh. “I think you were rubbing off on her.” 

Silence. The killer silence. Wind brushes against nearby trees. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits the truth. 

He never knows what to do. He plays pretend. Pretends he knows how to be an adult, a hero, a cop. 

At the end of the day, he’s still that little acrobat with a latex suit and stupid smile. 

Amidst his sorrows, Dick fails to notice the dirt underneath him looks like it’s been dug at.

In Nanda Parbat, Jason lies in his cot. 

His mind feels like it's been filled with water. He doesn’t know where he came from. 

He barely remembers his name. 

But every time he closes his eyes, he sees the same image. He sees a girl in a green skirt and black shirt. He sees a girl with brown skin and black hair. He sees a girl with glasses and short hair. 

He sees a girl he does not know. 

Chapter Text

Would you be upset? 

Upset to see how far I’ve fallen?

When Jason gets to the Batcave, Tim’s already hunched over the computer, typing away. 

“You got something?” Jason presses the button on the back of his helmet, the hydraulics hissing as it comes off. 

“Got more than something,” he murmurs, tapping around the table for his energy drink. 

“Are you allowed to have that? Aren’t you like—twelve?”

“I’m twenty.” Tim says without missing a beat, swivelling in the chair to face him. His hair is matted down, and he looks like he hasn’t slept since that night after the Iceberg Lounge. “I did some snooping around this girl’s old records.” 

“She has a name.”

“Funny you’d think I’d remember her name,” Tim waves him off, “and I found something funny.”

He swivels back in his chair, pulling up a file. Tim’s own final report card from Gotham Academy.

“Not interested in listening to you brag about how easy school was, Drake.” 

“Not the point; the academy sends all report cards via student portal. if you expand the code, 

and minimize the overarching—”

“In English and simplified.” Jason crosses his arms. Tim sighs, muttering.

“You can backdate when the report card was written. Gotham Academy always write their reports on the same day every year. 

He pulls up Anita's report card; it has the same date as Tim's report card. Of course, the years are different, though. 

“It’s the same.” 

“Yeah, which is normal,”

“So what’s the problem?” Jason raises an eyebrow. 

Tim types something on the keyboard: “Hackers can backtrack dates. That’s easy; what they can’t do, least at the time of when she was in school, is hide IP addresses.”

A string of numbers appears on the screen. One set underneath hers and one underneath Tim's. 

“They’re different,” Jason refuses to admit he’s a bit impressed. 

“Want to take a guess where this IP address is listed?

Jason doesn’t answer.

Tim stares before groaning, “Could’ve at least guessed, man—the clock tower. Oracles clock tower.” 

“Babs changed her grades? Why?” 

“Well, I’m not surprised she did; I backtracked the original copy, and well—I mean, just look at it.” Tim types something else, another copy of the report card. It’s…terrible. 

Every class an F, almost zero attendance. 

She dropped out. 

“I…” 

“I mean, if I was trying to get into university and I had grades like that—hell yeah, I’d get someone to hack in and change it.”

What is this? Anita would never quit school—she loved it—and it wasn’t like she was stupid. He and she were always topping the class. 

This doesn’t answer any questions for him. It just makes him far more confused. Did she flunk out after he died? But she didn’t quit after her mom died. 

The zetatube beeps “INCOMING: B01, NIGHTWING, B16, ORACLE”

Perfect timing, really cliché timing. Straight out of a shitty book cliche.

Dick and Babs enter; Dick looks up at the computer, stopping. 

Jason doesn’t care, his attention going straight to Barbara. “What’s this?” 

Barbara looks up and stops wheeling. Hands sitting in her lap, brows furrowed. She doesn’t look like she’s been caught in an act. 

She’s been expecting this. Waiting for it. 

“Anita’s report cards,” Barbara says calmly, “the original ones.” 

“Babs—” Dick starts. 

“He deserves to know.” 

“Know what?” 

“We promised we wouldn’t.” 

“Deserves to know what, Dick?” Jason is in front of him in three strides. Fists clenched, jaw tight. 

“I—” 

“This whole time you’ve been avoiding telling me. Now either you tell me what happened or I make you.” 

“Jason—you—you never supposed to know—” 

“Not even when I came back—” 

“Especially when you came back!” Dick's shoulders tense. He’s dodging. Jason turns his attention back to Barbara. 

“You wanted your touch to be found on it, didn’t you? You could’ve easily hidden the IP address.”

She just stares. That's more than enough for him. 

“Why? Why did you do this?” His voice is softer than he wants it to be. Too scared. Too small. 

“Bruce asked me to,” is all she says. 

What? 

Why is he surprised, really? Of course Bruce would ask something like this. 

He wants to run. To get out of here, stop thinking about this altogether. But he needs to know. It’s eating at him piece by piece. 

Always the detective. 

“I did.” He hears his voice, and his entire body goes rigid. He turns slowly. Bruce stands there in front of the stairs to the manor, in his suit, cowl off. 

“Why?” 

“It was the right thing to do.” 

“No shit, old man—but I’m asking what happened—what happened to her. ” 

Bruce just stares. Jesus, he always stares like that. It makes Jason feel like he’s being ridiculed. Always so cold, so suspicious. “She went down a path that wasn’t good for her. When she finally came to her senses, it was too late.” 

“What was too late?” 

“Universities look at your eleventh and final years’ grades,” Tim pipes up, also piecing it together. “you were making sure she got into school.” 

“Yes.” 

“What did she do? Bruce, what did she do?” His voice is rising, but below the harshness, it’s begging. Begging for an answer. Begging for the truth. 

“She never wanted you to know…” Dick murmurs. 

“She went missing for six months.” Bruce says, voice flat. The same tone as saying that you’ve run out of milk. 

Jason's chest feels tight, constricted. “Six months? Six months?! She was missing for six months—what—”

“No one knew until the fourth month.” Dick murmurs, “she told everyone different things—made it look like she was one place when she was actually in another—” 

“What about her dad?” 

“Only reported her missing after three months. He assumed she was staying at a relative’s.” 

They’re all terrible. Terrible people. They didn’t look for her? Call out of her? Search for her? 

He’d have. He’d have dropped it all to look for her. 

“She became a mule, Jason. She was living off couches and refused to talk to us. The amount of alcohol in her system. I can’t even describe it.” 

He feels like he’s been shot. His knees feel weak. His heart is beating too fast. 

A picture blinks into his mind. The little girl in a puffy red dress, with a long braid, bawling her eyes out. It changes to a young woman, wearing a lab coat, with short hair and tired eyes. 

He can’t imagine the girl in between that, the one on the streets, carrying drugs, running from the police. 

He can’t imagine her like that. He can’t imagine his Anita like that. 

His phone buzzes. He wants to throw it away, but he knows it must be important. 

Ronaldi: Got the name of the buyer. 

Ronaldi has attached a file.

Ronaldi: All yours, Red.

He should feel happy. He’s going to get it back. He's going to save Anita's work. 

But his chest pangs. A sudden wave of worry hits him. 

A feeling that something isn’t right. 

Anita ventures out of her bedroom for water. Blanket wrapped around her, no glasses, hair a mess. It’s one of the few times she is able to get a full cycle of sleep. When she gets to the living room, her brows furrow. Jess left the window open. She always does this. Tomorrow morning she needs to remind her about the dangers of doing that in Gotham. 

What if a burglar got it? Or a supervillain? She shuts the window and pads over to the kitchen, shuffling around the dark room and pouring water for herself. 

She doesn’t hear the footsteps over the running water. 

Something cold hits her head, and she falls. 

