Chapter Text
When Jason came back to Gotham as Red Hood, he didn't expect to be recognized by anyone other than Bruce, and even then would be late in the game. Instead, he had stepped one foot into a corner store down the road from his childhood home and got outed immediately as Willis' boy. The cashier, a man nearing his eighties with a thick Vietnamese accent, had joked with him that for a second he thought he was seeing Willis' ghost walking into his shop. Jason had pushed through his disbelief to laugh with him and talk about how little the store had changed since he was a kid.
Jason doesn't look like anyone's son right now.
Sure, he still has all the features that made that man see Willis: the black curls, the roundish jaw, the tall stature. But his nose has been broken again and he put it back crooked on top of the already crooked line to it. He hasn't washed off the blood that's stained his lips, or what's smeared across his face from his beat down of the Joker. Jason's never seen Willis this bloody.
He's seen Bruce worse: blood coating his fists from random crooks, blood smeared across his face from people he was too late to save, blood seeping out from where his costume wasn't enough to stop a blow. Jason might have Willis' face, but the rest of him resembles Bruce. He's wearing a costume, just like him. The domino mask left an outline on his face. Jason lost his jacket of tricks early in the fight, but he uses his kris knife to cut away at his shirt, his hand steady as Bruce's when he taught him. Jason's never seen Bruce cry.
Jason's crying now, salty tears spilling over his cheeks and chipping away at the blood built up on his skin. Someone's green eyes look back at him in the mirror, blurry and unfocused.
Everything in this safe house bathroom is doused in plain gray and white tones used for model homes. It just makes the orange surrounding him all the more apparent. The bandage in his hand catches again, fire eating away at it until Jason twists his knife around to cut it from the rest of the roll. He would curse, if even thinking about talking didn't make his throat twinge.
As it is, his throat aches and burns and feels like it's trying to peel off all at the same time. It makes Jason's hitching breaths a whole new kind of agony. He can't decide what hurts more: the stinging slice the Batarang left behind, or the burns from the All-Blade. The burns definitely draw his attention more, because the fire never left.
Jason's still burning. Fire licks at his hair, runs across his shoulders, burns bright around his neck and along his arms. It burns another strip of bandages when it gets close enough. The fire dancing on his fingers doesn't burn the skin. Not of it does. His clothes, his hair, none of it. He's perfectly fine, but he left burnt footprints all the way to the safe house. Jason fumbles the roll of bandages to the floor as it burns up again.
Jason follows after it, knees hitting and scorching the tile beneath them. He sucks in a deep, shuddering breath and lets it go just as slow. His hands don't shake, too well trained for that, but he can feel the tremor trying to shake out of his bones. He drops his knife and takes another deep breath. He digs his nails into his cargo pants hard enough to feel it pressing into his legs. Jason breathes in and out, slow and methodical until his eyes stop leaking and his bones stop trying to break out of his skin.
The fire on his hands dims, receding until it's a wisp of a flame. Jason keeps breathing until he can barely see the flame and his breath stops hitching. He lets go of his pants, un-tensing one finger at a time. He grabs his knife and the bandages again, rising to his feet and not making eye contact with the mirror. He has to prioritize. Deal with the cauterized neck wound first, then freak out about the fire draped over him.
He burns half the roll before getting it around his neck. It's sloppy, wouldn't pass in the Batcave, but it'll stave off infection. Jason traces the bandage wrapped around the base of his neck, fingertips light but still branding against the scar. It doesn't reach up enough to restrict his neck movement, but it's high enough that he'll need something with a high collar to cover it up.
Jason takes another deep breath, the fire around him rising with the movement. Okay. He can freak out now. His breath is a yell and he doesn't hesitate to whip his knife at the mirror. It shatters and he crumples to the floor, forehead banging against the sink counter as he curls around himself. His fire offers no warmth and his neck screams at the strain. His wordless scream devolves back into heavy sobs.
At least he knows how little he means to Bruce now. He has his answer, and his father will never let him be avenged. Not by his hand, or Jason's.
Now what?
Jason stays in the bathroom for what might be an hour, might be five. At some point his tears run dry and he heaves himself up again, ignoring every sharp point in his body telling him to stay down. They both gave as good as they got that last showdown, and he's feeling it now with every ache hoping for attention it's not going to receive. His major injury is dealt with, that's what matters.
This isn't the main safe house he's been staying in since he got back. His main one isn't a house, so much as a bunker tucked below dilapidated buildings that have been foreclosed since his dad was a kid. That's the one he actually tried to decorate, but the lack of windows had him out more often than in. This place could be a model apartment, if the furniture wasn't so spartan. The bedroom only has a cot in the corner and an overstuffed closet he digs through for a turtleneck sweater. The scraps of his old shirt get disintegrated along the way, staining the carpet with blood and ash.
Jason stuffs a duffel bag with clothes haphazardly, doubling back to grab supplies from the bathroom on the way out. Fire stays in the corner of his vision at all times, dancing around his body like it's always been there. The All-Blades are tucked back into his soul, yet the fire stays bright and mocking. It hasn't left, clearly the Blades weren't meant for wound care.
