Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason really really hopes Damian is as well-trained in treating wounds as he is in making them, or this whole shitshow is gonna involve hiding a body. Which would be unfair and maybe a little cruel, to give Bruce back one dead son in exchange for an MIA one that, actually, the former one accidentally sorta murdered due to incompetence and under duress.

As is, they’re already giving him back with bruised ribs, a broken nose, hand-shaped marks on his neck, and a big old knife wound in the middle of his thigh. At least Jason has a black eye, so it doesn’t feel completely one-sided. 

Even though it was. That’s what it was meant to be. 

“Quit hovering, Todd,” Damian snaps. He doesn’t even look up from where he’s stitching Tim’s leg shut. “I know what I am doing.”

Arguing with Damian is just gonna lead to someone getting stabbed, so he hums an apology and reluctantly tears his eyes away and back to the road.

A long-haul truck sans cargo isn’t his first choice in getaway vehicle, but it has a CB radio (broken, because of fucking course it is) and a bunk behind the worn seats that makes first aid easier than it would be in the backseat of a car. Jason’s gotten treated in the back of the Batmobile enough times to know. 

Speaking of the Batmobile, Tim needs to wake the hell up soon so they can call for backup. He’s the smart one, apparently, and if he can rig a top secret assassin base to blow from a fucking kitchenette, then he can get the stupid radio to work. The Batmobile has a police scanner, it probably has a radio thing too, right? Whatever. He can’t do anything about that right now. 

They’re far enough away that he can’t see the smoke from the League’s base behind them, but the mountain itself still looks no smaller. Oh well. If they run out of gas and have to walk through a damn desert, they’ll deal with it. The assassins can’t bounce back fast enough to catch up to them, at least for a few days. 

They don’t need to, either. They know where Jason’s going. Which just makes warning Bruce all the more important. 

Damian shuffles around a bit, and Jason can hear him applying ointment and gauze. Tim mumbles something, but stays very inconveniently unconscious. 

He sighs. “How long ‘til the chloroform wears off?”

“I told you, it is not chloroform, it is a synthesized coating comprised of-” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason says, waving a hand, “Not the point. How long ‘til the knockout knife juice wears off? We kinda need him.”

Jason can feel Damian’s withering glare. Still, he’s an obedient little demon, and he says, “Four to six hours. The knife was in his leg for almost ten minutes. Plenty of time for the,” he hesitates, then practically spits, “‘knockout knife juice’ to dissolve into his bloodstream.”

Four to six hours. Great. 

Damian finishes wrapping Tim’s leg, carefully puts away the supplies, and immediately clambers to the front seat. Okay, so they taught him first aid, but not bedside manner. Jason really should’ve expected that. 

It’s fine. Tim’s a Robin. Robins have bounced back from way worse - incredibly rich coming from him - so he doesn’t need Damian hovering, and he certainly doesn’t need Jason hovering. 

Jason’s job is to drive the truck. Put four to six more hours between them and whatever dregs of the LoA managed to crawl out of the flaming wreckage. 

It’s kind of dawning on him that he’s the closest thing to an adult in this situation, so he’s In Charge. He’s not sure he knows how to do that. 

He’s taken care of himself, sure, but not exactly well. Bruce, Alfred, and Dick were the responsible ones, Jason-

Jason’s the one who nearly broke the new Robin’s wrist, the one who kicked him in the ribs and locked a hand around his throat, and yeah it had been to stall for time so Damian could give them an opening out, but, still, he’s the one who had to look into terrified blue eyes because they couldn’t exactly explain the plan, and the kid had looked at Jason like he was a monster, and he is, but worse was the resignation, because-

No one’s coming. 

Jason tries to breathe. It’s fine. He can do this. He just needs to get as far away from the League of Assassins as possible, call for backup. 

He knows. He knows that if Bruce knew, he’d come. If Bruce knew he’s alive, if he knew he’s in trouble, he’d be here. But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t. He apparently hasn’t visited his grave enough to notice that he’s not even in it. How could he not notice that, he’s supposed to be Batman, he’s supposed to know everything, he’s supposed to be magic, but apparently magic is weak to crowbars and explosions and-

“Todd,” Damian says gently. Well, as gently as he can say anything.

Jason’s eyes are painting the dashboard green. He shuts them. There’s nothing to hit on the barren dirt road, so he lets them stay shut for two, three, four breaths.

Facts: Bruce would come if he knew. 

The League of Assassins are manipulative and meticulous. 

Bruce doesn’t know, because the League makes sure he doesn’t. 

He opens his eyes and nudges them back onto the road. “Thanks.” 

Deep breath in, deep breath out. 

Bruce does not know Jason is alive. He does not know anything about Damian. 

But he does know Tim is missing. Jason knows - he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt - that Batman won’t stop until he sees the body, until he runs fifteen DNA sequences, until it’s the only explanation. He didn’t abandon Jason. He won’t abandon Tim. He’ll find them. He’s looking.

Unfortunately - Damian sees it first: dust, far off but still heading towards them, and he probably should’ve expected Damian al Ghul to be higher on the priority list - he’s not the only one. 

-

Fresh from the Lazarus Pit, Jason is handed a knife, presented with a human trafficker who specializes in kids, and told to do what he wants. 

He only remembers bits and pieces, which is probably for the best considering that’s how the trafficker ended up. 

They bring him one every week, he thinks. In between training, in between being locked in what he is told is his room but feels more like a cell, in between dealing with Talia al Ghul and her infuriating smirks. 

First, its traffickers, and rapists, and pedophiles, and the worst humanity has to offer. Then, it’s mass murderers, serial killers, even a few terrorists. When it gets down to one-time murderers, Jason can see the pattern. It takes until he gets down to arsonists to stop himself, to stop the bright green tunnel-visioned anger. 

He glares at Talia and says, “Go to hell.”

She looks disappointed, and she makes the arsonist’s death slow. Jason makes sure to puke on her boots when she walks over to lecture him. 

He thinks Damian started showing up to his training sometime between the second-degree murderers and the domestic abusers, but he’s too busy trying to rein in his rage. After the arsonists, he starts getting stalkers and robbers, and he puts a cap on the frothing bottle of green long enough to think, ‘Wait, why am I fighting a child?’ before the child wipes the floor with him. They’re best friends fast. 

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize Talia is allowing their hushed whispers about the outside world, their fantastical escape plans, their “weakness” in each other. 

Because, for all her many many faults, Talia loves her son. Jason is her pet project, a tool to be molded into a weapon. But that’s just what her father needs to believe. Really, Jason is a chance for Damian - to escape the world’s worst grandpapy’s fucked up plan for him, to land somewhere that actually has a snowball’s chance in hell of keeping him safe  - and Talia really should’ve just found a way to tell him that from the beginning and saved herself the puke-covered boots. 

Whatever. By the time they’re down to muggers and pickpockets, it only takes Jason a few deep breaths to control the anger. She feigns disappointment in him, tells him that he needs to follow orders without question, and kills the guy. 