Right before she falls into the abyss of unconsciousness, she sees a figure stand above her. 

Fucking carrot top. 

Damn. She thinks, her mind fading, what a shit way to die

Chapter Text

Sometimes I’m happy you’re gone

So you can’t see how pathetic I truly am

Anita's head aches. Like a drumstick beating against the side of her skull. 

It’s been like this for a few weeks now. She walks up on the lumpy couch to the smell of booze and weed. Gets up, makes a shitty attempt at washing up, then does whatever menial tasks Colton has for her that day. 

She’s been laying low for two months since the incident with Nightwing—Dick—whatever she should call him. 

She gets up, cracks her back and neck and looks at herself in the grimy mirror. She cut her hair again. Even shorter, it’s almost a pixie cut now. Her glasses chipped two weeks into staying here. She should really buy new ones—if she can afford new ones anyway. Half of her delivery money goes to Colton. The leftover she usually just ends up spending on food and cigarettes. 

Apart from that day, she opted for no food, spending all her savings on some actual things: a hairbrush, a bag, a charger, all of that. 

Six months ago she really should’ve made a plan. But it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Her adrenaline was rushing, and her emotions spinning her faster than a merry-go-round. 

“Marg, you up?” Colton's raspy voice calls from the living room. 

“Yeah m’up,” she winces, her headache slamming even worse now. 

She needs a drink and a smoke.

She shuffles out of the room to the living room. Another crusty couch and a shitty TV on the coffee table in infront of it. In the corner, a stack of dirty dishes and empty beer bottles. Colton's lying on the couch, his new fling curled under his arm. 

“Look who’s finally up.” He gives a wide, toothy grin. 

“Who’s this?” the girl under his arm scowls. Anita wants to laugh. She’s a bit surprised there’s a new girl. Colton seemed to like the old girl—what was her name again? Diamond? Something like that. This new girl's a brunette with a fake spray tan. Really, that shade of orange is terrible.

“Don’t worry baby, Marg ain’t gonna do a thing.” 

Marg. Short for Margarita. Anita Margarita, as Lizzie introduced her. 

She doesn’t fully remember how she ended up living in a drug house. She went to a party with Lizzie, went to a party, and woke up the next morning not remembering shit and with half her clothes missing. After that, she just kinda never left. She can’t go back now. After all this time. What would she say to that? How would she even face him?

“You better stay away, bitch, ” Orangina spat at her, in a thick Jersey accent. At this point she doesn’t even react to the insults. Anita has come to learn that the people in this… lifestyle will throw any and every insult or slur even if they're your friend. 

If you can even have friends here. 

“I’m good. You keep him.” 

Colton stifles a laugh; Orangina snaps her head to him with a glare. Colton's a chubby guy with a long back ponytail and a patchy goatee. Not exactly what you’d imagine for a drug dealer, more like one of those weirdos who sits at library computers all day. 

“Got a job for me tonight?” Anita crosses her arms. 

“You’re doing a run.” Colton nods.

“I don’t know if I should—after that run-in with Nightwing…” 

“You’ll be fine. Keep your head low and do it like you always do.” 

“Kay,” she nods. Her headache thrumming again. She nods to Orangina once more before heading to the ‘food table’. 

“Did anyone actually buy any food today or what?” 

“There’s some takeout in the fridge.” Colton is now rubbing up against Orangina. Anita has to fight the urge not to gag. She heads over to the fridge, grabbing the takeout box labelled ‘Carson’. One of the other teenagers who stays here. She’s half sure he’s the reason she was missing her clothes after that party six months ago—mainly because he woke up beside her missing his shirt. 

Neither of them talks about it. Just two teenagers who were blackout drunk. 

She opens the box. A little bit of noodles and two spring rolls. She all but swallows a spring roll before heading back to the food table, grabbing a beer bottle. 

For the headache. She tells herself. 

That’s what she tells herself. For every smoke, every beer, for everything. 

“Colton wheres all the Marlboro?” She scratches the back of her head, trying to somehow remove the headache. 

“Lizzie finished them. There’s some Pall Mall left, I think.” 

“Fucking Pall Mall? That shit is nasty.” 

“Womp womp, Marg,” Colton snorts from the couch. Orangina snorts too. Anita sighs. Grabbing the pack of Pall Mall and padding over to the fire escape balcony. She shuts the window, and the wind sends a shiver down her spine. It’s getting colder. She should buy a jacket soon—those are so expensive though. Maybe she can break into her house and grab one. Before her dad gets home and notices. 

She sits down, legs dangling between the railings. Fumbling for the lighter in her pocket. 

The lighter barely flickers on to light; she lights the Pall Mall, shuddering at the taste. She hates Pall Mall. 

It’s November now. Damn. 

It’s her birthday. 

“Happy birthday to me,” Anita murmurs, taking a long drag of the cigarette. 

-xoxo-

A few hours later she’s packed and ready to go. Her drop-off bag in hand, a hoodie she borrowed from Carson on. When he gets to the actual drug room, the one Colton keeps under lock and key, he’s already waiting, keys in hand. 

“Codeword is Cape Carmin giving, Dixon Docks receiving.” He shoves the keys into the bag. “Morrison Harbor” 

Anita nods, pulling her hood up. 

“Come back in one piece, yeah?” Colton nods. 

Someday she wonders if Colton loves her—like family. She wonders if all the people who come and go through this shitty Park Row apartment love each other. If she could have a real family…again. A new one, a fresh one. One where no one knows her old life, the one she left behind, and doesn’t know she was the good girl her whole life. One who just sees her now. 

Then she lets the thought die away. 

“Got it.” And she's out the door. 

-xoxo-

She’s at Morrison Harbour within twenty minutes. It’s not far. She’ll be in and out in no time. She is standing at the drop location, rocking back and forth on her feet. The seawater smells nice. 

A man appears from the shadows, hunched over, with tan skin and a hoodie on. Ripped pants. He looks almost homeless.

Is he the buyer? Colton’s losing his touch—he usually sells to better-dressed people. 

“Do you know which way Cape Carmin is? I want to go see its beach.” 

Dixon Docks. Dixon Docks. Dixon Docks. 

“Why would you go to Cape Carmin? Sprang River is much nicer this time ‘round,” the man says. 

Faker. 

She doesn’t think; she just runs, runs as far as she can. She hears the man speak, not to her. “Wrong code word.” 

It’s a trap. The cops, maybe? 

She rounds the corner and fuck—she's cornered. She must’ve taken a wrong turn. There's a shadow behind her, getting larger and larger. Two spikes on his head. 

Fucking hell. Batman. 

She spins around, all but hissing. 

“Anita.” Batman—Mr Wayne says coldly, “Put the bag down.” 

“Make me,” she hisses. 

Batman just tilts his head. That's the man who fucked up her life. He’s the reason her mother is gone; he’s the reason Jason’s dead. 

He lunges, and she's not fast enough. He’s holding her down on the ground, the bag having fallen off. 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Not good. He’s gonna take her back home. She can’t. 

She can’t face her dad. Not after six months. 

She trashes and hits, screaming her lungs out to let go. 

Something pinches her leg. Her body feels tense. When she looks down, she sees it. Mr Wayne’s hand holding a vial, its needle shoved into her leg. 

Motherfucker. 

She feels her mind start to go numb. Not good, not good, not good. 

Colton is going to be so mad. 

As her eyes start to flutter shut and muscles go limp, she hears the voice from earlier from somewhere, “Was that really necessary?”

She hears Batman again, her vision blurring as he stands above her, “yes”. 

