Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing Jason felt that was unimpeded by a mental fog was a burning sensation in his lungs. His mind was awake, almost hyper-aware. Every nerve felt like it was on fire. There was the sound of someone screaming, but it couldn't have been him. Not him. You need air to scream, and he had none.

He was drowning.

Think, a voice in his head demanded. Calm down and think. You're not trapped. You're not entombed. It's just fluid, just the sensation of pain, and pain is only the screaming of nerves. You're not going to die because your nerves are screaming. You can do this. You can get out.

Wading forward through the liquid, Jason moved until both his hands and feet hit a sloped surface. Then he was on all fours, not trusting his legs to hold his weight quite yet, and coughing, expelling all the strange liquid he could from his body. The act alone drained what little strength he had, and Jason dropped onto his his back on the shallow end of the pool closing his eyes for a moment.

There were voices coming towards him. Mostly male speaking a language he didn't couldn't quite make out. What he clearly heard was a swish of drawn blades and at least one click of a gun being cocked. He stilled, gathering the last reserves of his energy, but found that he had none left to run. Most of the footsteps halted, but the lightest pair continued on towards him until the sound of footsteps stopped and the person knelt by his side. A cool wet cloth was placed on his forehead, and he managed to open his eyes enough to see the bleary image of a woman's face bent over him.

"Hush, child. You are safe. There is nothing to fear."

No matter how soothing her accented voice was, Jason couldn't help but feel afraid. He was often afraid, he realized with a pang of disgust, but didn't have a chance to dwell on hit. Her soft hand was placed over his eyes, and he obediently closed them.

He's already 'lived' through every hell. What was the worst that could happen?

When next Jason woke he was in a bed. He was clean and dry and comfortable and, most surprising of all, not in any pain. Blinking several times he stared up at the ceiling of an unknown room, and when he turned his head slightly to look out the open window, the view outside was unfamiliar as well. He wasn't in Wayne Manor. For that mater, he wasn't even at all sure he was still in the United States. Probably not, if the language those men had been speaking was any indication.

The door to the room opened before he could throw off the covers and hide or prepare himself for an attack, but it was only a man, most likely a servant, dressed in middle-eastern garb and caring a tray with some strips of cloth and a basin and pitcher of water. When he saw that Jason was awake and sitting up in bed, the servant bowed politely and said something in the language the young man finally identified as an Arabic dialect before placing the tray on the table next to the door and departing. Jason had no idea what that was about, but he made his way to the basin and splashed some water on his face. When he looked up, the sight in the mirror shocked him to the core.

The face that looked back at him was both recognizable but at the same time completely foreign. He'd aged, but Jason couldn't begin to guess how much. It could have been a year or it might have been ten. He remembered pieces and flashes; digging out of the coffin, the institution, the streets. Any one of those things could have done so much damage as to make his age impossible to guess. Malnourishment, as he knew from childhood, made one look younger, while other things could have aged him. Was that really white in his hair?

The second time the door opened, he tensed, but it was only a woman who entered. The same woman who had been there at the edge of the pool and a woman who he suddenly recognized with an instant mixture of relief and apprehension.

"Talia?" His hand went flying to his throat at the rough sound it made.

She inclined her head. "Jason. It is so very good to hear your voice after all this time. How do you feel?"

"My..." He tried to speak again but the sound coming out of his mouth was so very wrong.

"You have not uttered a word in over three years," she said sympathetically, "but now life has truly been restored to you. Your vocal cords will readjust, but you don't have to speak now."

He was stunned. Three years. Is that how long it had been since the Joker... the memory of the events in the warehouse came crashing down on him, and suddenly Jason found himself clutching the table for support and fighting off the urge to throw up. Talia touched his shoulder and gently guided him back towards the bed until he was lying down again.

"Rest a little while longer," she advised smoothing covers over him. "My father is away, so everything else can wait."

Father? Oh, right: Ra's. But it brought on a different memory. He bolted up and grabbed her hand before she had a chance to move away.

"Bruce!"

She froze for a moment, then the calm demeanor returned. Talia turned back to him from the doorway with a slight smile.

"Rest, Jason. All will be well."

He wanted to believe her, but there was a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach that told him it would never be that easy. After all, the last person who'd said something like that was his own mother, and she'd... he didn't want to think about that now. If sleep would keep him from thinking, then he'd sleep until he no longer could.

There was a large antique-looking analog clock on the wall read fifteen minutes past six, but Jason had no idea if it was morning or evening. He didn't even know if it was the same day or if he'd slept over twenty-four hours. His perception of time was off. The water in the basin had been changed while he slept, and Jason washed his face and opened the door, taking a peak into the long hallway. The mansion was beautifully decorated with an obvious middle-eastern motifs. The building might have emulated an old style, but his well-trained eyes caught sight of cameras in every corner of the hallway. He wouldn't have been surprised if the room was bugged as well.

Talia was coming up the staircase at the far end of the hallway just as he fully stepped out. There was an dark-skinned man at her side who regarded Jason a little suspiciously but otherwise kept his expression neutral. Talia herself looked up when she saw him.

"Good evening." She smiled. Ah, so it was six fifteen at night, after all. "I was just about to have some dinner brought up to you, but you can eat downstairs with me if you like. I know you must be bored up here."

She was trying to be nice, Jason realized, but trying so hard that he didn't believe a word of it. Ra's might have been the most... noble of Batman's opponents if such a word could be used for anyone in their Rouge's Gallery, but neither he nor his daughter ever did anything without reason. If Talia al Ghul was being kind to him, he had no doubt there was an ulterior motive behind it. Jason looked her straight in the eyes.

"Does Bruce know where I am?" He asked point blank.

Beside her, Talia's companion raised a brow and gave her a look, but she ignored him. "He doesn't. Forgive me, Jason. I have been occupied elsewhere and have not yet had a chance to contact him. I will, though, don't worry. Now come and eat."

He had no appetite but followed anyway if only to get a better look at the mansion and see if he could get any insight on his captor. Jason had some hope that it wasn't the case, that she really had forgotten to call Bruce, but even as he thought it, he recognized it as naive wishful thinking.

Every day he saw her thereafter, Jason asked the same question:

"When is Bruce coming? Does he know I'm here?"

And every time he got one of a string of excuses: she'd forgotten or she was preoccupied making sure her father didn't know what she'd done in bringing him back or she was simply busy with other matters.

It didn't take Jason long to have his initial thought affirmed: he was a prisoner. Not a hostage, because he had absolutely no doubt that if Bruce even knew he was alive, he would have been back at home in Gotham by now. He had no idea what Talia wanted, why she was keeping him there with apparently no purpose. Jason didn't care what she wanted though, and he didn't need to know her plans to know what he wanted.

One day, less than six months after his return to awareness, he tried to escape.

He didn't even make it half a mile away from the mansion before he was taken down by Talia's men. It took six fully armed assassins to bring him back, which might have been a point of pride for Jason at one point, but now the whole experience made him angry and exhausted. They hadn't harmed him beyond the few bruises he'd given himself while trying to get away, and he'd been returned to his room until there was nothing else he could do but try to sleep.

Talia said nothing about it the next morning. The questions and excuses had become somewhat of a breakfast routine with them. Jason, however, was not about to play along with her anymore.

"Why won't you tell my dad where I am? That I'm even alive."

He didn't know why he'd said it like that, only that amid what little memories he had of just after emerging back into the world was one about telling a medic that the man he kept asking for was his father. He hadn't thought twice about it then or now. Talia slowly put the cup of tea she'd been holding and pressed her lips into a thin line.

"My father..."

"I don't care about your father! I care about mine!" Jason's fist connected rather painfully with the solid wood table. "Why don't you tell him? Why are you just... keeping me here? Why!"

She was quiet for a full minute before she finally spoke. "After your... your murder, Bruce was in a terrible place. For a log time I was not at all certain it would not end badly for him..."

He wasn't even phased by the revelation that Talia had them watched, but the idea that there was something really wrong with Bruce made his heart stop. "But he's okay, right?"

The corner of her mouth turned slightly. "As well as can be expected, but there are... situations in Gotham. I don't wish to cause him more distress."

"But if I could just talk to him..."

He'd been pushing it to the deepest pit of his stomach but now that it had floated up to the surface, Jason couldn't stop thinking about it. He'd been in Gotham for two years and through some horrible twist of fate had never crossed paths with Batman in all that time. Now that he was finally awake and aware, he was half-way around the world in a house filled with enemy people and Bruce didn't even know to look for him. And all he wanted to do was go home.

"You're not going to let me go back, are you?" His voice was completely devoid of emotion.

Talia didn't say anything. She didn't have to. She just took another sip of her tea.

Things changed in a different way from then on. Jason grew more and more distant, cold and emotionless. He ate little and rarely, growing weaker and paler by the day. He could almost feel himself slipping back into that autistic-like state and sometimes he wished he could. The world didn't hurt so much back then.

He allowed himself only brief moments to feel just as he closed his eyes in the night. He thought of the life he'd left behind, of all the adventures he'd had, both with Batman and briefly with the Teen Titans. He thought of Alfred and his tea cakes which were better than every exotic food he'd been served in this prison. He thought of Dick, the closest thing he'd ever had to a brother, even if they rarely got along. But before oblivion took him every night, his very last thoughts were always of Bruce.

After his escape attempt, Talia had ceased pretending that he would be going home any day now, and he had ceased talking to her. Jason probably wouldn't have left the room that had become his prison cell, but the bathroom was on the opposite end of the hallway. A habit instilled into him by both Bruce and the streets of Gotham, Jason rose early and trotted out, still only half awake and not at all certain he wanted to be even that. Sounds from downstairs reached him when he was about halfway to the bathroom, and he looked over the railing in time to see a small party of newly arrived people being led away from the doorway.

His eyes were still bleary from sleep, but Jason could have sworn one of them was a child.

Chapter Text

Jason ventured downstairs a little later in the day because curiosity was still one of the emotions he hadn't quite rid himself of. The house was quiet as he looked from room to room on the ground floor. Somewhere in the distance he could hear voices and steps, but it didn't seem anything out of the ordinary or urgent.

The sound of a single pair of light footsteps coming to an abrupt stop behind him caught his attention. Jason spun and actually had to look down to see who it was. What he saw was a boy who couldn't have been more than seven or eight, the tips of his slightly spiked black hair not even reaching Jason at chest level.

