Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows. Everything that's wonderful is what I feel when we're together…"

Danny hummed to himself, the saccharine melody a stark contrast to the grimy brick walls of the Gotham alley. The sour tang of garbage and ozone from his own fried core warred along with the thick, metallic scent of blood filled the air. His hands slick with something he refused to identify, shook as he fought with the torn black trash bag, trying to fashion it into a makeshift bandage over his ruined torso. He was shirtless, barely conscious and the cold night air was a biting contrast to the feverish heat radiating from his own skin. He was glad that he at least still had his shredded jeans left almost intact, or as intact as being completely drenched in blood could be.

The old song was stuck in his head, he didn't even know why. He’d heard it once, on a rare, disastrous family trip, forced to listen to his mom’s "Peppy Pops" radio station. It felt like a lifetime ago. Now, the relentless cheer felt like a shield, a mantra to keep the screaming pain in his gut from pulling him under.

Just stay positive. Stay positive. It's just a little… disembowelment. A flesh wound… a very, very deep flesh wound. With… a lot of missing flesh. A temporary inconvenience. Really… Yeah, just that…

"Brighter than a lucky penny," he whispered, voice cracking as he pulled the plastic tight. The movement sent a fresh, lightning bolt of nauseating agony from his sternum down to his hips, hot and sharp, extending to his entire body, making his vision swim. "When you're near the rain goes, disappears, dear…"

The plastic was flimsy, already tearing at the edges. It was a pathetic attempt at first aid, but his ghostly healing had been completely overwhelmed by the damage, focused entirely on keeping him conscious instead of fixing the hole in his torso. He just needed to hold everything in. Long enough to find a quiet, dark corner to… ‘to what? Heal? Sleep? Fade?’ He wasn't sure anymore.

"And I feel so fine," he crooned, pressing his arms tight against the makeshift bandage, feeling a warm, terrifying dampness instantly pool inside the plastic. "Just to know that you are mine…"

The rest of the lyrics were lost to the sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps. A mountain of a man clad in black leather and a stark red helmet knelt in front of him, blocking out the sickly yellow glow of a distant streetlamp. Danny looked up, his world tilting on its axis.

"You look like shit, man." The voice from the helmet was mechanically distorted, but the dry tone was clear. The man’s head tilted. "Can you tell me why you are trying to dress up as a trash can?"

Danny blinked slowly, the adrenaline high finally, blessedly, beginning to ebb. The pain was becoming a distant, roaring thing. Peaceful, almost.

He met the blank gaze of the helmet, his own eyes wide and unnervingly calm. "My organs fell out…" he stated, his voice disturbingly even. He gestured weakly with a crimson-coated hand toward the ruin of his midsection. "Don't have skin anymore."

He saw the man's posture stiffen. The helmet shifted minutely, probably looking at the dark, glittering stains on the ground and soaking Danny's ruined jeans. Danny didn't hear what else the man said. A high-pitched whine filled his ears, and the alley floor rushed up to meet him as darkness swallowed his vision.

…My life is sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows…

Jason Todd, the Red Hood, stared at the unconscious, shirtless kid. The kid's own hands were still pressed against a wound that was… extensive. He said that his organs fell out and that he had no skin. That horrifying description was, Jason saw with a sinking feeling, not an exaggeration.

This was a level of trauma he associated with high-caliber explosives or industrial accidents. Not a back-alley mugging.

"Fuck," Jason breathed out, holstering his gun. He’d seen a lot of fucked-up things in Gotham. This was a new level of blunt, horrific kind of nightmare. The flimsy trash bag he’d been trying to tie around his middle was already failing, saturated with crimson in the center.

He moved quickly, not bothering with the useless trash bag. He ripped open a sealed QuikClot gauze from his own kit, his movements efficient and practiced. As he applied pressure, he tapped his comm. A public hospital was out of the question. An unidentified kid with injuries this severe? He’d be a John Doe in the morgue by morning, or worse, end up in a basement lab for some two-bit organ leech or Blackgate surgeon.

"Oracle. Patch me to Nightwing. Emergency medical evac, my location now. Catastrophic abdominal trauma, male, late teens. Unidentified."

"On it, Hood. I'm running a facial recognition match in the system. But so far there's nothing."

"So we got a John Doe who sings show tunes," Jason muttered under his breath, securing the gauze as best he could. The kid was ice-cold, deep in shock. He was remarkably light as Jason slid an arm under his knees and shoulders, lifting him with care he rarely had to employ.

There was a click. "Jason? What's—"

"No time for chit-chat, Goldie. I need a discreet evac to Leslie's. Now."

"What happened?" Dick's voice was instantly serious, all levity gone.

"I've got a kid. Catastrophic abdominal trauma. No ID. Gotham General will sign his death certificate. He needs to be taken to Leslie if we hope to save him. So move fast, Dickbird!"

The sound of a powerful engine roaring to life echoed faintly through the comm. "Sending you my location. ETA two minutes."

True to his word, the sleek, black form of the Batmobile slid silently to the mouth of the alley barely over two minutes later. The canopy hissed open and Nightwing emerged, his usual acrobatic grace replaced with urgency. He took one look at the kid and the blood-soaked gauze and moved to help Jason lift him.

"Easy with him," Jason grunted, though his own hands were surprisingly careful as they laid the kid across the back seats.

As they settled him, the kid’s head lolled. A faint, breathy sigh escaped his pale lips, followed by a whisper so soft only Jason's enhanced audio picked it up.

"…stay positive…"

A harsh, disbelieving bark of laughter escaped Jason's throat. "You're a real piece of work, kid”

Nightwing paused, his hand on a stabilizing strap, and shot Jason a look of pure, unadulterated confusion.

Jason just shook his head, sliding into the passenger seat as Dick took the wheel. "Don't ask. Just drive."