-xoxo-

When she wakes, she’s somewhere else. There are no buildings, just trees in her peripheral vision. Her head is throbbing now. Anita manages to sit up. She’s in a graveyard. 

Batman is standing before her, arms crossed. 

She thinks of the art museum trip she took with her mom. She doesn’t know why, but her mind imagines a painting she saw. Jacob Wrestling with the Angel. She doesn’t know why or can’t explain it. But she feels like Jacob. Before the angel with nothing but fear in his eyes. 

Of all the times to think about art, of course it’s now. 

“Tell him,” is all Batman says. She turns her head, and her breath hitches. 

Jason's grave. The headstone staring at her. 

She can’t breathe. 

“Tell him what you’ve done. What you’ve become.” 

“I…” is all she can choke out, gripping the grass underneath her. 

She can’t. She can’t admit the truth. Tell him what she’s become. The life she left behind, the things she did. 

Her mouth tastes like Pall Mall, and she wants to throw up. 

How is she supposed to tell him what a failure she is? 

“Look at him, Anita.” Batman now stands behind her. “Look at him, and tell him what you’ve done.” 

“I can’t—I can’t—” her voice breaks in full sobs now. 

“Tell him.” He says again. She can’t tell if his voice is stern or not. 

Tell him what a failure you are. A voice screams in the back of her mind. Her body shakes. 

“No—no, please—” 

She feels like someone has dumped ice water on her. 

Why is she doing this? Throwing her life away?

A hand rests on her shoulder, and she turns around. Batman—Mr Wayne—the cowl off, his brows furrowed. He’s worried. 

She collapses into him. Sobbing, wailing. 

She feels like a fool. Like an idiot. 

A failure. 

In Nanda Parbat, Jason spars with Talia. 

He falters, a weird sensation stinging through his stomach. He’s felt it before. Not in a long while. He steps back, clutching his stomach. Mind still hazy. He looks up at Talia. 

She simply smirks, “The feeling will settle soon. Your body still remembers the dirt it lay in.” 

He nods. 

“It’ll fade eventually.” 

Chapter Text

Sometimes I imagine my death. 

Sometimes I imagine how I’d see you again. 

Anita hasn’t felt a headache this bad in a long time. Not for years now. 

When she finally manages to crack her eyes open she’s hit with the bright light of a lightbulb. 

She doesn’t have her glasses. It’s just the blurry image of a single bulb hanging above her head, a white light glaring into her retinas. Her vision isn’t terrible, but it’s enough that she can’t make out major details. 

It’s dark, wherever she is, with high concrete ceilings, and it smells wet. When she tries to move, she feels something holding her down. 

Her arms are tied; she moved her legs, and sure enough, her legs also tied down. 

Fuck. 

She managed to live in Gotham her whole life without a kidnapping incident. She prided herself on the fact she never faced ransom. Also made a great conversation tool. Just saying. 

Guess her thing was over now. 

She could see it all play out now. Someone sends a ransom to her dad; he sells whatever he can to meet the cost, but he doesn’t meet it. She gets shot in the head. 

“She’s up,” someone barks. Anita manages to lol her head around to see. 

Fucking blondie. The one she tased. 

Her stomach twists. Her heart is going faster than she would like. 

Blondie makes eye contact with her, advancing forward—knife in hand. 

“Made it hard for me Miss Banshir,” he chuckles. How does he know her name? She’s still in her pyjamas—so she probably didn’t have ID on her. 

Unless she’s been sold out. 

“Let me go,” Anita croaks out, head still throbbing. Something itchy is on her face; she crinkles her eyes and feels something crack off. Dried blood. She’s bleeding. 

“Ah ah ah,” Blondie tsks, “no can do. Bossman’s got some things he wants to say to you.” 

Okay, okay, maybe she can get out of this. 

Oh who is she kidding? She’ll be dead the second she’s done answering questions. 

It's a small room, with a single window to her left. She’s in an apartment somewhere. Cardboard boxes scattered in the corners. 

She might be near a harbour. It smells like water. Might be mould or the seaside. 

The door behind Blondie opens, and two more men enter. Carrot-top and another man. Tall, in a nice suit. A black skull mask on her face. 

What. The. Fuck. 

Okay—okay, cool—so she’s been kidnapped by a gang. She’s been kidnapped by the fucking Black Mask. Cool—so great. Just peachy.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. 

“Glad to see you are awake, Miss Banshir.” He adjusts his cufflink, nodding to Blondie, who immediately steps to the side. The door shuts; Carrot-top and Blondie stand guard, both donning knives. 

“What do you want from me?” She swallows, throat dry. 

“The password,” he simply nods. He’s so—calm—it’s unsettling. 

Password? What password? 

He seems to sense Anita’s confusion. “To the hard drive, Miss Banshir. The one you so desperately are looking for.” 

Holy shit. The hard drive. He has it? It’s here? 

A memory pops into her mind. The STAR Labs safety protocol. If a hard drive is plugged into a new device, it needs a password. She always has to re-enter the password and then make a new one every time she has to replace the laptop. 

Fuck—wait. What was the new password? She never remembered it; she kept the new password, always a random string of numbers and letters, written on a sticky note underneath her fake potted plant on her desk. 

“I don’t know.” She inhales sharply. He leans down to her eye level, crowding her. He smells nice, like sandalwood cologne. He smells like her dad. Maybe they use the same cologne. 

As a kid, Anita remembers her dad wearing sandalwood cologne; her mother would buy the same one for him every birthday, every anniversary, and every Father's Day. The same brand every time. “Janus cologne — Sandalwood Heights”. Her father swore by it until the business went out of stock. After that her mother would buy the knock-off stuff. 

She remembers how after her mother died, he stopped wearing the cologne. Think he never had it in him to buy it himself. No matter how much he loved it. 

She should buy him one. Find old merchandise that never sold and get him one last bottle of his favourite scent. 

She’ll put it on her to-do list. 

“I think you’re lying, Miss Banshir.” 

“I’m not.” 

Black Mask rises, tilting his head. 

SMACK. 

He backhands her face. It hurts. The headache shakes through her brain. She feels sick. 

“I don’t like liars, Miss Banshir.” 

Damn it. Even if she could fucking remember the password, she wouldn’t give it up. 

Not if it meant all those lives would be at risk. 

This feels like the trolley problem. That one with the two railroads, one with five people and the other with one. She remembers hearing someone ask what she’d do if she were the lone person on the track. Would she still pull the lever?

Anita never understood why that was even a question. 

Why would that ever be a question? 

Would they believe her if she lied? Would that be enough time for her to think of a way out? Another thought pops into her mind. A better one. The self-destruct code. 

It’ll destroy her research—it’ll set her back months. 

Anita doesn’t care. 

“X, y,” she shudders, managing to lift her head up. Carrot-top immediately pulls out a pen and paper from her pocket, writing, “two, three, b, seven, q, exclamation mark, p, five, five.” she takes a deep breath, feeling another wave of nausea hit from the headache. “e, five, seven, j”

“Now was that so hard?” Black Mask sounds pleased. 

“Should we—” Blondie starts. 

“No,” Black mask turns, opening the door. “I have some other plans for her after this.” 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Anita's mind starts spinning with ideas. He’s gonna make her into a sex-slave or something like in those books, or make her do evil scientist research or—

The door shuts. Carrot-top and Black Mask now gone. Blondie sits back down, an irritated look on his face.

How the hell is she supposed to get out if Blondie is staring daggers at her—while also holding a dagger in hand? 