“I know exactly how to get you to understand,” she says. ‘Be ready. You get one chance,’ she doesn’t, but Jason’s gotten more than a little used to Damian doing the same, so he makes sure the kid’s ready to run, and waits. 

The next week, Talia brings him a Robin. 

-

It’s actually probably good that Tim is asleep for the fight. As much as he could’ve helped, it’s an ugly sight for a non-assassin. There’s a lot more blood in a human body than people think, and Jason’s… messy. He’s gotten better at pushing back the green before it starts skipping ahead in time like a scratched up record, but he’s still not good enough at it to get through a whole fight in his right mind. That means most things end up in more pieces than they started with. Damian is clean and efficient, as always, but Jason knows its hard to appreciate that when it’s tangled up in his own aftermath.

“I am glad I talked Mother out of giving you a knife for the fight,” Damian says. Damn. That’s his ‘judgy’ scowl. “With your self control in this state, you might have killed Drake.”

Jason glares right back. “I coulda told her Lazarus Pit mixes with anger issues like oil and fire, but unfortunately I know she’s not stupid. I’m starting to think she didn’t care one way or the other.”

Damian absorbs that, idly wiping the blood off his katana with his robes. “Perhaps.” He glances at Jason, and he tries not to feel picked apart. “But she also sent me with you, so she must have some faith.”

Yeah, sure. More likely, Talia has faith that Damian could kill him if needs be. Maybe he should feel a little more offended that Talia’s using him and Tim as semi-competent meat shields, but he’s spent way to long not giving a single rat’s ass as to what Talia thinks to let it bother him. 

Just wait - he’s gonna get all three of them back to Bats, and he’s gonna force Damian to have a normal-adjacent childhood if it kills all three of them. That’ll fucking show her. 

Okay maybe he cares a little. Whatever! If he skates through this debacle on spite, so be it. The woman had been his own personal hell for months, sue him. 

Damian insists on burning the bodies, and Jason is still too hopped up on adrenaline to even think about getting back in the car, so he agrees. Damian’s really particular about how the bodies are arranged, so Jason lets himself be directed by the tiny tyrant. 

The sun’s set by the time they get the pyre going. Jason is sure that Damian would insist they put as much distance between them and the League as possible, but he doesn’t. Instead, he uses the burlap sacks the assassins brought (because is it really a kidnapping if there aren’t burlap sacks on your head?) to scrub at the blood on his skin. 

Jason sighs and gets him a water bottle before he gives himself road rash. Damian sensibly conserves it, pouring it across his arms one at a time. Jason dumps his own bottle over his head, and tries not to snort at the look Damian sends him for it. It’s not like their League-issued uniforms aren’t waterproof for this exact reason. 

Still, Damian is just as particular as he’d been with the bodies. Jason frowns as he watches Damian carefully comb the blood out of his hair. Something’s eating him. 

Guilt, maybe? He hides it well, but despite everything, the kid cares. Then again, the last time Jason brought it up, Damian looked at him like he was the biggest idiot on the planet. 

“They attacked me,” he’d said, lip curling up. “Self defense hardly counts as murder at all.”

Guilt is still possible, but maybe not… maybe…

“They will find us,” Damian says.

Ah. That’s it. 

Damian’s shoulders are loose, even though they both know what that would mean for them. Because he sees pain as an inevitability, and he helped Jason and Tim anyway. 

But he’s still afraid. 

Jason sighs and loops an arm around Damian’s shoulder to drag him into a hug, feeling very much like he’s dragging a cat to a bath. 

“You’re a good kid,” he says, and that pauses Damian’s cursing and vicious elbows. He tugs just a bit, so they’re pressed against each other. “I’m not gonna let them get us. They’re good, but they don’t stand a chance against Bats when he’s prepared.”

Damian stews in that for a moment. “Batman is not here.”

Jason scoffs, and risks his fingers to tussle Damian’s hair. “We’re an assassin, a vigilante detective, and a super-powered zombie. Don’t count us out just yet.”

Damian tisks. “You are not super-powered, Todd. The Lazarus Pit increased your strength and stamina, but it is still well within the bounds of-”

“Yeah, yeah, semantics, nerd.” Jason scrubs at Damian’s hair again and yanks his hand away before he can bite it. “My eyes glow and I punch hard. I’m super-powered.”

Damian rolls his eyes, but doesn’t object. And he doesn’t demand that Jason unhand him. He must be really scared. So Jason lets himself be a big brother for a moment. Hopefully the kind that made it feel like everything was gonna be okay. One like Dick. 

Not that he’d ever in a million years boost the idiot’s ego by telling him that. 

Eventually, Damian pulls out of his grip. “We need to get moving.”

Jason accepts without arguing. 

-

Jason nearly slams on the brakes and sends all three of them careening through the windshield when he hears Tim groan. Even then, he brings the truck to a stop at a speed that makes Damian jerk to brace himself on the dashboard and swear under his breath in Arabic. 

Apologies later. He whirls around. Tim’s face is scrunched around the bruises Jason had given him in the arena. He mumbles something. 

Then, Tim groans again, and finally, finally opens his stupid fucking eyeballs.

“Wha… wha-happen…?”

“Oh, Timbo,” Jason says, shaking his head in a futile effort to hide the gigantic wave of relief that crashes over him. He really hopes he got all the blood out of his hair. “You are so late to this shitshow.” 

Chapter Text

Tim really is a Robin, and he’s on track to be Jason’s favorite of the three. 

‘I have so many questions,’ he’d said before, when they were ducking behind tables to avoid knives and shurikens and bullets, but he doesn’t ask any now. He listens to Jason’s explanation that comes out exactly like a Robin Report, then, “Assets?”

“Semi-truck, broken CB radio, three-fourths tank of gas. First aid kit, toolbox, microwave, cooler, one case of water bottles, three packages of beef jerky, ten knives, twenty-eight shurikens, and…” Jason trails off, thinking. 

“Standard issue compliance tools,” Damian adds. 

Jason almost rolls his eyes. “Torture-box-o-pain, he means.”

Tim looks a little ill at that, but nods briskly. “Okay. Okay. Anyone know what country we’re in?”

Jason and Damian exchange a look, then shake their heads at the same time. 

“Africa, probably,” Jason offers. 

Tim swears under his breath. “Okay.” He glances down at his injuries. “How likely am I to die from infection?”

Damian huffs. “I am perfectly capable of proper field medicine, Drake. We will not allow you to die.”

Tim blinks, then nods. “Good. Good. Uh- thanks.”

Tim can’t see the shock on Damian’s face from the casual praise, but Jason’s known the kid a little too long. 

“Okay,” Tim says again. “Alright. I’ve worked with worse.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. Fucking when?!

“Thank God we have a microwave,” Tim says, even more nonsensically. He makes grabby hands. “Lemme see it. And a screwdriver.”