He stared at the boy, and the boy stared back. Then he said something in Arabic, and Jason blinked. The confused look on his face must have been telling because the boy paused as if assessing, then in nearly perfect English, asked:

"Who're you?" His tone that was an equal measure of curiosity and demand.

Jason was too startled by the sight of a child in a place like this to reply with anything other than the same question. "Who're you?"

"Tt, don't you know?"

Jason frowned. "Why would I?"

He didn't think he liked this boy and his attitude one bit. Thankfully the entitled expression on his face changed, the frown switching from annoyance to mild confusion. The child cocked his head to the side slightly.

"Aren't you one of my new tutors?"

"I have no idea who you even are, kid!"

"Oh... I'm Damian," he said as if it was supposed to explain everything.

"Aha." That told Jason absolutely nothing. "What are you doing here, Damian?"

"I don't know. My mother asked me to be brought here. I assumed there was another tutor I had to meet."

Jason blinked. "Tutor? How old are you, kid?"

"Eight. How old are you?"

"I'm..." He had to think about that, add the years and months since his death. "Nineteen."

"You don't look that old."

Jason actually laughed, the sound now nearly foreign to him. This boy with the attitude the size of a small country was really just a little kid after all. He remembered being at an age when anyone more than a year older than himself was so old. Still, Jason couldn't shaking off the horrible sensation that he was missing something. Something about this kid... how old did he say he was? Eight? Jason's frown deepened.

"Damian," he said in the mildest tone he could manage. "Who's your mom?"

"Mother, duh."

"No, I mean what's her name?" He didn't really have to ask. He could easily guess, but Jason wanted to hear it said aloud by someone other than himself. The boy frowned again.

"She's Talia al Ghul. How can you be here and not know that? Who are you?"

Jason opened his mouth to answer or ask about the second half of the boy's parentage, he didn't really know. Really looking at him now, doing the math, he had no more need to ask the second question than he had the first. But this was so much worse, because if what he was almost a hundred percent sure about was true, there would be hell to pay. He just needed some kind of confirmation which came from the woman herself.

Talia stepped in behind Damian, who turned to look at his mother.

"His name is Jason." She said. "He's your brother."

For the first time since his resurrection, Jason truly saw red.

He wanted to scream at her, to shake her, or do something potentially even more violent. His hands kept clenching and unclenching at his sides, and for the first time since his attempted escape, the fire in his gut was back, the flame brighter than ever. But with a child – Bruce's son, for God's sake! - standing not two feet from them, he could do nothing but glare daggers at Talia.

Damian, clearly far from oblivious to the tension, looked between them. "Really?"

"Yes." Talia assured him. "Now, go to your studies. You and I will talk later."

She ushered him out of the foyer, and Jason watched until the boy disappeared down the hall. He wanted to be sure he was out of ear shot. Only after hearing two consecutive door closures did he turn on Talia.

"What the fuck!" He demanded.

She scowled slightly. "I do not respond to this vulgar language, Jason."

"How do you do this to Bruce! To me! To the kid! Does Bruce even know about him?"

"He does not," she replied calmly. "Nor will he until a time of my choosing."

"A time of your choosing!" Jason roared. "Like when you finally decide you have some use for me? Would it be around the same time we're talking about? You're keeping us from our father, do you get that! What the fuck gives you the right!"

"I am Damian's mother."

"But you sure as hell ain't mine!" He accused. "Though I don't know what's worse: this or the one that got me killed in the first place. I hated you before, when it was just me, but now..."

"You may hate me," Talia agreed. "It's well within your right, but I ask you to refrain from lashing out at Damian. He is innocent."

A different kind of anger flared in him. "You think I would do that to a kid?"

"No, I do not. Forgive a mother her over-protectiveness."

Jason didn't believe a word of it, but he simply scowled. "What do you want from me, Talia? Why did you bring him here now? Somehow I doubt it has anything to do with a new tutor."

"In a way it does. I want you to teach him. Nothing specific," she assured him seeing the dubious look on his face. "He wants to know of the outside world and of his father. I want you to talk to him about... anything you like."

"And if I tell him the truth?" Jason challenged. "That his mother is a cold-hearted bitch who kept him from his dad his whole life?"

"He knows I've kept him away," she replied calmly. "He isn't happy about it, but he's also accepted it's for the best. You may say what you will about me but remember one thing: how willing were you to believe the worst of your mother?"

She left him standing in the foyer in thought. It was odd, but after only a few minutes, Jason could feel the fog of indifference fade. He didn't want it to, didn't want to return to the pain, but something inside him demanded he live again. The first thing necessary for life was will. The second was sustenance, and Jason suddenly found himself hungry. Having no desire to eat with her, he made his way to the kitchen and raided the large breadbasket for something akin to a danish. It wasn't much but it would do for now.

He didn't see Damian or Talia for the rest of the day, but the following evening when he returned to his room, he was somewhat surprised to find the boy there, curiously touching the jacket that hung on one of the chairs. Jason had never asked how clothes that fit nearly perfectly got to his room, but over the last six months he'd acquired a few pairs of pants, spare shirts, and a jacket that he he'd worn for a while during the cooler months but hadn't touched recently.

Damian looked up at him when he entered, apparently unabashed that he was discovered in a room and touching things not his own. It was a good of a time as any, Jason thought, to lay out the ground rules for this little tutorship. He hadn't even decided if he was going to do anything Talia had asked, but it didn't hurt to let the kid know what was what.

"That's mine," he said sternly.

"I didn't do anything," Damian's frown was a mixture of confusion and defensiveness.

"You came into my room and touched my stuff," Jason told him. "That's rude. I don't care if you're the little prince around here. You don't do that to my things, got it? Want to see something, then you ask for it."

The boy neither argued nor gave any indication that he understood, but he did step away from the chair and half-bounced half-sat down on the bed. Jason didn't like that much either, but he let it slide, groaning inwardly. What the hell was he supposed to be doing with this kid?

"Is my mother your mother?" Damian asked suddenly.

"What?" Jason's eyes bulged. "Of course not!"

"Oh." The boy frowned. "Then why did she say you were my brother?"

Oh, God, was he really supposed to explain the bizarreness that was the Wayne – or in the kid's case, Wayne and al Ghul – family dynamic? Jason made a face and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Because I am." He insisted. "We have the same dad, different moms. I'm your half-brother if you really want to be picky about it."

He didn't want to go into the fact that he wasn't actually Bruce Wayne's biological son. Talia was unlikely to bring it up since she'd been the first to use the word 'brother', and if he were honest with himself, Jason had to admit that it was kind of nice to think of Bruce as his father without qualifiers.

Damian seemed to accept that however because he didn't argue the point further. Jason looked around the room and sighed. Now what?

"Look, kid, I don't really know what we're supposed to do here. Your mom just asked if I'd hang out with you for a bit. Do you want to... umm... go get a snack? What do you usually do?"

"Read," Damian replied. "Study things."

"Like..." What did eight-year-olds learn? "Fractions?"

"Trigonometry," the boy corrected, and Jason was glad for the table behind him because he reached for it. "It helps a lot in engineering."

"You like to tinker with stuff?" For his own sanity he had to say it in terms that might apply for a normal child, even though Jason was quickly realizing that Damian was anything but. His new brother nodded. "Well, I don't have anything for you to play with, but when we get back to Gotham, I'll tell Dad to put you to work on our cars. Those things have hubcap issues."

Damian just stared at him, and Jason winced. "And I'm trying to be funny again. Nevermind. What do you like to read?"

"I just finished The Art of War," came the excited reply. Jason couldn't help but role his eyes.

"And here I thought I was cool when I read the Hardy Boys," he quipped.

Damian gave him a quizzical looks. "Who are they?"

"The Hardy boys? They're brothers and a team of detectives," like Batman and Robin, "like our dad. 'Course, our dad's way cooler."

"Naturally," Damian agreed, never having met Bruce but certain anyone who was his father must be great.

Jason smiled and held out a hand to him. "I'm starving. How about you and me go get some dinner, and I'll tell you everything you want to know about the Hardy Boys?"

"And Father?" Damian asked.

"Yup, him too," Jason promised.

It continued like that for the next week. Damian still had his regular studies, but in the late afternoons and evenings, he would come to Jason and the two of them would talk or read or play. The young man was not at all surprised to learn that the boy's favorite game was chess. Since Shoots & Ladders were a little out of his mental age range, he decided to introduce him to Risk and Monopoly, though he had some trouble convincing Damian that they were, in fact, just games.

The boy was fluent in Arabic, English, and Jason suspected a few other languages. He could read the thickest books in the mansion's library, but Jason was somewhat amused to learn that like normal children, he liked to be read to as well. At one point, when they were going through a mythology book, he actually left his own chair and went over to sit on the arm of the large one Jason was occupying.

"These so-called-gods have more family issues than us," Jason smirked before continuing.

He still avoided Talia, his anger having turned to a sort of ice cold fury. However, no matter how angry he was, the fact remained that he would not outright scream at her while Damian was in the same house. He didn't care about her, but the boy had strangely grown on him. The only time they'd exchanged words was once in the hallway when their paths happened to cross. To his surprise, it was Talia who lowered her gaze for a moment.

"Damian has told me of all your playtimes." She was smiling slightly. "Thank you, Jason. For everything you're doing for him. Everything you will do."

"He's a good kid," Jason nodded. "He doesn't deserve this."

"I know." She said before moving on, and he couldn't quite tell what part she was replying to.

Throughout his imprisonment Jason had developed a habit of going to sleep fairly early for two reasons. The first was that he still instinctively woke nearly before the dawn but with no patrol to go on and no Crime Alley thugs to watch out for, he could finally afford to at least try to get a full night's sleep. But that rarely came easy for the second reason; nightmarish images that haunted him almost every time he closed his eyes. That night, just as he'd all but fallen asleep, Jason thought he heard light footsteps in his room. When he shot up, eyes wide open, heart pounding, there was no one there.

The second time he was awakened in the night, it must have been close to dawn but not so close that Jason briefly wondered what it was that had woken him. He sat up, looking around. No immediate danger, but then what was it? A faint glow from under the door caught his attention, and he experimentally sniffed the air.