“Ain’t polite to stare Miss Banshir.” Blondie stands up; a chill goes down her spine. 

He cups her cheek, and Anita tries to flinch away. Blondie just grabs her harder; her face squishes tightly into his hand. “Ain’t polite to flinch either.” 

She tries to speak, but he just grips tighter. 

“Y’know, I meant what I said that day.” He leans down closer, his hot breath fanning across her face. “Pretty little thing like you should really be nicer.” 

His grip loosens ever so slightly so she can speak. 

“Bite me,” she hisses. 

Blondie chuckles, his voice rumbling low. She wants to puke. Her muscles tense. She can’t move. “Oh, I’m planning on it, sweetheart.” His hand forces her head up as his head leans down to her neck, his breath hot against it. She shivers. Should she let this happen? Would she be safer if she gave in? Let the thing that’s happened to every woman in Gotham happen to her too? She bares her teeth, sinking them into his hand. 

He yelps, jumping back and shaking his hand. 

“You little bitch— ” he snarls. 

Oh yeah. Yeah, she’s dead for sure now. 

She stares at him. Trying to look as scary as possible. A bit difficult to do while holding back tears. 

Blondie snarls again, advancing forward, knife at the ready. He grabs her neck this time; Anita feels like all the air in her lungs has disappeared. He presses the side of the knife just under ribs. “A pretty thing like you needs to understand her fucking place.” 

“Your boss will be mad if you kill me,” Anita points out. Her heart thumping harder than her headache. 

“Who said I was gonna kill you?” He tightens the grip on her neck, and she can’t breathe. She hears a noise. Fabric ripping. A stinging pain searing through her. Skin ripping. 

Blondie pulls back the knife, a smooth swipe of blood on it. 

Fucking hell, Anita thinks. Son of a bitch. 

Blondie doesn’t stop squeezing her neck. She can’t breathe. Her head feels light, thumping in her ears. 

When Blondie finally lets go, she feels everything at once. The air filling her lungs, the pain in her side shooting through her like a firework. 

Blondie gruffs, muttering something she can’t understand, and she barely manages to make out him leaving the room. 

She’s alone. All alone. 

Anita lets the tears fall, her head falling back to stare at the ceiling, feeling liquids pour from her. Blood and tears. 

When she was younger, she thought she’d die of alcohol poisoning; when she got older, she assumed it would likely be lung cancer one day, based on the amount of cigarettes she used to inhale. But for a while, she thought to herself. Maybe, just maybe, she’ll die a normal death. One where she falls asleep in a bed surrounded by the family she once dreamed of, in a house with a white picket fence; where she falls asleep and joins those she lost in peace. 

How stupid am I? Anita thinks. Letting her eyes flutter closed. A new thought creeping into her hazy consciousness. The ropes tight around her limbs, the silent tears dripping down her cheeks, blood soaking into her clothes. 

The new thought isn’t loud; it’s quiet, it’s calming. 

This is how she dies.

-xoxo-

She hears the door open. She doesn’t have the energy to open her eyes. Heavy boots pad over. 

“Anita…” The voice is deep, robotic. Where has she heard it before? “No, no, no, no…”

Something touches her arms: leather-clad hands. 

She’s too tired to flinch. 

Something cuts the ropes at her arm, and they don’t dig into her anymore. Then the next, then one at her leg, then her other leg. 

Two hands lift her off the chair easily; they hold her close against a chest. Cradling her. 

“Baby…please…no…” The voice sounds scared. She likes that nickname. Baby. She remembers hearing her dad call her mom that. 

She manages to ever so slightly crack her eyes open; a leather jacket feels soft against her cheek. 

“Please… Anita, baby… Please be alive.” The person lifts her arm with such gentleness, two fingers pressing to her wrist.
There's a quiet whimper from somewhere in the room. 

Anita doesn’t realise it’s her own whimper. 

“Hey… hey m’getting you out of here…” 

She feels movement. The person lifts her up, one of her arms draped across her stomach, the other slack, dangling. Her eyes close again. 

The person is moving, walking, holding her in their arms like a bride. 

“Oh my god…” a new voice says, a more human-sounding one, “ Hood…” 

“Don’t,” the first voice says. “I’m taking her home.” 

Home. 

Yes, home. 

Anita wants to go home. 

In and out of consciousness, she can see in blurry vision a man. Jet-black hair, with a single tuft of white in the front. Piercing green eyes. Kneeling before her. 

He looks so much like Jason. Even if she can’t clearly see him. 

“Nita…” he says softly. 

Anita smiles to herself. 

Because she knows now that she is truly dead.

Chapter Text

I’m happy I’m still alive

I’m happy my life didn’t end with you

Anita's shaking her leg like a crackhead in need of a hit. It’s a miracle the desk under her isn’t shaking. Dr Amo thankfully doesn’t notice the nervous kittering in her body or the sweat collecting at her shirt’s collar. 

The man who could change her whole life is sitting before her, glass reflecting in the light of the office as he reads her credentials. 

Dr Amo has a nice office, clean, with every nook and cranny covered in either books or pictures of his family. It's surprisingly…gothic. Black furniture, black shelves, black stationery. If you looked at Dr Amo, you wouldn’t expect that of him at all. 

“I must say, Miss Banshir, I may say these recommendations are glowing.” 

“Thank you, sir.” She can’t help but blush. When she asked for her professors to write her recommendations, she was sure she’d have to get on her knees and beg. 

It came as a surprise when almost every single one agreed without further prompting. 

“You even have a letter from Professor Nasir. I’m surprised; she isn’t one to hand out recommendations. I assume you took her ethics class.” 

Anita nods. “She really liked one of my essays.” 

“Oh, really?” 

“I wrote my final on how vigilantes fail to tackle the root issues of crime,” Anita says professionally. 

She actually wrote a half-arsed essay about how vigilantes' failure to fix the system and simply beating up bad guys was helpful to no one. She was exhausted, okay? Had just finished writing two finals the day before, then had to write that stupid paper. 

Weirdly, Professor Nasir took a liking to it. 

“Very interesting,” Dr Amo seems impressed, and she instinctively puffs up her chest, sitting a little taller. “It seems vigilantes are a deep-rooted subject for you, considering your project proposal and all.” 

“I think meta-research is grossly underfunded and stigmatised. After everything that has happened with cases like Superboy and the meta-trafficking in South America, no one is willing to go into that research anymore. I believe this project could really jump-start ethical research and tackle root problems involving them.” 

Dr Amo nods, “And you fully believe if you were to have this project funded, you could do it safely and ethically to all extents.” 

Anita doesn’t answer for a moment. “No. No, I don’t think I could.” 

Dr Amo tilts his head, brows quirked.

“I think I would make mistakes, but I think with your guidance and the support from the Meta Centre I could learn how to do it right. Do it safely.” She pauses. “At the end of the day I will never truly understand what happened to metas. But I can at least take a step forward and try and learn.” 

“Good answer,” Dr Amo smiles, “If I’ll be frank with you, I hate hearing candidates say they can do it without any hesitation. It’s unrealistic, like more of their projects.” 

“Glad to know I passed the test.” 

Dr Amo writes something down on her paper. “Now, this is a bit more personal. And feel free to tell me as little or as much as you’d like…” 

Her stomach turns. Does he know the truth? About her high school years? 

“What’s your story?” 

“Pardon?” 

“Your story,” Dr Amo nods, “everyone who goes into fields like these has some kind of story.” 

Anita shifts in her seat again. Her leg is now shaking so fast it’s basically a speedster. 

