Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason crawls out of the rumble with broken ribs and a shattered heart; he presses a hand against his ribs and collapses to the cold pavement, rolls onto his back, and heaves up at the sky. He wants to scream, to cry, to kill; Batman didn’t care. About him, about the city.

Bruce doesn’t care.

A car screeches and rolls to a stop, the door opens, and a boot steps out onto the road; Jason should move, but he just doesn’t have the energy to. A black skull appears above Jason, and he glares up at it.

“You’ve got spunk, kid. Not even half a week ago you were pointing a rocket launcher at me from the rooftops, and now you’re crawling out of a destroyed building.”

Jason wheezes and rolls onto his side, trying to get his feet beneath him; but he hurts everywhere. From the fight with Bruce to the bomb he detonated in his apartment; he hopes Joker is dead. He half fears Bruce is.

“I still own you,” Jason chokes out. “I still own you, Roman.”

If Black Mask wasn’t forever stuck in a grin, perhaps he would be grinning now; instead, he shifts his foot and bends down to grasp Jason’s arm. “So you do; but you can’t own anything if you’re six feet under.”

He’s lifts from the ground, and the world tips and his stomach clenches; he gags and groans, his bones shifting against each other and his bruises aching. He is shoved into the backseat of the car before he can vomit, and Roman takes the front seat and drives away from the destruction.

As the car moves, Jason rocks in the back seat; he keeps his cheek pressed to the cool leather, letting it soothe his burning skin. It isn’t right, that Bruce would care so little for him; that Jason would die and nothing would change. That his sacrifice meant nothing; that Joker would still trot about Gotham, still kill, still torture, still cause grief and run amok. It’s not right, that Jason’s death would result in so little a change.

That his sacrifice was for nothing; he gave his life for Gotham. And Gotham gave him nothing.

He tightens his hand into a fist and presses his face further against the car seat; “I’m gonna take it; I’m gonna take all of it…”

Roman glances in the rearview mirror, puts his turn signal on. “Take what?”

“Gotham.” One eye peeks from beneath his hair, glossy and wet. “I will have it all.”

Roman doesn’t say anything; he drives calmly through the night, drags a barely conscious Jason into his home, and sets his personal medic to assessing the boy’s injuries. Jason is sedated to a man in scrubs above him and Black Mask lurking in the doorway.

He wakes briefly in a fluffy mattress, buried beneath a down feather duvet and settled upon plush pillows; there’s a woman in the room with him, and she asks him a question but he goes under again. When he wakes again, more aware than before, and clearly takes in the room he’s lying in. He’s on a four poster bed, in a wide white room with one wall of windows to his right; there’s a set of heavy satin curtains pulled over them to block out the sunlight, but some light leaks through a crack between the curtains.

His mouth tastes rotten, and he can feel the dull ache of bruises littering his body; he ponders sitting up, but decides against it. He’d rather just lay still for now. The door opens and he tenses, ready to spring into a fight, but Black Mask comes walking in bleary eyed and holding a steaming cup of coffee.

“Morning,” he mutters into his cup, and tosses a jacket on the bed; Jason’s leather jacket. “Do you know how many weapons you had in that thing? Explosives, at that; and I’m not even sure if I found them all. You’re a walking bomb, and I wonder how you survived so long without blowing yourself up.”

“Safeties,” Jason croaks out, slowly pushes his sore body into a sitting position. “There are safeties in place; I’m not stupid.”

Roman sniffs and sips his coffee—loudly. “Well, from now on if you’re going to carry explosives it’ll be in your utility belt in a safety pocket specially built to contain a blast; a jacket gets jostled around a lot and is more likely to set something off.”

Jason checks his pockets in his jacket; yeah, they’re all empty. “You’re not my boss; I’m your boss. I own you, Roman.”

“Yes you are,” Mask rolls his eyes and his tone is obviously disgusted. “And where will my business be if you die?”

There’s a ring of purple around his wrist that he watches twist and turn as he fingers the jacket; what would happen if he would die? Nothing. Nothing would happen; nothing had happened.

“Jason.”

He looks up at the man; “what?”

Roman takes a step forward and he looks intimidating, even in a pair of sweats and plain shirt, even with a steaming cup of coffee in his hands, even looking as domestic as he does; it’s in his gaze, unblinking and cold and hard. “You’ve got all of Gotham to own.”

Yeah; yeah, he does. A smirk slowly grows across Jason’s face. “Yeah; I do…”

He’s got work to do.

Chapter Text

The door is half way open before a hand slams it shut and Jason jumps to the side, startled and on the defensive; his fists are halfway raised for a fight, dufflebag slung over his shoulders securely so as to not get in the way, but his ribs protest at the movement and he bites down on a wince.

Black Mask stares him down, towering a slight two inches above him, and Jason’s pretty sure he’s glaring. “Where are you going?”

Jason glares back, shifting the duffle on his back, and eases out of his battle stance. “Out.”

“Where?”

Jason grits his jaw. “I don’t have to tell you nothin’.”

Black Mask leans heavier against the door and looks Jason up and down; “How’d you take out your IV? I had Ms Li on strict orders to keep you in bed.”

Jason sees him move before Mask can grab him, and he ducks out of the way and attempts to deliver a chop to the back of his neck; but Jason is hurt and Mask foresaw him putting up a fight and Mask ducks out of the way. “You don’t order me around, Roman.”

“Perhaps not,” he speaks quietly, deadly, authoritatively. “But you won’t be ordering anyone around if your cracked ribs puncture a lung; go lay down.”

Jason reaches for the doorknob, and Mask does get ahold of his arm then; Jason yanks away, despite the pain that runs through his sprained shoulder. “Let me go!” He doesn’t like being touched; hasn’t liked being touched since he was little. He didn’t even like Bruce touching him, at least for a while; then hugs were welcome, craved even, the feeling of kindness in physical form. “Let me go,” he growls again.

“Go lay down; rest, recuperate. We can fight Batman later.”

His eyes burn; he’s tired, he hurts, but he has things to do. He has plans to make. “Let me go…” The bite is out of his voice, but he still wants out.

A pause; Roman sighs and releases him. “Your door has a lock if that would incite you to stay.”

Jason almost wishes it wouldn’t, but he finds himself more inclined to stay; a lock would keep people out, a lock would separate him from danger, a lock would let him lick his wounds in private. He still goes for the front door; he doesn’t want Roman to feel like he’s won. “I’ve got shit to do.”

Mask is still blocking the way, and it’s like another standoff; finally, Mask heaves a frustrated breath and steps aside, allowing the door to be swung open. “You’ll be back,” he calls as Jason steps out. “I’m not saying it as a demand, I’m just saying it as an observation. You have nowhere to go, Jason, and I’m the only one you know whose door is open.”

Jason goes out into the late morning sun; he hauls his dufflebag higher and drags his feet. He’s prepared; that apartment wasn’t his only safehouse, wasn’t his only failsafe. He wishes he had been able to collect his armor and arsenal before he bolted from Mask’s building, but he hadn’t felt like going fishing around that place. He just wanted out.

He has to heal, to mend, to put himself back together; Black Mask is dangerous, even more so when Jason can’t defend himself physically or emotionally. He is raw and flayed open, his skin is mottled and scarred. He needs his armor; he needs his weapons. He needs his protection and his safety.

He slips into an apartment near the docks; the dufflebag slumps from his shoulders and he resets his alarm system, he eases onto his mattress in the bedroom. He’s hungry, but he doesn’t have the energy to make a sandwich; his muscles burn from the fight, and he flops an arm over his eyes. He’ll rest, he’ll heal. He’s good at it, healing, he’s good at it.

An expert, and he huffs a wet laugh. Yeah, he’s good putting himself back together; he imagines Bruce turning his back on him, refusing to save Jason, refusing to love him. He remembers, his chest aches, and he slowly puts himself back together from that scene.

He picks up his hope and he locks it away; he brushes his admiration (cold, dead) into a pile, he stacks his love (brittle, unwhole) together, he fits together the pieces of his hate (boiling, dangerous) into a weapon.

He categorizes the pieces of himself, he puts it together into something resembling himself, and when he’s done his hunger has faded with the sun. He should take some pain medication, but he doesn’t. He’s too tired, too sore in his bones, to move; he rolls over, closes his eyes, tucks his hands close.

He will sleep for now.

“If we’re going to do this,” he says the following morning as he stalks into Black Mask’s office, clothed in his backup Red Hood suit. “We’re going to do this my way.”

Roman grabs a handful of peanuts from a side dish as he leans back in his chair; Ms Li eyes Jason, holding a stack of paperwork. “Did you eat breakfast?” is not what he expects Mask to say.

Still, Jason is good at improvising. “We start with the corrupt cops; clear those out, we’ve got a direct line into the real stuff.”

“Ms Li,” Mask ignores Jason, and the teenager considers stomping his foot in irritation. “Go fetch a plate of waffles from the kitchen; double time, go.”

