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Jason Todd had a plan. Because he was Jason Todd. He always had a plan.
This was very much not going according to plan.
Out of all the things he’d accounted for, an Arkham breakout was pretty low on his list. Maybe stupidly so, with how often the rogues escape. At some point, they might as well just leave the doors open.
It wasn’t Joker, thankfully. Jason wasn’t sure he could keep from spiraling if it were. His plan ended with the Joker, sure, he’d have to face the man eventually, for Batman to finally make his choice. Jason, or the Joker. They can’t both make it out. One of them will live, or none of them will.
It was just Crane. That was manageable. He could deal with Crane. At first, he wasn’t going to do anything. Maybe he’d get the message across that he was not to interfere with what was going to happen. But Scarecrow had messed with children. Crime Alley children. The children under his protection. So Jason had come to deliver a different kind of message—one with a lot more bullets.
So how the hell did he end up stuck in the building with the Replacement, he thought as he ducked under the thug’s swing, shooting out his leg and sending the man to the ground with a heavy grunt.
Realistically, he knows how. Realistically, he’s aware that Batman sent his shiny new bird in alone, and that Jason had been dumb enough to stick around once Robin showed up, even after realizing that Scarecrow was nowhere to be found. Maybe a small part of him was angry the Replacement was here at all. And without Batman. What, he wasn’t threatening enough for Daddy Bats to keep his little bird close? Or was this new Robin just perfect enough to go on his own?
Surely he’d made enough of a name for himself? Or did he have to go through with his little duffel bag stunt first? Was he only going to care when the bodies began to pile up in a way he couldn’t ignore?
Jason slammed his foot down on the thug’s hand, grinning under his helmet at the scream that emerged. He gripped his hand tighter around his gun, pointing it right at the man’s forehead. He couldn’t take out his anger on the Replacement, not yet. No, he had a plan, and he wasn’t going to let it stray any further. He would use the bird to make a point, but not yet. So he’d take it out on every one of these waste of space lackeys.
“Don’t!” Robin yelled as Jason’s finger tightened around the trigger. He could feel his lips curl into a snarl as he whirled around. His gaze sharpened, even if the brat couldn’t see it.
“I think you misunderstand your situation, Robin,” he spat the name with as much venom as he could muster, using his height to his advantage as he towered over the Replacement. “Keep talking, and I’ll put a bullet through your teeth.”
“You won’t,” Robin said, defiantly. And so sure of himself. Jason had half a mind to put a bullet in his leg just to make him understand how much Jason very much will. “You’re here for Scarecrow because he dosed Crime Alley kids.”
Jason faltered for just a moment, but he kept the gun pointed at Robin.
“And what, you think that protects you?” Jason taunted, slipping a tone of mockery into his voice. “Will you still think that after I pull this trigger?”
“I know it-” Robin paused, eyes widening through the domino as he tried to shove Jason aside. He heavily considered pulling the trigger right then and there, but putting it through the Replacement’s head at the effort. He refused to be moved, of course. The kid was strong, but he was lanky, and his strength was nothing compared to Jason’s. “-Watch out!”
Jason didn’t have time to turn around before he felt the metal pipe collide with his helmet, and he hit the ground with a crack. He swore as he ran his fingers over where his helmet was now split up the side, a long crack winding up the side where it hit the concrete. He was wearing his domino underneath, at least. Even if he weren’t, the split wasn’t big enough to reveal much of his face. His identity was safe. He wasn’t going to reveal it until he planned to.
With a low growl, he moved to face the thug who’d made the blow. He’d gone after Robin, now, and the two were fighting. The thug took a swing, but it was quickly blocked by Robin’s staff, and the kid pushed back until the man had to move away.
Robin leaped about, hitting the man from one side, then the other, moving faster than the thug could catch up to take a swing. That was, until the fucker made a lucky guess and nearly made contact with Robin’s head. The kid wasn’t wearing a helmet; he’d have no protection from the hit, and Jason could only imagine the nasty crunch that would echo in the warehouse if the thug managed to land his hit. He had to move quickly.
