Work Text:
Jason swings his feet idly over the edge of the building, boots knocking softly against the concrete of the building wall between each slow arc.
Below him, the city yawns open. A long, dizzying drop. Wind rushes up in uneven breaths, tugging at his jacket, threading through his hair, whispering temptation.
It would be easy.
So easy.
All he would have to do is lean forward, just a little, and gravity would do the rest. No hesitation. No second chances. Just the sharp, immediate certainty of impact. Bone shattering. Blood blooming. Silence. Death once again.
Jason tilts forward an inch.
Tests it.
Feels the pull.
Then he leans back again, pressing his spine flat against the wall, grounding himself in something solid, something real.
“No,” he mutters under his breath.
Not yet.
He’s already done dying once. That was enough.
More than enough.
Besides, he has things to do.
Debts to settle.
Or maybe not debts. Maybe something prettier than that. Something deliberate. Something crafted.
Gifts.
Jason huffs out a quiet, humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face.
Yeah. Gifts.
A beautiful death wrapped up with a bow for the Replacement. Something slow. Something that crawls under his skin and makes him doubt himself before it ends. Something fitting for the kid who took everything Jason used to be.
And for Batman—
Jason’s mouth twists.
For Bruce, something worse.
Something that lingers.
And Nightwing—
His jaw clenches hard enough to ache.
That one… Jason doesn’t let himself think too closely about. Not yet. Not if he wants to keep his focus sharp instead of splintering into something messy and dangerous.
Maybe he’ll save him for last.
Or maybe he won’t.
Maybe he’ll burn the whole thing down at once.
Maybe he’ll take the entire perfect little family with him if he feels like it.
Jason exhales slowly through his nose and lets his head tip back against the wall, eyes falling shut.
He sits there for a long time.
Long enough for the city to shift beneath him. Long enough for the dark to thin at the edges, bleeding into that gray, uncertain almost-morning. Long enough for the cold to settle deep into his bones without him noticing.
He doesn’t really think.
Not in a straight line, anyway.
His thoughts loop. Snag. Circle back on themselves like something trapped and pacing.
Anger.
Grief.
Hunger.
Loneliness—
Jason’s eyes snap open.
He pushes that last one down hard.
No.
Not that.
Not ever that.
He doesn’t need anyone. Doesn’t want anyone. That’s the point.
That’s what keeps him alive.
When he finally blinks again, the sky has gone pale. Morning. Jason grimaces.
“Shit.”
He swings his legs back onto the ledge and pushes himself up in one smooth motion, rolling his shoulders as he turns away from the drop. Time to go.
His safe house greets him the same way it always does.
Silent.
Still.
Empty (so very empty, so very wrong).
Jason steps inside and shuts the door behind him, the soft click echoing louder than it should in the cramped space.
It smells like him.
Only him.
Gun oil. Sweat. Faint traces of blood that never quite wash out of fabric. Cheap detergent. Metal. Dust.
No warmth.
No overlap.
No pack.
Just him.
Jason stills in the center of the room, something tight curling in his chest before he crushes it down.
No.
He doesn’t have a pack.
He doesn’t need one.
Solo omega.
The phrase had sounded like a joke the first time he’d heard it, something impossible, something that shouldn’t exist.
And yet.
Here he is. Alive. Functioning. Thriving, even. (That’s what he tells himself, anyway.)
He shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it onto a chair, already turning away before it settles.
It’s fine. Better this way. Safer.
No one to lose.
No one to fail.
No one to leave him—
Jason cuts the thought off so sharply that it almost feels physical.
Enough.
He’s not here to spiral.
He’s here because he has a plan.
A good plan.
A great plan, actually. So fucking great.
Jason grins, sharp and mean and a little unhinged around the edges.
Step one?
Break into Wayne Manor.
Step two?
Start haunting the Replacement.
Nothing dramatic. Not at first.
Just enough.
Footsteps where there shouldn’t be any. Doors left open. Things moved half an inch out of place. Shadows that linger too long. A whisper of something just out of reach.
Make him doubt himself.
Make him question everything.
Make him feel watched.
Make him feel crazy.
Jason’s grin widens.
Yeah.
That’ll be fun.
Two nights later, at exactly three in the morning, Jason stands at the edge of the Manor grounds, staring up at the familiar silhouette of the building.
Wayne Manor.
Home.
(Not his.)