The woman excuses herself, and Jason steps out of her way. “Without corrupt cops hiding their dealings, we can destroy the small corporations; the ones who won’t help us. Little gangs on the street corner; with them gone, we can move onto the bigger fish.”

“Mm-mm,” Roman shakes his head, crunching on nuts. “No business deals before I’ve had my cup of coffee; sit.” He indicates a chair in front of his desk, but Jason doesn’t move; he’s pretty sure Mask glares at him then. “And no cooperation until you have something to eat; you’re obviously underweight.”

Jason grits his teeth but drops into the chair anyways. “I’m muscular.”

“You’re thin.”

“I’m lean!” He argues.

Roman mutters as he shuffles through paperwork on his desk; “You’re tiny.”

Jason crosses his arms and glares behind the hood; he’s tall and strong. He’s capable. “I’m not a kid; you can’t talk to me like that.”

The door opens and Ms Li walks in carrying a tray of steaming food; she sets it down on a clear edge of Roman’s desk, pours layers of syrup over the waffles at Roman’s order, and hands it over to Jason.

“Mask off at the breakfast table, Jason.” Roman picks up a pen and signs off on a paper.

Jason glares; it’s lost behind the pieces of metal. The waffles smell delicious, but he’s stubborn. “If mine comes off, so should yours.”

Ms Li tenses, makes a move for her gun arms to be weaponized, but Roman points his pen at Jason with ease. “That’s just rude; mind your manners. Or there may not be waffles tomorrow.”

Jason removes his helmet eventually, when the scratching of Roman’s pen has been memorized, and chows down on the food with gusto; he had been starving.

Chapter Text

The sun had long since set, and Jason knows the wind is going to kick up soon; he squints down the scope and breathes deeply. Once; twice; three times.

“How much longer will this take?”

He breathes deeply again, finger twitching minutely; well, at least he practices trigger safety. Don’t put your finger on the trigger unless (or, in Jason’s case, until) you’re willing to pull it. “As long as it takes, Roman, not everything is perfect in this world.”

There’s brief crackling as their comms lay silent; “Did you remember your winter jacket?”

Jason moves away from the scope to assess the scene on a larger scale, looking for any sign of movement; the apartment building is quiet and still. “Yes.”

Mask had given Jason a new wardrobe over the months; it had taken Jason a while to accept, to understand, Black Mask’s oddities. Still, Jason appreciates it; the new jacket is warmer than his other one, with a special microfiber that keeps him warm. It’s black material, zipped up high against Jason’s throat, and not too cumbersome; it doesn’t get in the way, but it keeps him warm against the cold stone roof.

“What are you still doing up, Roman?” He looks back out the scope when something shifts at the edge of the building. “Shouldn’t old people get their sleep?”

Roman humphs; “When you get back, then I’ll sleep.”

Jason humphs next. “’Fraid I’ll botch this up?”

“No; I know you won’t.”

A shadow moves under a street lamp, and Jason grins. “Guess who just showed up?”

“Yeona?”

Jason clicks his tongue, and switches the safety off, finger easing to the trigger. “Bingo.”

“Take the shot,” Roman encourages.

They fall silent, and Jason watches Yeona light a cigarette, smoke, scuff his shoes against the sidewalk; he’s dressed in a casual suit, loose shirt collar and unbuttoned coat. He looks like a pleasant man, a gentle turn to his lips and stylishly ruffled black hair; Jason knows better. There’s a kid in Gotham’s ICU that would beg to differ; some young punk Yeona never wanted. A kid of fifteen, breathing through a tube, because Yeona didn’t want to be a father.

Jason quickly releases the trigger and sets the sniper rifle down with a shaky breath; “Is this…?”

“I don’t think so,” Roman’s steadying voice comes over the comms and Jason breathes deeply. “The kid’s not going to make it through the end of the week, and the GCPD aren’t doing anything about it; do you think this is excessive?”

Yeona plucks his phone from his pocket, grins around his cigarette as he types a message out; Jason pulls the gun up, settles it once more. “No,” he rolls his shoulders, tips his head, and eyes down the scope. “I don’t think it is.”

Roman hears the quiet tock of the gun, the satisfied—relieved—breath Jason lets out, and he turns a page in his book; the deed is done. He stays quiet, letting Jason pack up and disappear from the scene, and he glances briefly at his watch. It’s ticking over to eleven at night; he listens closely to the sounds on Jason’s end, realizes he’s moving away.

“Where are you going, Jason?”

“Kid shouldn’t be alone…”

Roman doesn’t comment on the voice breaking, pretending it’s just static; he waits for the click and ringing silence that comes when Jason turns his end off, but it never happens. Instead, he hears the sounds of the city, growing louder and louder, and then fading away; there’s the sound of a bag hitting the pavement—most likely the sniper rifle being set down—and then a window is opened and Jason takes a deep breath.

Roman perks up at that, at the fluttering wet sound, and considers speaking up; but Jason beats him to it.

On Jason’s end, he watches the kid lay on the bed. “Have you seen him?”

“No, Jason, I haven’t.”

Jason bites his lip and reaches up to unzip his jacket a bit, as if that’ll help him breathe better. “His nose is shattered, and his eye was knocked loose; four ribs broken, a collapsed lung, a ripped spleen…”

“Hold his hand, Jason.”

He wants to; he wants to reach out, to tell the kid he’s not alone. That he’s not going to die a victim, buried under his abuser’s feet. “The kid’s gonna float away, right? And Yeona, he’ll…”

“If you want to believe it, he’ll burn in hell.”

The heart monitor beeps loudly, worryingly so, and Jason jumps forward to wrap his fingers around the bruised one laying limp on the bed; not yet. He can’t go yet; he shouldn’t be going. “It was too quick; we should’ve… We should’ve tortured him. We should’ve made it last longer.” Bitterness cuts through his lungs, makes it hard to breathe.

“But then Jack wouldn’t have been alive in a world without him.”

It’s like a vice releases his chest, and he hopes Roman won’t recognize the sob that breaks out; Jack’s in a world without his abuser, without his murderer, if but for a half hour. Jason sits with him, watches his chest rise and fall with the ventilator; when his heart stops beating, Jason goes. He slips back out the window, picks up the sniper rifle, and goes back to Roman’s place.

Roman’s there, at the door, when Jason slips inside; he gets the rifle bag from him, sets it down on the ground, keeps a hand on Jason’s arm. Roman sighs as he reaches for the jacket zipper. “You know, a jacket works only if you keep it zipped.”

Jason hadn’t zipped it back up after his visit at the hospital; his neck is cold, his collarbone too. Roman glances up at Jason’s face; he has the domino in place, and Roman reaches up to peel that off.

“Go take a shower, chum.”

Jason rubs at the spirit gum at the edges of his eyes, frustrated and tired. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Go take a shower, get some sleep; I’ll make sure Fabian doesn’t wake you up tomorrow. You can sleep in.”

Jason stumbles for the stairs, grumbling all the way; he’s too emotional for this, too emotional to deal with Roman’s strange kindness. He takes a shower, to wash off the grime and memories, and then he slips beneath the thick cotton sheets; he lays on his side, curled up and little, and blinks slowly out against the darkness until he falls asleep.

He’s in pain, for the loss of a kid, but he feels a bit better at the justice he served, at the freedom he gave Jack if but for a little bit.

Chapter Text

Jason comes back to Roman’s place with bloodied knuckles and a feral grin; his hood is cracked, his shoulder is sprained, his nose was bleeding at one point. He peels his gloves off, stuffs them in his jacket pocket—the leather one today, can’t be Red Hood without the jacket—and he reaches up to unhook the helmet.

His jacket is lighter now, with his explosives tucked away in a pocket on his belt; he carries less explosives now, also providing better movability, and he feels more confident now that his explosives are safely tucked away and he can move easier.

His helmet unclicks and he shakes his head, ruffling his hair out; he sniffles, feels something sticky pull at the back of his throat, and he hacks to unclog it. He loosens his feet in his boots as he moves through the halls, winking at Fabian as he goes; Fabian frowns disapprovingly, standing stoically in front of a board room.

“You’re gonna get wrinkles, Fabi.”

The bodyguard continues to frown, but he does shake his head fondly and Jason pats him on the shoulder as he goes pass. “Black Mask wants to speak to you,” Fabian calls after him. “He said it was important.”

Jason waves a hand apathetically; he wants to shower, to check his weapons cache, repair any damage to his armor. Then he’s gonna swallow some painkillers, take a nice long nap, get up at three in the afternoon and have Cory make him a sandwich; or better yet, Jason’ll make the sandwich himself.

He takes a cooling shower, rubs a towel over his hair, and checks his cache; he needs some more flashbangs and smoke pellets, should probably stock up on pistol ammunition. He makes a mental list while he reaches on the bedside table for the prescription pain meds and he swallows them easily; he can tell the sun is getting bright outside as time ticks on.

It’s 8 when Jason can’t stay awake anymore; he’s sore and the pain killers cause tiredness so he flops down, grips tight to a pillow, and promptly falls asleep. He wakes up to the sun hanging low and burning dark, and Roman standing by the window holding his half shattered helmet in one hand; shit, he didn’t lock the door.