Before he even had time to think of what he was doing, he shot out his hand and shot the man in the back of the knee. The thug let out a string of curses as he fell, knees audibly colliding with the concrete below. He turned to face Jason with a look of anger. Cute.
He held onto the pipe in his hands like it could save him from Jason. One bullet, swift, clean through the head, cleared up that confusion.
“No!” Robin cried, sounding angry, and something else Jason didn’t feel like looking hard enough to find. Good. Maybe now he’d start treating Jason like the threat he was. He’d tell Batman, and maybe he’d start taking Jason seriously. It would make the bag of heads he planned to leave for GCPD to find all the more impactful.
“Maybe I’ll teach Daddy Bats a lesson not to let stray birds out of the nest unsupervised. Next time, he’ll think twice before letting you out to play on your own. Once you’ve recovered, of course. But that could take quite a while.”
“Why are you doing this, Red Hood?” Robin asked, and Jason snarled at the kid’s attempt to seem unfazed by his words. He’d just opened his mouth to snipe a response, or maybe just shoot the damn brat, when a subtle hiss rang out from below
He and Robin looked down in unison, and in tandem their eyes fell on the open canister of fear toxin leaking gas into the air. Shit. More than one, he realized, as more began to leak out, filling the room faster than Jason could properly react.
No one but he and the Replacement were currently conscious. Everyone else had either been knocked out by Robin or dealt with by Jason. The canisters had to have been triggered remotely, which meant Scarecrow definitely had eyes on them. Good. That meant there was a way to track him down after he got out. He was going to enjoy pulling the trigger once for every time he’d been dosed with his disgusting toxin.
As he took the first step to leave the warehouse, Jason found himself glancing back over his shoulder to make sure Robin had the sense to put on his rebreather. Sure enough, the Replacement had fastened the mask over his face and seemed to be breathing without an issue.
It was at that moment, however, that Jason felt the distinctive sensation of the air tasting wrong. That’s not right, his mask had the capability to filter out fear toxin easily. Even if it was a new strand, that shouldn’t let it come through this easily.
Jason’s stomach dropped as his fingers brushed over the crack in his helmet. He could feel himself begin to panic, breaths coming in faster than they should—and some part of him knew that it wasn’t helping, that it was only making him inhale the toxin even faster, but the rest of him was freaking out far too much to think about that.
He blinked once, twice, three times, like it could wash away the fear that wrapped around his throat and squeezed. He clawed at his throat, the only thought making it through his head being that he couldn’t breathe. He started choking, coughing on the dirt in his lungs. When did dirt get in his lungs? He was underground; he had to get out, out of the coffin, out of the ground, out into open air.
He couldn’t breathe. He needed to breathe. He tore off his helmet, casting it aside as he clawed and clawed even as he felt blood and grime build beneath his fingers because he had to get out, he had to.
He blinked again, squeezing his eyes shut as tears built up under his mask. After a moment, he couldn’t feel the dirt encasing him anymore, and he felt hands on his wrists, pulling. He jerked back, ripping his eyes open to stare at who had done this to him.
He wished he hadn’t.
“Hello, pumpkin,” the Joker grinned, eyes wide with excitement.
“No,” he whispered. He could feel his heart stop as the scream got caught in his throat. The Joker hadn’t been in the breakout. He was in Arkham. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here. “No, please.”
“Long time no see,” he hummed, and it was then that Jason’s eyes caught the glint of the crowbar in the light. “Miss me?”
The Joker was here.
He’d gotten out of Arkham.
He was here.
Jason screamed.
He screamed even before the crowbar landed its first blow, and when it did, he screamed again, convulsing as the pain wracked his body. He felt the first rib break, then the second. After that, the pain was too much for him to keep counting.
And throughout it all was that dammed laughter. Haunting him, taunting him.
He was wrong. He was wrong; he couldn’t face the Joker. He was so wrong. He wasn’t ready. He was sorry. So, so sorry. To who, he didn’t exactly know. Whoever could make it stop.
The blows inched up, slowly reaching his skull.
“Tell me, what hurts more?”
He screamed.
“Forehand?”
The blow hit his skull, and he could feel skin and bone make way for rusty metal. Again, he let out a wail, and he could feel his throat tearing itself apart.