The Batmobile peeled away into the night, not towards the flashing lights and bureaucratic nightmares of a public hospital, but toward the dim, safe haven of Leslie Thompkins' clinic. Jason glanced back at the bleeding, anonymous teenager—a kid who should be dead, but who instead chose to sing. He was a walking mystery, and Jason was going to make damn sure he lived long enough to explain himself. 

The Batmobile was a silent, black arrow cutting through the cancerous glow of Gotham’s heart. Inside, the only sounds were the low hum of the engine and the ragged, wet breathing of the kid in the back.

Jason kept a hand pressed firmly over the QuikClot gauze, feeling the slow, terrifying seep of blood against his palm. He’d seen men bleed out from less. This kid should have been a corpse ten times over.

“Hood” Dick said, his voice tight as he navigated the streets with preternatural skill. “Report. What happened? Who did this?”

“Found him in an alley off the Bowery. Didn’t see anyone else. He was… conscious. Talking.” Jason’s voice was a low grumble.

“Talking? What did he say?”

“Told me his organs fell out and he didn’t have skin anymore.” Jason didn’t take his eyes off the kid’s ashen face. “Then he passed out. Oh, and he was humming. Some old, happy crap. ‘Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows’.”

Dick risked a quick glance over his shoulder, his domino mask doing little to hide his disbelief. “He was humming? With… that?”

“Like I said. A real piece of work.”

They screeched to a halt in a concealed bay near the clinic. In moments, they had the kid in their arms and were moving through a discreet side entrance, where Leslie Thompkins was already waiting, her face a mask of grim readiness.

Her sharp, professional eyes took in the scene in an instant: the two vigilantes, the unknown boy, the worrisome amount of blood seeping through Hood's fingers and drenching kid’s jeans. “Get him on the table. Now.”

The transfer was a blur of controlled chaos. Jason found himself relegated to the corner, his arms crossed, watching as Leslie and her nurse cut away the ruined gauze. The full, brutal extent of the injury was laid bare under the bright surgical lights. It was just as bad as he’d feared—a deep, jagged tear that seemed less like a blade and more like something had clawed him open. It was a miracle, no, an impossibility, that he’d been lucid.

Leslie worked with quiet, desperate efficiency. “His blood pressure is crashing. I need O-negative and hemostatics, now! I don’t understand… he shouldn’t have been able to speak.”

“He was very clear about it,” Jason muttered from his corner.

For the next hour, the world narrowed to the small, tense operating room. Dick stood by the door, while Jason remained rooted in place like a statue of leather and Kevlar. He told himself it was just because of the mystery. A kid this tough, this bizarre, was a variable. An unknown. Batman hated unknowns. That was the only reason he was so invested. Yeah, just that, didn’t have anything to do with the blooming awe and wonder of the kid's resilience, or impossible positivity. No sire…

Finally, Leslie stepped back, pulling off her bloody gloves. She looked exhausted, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes—incredulity.

“He’s stable,” she said, the words hanging in the sterile air. “It’s… tentative. He’s lost a tremendous amount of blood, and the tissue damage is extensive. But his vitals are holding. For now.”

“Will he make it?” Dick asked, his voice soft.

“Medically? No. He should be dead.” Leslie shook her head, turning to look at the boy on the table, now swathed in clean bandages. “His body… it’s like it’s clinging to life with a sheer, irrational force of will. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s as if his cells are refusing to die.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed. Irrational force of will. That tracked with the kid who sang fucking Rainbows while holding his guts in.

“No ID?” Leslie asked.

“Nothing,” Dick confirmed. “Oracle can’t find a match. He’s a ghost.”

A weak, thready voice cut through the quiet from the table.

“…prefer the term ‘ecto-contested’…”

Three heads snapped toward the gurney. The kid’s eyes were open to slits, glazed with pain and drugs, but undeniably aware. He was looking directly at Jason.

A slow, pained smirk tugged at his bloodless lips. “Did I… kill the vibe?”

Jason stared, utterly dumbfounded. Then, he started to laugh. It wasn't a harsh bark this time, but a genuine, bewildered chuckle that shook his shoulders. He walked over to the side of the gurney, looking down at the impossible, infuriating, cheerful mess of a human being.

“You,” Jason said, pointing a finger at him, “are the craziest son of a bitch I have ever met.”

Danny’s eyes fluttered closed again, the smirk softening into a faint, peaceful smile. The heart monitor continued its steady, stubborn beep.

“…sunshine and rainbows…” he mumbled, drifting back into unconsciousness.

Jason shook his head, the ghost of a laugh still on his face. He looked from Dick’s stunned expression to Leslie’s professional bewilderment. The mystery had just gotten a lot deeper, and a hell of a lot weirder. And Jason Todd was now officially, irrevocably, invested.

The next 48 hours settled into a strange, new rhythm. Jason remained a permanent fixture in the corner chair, acting as a silent guardian, and he’d leave only for brief, necessary patrols, returning each time with a slight tension in his shoulders that would slowly ease as he resumed his vigil. 

He started bringing food. Not just any food, but a rotating selection of what passed for the "least terrible" options in Gotham: a surprisingly decent chicken noodle soup from a deli in the Bowery, a container of congee from Chinatown that was easy on the stomach, and a truly staggering number of high-calorie protein bars and shakes.

Danny, for his part, accepted it all with a quiet gratitude. He didn’t ask Jason why he was still here. He didn’t ask about the armor, the guns, or the city he clearly ruled a piece of. He just… accepted him. It was a disarming feeling, being so fully accepted without having to justify his own violent existence. Even Dick eyes would occasionally linger whenever he had his guns on him, or would stay back if Jason showed the most minimal amount of irritability. This kid was refreshing in a way he didn't know needed.

His healing was nothing short of a spectacle. On the second day, while Danny was asleep, Leslie changed the bandages with Jason watching. The gruesome, jagged tear had sealed over, replaced by thick, pink, ropey scar tissue that looked months old, not days.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Leslie murmured, her voice a mix of awe and clinical concern. She showed Jason the latest bloodwork on a tablet. “His white cell count is still abnormally aggressive. It’s as if his body isn’t just healing; it’s actively hunting down any potential imperfection, any stray pathogen, with a terrifying efficiency. It’s magnificent and… deeply alarming.”