Damian’s actually the one to grab them. Little shit. It took Jason weeks to get the kid to believe he wasn’t a complete idiot, but Tim blows up one compound, and suddenly Damian’s practically got stars in his eyes. 

“Care to let us in on the plan, MacGyver?” Jason sighs. 

Tim points the screwdriver at the CB radio. “That’ll only have a range of fifteen to thirty miles, depending on how good it is. Considering it’s broken, I’m not holding my breath. But, if we hook it up to a major power source, we can blast the signal. Even if the Bat-computer doesn’t pick it up, Alfred definitely will. He always keeps his HAM radio in reach during an emergency.” He pauses. “You already tried Protocol Big Blue, yeah?”

Shouting out the window for Superman, he means. The Robin equivalent of DEFCON 1, eject now, shit’s hit the fucking windmill. 

“First thing I did.”

Damian eyes Jason. “That was actually a tactic?”

Jason shoves the side of his head and resolutely ignores Tim’s snickering. 

“That would’ve made this easier,” Tim says as he starts unscrewing the bottom of the microwave. “But thankfully, I’ve always wanted to try this.”

That can only mean terrible things for Jason’s blood pressure. “Great.”

Tim starts piling screws into the cup holder. “We will need a backup car, though.”

Fucking great.

“Y’know, I’m not even gonna ask,” he spins around and starts the truck. “Any requests, oh great one?”

“A 1998 Toyota Corolla,” Tim deadpans. “It doesn’t matter, but I’m frying the engine of this thing. Assuming it doesn’t explode.”

“You seem to solve many of your problems with explosions,” Damian says, and goddammit, that’s the first threads of grudging respect in the little brat’s tone. 

“Yeah, that’s why B gave me a metal stick and a phone. He’s protecting Gotham’s infrastructure from me.”

As he pulls the truck back on the road, Jason decides he hates both of them.

-

He’d call it a game if anyone involved was having any fun, but that’s not the point. The point is to annoy Talia as much as possible while keeping a death grip on plausible deniability. 

She’s not willing to assign anyone to catch him when he dodges his weekly Murder Room exercise - probably so Ra’s won’t find out how little control she has over him, assuming he doesn’t already know - so she has to hunt him down herself. 

It’s made all the more miserable knowing she’s got something up her sleeve, but if he throws in the towel too early, that would be suspicious, too. He sure knows how to make life harder on himself. 

What the hell does ‘I know how to make you understand,’ even mean?

Damian’s ready, at least. However many objections he had to their ‘ludicrous and borderline suicidal’ plan, Jason knows he’ll follow through. 

Even if they don’t quite know what they need to be ready for. Jason has guesses, but Talia’s hard to read. 

Equally hard to outrun, apparently, because the next thing he knows, she’s got a knife to his throat and forces him to concede. That’s the deal - once he loses, he follows her without complaint, even when then they don’t go to the normal room. 

This room is carved out of rock, with two thick metal doors on opposite walls. The iron tang of blood assaults his nose, even if there isn’t any staining the floor. He can hear voices on the other side of the far door, but not clearly enough to make out what they’re saying. All and all, a normal LoA room. 

Except, oh yeah, there’s a fucking child dead center, bound, gagged, and flanked by two guards. Jason freezes in the doorway. 

“What the fuck.”

Talia acts like she doesn’t hear him. She waves the guards out, leaving the three of them in the room when the door slams shut. 

The kid stares at him with wide blue eyes that scream recognition, though Jason’s never seen this kid before in his life. The eyes with the mop of black hair is the archetype he, Dick, and Bruce fit into, but the paper pale skin isn’t. He doesn’t look hurt at least - just a bruise on his neck from whatever knockout juice they injected him with and rumpled clothes from being worn for a few days. 

“Talia,” Jason says flatly. “What is this?”

She smiles serenely at him. “I thought it prudent to introduce you to Timothy Drake. Your successor.”

Jason’s blood turns to ice. 

‘Don’t do this, Talia,’ he wills fruitlessly. ‘Don’t push there.’

He might not be as good as Bruce, but he’s still a detective. He can easily imagine the kid in a mask and cape leaping across buildings after Batman. He knows Bruce can’t resist a sad-enough looking kid with no parents in sight. He knows that Dick didn’t like him at first because Bruce has the emotional intelligence of a rock and wasn’t very good at explaining how Jason wasn’t meant to be a replacement. He knows-

It still hurts. It still ignites a nice big ball of shame in his gut. 

Talia’s more than eager to fan those flames. 

“I see you’re as surprised as I was,” she says. “So I looked into it for you.”

‘Stop. Stop it, Talia.’

She’s good at finding weaknesses. She knows what happened between Jason and Bruce before… before. 

Talia produces a newspaper from the Gotham Gazette and hands it to him. Jason wants to drop it and let it scatter across the floor, but his fingers curl around it without his input. 

‘Robin Flies Again!’ 

Dated six months after his death. 

Six. 

Six.

That’s- that’s it? That’s all it took?

He realizes the paper is turning green a beat too late to do anything about it. 

He can feel his anger drumming under his skin like a runaway train, but his brain feels strangely numb. 

It’s the worst part of the side effects - that sometimes he can so easily see the line between his actual emotions and the Pit, and still not have any control when the Pit is in charge. 

Talia might’ve saved his life, kept him safe, and given him an opportunity to get back to his family, but Jason hates her with a rage that is 100% his own. 

One of the things he’d always been most proud of when he was Robin is that kids trusted him. Even the skittish Crime Alley kids who come in with hackles raised and a knife between their fingers still come to Robin. Because Robin protects kids. More than Batman can, at times, because Batman is still an adult, and he doesn’t always understand what the street rats really need. 

The fact that he’s even considering hurting this kid - that it’s even a thought that crosses his mind - makes him want to puke. That’s not who he is. It’s not. Robin is magic. Robin isn’t- he’s not-

“Did you know that six months is the time span before grief is considered pathological? Our dear Bruce certainly knows how to keep up appearances, doesn’t he?”

‘Too far, Talia, you’re pushing too far-’

He blinks, and he’s straining against two guards - guards? What guards? Since when did Talia call the guards in? - towards his Replacement. 

Talia laughs. “Now, now. Patience, Jason. Father wants to see how far you’ve come. A fair and honest duel.”

Jason is going to kill her. He’s going to rip her limb from limb, as soon as he gets done with-

Wide blue eyes. He’s shaking. 

Tim. His name is Tim. 

He’s not a replacement - Bruce wouldn’t. Six months before the new Robin showed up. 

He’s not a replacement. 

He has a name. 

He’s a kid.

He…

Make it look good. 

He scoffs and goes limp in the guards hold. 

“When?” He says, and it comes off more of a growl than he intends. He hates her. He hates her, and he can’t bring himself to care that it’s unfair of him. 

Talia flicks a hand at the guards holding Tim. They drag him away. 

“Right now. Come. We will prepare you both for the arena.”