“Or backhand?”
Jason could only wheeze, vision somehow staying startlingly clear despite the blood running past his eyes. Each breath felt like it was rattling his lungs, each intake of air a test to see if they would collapse. They never did, although he found himself wishing they did.
As he blinked, he saw the Joker disappear, and he couldn’t stop the sob of relief that escaped his lungs. It was replaced by one of fear as he heard the small beep…beep… of a timer. He didn’t need to look at how much time he had left; he knew it wouldn’t be enough.
He was going to die.
He was going to die here, just as he had before. And it would mean nothing. This time, there would be no funeral. No tears shed, and no one would remember him as he was.
And why would they need to? It wasn’t like he was Robin anymore. Someone else had that now. Not him. He wasn’t Robin. He wasn’t good enough. Not then, not now.
And somehow, through it all, he still expected Bruce to save him. Stupid. And yet, he still wished.
So when the figure crept into view, he thought it wasn’t real. He thought he was imagining it. Still, he let himself believe. Maybe, if he were lucky, it wouldn’t hurt so bad this time. He was never lucky; he knew that much the moment he woke up in that coffin, but hope was all he had right now.
“Batman,” he breathed, the name barely audible even to him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Robin,” the man acknowledged, and Jason let out a cry. He was here. Dad was here.
Only, Bruce wasn’t looking at him. No, he was looking just past him. Jason stifled a cry as he managed to move his neck to see, though he couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped past his lips.
Robin was standing behind him. Batman’s Robin. The new Robin. The better Robin.
“Bat- Batman, please,” Jason begged, reaching a hand out to grasp the edge of his cape. He almost wished his fist didn’t tighten in the fabric, that it had simply passed through. That Bruce wasn’t really here, that he wasn’t really staring at him with disgust.
“Don’t touch me.” The cape was swiftly yanked from his grasp. Jason faltered. He didn’t- no, Bruce couldn’t- he wouldn’t-
Would he?
“You’re- you’re gonna save me, right?” Jason asked, vaguely aware how pathetic he sounded, even more aware as Bruce looked at him like that, that’s exactly what he was. Pathetic. “You’re gonna take me home, r-right B?”
Bruce only snarled, lips curling back as if it was Jason himself that repulsed him. A hand emerged from the cape, and Jason froze, solid as ice, as he saw what Bruce was holding.
A crowbar. The same one his skull had been bashed in with.
He was going to kill him.
Jason scrambled back, flailing like a child as he backed away. On the floor, back against the wall, his gaze slowly rose to meet the figure looming over him. He’d never felt so small.
“B, don’t,” he whispered, eyes darting around, searching for an exit. There were none. Of course. No one escaped the Batman. Especially not someone like him. “I’m begging you. I’m sorry. I’ll leave. I swear. Just- don’t. Please.”
Bruce didn’t listen. Or if he did, he didn’t care. Jason didn’t know which was worse as the man brought the crowbar over his head, ready to strike.
“You were never worthy of Robin.” Dick’s voice came from behind. Jason yelped, clambering to his feet, nearly falling. His back slammed against Bruce, and he cried out again, running as fast as he could until he hit another wall. “You stole it. You never deserved it.”
“I know. I know, Dick, but-”
“But what? What justification do you have for stealing what was mine?” Dick snarled, circling Jason like a hawk would its prey. “I hate you, you know that? I was so relieved when you died. You were finally out of my hair. And when Bruce brought home Robin, a real Robin, I was thrilled. And then you came back. And you ruined everything, like you always do.”
“I can’t let you ruin everything, Jaylad, you know that, right?” Bruce asked, suddenly right in front of him, where he could have sworn he’d made distance. The worst part was that he sounded almost sympathetic. No. Not sympathy. Pity. That made more sense, anyway.
Bruce had never felt anything more than pity towards him.
Jason slumped to the ground, letting tears stream down his cheeks. It wasn’t like they could think any less of him for it, anyway.