Smoke!

He was dressed within a second, swung open the door, and stepped into an inferno.

Chapter Text

It was burning. All of it. The entire house was in flames, and Jason had only one thought as he raced down the hall, one hand cupped around his nose and mouth to at least somehow filter out the fumes. He had to get to Damian, get the boy out. Luckily the door to his room was flying open just as Jason reached it, and the child came stumbling into the hallway clearly a little disoriented from what he hoped was sleep and not smoke inhalation.

Chapter Text

Jason sat heavily down on the kitchen stool. So the phone had been changed... or maybe death and resurrection had left his brain more addled than he thought if he couldn't remember correctly a number that should have been tattooed on the inside of his head. No communication, no money, and there was Damian to look after. What was he supposed to do now? With a frustrated groan, he buried his head in his hands, elbows resting on his legs. What the hell was...

Something tumbled out of the inside pocket of his jacket to land with a small thunk on the floor. Jason frowned and bent down to examine what looked like two leather-bound cases. They were fairly flat so it was little wonder he hadn't noticed them before, but he couldn't remember taking anything with him. Opening them one at a time, Jason stared in disbelief.

They were passports. Honest to God American passports.

One for him and the other for the boy, each bearing what looked like recent photographs. The names were inscribed as "Jason Wayne" and "Damian Wayne" which made him frown momentarily, but he pushed it to the back of his mind and continued to look through the fallen stack. In addition to the documents, there were several flattened wads of bills in multiple currencies including several hundred dollars worth of American notes.

He stared, not quite believing their luck, then a wide grin began to spread over Jason's face. Surely this was everything they would need to get back stateside and to Bruce. Even if he wasn't able to get in touch with him now, he could just imagine his face when they showed up on the doorstep of the manor. Giddy with excitement, Jason tucked everything away back into his pocket and went to find Damian. He didn't even bother to think where any of it had come from. The phrase 'don't look a gift horse in the mouth' felt very appropriate right about now.

Damian was out with the woman in the foyer, a pair of beaten up but whole shoes on his feet that looked like they were about the right size. The boy looked up at him expectantly, but he shook his head.

"It wouldn't connect," he explained curtly. "We'll have to try to make it to a bigger town, D."

The boy clearly looked disappoint but nodded solemnly. The woman cocked her head.

"Train comes with supplies tomorrow. Dmitri go to station, bring back supplies, take you, yes?"

"A train?" That had Jason's attention. "Where does it go?"

"Prague, then outside Berlin. Not go any farther west."

"That's fine. Perfect."

Once they got to Berlin, they'd be able to fly straight to the states. He could be seeing Bruce in less than a week. A few days ride in a supply train and maybe some hitchhiking to Germany's capital was worth it. Anything was worth it. He was so wrapped up in the thought that he almost missed Damian tugging on his jacket. The boy was blinking rapidly, a clear sign of exhaustion.

"Where are we going to sleep tonight?"

Something deep inside Jason's gut twisted at that, all excitement falling away. He remembered that feeling, the hopelessness. He remembered what it was like not knowing where he was going to spend the night or when he would eat next. Jason always had a soft spot for kids and even though Damian was like no other child he'd ever met, he'd become oddly found of him. To hear such a question come out of his mouth hurt.

Thankfully his guess about the house being an inn turned out to be right, and the woman – Margarete – could not let that comment go ignored either. He thought about paying her, but Jason was not sure how long the money would have to last and didn't want to have to explain anything when before he'd told her he had nothing. The in was tiny – only two actual guest rooms on the upper floor – but then again the middle-of-nowhere town was not exactly a tourist hot spot. Having spent a good portion of the night walking, Jason did not complain when she showed them to a room and promised to have supper ready after they awoke. He didn't realize the full extent of his tiredness until he opened the door on a pair of small beds and lowered his body down.

"How about we get a few hours of sleep, okay, kid?" Old springs creaked under his weight, but Jason couldn't care less. "Then we can eat and maybe sleep some more, and before you know it, it'll be tomorrow and we'll be on our way."

Damian said nothing from the opposite cot, just shrugged a shoulder slightly, and Jason sighed inwardly. He'd been as gentle as he could. It wasn't like he didn't sympathize; he did, but he didn't quite know how to sooth, how to be the big brother, and Damian was not the easiest child in the world to read. He took a deep breath and kicked off his boots.

"Yeah, okay," he repeated. "Just a couple hours."

A few hours was apparently enough to dream. In his dreams, Jason was back in Gotham, back in the manor with Bruce and Alfred and even Dick. Death had hurt, the separation worse, but it was all in the past now. He was so warm and happy and didn't even care that he cried. He'd tell his father how sorry he was, how he should have listened, and of course Bruce would chastise, but he'd hug Jason and tell him he loved him. Even then he knew it was a dream, but that was alright because soon it would be a reality. For the first time in a long while, he let himself hope.

When he came awake, at first Jason was not sure what it was exactly that had woken him. It was still fully light outside which meant he could not have been asleep for very long. Then he heard it; the slight whimper, then a sniffle. On the cot next to his, Damian was crying softly, tears sticking his long dark lashes together. Jason didn't know if the boy was asleep or not. He knew he should go to him, comfort the child, but he couldn't move. The few feet between their beds felt like a bottomless pit.

Jason had lost two sets of parents; to drugs, to crime, to betrayal, and finally his own death. One would imagine he should have been an expert by then, but the truth couldn't have been further. He'd never really dealt with any of those losses; there had never been time. So he let the boy cry and hoped to hell it wouldn't leave the child as damaged as it had him.

"You're dead, boy wonder."

Tim winced and rubbed the shoulder that one of Nightwing's Escrima sticks struck. It was the third time in as many rounds of their sparing that Dick had completely wiped the floor with him. The man gave him a slightly annoyed look, then sheathed the weapons.

"Want to tell me why you're so distracted or should I just keep beating you up?"

The young teen frowned slightly then shrugged. He wasn't sure what caused the distraction, but now that he mentioned it, he realized Dick was right. It seemed pretty useless to continue sparing, so they ordered pizza to be delivered to the young man's apartment. It would arrive there just a little after they did, but it would give them enough time to change into civilian clothes.

Being an only child and maybe a little bit withdrawn at times, Tim loved that Dick – possibly the coolest person in his opinion – was willing to not only teach him but also do normal things when time permitted. How many other kids could say they could just hang out with Nightwing? Even after a few years, Tim was still a bit star-struck and shyly asked if him being there bothered him. The whole thing just made Dick laugh.

"When I was a kid," the man told him, plopping down on the couch with a paper plate that held two pizza slices, "I tried to convince my folks that they absolutely had to have another kid because I was meant to be a big brother."

Tim grinned but then the thought caught up with him. He opened his mouth to say something, but the sudden somber look on Dick's face told him that the young man had just thought of the same thing. He bit his lip and looked down, suddenly terribly fascinated with the carpet. The teen didn't look up until Dick spoke again, a far away tone in his voice.

"It's coming up on that time of the year again," he mused, and Tim saw that he was looking out the large windows. He suspected that it was more than just the nighttime lights of Bludhaven that Dick was seeing. The teen just nodded.

"I thought it might be. Bruce has been kind of... quiet. Quieter than usual."

Dick nodded and took a deep breath. "Don't ask him about it. Don't even hint that you see something off. There's two things you don't talk to him about: his parents and Jason. He'll... deal with it the way he always has."

"But he doesn't." Tim didn't know why he suddenly felt like speaking out about it. "I mean, I don't think going out and punching bad guys counts as dealing with it."

The young man gave a short dry laugh. "If you're trying to convince me that Bruce Wayne has some horrible coping mechanisms, you're preaching to the choir."

Tim was quiet for a moment, then looked up again. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"How do you... deal?"

"With my parents' deaths?" Dick sighed. "Believe it or not, I had counseling after the fact. I remember them, but I don't... mourn them. At least not every day, the way Bruce does."

"And..." Tim swallowed. It was hard to say the name for some reason. "And Jason?"

Another deep breath. "I didn't know Jason that well." Dick admitted sadly. "That was my mistake. He tried. I didn't. Maybe if I had... I don't know. It's probably unfair to him, but I try not to think about it. These kinds of what ifs mess with your sanity big time, kid."

Tim sympathized. "Are you going to go visit him on the anniversary?"

The man nodded. "After Bruce leaves."

"Do you want some company?" the teen offered. "I know he prefers to go alone, but I can go with you if you want."

Dick actually smiled. "That'd be nice."

The conversation became a little lighter afterward. They talked about Gotham, about Bludhaven, and Dick asked about school and dutifully teased him about girls. They went over some some of the night's sparing, but when asked what had distracted him, Tim frowned. It was almost on the tip of his tongue, but he honestly couldn't quite recall.

It's okay, Tim thought. If it's important, I'll remember it later.

The train cart was meant to haul cargo. It was hard and cold and generally not the most pleasant way to spend several days, but Jason didn't care. They could find more comfortable sleeping accommodations once they reached Berlin, and thanks to Margarete there was a backpack stuffed with bread, cheese, fruit, and even some dry meat slung over his shoulder. Jason had survived on far less and was nothing but grateful to the woman for her kindness.

He'd expected Damian to complain though and was both glad and disturbed that he did not. Being raised almost like a prince and then having to go through all this, he'd expected some kind of resistance... attitude... something! But the boy was oddly subdued, too quiet for Jason's liking. He ate when the young man gave him food, and Jason was fairly certain he slept, but that sleep was uneven, often disturbed by nightmares that would bring the child gasping back to the waking world.

The night before they reached Germany, when Jason tried to pass him piece of bread, he just shook his head and pushed the food away.

"I miss my mother," he swallowed hard, voice on the verge of breaking.

Whatever hatred he felt for Talia mattered little at that moment, but he didn't know how to comfort. All Jason managed to get out was, "I know."

He was a little surprised when Damian scooted over and curled up at his side. It still felt a little odd, but Jason didn't have the heart to push him away. Awkwardly wrapping an arm around the boy's shoulders, he held him. After a moment of quiet, Damian spoke again.

"Do you think Father will like me?"