The thing about pain meds is they dull his senses a lot, make his mind foggy, and he’s usually more careful when he takes them; he locks the door, sets a chair under the handle, maybe even a few noisy marbles or a bell to the knob. Anything that might make more noise, that might break through the fog and alert him.

Roman lifts the helmet higher, and Jason’s reminded of Hamlet.

“Alas poor Yorick…” Jason mutters, pushing himself up into a sitting position and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“I knew him well, Horatio.”

Jason blinks, and there’s a smug look to Roman’s eyes; “Hamlet, act 5.”

Roman hums and looks back at the helmet. “We’ll need to get you a new one; who did you clash with last night?”

Jason squints at the clock as he stands—it reads four thirty—to snatch the helmet back; he dusts it off, scrutinizes the missing eye, and shrugs. “Batman; he slammed me into a cement pillar head first.” He waggles the helmet. “Broke it

Roman reaches out and tips Jason’s head to the side; the teen pulls away sharply with a look of disgust and hidden panic. “He gave you a nice shiner there.”

Jason furrows his brows. “Yeah, well, he doesn’t appreciate our preparations for the shipment next week.”

“Speaking of shipment,” Roman says, eyeing the low hung sun now. “I’ve been doing some business on the side.”

He’s already got three plans in place; Roman’s a business man first, but he’s a fighter. Still, Jason thinks he could get Roman in a thigh lock quick; beyond that, there’s still a gun on the bed, admittedly unloaded but the clip is there too. A quick few seconds and it’d be loaded; if Fabian’s outside waiting, with other of Mask’s men, the window is breakable…

“You aren’t going behind my back, are you, Mask?”

Roman glances at him and shakes his head; “Relax, chum—” Jason doesn’t flinch “—I haven’t betrayed you; you’re still the boss. I’ve just been discussing things with Luthor; I’m sure you know Luthor.”

Jason eases back to the bed, closer to the gun, suspicious of Roman; they may have been working together for a while, compiling an empire of Gotham’s underworld, but that doesn’t mean Roman isn’t still one of Gotham’s worst. Still dangerous… “I know of him, yeah…”

“He’s willing to provide us with some ties to Metropolis; if we wish to expand further.”

“And that’s gonna help Gotham how?”

Roman laughs. “Help Gotham? Chum, please—”

“I told you not to call me that!”

The older man glances sharply at him; “Alright, no chum… But seriously, this isn’t about Gotham; it’s about us. We could make some money on the side, right? It’d be great! Imagine if we could spread all the way down to Mexico, or even overseas.”

Jason rolls his eyes and sits on the bed, rolling his sprained shoulder. “Roman, you’ve got four warehouses in London and two in Russia and one in Poland.”

“Jason,” Roman says, and his eyes shoot up quickly to Roman’s face, reacting easily to his name. “We could have more.”

There’s something greedy in his tone of voice, and Jason rubs his hands together. “When’ll it be enough? When you own the world? Then what? You just sit on piles of money and drink expensive wine? How’s that satisfaction, Roman?”

There’s quiet, the whistle of wind and mocking of birds outside the window; Roman doesn’t move, Jason doesn’t move. They don’t look at each other; Roman watches Jason but the teenager stares out the window, through the gap in the heavy curtains.

Finally, the man speaks. “What satisfies you? What makes all this worth it to the Red Hood?”

What, indeed; at this point, it’s just become something to do every day. Something for Jason to hold onto from day to day, actions he could go through and not ponder too often; the beating of abusive pimps, the justice served to a mugger who took a mom’s last paycheck…

“What motivates you, Red Hood?”

“Justice,” Jason says, clearing his throat. “The ability to save people, the knowledge that someone’s life may be safer or made easier by what I do.”

There’s another pause; Roman sighs heavily, reaches out and settles a hand on Jason’s shoulder. He squeezes, and Jason holds himself stiffly. “Seems intangible, ch—buddy. Seems intangible; and frankly very stupid.” Roman goes for the door. “You can’t touch that goal, Jason, so why chase after it? Makes no goddamn sense.”

He twists the door knob and pulls it open, going to take a step out, and Jason speaks up loudly. “But it makes sense to me.” He turns a partial glare on the black market businessman. “And it’s not stupid; it means something. To the prostitutes on Cloud Avenue to Jack dying in the hospital; it means something.”

And for some reason that burns Roman wrong, that irks him, that makes him angry; he doesn’t understand how Jason can’t see, how this kid doesn’t understand. He knows somethings, from the nights Jason wakes screaming, from the little quips he hears over the comms. “What did it mean when you were six feet under? Buddy, justice doesn’t do shit.”

They stare each other down, Jason’s face draining and then recoloring quick until it’s an angry red; he stands to his full height, all of a few inches shorter than Roman. One day, he may be taller than him; but for now he stalks as best he can up to the man. “Get out,” he snarls. “Get out.”

Roman’s backed out of the room, and when Jason reaches for the door he asks once more “What did it mean?”

The door slams in his face, and he stomps down the hallway; the kid is stupid, idiotic and idealistic.

Jason grabs a duffle and stuffs it hurriedly, shoving his weapons back in his pockets and belt; he dresses hurriedly. He needs out of this place, away for just a bit; it’s not true. Justice is all he has to hold onto.

It has to mean something.

Chapter Text

He comes to a conclusion, perched on a rooftop late at night, wind piercing his jacket and armor and he almost wishes he was wearing Mask’s jacket; he comes to a conclusion, rubbing his arms as he keeps an eye on a working lady leaning into the open window of a Mazda.

Maybe it’s not justice he wants; maybe it’s something without a label. Maybe it’s just some place safer, some place a little more welcoming, some place controlled and without massive threats like Killer Croc or Joker.

Maybe that’s what Jason wants most right now; control. Something to direct, to call his own… He always gets a thrill when he reminds Roman that he’s boss.

“I’m boss,” Jason whispers, and his breath fogs out into the night as Cameron gets into the Mazda; he shivers, letting the title wash over him. He’s in control; he’s in control; he’s in control…

Maybe later he’ll have a more heroic motivation; for right now he just wants to feel secure. And being in control gives him that; meeting with Bruce, with Batman, and having every little last shred of hope and reason to live ripped from him hurt.

Nothing had changed; Roman was right. His death didn’t bring about justice; not the right kind. A barred window and a straight jacket doesn’t do shit; not in a revolving door like Gotham. Control, control means something; and taking control of who lives and who dies? Well, the results speak louder than anything Arkham’s ever done.

Jason stands up, dusts off the knees of his pants, and goes back to his safe house; he strips his armor, goes around in a pair of sweats, makes himself a cup of tea. He categorizes his armory, the smoke pellets and ammunition; he checks his armor for breaks, stores everything away, and goes to bed.

A deep breath in, a deep breath out…

Control… He can latch onto that.

He’s been gone for two weeks when he returns to Roman’s home; he finds the man in the indoor swimming pool, doing laps as if to keep up his physique. Jason sets his duffle down on a dry part of the floor and curls up in a lounge chair; waters always been soothing to him, the sound of something free and gentle. He draws his legs up and tucks his hands in his sweatshirt pocket, watches the water wave and ripple; Fabian hadn’t even seen Jason slip inside.

Good, Jason thinks as the water lulls his muscles to relax. He’s getting better at sneaking around this place.

Roman pulls himself from the water, doesn’t even eye Jason as he goes to his own lounger and grabs his towel; he pats his face, his arms, his chest. His legs he lets drip and swings himself into his lounger; Jason eyes him, carefully, calculating.

“What do you want, Jason?”

The man looks relaxed, shifting as if to take a nap, and Jason looks back out to the water.

“I want control.”

Roman chuckles; he waggles a finger, as if dangling a treat in front of Jason. “That is attainable.” Roman settles more, sighing. “So, you’ll come with me to meet Luthor next week?”

He furrows his brows; “you haven’t met with him yet? It’s been two weeks.”

Roman seems like he’s grinning, the slightest tick of his jaw. “I should do dealings without the boss present?”

Jason grins, hopping up and shedding his sweatshirt and jeans and shoes; he strips down to his underwear and leaves his shirt on, self conscious of the scars there, and pats his way to the pool edge. “Fucking hell no.”

He jumps in, doing his own laps to stay in shape, allowing the water to carry him and wash over his body; when he pulls himself out Ms Li is waiting with a towel and he smiles his thanks.

The dinner with Luthor could have gone better; Jason glares every time he opens his egotistical stupid ass mouth, and he rolls his eyes over a glass of wine that Roman reaches across the table and snatches from him. Without the wine, Jason slumps in his seat and listens to the ‘grown-ups’ talk business; he seems unaware, fiddling with the table cloth and partially trying to spill his stolen cup of wine, but really listens with intent.

Luthor has a few very interesting ideas up his sleeve, of solar equipped rocket launchers to kryptonian bullets, but the most interesting is when he mentions a secret weapon he plans on gifting them when he’s perfected it.