“Batman- dad, please,” he was begging, and even he could hear how pitiful he sounded. But it made the man pause, for just a moment. But only that, a moment. Soon, the crowbar slammed down against his neck, and Jason collapsed to the ground with a wail. He curled his knees to his chest, pulling at his hair as he struggled to breathe. “I’m sorry, Dad, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
The world looked wrong. It was starting to melt away from him. Was he dying? Was this it?
If it was, he thought, let it be the end.
He didn’t want to come back a second time.
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“No!” Tim cried as Red Hood shot the Scarcrow goon through the head, the man’s lifeless body collapsing to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Crap. Part of him hadn’t expected the crime lord to just kill the man like that. He should have known better. Most of Hood’s victims were those who’d been caught dealing to kids. A thug who’d dosed Crime Alley kids with fear toxin, then managed to land a hit on Hood, he had no chance.
But when he’d shot the man in the leg, it had almost seemed like he was protecting Tim from the hit he would have suffered otherwise. He could have just gotten the man in the head from the start. Easier, cleaner, fewer bullets. But Tim might have still gotten hit. Instead, Hood shot the man’s leg, threw off his balance, and his aim. Tim got away unscathed. Why? What did Hood gain?
Tim didn’t know much about the Red Hood, but he did understand that the man ran by a moral code. That much was clear the moment he began making his moves in Gotham. He hadn’t been in the city long, but he moved like he knew every inch of it. Tim suspected he grew up in Gotham, likely in Crime Alley, given how he protects it with such ferocity.
“Maybe I’ll teach Daddy Bats a lesson not to let stray birds out of the nest unsupervised. Next time, he’ll think twice before letting you out to play on your own. Once you’ve recovered, of course. But that could take quite a while,” Hood taunted, and the grin in his tone was clear, even if his face was obscured by the helmet. The voice modulator made him sound even more insidious than he likely would have without it.
Batman doesn’t know I’m here, Tim didn’t say, because that was a horrible idea to say to the crime lord with a gun in his hand and an apparent desire to shoot him, even if Tim heavily suspected that last part was little more than a bluff.
“Why are you doing this, Red Hood?” Tim asked instead, stepping closer. A beat passed where neither of them said anything at all. He watched Hood’s helmet move, just the smallest bit, like he was about to say something. That’s when they both heard the faint hiss, the kind that made him freeze in place. Hood’s helmet turned to the floor as Tim did, and the two of them saw it at the same time.
A canister of fear toxin. More than one, he realized.
That was…less than ideal.
He quickly fitted his rebreather over his face. He couldn’t risk succumbing to fear toxin, even if he had an antidote tucked safely in his belt, he couldn’t know if this was a new strain that it wouldn’t be effective against. Succumbing to the toxin was even more of a risk in a warehouse with the Red Hood.
Hood.
His helmet. It’s cracked.
The man was walking away, but he glanced over his shoulder after the first step, nodding to himself. For what reason, Tim had no idea. He’d paused in his tracks, raising a hand—and if Tim squinted, he almost thought it was shaking—to the crack in his helmet. The moment the man’s fingers brushed over the space where his helmet split, they stilled. Tim watched Hood’s chest begin to rise and fall at a rate that couldn’t be helpful.
Suddenly, he started choking. His hands hovered over his chest, trembling, as he coughed and sputtered and choked on something Tim couldn’t see. Hood ripped off his helmet, throwing it aside like it meant nothing. Tim’s concern grew. He was breathing in almost pure fear toxin.
He’d begun clawing at his throat, tearing into the skin with a force so quick and violent that Tim broke out into a sprint towards the man. He was still gasping and choking on nothing when Tim got to him, pulling his hands away from his neck.
The man ripped his hands from Tim’s grip, but he stopped hurting himself, at least.
“Hood?” Tim tried, caught between getting in closer to help and administer the antidote—and just pray it worked—and keeping a safe distance. This was the Red Hood, after all.
He settled on setting off his emergency beacon. He heard Bruce’s voice in his ear as his voice crackled to life through the comm, asking what was happening. Tim didn’t say anything to B, but he kept his comm line open so he could hear everything that was said.