The former Robin had to laugh. "Sure. He has a soft spot for strays. And," He continued quickly so as not to have to explain the comment., "I haven't even told you about Dick! He's kind of our brother. Sort of, but he's older so he doesn't live at the manor anymore. I promise he'll like you, too. He likes everyone."

Damian gave him an inscrutable look. "You mean we have to share Father with someone else?"

"Hey, we were both here before you, little D," Jason reminded him.

"Sorry," the boy looked down, chastised. "I never had brothers before."

Jason almost said "Me neither" but bit his tongue. Now was definitely not the time to get into his less-than-fantastic relationship with Dick before his death. Not that they'd ever outright fought, but they'd never been close either. He would not have thought to use the term 'brother' except that he was trying to cheer up Damian, give the boy something more to look forward to. He leaned back against the wall or the cart and pulled the child closer.

A few more days... just a few more days...

Chapter Text

Almost as soon as the train stopped in the small town east of Berlin, Jason got a bad feeling about it. It was just as remote as the one they left behind, but something about it unsettled him. The people were too quiet, regarding them with suspicion as they entered the local inn. He'd honed his survival instincts enough – both alone on the streets of Gotham and as Robin – that Jason decided they would leave as soon as possible. Sadly that would have to be in the morning. It was already past ten at night, so there was little change they'd get a ride to the capitol now.

After several days of riding in the cargo train though, he wasn't about to complain about an actual bed or hot meal and ordered two bowls of stew for himself and Damian. He wanted to get beer – how could he be in Germany and not get beer? - but figured even that was not worth the trouble of an argument if the boy if he asked to try it. Tea would suffice. They got a table in the corner and sat, waiting for the meal, and Jason idly looked around, instinctively taking note of all the exits and personages around.

Damian glanced about as well, a little more alert than before. "They're talking about us."

"You speak German?"

Jason himself knew the basics, but now he wished he knew more. He shouldn't have been surprised though, considering Damian was fluent in Arabic and English. He suspected Talia had made her son learn just as Bruce had insisted he did. The boy wrinkled his nose.

"I understand a little. Those two over there," he nodded at two men who were talking over some beer, "are wondering who we are. They know you're American, but they're wondering about me, about... if we're related, I think."

That sent a cold sweat down Jason's spine. He felt like he'd just unknowingly stepped into a nest of vipers. Grown men should not be wondering about little boys. There was a good bet they weren't nearly as altruistic as Bruce Wayne. He looked away, knowing he couldn't afford to pick a fight he couldn't win, and grasped Damian's wrist under the table.

"You stay by my side at all times," he said in a low voice. "All times, Damian. Understand?"

That just made the child frown. "Why?"

"Because I said so," Jason hissed. "Because sometimes you need to trust that I'm more than a decade older and might know better than you. Don't ask questions. Just do as I say."

It wasn't lost on him just how much he sounded like Bruce at that moment, and judging by the scowl on the boy's face, Damian wasn't about to take the direction any better than he had. Which, quite honestly, terrified him considering the last time he didn't listen to Bruce, he'd ended up dead. He had to make the boy pay attention, but Jason had no idea how to do that.

"I'm trying to keep you safe," he said more gently, and thankfully Damian's face softened a little at that, though he didn't look completely satisfied.

He continued to listen, catching bits and pieces of information, and even a few names. Egon, Jan.... An idea suddenly came to him, and Jason quickly pulled out the pen he'd snatched off the front desk and began jotting down as much as he could on a napkin, all the while trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. Nothing they said was explicitly incriminating – Jason didn't really think every person in the inn was a low-life – but he'd learned to read between the lines. They could have been talking about simple supplies when they mentioned 'the cargo.'

Or it could have been guns.

Or drugs.

Or more likely – from the way they'd regarded Damian – something much worse.

Bruce had taught him to asses everything from every angle, analyze his choices, and follow them as far as possible to see what kind of outcomes might occur. It wasn't about being psychic: it was about being in control of a situation. He remembered asking what if neither of the choices were good.

"Then find a third choice," Batman had said. "Either way, you act by not acting."

So now his choices were: ignore the whole thing, leave 'the cargo' to their fates – not an option – or go after the child slavers, possibly get killed again because he had no idea how many there were, and leave Damian to their mercy. Definitely not an option.

If I were Bruce, what would I do?

Not have an eight-year-old sidekick?

Right, well, Damian was here now. He couldn't just temporarily wish him away, couldn't take him into the field. Jason blew out a breath. He needed help, but trying to contact the manor has proven pointless, and it was likely the Justice League or even Teen Titans would be just as difficult to get a hold of. That part didn't bother him so much; he wanted to see Bruce before having to explain everything to the rest of hero community, but that didn't change the fact that he needed help.

Okay, time to resort to more ordinary methods.

Local authorities in such a small town were not likely to be able to handle something this big, but there were other resources. Motioning for Damian to come with him but be quiet, Jason got up and walked over to the front desk. He rang the bell and waited before a middle-aged woman appeared. From their check-in he knew she spoke English fairly well, but he started in German.

"Can I use your phone for a minute? My brother... umm how do I say this?" He switched to English. "My brother can't find his passport, so I need to call the embassy to issue him a new one. Never let kids carry their own documents, right?" he added an embarrassed smile for good measure.

Jason said 'my brother' in German and loud enough that the men would hear. At least if they thought Damian was there with family supervision, there was a better chance they'd leave him alone. Human traffickers preferred to keep a low profile. The rest was in English and slightly lower volume. Because he really was planning to call the embassy... just not about any passports.

Mid-day the next day, riding in a quite comfortable passenger train to Berlin, Jason spotted a man reading a news paper. The page had a photo of the men he'd seen the night before as well as several others being ushered into police vehicles parked next to a large unmarked truck. The caption declared that forty-two kids, all under the age of ten, had been found drugged in the backs of the truck.

Forty-two. That was how many live he'd saved with one phone call.

Jason smiled to himself and shifted his focus on a complementary nature magazine Damian was flipping through. Absently he touched the child's hair, the physical contact an extra reassurance that nothing had happened to him. He was rewarded only with a raised brow.

"What's wrong?" the boy asked warily.

"Nothing. We're going home."

If he'd continued to study the paper as the man flipped to the main page, he might have seen a different kind of headline:

"Batman returns Joker to police custody."

He wasn't sure if he should have gone to the manor at all that day, but Tim braved it anyway. Alfred greeted him in the doorway, and he immediately noticed that the butler too looked sad. When he went down to the cave, he realized that he really shouldn't have been there.

Bruce was dressed fully in the Batman suit, but his cowl was pushed back, eyes closed. One gloved hand reseted against the glass case where the suit of the second Robin was proudly displayed. Tim wanted to run, feeling like he was disturbing something profoundly private and sacred, but he was frozen in place. In the end it was Bruce who moved first, pulling on the cowl without turning.

"I'm patrolling alone tonight."

There was no arguing with that.

Later in the night he met Dick in the cemetery. It was strange standing in there, looking at the second Robin's gravestone. The man had told him it was alright to come, but still Tim felt like he was the intruder. What right did he have to be here? He stared at the dirt, at Jason's name carved at the foot of the angel that rested on the gravestone. A bouquet of fresh flowers lay at the base.

"The real memorial is the one in the cave," Dick said soberly, head bowed. "Bruce comes once a year, leaves some flowers, cleans up the weeds – he won't even let Alfred do that – but he morns him every day in the cave and out in the field."

Tim nodded. His entire career at Batman's side he'd felt the ghost of his predecessor. Someone else might have been resentful, angry at the second Robin for the mistakes that Batman now watched for so scrutinizingly, but Tim felt nothing but sorrow and even a measure of guilt.

He loved being Robin, but he was only there because Jason was dead.

"What was he like?" the teen asked.

"Jason? He was... he had a great heart, real sense of justice. I don't think I've ever seen anyone else put so much into the job except Bruce. I think they identified with each other, in a way that Bruce and I didn't. They felt the pain more acutely, knew the city better. But..." He paused, as if he didn't want to speak ill of the dead but wanted to be honest at the same time. "Jason was born in all this and grew up way too fast. By the time Bruce got to him, he was so... damaged. And I don't think Bruce knew how to deal with all of that."

Tim looked up at him. "He tried."

"He tried," Dick agreed. "But he never dealt with his own pain. Not really. So it was hard for him to know how to help him. Jason didn't need to be Robin - at least not so soon - but he did need a father."

You blame him, Tim realized with a sudden shock. He knew that Batman and Nightwing did not always agree, but he thought that maybe they would come together over the tragedy. Bruce might not have been interested in sharing his feelings, but Dick had always been willing to talk. He never realized the reason the two hadn't spoken about it was because the young man held him responsible in some way.

As if reading his mind, Dick smiled sadly. "I blame myself, too. Yeah, there's a lot of things Bruce could've done better, but I was barely there at all. He and I were kind of in the middle of a major pissing contest, and Jason was the fallout."

The teen bit his lip. "The Joker killed him."

Dick nodded, as if only now remembering that. It was a sobering reminder of where the blame really lay, and Tim hoped Dick would hear it. Some of what he said was true – even if it was hard for Tim to assign blame to either of his mentors – but in the end it was the Joker who was ultimately responsible.

They lapsed into silence again, and Tim refocused his attention on the ground, unconsciously studying the small flowers that sporadically grew all around the cemetery. There was nothing really special about them, just tiny yellow things that seemed to almost glow in the moonlight.

Absently he wondered why the ones around Jason's grave were red.

Chapter Text

"What do you mean it doesn't fly direct?"

The pretty blond girl behind the ticket booth at the airport looked at Jason apologetically but a bit tiredly, as if she'd dealt with enough complaints for the day and was more than ready for it to be over which was probably true.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, in accented English. "Direct flights to the United States are either from Frankfurt or Paris. There is one that leaves tomorrow from here with a connection flight in Shannon, Ireland."

Jason cursed and ran a hand through his hair. He'd waited this long. What was another day? It would probably take them just as long to get to Frankfurt and there was no guarantee the flight from there would be any sooner.

"Okay, fine. Can I have two tickets for that one?"

He pulled out the passports and hoped they were good forgeries. After a few moments though, the girl smiled and handed them back to him, typing away at her computer. Next to him, Damian shifted, looking around. He was pretty sure the child had never been around so many people. Understandably he was apprehensive, and even though the main danger was over, Jason was glad to see he'd taken his instructions to stick close.