“As a show of loyalty,” he toasts his wine, and Jason nearly pouts at the untouched glass Roman still has. “In our future business ventures.”

“And how much revenue do you expect from this whole venture?” Roman asks, minutely shaking his head when Jason tugs on the table cloth again.

“Thirty percent.”

“You’ll get fifteen,” Jason announces, finally just sitting up and taking the wine back; Roman reaches for it and Jason very quickly downs the liquid and slams the glass back down. “And no more, Luthor.”

Luthor eyes him with disdain. “I’ll take thirty or you won’t be privy to my resources.”

“Fifteen,” Jason picks pork from his teeth, “or you won’t have our resources.” And he knows Luthor wants their shares in the kryptonian veins down in Poland.

He refuses to smirk when a vein pops out on Luthor’s head, and Roman tries to drink from the empty wine glass before remembering there’s none left; he wipes his hand on the cloth napkin, folds it carefully, and tucks it beneath the edge of his empty plate. He smiles calmly at Lex.

“So fifteen percent, Mister Luthor?”

The man throws his napkin down; “fifteen percent,” he grits out.

Jason claps his hands, rubs them together, and turns to Ms Li. “What’s for dessert?”

“No dessert for you,” Roman mutters, and he waves another lady over to fill the glass of wine.

Chapter Text

Jason had plans of leaving for Star City long before Roman catches on; long before Roman wipes his mouth on a napkin, hand settling on the black mask folded besides his plate, and stares across the table at him. The windows overlooking the table show a magnificent sunset, high in Roman’s skyscraper, and Jason sets his fork and knife down, digging sirloin steak out of his molars with his finger.

“There something on my face?”

“Considering you haven’t even unfolded your napkin yet, yes, there most likely is.”

Jason’s finding it harder to fight smirks around Roman; his quips are almost on-par with Jason’s. He responds to Jason with his own sarcasm and humor and snips, and Jason only occasionally is caught off guard; Ms Li once said they devolved into a snark war for 45 minutes.

Jason shakes the thoughts away and picks up his cutlery again; it’s not often they have this fancy of a dinner, let alone together. Jason prefers to eat something quick and easy, nipped from the kitchen on his way to the room (not his room; Jason doesn’t own very much anymore. At least not something that can’t be fit in a dufflebag.)

Roman is still staring, and Jason loudly clinks his knife against his plate. “What?”

The man assesses him for a minute; “when are you leaving?”

Jason hides his jaw dropping by stuffing his last bite of steak in his mouth; he thought he had been subtle about the whole thing, packing his bag and stockpiling his weapons in secret. He knows when he leaves Gotham, he’s leaving Black Mask to do whatever he wants; sell the weapons overseas, to whoever pays the highest no matter if their target is a school in Kenya.

“Leaving?”

“I’m not an idiot, Jason, and I’d appreciate you to remember that.” Roman tugs the mask over his face, tucks it under his chin and down in his shirt collar, and he’s faceless again. Emotionless, dangerous; Jason sighs.

For all the comradery they’ve achieved over the past few months, Jason knows Roman is and always will be a threat; that’s partially why Jason was so accepting of Roman’s offer to stay with him. To keep an eye on a danger, it’s sometimes best to be right in the middle of it.

“So, when are you leaving?” Roman asks again, voice muffled.

“What makes you so sure I’m leaving?”

“You’ve been out late at night, I’ve been hearing the strangest rumors about smaller gang leaders being given instructions for the future months; I’ve yet to see your favorite sweatshirt being warn lately.”

“I don’t have a favorite sweatshirt!” Jason scoffs, and Roman tips his head to the side.

“The oversized one with the Monster energy symbol on the back.”

Jason reaches for his glass of water; he’d packed that at the beginning of his planning. “It’s got a rip in it.”

“No it doesn’t; Ms Li washed it three weeks ago and you haven’t worn it since.”

Jason throws his hands up in the air, frustrated and a little on edge that Roman pays such close attention to his habits. “Ok, fine, so I haven’t worn a sweatshirt in a while!”

“And this is the first time you’ve accepted my invitation for dinner.” Roman settles in his chair and Jason knows he’s being stared down; he’s not intimidated by it. “Kind of melodramatic, don’t you think, Jason? A goodbye dinner?”

It’s not goodbye; Jason has plans on coming back. He’s just got business to attend to and then he’ll come back; “it’s not…It’s not goodbye.”

Roman makes an inquisitive noise and Jason rolls his eyes and sinks deeper into his seat.

“I’ve gotta go take care of something and then I’ll be back.”

“Something that will take three months?”

Jason shrugs; “possibly.”

There’s a pause, tense and unsure; then, Roman says “and you didn’t think to inform me? Or…direct me to help?” Because they both know Jason doesn’t ask.

“I don’t think I have to inform you of everything I do, Roman.”

The man shrugs a shoulder, turning his face towards the windows; “So you were going to disappear; fine. What are you up to?”

Jason plucks a piece of boiled broccoli off his plate and chews, considering how much he wants to tell Roman. “There’s something I thought I’d taken care of that I…didn’t apparently. So now I gotta fix my mistake.”

There’s silence, and then Roman stands swiftly; he buttons his suit coat with nimble fingers, tugs his cuffs down, and shuffles his shoulders into a dignified position. “Well then, I’m to continue with our dealings with Savanah in the southern quarters?”

Savanah’s looking for someone to supply her with illicit medical supplies, for whatever reason; “Yeah; keep looking into her history and see if you can’t figure out why she wants so much morphine and ivs.”

A small oval shaped object is tossed onto the table, skittering closer to Jason’s plate; it rolls to a stop, showcasing one giant red button on its top. “What’s this?” Jason questions, eyeing the object with trepidation.

Roman continues to smooth his outfit, looking poised and calm. “It’s a prototype I’d like you to test out in the field.”

“What is it?”

“A panic button and locator; if we can create the first biological locator, we can monopolize the market. Especially in regards to the military; the button has been coded solely to your chemosignals, fingerprints, and bodily aura, meaning it will only be activated by you. Once activated, my people will be alerted and it will allow us to track you—so long as it’s on your person. There’s also the option of it being a communicator, but the tests have been inconclusive.”

Jason turns a glare on Black Mask. “My chemosignals and bodily aura?”

“To put it plainly, each person is unique; your organs beat in their own way, as do your emotions.”

“You studied me.” Jason feels decidedly uncomfortable with having been studied so much that Roman recorded the way his body works, let alone Roman having his fingerprints; Roman seems to realize this as his body sags suddenly and his head tips to the side.

“I probably should have asked for your permission, correct?”

“That would have been nice, yeah.”

Roman pats at his mask and then goes for the door; “well… Apologies; when are you leaving?”

Jason does pluck the panic button from the table and tucks it in his pocket; he’ll destroy it later. “In the morning.”

With a grand sweeping motion, Roman opens the heavy dining room doors and gives a little bow of his head. “Then good luck, boss; and be safe.”

And with that, Roman leaves the room; Jason’s hand tightens over the object in his pocket, trying to figure out what Roman’s up to.

Chapter Text

Jason smashes the panic button as soon as he retires for the night, finishes packing for his trip, makes a few phone calls to make sure everything is in place, and then goes to bed; he gets up early, checks his bags one more time, showers, dresses, and gets ready to leave. He’ll be borrowing one of Roman’s cars (that’s a lie, he hasn’t told Roman he’s taking the Corvette) to get all his luggage to the airport; he’ll return it when he gets back.

The bags are stuffed in the trunk and the passenger seat, and he returns back inside to do one more check to make sure he has everything; the sun is just beginning to peek over the dark city when Jason goes for the front door. He’s seven feet away, hands patting over his jacket pockets to ensure he has a pack of gum, his cell, the keys, his tickets…

And Roman steps out of the shadows and in his way; he’s clearly been up for a while. His jet black hair is smoothed back over his head with gel, his suit is perfectly pressed, and his eyes are alert and knowing.

“Leaving so soon?”

Jason nods carefully; his own black hair is shaggy, flopping on his head, and he fights the urge to run a hand through it, tame it down.

“Well then,” Roman says, a sly smile on his face as he takes measured steps forward; he pats Jason’s arm firmly, smile distracting, as he passes by. “Have a safe trip; shall I send updates to your phone on the business here?”

Jason nods again, moving away from Roman in the cramped quarters; he feels like he missed something just then, but it’s not until he’s on the plane, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, that he realizes what it is. He pulls the panic button from his pocket, going through anger at being tricked and then amusement at Roman’s stubbornness; of course Sionis would have figured out how to distract Jason enough to slip a new panic button in his pocket.

He considers flushing the button down the airplane toilet, but he just puts it back in his pocket; it may come in use later if things go south with the Penitente Cartel.

The Penitente Cartel; Jason makes a face at the luggage belt, after disembarking the plane. They’d tried their crazy drug scheme on Gotham once, lacing the food with chemicals to addict the population to a drug only they would provide; it was ingenious, but the chemicals bared unintended side effects and Jason thought he’d taken care of them.