“Alarming how?” Jason asked, his eyes still fixed on the map of scars now etched across Danny’s torso.

Leslie lowered her voice, steering Jason a few steps away from where Danny was zoning out while he drank another juicebox. “This level of metabolic activity leaves a paper trail, Jason. The amount of specialized nutrients, the bizarre biomarkers in his bloodwork… I’ve scrubbed it from my official systems, but if the wrong people at a place like LexCorp or a black-ops wing of S.T.A.R. Labs catch a whiff of this… he wouldn’t be a patient to them. He’d be a specimen.”

Normally, Jason would have snarled, would have immediately started planning a preemptive, violent strike against these hypothetical threats. The anger was there, a hot ember in his gut, ready to flare. But as he felt the familiar heat rise, he glanced over at Danny. The kid was awake now, idly trying to bend the straw from his juice box into a little excuse of a heart shape. The mundane, admittedly endearing, peaceful act was a bucket of cold water on that rage, and the ember fizzled out with a quiet hiss.

This wasn't a problem that could be solved with a bullet. He intellectually knew that. It required something far more nuanced from him. And for once, he could acknowledge this before trying to go headfirst into using bullets either way.

So, when Leslie left a short while later, Jason simply pulled the chair up to the bedside and sat there. Danny looked at him, his blue eyes clear and alert, though the shadows under them remained.

“We can’t stay here,” Jason said, his voice low and even. No sugar-coating. He found that he respected the kid too much for that, and also knew that after the kid literally brushed out being gutted, he really didn't need others treating him like a baby.

Danny just nodded, as if he’d been expecting this. “Okay.”

“Leslie’s worried you’re going to attract the wrong kind of attention,” Jason explained, his voice low. “Not the kind that kicks down doors. The kind that sends lawyers and lab coats.”

“Worse,” Danny agreed, and a slight, genuine shudder went through him. He looked down at his hands, his voice dropping to a confiding, almost childlike murmur. "I don't like lab coats."

It was the simplicity of it. The quiet dread in his voice was more convincing than any frantic plea, but it was the unmistakably young, almost small way he said it that solidified Jason's resolve.

“I’ve got a place,” Jason said, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. This wasn't an extraction. It wasn't about dragging an informant to a safehouse or a witness into protection.  This was different. This was… sanctuary. A concept so soft it should have repelled him, but he couldn’t bring himself to not help the kid at this point. “It’s off the grid. Quiet.” He grasped for something practical to ground the offer, his voice regaining its usual rough edge. “And I can get you more of those disgusting shakes you seem to love.”

A small, genuine smile touched Danny’s lips. It was the first one that truly reached his eyes, banishing the weariness for a precious second. “You had me at ‘quiet’.” He looked down at the bent straw heart in his hands, a simple, fragile thing in his palm. "Most people... wouldn't have stuck around this long," he said, his voice softer now, all traces of joking gone. He didn't look up, focusing on the straw. "Thanks for not... you know. Leaving me to deal with it alone."

The gratitude was quiet, undramatic, but it hit Jason with a force he hadn't expected. It wasn't the weight of the thanks itself, but the sheer, uncomplicated sincerity behind it. In a world where he dealt in fear, threats, and transactional loyalties, this was alien. He lived knowing, deep in his bones, that he was not a man who deserved thanks, especially not for something that felt like the barest minimum of human decency. Yet the kid gave it anyway, genuine and unearned, and Jason didn't know what to do with that.

He'd told himself he was doing this because the kid was an intriguing variable, a biological puzzle. But in that moment, his curiosity shattered. He wasn't looking at an anomaly anymore. He was looking at a teenager who was scared and hurt, clinging to a bent straw heart and thanking him for the simple act of not leaving. The realization settled in his chest, like a heavy weight that he wasn't sure if it was suffocating or comforting.

"I'm not going anywhere until you're back on your feet." 

Danny finally looked up, and the relief in his eyes was answer enough.

The move was a carefully orchestrated operation, conducted entirely under Jason's own banner. The Batmobile was out of the question; this was his operation, and he wouldn't—couldn—risk alerting the rest of the family. Using his bike was too exposed for a patient in Danny's condition.

Instead, he called in a favor. A nondescript, panel van with reinforced suspension and engine modifications worthy of a getaway driver pulled up to the clinic's discreet loading entrance. It was owned by a mechanic who asked no questions and was paid in untraceable crypto.

The transfer was tense. Jason, out of his armor but no less intimidating in a heavy jacket and helmet, supported a hoodied and hunched Danny, moving him from the clinic's warmth into the van's sterile cargo hold, which he'd hastily outfitted with a mattress and blankets. Every shadow felt like a potential witness, every distant siren a threat. His senses were on high alert, not for the usual gang war or rogue attack, but for the subtle, chilling threat of a corporate tail or a curious, passing vigilante.

His safehouse wasn't much to look at—a sparse, clean apartment in a building whose ownership was buried under a dozen shell corporations—but it was secure, warm, and, most importantly, dark. The blinds were permanently drawn. When the van's doors finally shut behind them in the building's private garage, Jason allowed himself a fraction of a breath to relax. They'd made it. For now.

Getting Danny up to the apartment was a slow, shuffling process. The kid leaned heavily on him, his breath hitching with every other step. By the time Jason got the door open and guided him to the couch, both of them were breathing heavily for different reasons.

"Home sweet... safehouse," Jason grunted, flicking on a single lamp that cast a soft, warm glow.

He finally took off his helmet, placing it on the kitchen counter with a solid thunk. He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, then turned to find Danny watching him. The kid's eyes were wide, but not with fear. It was more like... assessment. Taking in the face of the man who'd dragged him out of a dumpster alley.