“I can start.” Dr Amo seems to sense her anxiety. “I grew up in the Deep South. I constantly felt alone. A Black man in the South? A queer one, no less? It was not a good time in my life.” Dr Amo takes off his glasses, cleaning them with his shirt. “It got no better after my father was diagnosed with stage three stomach cancer.” 

“I’m so sorry.” Anita furrows her brows. Is this a test?

“Thank you, but don’t worry, he’s alright now, but yes, it was hard. I felt like I was backed into a corner. No way to help. And then… I found hope in my research, studying the genetic factors that go into the growth of cancer. I couldn’t get cancer out of my dad, and I couldn’t fix the racism I faced. But I could fix a problem. For my family, for the people who hurt me. For everyone. That’s my story.” 

Anita doesn’t know what to say. If she told him the whole truth, she’d be here for hours crying like a baby. She takes a deep breath, feeling the air in her lungs. “I’ve lived in Gotham my whole life; my parents have lived here forever, and I will probably live here forever too. But as luck would have it, the Gotham curse hit my family.” She chews her lip. “My mom passed in a hit and run during one of Joker’s escapades.” 

“I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Banshir.” 

“It was a long time ago, but thank you.” She gives her a weak smile. “A few years later I lost my best friend, also to the touch of the wrath of Gotham.” 

She knows she’s fibbing a bit. But she can’t exactly tell her possible boss her best friend was Robin and got kidnapped by the fucking Joker. Dick had told her what really happened when she finally returned. Right before she chose to go no-contact with the Waynes. 

She sometimes wishes she never asked. 

“After that I was angry. I made bad decision after bad decision. When after a while I realised. Maybe I could do something. I could make sure others’ lives weren’t at risk.”

“Why not medical school then?” 

Because I failed the MCAT twice, man. Anita thinks to herself. “I realised I prefer the research side more.” 

Dr Amo laughs, and her heart drops. She messed up an answer, didn’t she? Or said something stupid. 

That's the problem with these damn academics. They find everything funny. 

“My husband is a medical doctor; he and I always argue about this.” He pushes up his glasses, laughing heartily. 

Anita sighs in relief, “Sounds like quite the dinner topic.” 

“Very much, our son is sick of it.” Dr Amo turns a picture frame to face her. A picture of Dr Amo, his husband and a little boy somewhere in the mountains. 

Her smile turns soft. She imagines her own family in that picture. Her in place of the toothy little boy, her parents standing beside her. All but a dream. A good one. 

The grief sits with her every day. Like a weight tied to her leg. Every day she walks with it, dragging it along. 

For a long time Anita thought the weight would go away one day, that one day the chain of the weight would break and she’d be free. 

She thought the life she ran to would take it away. 

But now? After so long? After years of being clean, of being sober, she realises she was wrong. 

The weight of her grief will never go away. She will forever hold the pain of her mother and her best friend. But now, now she knows how to carry it; her legs are stronger and are able to run despite the chains at her feet. 

She knows she can never go back to normal, but eventually it does become normal.

A timer on Dr Amo’s phone buzzes. They're out of interview time. 

“It was a pleasure speaking with you today, Miss Banshir. I think you’ve done quite well; this is a hard programme to get to.” 

He’s gearing her up for rejection, isn’t he? Anita rises, shaking his hand. “Thank you for even giving me the opportunity, Dr Amo.”

He nods, and as she grabs her bag and heads to the door, he calls out one last time. 

“Miss Banshir?” 

“Yes?”

“On the day of the selection event, please make sure to wear something formal,” he winks. Her heart swells, and she nods, shutting the door as she leaves. 

She bolts down the hall and out the doors of the university building, alreadly calling her dad. 

“Hey kiddo, what’s up?” 

“I think I got it.” She’s grinning ear to ear, pacing around, practically jittering. 

"Yeah?! Oh my god, Anita—kiddo, that’s amazing.” 

“I know, I know, I know! It’s not confirmed, but—oh my god, Dad, he told me to wear formal clothes to the ceremony! Oh my god—” She is bouncing, and a passerby is giving her a look. She doesn’t care. 

She’s building her life. She’s going to school. She thinks back to the sixteen-year-old her, how she thought her life was over. She thinks back to her twenty-year-old self, cramming for exams and wondering if it was worth it. 

She thinks back to the little girl whose mom died. She wonders, would that little girl be proud? Proud to know she’s still going? Still living? Even after everything? 

Her life isn’t over. No. No god no. 

It’s only just begun. 

Jason is perched on a roof, waiting for a bounty to exit a building. 

He’s only just returned to Gotham. Dead set on simply existing as the Red Hood. Not as Jason Todd. 

He looks down at one of the nearby campus buildings, a young woman. Brown skin, a short bob and round-rimmed glasses. She is bouncing up and down on the phone, giggling. 

He can’t get a good look at her, but from where he’s perched, he can tell she’s excited. 

A single thought enters his mind. 

Cute. 

He sees his bounty exit a building. 

The thought passes.

Chapter Text

…

I love you.

It’s staring at him. 

The reveal isn’t grand. It isn’t some shocking thing. He almost wished it was. Something Anita would reveal all on her own. Something they sit with together. 

Instead, he has to see it like this. By pulling the shirt off of her unconscious body, cleaning the knife would cut at her ribs, almost dropping the supplies at the sight of it. 

He swears it’s staring at him. Almost mocking him. Reminding him of everything he’s lost. 

A tattoo. It’s small, on her bottom ribs. In poor handwriting: ‘- JT’. 

His signature—where the hell did she get that signature from? And tattooed on her skin—

She wasn’t supposed to be there—why the hell was Anita there? Tied up and beaten—he felt like his world was collapsing the second he saw her. She looked so small—so scared. 

Tied into that chair, dried blood on her face and blood soaking through her shirt. He felt like time had stopped. Jason found her purely out of luck. He went for the hard drive and decided to look around to see if he could find some other contraband. 

What if he hadn’t found her? What if he had decided to just take the hard drive and leave? She’d still be there—she’d still be dying in that shitty apartment—she’d be dead.

Jason finishes wrapping the bandage, resting back on his heels as he stares at her. Her glasses are missing, and she’s wearing green pyjama pants and a matching shirt now in shreds on the floor. 

Jason feels wrong to leave her shirtless. He feels embarrassed. So he quietly gets up and tiptoes to the dresser where he keeps spare clothes. 

He brought her to one of his safe houses. The one where he knows is stocked up on medical supplies and food. 

He takes out one of his old Gotham Knights t-shirts—it should fit her. He stalks back over to the couch, trying to be as gentle as possible as he manoeuvres her arms up, pulling the shirt over her. 

It's big for her—of course it is; he stretched it out after he came back.

A selfish thought passes his mind, and his face grows warm. He likes the sight of her in his shirt. A little too much. 

He shakes his head, forcing the thought to disappear. How could he think that? She’s lying here beaten and bloody, and all he can think about is how much he likes her in his shirt? 

Creep. 

But his eyes never look away, mapping her face; her hair is unbrushed—when she wakes up he should probably find a hairbrush from somewhere. She looks so… soft. The harsh glares and frowns he’s seen since he remet her are completely gone. 

She looks like Anita again. His Anita. 

His eyes fall down to her neck, and his muscles tense. 

Markings. Red and fresh, threatening to turn purple and blue at any moment. 

Someone choked her. 

Someone fucking choked her. 

He clenches his fists, knuckles going white. 

One of those fucking bastards put their hands on her. On his Anita. 

He rises to his feet. No plan, no nothing. He’s gonna hurt some fucking people. 

Someone put their hands on her. 