He has to go back to the All-Caste. That's the only choice he has right now. He can't stay in Gotham with the Bat breathing down his neck and he can't just disappear somewhere else with the fire hanging on to every move. He spares a second holding an arm under the tap, just to watch the fire shake without fizzling out at all. He curses and continues on out of the apartment, pulling the hood of the black hoodie under a backup leather jacket of tricks over his baseball cap. He tugs his scarf up against his mouth.
Jason burns in the rising August sun, but the heat doesn't stop his stride to the docks. He still gets looks from the people he passes, the early dockworkers and the people occupying early morning alleys. The fire's an anomaly, but it's Gotham. To them he'll either be dead or in Arkham soon enough. Nothing to kick up a fuss about. The captain Jason talks to does kick up a fuss, but one that can be solved by the wad of cash Jason slips into his palm. The man's fingertips singe bright red and he demands Jason stay in the back, under deck and away from all the rest of the people smuggling their way out of Gotham. It's a request Jason's all too eager to comply with.
Jason's never really taken to boats. This one is no different. It rocks back and forth and his heartbeat picks up every time he can hear a wave splashing against the hull. The fire sparks up and down in time with his pulse. He sits with his knees up and leaning against the side of the wall. He knows the All-Blades are tucked back securely into his soul; if he focuses he can make them thrum in his chest, warming him up internally. So he didn't somehow break the All-Blades. Probably. The fire burns with no fuel, steady and orange. Jason curls his fingers into a fist, trying to get the fire to do something new. It burns brighter, but dims back when he loses focus.
Either he's suddenly come into the world's most inconvenient Meta ability, or it's magic. He's leaning towards the latter; Bruce tested him for the metagene within weeks of the ability to do so being invented (well before it was released publicly, of course). Ducra said he had some latent magic potential, but the fire dancing on his arm is a bit more potent than being able to see an Untitled without training to Look. Clearly it has something to do with pressing an All-Blade against an open wound.
"You look terrible."
Jason startles at the voice, whipping his head around to look at the woman leaning against the half wall hiding him from the rest of the under deck's maze of rooms. He doesn't recognize her, but she crosses her arms and looks down at Jason like he's a bug she thinks is too pitiful to step on. It's the eyes that tip him off that something isn't right with her. Her pupils are facing the wrong direction to actually be looking at him, almost like she's not used to controlling them.
"Essence," he greets, even before he slips enough intention into his gaze to really Look at her. Beyond the body she's wearing, Essence hasn't changed a bit since the last time he saw her two years ago, when he left the All-Caste for greener pastures. Her white hair might be a centimeter or two longer, but she still has it tucked into thick braids, falling down to her mid-back. The handles of the Blood Blades stick out behind her shoulders. The rest of her blends into the shadows, equipped for an ambush even on a ship. Her eyes look much more natural completely black. "What are you doing here?"
His first instinct is to accuse her of following him, but she wouldn't have any purpose in doing that. She never cared about his plan for Gotham, anyway. She might care that it was ultimately a failure, if only because it means he's crawling back to the All-Caste.
Essence tilts her head to the side, one hand raising to twirl a strand of hair. Her visages mix in Jason's eyes, white hair switching to brown, then black. One of her eyes regains its pupil, still not looking in the right direction. In the time that Jason's known her, she's never quite gotten the looking human thing down. Even the hair twirling comes off as a rehearsed habit rather than anything natural.
"A coincidence, I assure you," she drawls in that monotone that would be considered rude if she were anyone else. "I'm following a lead on a group of Untitled. Why do you look so terrible?"
Jason scowls and hunches his shoulders up more than they already are. His bandages itch. "It's been a long week."
Essence hums and moves across from him, sitting cross legged in the little alcove. Her visage flickers again and Jason drops his Sight. The body she's wearing has deep bags under her eyes and a slouch to her shoulders. Blood is smudged against her head, hastily wiped away. He considers Essence an ally, maybe even a friend, but watching the dead body play living still makes his skin crawl.
"And the fire is apart of that?" she asks. Jason nods, trying to stay as far away from her as possible. She either doesn't catch the effort or ignores it in favor of leaning forward and hovering her hand over his knee. Predictably, the fire scorches her palm and she snaps it back to inspect the wound. Essence's hand covers itself in thick, gray smoke. She shakes it out to reveal a perfectly unburned palm. "Hm. You're done in Gotham, then?"
Jason wishes he could be surprised by her nonchalance. He shrugs in agreement. At least she's not freaking out or being mad about burning her. She shouldn't have touched him, anyway. "I was hoping to get Ducra to check out the fire thing. Get it fixed, hopefully."
Essence hums again and shrugs, doubt lacing the edges of her eyes. They both know Ducra's not a healer, but she can do soul magic and that's enough hope for Jason. She stands up in one graceful movement and leans out of the alcove. "The Untitled I'm following is a human trafficker. He's escorting some of his merchandise to Europe, where I suspect more Untitled lay in wait. You're free to tag along."