Jason, suddenly feeling exposed in just his body armor and domino mask, gestured vaguely around the sparse apartment. "Right. Ground rules. Kitchen's there. Don't touch my coffee setup. Bathroom's there. Don't expect mint on the pillows. You can have the bedroom once you can walk to it without face-planting."

Danny just gave a weak, but genuine, thumbs-up from the couch.

"And try not to bleed on the couch. It's new."

"Sir, yes, sir," Danny mumbled, his eyes already drifting closed.

Jason moved to the kitchen to get the kid a glass of water, the domestic normality of the action feeling surreal. It was only as he was coming back that the realization hit him, so stupidly obvious he almost laughed. He'd carried this kid, had him bled on him, brought him into his own safehouse... and he had no idea what to call him.

Jason handed him the water over, and he took it with a quiet "thanks." There was a beat of awkward silence.

"So," Jason began, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. "I feel like I should probably know your name. You know, for the lease agreement."

Danny blinked slowly, processing. A faint, tired smirk appeared. "You're only asking now?"

Jason had the decency to look slightly abashed. "In my defense, you've been a little busy trying to not be a corpse. And 'kid' was working just fine."

"Fair enough," Danny conceded, taking a slow sip of water. He let the silence stretch for a moment, a glint of mischief in his tired eyes. "It's Danny."

Jason nodded. "Jason."

"I think I prefer the 'edgy one'," Danny said, a real smile finally breaking through.

"Brat." Jason pushed off the doorframe with an effortless smile, the strange formality of the moment passing. The tension eased. He had a name for the kid now. Danny. It made the whole situation feel less like harboring a variable and more like... well, harboring a person.

"Get some sleep, Danny," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "Try not to redecorate your insides while you're at it."

"Can't make any promises," Danny sighed, already sinking back into the cushions, the glass of water held loosely on his chest.

Jason watched him for a moment longer before turning away. The safehouse was no longer just a bolt-hole. It was occupied. And for the first time, that didn't feel like a violation. It just felt... different.

And like that, a new, even stranger routine began.

Jason, the Red Hood, Gotham’s violent specter, found himself playing nurse, chef, and guardian to a fifteen-year-old runaway from another world. His safehouse, once a sterile waypoint between missions, now held the distinct, mundane clutter of convalescence: a pile of empty protein shake bottles by the sink, a blanket perpetually draped over the couch, and the faint, sugary smell of toaster pastries.

He learned the intricacies of this new charge. That Danny liked his pop-tarts frozen solid, claiming the "structural integrity was superior." That he possessed an encyclopedic, and unexpectedly passionate, knowledge of early internet memes. And that, if given the slightest chance, he would happily dissect the philosophical implications of Star Trek’s Prime Directive for an hour, his hands sketching shapes in the air as he lay propped up on the couch.

"It's not just a non-interference rule, it's a statement on the nature of growth," Danny explained one afternoon, his voice gaining strength but still layered with fatigue. "You can't force a civilization to be better. They have to stumble and learn and sometimes… really mess it up for themselves. Otherwise, the progress is hollow. It's not really theirs."

Jason, who was cleaning a disassembled pistol at the table, found himself listening, his hands stilling. He grunted. "Sounds naive. Some messes are too big to clean up alone."

"Maybe," Danny conceded, not arguing, just considering. "But the point is, they have to be the ones to ask for the mop. You can't just barge in because you think their floor is dirty. It's about respect."

Respect. The word echoed in the quiet room. It was a far cry from Jason's usual methodology of busting down doors first and asking questions never. He looked at the kid, who was now idly tracing the starfields on a throw pillow, and found he didn't have a counter-argument. Just a quiet, unsettling sense that the kid, who looked like he should be worrying about algebra tests, had a clearer, more fundamental understanding of how societies—and the people in them—were supposed to treat each other than he ever had, about understanding a fundamental truth Jason had always been too angry to see.

It was in these moments, between the debates on galactic law and the quiet rituals of changing bandages, that Jason felt the old, angry script of his life being quietly rewritten. The silence of the safehouse was no longer just the absence of sound; it was a space to breathe, to think, to simply be without the constant, screaming need to do violence.

He was learning, and he wasn't even sure what the lesson was, only that the teacher wore threadbare socks and had a seemingly endless supply of terrible puns.

The first test came a few days in. Jason was watching the news on mute, scrolling through police bands on his laptop, when a familiar, grating laugh filled the room. A news clip, a year old, showing the GCPD transporting the Joker to Arkham. The sight of that face, the sound of that laugh, was a key turning in the lock of a deep, dark box inside him.

The rage erupted, hot and immediate. His vision tinged green. He slammed his fist on the table, the wood splintering under his armored gauntlet. He was on his feet in an instant, his mind a storm of static and blood.

He's still alive. He's still laughing. After everything. After me.

The thought was a poison-tipped dagger twisting in the old, festering wound of his own death. It wasn't just the Joker's face that fueled the green haze, but the unyielding, sanctimonious shadow of Batman behind it. Bruce's code, Bruce's choice, was the reason that laugh could still echo through Gotham, through his safehouse. The sheer, maddening injustice of it all threatened to swallow him whole. To drive him insane to—

“Hey, Jason?”

The voice was quiet, from the couch. Danny was sitting up, wrapped in a blanket, watching him. There was no fear in his gaze. Only a calm, steady attention.

Jason’s breath was coming in harsh pants, the green haze a film over his vision. Every muscle was coiled, ready to shatter something, anything.

Danny didn’t flinch from the fury pouring off him. He didn’t tell him to calm down. He just tilted his head, his brow furrowed in a look of simple, mundane curiosity.

“What’s the most calorie-dense food you can think of that isn’t a protein shake?” he asked, his voice still raspy but clear. “I’m dreaming about real food.”

The question was so absurd, so utterly disconnected from the metaphysical fury consuming Jason, that it created a perfect, jarring dissonance in his mind. The red-hot thread of his rage, pulled taut by thoughts of a father's failure and a clown's immortality, suddenly went slack. The green tinge receded from his vision, leaving behind the sight of a tired boy in a safehouse, asking about junk food.