He was going to put his hands on them. 

His breathing is sharp. He doesn’t like that his brain is conjuring the image. Of a random man's hand holding her neck, the fear in her face, gasping for air. He hates it. He hates that his brain is making him suffer more. Jason is about to walk out. To head straight to the police station and to the holding cell, to beat the fucking hell out of them all and shoot point blank. 

A soft nose. A whimper. Anita's head to the side. Eyelids fluttering just a bit. He falls to his knees faster than he can think. The anger draining out of him. 

Jason winces hearing her pain. It’s the worst sound he’s ever heard. He can shove as many painkillers down her throat, but the pain won’t go away. 

Someone hurt her. And he can’t do anything about it. 

“Nita…” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead. She doesn’t stir again. Just lying there. 

Jason needs to tell her. 

How can he, though? 

-xoxo-

Hours pass, and Jason doesn’t move from his spot. Sitting on the floor, legs tucked under the coffee table and back against the couch. His head slumped back, listening to her breath. Listening for the slightest discomfort. Another sound, her breath catching. She’s waking. He scrambles for his helmet, quickly clicking it on. She shifts on the couch, groaning. 

“Hey…” Jason whispers, kneeling again. 

She groans again, slowly squinting her eyes open. Then she snaps awake, jolting up before yelping in pain. 

“Hey—hey, you’re okay—lay back down, you’re gonna hurt yourself—” Jason reaches his hand out before stopping himself. Right. He’s Red Hood right now. Red Hood doesn’t touch. 

“Son of a bitch—” Anita hisses, laying back down, “the hell…” 

“You’re at a safehouse—don’t worry.” 

She blinks, squinting—right, she doesn’t have her glasses on. 

“Mr Hood?” she murmurs. 

“Mr Hood was my father,” he can’t help but joke. 

“What the hell…” She looks down at her clothes. “this isn’t my shirt…” 

“Yeah.” Jason rests on his heels. 

Her cheeks go pink. 

Cute. 

His face goes warm. Thank god she can’t see it. “Not—not like that—I closed my eyes, I swear—” 

Liar, liar, pants on fire. Jason. He hears a voice in his head. You saw everything. 

“I—I need to go—” Anita tries to get up again, this time fully managing to sit up. 

“Be careful—you’re going to break your stitches.” Jason manages to actually rest a hand on her shoulder. She stops moving. “I worked hard on those, man.” 

Anita doesn’t answer, just staring at her hands. 

“I found you while on a mission,” Jason says softly, hoping she can understand his tone despite the voice changer. “You’re safe now, Anita. But you need to rest.”

She takes a deep breath. He knows this—she’s trying not to cry. 

Please. Please don’t cry. 

“I dealt with them. Those men.” 

Still no answer. 

“Anita…please…say something.” Now he’s fighting the urge to cry. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and her heart aches. 

“Don’t say thank you,” 

“You asked me to say something, so I said thank you.” She doesn’t sound angry or irritated. 

Jason looks down at the ground. He feels like a dog bowing his head in shame. 

Why he is in shame? 'God, there could be a million different reasons,' he could say. Jason reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small silver object. The hard drive. 

“I managed to get this for you.” He sets the hard drive in his lap. It’s scuffed and covered in dirt. 

She picks it up, running her fingers over it, a small smile flickering on her lips. “Thank you,” she murmurs. 

“They hadn’t accessed it yet. I caught them right as they were putting in the password.” 

Her head snaps up at that, eyes wide. “What?” 

“What what?” Jason tilts his head. 

“They didn’t put in the password?” 

“No?”

She lights up. Leaping forward, dropping the hard drive on the couch. She’s hugging him. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Jason doesn’t know what to do; his arms hover before slowly wrapping around her back, careful of the bandages. She’s so warm. He can smell her body wash—some kind of citrus—and he feels intoxicated. 

What is he doing? 

He pries her away. 

What the hell is he doing? Hugging her? This isn’t right—she doesn’t even know the truth, and he’s indulging himself—he feels like a horrible person. 

“Hood?” 

He tenses. That’s not his name. 

Jason. Jason. Jason. Tell her you're Jason, damn it. 

“I’m sorry I—” 

“Fuck—fuck. I’m sorry—I—I overreacted.” She winces as she pulls away, not in pain, but in embarrassment. 

“No—no, that’s not it—I—it’s just—” Where is he supposed to start? 

She furrows her brows. “What the hell are you talking about, man?” 

“I need to tell you something.” He helps her sit on the couch, kneeling before her. 

“Tell me what?” She shifts in place. Her gaze is unnerving. All his senses are on the fritz. 

Tell her. Tell her. Tell her, damn it, tell her. 

He reaches up to the button behind his helmet. “I haven’t been truthful to you, Anita.” 

She immediately smacks her hands over her eyes. “the hell are you doing—” 

“What do you mean, ‘What am I doing?’ What do you think I’m doing?” he almost scoffs. 

“Isn’t it like vigilante rule number one to not reveal identities?” she scoffs. 

This woman.

“Anita. Please. Can you just trust me?” 

She doesn’t answer, but her hands slowly pry away, swallowing. 

Jason takes a deep breath. Pressing the button. The hydraulics hiss. 

“I…” He lifts the helmet. Not daring to look at her. 

What will she say?

“You’re that creep from the burger place—” 

Okay, he wasn’t expecting that. 

He looks up, and her eyes are full of fear. Fuck right—she doesn’t have her glasses. 

“I—yes—no—Anita—” 

“Get away from me—” she scrambles back further into the couch, eyes widening in fear. 

"It’s me! Jason!” he blurts out. Fuck. He was supposed to go slower.

Anita's gripping the fabric of the couch, eyes darting around his face. Jason feels nervous under her gaze. 

“No—no—” 

“Nita—” 

“No—” she all but jumps off the couch, backing away. She’s shaking. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

“Anita…” 

“No—no, you’re dead—I—I saw your casket—I saw you in there…” 

“Anita…” He rises to his feet, hunching over so as to seem less scary. 

“You bitch! ” 

Okay, yeah, he really wasn’t expecting that. 

“You—you fucker! You’re supposed to be dead! Dead!” The tears drip down. 

No. No, don’t cry, Anita. 

“I know—I know.” Jason steps forward; she takes one back, hitting the table.

“Stay away—whatever you are—Jason’s dead!” He inhales sharply. Every word is a punch to the gut. 

“Nita—Nita, it’s me—it’s really me okay? I was revived—" He steps closer; Anita doesn’t move. 

“Liar!” She grabs something from the table—a plastic glass—throwing it at him. He dodges, and it clatters to the floor.

“I’m not lying—Anita, I swear to you.” Jason raises his hands up in surrender, inching closer and closer. 

“No—no—Jason's dead— you’re dead—” She shakes her head, big fat tears falling down her face as she holds herself. “You—you died—he killed you—he killed you, and I saw your body,” she rambles. 

He keeps stepping closer till he’s right in infront of her. Enveloping her in his arms. 

“You’re dead—you’re dead, you’re dead, you’re dead!” She sobs, still holding herself. 

“No, I’m not,” Jason murmurs in her ear. “I’m right here.”  

“You—you liar—you fraud, you—you—” She chokes for air; Jason's hand rubs his back soothingly. 

“I am, Nita, I am,” he murmurs, his own tears threatening to fall. “I’m so sorry, Nita. I am so, so sorry.” 

Her head tilts up, and Jason looks down at her. It physically hurts to see her like this. Anita’s hand reaches up, touching his cheek. Jason flinches but doesn’t move away, revelling in her warmth. Her hand cups his face, and her thumb rubs over the J scar on his cheek.