"It's okay," he reassured him. "I won't loose you."

"I'm not afraid," the child said defiantly, but his words were belied when he reached out and clutched the edge of Jason's jacket with one hand. Amused, the young man patted his head.

"Checking in any bags, Mr. Wayne?"

"What?" His head snapped back up, momentarily wondering why the girl was calling him that before remembering the last name on the passports. "No. Just the tickets."

With the flight booked for next morning, he checked them into the airport hotel, this one a modern American-style one with all the comforts Jason didn't realize he'd missed over the last several days of sleeping in train carts and old inns. Not that he hadn't survived far worse, but the hot shower, clean linen, and two queen-sized soft beds that greeted them looked very welcoming. He slipped the key card in his back pocket and shut the door behind them as they entered.

"Alright, kid," he announced. "We got some time to kill, so what do you wanna do? Watch a movie? Check out the souvenirs? Want to eat something? We can order in."

Damian shook his head, and he sighed inwardly. Jason had come to the conclusion that he much preferred defiant, constantly questioning Damian over this quiet withdrawn one. At least when he talked, he sometimes sounded like a normal kid. What do you expect after all this crap? a voice in his head chastised. Like you're the picture of emotional stability. But he had to be. There was no one else.

"Tell you what," Jason offered, tossing him the remote. "Why don't you do some channel surfing while I take a shower and then we can figure it out. Just don't leave the room, okay?"

The silent nod wasn't exactly the enthusiasm he'd hoped for, but Damian didn't look like he was about to argue either. It would have to be enough for now.

The shower felt beyond divine. For a long time Jason just stood under the stream, letting the hot water run down his back, relaxing his muscles. Don't mind me, he though wryly. I'm just gonna stay here for the next few years, and one of these days I might actually feel like I didn't dig myself out of my own grave. He didn't remember much of it. Some of the broader things he'd overheard from listening in on Talia's conversations while a prisoner at the mansion, but there was a strange detachment about it. He never felt like it was him she was talking about, like those things had happened to someone else. Still every once in a while he got flashes, glimpses and feelings. The the cold and hardness of the ground where he'd slept, the hunger, the sensation of dirt under his fingernails...

Jason jerked his head up, braising against the shower wall for balance. Don't go there, he warned himself. If he delved too deeply into that nightmare, he might not return, and he had to get back home. Back to Gotham. Back to Bruce. Besides, there was a boy in the main room who needed him now.

He heard the sound of the television above the running water as he shaved and hoped Damian was watching something nice. Cartoons maybe. Jason snorted. Had any of them ever watched cartoons? Maybe Dick, when he was still a kid in the circus, but Jason himself had had no time for them in his early childhood and no interest by the time Bruce found him. Somehow he didn't think Damian did either. His guess was proven correct when he emerged, wearing the new jeans and black t-shirt with the black, red, and yellow German crest he'd picked up at the gift shop, and saw that the boy watching a news channel.

Jason stopped.

It was Bruce.

The footage was a few days old according to the captions and took place at some international business meeting in Paris. He could see his mentor shaking hands and speaking fluent French with the local business men. Dick must have been in Gotham, he though. He wouldn't leave the city unprotected. What shocked him though, was how... old the man looked. It had only been a few years, but Bruce looked like he'd aged a decade. What had happened to him? Bruce was... well, Bruce!

Damian must have heard him enter and nodded at the tv without turning. "Is that Father?"

"Yeah." Jason couldn't take his eyes off the screen. "Yeah, that's... that's Dad."

The boy studied the image for another minute until the news program switched to something else. When he looked up at him, his eyes widened momentarily. "You're bleeding!"

Jason touched his left jaw gingerly and winced. His fingers came away with a touch of red.

"I cut myself shaving," he noted, more to himself than to Damian. "It's nothing."

He had barely been old enough to shave before his death and hadn't had to do it often at that. For the first time, Jason consciously thought about how young he really was. Nineteen! With everything that had happened, he felt ancient, and it occurred to him that maybe that's what had happened to Bruce too.

The cave slowly rotated around him as Tim spun in the large chair next to the computer, kicking at the ground every once in a while to keep it going. Bruce had gone off to a JLA meeting, and he was under strict orders not to go out on patrol on his own. If Dick was available, he'd go with him, but not a second sooner. He tried not to be annoyed about it, especially since it was not like he never patrolled on his own before, but the order was not unexpected either. It had happened the years prior as well, right after the anniversary of Jason's death.

But Dick called to tell him that he was held up in Bludhaven, so there he was, spinning in the chair, his domino mask discarded on the computer console. Another turn, and Jason's old suit in its display case came into view. Tim sighed and stopped the chair, walking over to it instead.

"It's not your fault," he told the suit. "You know how Bruce is. Guess I can't blame him for being overprotective. I mean, we do live in Gotham, not Metropolis or even Star City. Lex Luthor? Captain Cold? Give me a break, right? Bad guys around here are a whole different kind of crazy."

Talking to Jason made him feel better, though he had to laugh at the irony of just calling a bunch of masked villains crazy when he was the one standing talking to an empty suit of a guy who'd been dead for years. There was just something comforting about it. Jason wouldn't have judged him for the complaints. He'd have known what it's like.

But any one-way conversation gets old at some point, and Tim finally went back to the computer, deciding instead to check out what was going on in the great big world. Bruce had several personages under surveillance and a direct tap on police communication. He sat again and began flipping through the channels. No disturbances around Arkham, no major crime sprees... There was a mugging in Gotham Park and a drug bust in West Harlow, but the police were already on the scene in both cases. He switched to other sources that Bruce liked to monitor and frowned. Apparently Ra's al Ghul had abruptly abandoned whatever business he had in the Middle East and was now on his way to Eastern Europe. That felt strange. Unlike many of their other enemies, Ra's was nothing if not coldly rational. Why would he do something so... sudden?

Tim's developing detective skills and natural intuitiveness were practically screaming for him to pay attention. He'd had an odd sensation for a while now, the same one that had distracted him during his sparing session with Nightwing a few days ago. He'd chalked it up to the apprehension about the anniversary of Jason's death, but the event had come and gone and now Tim wondered if maybe it was something else. When had it started?

The phone call! Tim remembered. It had started with that odd mis-dial. He hadn't thought much of it at the time except that the voice on the other end had sounded ever so faintly familiar. It was a little strange though; the person hadn't even asked for anyone, just apologized with a flat "Wrong number" as soon as Tim had answered. As if... as if not hearing a voice he'd expected was enough to prove that he'd called the wrong house.

So what was the connection between that and the thing with Ra's?

He stared up at the screen at the profile image of the seven-century-old-immortal. Maybe he was just making stuff up out of boredom, looking for a case where there was none. Tim swiveled the chair to look at the retired Robin suit again.

"What do you think, Jay? Is it time to ship me off to Arkham?"

Sure, kid, would come the wry reply, and Tim snorted to himself.

Yup, he was loosing it alright. Except... he really wasn't so sure.

Someone was screaming.

Dimly Jason wondered who it was, if Damian was having another nightmare about his mother. But when he finally blinked open his eyes, it was the boy who was looking down on him, his palms resting on Jason's chest as he shook him awake. His wide eyes looked worried, and suddenly Jason realized that it had been him. He was the one who had been screaming, his throat dry and raw.

"Jason?" the child asked hesitantly.

"I..." He caught his breath. "I'm okay."

He didn't look too convinced. "You were screaming. Did you have a nightmare?"

Jason didn't answer, just rubbed his face and pushed the sheets aside. Damian scrambled out of the way as he got up and went to the bathroom and shut the door behind himself. He felt for the faucet and finally managed to splash some water onto his face. Jason dreaded it, but he turned on the light and looked in the mirror. He looked terrible. What had that dream even been about? The streets? The Joker? His death or resurrection? He couldn't remember now.

When he emerged, the boy was still kneeling on his bed, small fists clenched in his lap. He looked as if he'd been staring at the bathroom door the whole time, practically willing him to come out. Jason sat back down, tugging at the sheets that the boy was sitting on. He hoped Damian would take the hint but apparently not. He glared.

"Kid, I'm fine. Go back to bed."

For a moment he looked like he might listen, but then he just shook his head, face hardening in a kind of resolve he hadn't seen before. Jason sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I'm tired, Damian. Really, really tired, and we have a very long flight ahead."

"I'm staying here," the boy insisted. "If you have another nightmare, I'll wake you up faster."

Jason stared as he made himself comfortable on the very edge of his bed and looked like he wouldn't be moved for all the world. Not wanting to pursue the argument, Jason had no choice but to settle down as well. He lay very still but felt the mattress shift as Damian scooted closer. Jason was not a big fan of physical contact, and the boy had apparently picked up on that. The pillow was far too high for the child, so he pressed his nose to Jason's bicep, arms bent so that they were tucked between his chest and Jason's arm. But he didn't try to cuddle.

Jason. felt. like. shit!

An eight-year-old child who he'd known for less than two weeks was trying to comfort him, and he hadn't even been able to hold him when he cried in his sleep over his mother. Good fuckin' job, Jay, he told himself. Kid has – had – Talia for a mom, Ra's for a gandpa, and Bruce for a dad. Okay, Bruce is awesome, but still... He's probably destined to be emotionally screwed as it is without you being an asshole.

"Hey, D?"

He forced his voice to be as gentle as possible and shifted a little so he could look at the boy, but the child was already asleep.

Chapter Text

The nine hour layover in Shannon was draining. Not long enough to bother getting a hotel room, but more than long enough to drive Jason crazy. Passing an airport electronic store, he seriously considered buying one of the overpriced laptops just to be able to at least check what's been going on in the world since his death, but it was pointless. Even though Gotham was hopefully just a flight away, he didn't want to spend the remainder of the money. Besides, by the time he finished configuring the damn thing, the plane would be in the air. What he wouldn't have given for an Internet cafe...

Wandering around, he made sure to keep one eye on the boy. Kids tended to wander away, he knew that from personal experience. When he'd been the child... when he hadn't listened...

No, don't go there...

They passed a gift store with a few toys that Damian showed zero interest in, but he did flip through a few of the books in one of the small airport book shops. It didn't surprise Jason at all that he was looking at the classics rather than children's books. When he held up Mary Shelly's "Frankenstein" for his inspection, Jason made a face.