Apparently not, as the side effects were being reported in Star City; hallucinations, vomit the color of sunrise orange, high fevers resulting in comas, hospitalization, ulcer bleedings, death… The Penitente Cartel needed to be stopped again.

So here Jason is, hefting a bag into a rented Nissan Altima and checking his phone for messages from his informant; a trusted source, even if they’ve never worked together before. Well, Jason thinks ruefully, not in this lifetime.

He has one message; it reads very plainly storage unit 346 @ the Uhaul place and Jason types out a quick what time. He starts up the car and navigates the confusing airport parking lot, out onto the street and then the highway; he has a hotel room booked for the next two weeks, and he can extend his stay for the following months if it does take that long.

He reaches over into the passenger seat and pats at the bag there; it holds his weapons, and he categorizes it to make sure nothing got damaged in transit. It’s a good thing he’s learned how to smuggle weapons through airport security; it’s easy to pay off the guards to make sure he won’t be chosen for a random search, and even easier to create a false image on the screen and hack the detectors. All in a day’s work…

His phone chimes cheerily, and he flicks his password and reads the text. 7:20pm; u want me to take u to dinner? They’ve met twice in this life, and the second time his partner took the opportunities to flirt; Jason doesn’t respond.

He checks in, lays out maps of the city, reads over his intel, and leaves at 7; in an alleyway, he changes into his get up, ignores a text from Roman, and stashes his car safely. He hops through shadows; Star City is brighter than Gotham, more colorful, more clean… It makes Jason’s skin crawl while also relaxing the tension built up in his shoulders; a strange mixture of relief and hyper awareness.

Something this perfect has never been in his life before…

He makes it to the Uhaul storage facility, perching on a roof of a 7-11 across the street; he sets down the sniper bag he brought with him and begins pulling the pieces out, twisting them together, slotting the scope into place. He settles in the shadows, away from the bright LED sign and the lights from the gas pumps, and starts scanning the storage places.

By 7:32, Jason watches a shadow cross the street and take a round about pathway to the back of the gas station; Jason waits patiently, breathing calmly, and keeps his eyes trained on the facility while keeping his ears trained for the foot falls. They come, not heavy but not quiet, and stop when the person takes a knee next to Jason.

“I wanted 12 minutes, Hood, the least you could have done was send me a text.”

Jason smirks under his helmet; “I thought you liked the chase.”

Arsenal huffs and tosses a styrofoam container next to Hood’s hip. “I brought you noodles.”

“I had a sub.”

“Well take the noodles home then.”

Jason puts the sniper down with a huff; “I thought we were here for the Cartel.”

“Oh, we are!” Roy brushes a hand through his bright red hair and Jason pretends he doesn’t remember the action from their time as sidekicks; jittery, excitement. “They’ve got a set up in locker 346; one of the largest ones Uhaul provides.” Roy suddenly slaps Jason’s shoulder, and Jason realizes he’d been staring at the container of noodles. “Ya know what I think? I think they’re stupid.”

Jason hides a snort by picking up the rifle again; he settles it in his arms and silence descends on the duo until there’s a quiet buzz from one of Arsenal’s pockets, and the archer smiles down at his phone.

“Ya know, Red, I think they have an idea of what they’re doing but not quiet perfected their technique.”

Jason hums.

“See, chemistry is complicated if you don’t get it; they want money, and they’re broken after Gotham, so they’re even less likely to have the proper know-how to do what they’re doing.”

Jason hums again, spotting a van entering the Uhaul facility; he tracks it as it parks in front of the locker, watches five people tumble out and start transferring crates to and from the locker. They keep the light off in the locker, and Jason wishes he had brought his night vision scope. It was too bulky though, and he had to leave it behind at Roman’s.

“I was wondering how you got a hold of me, Arsenal.”

The archer shrugs and stuffs his phone away; “I heard you were working with Black Mask, and he’s not exactly difficult to get in contact with.” Arsenal shrugs, and Jason hurriedly starts packing his gear up when the men start to clear out from the facility.

“I’ll have to fix that then.”

Arsenal shifts and stuffs the box to takeout next to the silencer in Jason’s case; he grins when Jason turns his emotionless hood on him, most likely glaring beneath it. “It’s really good Chinese takeout.”

“The Cartel’s moving out,” Jason says, explaining away why he shuts the case on the noodles.

Arsenal hums, turning to watch the van closely; “Yeah; they go to the factories over on the west side. The cereal, the meat packaging plants, and I think they’re getting into the bread part too; but it’s the cereal that’s reaching the farthest.” Arsenal nudges shoulders with Jason when he stands. “See, what’s the one thing you can be sure of people will have? Vegans, dieters, the food blogger?”

“Oatmeal, cereal, granola bars.”

Arsenal gives him a finger gun, and Jason’s pretty sure he winks. “Bingo! I mean, it’s not a perfect plan but it’s been working.” He grows serious as they weave their way through the alleyways, what little hiding they are given. “Half the city is in a panic, the teenagers are convinced the zombie apocalypse is upon us, and the hospitals are overrun with patients while the morgues keep counting the bodies.”

“And the Cartel isn’t even trying to fix their formula.” Red Hood tucks his sniper behind a dumpster to retrieve later; “where are they making the stuff?”

“I had thought the storage unit but I combed it earlier; you know, at 7:20? When you were supposed to meet me?”

Jason doesn’t answer him.

“Anyway, it was filled with crates full of the stuff.” Arsenal pulls out a few vials of a clear liquid, one or two filled with a powder, and Red Hood accepts them; he’ll test them later. “I think they switch them out, bring back empty crates and take the full ones.”

“So who’s supplying the stuff?”

Arsenal shrugs; “I don’t know.”

“No no,” Jason shakes his head. “The bigger question is are they making it and the storage unit is just a drop point, or are they being supplied?”

“I’ve only seen them coming and going from the Uhaul place.”

That doesn’t mean they aren’t being supplied somehow; still, who would want them to recklessly poison Star City? “How much interference do we have from Green Arrow?”

“So far, just annoyance; he pops in every now and then asking what I’m up to, but you might grab his attention.”

Jason grunts; he’s not interested in coming face to face with a Leaguer, or to be more precise another person from his past. “Then I’ll just have to be sneaky.”

They watch the Cartel unload their shipment to the food factories, watch them leave, and follow them for a while before they lose them at an intersection; Roy looks at his phone when it buzzes for the millionth time and hurriedly leaves, but not without a friendly wave and smile and a half-assed excuse.

“I’ve got a day job, ya know!” he says, hopping away down the empty street.

Jason watches him go, tucked down in his jacket and absently thumbing the panic button in his pocket; he’s alone, and suddenly the silence is heavy in this lighted street. He retrieves his rifle case, returns to the hotel in civvies after returning to his car, and puts the noodles in the room fridge; for later, he says, griping the panic button in his hand as he stuffs a gun under his pillow.

He’s got a lot of work to do come morning; two hours of sleep, and then he’ll get up again, go back to work, pretend to not ache at every memory. The sounds of coarse laughter as a kid Speedy dares a kid Robin to lick a lamppost in the middle of winter, running through the streets of Star City that seemed to glow with luminescent lights and life and hope.

Chapter Text

Jason wakes up quickly, his phone buzzing with the 34^th text from Roman, 12 of which are just Roman asking him to check in, and then demanding he does so. He ignores the phone and lays out his chemistry kit, taking samples from the vials; he drops the clear liquid on a slide, dollops a solution on it, and then moves on to the powder.

He works, bent over the small table in the corner of his room, until his phone buzzes again; it’s another message from Roman, threatening bodily harm if Jason doesn’t respond immediately. Jason sends off a curt Im fine and turns back to his tests, rubbing his eyes as he waits for the results; he works hard, cataloguing what the serums show and components the drugs are made up of.

His phone buzzes again, this time insistent, and Jason only answers because it’s Arsenal. “What?” he asks, cleaning his work place; he glances at the clock on the bedside table. It reads 9:13 in the morning.

“Hey, Red; it’s Arsenal. I was wondering what our plans were?”

Jason shuffles the papers of his results, glancing over them, and he looks at the clock once more. “Their pattern is only at night, right?”

“They’ve showed up on the streets in the past few days, selling the ‘heaven’ serum, clean syringes and all; some of the victims have been surviving the laced food, so it would appear the Cartel doesn’t care about the majority they’re killing.”

“Where?”

“Corner of North and Hessen.” There’s a loud cry in the background on Arsenal’s end, and Jason hears his partner make quiet shushing sounds and a rattle. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he says into the phone when the sound pitters off. “Anyway, yeah, they’ve been selling at North and Hessen.”

Jason considers shower, then decides against it and heads for the door. “Alright; we’ll meet tonight at the Uhaul again.”

“Roger; what do you want me to do?”

“Take the day off.” Jason slams his car door shut, tosses his cell in the cup holder, and drives; the city has changed a lot since he was last here 3—no, 4 years ago, but some familiar monuments still stand and he finds North and Hessen easily. He parks in front of a Starbucks, ducks low in his seat, and pretends to be waiting for someone; cell in hand, he scrolls his thumb absently across the screen, eyes riveted on the dvd rental store.