His first thought, once he got a good look at Hood, was that he was young. Far younger than he and Bruce had suspected him to be. Even though the mask made it a little hard to tell, it was clear that he was younger than even Dick by more than a couple of years.
Looking as scared as he was, he looked even younger. His hair caught Tim’s eye. Brown and curly, but there was a stark white streak in his bangs, falling just over the top of his domino. Scars were scattered across his face, though faded, like they were years old.
When he thought of Hood’s identity, he imagined someone huge, someone old, someone calculating. Not…a teenager. Not someone who looked like he honestly couldn’t be that much older than him.
It was unsettling, to say the least. Even more so as he stared up at Tim, expression laced in little more than horror and fear. He couldn’t help but wonder what the man was seeing.
Just what, exactly, was the Red Hood’s greatest fear?
Was that a little cruel? To be so intrigued as to just what makes the man tick? What made him the way he is now? What led him to this life, especially at such a young age?
“No,” he whispered, breathing heavily. “No, please.”
Tim winced. He even sounded young, without the protection of the voice filter in his helmet. He almost moved to get closer before hesitating as Hood flinched. Hard.
Then he started screaming.
“Rpbin, report. I’m seven minutes out. Robin? Robin, what’s happening?” Bruce’s voice came through the comm, tone flickering between the cool, stoic Batman gravel and Bruce’s concern.
Hood screamed again, flinching as if he were being struck. With something sturdy, something that hurt, Tim thought as he watched the man convulse, breath catching in between screams.
He needed to get close enough to administer the sedative at his side—because there was a fat chance he could trust that he wouldn’t get attacked the moment Hood felt a needle in his skin if he tried to give him the antidote first—but it seemed getting anywhere near the crime lord without risking death was going to be a challenge. Tim winced again at the wail that echoed, bouncing off the walls of the warehouse.
“Hood?” Tim tried, getting no reaction from the man. Bruce said something in his ear, likely in response to Tim acknowledging the crime lord and therefore alerting the man to the fact that Tim had, in fact, gone out exactly where Bruce warned him against, but he wasn’t listening. He reached a hand up and deafened himself so Bruce could hear him, but he couldn’t hear Bruce. “Hood, it’s not real. Whatever you’re seeing, it isn’t real.
“Batman,” Tim had to strain to even hear the name, and he couldn’t suppress his surprise. Not that Hood noticed it, still staring up at the space just above Tim like someone was there. He couldn’t help but notice the hint of relief in his voice as he called for the Bat. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
Was Hood’s worst fear…Batman? That didn’t make any sense. Still, as the man sobbed at Tim’s feet, that’s what it seemed to be.
Hood let out a suppressed whimper as he turned his head, glancing behind him for only a brief moment before turning back, reaching out with a shaking hand and grabbing hold of Tim’s cape.
“Bat- Batman, please.”
The sudden movement startled Tim, and he took a swift step back. Hood’s hand fell from where it had gripped the cape, falling to the floor as he let out a sob. His jaw quivered before he spoke.
“You’re- you’re gonna save me, right?” Hood asked, and Tim was starting to realize that he had no idea what the man was hallucinating. He seemed to flip between being terrified of Batman and needing him. “You’re gonna take me home, r-right B?”
Tim paused, stilling as he heard the nickname. It’s nothing, he told himself. Plenty of people have called Batman that before. It didn’t mean anything.
He finally took the sedative from his belt, holding the syringe in his hands as he slowly moved in closer.
Hood’s eyes shot wide open as he scrambled back, clumsy and frantic and terrified. He stared at the syringe like it were a gun pointed at his head. He kept moving back, his hands nearly slipping out from underneath him as he tried to get away from Tim, until his back hit the far wall of the warehouse. He let out a startled cry before his gaze settled on the area just above Tim’s head.
“B, don’t. I’m begging you. I’m sorry.” It was spoken with such a tone of familiarity that it made Tim’s chest seize with panic. There’s no way Hood knows Batman’s identity, right? “I’ll leave. I swear. Just- don’t. Please.”
Jason suddenly flinched, though not as if he were hit. His eyes shifted in an arc in front of him.