Then she leaves.
Jason doesn't have to pretend to mull it over. Obviously he'll help. He's trained for years to be a perfect weapon. It's not like that training suddenly goes away after his big grand plan didn't pan out. So what if the only home he's ever known is off limits now? So what if his murderer still walks free? So what if his adoptive father tore a chunk out of his neck and left him to bleed out in the remains of an apartment complex?
The fire around his hands sparks to attention, igniting Jason's arm in a bright orange. He curses and backs away from the wall that's caught, hastily removing his jacket to use as a dampener against the wall. The fire's small enough that it doesn't set off any alarms, but it still sets Jason on edge.
When he follows Essence out of the ship, he leaves charred footprints behind.
It's barely a fight. Essence had taken over the body of one of the people the trafficker had taken. The deceased had been pushed into a wall at just the right angle to cause a brain hemorrhage. The Untitled didn't realize she died, and Essence slipped in. Jason follows them from a few alleys away, careful even in the shadows. Sure, he's had the best stealth training a guy could get, but he's also on fire. Blending into the crevices between buildings can only do so much.
Essence starts the fight when she lets the body fall in the middle of the house in disrepair the Untitled's shacked up in. The Untitleds' attention is immediately on her pulling out the Blood Blades, allowing Jason to smash through the window and catch them by surprise. He kicks one in the face and it lights up like tissue paper. It gives him pause long enough for an Untitled to warp its arm into a whip and lash out at him. As soon as it makes contact, that one burns down too.
Jason doesn't even bother taking out the All-Blades. He and Essence work together just like they used to, taking down the Untitled with an efficiency other All-Caste teams envied. It's a matter of seconds, not minutes before the only ones left in the room are Jason, Essence, and the victims huddled in the corner.
Jason takes a step closer to them, body language loose, but the one in the front flinches hard enough to make the person behind him hiss in pain. Jason stalls while Essence takes the lead. That's not how it usually goes. Essence isn't human, and she's never made much effort to appear as one. Even now, picking up the body again to talk to the victims about calling the authorities, her voice is lacking any of the warmth typically used for the scared. She still gets more cooperation than the fire hazard.
He keeps his distance, playing guard dog near the door while Essence does the usual soothing and cajoling that sounds weird coming from her. They leave once police sirens get within earshot. If Jason were still Robin he'd feel bad about leaving the victims like that, but he's not so he tries not to dwell on it.
"You didn't use the All-Blades," Essence accuses once they've hunkered down in an All-Caste outpost.
It's more of a collection of outposts, made from the ruins of a castle long forgotten in the Irish countryside. In the order's glory days it was probably bustling with enough acolytes to justify the massive space and several hundred rooms. Currently, when he and Essence are the only two people here, it's a few thousand feet of wasted space. Jason's leaning against the wall of the training area, one of five rooms outfitted with sparring mats and practice weapons. Essence waits in the middle of the mat, expectant.
Jason doesn't rise to the bait. "Didn't need to."
"Hmph." She crosses the room and trails her fingertips over the racks of weapons on display. Mostly various types of swords, with other projectile based or shorter bladed weapons too. Of course all the blades are either made of or coated in copper. "Summon them now."
She picks up a chakram, weighing it in her hand before grabbing its twin. They're both small weapons, this kind only a little bigger than a Frisbee. The blade takes up two thirds of the circle, a leather wrapped handle at the top. Essence grips the handle tight on one of weapons and chucks it at Jason's face.
Jason sidesteps it and it embeds itself into the wall near his ear. He scowls at her and yanks the chakram out of the wall. Essence gestures with her own, motioning for him to go on. He rolls his eyes but raises the chakram to his thumb, cleanly slicing a line from the nail bed to the knuckle. With the blood spilled, the blades spark to life in his soul. He focuses on the familiar soul burn, pulling at the handles—
Jason doubles over as soon as the sharp, stabbing pain hits his chest. He loses his breath for a moment, one hand on his knee and the other burning a hand print into the doorway. The blades are there lodged in his soul and every time he tries to force them out his hands sizzle and spark and sputter. He stops once the wound stops actively bleeding, all fuel burned out.
Jason only notices he's completely fallen to his knees because Essence leans over him. She frowns and places one hand on her hip. She hovers her hand just before Jason's fire. She looks at him like he's an animal pacing its cage. The thought has fire springing up after her hand, but she snatches it back before it can burn.
"Okay," she decides. "You'll help me root out the rest of the Untitled nested here, then I'll take you to Ducra. You need to get your Blades back or give them to someone that they won't be wasted on."
Essence passes by him, disappearing into a cloud of smoke. Jason takes in a few more deep breaths. He gingerly lets go of the doorframe, wincing at the smoldering remains. The floor is marginally better, more of a char than a sear. Shame still washes over him.
He has to get this fire away from him. There's no other way he can go on.