The fucking arena. The cliché bullshit ‘two go in, one comes out’ thing. They want him to kill Robin in front of an audience. 

He hates this League of psychotic murderers, and the second he gets Tim and Damian to safety, he’s going to burn them to the fucking ground.

He can do this. 

Don’t kill the kid. 

Easy. 

-

They actually do find a 1998 Toyota fucking Corolla at the first goddam rest stop they come across. 

“Holy shit!” Tim cheers in his ear. “I’m so damn amazing! Superman wishes he was me!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jason seethes. “Shut all the way up.”

Damian hums. “Statistically, it was likely we would find one. It is the most common car on Earth.”

“We’re stealing a different car. Fuck you.”

Tim groans and flops back onto a pile of microwave parts dramatically. “Nooooo! It’s the destiny car! We have to!”

“Did I hit your head too hard?”

Tim sticks his tongue out. “I’m getting benched for like a month, minimum for this. Bruce doesn’t mess around with kidnappings, so he’s gonna hover. I’m making it worth my while. We’re stealing the fucking Corolla.”

He doesn’t play the easy card. Jason practically handed it to him on a silver platter, and he doesn’t take it. Martyr. 

“Seconded,” Damian says. “If only to get Drake to shut up.”

“Outvoted!” Tim whoops. 

Jason groans and pulls up beside the stupid Corolla. Jimmying the lock is made all the harder trying to stop Damian from impatiently breaking the window, but he manages. 

“I will drive,” Damian announces. 

“No.” Jason grabs him by the scruff of his robes before he can squirm away. “Tim’s driving.”

Damian whirls, eyes bright. “I am perfectly capable-”

“Yes, Damian, you are, but you’re also too short to reach the pedals.”

Jason’s honestly surprised he doesn’t get a knife in the gut for that. Tim is wise enough to keep his mouth shut. 

Wise - Jason decides firmly - but also breathtakingly stupid, because he takes two steps away from the truck and almost falls flat on his face when his injured leg gives out. 

Jason catches him, just in time for him to say, “Right. Stab wound. Forgot about that.”

Jason sighs, casts his gaze to the sky, and mentally apologizes to Bruce. He’s herding cats here. He and Dick weren’t this bad, were they?

(They were, he knows they were, which just makes this whole fiasco even more annoying.)

He shoves Tim into the Corolla, Damian into the truck’s passenger seat, and himself into the driver’s seat. 

He does not care when he almost runs over another car pulling in. He does not care when the Corolla’s owner runs out of the bathroom, waving after them frantically. 

He puts the pedal to the fucking metal until the desert stops being green.

Chapter Text

“Damian,” Jason whispers as sweetly as he can, out of earshot from the gremlin digging around the truck’s engine. “You remember when we talked about ‘rank,’ right?”

Damian narrows his eyes, but dutifully recites, “Outside of the League, it is not necessary to kill and/or maim competition.”

“It isn’t necessary or productive. If you were to, say, let Tim get himself blown up, Batman would be pissed. He sure as hell wouldn’t train you.”

Damian scowls. God, Jason’s coming out of this with a phD in Damian-ese, isn’t he? The kid is so predictable when you account for the murder cult. Of fucking course he’d latch onto the mythical badass from Jason’s stories as his next objective. And with Tim as his current apprentice…

“I would not have let him die! I would at least slit his throat myself-”

“No.”

“It is because I do not consider him a complete embarrassment that I would look him in the eye-”

“No!” Jason wants to grab the stupid brainwashed kid’s shoulders and shake him, but that’s a good way to get stabbed. “No killing Tim. Batman will only train people who are capable of working with a team. Tim’s on our team. No killing.”

“I am not going to!”

“No killing him after we get rescued, either.” 

Damian huffs and crosses his arms. “I will confirm you are not mistaken about rank before promising that.” 

Jason rolls his eyes to the sky. That’s the best he’s gonna get. God, he wishes Ra’s was at the compound they blew up. He can’t wait to chuck this kid at Dick and let the human embodiment of sunshine get it through his thick skull.

He really can’t keep being the one giving this lecture. Being a hypocrite is yet another vice he’d avoided as Robin. 

“Jaaaason!” Tim calls. “Help me get this stupid thing out!”

Jason sighs. He gives Damian the universal ‘I’m watching you’ gesture (he made sure it was universal after the first time he tried to give the kid a high-five and got punched in the stomach) and storms over to Tim.

A Tim he probably should’ve been paying more attention to, because he’s covered in grease and wrestling with the trucks battery. 

“Need all these unplugged,” he says as his only elaboration. Jason is going to nap for a year after this. 

For all his smarts, a car guy Tim Drake is not. He stares at Jason with undisguised awe when Jason unhooks the battery with little fanfare. Tim doesn’t need any help rewiring everything to the seemingly random microwave parts and the CB radio, though, which is kind of hilarious. Hyper-competent at the expense of any useful civilian skills. Robin in a nutshell. 

Just as Tim’s closing the battery compartment, Jason dips his voice so Damian can’t hear. “Do me a favor and don’t tell Bruce I’m here.”

Tim’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Why not?”

It was easy, before, to ignore all the emotional issues. That was a Wayne family specialty, after all. But once Tim sends the message, they’ll have no mission to focus on, no distractions except maybe a few assassins. 

Jason is going home. 

He swallows the ball of anxiety wadded up in his throat. “We don’t want him to hesitate because he thinks you’re compromised or something. It’s impossible, and Bruce isn’t going to believe it until he does a gazillion checks. It won’t help him to worry about it the whole way here.”

Tim presses his mouth into a thin line. “If you say so.”

Brat. He can’t even pretend he believes him?

“Alright,” Tim says louder before Jason can protest. “Once I start the truck, it’ll pretty quickly start an electrical fire, so we’ll need to book it once I’m done.”

Ugh. Maybe he should let Damian kill him. At least then it’d be quick. Stupid genius idiots with stupid death wishes. 

Jason lines up the Corolla parallel to the truck, Damian stationed at the open back door, ready to yank Tim to safety. 

Hopefully. 

Tim doesn’t look worried in the slightest. Once everyone’s in place, he starts the truck. 

The radio shrieks with static that hurts his teeth until Tim presses the transmitter. 

“This is Robin with an urgent SOS. LoA in pursuit. I have two friendlies with me, and one level two injury among us. If any rogues are listening, back off. The YJ has access to all the blackmail I’ve compiled and they’re not afraid to release all of it, so I promise you it’s not worth it to try anything. Requesting immediate pickup, but with the unsecured channel, I cannot give specifics.”

His eyes dart to the hood. Jason can’t detect anything amiss, but Tim starts talking quicker. 

“Now is also a good a time as any to apologize to the FCC and the regulatory body of whatever country we’re in. I don’t think my Bat-allowance will cover the fines for this, so please send the bill to the Justice League. This thing’s gonna explode pretty soon, so I have to go. Robin, out.”

Damian snags the back of Tim’s shirt and yanks him inside. 