He stood there, armored and panting, staring blankly.

“Uh…” Jason blinked, his mind scrambling to switch gears, the philosophical condemnation of Batman's morality forcefully overwritten by the need to answer a stupid question about snacks. “Peanut butter. Straight from the jar.”

Danny’s nose scrunched up. “Boring. Think bigger. Like… a deep-fried stick of butter wrapped in bacon.”

A disbelieving laugh, rough and startled, punched its way out of Jason’s chest. The tension shattered. The moment passed. The urge to go break something at the Manor was gone, replaced by the pressing, ridiculous need to find out if you could actually deep-fry butter.

He didn’t suit up. He didn’t go to pick a fight with a Bat. He sat back down, the splintered table forgotten, and spent the next twenty minutes in a heated, utterly surreal debate about the culinary merits of various heart-attack-inducing foods.

And later, as he changed the bandages again, he saw the scars had faded further, now silvery and smooth, nothing to do with the gruesome open wound from days ago. It was no longer a sight that filled him with the dread of watching a kid die in front of him, now it just showed that said kid survived long enough for it to scar. 

Now. as he looked at his own reflection in the dark screen of the television, at the faint white line across his throat from a knife fight, at the web of scars on his body that were a roadmap of his rage. For the first time, he didn't just see the evidence of pain. He saw the evidence of his own survival. Of healing. And he understood, with a clarity that left him humbled, that the kid on the couch had just performed a different kind of surgery on him, one no doctor ever could.

It was a slow, quiet process. But for the first time since he’d crawled out of his own grave, Jason Todd felt like he was finally learning how to breathe.

The Cave was humming with its usual low-level activity. The giant computer cast a cool, blue light over the space, reflecting off the glass cases of decommissioned costumes. It was post-patrol, the time for debriefing and quiet analysis. But tonight, the air was thick with an unspoken question.

Dick landed lightly from the zipline, pulling off his mask to run a hand through his sweaty hair. "Okay, did anyone else feel like we just stepped into an alternate universe? Bizarro-Gotham, maybe? Where Red Hood let criminals get arrested with all their bones intact?"

At the main console, Tim didn't look up from the three holographic screens he was cross-referencing. "It's the third time this week," he murmured, his voice a mix of exhaustion and intense curiosity. He pulled up footage from the night's raid. "Look. Hostile with a crowbar, coming at Hood's blind side. Two weeks ago, that man would be eating through a straw for a year. Tonight?" Tim zoomed in. Jason had disarmed the man with a swift, precise twist, shoved him face-first into a wall to daze him, and moved on. The threat neutralized, the brutality… absent.

"It's good, right?" Dick said, leaning against the console, a hopeful smile tugging at his lips. "It's… it's what we wanted. It's control. It's Jason, but without the…" He made a vague, explosive gesture with his hands.

"It's a deviation from an established, years-long pattern," Tim countered, though not unkindly. He was a creature of data, and Jason Todd had been a terrifyingly consistent dataset of rage and violence. "Deviations have causes. Is he on new medication? Did he have a breakthrough with a therapist I don't know about? Did he… I don't know, get a really calming pet?"

Dick chuckled. "Maybe he's just finally mellowing out. People can change, Tim."

"People, yes. Jason?" Tim finally swiveled in his chair to face Dick. "His changes are usually preceded by explosions, both literal and metaphorical. This is… quiet. It’s unsettling because it’s too peaceful."

From the shadows near the training mats, a deeper voice spoke, its tone carefully neutral. "Or it's a prelude."

Bruce Wayne stepped into the light, having already changed out of the Batsuit into simple black trousers and a shirt. His face was its usual granite mask, but his eyes, always the betrayer, were etched with a deep, weary conflict.

"Hey B," Dick said, his smile softening. "You saw it too, right? He's different."

"I saw a change in tactics," Bruce corrected, his gaze fixed on the frozen screen image of Jason zip-tying a thug's hands from the CCTV recording. "The week before last, he was interrogating informants with fear gas and a BB gun. Now he's… apprehending." He said the word like it was foreign. "It's a significant drop in aggression levels."

"And that's a bad thing?" Dick pressed.

"It's an unknown," Bruce stated, his voice low. "With Jason, the extremes are predictable. This… this middle ground isn't." He walked to the computer, his large frame dwarfing the chair Tim sat in. He began pulling up files—security footage, comm logs, injury reports from the past fortnight. "I want a full workup. Any new contacts? Unexplained movements? Financial anomalies?"

"Bruce," Dick said, his voice laced with gentle reproach. "He's your son. He's doing better. Can't we just… be glad?" Dick softly pleaded.

The question hung in the air, and Bruce’s jaw tightened. He wanted to. God, he wanted to grasp that hope with both hands and never let go. He pictured the little boy he’d taken in, the bright, fierce teenager who loved Shakespeare and knew how to make Alfred’s favorite tea just right. It hurt.

But then he pictured the monster in the warehouse, the crowbar, the explosion. He pictured the Pit-maddened revenant who had tried to tear their family apart. Every time he had dared to hope before, it had been shattered, each time leaving a deeper crack in his foundation.

A ruse, whispered the paranoid, broken part of him, the part forged in an alley long ago. It’s always a ruse. He’s lulling you into a false sense of security. There’s a plan here. There’s always a plan.

He couldn’t survive another collapse. He just couldn't anymore.

"He was involved in an incident two weeks ago," Bruce said, bypassing Dick's question entirely. He pulled up a file tagged with Leslie Thompkins's clinic encryption. "An unidentified male juvenile, severe trauma. Hood provided emergency evac. Has anyone followed up on the boy?"

Tim shook his head. "Leslie handled it. The kid was a John Doe, no match in any system. He disappeared from the clinic after a few days. Probably a runaway who got back on his feet and moved on. Standard for Gotham's street kids."