“Your eyes are green,” she murmurs through uneven breaths. A question or a statement, Jason doesn’t know. 

“They are.” 

“They used to be blue,” 

“They were,” 

“I should’ve told you…” Her bottom lip quivers. 

Jason’s brows pinch to the centre slightly. “Tell me what, Anita?” 

“That I liked it—” she inhales sharply, “that night I liked it—and—and I pushed you away and—” 

“Anita.” 

“—and I felt the same way. But I never told you and then you—" 

“Anita,” Jason whispers again. This feels familiar. He almost smiles. 

“And then you—and I—” 

Jason leans down, not a lot; Anita is still as tall as ever, pressing his lips to hers. She gasps, and for a moment Jason thinks he's done something wrong until she leans in. His grip on his cheek tightened every so slightly. 

It’s everything he’s wanted, everything he didn’t know he missed. 

Jason steadies his hand on the table on each of her sides, pressing into her. Anita leans against the table before Jason helps her sit. It’s soft. Aching. Everything he wants to tell her is almost pouring out of him into this kiss. 

“I missed you,” Jason murmurs against her lips, not wanting to part from them. He feels like a man starved, craving the touch of a woman, his woman. 

That tattoo on her ribs is enough to prove it. 

Her breath is still shaky; that’s fine, he’ll give her all his oxygen if that’s what she needs. Jason runs his tongue over her bottom lip; it’s dry and cracked. 

“Is this a dream?” She murmurs back, almost not hearing him. 

“No, baby, this isn’t a dream" Jason pulls back ever so slightly, her breath warm against his face. 

“Good,” she whispers, her open hand trailing to card the hair at the nape of his neck. 

He doesn’t feel sixteen again. 

He feels twenty-three and kissing the love of his life. 

In a shitty safehouse. 

After almost losing her. 

Never again. Never, ever, again. 

Hours pass, and the two are asleep on the couch.

Jason lying on the couch, head resting against the armrest, with Anita on top of him, curled into his arms. 

It’s the softest sight. 

The door to the safehouse opens. Dick has a spare key. When he sees the sight, a smile creeps onto his face. He sees two kids again. Sleeping in each other's arms, not a care in the world. 

He quietly snaps a picture and then shuts the door. 

It’s getting better. 

His family is getting better. 

Chapter Text

…

Thank you for having been in my life. 

Jason's still staring at himself in the mirror, his suit jacket sitting on the bed, tie in a mess around his neck. 

He looks stupid. 

Pathetic, really. 

Grown man, can’t even tie his own tie. 

The door opens. Bruce. 

Jason's in his old room at the manor; he needed a suit, and Alfred only agreed to get the task done if Jason agreed to get ready at the manor alongside everyone else. 

He’s a bit surprised everyone wants to go with him. 

“Need help?” 

Jason wants to say no. wants to tell Bruce to fuck off and he can do it himself. 

“Yeah.” Jason mumbles. Bruce enters, shutting the door, walking over. “We better be going soon; she’ll be upset if we’re late.” He says, undoing the mess of a knot at Jason's neck. 

Yeah. The old man is right. 

She’ll be really upset if they’re late. Jason really doesn’t want to see her angry. 

Anita's scary when she's angry. 

Bruce starts adjusting the tie, going about the steps, “She’s a good girl, Jason. I’m glad you picked her.” 

“If we’re being honest, she picked me.” 

Bruce chuckles, “Her mother and I always had a suspicion, you know, much to Mr Banshir’s annoyance.” 

“What?” Jason furrows his brows. 

“From the day you met, she had a suspicion the two of you would be together forever,” Bruce starts looping the tie around. “It took me a little while longer to agree.” 

“Now you’re just making shit up.” Jason rolls his eyes. 

“I’m not.” Bruce simply shakes his head. “Her mother and I had a bet going about when you two would finally get your act together.” 

“You’re kidding.” 

“Nope. Her father hated it.” 

“He never liked me.” 

“Maybe, but her mother certainly did.” Bruce finishes tying the tie. “She always said she was happy her daughter had a friend like you.” 

Jason shifts the weight on his feet, uncomfortable. He’s not used to this, having Bruce reminisce about the old days, at least not anymore. It feels weird. To have someone ‘dad’ him like this. 

“Don’t break her heart, Jason; she deserves better than that.” 

“Never, old man, not until I’m dead.” 

Bruce smiles, not his picture-perfect Wayne smile. A soft one, the one he used to give Jason when Jason was a kid. He doesn’t know how he feels about it. 

Now isn’t the time to care. 

“Finish getting ready; I’ll be outside with the others.” 

“Who’s coming?” 

“Dick, Alfred, Babs, Tim, Damian, Steph, Cass, Duke—everyone.” Bruce nods, heading for the door. 

“Great, just great.” 

“They all adore her, Jason; of course they would come.” 

With that Bruce closes the door, leaving Jason to his silence again.

He stares at himself in the mirror. He shouldn’t go. He’ll draw attention away from her with all his scars and his size. He shouldn’t go. He should leave. Jason doesn’t deserve her. Not after everything—she deserves way better than him—his phone pings. 

Nita: Doing final prep!!

Nita: Can’t wait to see you! Mwah mwah. 

Jason can’t help but snort. 

This woman. He thinks. Quickly shutting his phone and looking at himself again. He can do this. She wants him. Jason looks down at the dresser. A small box he recognises from when he was young. 

He lifts open the lid, with the silver watch Alfred gifted him sitting inside it. He remembers it being far too big for him. Jason slides it on, clicking the clasp, and sure enough—it fits. 

“Damn cryptic,” Jason mutters, a smile on his face. He looks at himself one more time. His hair is styled as best he can despite its perpetual helmet hair. Freshly shaved and bathed. 

He can do this. 

He grabs his suit jacket and leaves the room for the living room, where everyone is. 

He can do this. 

-xoxo-

They make it just in time, shuffling towards the back. The auditorium is large. A projector on the stage, a panel of judges seated in front. Jason quickly shoots Anita a text before the event begins. 

Jason: in the back row, good luck, baby <3

Nita: omg okay, tyty, I’m act gonna piss myself rn

Jason: You’ll do amazing dw. 

“Welcome to the Genetics Programme examination defence,” a man says from the stage, Dr Amo. “Today we will be watching one of my students present their overarching projects.” 

The hall is filled with a lot of people: family, friends, students planning to apply next year, some random undergrads, the whole lot, and even some possible benefactors if the projects take off. 

Dozens of people. Jason hasn’t been in a crowd like this in a while. Tim and Bruce claim they’re attending as possible benefactors; well, Bruce is claiming that. Tim’s sitting beside Jason with a pen and paper—he might actually be here as a benefactor. 

“Over the past year and a half these students have been working tirelessly to get their projects running and possibly change the future. This defence will determine whether they pass. No matter what, I am proud of each and every one of my students,” Dr Amo smiles. “welcome to the stage, Anita Banshir.” 

Dr Amo sits back down, and Jason straightens in his seat. Anita enters the stage, her hair clipped back in a nice white blouse and black skirt. 

Fuck. She looks so pretty. Jason thinks to himself. 

She shifts on stage, adjusting her blouse, tapping the mic strapped to her face, “testing one two”. 

Someone at the panel gives her a thumbs up, and she takes a breath, clicking the device in her head. The projector coming to life with a presentation. 