His jaw tightens.
Whatever. Doesn’t matter.
He slips through the perimeter like he was never gone.
Muscle memory carries him more than anything else, old routes, old habits, old instincts that never quite left him even after the crowbar and the red smile and the laughing—
Jason cuts that thought off, too.
Focus.
He doesn’t bother with the security system.
Doesn’t even try his old codes.
They’re gone.
Of course, they’re gone.
He’s not stupid enough to think Bruce would leave that kind of vulnerability sitting around. Though maybe Bruce might leave them, because what is the point in removing a dead boy's codes? It would be a waste of time. Maybe a different day Jason will test that. Not today.
Instead, Jason circles the building and climbs.
Quick. Quiet. Efficient.
He reaches his old window in seconds.
For a moment, just a moment of weakness that he loathes himself for, he hesitates.
Then he pushes it up to try to open it. It gives easily.
Unlocked.
Jason freezes.
“…seriously?”
Suspicion prickles sharp and immediate.
That’s careless.
That’s wrong.
Bruce is many things, but careless isn’t one of them.
Jason waits.
Listens.
Nothing.
No alarms.
No footsteps.
No sudden shift in the air that would mean he’s been made.
Slowly, carefully, he slips inside.
And stops.
The room is—
The same.
Exactly the same.
Jason stares.
Dust lies thin over everything, dulling the edges, softening the colors, but underneath it, nothing has changed. Alfred has been in to clean, most likely but not for a while. Everything is the same.
His desk.
His books.
His bed.
There’s a notebook still open where he left it, pen resting against the page like he just stepped out for a minute and hasn’t come back yet.
His chest tightens.
The closet doors hang open, clothes half-pulled from their hangers, scattered and wrinkled from the day he left in a hurry—angry, shouting, slamming doors, he doesn’t care for me, has never cared for me, mom might, my mom could maybe if she told me what she wanted me to be—
Jason drags in a sharp breath.
They didn’t touch it.
They didn’t pack it up.
Didn’t clear it out.
Didn’t—
“…why?” he whispers. The word feels wrong in his mouth.
He doesn’t want the answer. Doesn’t need it. Does it change anything? No. The Joker is still alive, alive, alive.
Jason shakes his head hard and steps fully into the room, forcing himself to move, to break the stillness before it can settle into something heavier.
Doesn’t matter.
None of this matters.
It’s just a room.
Just a space.
Just—
Nothing.
He turns away.
Slips back into the hallway.
Why did he come into this room in the first place?
There is nothing for him here, he knows this.
The Manor feels different.
Jason notices it immediately.
Not in the structure.
Not in the layout.
But in the air.
It’s softer.
Looser.
Less like a museum.
More like—
His lip curls.
More like a home.
He moves silently through the halls, boots barely making a sound against the polished floors, shadows swallowing him whole whenever he pauses.
The walls are lined with photographs.
Jason doesn’t mean to look.
He does anyway.
Bruce.
Dick.
The Replacement.
Others.
More faces than there used to be.
Smiling.
Laughing.
Touching.
Close.
A family.
Jason’s stomach twists violently.
“Of course,” he mutters under his breath. “Of course, you got your perfect little redo.”
The anger comes fast.
Hot.
Blinding.
It fills his chest, crawls up his throat, burns behind his eyes until he can’t think around it.
Did they even try to remember him?
Or did they just—
Replace.
Him.
Jason’s hands curl into fists at his sides.
He turns sharply and heads for the kitchen.
Alfred might have left something out.
Cookies, maybe.
He used to.
Jason’s pace quickens despite himself.
It’s stupid.
Doesn’t matter.
He’s not here for that.
He’s here for the Replacement.
But still—
He turns the corner.
And freezes.
Footsteps.
Light.
Soft.
Coming closer.
Jason moves instantly, pressing himself back into the shadows just beyond the doorway, every instinct snapping into place.
Invisible.
Silent.
Gone.
The footsteps enter the kitchen.
A beam of light cuts through the dark.
And then—
A boy.
Younger than Jason remembers being when he died.
Hair messy from sleep. Shoulders slumped. Movements loose and unguarded in that way civilians have when they think they’re safe. (But no one is safe, not ever, because then the clown comes with his crowbar and that wretched knife and—)
A flashlight in one hand.
Yawning.
The Replacement.
Jason goes very, very still.
Young, so very young his Replacement is.