"Umm... let's skip the zombie-themed stuff." He pulled another book from the second shelf from the top instead. "How about this? Dad loves Sherlock Holmes. It's like... his Bible. Want to give it a shot? I can read it to you if you want."

He remembered from their week in the mansion before the fire that Damian did like being read to, even if he was perfectly capable of reading himself. It was one of the few things that made him appear as normal as any kid. The boy studied the book then nodded. Satisfied, Jason bought it along with a pack of M&Ms – that Damian was eight and had never before had junk food horrified him – and walked them over to crash in the seats near their gate.

The first short story brought them an hour closer to departure. When Jason was finished reading, Damian studied the black and white etching of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson on the inside cover, gingerly touching the paper. The young man smiled.

"See? Just like Dad." When the boy gave him a questioning look, he elaborated. "Dad's kind of a detective, too."

"I thought he was Batman."

Jason's eyes bulged, and he saw that a few people sitting around them looked up. For the first time, he wished that they were still in a country where English was not the main language, but luckily most were smiling. One woman even cooed in adoration. Jason gave a nervous laugh and returned their smiles.

"All kids think their dads are superheroes, right?" he said to their audience, then grabbed Damian and pulled him aside to a corner. Dropping to his haunches so that he could look the child directly in the eyes, he lowered his voice. "Okay, very, very quietly. What do you know?"

Damian frowned. "What do you know?"

"Don't be a smart ass. Spill it. Now!"

The child continued to frown, as if he didn't know why Jason was asking about something that was completely obvious. "I know Father is Batman, and he protects Gotham City and other places sometimes. Dick Grayson used to be Robin, but he's not anymore."

"I thought you didn't even know about Dick!" He had looked surprised when Jason told him.

"I didn't know he was our brother," Damian corrected. "Where did Father get him from?"

"The circus," Jason said flatly. "That's where kids come from: the circus."

"I don't come from the circus!" the boy objected.

A different kind of circus, Jason thought, but aloud he just said. "Okay, what else?"

"You used to be Robin, too." Used to be... It surprised him how much the past tense hurt. Damian cocked his head to the side. "Did Father get you at the circus, too?"

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, D."

"Then where did you come from?"

The innocent question brought forth unbidden memories so powerful Jason had to brace himself against the images. The streets of Gotham, where as a boy he barely scraped together enough money selling stolen tires so that he wouldn't starve to death, flashed before his eyes within the span of less than a second. When he refocused them again, Damian was still staring at him expectantly.

"Dad found me," he finally said simply.

Damian didn't seem to question this revelation that Jason wasn't Bruce's biological son. The young man found that a bit strange too, considering how he'd asked if they had the same mother when they had first met. He thought that someone with such an aristocratic upbringing would put an extra amount of emphasis on blood. Then again, Damian was eight. Still, Jason couldn't help but be curious.

"You're surprised about Dick, but you didn't ask about me being your brother. How come?"

Damian looked down, a little sad. "Mother said so. I didn't think she would lie."

Oh, kid, Jason thought painfully. You have so much to learn. Everyone lies. But maybe in this case it wasn't such a bad thing.

"She didn't lie," he said. "Not about this. Dad's still Dad, and we're still brother, and I'll look out for you, okay?" Damian nodded. "Good. But no more talking about bats or birds. It's our secret, yes?"

Curiosity might have killed the cat, but lucky for Tim, he was a bird,

A bird of prey, the Jason-voice inside his head reminded him.

Barbara had told him that Bruce had once asked her to take Jason out on patrol to assess him. He'd proudly declared that the robin was a bird of prey, and the story pleased Tim to no end. But back to curiosity... He'd decided that no matter how insane it was to build a case around an accidental phone call, Ra's al Ghul's movements were a legitimate thing to look into. And if they happened to somehow be connected to that call? Well, that would be an amazing coincidence!

But real leads first, he thought, typing away at the computer to trace the trajectory the immortal had taken over the last year. As far as Tim could figure out, he'd been in Eastern Europe with his daughter until he left for the Middle East around six months prior, apparently without Talia. Then about a week ago he abruptly returned and he and his people had been moving west, following something Tim had yet to discover. There was no further mention of Talia.

Tim leaned back in thought then moved to a different tactics He had the access codes to all the Wayne satellites, but none of them were in the right place in orbit. Barbara was the best hacker they had, but he didn't want to reach out to her quite yet. Besides, Tim knew a few tricks too.

"Excuse me," he said to the military satellites as he hacked them. "I'm just going to borrow you for a second. Will put you right back. Promise."

It took him a few minutes to find the right one and a couple more to get through, but finally the satellite obediently shifted its gaze on the area in question. Tim waited for the zoomed image to clear. It could only go so far. Then he sat back, a deep frown creasing his brow as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. It was the chard remains of a mansion, apparently in the middle of nowhere. The closest town he could find was miles and miles away.

So, Tim reasoned. Ra's and Talia were there, then he left and she stayed, but then this fire happened and he came back... looking for her? But why is he still moving west? If she was dead, he would've found out, would have stopped looking and gone back to the Middle East. If not, she probably would have contacted him by now, and he still would have stopped. And what about that call?

He was still convinced it was connected to everything somehow. Oh! Duh! Tim tapped his forehead. Turning away from the satellite image, he brought up the call history from the manor for the two weeks. Bruce had all incoming calls monitored, both for the house and the cave, so even something as minute as a mis-dial would be in the logs. The teen scrolled down until he found it, brought up the number, and verified against the directory.

Bingo!

The country code matched the location of the burnt mansion. Tim grinned gleefully, before the other question popped into his head. So who had called? Not Talia, obviously. Who else did they know among the League of Assassins who would call Bruce Wayne rather than Batman? He thought about the voice. Young, male... and familiar. That's what it was still coming back to: the fact that somehow he recognized the voice.

"Sorry. Wrong number."

Tim felt like beating his head against the wall. It was so... frustrating! Like having the tune of a song he couldn't remember the name of stuck in his head. Groaning in frustration, he shut down all the screens and pushed against the floor, closing his eyes. When he opened them after the chair had stopped spinning, the memorial holding the old Robin suit was in front of him.

Tim stared.

Jason's domino mask stared back.

"Are you done yet?" Jason yelled into the bathroom stall.

"I'll be done when I'm done!" called back the angry child. "You might have tried not poisoning me!"

"I told you not to eat the whole bag!"

The M&Ms had obviously not agreed with the boy. Jason groaned and turned around to wash his face. He supposed he should be grateful they still had an hour left and that this hadn't happened on the flight itself. The last thing he needed was to hold back a line of angry passengers while Damian stank up the whole cabin. As it was, he would just have to suffer a headache. Could've been worse...

"Excuse me."

A dark-skinned man who had just entered the bathroom bumped into him as he reached for a paper towel, and Jason looked up momentarily but quickly turned away. He'd seen this man before. At the mansion with Talia. Did he recognize him? Since he wasn't in a choke hold yet, he guessed not. Jason pretended to take an extra long time wiping his face while the man washed his hands. Then there was movement in the stall.

Shit! Shit, shit, shit! Don't say anything, kid! For the love of God, stay down!

His heart pounded as the seconds passed, but finally the sound of flowing water ceased and Jason heard the automatic bathroom doors swish open as the man passed through on his way out. Less than a second later, Damian emerged, scowling. Jason hadn't realized he was holding his breath until he released it.

"Kid, we gotta go."

The urgency in his voice must have been telling, because Damian immediately dropped the annoyed look in favor of worry. Jason didn't have time to explain. He gave the boy exactly two seconds to wash before grabbing his hands and pulling him out of the bathroom. The man was only a few feet to his left, but he was looking away, talking on a cell phone, so Jason turned right and quickly rounded a corner. He walked briskly until they reached an elevator. The door shut on them, and Jason punched the button to take them down to the ground level.

"What's going on!" Damian demanded, obviously picking up on his anxiety.

Jason's mind raced. Ra's' people were following them. He hoped that when the immortal came across the fire, he'd think there were no survivors, but Jason hadn't counted on it. He'd just hoped that since they'd left the European mainland without incident, it meant that their perusers were too far behind. That they were in Shannon now...

"We gotta switch flights," he decided as the elevator came to a stop. "Can't go straight to Gotham."

"Why not? I thought we were going to see Father!"

If you only knew how much I wanted that.

"Bad people are following us," Jason said. "We're gonna try and throw them off our track."

If he told the boy it was Ra's, he might foolishly want to go to him. Jason had to get them both to Gotham... but not directly. The money and passports were already in his hand by the time they reached the ticket booth.

"I need to change my flight," he told the agent. "For Bludhaven."

Chapter Text

Tim wasn't stupid.

Actually he was kind of a genius, and it didn't even take a genius to know that if he came to Bruce with something as outrageously impossible as the theory that was now floating in his head, it better be solid. A bullet, bomb, and Kryptonian-proof kind of solid, otherwise he could say good-bye to his Robin career. So at first he didn't say anything, but he did go to visit Jason.

By all indications, the grave remained completely undisturbed. Tim walked around it several times before assuring himself that he wasn't missing anything obvious. When he was done with that, he started to look at other things, searching his memory for all the times he'd been at the site. Had it ever looked different?

Yes.

The grave had always stood out as Bruce spared no expense for the beautiful headstone for his foster son but even more so now. The wildflowers that peppered the rest of the cemetery were mostly yellow. Tim remembered thinking they glowed. He also remembered wondering why the ones around Jason's grave were red.

Because it had been disturbed, he concluded with a rush, and then refilled. Different soil. Different flowers. Did Ra's take Jason's body and then try to cover his tracks? Or was it just that workers had found the open grave and filled it back up in a panic, not wanting anyone to think that they'd let grave-robbery happen on their watch? Tim neither knew nor cared. The 'how' could wait. However it had happened, Jason was out there somewhere, alive and with Ra's in pursuit.

It was so... huge!

Not so much running as bouncing back to the manor, Tim suddenly stopped at the door. What was he going to tell Bruce? He was absolutely sure of his suspicions, but all of the clues felt like they could be dismissed as coincidences no matter how logically he presented his case. When it came to Jason, Bruce's just couldn't think clearly.