There are three guys out front, each in varying degrees of ratty wear; a torn wifebeater, a blood stained set of ripped jeans, one guy wears patchwork gloves and a wrinkled beanie. Jason watches over his phone, watches them approach shaking locals, offering them a fix; he sees the package, clicks on his phone screen to nab a picture, waits patiently to get a good angle of the dealers’ faces.

He recognizes one, though without the swollen shut eye and the split lip and the broken nose he cleans up nice; a young punk, 26 the latest, too cocky and uncaring for Jason to feel pity. A square jaw and trickster brown eyes, lips forever turned in a crooked grin; Jason watches them for twenty minutes more, watches their buyers’ ticks.

Yellowed finger tips, bloodshot eyes, shaky hands and twitchy shoulders; Jason eyes a group of girls trip out of the Starbucks, giggling, and head down the street. He tugs out his own beanie and pulls it over his hair as he quickly steps from the Nissan and follows the group at a distance, eyes the dealers as the girls pass; the men look them up and down, some whistle, some hip thrust and hoot, and Jason knocks shoulders with the punk.

“Aw, sorry, m-man,” Jason perfects the stutter, twitches his shoulders. “I j-just…”

“Hey, man,” the punk drawls, throwing his stub aside. “You need some goods, don’t you?”

He breathes unsteadily, nodding. “Real bad, man.”

“We,” the punk motions to him and his group. “We’ve got the goods, bro; only one little injection, and you’re good as new. Better even!”

Jason perks at that; he twitches his shoulder, rubs his ear against his shoulder. “Be-better?”

“Yeah, bro! Smarter, faster, stronger; just 150 dollars, and you’re good for the next three days.”

“I’ll take it,” Jason shuffles the money out of his wallet, accepting the package readily, and he shuffles back down the street to his car; he leaves immediately, back to his hotel, to check the serum.

He recognizes the components, at least some of them, and by the time he’s got a partial plan Roman’s texted him another 43 times and Roy has 5. He replies to Roman’s updates and questions with a plain ok text, just to reassure the man Jason’s not dead yet, and he tells Roy to meet him at 5 at the Uhaul.

They meet as the sun begins to set, early days that they have now, and Roy’s hair glows; Jason imagines his helmet shines, but he doesn’t pay attention to that. They meet on the 7-11 rooftop, and Jason hands over the file of paperwork he’d found from the drugs.

“There’s Venom in the drug; in the serum, the…’heaven’ serum.”

Arsenal glances up from the paper, fingers brushing against the words and symbols. “Bane?”

Jason shrugs. “Would explain why the Cartel was able to get on their feet so fast after what I did to them in Gotham.”

Arsenal nods; “yeah, you destroyed all their work and wrecked their base.”

“I killed their leader.”

Arsenal hands the files back. “What do we do?”

“Figure out where their base is, where Bane is located; we have to destroy them at the roots.”

Arsenal eyes the Uhaul place; “I scouted it out earlier today when I was dropping my—never mind, but I scouted it out a bit earlier. No one’s come to refill the crates.”

They wait a few hours, casual conversation, skirting around personal lives; the weather’s nice, Gotham sucks, the League sucks, there’s a new drink at Starbucks Jason wants to try… When the van doesn’t show and they’re sure it won’t show tonight, they split to cover more ground; Roy goes south, Jason takes north.

They keep in contact, Arsenal giving Jason an ear piece; Jason puts it on once Roy’s gone, making sure Roy won’t know his identity, and they check in every 20 minutes. Jason momentarily wonders what Roman’s up to right now, and then considers if the apartment or office building would be preferred by the Cartel.

When he confirms neither, he moves on; the following day and night go similarly, and the body count rises. They find one base, and argue over whether they should start dismantling the smaller bases as they work their way to the top; Roy thinks it would be good to start snipping the branches, and Jason would rather they take down the head and then the limbs.

Jason spends some more time mapping the chemical sequence, discovering how it works, eats away at the body; he watches the Cartel’s pattern, and by the beginning of the second week he doesn’t think they can wait anymore.

“Fine,” he says one day, arms crossed in a huff, and Arsenal watches him closely. “I’ll take the base atop the drug store on Jane Avenue, and you can take the one on Kerean.”

Arsenal considers him and then sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “Alright; meet up for the base near the airport?”

“If you aren’t there in two hours I’m coming to get your sorry ass.”

Arsenal grins; “I knew you were fond of me!”

Jason leaves without a word; the dealers at the drugstore are easy to take care of. He shoots a few, ties them up, beats them for information that doesn’t help him very much.

“We don’t know how Bane delivers the stuff, he just does! And we get to keep 70% of the money!”

He leaves enough evidence for the cops to lock them up for a long while, evidence convicting them of the deaths that have been happening, and he goes to the hotel near the airport and waits; Arsenal comes within a half hour, having done the same at his base.

They go into the hotel room together, Arsenal with his bow drawn and Jason popping off shots from his handguns; they move in unison, as they once did when they were Speedy and Robin, and Jason clocks a guy over the head to save Arsenal from a gunshot wound to the leg.

The battle is easy; these thugs are untrained, and Jason grips tight to the punk’s shirt. He inflects humor into his voice; “fancy meeting you again, Theo.”

Theo spits a glob of blood, and Red Hood doesn’t flinch.

“That’s not nice.” He punches the punk, shakes and rattles him, and Arsenal plants the evidence in plain sight. “Now, where’s Bane?”

Theo just laughs wetly, and Jason shatters his wrist with a squeezed grip; there’s still some Pit strength in Jason’s muscles.

“I didn’t quite catch that,” Jason says lowly under Theo’s shriek. “Try again.”

“Ok, ok!” Theo cries when Red Hood goes for his other wrist. “Alright! I’ll tell you, please!”

“Where’s Bane?”

“We were going to meet him at the airport, hanger 32, tonight! We were going to discuss phase 2!”

Arsenal peeks over Red Hood’s shoulder and raises a brow; “phase 2?”

“A less lethal version,” Theo whimpers when his wrist is jostled; Jason doesn’t care. “He says we need more Venom in it, less of our own; says it’s more addicting and we’ll get more customers!”

Red Hood nods, gently easing Theo to the ground; “Hanger 32?”

Theo nods, whimpering, a tear leaking out of his eye; Jason snaps his other wrist and lets him collapse to the ground with a cry of pain. Arsenal watches him go to the door with trepidation in his gaze, unhappiness turning his lips down, but he follows dutifully.

“So, to the airport?”

Jason nods, leading the way while he reloads his guns; Arsenal watches him from the corner of his eye.

“Was that necessary?” He tips his head back to the hotel. “Breaking his wrists like that?”

“Shattered his left one,” Jason says, a tinge of proudness in his voice. “Snapped his right.”

“Was that necessary?”

Red Hood pauses for a minute, considering, and then shrugs; “He deserved it.”

Arsenal doesn’t say anything, and they approach hanger 35 in the lowlight of night; they’re cautious, and they consider their plan of attack in silence before doing elaborate hand waves at each other that devolves in them having to have a frustrated and whispered conversation when they don’t understand each other.

Jason counted thirty men moving crates, and another twelve taking inventory of medical and scientific equipment; he tells Roy to pick them off at a distance and he’ll go in. Bane should be here somewhere too, if Theo is to be believed, but he’s not visible.

“Be careful,” Jason warns, grip tightening on his guns. “Bane’s crazy when hyped on Venom.”

“I know.” Something in Roy’s voice reminds Jason of when he’d been pulled from the team for two weeks following his first run-in with the meta; Roy’d texted him nonstop. “You be careful too.”

Sometimes Jason wonders how the Joker was the one to kill him; how there were thousands of other dangerous and violent criminals who could have done it. He headshots one guy carrying a crate and considers Killer Croc, considers Bane or even Penguin.

Two Face or Luthor or General Zod; but those deaths would have been quick. He empties a clip, jaw clenching, and reloads quickly behind an abandoned pile of crates. Arsenal is holding his own well, firing smoke arrows to get in close and take them down, most nonlethaly, and Jason rushes out again with his guns aimed at the ready.

Joker tortured him; the time dragged on. It meant nothing eventually; all he could think about was the pain and his eyes burning, his throat raw, and imagining how wonderful it would be when Bruce would come and give him morphine, bring him home, keep him close and safe…

Jason blames his wayward thoughts for how Bane is able to get the drop on him; the Venom induced man tosses one of his own aside to have better access to Jason, and it’s only when Jason releases his empty clips and goes to duck to the side that he realizes Bane has joined the fight.

The man is quick, and he grabs Jason’s head between his meaty hands; his eyes are glowing, and the tanks on his back release the Venom down tubes directly into his muscles. They bulge and distort, and the man grins maniacally as a fissure appears in Jason’s helmet.

Arsenal notices this, switching to knock out gas so he can reach his partner quicker; he hopes over a crate, takes aim, releases a shock arrow towards Bane that does nothing. Arsenal tuts loudly, hitting a minion with his bow, and trying to gain ground once more.