Dick snapped his fingers, the pieces clicking together in his mind. "You think that's it? Maybe helping that kid… I don't know, sparked something?" He turned to Bruce, his expression shifting from confusion to dawning understanding. "I was there, Bruce, when we loaded him into the Batmobile. The kid was barely conscious, but he looked at Jason and made a joke about staying positive." He paused, "And Jason laughed. A real, honest laugh. It was quiet, but it was there. Like it surprised him."

Then, another memory surfaced, and Dick's focus intensified. "And later, at Leslie's, after he'd been stitched up, the kid woke up. He was out of it on painkillers, and the first thing he does is look at Jason and ask, 'Did I kill the mood?'" A faint, wistful smile touched Dick's lips. "Gotta say, kid had guts” He laughs awkwardly at his own joke 

"He kept it up, too. Just a stream of awful puns and one-liners, despite everything. It had all three of us completely baffled. But the thing is... it kept making Jason laugh. Not just once, but every time."

Dick looked back at Bruce, his hands settling at his sides. "This kid was gutted bruce” he starts quietly and seriously “But, he had this... stubborn cheerfulness. Maybe, it just reminded Jason that there's something else besides the anger. That there are people worth protecting, not just punks worth punishing."

The hope in Dick's voice was a quiet, steady thing now, a deliberate counterpoint to Bruce's simmering paranoia. He wasn't celebrating, but he was certain. He saw his little brother, for the first time in years, finding a reason to stay grounded, and he felt a firm conviction that this was the catalyst they'd been missing.

But Bruce’s eyes remained on the file photo of the kid—pale, dark-haired, unconscious. A data point. A variable. It seemed too simple, too sentimental. Jason’s trauma ran deeper than could be salved by a single act of charity.

"Perhaps," Bruce allowed, the word tasting like ash. He closed the file. "Or perhaps it's unrelated. We operate on evidence, not sentiment. I want a full background on every person Leslie treated that week. I want to know if anyone new has entered his territory. I want to know what he's doing when he's not wearing the Hood."

He turned and walked towards the case holding Jason's old Robin uniform, a bright, painful splash of color in the gloom. He didn't look at his sons.

"Until we know the cause," he said, his back to them, "we cannot trust the effect. Hope is a liability until proven otherwise."

A flicker of frustration, of old hurt, sparked in Dick’s chest. ‘Why can’t you ever just see something good? Why does it always have to be a threat first?’ But, the thing is, he understood. He’d seen the same hope crushed before, leaving deeper scars each time. Bruce’s paranoia was a fortress built from the rubble of his own heartbreak. Still, it didn't stop Dick from feeling like he was kicked in the chest and left to deal with it on his own.

He needed Bruce’s methodical approach to be the guiding principle here; the stakes were too high for sentiment. Yet, in the privacy of his own mind, Tim desperately wanted Dick to be right.

His relationship with Jason was a tangled knot of resentment, rivalry, and a respect so deep it bordered on reverence. When Tim had first put on the Robin suit, it had still been warm with Jason’s ghost. He’d devoured every case file, every training log. Jason hadn't just been a Robin; he'd been a force of nature—brilliant, fierce, and utterly uncompromising. He was the Robin who fought Batman as hard as he fought criminals, the one who pushed boundaries and questioned orders. In many ways, Jason had been the Robin Tim had secretly aspired to be: less of a perfect soldier, more of a partner with his own fire.

Then he’d met the Red Hood. That brilliant, fierce boy had been twisted into something brutal and devastating, a living monument to the family’s greatest failure. The icon he was, had become a cautionary tale, the monster under bed, the boogyman kids were told to fear. And yet… the raw power, the terrifying competence, the sheer will it took to carve out a piece of Gotham for himself—a part of Tim still couldn’t help but look at the Red Hood and see the shadow of the Robin he’d once idolized. The potential that had been shattered, now sharpened into a weapon aimed at them all.

The idea of that figure, of Jason, finding a sliver of peace, of finally laying down the burden of his rage and becoming something more than the sum of his pain… it was a hope Tim hadn't realized he’d been clinging to. It was the hope that the boy from the case files wasn't entirely gone. That the Robin he'd looked up to could, against all odds, find his way home. And he made sure to look at Dick in the eyes and let him know he also hoped he was right, because, as much as he respected Batman, he also respected Dick Grayson and admired his will to keep things light when everything was dark.

Dick looked between them, the strategist part of him, the one that Batman raised, acknowledged their points, even as the brother in him, the one that was internally mad at Bruce for failing them before, rebelled. So he took a slow breath, stomping down the urge to fight, but not the conviction. "Fine. Do your investigation. But just…” He took a fortifying breath and looked at The Bat in the eyes “be careful, B. If I'm right, and we go in there with 'a mission' in our minds instead of 'help,' we will lose him. Maybe for good this time." He met Bruce's gaze, his own pleading. "Let me at least keep that little flame alive. Just in case."

He wasn't asking as Nightwing. He was asking as the first son, as the oldest brother, the one who remembered a bright, brilliant boy in a Robin costume, and who would grasp at any chance, no matter how slim, to see that boy finally find his way out of the dark.

Bruce stood before the glass case, the Cave silent around them save for the distant drip of water and the hum of servers. The armor was off, leaving only the man, burdened and bare. He stared at the Robin costume, a relic from a life he’d failed to protect, and saw the ghost of the son he’d buried twice.

He wanted to believe. But after so many funerals, both in the ground and of the spirit, Bruce knew that the most dangerous thing in Gotham wasn't a monster you could punch. It was the fragile, treacherous thing called hope.

He finally turned away from the case, his gaze sweeping over his sons. Dick, leaning against the console, his hope a tangible, aching thing in the cool air; and Tim, sitting in the chair in front of the Bat-Computer, with a carefully neutral, yet hopeful, expression. They were his sons, too, they had endured the same losses, the same fractures. The fortress of his paranoia was meant to protect them all, but in that moment, he could see how the walls were keeping them away. 

They were looking at him, waiting for a verdict.