He'd need help convincing him, which meant he had to convince someone else first.

"I thought Bruce was still with the JLA." Dick said as he let him in through the skylight.

"He is," Tim panted. He'd made it to Bludhaven in record time. "I have to talk to you."

The man was immediately on alert. "What happened?"

Unable to hold it in anymore, the teen blurted out. "Jason's alive!"

Dick's eyes went wide and he sat down heavily. "Tim..."

"I'm serious!" he insisted. "Listen..."

So he told him. He laid out everything he'd found, everything he suspected. Dick listened for a long time, not saying anything, his face growing sad but also hard. With no small amount of desperation, Tim could tell: he didn't believe him. When he was done, Dick sighed.

"Tim," he started gently. "I know you want to believe..."

"It's true!" the teen insisted. "Don't you think I know how crazy it sounds? I wouldn't have said anything unless I was sure."

"It's impossible," the man chided, almost immediately wincing as he must have realized he'd just given the teen more ammunition for his theory. Not one to disappoint, Tim jumped on it.

"Like no one we know's come back to life before! Look at Superman!"

"Jason wasn't Superman," Dick shook his head, "no matter what he thought. He was just a kid... a great kid, but still just a kid who let his temper get him in way over his head."

"But I heard him!"

"You thought you did. Can you really remember every voice you heard years ago?"

Tim's face hardened. "I remember Robin's voice."

He didn't have to think twice about applying the identity to Jason. It wasn't that Tim suddenly stopped thinking of himself as the boy wonder. It was just that his mind easily accepted all Robins, past and present. He could still see the yellow, red, and green suit on Dick, and he had been Nightwing for years now. The man in question shook his head again and rose. When he spoke, there was a finality in his voice that made Tim's heart sink.

"I can't stop you from believing what you do," he said, "but I ask you to please not to bring this up in front of Bruce. If you give him this kind of false hope..."

"It's not false!" Dick held up his hand to silence him.

"...if you bring this up, and it doesn't turn out to be exactly as you say... He puts on one hell of a brave act, but loosing Jason nearly killed him. He won't survive it again, Tim. So, please: if you respect him as much as I know you do, don't bring this up."

Tim bit his lip. Of course he knew what this was to Bruce, but that made it all the more important! But the only way to truly prove what he was saying short of waiting for Jason to show up on the doorsteps of the manor was to exhume the coffin. Tim had a strong suspicion that if he even suggested that, Dick, for all his optimism and good nature, might never speak to him again.

"What if it is true?" he asked quietly, willing to momentarily pretend he was wrong.

Dick took a deep breath, and Tim could see he was warring within himself. He wanted it to be true, but everything about Jason was wrapped up in so much pain. If it turned out that Jason had been alive all along and they hadn't been there for him, neither of his mentors would ever forgive themselves for it, for what they would see as twice the failure regarding the second Robin. Easier to dismiss it as the imagination of an overenthusiastic teenager. Tim could understand that, but a part of him couldn't help but feel that it was also more than a little... cowardly.

"It's not true," Dick finally said, successfully ending the conversation.

Jason had to remind himself that it wasn't paranoia if they were really after you. Still he felt like he must have looked crazy, glancing up to scan the other passengers of the plane practically every five minutes even once they were in the air. On the packed more than five hour long inter-continual flight that meant three isles of forty five rows, two seats in the outer isles and four in the inner worth of passengers. So far he had not spotted anyone suspicious, but Jason kept looking. He couldn't see into the first class section and just hoped the people following them weren't there.

In the window seat next to him, Damian squirmed, exhausted and irritable. "How much longer?"

"We took off less than an hour ago," Jason told him as patiently as possible. "It's at least four to go, so sit tight. Get some sleep if you can."

The boy huffed, and Jason resigned himself to the fact that that happy future was unlikely. He couldn't blame him really since he had trouble sleeping on planes, too. And they both really should have tried, no matter how nervous he was about pursuit. It had been past four in the morning when the plane finally took off, and the genius that had scheduled this particular flight had made it so it would land in Bludhaven at almost midnight local time. Alone but awake and alert, Jason would have felt more or less alright to brave the night streets of Gotham's darker sister city, but with an eight-year-old in toe… He had to find Dick as fast as possible. It didn't help that he'd only been there once or twice, not to mention the fact that the original Robin could have moved by now. Jason only hoped that for once luck would be on their side.

"What's Dick like?" Damian asked after another period of silence.

He hadn't been enchanted with the idea of having to meet anyone before his father but seemed to resign himself to the fact. Jason himself would have much rather gone to Bruce right away, but navigating Bludhaven and Gotham in the middle of the night with a child and possibly a small army at their heels was just not a good idea. He briefly wondered when he had become so cautions. Had it been his death or the fact that for now he was solely responsible for Damian? He suspected it was the later. Not even dying was enough to completely rid him of his recklessness.

"Well, he doesn't know you, so he'll be surprised," though probably not as surprised as to see me, "but once I explain it to him, he'll be really nice," Jason assured the boy. "He'll probably try to hug you. A lot. Don't struggle; you'll only make it worse. Just humor him for a bit."

Damian frowned, probably wanting to ask why a practical stranger would be so affectionate. Instead Jason watched as he rummaged through the pocket of the seat in front of them, pulled out a sheet of magazine paper with minimal writing, and held out his hand in silent request. When he gave him a pen, Damian began to write something in the corner then slid the paper towards him. Jason read the surprisingly neat handwriting.

Are you going to be Robin again?

He was taken aback. Slowly, he took the pen from the boy and wrote: I don't know. Maybe.

Damian took the paper back and wrote again. Can I be Robin if you're not?

Jason rolled his eyes. No.

Why not! The boy practically stabbed the dot of the exclamation point.

Dad won 't let you. You're eight and you're not trained.

I am! Jason raised a brow in a silent question, and Damian nodded vigorously then scribbled. Mother made sure I had training.

Of course she did, Jason thought dryly. Actually it made him feel a little better. Not that he was about to toss the boy head first into Arkham just to see how he'd do, but it helped to know that he wasn't completely helpless. He took the paper from him.

"Let's talk about it when we get home," he said out loud. "Dad has ultimate say in all this stuff anyway."

The truth was he really hadn't had a chance to think much about it, too focused on survival and just trying to get them back to Gotham. Could he be Robin again? Of course Bruce would be shocked to see him. There would be questions, conditions, a period of readjustment, but he was prepared for all of that. Jason figured he deserved nothing less than the ultimate lecture about following orders. But after all that? He hoped Bruce would give him another chance, despite their fight about it before his death. God, but that felt like so long ago…

Damian's yawn interrupted his thoughts. "I'm tired," the child complained.

"Here." Jason raised the arm rest between them, picked up an airplane pillow, and leaned his seat back making extra room. "Come on. Scoot over."

Damian shifted, tucking his knees towards his chest to lie down across the seats, his head on the pillow in Jason's lap. When he looked more or less comfortable, Jason drew an arm around him ensuring the boy wouldn't fall during any turbulence. It took only a few minutes for his breath to even out as he fell asleep. Jason was glad for it and knew he should have tried to sleep too, but his mind was way too wired.

"Ladies and gentleman, we're now making our final approach into Bludhaven. Please make sure your seat belts are fastened and return your tray tables and seat backs to their upright and locked position."

He jolted awake, surprised that he'd slept at all if not actually rested. Damian was still out, so Jason carefully leaned over the boy to look out the window at the city below. Even against the contrast of the nighttime skies, Bludhaven looked dull and ominous, but in the distance he could just make out the lights of Gotham. As cliché as it was, Jason felt his heart skip a beat. He touched the sleeping child's shoulder.

"Damian," he whispered, gently shaking him awake. "You gotta see this. We're almost home."

Chapter Text

Sometimes it got to him.

Most of the time Bruce... no, Batman. He was Batman now. Most of the time he could file the pain away, put it aside into the darkest corner of his mind until he needed to channel it into the mission or the time he allocated to grieve came by. But sometimes things happened.

Like now.

He'd just entered Gotham airspace, intending to do surveillance from the skies on his way back from the Watchtower. It would be light out soon, but at least he could do that much. Flying low, he spotted a cluster of police cars and flashing lights. He put the plane in hover mode and landed silently behind the yellow tape in the shadows between the street lamps. It took seconds for him to survey and understand what must have happened.

Skid marks fleeing the scene, an ambulance, two cop cars, a man and woman huddled together under a blanket. The woman was crying, while the man had his arm around her, trying desperately to console her while fighting back his own tears. It took Batman less than a second to find the small body covered by a sheet in the middle of the sidewalk only a few feet away. The blood stain blossomed like a flower against the white of the sheet.

Sometimes thing happened. Something he would see or hear would trigger a memory when his guard was down, and then he'd be left reeling, like all the breath had been sucked out of his lungs, like he'd been rammed in the gut with a wrecking ball.

Gordon was walking towards him.

"Batman," the commissioner greeted him. "Good to have you back."

"Jim." He nodded at the scene questioningly, and the older man sighed.

"Drive-by. The victim is Jessie McCarthy. She was walking home from a friend's house after a late study scion."

"Any motive?"

"We don't think so. Probably a stray turf war shooting. Poor kid just got caught in the crossfire."

Kid caught in the crossfire... Jason... No, don't go in there! Jason, Jason, Jason...

Behind the lenses of the cowl, Batman closed his eyes against the images in his mind's eye. The time to grieve – Jason's time – had come and gone days ago, but suddenly he felt it all over again, as if some terrible invisible hand had reached into his chest and squeezed. But outwardly he kept calm and motionless. In his peripheral vision, Gordon was speaking again.

"Parents are devastated. Obviously. I tell you, every time I see this..." He shook his head. "No matter what that madman did, I just keep thinking how lucky I am that Barbara is still with me."

But Jason isn't, the Bruce voice in his head screamed. He took my son from me.

Partner, Batman reminded him, coldly rational. Soldier. Soldiers die on the field of battle.

Son! My child! Bruce rebelled at the lesser title. Impersonal... unacceptable! Rebelled at it with such force that the Batman voice was momentarily silenced.

But only momentarily.