Tim laughs as they peel away, and Jason tries very hard not to think about how easily Damian could shove him out the door.

Jason doesn’t stop, even when the horizon bursts with light from the explosion. 

Tim whoops. “Take that, FCC!”

Jason revisits the theory that he gave Tim a concussion. 

-

No one shows up all day, which is expected. If Supes is off-world, then Martian Manhunter probably is too, and that means the Justice League has to track them the old-fashioned way. 

‘Someone’s coming,’ Jason insists to himself and ignores the thoughts about the last time he said that. 

Jason’s way too wired to sleep, so he takes the first driving shift. Tim eyes him, but concedes. He lets Damian curl up in the back and leans the passenger seat as far as it can go. 

But he doesn’t sleep. 

He’s not even trying particularly hard to fake it, the bastard. He shuts his eyes, but his face isn’t relaxed in the slightest. 

Jason knows Damian can tell, too, but the brat nods off anyway. Traitor. There’s gonna be some emotionally charged bullshit, and Jason swore he was done trying to kill Tim. 

Tim waits until the sun goes down to speak. 

“Jason?” he murmurs. 

Jason grunts an acknowledgment. 

Damian stays asleep behind them. Tim shifts up in his seat to a criss-cross position, and that’s immediately rectified. Tim doesn’t seem to notice or care. 

“About… earlier, when you said not to tell Bruce…”

Jason’s fingers grip the steering wheel tighter. 

“I didn’t!” Tim hisses, holding his hands up in surrender. 

Jason forces himself to breathe. “I was there. I know.”

Tim hesitates. Out of the corner of his eye, Jason watches him lower his hands into his lap and start twisting them together. 

“I just… I need you to know what Talia said about him was a lie.”

Jason’s knuckles are turning white. He keeps his gaze fixed on the road. Deep breaths. 

“I know.” 

Tim’s eyes dart over, then back to his lap. “It’s worth repeating. He loves you. He couldn’t replace you even if he wanted to.”

But that’s the problem. 

Maybe it would’ve been better if Bruce had replaced him. If he’d mourned and moved on, and already filled that void, because Jason…

Jason’s not back. Not really. He came back wrong. He can’t fill the void. 

And how cruel is that, to lure his heart back out and kill it again slowly, like a Venus flytrap digesting its prey? Jason’s too selfish to leave. Just like he was too selfish to stay, before. 

He’s… especially now with his temper cranked up to eleven, with violence and death coming to him as naturally as breathing, with Tim sitting next to him with bruises and a broken nose still flaked with dried blood from Jason’s fists… he’s not… he’s not that bright-eyed kid anymore. And this time, he knows…

He knows it will hurt Bruce, and Dick, and Alfred. To have him back, only to realize they don’t, really. 

But Jason’s still going to do that to them. Because his chest feels worse than having every rib smashed in with a crowbar when he thinks about leaving. 

If he was still that kid from before, he would get Tim and Damian to Bruce without him realizing who his Good Samaritan was, and he’d disappear. 

But he can’t. Because he isn’t. 

Does Tim realize this? Can he tell, that something is deeply wrong with him? 

Probably not. If he did, he wouldn’t be so insistent Jason come home. He’d like to think the kid isn’t sadistic enough to do that if he knew how much it would hurt. 

“I’m sorry for breaking your nose,” Jason says instead of answering him. 

Tim doesn’t sigh or outwardly convey any annoyance at all, which is very big of him. 

“I forgave you for that before I even got stabbed.”

Jason turns to make eye contact. “It wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was choking you.”

He wonders if his eyes are glowing. Tim seems determined to glare like he is, at least. 

“I’m not afraid of you. And you don’t get to decide how I should feel.” He grins, sharp and sure. “If you think for one second I won’t drag you kicking and screaming back into this family, you got another thing coming.”

Jason refuses to be intimidated by a pipsqueak. “You’re such a goddam martyr.”

“I take after my older brother that way,” Tim snaps back, then slumps back like a petulant child. 

Jason focuses on the road, but he can see Tim continue to try to tie his fingers into knots out of the corner of his eye. 

Brothers? Who’d want Jason as a brother? Dick had warmed up to him, but that took a while, at least. Tim had barely let the blood dry from Jason beating the shit out of him, and he’s practically making friendship bracelets. 

He sighs. Learning to speak Tim-ian isn’t as hard as Damian-ese, really. The secret is to match his energy. If Jason keeps trying to steer the conversation, Tim will metaphorically yank the wheel out of his grasp. As much as he wants to avoid that emotional bombshell, he knows Tim’s only using it to get them back on track to talk about Bruce. 

Two can play at that game, brat. 

“Bruce really has a bad habit, huh?”

Tim’s head whips around. Jason can practically feel his eyes boring holes into his head. 

If he wants to talk about Bruce, Jason can talk about Bruce. And there is no way in hell Tim has a flawless relationship with the emotionally constipated bastard. 

Luckily for both of them, Tim chickens out. “Damian has green eyes, right?”

Damian jerks up to stare at Tim incredulously. Tim doesn’t jump, just turns to give Damian his attention. “What?”

Jason grins and ignores Damian’s confusion. “I mean, so do I, now.”

“Damn, you’re right. We’re so fucked. I’m gonna be a middle child. Dick thought I was bad as the baby.”

Jason laughs at that. “He said the same thing about me.”

“What are you two idiots talking about?” Damian demands. 

Jason knows if Damian doesn’t get an answer, he will turn this into a hostage negotiation, so he says, “All three of Bruce’s adopted kids have been black-haired, blue-eyed brats with more puns than common sense. But now that I have green eyes, there’s no reason not to add you, too.”

Damian looks even more bewildered. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Tim snorts and takes mercy on the kid. “It doesn’t. But it’s funny to pretend there are rules when there aren’t. And, anyway, Steph has a college fund and she’s blonde, so it’s not even a real pretend rule.”

Damian makes the exact face of a man who understands all of those words individually, but not in that order. 

Jason raises his right hand. “All in favor of Bruce adopting Damian and making him our little brother say ‘aye.’”

Tim could not more clearly be having the time of his life. He mirrors Jason and says, “Aye!”

“With two ‘aye’s and the rest abstained, the ‘aye’s have it. Welcome to the family, Damian.”

“What,” Damian says flatly. It’s not even a question, rather a statement of pure confusion. 

Tim throws his feet up on the dashboard. “Don’t worry. None of us had siblings before either. And you’re not even the only one raised by assassins.” His gaze darts to Jason. “You haven’t met her yet. New Batgirl.”

“I…” Damian presses his mouth into a thin line before saying quietly, “I do not understand.”

Man. Tim might be a wizard, if he managed to dumfound Damian enough to admit that in so many words. 

Jason lets out a long, amused breath through his nose. “Okay, so you know how your mom is always fighting with her siblings for more status and power, and she won by being Ra’s favorite?”

“Yes,” Damian says slowly. 