His voice was low, stripped of Batman's growl but no less heavy with the weight of command "We will investigate. Thoroughly. Every lead, every angle." It was the necessary course, the only one the Bat would allow. But then his eyes softened, just for a moment, the father briefly eclipsing the strategist. "But we will do so... with discretion."

It wasn't permission. It was a fragile, carefully worded truce with the hope he couldn't afford to feel. He gave them a single, slow nod—a silent acknowledgment that he saw their faith and would not, yet, deliberately shatter it. He turned and walked towards the staircase that led up to the manor, leaving them in the Cave's silence. He had given their hope a stay of execution. He could only pray it wouldn't become the weapon that destroyed them all.

The comm in Jason’s helmet crackled to life, slicing through the low hum of his bike’s engine and the monotonous stream of police chatter he was monitoring.

“—anyone, come in! I’ve got a situation at the docks, Smuggler’s Cove, warehouse seven.” It was Nightwing’s voice, tight with exertion and layered with the distinct, shrieking whine of overstressed electronics in the background. “They’re not just smugglers—they’ve got some kind of advanced sonic cannon. It’s frying my comms, my escrima sticks are about to short out, and it feels like my teeth are going to vibrate out of my skull.”

A brief burst of static, followed by the sound of grunting effort and a metallic clang. “I’ve managed to disable one emitter, but there are two more. I’m pinned down. Batman’s off-world, Oracle and Spoiler are neck-deep in that meta-human riot at Blackgate. Red Robin’s in the Bowery, twenty minutes out at best. Is anyone closer?”

A map of the city automatically superimposed on Jason’s HUD, his location and Dick’s flashing. He was, indeed, the closest. The old, ingrained instinct was a cold, immediate reflex: ‘Not my problem’. Let the perfect little acrobat untangle his own mess. Their carefully coordinated world can save itself.

But another instinct, newer and quieter, woven from late-night talks and the shared silence of a safehouse, whispered something else. He didn’t issue a challenge. He didn’t make a demand. He asked for help. He’s out of options, and he asked.

The internal war lasted only a second. With a grunt that was equal parts profound annoyance and weary resignation, Jason gunned his bike’s engine, swerving towards the docks. He keyed his comm, his voice a low growl.

“Hood. Four minutes out. Try not to get your eardrums ruptured before I get there.”

He made it in three.

The scene inside the warehouse was chaotic. The air itself seemed to be vibrating, a high-frequency whine that made Jason’s teeth ache the moment he kicked in a side door. Two large, dish-like emitters were mounted on crates, pulsing with visible waves of distorted air. In the center of it all, Nightwing was a blur of blue and black, but a slowed one. He moved like he was fighting through water, his movements slightly off-rhythm as the sonic waves disrupted his equilibrium. A hulking thug with a crowbar was capitalizing on it, swinging wildly as Dick barely managed to dodge.

Jason didn’t shout a warning. He just moved.

As the crowbar descended toward the back of Dick’s unguarded head, Jason crossed the distance in a few swift strides. He didn’t draw a gun. Instead, his armored forearm snapped up, blocking the metal bar with a sharp clang that cut through the sonic drone. The thug staggered back, shock on his face.

“You’re late,” Dick gasped, spinning around, his relief palpable even through his mask.

“You’re welcome,” Jason retorted, shoving the thug back with a grunt. “Now, which of these ugly satellite dishes is pissing you off the most?”

“The one on the left! Its resonance is linked to the other! Take it out and the whole system might cascade!”

“Finally, some useful intel.” Jason drew a pistol—not his usual lethal caliber, but a heavy-duty tranquilizer gun. “Cover me. Your sticks might be toast, but I doubt your pretty-boy flips are.”

“They’re called acrobatics,” Dick shot back, but a grin was already spreading on his face. He launched himself at two other advancing thugs, his movements becoming fluid and precise again now that he wasn’t fighting the sonic assault alone. “And you’re one to talk about pretty!”

Jason ignored him, lining up his shot. The sonic waves battered against him, but his heavier armor and helmet dampened the worst of it. He fired. The tranquilizer dart, weighted for penetration, slammed into the central power core of the left emitter. It sparked, fizzled, and died with a pathetic squeal.

Immediately, the remaining emitter’s whine became erratic, overloading without its partner. A moment later, it exploded in a shower of sparks, plunging the warehouse into a sudden, blessed silence that felt louder than the noise had.

In the new quiet, the remaining thugs were easy work. Jason provided brute-force takedowns—a disarming shove, a precise blow to a nerve cluster—while Dick flowed around him, using their momentum against them. It was over in less than a minute.

Dick leaned against a crate, catching his breath. “Okay, that was… surprisingly smooth.”

Jason holstered his weapon. “Don’t get used to it. I just didn’t feel like listening to your whining on the comms all night if you got your head bashed in.”

“Right. Because you’re all about peace and quiet,” Dick said, the grin back in his voice. He smiled, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Seriously, Jay. Thanks.”

Jason just grunted, the sound non-committal, but he didn’t correct him. He didn't put his helmet back on, a small but significant concession. 

Dick, ever the optimist, saw the opening. And with a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face, he seized it. “I’m starving. Batburger? My treat.”

Jason eyed him, a familiar skepticism in his gaze. This was the part where things usually fell apart—where an offered olive branch was misinterpreted as pity or condescension. But the fight had been clean, and the backup had been… logical. And the gnawing hunger in his gut was real.

“Fine,” he bit out, as if doing Dick a favor. “But I’m getting the double deluxe with extra bacon. And a large chili fry.”

Dick’s smile widened. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Twenty minutes later, they were seated on the ledge of a rooftop overlooking the grimy, glittering artery of the Dixon Docks. The garish neon sign of the Batburger joint cast a pulsating, pink and yellow glow over them, a bizarrely cheerful bubble in the Gotham night. The greasy paper bags sat between them, the rich, greasy scent of fries and seared meat cutting through the city's familiar cocktail of exhaust and decay.