“I know,” he agreed to someone Tim couldn’t see, though he didn’t think it was the Batman he was hallucinating. “I know, Dick, but-”
Tim froze. He could have just been calling Batman a dick. That was totally and completely possible.
He tried not to think about how something about the Red Hood seemed almost familiar.
After he sat still for a moment, Tim raised the syringe, hoping he could finally get the sedative in. Hood looked terrified, but he slumped to the ground, like the fight had drained out of him all at once. He was crying. Tim felt guilty, even if he knew he wasn’t really the one Hood was so scared of.
“Batman-” Tim brought down the syringe. “Dad, please,”
Tim plunged down on the syringe, going entirely still as he watched the sedative enter Hood’s bloodstream.
He heard footsteps behind him. He didn’t have to turn around; he’d long ago memorized the sound of Bruce’s footsteps.
“No,” Bruce said, and Tim felt his heart stop as it almost sounded like he was scared. Bruce didn’t get scared. Not enough that he couldn’t hide it. But it was unmistakable.
He rushed forward, and Tim quickly moved aside as Bruce knelt beside Hood’s weak form on the ground.
“It- it isn’t him, is it?” Tim was an idiot. He knew that even before he asked the question, and yet he knew he had to. “It can’t be.”
Logically, he knew it wasn’t Jason Todd lying before them.
Logically, he knew it was the Red Hood.
Logically, he knew Jason Todd was dead.
The Red Hood curled his knees to his chest, fingers wrapping around strands of hair as he tugged. It sounded like he could barely breathe.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Hood rasped as Bruce gently pulled his hands from his head, holding them tight in his own.
The Red Hood went limp in Bruce’s arms, the sedative having finally taken full effect. Bruce picked him up, one hand supporting his back, the other under his knees. He was silent as he carried Hood out of the warehouse.
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Awareness came to him slowly, though he made a point not to show it. He kept his eyes closed, his breathing steady. He didn’t react to the hand making its way through his hair. He pretended his chest didn’t seize with something he couldn’t bring himself to name at the thought that it might be who he thought it was.
He wondered, idly, if he was still hopped up on fear gas. If he’d open his eyes, and suddenly the gentle hand would turn violent, and he’d have to sit and watch as Batman beat him to the ground. He didn’t remember anything after realizing his helmet was cracked, but he had a good enough idea as to what exactly happened if he was where he thought he was.
Couldn’t Robin have just left? Maybe he did. Maybe he called Batman and left Jason to writhe in his fears. Maybe if he kept his eyes closed, he could pretend they weren’t shipping him off to Arkham.
“You’re alive,” the voice hurt to hear. Jason had heard Batman since his return. He’d heard Batman again and again, and hearing it only fueled his rage, his hatred. He’d heard it in his nightmares, with every stunt he pulled for his plan. But this, this was the first time he’d heard Bruce since he died. “Jaylad, you’re alive.”
The breath that caught in his throat—and it hurt to breathe, his lungs felt like they’d torn themselves apart, his neck felt raw and torn, and he couldn’t remember why—was too loud for him to keep pretending he was asleep. Maybe Batman never fell for his tricks at all.
He finally cracked his eyes open, already bracing for the disgust on Batman’s face when he saw that Jason came back from the grave. An apology sat on his lips, sorry for dying, sorry for not staying dead, sorry for turning into something that made you wish I did, but it turned to ash the moment his vision cleared.
He was in the Batcave, staring up at Bruce above him. Not Batman, this was Bruce. He blinked, and he realized his domino was gone. Not that it would have mattered. He doesn’t doubt that the man ran a DNA test the moment he even suspected it was him.
He was lying on a cot, an IV sticking out of his left arm. Part of him recoiled at the idea of more drugs in his system. Bruce sat at his side, and as his eyes met Jason’s, the hand in his hair disappeared in an instant. Figures. Bruce might have believed for just a moment that he was still his son, but one look at what he’s become must have washed that away.
“Lazarus,” he said, and Jason caught the disdain with which the word was spoken. Guess all pretenses were off, then. Jason bared his teeth, and Bruce took another step back. Glancing down, he noticed no restraints were holding him down to the bed, only the IV in his arm—their mistake.