“Non-league siblings aren’t like that. Ideally. It’s like…” He pauses to consider. The image of Dick Grayson pops into his head, even though with how long they were at each others throats initially, he might not be the best example. 

Luckily, Tim chimes in. “It’s like how when we were escaping, we protected each other. Even when I got stabbed and was a liability, you guys pulled me out. And even after Jason kicked my ass, I still helped him out of the arena.”

Jason nods and ignores the twisting of his stomach. “Families can argue, but… you do your best not to hurt them.”

Damian raises an eyebrow. “People you do not hurt or kill, forever? Even if they betray you?”

“Oh, especially then,” Tim says. If he’s put off by Damian’s casual murder talk, he doesn’t show it. “I’ve got this friend, Kon, and his dad is a villain, and kind of a shit dad to be honest, but our team doesn’t make them fight head-to-head. Not like we kill our villains anyway, because it’s generally frowned upon for kids to commit murder, but my point stands.”

Damian’s eyebrows flatten. “I have killed people before.” 

Jason scoffs. “Of course that’s what you take away from that. It’s frowned upon for kids to commit murder ‘cause they don’t normally do that unless an adult is making them.”

“And Dick technically killed the Joker once, so Bruce will get over himself. Not like he’s much better.”

Jason whirls, mouth halfway open before he realizes. That son of a bitch. 

He looks way too goddam proud of himself. Circling the conversation back to Bruce in such a way that Jason is not going to be able to resist. Because Dick did what?! Bruce wasn’t much better?! What the fuck did that mean?

Tim raises an eyebrow like he’s the stupidest person on the planet. “Duh, the Joker killed you. With Dick, he got resuscitated after and with Bruce…” Tim blows air out of his cheek. “Joker was an ambassador for Iran or something. I dunno how he pulled that one off, but Superman had to stop Bruce from causing a diplomatic incident.”

What. 

Tim smirks and crosses his arms behind his head. “Man, being the middle child rules.”

“What.”

Tim closes his eyes, but keeps the infuriating smile up. “You think too loud, Jay. They’d much rather have you different than not have you at all. They’ll get over the murder that was under duress and evil goo juice.”

Is it too late to kick the shit out of the smug little brat? It’s probably too late. Also a bad example for Damian, who squints his eyes at both of them.

“Family is confusing,” he says with a scowl.

Jason snorts. “You got that right.”

-

Jason’s not sure that Tim actually fell back asleep, because his eyes snap open at the exact moment the clock on the dashboard indicates it’s his turn to drive. 

“Just don’t crash, you insomniac,” Jason mutters and curls up in the rear seat. 

Damian mutters a protest from the passenger, but Jason ignores him. It’d be a bitch to explain, and would undo a lot of his hard work, but at the moment he doesn’t even care if they kill each other as long as they do it quietly. 

Luckily, when he wakes up to the light from the sunrise, they’re both alive. Uninjured, too. 

Jason stretches as best he can. “Morning, brats.”

On cue, Tim’s stomach rumbles, and he swears. “Who’s up for robbing a gas station?”

“Gas station burritos for breakfast?” Jason says, raising an eyebrow. He’s not sure if that’s a thing in whichever-country-they’re-in, but it’s the principle. 

“You’re right. Sorry. We’ll find a country club and raid their breakfast buffet. Wouldn’t want to ruin your delicate sensibilities.”

“Wha- Delicate?! I’ve eaten out of dumpsters-”

Tim shushes him. He shushes him. Jason’s about two seconds from actually throttling the little twerp when he hears it. 

All three of them hear it at the same time, actually, because they all turn towards each other.

The Batplane.

Chapter Text

It’s Jason’s idea to flicker the headlights in the SOS pattern. It might’ve been a terrible one, in hindsight, because the Batplane practically nosedives straight towards them. 

Tim doesn’t look surprised, even as Jason’s grip white-knuckles on the gearshift. 

“Sorry. They’re… touchy about kidnappings after… well, y’know.”

Touchy is certainly one way to describe the almost-crash-landing the Batplane performs. It hasn’t even slowed to a complete stop when the door flies open and Nightwing leaps out, escrima sticks at the ready. 

Tim flashes Jason a quick smile, surprisingly shy for him, and hops out of the car. 

Jason lets out a long sigh. It’s. It’s gonna be fine. He jerks his head at Damian to follow Tim and hovers close to the demon’s shoulder. Last thing he needs is Damian stabbing Dick. That would be even more embarrassing than him stabbing Tim. 

Dick sprints towards them.

“Tim!” 

And-

At least Damian’s hackles leap up just as much as his do. Even… even if - Tim’s shoulders loosen, just a tad, when Dick jerks forward and wraps him up in a hug, and Jason knows how that feels, safe and loved and so sure, and Jason can’t remember when or why he stopped believing them - even if Damian is tense for an entirely different reason than Jason. 

“You are never allowed to do this to me again,” Dick says firmly into Tim’s hair. “You hear me, Timmy? Never, ever again. I’m gonna have gray hairs before I’m thirty - is that what you want? You want your big brother to go gray? You clearly want Batman to, but I thought you’d at least spare me!”

“Yes, Dick,” Tim replies, drier than the desert they drove though. “I on-purpose got kidnapped just to give you gray hairs.” Then, his arms slowly wind their way across Dick’s back. Like he’s trying to be sneaky. Like Dick isn’t clutching him to his chest like the most precious thing in the world. 

Jason expects the jealousy that sears through his gut, so he shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath before Dick catches sight of the green and mistakes him for a laser-visioned meta.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” Dick murmurs. “I swear, this whole continent is bad luck for this family.”

Ah, so they are in Africa. 

Tim lets out a startled laugh. “Uh, yeah, speaking of which, actually…” 

Goddamit. Jason is hyper-aware of the dried blood on his robes, the new scars, the taller build. He almost hopes Dick doesn’t recognize him like this. 

He opens his eyes in time to see Tim turn meaningfully towards Jason, and Dick follow his gaze. 

His breath catches in his throat. His eyes rake across Jason like fingernails across skin. 

“Jason?” His voice is small, and it shouldn’t be. Dick Grayson is loud and obnoxious and lights up rooms better than the chandeliers he insists on swinging from. He shouldn’t be small or quiet or… 

Dick takes a step towards him, holding Tim’s hand like he’s afraid he’ll bolt. “Jason.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” He’s choking on the joke, and he can’t see through the sudden blur in his eyes, but it’s okay because- 

Dick slams into him, arms locked, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt tight, tight, tight.

“Jason!”

Jason feels Damian move away from his side, and he wants to snag him back - Tim, too - for a big old fashioned group hug, but he’s not sure he could convince his hands to let go of Dick, even for a second, and-

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Dick says, which is when Jason realizes he was apologizing, over and over. 

He shuts his mouth until he’s sure his brain has control over it. 

“I missed you,” he says, lamely. He’s not sure what else to say. What the hell are you supposed to say to your brother after you died?