Bane squeezes, hard, as if Jason’s head is a grape and Jason drops his useless guns to scrabble for purchase on Bane’s skin; he pulls one tube from the man’s arm, and tries to grab another, but the metal digging into Jason’s temple distracts him. He squeezes his eyes shut and cries out when the helmet gives way, piercing metal into Jason’s skin, and Bane drops him to the ground to kick him swiftly, knocking the air from his lungs.

Arsenal’s feet stumble when he spots Jason’s face; the domino mask is familiar, not hiding enough for Roy to not recognize him.

“Robin?” It’s enough for one of Bane’s minions to stab a needle into Arsenal’s neck, and Jason tries to pry metal from his cheek and rub blood from his eyes, still trying to gasp air into his lungs; Arsenal goes down, hard, the pure drug—normally diluted by food—coursing through his veins immediately and with every heart beat. He convulses, and Jason tries to get on his hands and knees, reach his friend.

Bane has other plans, and sighs as he goes to his knees and injects Jason too; “You won’t interfere again; within a few minutes, you’ll both be dead. Move out, men!”

His veins are on fire; he collapses like Roy, hands curled in pain and back arching. He spots, through hazy eyes, Roy writhing where he lays. His muscles bulge and pulse, and Jason groans; his lungs are tight. He’s dying again; his muscles spasm, and he vaguely hears Roy scream. Jason reaches out blindly, rgistering Bane moving his men and drugs from the hanger, and his fingers nudge something plastic. Something plastic that had fallen from Jason’s pocket at one point…

It skitters a bit, and when something cracks in Roy’s ribcage Jason drags himself across the concrete floor; there’s a fight within his body, something green flashing while the Venom tries to take hold, tries to mold his brain into nothing but destruction and death. It’s familiar, like when he was first dragged out of the Pit, and Jason chokes on blood that bubbles up his throat; he shifts his leg, ignores his muscles trying to grow, pretends his femur doesn’t snap and his stomach isn’t ripping itself apart.

He wraps his hand around the panic button, vision darkening at the edges fast, and just barely manages to hit the panic button as a green clad man comes rushing in; Jason can’t stay awake any longer, and he just hopes the flashing light on the panic device, cradled in Jason’s limp hands, means Roman’s coming.

Please, Jason begs, please save me.

Chapter Text

Jason goes in and out periodically; he wakes up the first time in an ambulance and he only knows it’s an ambulance because of the way his body rocks on the gurney and the unfamiliar but professional hands poking and prodding him. His jacket is gone, his limbs ache, and he doesn’t think he’s breathing on his own; he goes out again.

He wakes up briefly when a hand brushes his, and he catches a glimpse of Roy on another gurney as  they’re wheeled hurriedly down a hospital hallway; the archer looks bad, cut and torn and bruised and broken, and Jason feels his eyes roll.

He knows he wakes up again, later, and he knows there’s a woman there; a nurse in scrubs and brushing a finger across his arm, a soft smile. He goes out, comes back later, goes out again…

There are little noises, coughs and murmurs and echoing voices; there’s a familiar one, rough and drawling, and then the quiet rumble Jason knows well. He grasps at the darkness, away from the panic and the pain, the cast on his leg and the IV tubes in his arm…

When he finally, fully, regains consciousness his limbs are heavy and his mind foggy; his mouth tastes like plastic and something foul. He smacks his mouth, breathing heavily, and he rolls his head, taking stock of his body.

His leg is in a cast, there’s a tube beneath his ribcage, his throat hurts like he had a tube down it, and…

And his hands are cuffed to the bed railings.

Well then; he swallows and movement in the doorway catches his eye. It’s Oliver Queen with a styrofoam cup of coffee and a scowl; behind him is Bruce Wayne, blank faced and imposing.

If Jason still had the panic button, he’s pretty sure he’d be hitting it like crazy right now.

When Black Mask’s phone goes off, he knows he’s not going to like what it says; that particular tone, shrill and insistent, is only for one reason. He pulls the cell from his jacket pocket, ignoring Adrian as he tries to bargain for the rocket launcher, and lets the software run its course; honing in on the signal, in Star City, a red blip flashing erratically.

“I have something to attend to.” He waves his hand towards Adrian, red faced and fuming, and Roman turns on his heel. “Escort Adrian out; Fabian, with me.”

Jason hit the panic button; he’ll give him ten minutes to deny needing help before fully deploying his arsenal.

“Red Hood hit the panic button,” he informs Fabian as they take the elevator to the roof. “Ms Li,” he addresses his secretary, “are my bags packed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where was his last known location?”

Roman shows the security leader the gps signal.

“Near the airport.” Fabian starts organizing his team, calling them up on his radio and barking orders.

“Ms Li, postpone all meetings and business dealings until further notice.” He will personally oversee this mission; he wants to know what’s happened. And, oddly enough, he wants to ensure Jason’s safety. “We move out in fifteen minutes!”

Jason pretends he finds he hospital cuffs on his wrists superbly interesting; and he does, twisting his wrist a bit, testing the strength and maneuverability. Like hell he’s staying here any longer than necessary.

“All I’m saying, Jason, is I wouldn’t have called Bruce if you weren’t responsible for twelve murders in my city.” Oliver sips his coffee, and glances at Bruce out of the corner of his eye; Bruce casually sips his own coffee, and Jason jerks his foot against the restraint.

“Fight any harder and we’ll have to sedate you, Jason; and I’d rather not have that.” Bruce’s voice is soft and sincere, but Jason decides to grit his jaw against it.

“Jason,” Oliver pulls the attention to him. “What were you doing in Star City?”

“Saving it, you ass.”

Bruce frowns disapprovingly, but Oliver snorts into his coffee; “Jason…”

“You can ask Roy.”

“About that,” Bruce says. “He’s fine, by the way; or he will be.”

The panic at the back of his mind eases away, along with the heavy weight in his chest lifts; Jason glares at the black tv screen. “Would you stop scolding me? I’m not a kid anymore.”

There’s a quiet awkward silence; there’s a voice over the intercom system, muffled by the door that’s shut, and Jason stares down the two men. Finally Oliver clears his throat and stands; he tips his coffee nervously, nodding nervously, and takes a few steps towards the door.

“I’ll leave you two to talk; I’m gonna go check on Roy.”

Oliver leaves them in that awkward silence again and Jason goes back to flexing his wrists, twisting them delicately and imperceptibly. He needs to get out; Roman won’t come, and Jason doesn’t want to be near Bruce any longer. Damn his cracked ribs, damn his busted leg.

“I’m taking you back to Gotham; you need help, Jason. The professionals at Arkham can help you more than I can.”

Jason finally turns his glare on Bruce, harsh and slightly panicked; his breath heaves deep in his chest, nostrils flaring. “You’re gonna lock me up?”

Bruce’s face goes blank, the sort of look he used to have when he was trying to detach himself from a situation and think rationally. “I’ve tried, Jason; you won’t come home—”

“You’re not my home.”

“—you won’t listen to me or Nightwing, not even Commissioner Gordon has been able to stop you in killing the gang leaders and taking control of the underworld. Those beheaded bodies you dumped in the harbor?” Bruce frowns at him. “You need help, Jason.”

Deep breath in; deep breath out. One in through the nose, hold for three, one out through the nose…

Bruce looks away first, standing up and smoothing his suit; he clears his throat and goes for the door. “I’ll come back for you in a few days, when you’re more stable.”

The door shuts loudly behind Bruce, and Jason tugs furiously at his bindings; he has to get out of here. He has to leave, before he’s thrown away to be forgotten.

Chapter Text

Oliver wishes he had been a minute or two faster; instead he has to watch tubes pump medication in his once-son, watch his chest rise and fall unevenly, know about the internal bleeding and the broken bones and the torture Roy had to go through.

Venom had been found in his blood system, and Oliver knows where this is going to go; he takes a breath and sits, waiting for Roy to come to. He has questions, ones that Jason refused to answer; what were they doing? Was this Jason’s fault? It probably was, knowing how he’d come back.

Oliver doesn’t have to wait long for Roy to wake up; he waits for Roy to assess their location, take inventory of his injuries, remember what happened and register Oliver’s presence. He does, and he rolls his head towards where Oliver stands at his bedside.

The redhead squints up at Oliver, and then groans and shuts his eyes. “What elephant did I piss off?”

“Bane, it would appear.” Oliver doesn’t want this to drag on, so he sits down and takes a breath. “Who’s watching Lian?”

Roy glares, though his eyes are unfocused with the haze of drugs. “A friend, not that it’s any of your business.”

“Roy, do you know what happened?” Oliver can’t hide his frustrations; his voice rises, his hands fisting, his brows furrowing. “What you’ve gotten yourself into?”

“I know I want you to leave me alone.”

“Who was your partner?”

Roy tenses, glancing towards the door. “Shit, is he ok? He was drugged too.”

“Do you know who your partner is?”

Roy shrugs. “Red Hood; he’s trying his best. I think there’s good in him.”