“Not quite,” Jason muttered as he ripped the IV from his arm, giving away nothing but a sharp inhale at the twinge of pain.
“Jason-” Bruce started, taking a cautious step forward, both hands raised as if in surrender. Jason knew better than that. He could see in the man’s stance that he was getting ready to pounce. He shifted his own stance to match, preparing for a sprint. The manor couldn’t have changed all that much in the years he was dead and gone.
“-is dead,” he finished with a snarl, eyes flicking around for a weapon once he’d noticed the holsters at his sides were empty. Naturally. “I am the Red Hood.”
“Tell me what happened,” Bruce asked, and if Jason were any more of an idiot, he’d almost think it sounded like a plea. “Let me help you.”
“Nice try, old man.” Jason barked out a sharp laugh. Help? Yeah, right. He was seconds away from making his break for it when Bruce stepped in front of him.
“The fear toxin is still in your system,” he said, face contorting with something Jason couldn’t be bothered to decipher. “You’re hurt. You can’t leave like this.”
“Watch me.” He tried to dash to Bruce’s right, but he underestimated how exhausted he was, and he’d barely made it ten feet before he stumbled. He would have hit the ground if careful arms hadn’t wrapped around his waist and pulled him back into something he might have called an embrace if he didn’t know that Batman hated him.
“What happened, Jaylad?” Bruce asked again, voice hardly above a whisper. Jason tightened his palms until they were fists, nails digging into his skin until they started to break skin.
“What happened was,” he hissed as he shoved the man away, not caring that he was still on the floor, as long as he’d put more distance between himself and Batman. “I died. I died, and you didn’t give a shit. I died, and it meant nothing.”
“No, no, I never stopped caring. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of how I failed to save you.” Bruce didn’t close the distance between them, though it looked like he wanted to.
Was that what he thought this was? Just that he died? Jason felt his anger simmer over. He rose to his feet, though unsteady, as he began to shout.
“Do you know how I felt? When I come back and see that he is still alive? Still breaking out of Arkham? Still killing people? Do you?”
“Jason, chum, you know-”
“Oh, yes. You don’t kill. Not even the man who laughed as my ribs broke, as my skull cracked open,” Jason felt his chest heave with every breath, his already sore throat feeling as though it were on fire as he raised his voice. “After all, why would you? What did it matter? You got yourself a new Robin before my body was even cold. And what of it, if this one dies too? You’ll just get another. Because it meant nothing. My death, it meant nothing to you.”
He didn’t know when he’d started crying, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop as the tears spilled over his cheeks, dripping down onto his throat and soaking through the bandages he didn’t realize were there. His knees buckled beneath him, and he sank to the ground, no longer able to keep himself upright.
“You mean everything to me. You’re my son.” Bruce finally seemed to break out of whatever was keeping him at bay, and he rushed forward to hold Jason.
“Am I? Still? Or did the Replacement take that from me, too?” It came out as more of a sob than a question, more of a plea than an accusation, but it needed to be said. Because Jason truly didn’t know if he could still call himself Bruce’s son, if he would still call Jason anything more than the Robin that wasn’t good enough.
“You will never stop being my son,” Bruce insisted, tilting Jason’s face so their eyes met, piercing blue staring into tainted green. “Never. I will never stop loving you. You may not want me to be your father, but you will always be my son.”
Maybe it was the lingering fear toxin that had yet to leave his system. Maybe it was the exhaustion clinging to his every move. Maybe it was the familiar stench of kevlar and Bruce’s exorbitant cologne. Maybe, just maybe, it was that a small part of him found himself believing Bruce’s words.
It felt like the fight left him all at once as he collapsed into his father’s arms, hands clinging desperately to the man’s shirt, like he’d disappear, like this would all go away, if he let go for even a moment.
“He’s still out there,” Jason whispered, almost to himself, like an attempt to remind himself how he had been failed.
“I know…I’m sorry,” Bruce replied, and it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Not until he saw to it that the clown was six feet under, that he could never manage to claw his way from his grave as Jason had. It would never be enough.
But just for tonight, he could pretend nothing existed but the warmth of his father’s gentle embrace.