Dick laughs - or maybe it’s a sob, it’s hard to tell - and replies, “I missed you, too. God, Jason. How…?”

Jason grips tighter and buries his face in Dick’s shoulder. “Lazarus Pit.”

It’s muffled against the Kevlar, but he knows Dick hears because his entire body goes stiff. 

“So,” he says after a long moment, “do I need to thank Talia or kick her ass?”

It takes Jason a second to consider. “Both?”

Dick chokes. He tilts his head to look over to where Tim and Damian are very carefully not watching them. 

“Only you, Tim,” Dick croaks. “Literally only you could get kidnapped and come back with a no-longer-deceased brother and…” his gaze flickers to Damian, “a new baby assassin brother?”

“Hey, Damian was my brother first,” Jason grouses, shifting to wrap his arm around Dick’s neck. 

“And Tim was mine first, but that didn’t seem to stop you!”

Tim and Damian have identical deer-in-headlights expressions. Great. Two affection-starved little brothers. He should’ve known better than to hope Tim was emotionally competent.

He makes eye contact with Damian. “I am pulling you two idiots into a hug now,” he announces. “You’re not allowed to stab anyone.”

Dick makes a confused noise and Damian scowls, but neither protest when Jason yanks everyone into a group hug. 

Tim stumbles over his bad leg and ends up squished into Jason’s chest. Dick scoops up Damian and slots him next to Tim so he can wrap his arms around everyone without Damian getting suffocated. 

Jason tips his head to rest it on someone’s hair. He's pretty sure it’s Tim’s, but he couldn’t care less. 

Jason is safe. Damian is free. Tim is home. For as much of a train-wreck as the whole thing started, right now, he considers it a win. 

-

It’s almost comical how completely the reunion repeats itself when they finally meet up with Bruce back at the Cave. Jason couldn’t force himself to mind if he tried, not when he’s pressed up against the achingly familiar scent of Bruce’s cologne, Kevlar, and Gotham’s smog. Not when he can feel Bruce’s awed, “Jay-lad,” rumbling in his chest almost more than he can hear it.

“I’m sorry,” he says into Bruce’s shirt. 

Bruce carefully runs his hand through Jason’s hair. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I-” He swallows, and Jason can feel it. “I’m the one who’s sorry. It wasn’t your fault.”

There’s a scuffling sound behind him, and Tim mutters a fond, “Oh my God-” and then he’s being held hostage against his ribs by Dick - who plasters himself across Jason’s back - and Bruce - who instantly maneuvers his arm to accommodate all of them. 

“Damian-” Dick tries. 

“Absolutely not,” Damian snaps back. Jason snorts and almost chokes on his fucked up sinuses, which is just enough of a moment killer to allow him to lean back and look at Bruce’s face. 

He looks older, a lot more than he should. The dusting of gray in his hair is now more like ivy along a neglected wall, and the crows’ feet have gone up a shoe size. 

Still, his eyes are shining and his smile is soft, and he brings a hand up to Jason’s face to cradle it. 

“Jason,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

Jason knows his dad a little too well. He won’t forgive himself for failing to save him, just like Jason won’t forgive himself for everything the Pit made him do. So it’s easy to pull a smile through the tears like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat and say, “I forgive you, Bruce. I forgave you a long time ago.”

That devolves their whole hug back into sobbing hysterics, but eventually they manage to extricate everyone. 

Damian has been remarkably patient through this whole feelings episode, so Jason’s almost expecting the kid to get snippy now that it’s done. 

He doesn’t, though what he does instead is almost more baffling: Damian sticks his hand out to Bruce, just like Jason accidentally taught him when they first met, and says, “Greetings. I am Damian al Ghul.”

Bruce blinks, but recovers quick. He takes Damian’s hand to shake. “Greetings. I am Bruce Wayne.”

Damian waits for their handshake to break off before speaking again. “Todd and Drake tell me you can protect me from Grandfather.”

Bruce’s expression sharpens into pure Batman. “Ra’s?”

Damian nods. 

“They’re right.” He carefully puts a hand on Damian’s shoulder. Damian is tense as a viper, but he keeps his fangs carefully tucked away. Jason’s almost proud of him. “We’ll keep you safe.”

“Excellent. I-”

Tim jerks forward before Damian can finish, raising a hand. “Dibs on taking him shopping for his first gala suit!”

Dick wrinkles his nose. “Literally no one is fighting you for that, Timmy.”

“Bruce might.” Tim narrows his eyes at him. “I’m not letting you corrupt him with your atrocious sense of style. I swear to God, if I see you or Discowing anywhere near his closet, I will set fire to your entire bow tie collection.”

Bruce raises his hands in surrender, a small smile tugging at his face. “I will defer to your expertise. I will, however, insist you use my card.”

Damian glances over at Jason. His face is neutral, but bewilderment is radiating off him in waves. Jason chuckles and pats his shoulder. “Just roll with it. They’ll remember you have no clue what they’re talking about eventually.”

Not yet, apparently. Dick sputters, “Wait, hang on, don’t you own Jinco Jeans? Since when are you a fashion expert?”

Tim scoffs. “Formal wear is an art. Skater wear is a competition to see who can dress the most impractically and still do a kick flip.”

“You’re making that up.”

“It’s called ‘styling for the occasion.’”

“It’s called ‘you are a massive nerd.’”

“It’s called ‘I don’t have to take this from Discowing.’”

Dick throws his hands in the air. “You’re never going to let a man move on, huh?”

“You still stand by that choice, so no.”

“It’s not even that bad!”

“Case in point.”

“Boys,” Bruce finally interrupts. He gives Tim a look. “You should be sitting, not antagonizing your brother.”

Tim’s face goes red, but he valiantly tries to distract by rolling his eyes. “You’re not the boss of me.”

Dick snorts. “Pretty sure he is, Timmy.”

Tim tilts his nose up, a picture-perfect Bristol Brat. “Says who?”

“The state of New Jersey.”

“Please.”

Dick laughs and throws an arm around Tim’s shoulder. “Man, I forgot how pissy you are when you’re tired. My turn: you look like shit and smell even worse, so all three of you need a shower while Alfred makes something to eat.”

“Oh, good, I’m starving.” Tim holds out his hand for Damian, who takes it slowly. Tim lights up like a Christmas tree, even though he has to lean half his weight on the kid. “You can borrow some of my clothes until we have time to get you some of your own. I just got my growth spurt, so most of mine should fit you. Jason was way more of a shrimp, if you can believe it.”

Dick and Bruce make the exact same exacerbated face at that, which makes Jason smile, despite himself. 

Bruce sighs. “We told you not to go into Jason’s room-”

“I didn’t touch anything! And I broke into Dick’s place, too, so I dunno why you’re surprised.”

“Shoo, stalker,” Dick says, smothering a laugh. 

Tim pauses. Then, almost conversationally, “By the way, before I forget, when I’m eighteen, Damian’s gonna be your Robin.”