Oliver assesses his once-son; is he hiding Jason’s identity or does he truly not know? “Roy; I need you to be truthful. Do you know who he is?”

Roy shakes his head and sighs; “I don’t; he’s never told me.” Roy has vague images of a shattered helmet, but he doesn’t remember much else; most of what happened just before being drugged is a haze, foggy and unknown.

A quick glance at Roy’s face shows that he truly doesn’t know, or at least remember; Oliver sighs. Well, that’s one issue out of the way; he won’t pose a problem with Bruce dealing with Jason then. They had always got along very well, and Oliver knows that Roy would readily side with Jason over anything, especially now that Roy’s ties with the Justice League were so strained. That his ties with Oliver, and by extension Bruce, were so strained.

“Roy, I need you to be honest with me; the drugs you took…”

Roy breathes heavily. “I didn’t take them willingly, prick!”

“You took drugs! You had drugs in your blood stream! You’re going to go down that path again, you’re going to abandon Lian; no…” Oliver leans forward. “No, I won’t let you put her through that; through a household that slowly crumbles around her. She doesn’t deserve that, and you know I won’t be here to help you.”

“What are you talking about?” Roy tries to push himself into a sitting position, but he can’t move much and he grunts, pressing a hand to his ribs. “I didn’t willingly take the venom! And I definitely don’t want to take drugs again! I’m not going to become addicted!”

The archer shakes his head and stands, going for the door. “I know you, Roy, you’re going to fall again; and I won’t let you hurt Lian like that. I want custody of her; it’s for the best.”

“Fuck you!” Roy slams a fist against the bed. “I’m fine! Lian is my daughter!”

“You’re an unfit parent, and Lian deserves better!”

A loud and very angered fuck you follows Oliver out the door; he takes a breath, and glances down the hallway to where Bruce stands stoically if tensely. Roy is still screaming profanities, and Oliver steps away when a nurse comes down the hall to check on her patient; Bruce welcomes him with a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“Does he know about Jason?”

Oliver shakes his head, glances in at the glaring Red Hood; Roy can still be heard shouting, and Jason twitches on occasion. There’s something in his eyes, dark, and Oliver looks away. “He doesn’t.”

Doesn’t know about Jason being the Red Hood? Well, Jason thinks, that’s good to know; he’s still trying to make plans, double now that he’s heard the argument between Oliver and Roy. (the whole hospital could hear with how loud they were being)

Roy has a daughter? Well…he never expected that; so he’ll make a contingency plan in getting Roy and his daughter to safety too. It’s his fault they’re in this mess, so he’ll get them out. Bruce is transferring Jason tomorrow in the morning, which means he has a small window to get out; a broken leg and some busted ribs is going to make it difficult, but he’s dealt with worse before.

Then he’ll need to come back here and get Roy, all while finding his equipment too or at least a way to hide his face; if Roy doesn’t know who he is, he’ll like to keep it that way. And obviously Black Mask isn’t coming; he should’ve known better than to even hope.

“Jason,” Bruce calls, but Jason doesn’t deign him with his attention; he purposefully turns to look out the window. “I’ll be back tomorrow with an escort, and then we’ll drive to Gotham; try and get some rest.”

He doesn’t get much rest that night, dozing off on occasion solely because of exhaustion and the morphine; Bruce comes a little before 8 am, leading a small group of armored guards. Jason hardly slept the night before and it shows on his face, with the dark circles and the bloodshot eyes; Bruce quietly directs the guards just inside the doorway, hoping to keep a calm environment for Jason and possibly reassure him with the coming change.

“The hallways are cleared, so we have a direct line down to the parking garage; Jason is restrained so he shouldn’t pose a threat but I know he’s resourceful.

The truck is a reinforced prisoner transport vehicle, and Jason glares at the guards as they push his gurney into the back end; Bruce stands by the door, blank faced, directing the guards to be gentle and don’t jostle him he’s been injured.

“You’re enjoying this, old man,” Jason quips, laced with venom, and he snarls at a guard who gets too close; the man glares back and Jason knows if Bruce wasn’t overseeing the man would punch him. Instead, his restraints are tightened uncomfortably so and his fingers start to tingle.

“I’m not.”

Jason barks a laugh, loudly over the guards’ boots as they vacate the back; they chat with Bruce briefly, then the back doors are shut and Jason is left in near darkness, alone and confined. He hates it; he hates Bruce. He tests his restraints, twists and turns, and continues to formulate a plan. He needs out of the restraints, to be mobile and ready to fight; but it needs to be at the opportune moment, far enough away that he can escape without being followed by local police force, but close enough that he can easily return for Roy.

If they take the backroads, he should be able to get free and make his way back with little issue; he doesn’t necessarily want to hurt the guards. They haven’t done anything wrong, so he’ll try nonlethal takedowns. If that doesn’t work, well… His freedom will be more important when that time comes; but making his way back to the hospital and busting Roy out will be an even harder event with a busted body.

Jason knocks his head against the back of the stretcher; fuck…

On a rooftop overlooking the parking lot, but more specifically the garage exit, one of Mask’s men snaps his rifle up and clicks on his communicator.

“Mask,” Fabian mutters around the toothpick, watching the car through the scope. “They just exited the parking garage.”

“Take the shot and bring him home.”

Fabian wants to tell Black Mask careful; his emotions are showing. But instead he smirks, clenches the toothpick between his fingers, and tracks the driver. One, two, three… Squeezes the trigger, and watches the man jerk; bullet proof glass is no match against Roman’s ammo. A nonlethal shot, but enough to stop the procession.

“Move in; nonlethal take downs until Hood gives the order. Do not harm Wayne; we’re here to extract Jason and that’s it.” Fabian makes his way down the ladder from the roof, a short two story part of the hospital, and jogs across the parking lot, pass some frightened visitors who have hunkered down behind a car.

“911 is sending out a response to the shots fired; you have five minutes.”

“Thanks.” Fabian lets his men handle the guards, going straight for the back of the vehicle; he catches the keys when they’re thrown to him, and unlocks the doors. They swing open and he immediately hops in with Jason. “Hey, boss!”

Jason’s brows furrow. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too.” Fabian shifts his rifle aside and releases Jason’s wrists, catalogues the visible injuries, and begins planning how they’re going to get him back to Gotham. “You hit the panic button, so Mask sent us to pull you out.”

He… He actually came for him. Roman actually came for Jason. Jason goes when Fabian pulls him upright, gritting his teeth against pain, too shocked to say anything in response.

“Alright, step down; Gary, take him. Where’s our getaway?”

“Comin’ round the corner now, general.”

Sure enough, Theo comes screeching down the parking lot in a large white utility van; Fabian nods, checking his watch, and he takes the toothpick, breaks it, and tosses it at Bruce Wayne’s feet. He salutes the man.

“Thanks for our boss back!”

“Jason, this isn’t right!” Bruce rattles his hand where they’ve handcuffed him to the other guards. “What is this? I’ll find you; I’ll find you and get you the help you need. You know I will; Black Mask can’t do this!”

Gary settles Jason in the backseat of the van, clicking the seatbelt on him and starting up an IV of their own; “it’s fluids and painkillers. Don’t you worry, we’ll have you back at Mask’s in no time.”

Jason grabs Gary’s arm, and peers around for Fabian; when he spots the man, he waves Fabian over. “No, you gotta get Roy; you gotta get Roy Harper. He’s got to come with us.”

Fabian checks his watch again, sighing. “What room?”

“You know the one I was in?”

He nods.

“Down the hallway on the right. Don’t force him! But…”

But make it clear Jason wants him to come; Fabian sighs again, rolls his eyes, makes a big show of it all. “You owe me, boss; get him out of here Theo, we’ll take Mister Wayne’s car. Wont we, Mister Wayne? You won’t miss it?”

Fabian slams the van door shut and, with everyone but a few for Fabian’s backup piled in, Jason relaxes as Theo races from the hospital; it’ll be ok. Roman came for him; Roman actually kept his word… It almost seems too good to be true.

Fabian and his backup make their way to Roy Harper’s room with little resistance; what security officers they do meet they shoot nonlethally. Jason didn’t say to kill anyone, so better safe than sorry; Fabian marches down the hall towards Harper’s room and throws the door open dramatically.

“Excuse me,” Fabian quips, stepping purposefully into the room and ignoring the blond man that steps into a battle stance. “Roy Harper?”

The redhead gapes, and that just widens Fabian’s smirk.

“Red Hood sent me to collect you; will you come, or should I return with a message?” Because Jason was very clear: this isn’t to be a kidnapping, just the option of escape.

Roy eyes the blond man, and Fabian nods his head when Oliver pulls his hand back for a punch; Fabian pulls the butt of this rifle back and knocks it into Oliver’s nose. The man cries out and stumbles away.

“Harper, we don’t have much time; are you coming or do we leave you?”

There’s hardly a choice; stay, and fight Oliver over the drug issue and Lian, or go with Hood and hope he can help them start new somewhere else. “I’m coming.”