They ate in a silence that was, for the first time in memory, not fraught with animosity or the threat of violence. It was just… quiet. Comfortable.

Dick watched him. He couldn’t help it. He saw the way Jason just… sat. He wasn’t coiled like a spring, his shoulders weren’t hunched up around his ears as if waiting for a blow from any direction. He’d taken off his helmet, setting it carefully beside him, and was just eating his burger, his gaze scanning the streets and waterways below with a calm, analytical focus instead of a frown and pursed lips.

The changes were subtle but, Dick could see them as clear as water. The perpetual, bruised shadows that had lived under his eyes since his return had lightened. The gaunt, hollowed-out look that spoke of too many nightmares, too much rage, and not nearly enough peace, was gone. His face had more color, more life. He didn’t look happy, not in a way anyone else would recognize. But the crushing gloom that had clung to him like a second skin had lifted. He looked… present. Grounded. Lighter.

The hope in Dick’s chest, the one he’d been nursing since the clinic, swelled until it felt like it might choke him. It was real. This wasn't a fluke or a tactical feint.

“What?” Jason’s voice was flat, but not angry. He’d caught Dick staring, a single eyebrow raised over a bite of his burger.

Dick took a breath, and swallowed hard to get rid of the knot in his throat. “You just… you look good, Jason. Really.” He gestured vaguely with a fry. “You seem… lighter. I haven’t seen you this relaxed since… I don’t even know when.” He said awed with a slightly quivering whisper.

Jason froze, the burger halfway to his mouth. The observation shouldn’t have hit him that hard, but it did. Because it was true. The constant, screaming static in his head, the ever-present hum of the Pit’s rage that had been the soundtrack to his existence for years… it was quiet. The tension that had been his default state since long before the crowbar—a product of a life spent fighting for every breath—was just… gone. He felt settled in his own skin in a way he hadn’t since he was a child, before crime ridden alleys and Batman and dying. The realization was so shocking, so profound, it bypassed all his defenses.

He looked down at the burger in his hands, his brow furrowed as if it held the answers. “I, uh…” He trailed off, the automatic denial—I’m fine, nothing’s different, screw off—dying in his throat. He couldn’t lie. Not about this. Not when the evidence was a feeling of peace so foreign and solid it was unmistakable.

He gave a short, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes still fixed on the cityscape below. “Yeah,” he muttered, the word quiet, rough with a vulnerability he never showed. “I… feel better.”

The simple admission hung in the neon-lit air between them, more powerful than any declaration. Dick didn’t push. He didn’t crow in victory. He just nodded back, his own heart feeling too big for his chest.

“Good,” Dick said softly, turning his gaze back to the sprawling, wounded city they both called home. “That’s… that’s really good, Jay.”

And for once, sitting in the electric glow of a tacky fast-food sign, the greasy remains of their meal between them, it felt like it was.

The Batcave’s usual silence was shattered by the sound of a bike retracting and a triumphant, whooping laugh.

Tim, who had been halfway through a report, nearly jumped out of his chair. He spun around to see Dick Grayson practically vibrating with energy, his Nightwing suit unzipped to the waist, hair a mess, and a grin so wide it looked like it might split his face.

“He said yes!” Dick announced to the cavernous space, his voice echoing.

Tim blinked, lowering his noise-canceling headphones. “To what?” he asked puzzled.

“To Batburger, Timmy! To Batburger!” Dick strode over, grabbing the back of Tim’s chair and spinning him away from the monitors. “And he talked! He actually talked!”

“Who… Jason?” Tim asked, the pieces clicking into place. He’d seen the alert about the docks situation but had been too buried in his own work to listen in.

“Yes, Jason! Who else?” Dick began pacing in front of the main computer, replaying the entire event with sweeping hand gestures. “I called for backup, he was the only one close, and he came. He didn’t just come, he blocked a crowbar meant for my head with this really cool, heroic forearm block—very classic superhero—and then we did the thing, you know, the thing where we banter and fight at the same time? It was like old times, but better! Because he wasn’t trying to kill me!”

Tim watched the performance, a faint smile touching his lips despite his best efforts to remain skeptical. “And this led to fast food how?”

“I asked him! I said, ‘I’m starving, Batburger?’ and he grunted, which is Jason for ‘I would be delighted, dear brother!’ and then he ordered the most cholesterol-packed item on the menu, just to bankrupt me, I think.” Dick stopped his pacing, his expression turning earnest. “But that’s not the important part, Tim. We sat on a roof. And we ate. And he was… calm.”

Dick leaned in, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper. “He took his helmet off. He just sat there, eating, watching the city. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look like he was five seconds from exploding. He looked… like he was okay with just being there. With me.” Dick’s lip quivered a bit, but it didn't stop the smile from stamping on his face.

Tim’s analytical mind, which had been running probability scans on the situation, finally quieted. He couldn’t algorithm his way around the raw, genuine hope on Dick’s face.

“So I told him he looked good. Lighter. And he…” Dick’s voice actually wavered a little with emotion. “He didn’t deny it. He got all quiet, and then he looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘Yeah. I feel better.’” Dick eyes were misty, but his smile was as brilliant as the sun.

The data points were aligning. The reduced aggression stats, the tactical shifts, and now this—a verbal, conscious admission from the source himself. Tim let out a slow breath, the last of his resistance crumbling.

“He actually said that?” Tim asked, his voice soft. Hopeful.

“Word for word.” Dick nodded. “See? I told you. I told you it was the kid. It’s real, Tim. It’s actually real.”

Tim swiveled back to his keyboard for a moment, not to look at the screens, but to give himself a second to compose his face. When he looked back at Dick, he was offering a small, genuine smile of his own.

“Okay,” Tim said. “Okay. You were right.”

Dick’s triumphant whoop echoed through the Cave once more, and this time, Tim didn’t even flinch. For the first time in a long time, the sound of unfiltered hope in the Batcave didn’t feel like a prelude to disaster. It just felt good.