Everyone whips their heads around to stare, except… except Damian, the little gremlin. 

Tim raises an eyebrow. “What? I’m breaking the cycle.” He points an accusing finger at Dick. “You weren’t even Robin anymore, and you still gave Jason shit about it.” Dick sputters, but Jason doesn’t have time to enjoy it, cause the finger’s pointing at him next. “And I know Talia was manipulating you, but you still went all ‘Pit Rage’ on me.” Finally, he hefts his other hand that’s still holding Damian’s. “You and I are gonna be cool from day one. We’re gonna show how much better than these two chumps we are.”

That certainly got a shark-like smirk out of Damian. How the fuck did Tim learn to speak Damian-ese so quickly? 

“Understood,” the little brat says with a nod. 

“Wha- When did you decide this?” Jason sputters. 

“When you were asleep. Damian asked about how to inherit a role outside the League.”

Christ- so the kid did listen to him. Great. Awesome. He sure loves that. 

Jason buries his head in his hands. “I shoulda let him try to kill you. You’re way too explosion-happy to be a good influence on the demon brat.”

Tim shrugs, shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “I am a fantastic influence. I’m gonna teach him how to solve cold cases next. Mark my words - no murder in Gotham is ever gonna get beyond ‘lukewarm’ ever again.”

Bruce - damn him - does not look appropriately horrified by the notion. He just smiles, cups Tim’s face with his hand, and rubs his cheek with his thumb. Disgusting. Not the correct reaction to chaos incarnate declaring his devotion to the spoiled demon prince. 

“Just don’t blow anything up.”

“I got it out of my system for a while.”

“I’m glad you’re back home, Tim.”

Tim ducks his head as his smile turns soft. 

Bruce shifts his hand to rest on Damian’s head. “And I’m glad to have you home, too, Damian.”

Damian very visibly doesn’t know what to do with that, but luckily for him, Tim gives Bruce a two-fingered salute and tugs him towards the stairs. No one but Jason can tell that Damian accepting more of Tim’s weight without comment is a sign of how relieved he is. 

They disappear around the bend, and Dick opens his mouth to say something but-

“Your apartment sucked, by the way.” Tim’s voice echoes through the cave. “At least Jason’s room is clean.”

“Brat!”

Tim snickers until he’s out of earshot. 

Dick runs a hand through his hair. “That kid, I swear.”

The silence in the cave is suddenly a touch more fragile. They all know why Jason didn’t follow - the three of them need to face the Bat Kryptonite that is emotional honesty. Jason… he can’t not know for much longer, or he’ll drive himself crazy. 

“You kept my room?” It’s not what Jason wanted to say, so it comes out much smaller than he meant. 

Bruce’s shoulders are stiff as a ruler. “I promised I wouldn’t touch it.”

In the first few days with the League, Jason was told exactly how long he’d been dead, and he’d punched through a wall at the thought of Bruce throwing out his stuff. He really should’ve known better. That would require the emotional maturity to let go of his grief, and Bruce wore evidence of his inability to do so every night. 

Talia even tried reassuring him, in her own messed up way. “I would not have bothered restoring your mind if you meant nothing to my Beloved.”

He remembers her exact words because he’d actually taken a swing at her for that. He’d still been nebulously mad at Bruce, but the idea of Talia using Jason to hurt him sharpened his vision and moved his limbs without input. 

Frankly, he’s still pissed, because she did use him to get to Bruce, and she’d shredded his temper and morals to do it, like what he wants means less than nothing, like she-

“Your eyes are glowing,” Dick says, hushed. 

Jason squeezes his eyes shut and takes a long, deep breath. Rage dances across his nerves like an electrical current, so he turns on his heel to put distance between himself and his family. Calm down. It’s fine. He’s safe now. Don’t attack Batman. Easy. Deep breaths. 

He nearly runs straight into the Bat-computer, but he still knows the cave like the back of his hand, so he grabs the chair and focuses on not tearing a chunk out of it. 

“Sorry,” he rasps. “I dunno why I’m freaking out.”

Neither respond to him, but Jason can hear Dick whisper something to Bruce. 

“How…” Bruce hesitates. He never does that, and Jason’s man enough to admit that scares him more than a little. “How bad are the side effects?”

Jason keeps his hand flat on the back of the chair. It makes it obvious that it’s trembling, but better that than letting his fingers curl and rip into the upholstery. 

“Not great,” he says without looking at either of them. “Temper’s shot to hell. Memory gaps. It’s…” He swallows thickly. “Let’s just say Talia has plenty of evidence for how good I’d be in the League.”

“Jason,” Dick breathes. There’s a hand on his shoulder, and he resists the urge to throw his arms around his big brother. 

“Usually I black out when I kill someone.” He doesn’t think he could stop the words spilling out of his mouth if he tried. “Or it’s a big blur. That’s for sure the Pit. But sometimes I can’t tell.”

He waits for Dick to yank his hand back. Of course he doesn’t, because Dick Grayson is too good. 

“I hurt Tim. In the fight.” Was his vision green during that? He can’t remember. “Broke his nose. Choked him. You’ve seen the bruises. That was me. I hurt him, and it felt good, because he replaced me.”

He’s spiraling, he knows. Can’t stop. Neither Bruce nor Dick do it for him. 

“That one I dunno. Maybe it’s the Pit. Maybe I came back wrong.” 

If he were Superman, he would’ve already lasered a hole through the floor. 

“Actually, I definitely came back wrong. ‘Cause I knew it’d hurt you when you realized that kid you mourned is still six feet under, and I came anyway, and-“

Dick’s arms are around him. They have been for a while, he processes. Now, they’re squeezing tight enough that his rambling stops from lack of air. 

“Breathe, Jason,” Bruce says. Oh. Bruce is right next to him, hand on Jason’s back, running up and down his shoulder blades. 

“I’m sorry,” he chokes. He tries to breathe. It’s easier when he realizes Dick is doing the same calming pattern Bruce taught him. 

“It’s okay,” Dick says. His breath tickles Jason’s ear. 

“It’s not. I don’t even know what set me off this time. I just get so angry, and I can’t-”

Bruce’s hand runs through his hair. “It’s okay, Jason. We’ll figure it out. You’re not alone in this.”

“But I hurt Tim. I… I killed so many people. I could’ve-”

Dick squeezes tighter. “Shut up, dummy. It’s the League of Assassins. You’re not even a legal adult, and you’re trying to fight off an evil extraterrestrial goo and keep yourself and a prickly assassin kid safe.”

Jason allows Dick to pull his head into his shoulder. “You’re not alone, Little Wing. We want to help you. Tim obviously does, too. Let us?”

Jason swallows the lump in his throat. He can still see blood and carnage and broken bowstaffs in his mind’s eye, but…

Bruce is carding his fingers through Jason’s hair. 

Dick is running his knuckles along his spine.

Tim called him his brother. 

Damian did to, in his own way. 

Jason is home. 

“…Okay.”