“Welcome all, today I would like to talk to you about my thesis project. Project Zareen.” She smiles, walking around the stage. “Named after my mother, Project Zareen is a new computerised data system I’ve developed and researched. Currently, it is almost impossible to figure out if a child is a Meta Human until they are much older. This has led to dangers such as teens at higher risk for trafficking, parents being unable to care for their powers, and stigmatisation in communities.” 

Anita's dad is in the row in infront of Jason; Jason can already see him tearing up. Jason swallows, his grip tightening on the bouquet in his hands. 

“This is a problem. And it will continue to be a problem for all of time. But we can take the next step. I am taking the next step.” She clicks to the next slide. “After interviewing and taking stem samples from over two hundred anonymous meta-humans, I was able to sequence their major genetic strands. Using this…” She keeps talking, but Jason doesn’t understand. 

All he can see is her, the way she walks on stage, gesturing with her hands, smiling. He’s mesmerised. 

Jesus, that woman is a genius. And she just keeps going. Using words he can barely understand, terms flying over his head. 

“As you can see the program required a heavy amount of data usage, but when running through the code the computer found similarities in deformations in strands…” 

“Todd, you’re drooling,” Damian whispers. Jason blinks, instinctively going to wipe his mouth to find nothing there. 

“Shut up, brat,” he hisses quietly. 

“C’mon, Dami, let the poor boy google at his girlfriend,” Steph snickers, on Damian’s other side, tossing popcorn into her mouth—where the hell did she get popcorn from?  

“I’m not drooling—or oogling,” 

“We are,” Steph snickers, Cass beside her, signing a yes, “your girlfriend’s hot, Jason.”

Jason huffs, slumping back in his chair. 

Idiots. All of them. 

“When considering this information, we can see the major strand D-35 is likely a major cause of meta manifestation,” her voice snaps him back to the presentation. Graphs and diagrams filling the screen. 

Moments like this make him wish he had a chance to finish high school. To understand what she’s talking about. Is this how she used to feel? When he’s going on and on about books she’d never heard of?

As the presentation continues, it eventually falls to the timeline section, the panel asking her questions alongside. 

“It’s noted you had a breach of data during stage two of the project?” 

“Yes, sir,” Anita nods. “During that time there was a break-in at the lab; the hard drive with the personal files was stolen. It was eventually returned without any leaks.” 

“And in this time your life was also put at risk?” An older panellist tilts his head. Jason recognises him; Anita kept talking about how one of the panellists was an anti-meta. “Do you truly believe that risk was worth it?” 

“Yes, sir.” Anita nods, not even reacting, “I almost lost my life, but I would do it again in a heartbeat. This research is important. And I’d have given my life without any doubt to protect it.” 

The panellist mutters, writing down in his notepad. Anita takes a deep breath, continuing to answer panellist questions. 

It concerns him a little bit how willing she is to give up her life like that—but that's Anita for you. 

Jason's sweating through his clothes. She needs this. She needs to pass. 

The panellists end the questions, muttering to themselves. Anita looks up, searching the crowd. She’s not looking for him. She’s looking for her dad. 

Weirdly, he’s happy she is. Anita finally spots her dad and smiles, her eyes then flicking up to see Jason. He gives a small wave.

Dr Amo rises from the panellist board, clipboard in hand. 

“After careful consideration into your project, its mishaps, and the financial expenditure list you submitted,” Dr. Amo sets down his clipboard, “we find that your project has passed its defense; you now are a master of genetic sciences. Congratulations, Miss Banshir.” 

The people in the seats applaud. Jason's up and standing the second he hears the word "congratulations." Anita walks down the stage, shaking the panelists' hands. Jason is wiggling out of the row and down the aisle. When she’s done, she looks up grinning, running to him. 

Jason catches her, spinning her around like a princess. 

“I passed! I passed!” She cheers. 

“You did! You passed!” Jason grins, kissing her cheek, “I knew you would.” 

“Liar.” Damian appears beside them, arms crossed. “He had two different cakes prepped at the manor.” 

“Shut up, brat.” Jason's cheeks go red. 

Can’t keep any secrets in this family. 

Anita just laughs, tapping Jason’s shoulder so he sets her down, ruffling Damian’s hair, “Thank you, my informant.” Damian swats her hand away, his cheeks flushing a bit. 

“Shoo,” Jason flails his hand trying to get Damian to leave; he simply tsks and walks off. 

Anita laughs, “be nice to your brother.” 

“I am being nice.” He turns his attention back to the woman standing before him. 

God, he’s a lucky man to have this girl look at him with such love in her eyes. She doesn’t see a monster; she sees Jason. 

“For you,” he hands her the bouquet of freesias. 

“I love them.” 

I love you. Jason thinks. 

Jason feels at peace, with the people walking past down the aisle and his family chatting away with her dad. It’s not important. None of it is. He doesn’t think of Red Hood, or of Batman, or of Joker or Robin. 

He doesn’t think anything except for a single thing. 

A single word. 

Anita. 

I think you’d be proud of me. 

If you saw how far I’ve come. I promised to keep our pact. The pact that we’d keep going, no matter who left first. 

I kept it. I kept it because one day when I see you again, I’m going to smile, and I’m going to tell you of my adventures and of my struggles. 

I’m going to tell you. 

Tell you that my life didn’t end with you.

Chapter Text

Helloo!

So as you all know, I’m Veena (no my name is not Anita Banshir, much to popular belief). 

Anita Banshir is a name I just made up that stuck with me haha. 

So I got a couple questions in my email (if you have more feel free to email or chat at [email protected] !)  I would like to answer (plus a little note about writing this story) 

Why did Anita go into Science??? Didn’t Jason say she’s likely go into arts? 

Why yes, that is correct. When Anita was younger she did dream of going into arts. But as we all do, we grow up, she realized maybe science was a better fit if she wanted to get her life back around. I also like to believe she lost her spark for the arts after everything that happened. 

What happened w Anitas and her dads relationship?

Well I mean, if YOU ran away from home for six months and your dad didn’t report for it like three months that would def break some bridges

Lowkey, LOWKEY, who's the top? 

How dare you—defiling my characters like that you little—

Anitas the top when they make out and Jason *thinks* he’s the top when they smash

Are you SURE your name isn’t act Anita?

No lmao. My name is NOT Anita. It’s Veena (like the instrument look it up), I got the name from BehindTheName TvT

Though I’d lowkey loved to be named Anita it’s such a pretty name

Anyway, so I did actually write this story with something in mind. I wrote it to sort of let out my grief. I, just like Anita, lost my best friend. 

To violence no less. 

It was really hard, since at the time no one had actually told me the truth, no one had actually told me what killed her, and I found out myself and well—yeah it wasn’t great. 

I’ve loved DC since I was a little kid so when I got older and learned about Jason Todd—yeah I definitely didn’t latch onto it. I wrote it as a means to build a story and show off my writing—while also simultaneously having an abyss to spew my grief. 

Yeah, grief sucks. It never gets better. Grief turns into guilt which turns into pain. It really is sore muscles, and it really is a chain and ball you must carry forever. 

It never does get better—whoever sugarcoated it to me was a liar and I hope their pillow is warm. 

I wanted the story to be less about action and hero stuff and more about growing up. I do admit I took aspects of my life as chapters for Anita (Sore Muscles and Journals to be specific). S you likely noticed. I write two sentence at the beginning of the chapter. Although they do relate to the chapter (mostly) they’re more like things I wish could have said to my best friend. It me writing to her. 

I thank you, for reading Anita, whether it be for the plot, Jason Todd, or being invested in my grief. 

Lots of love, 

Xoxo Veena