Bludhaven was just as he remembered it: dirty, smelly, and dangerous. The sound of sirens was so frequent that it was part of the regular nighttime hum of the city, but Jason knew that no matter how many cops there were out in the field, it wasn't enough. Most of them were crooked anyway. They waited for the subway in a graffitied station that smelled like someone's – a lot of someones – bowl movements. If the boy wasn't still so tired, Jason was sure Damian would have been complaining. At that hour there weren't too many people on the train, just them and two sleeping homeless men. That was good. Jason remembered the general location of the neighborhood Dick had lived in, but he'd only seen it from above as he'd leaped from rooftop to rooftop over the city.

When they finally came up to street level, he looked around until he finally found an old phone booth. The pay phone itself had been practically ripped out, dangling by a few wires, but he was glad to see that the Yellow Pages was still intact. Ushering the boy inside the booth so as to easier keep an eye on him, Jason picked up the musty directory.

"Please still be here," he muttered, flipping through the pages. "Grayson, Rachel… Grayson, Rae… Yes! Grayson, Richard John."

Triumphantly, Jason tore out the page and snapped the rest of the book shut. There was an address and a phone number, though no phone to call from. That's okay, he thought, barely able to contain the excitement as he imagined the look on Dick's face when he just showed up on the man's doorstep.

"Come on, kid," he grinned, grabbing Damian's hand, "let's go find 'im."

Damian squirmed, annoyed at having his hand held, but Jason was having none of it. If he'd been worried about the child's safety in Germany, it was nothing compared to now. They wouldn't be safe until they reached Dick's apartment which, luckily, shouldn't be far, judging by the address and the cheap foldable map he'd snatched at an airport news stand whose owner should have been better about locking his supplies for the night. But between searching for the right area and waiting for infrequent late night trains, it was two in the morning before they emerged from the right subway station.

"It's this way," Damian pulled on his hand.

"Wait a sec," Jason said. "I really don't want to get lost here, and I don't know about you, but I didn't memorize that map."

Some of the street laps were broken, and Jason stopped for a moment, squinting at the street sign under the limited light. Were they supposed to turn right here or walk another block ahead and then turn? He pulled out the map again to study it. Ah, they had to turn, and now he didn't need the map anymore. Satisfied, Jason was just about to put it away when he stopped.

Damian!

He'd just released the boy for five seconds! Just to look at the God-damn map! Panic built inside his chest, as Jason's eyes franticly darted around the empty intersection. Where had he been pulling him before he went to check the map? He looked ahead and was rewarded with the sight of Damian walking briskly, already almost a block away. Jason exhaled and ran after him, catching up in a second. He garbed the child by the shirt collar. The boy yelped as he spun him around. Jason dropped to the ground in front of him, furious.

"What the hell are you doing! I told you to wait!"

Recovering from the momentary start, the boy glared. "I know where we're going!"

"It doesn't matter!" He was so mad that Jason forgot to point out that Damian had gone in the wrong direction anyway. "It's not safe, do you get that? If it'd been anyone but me who just caught up with you... People around here will put a bullet through your skull and not think twice about it!"

"Got that right, bud."

Jason was on his feet in an instant, spinning so that Damian was directly behind him. His body tensed, ready for conflict, as he surveyed the youths that approached them. Five of them, he saw, early to mid twenties, armed with knives and crude metal pipes. Jason's mind flew through the math and came to the inevitable conclusion that unarmed and exhausted, there was no way he could take on all of them and protect Damian.

Slowly, Jason raised his arms. "Take it easy. I don't want a fight."

The front thug in the red bandanna smirked. "Wrong part of town for that."

Does Bludhaven even have a right part of town? Jason wondered, but he wasn't about to bait them. "The usual drill?" he asked instead. "You want cash, right?"

There was a rumble of laughter from the gang, and the leader spoke again. "Oh, lookie here, boys. We got ourselves a smart one. Come on then, smart guy: show us what you got."

I wish! But he tempered the anger, slowly reaching inside his pocket and pulling out all the remaining wads of money, everything but the passports. Unceremoniously, Jason tossed them at the gang, and another man with a tattoo over the left side of his face caught them mid air. He flipped through the bills, face growing hard and angry.

"The hell's this shit?" he flicked a wad of British notes back at Jason. "What're you playin' at?"

Fuck! Jason had forgotten that most of that money was foreign currency. There was still a few hundred American bills left over, but that didn't seem to matter as he'd apparently successfully pissed off the gang. He took a step back, one hand protectively reaching for Damian. It was the wrong thing to do as he saw that at least three of the men locked eyes on the child.

"Maybe shortie's got the real stuff," pointed out one of them and lunged forward. Jason easily caught him by the wrist.

"You don't wanna do that." His voice was low and dangerous. "Touch the kid, and I'll break the arm. Just take the money and go."

The thug yanked his arm back, his face already contorted in fury. A switch blade swished into sight and a pipe was raised, as he and two more of his friends lunged for Jason. Acting purely on instinct, he shoved Damian aside, praying that the boy would have the sense to stay down and out of the way. Two came at him, and Jason twisted out of the way, turning back just in time to bring their skulls together in a crack.

The rest of the fight was a blur. He moved so hard and fast there was barely any time to think. The first two went down fast, then another, clutching a dislocated shoulder as he writhed on the ground. Jason took a few hits but effectively ignored them. The forth came at him with a knife, and he weaved out of the way just as the blade sliced at his side. There was a stinging sensation, but Jason didn't have a chance to assess how deep the cut was. His attention was solely focused on the last assailant and the forty-five caliber he just raised at him.

No… not at him.

The thug was pointing the gun at Damian who stood wide-eyed and frozen only a few feet away. Jason's blood ran ice cold, and suddenly it wasn't him standing there. He was Bruce… no, Damian… Damian was Bruce. Bruce as he had been at eight years old standing in a dark alley as Joe Chill waved a gun at him. Jason was someone else, someone bigger, stronger, someone who could do something.

Several things happened at the same time then, so fast that Jason barely registered any of it. He moved, and the thug turned, the barrel rotating from the child towards Jason himself. But the man didn't get the chance to take aim before the sound of police sirens broke through. Startled, the man's hand jerked. Jason didn't actually feel the impact of the bullet, but he heard the gunshot, heard Damian scream. Then the gun hit the ground with a clank, and there was a patter of running feet as those thugs that were still conscious fled as the sirens grew closer and louder. He stumbled then slumped against the wall, more in shock than in any real pain.

This wasn't happening…

This was not happening!

He wasn't going to lie here and die! Not when they'd come so far and were so close.

"Jason!"

Damian ran to him falling to his knees on the concrete at his side, but he ignored the boy for a second as he assessed his injuries. He was shot, he knew that much. Where, though? The pain in his right shoulder was the first clue, and Jason gingerly probed at it with his left hand until his fingers found the bleeding entry point. Good, he thought. That's good. Shoulder wounds are nothing. Hurts like hell, but it doesn't have to be fatal. Jason tried to rise, but a new wave of pain stabbed at the left side of his abdomen. He lifted his shirt and cursed. The gash from the knife was far deeper than he'd thought. Jason knew that if he moved too much, he'd bleed out in a matter of minutes.

"Okay, kid." He took labored breaths but tried his best to give Damian a calm face. "It's okay."

"I'm sorry!" the boy cried. Jason could already see his eyes filling with tears. "Don't die!"

"I'm not gonna die!" he snapped, even if he wasn't at all certain. Fighting through the pain, he reached into his pocket for the torn page of the phone book. "You gotta to listen to me very carefully and do exactly as I say: run back to the intersection, turn left, run one block, then turn left again and run three more. Repeat that back to me."

Damian gulped. "Back to the intersection. Left one block, then left again and three more."

"Good." Jason thrust out the page and pointed at Dick's name. "It should be the second building. Find it. Find..." he had to fight a sudden wave of dizziness, "find Dick and bring him here. If he doesn't come immediately, tell him..."

Chapter Text

Later, Dick would be grateful.

He'd be grateful for his decision to leave Tim alone for a little while instead of going to Gotham to talk to him as he'd initially planned. He'd be grateful he'd bothered to restock his medical supplies without waiting for when he ran out as he usually did. He'd be grateful he'd had a long day and had woken up late for his nightly patrol. Thus he was still at his apartment when the little boy showed up on his doorstep and changed his life once again.

However at the moment the doorbell actually rang, Dick was definitely not grateful. He was annoyed at all of the above points, even more so because he had just reached for the Nightwing costume when the bell sounded. Grumbling under his breath and shutting the key-code protected closet back on it, he took long strides to the front door and swung it open.

The child that stared back at him had the widest eyes Dick had ever seen. He was panting.

"You're..." He gulped in a lung-full of air. "You're Dick, right?"

"Yeah..." Some of the annoyance subsided in favor of confusion. "Are you lost?"

The boy shook his head vigorously and grabbed his hand. "You have to come! My brother... he's in trouble. He got hurt and..."

Oh, so that was it. The child must have seen him as a cop at some point and somehow knew he was one of the few good ones in the city.

"Alright." He used his best soothing voice and placed one hand on the boy's shoulder. "It'll be okay. I'll call an ambulance for you."

"No! You're the only one that can help!" The urgency in his voice startled Dick, but not as much as what he said next. "I know… I know you're Nightwing. He said if you didn't come right now, I was supposed to tell you that… that Little Wing asked for you."

Dick felt his heart stop. He stared at the child in front of him, but in his mind he was seeing a different boy, one all donned up in red, yellow, and green, smiling, laughing, glaring, arms crossed as he argued with him. He'd argued with everyone. Little Wing… Dick had always meant the nickname with such affection, and he could count on one hand the number of people who knew about it.

"Jason?" He grabbed the boy by both shoulders, searching his eyes for confirmation, for hope. "You mean Jason, don't you?"

The blood pounded so hard in his ears that he wouldn't have actually heard the answer, but the child just nodded and pulled him out the door. He didn't ask any more questions, not about how any of it was possible, how the boy knew about them, or who he even was. He didn't think about much beyond grabbing the pack of field dressing with antibacterial adhesive and running out after him. The last slightly hysterical thought that crossed his mind as the door shut was that he owed Tim a drink.

He ran down the streets after the boy who was surprisingly fast for someone so small. When they rounded a corner into the alley in question, Dick looked around wildly before finally spotting the form only a few feet away slumped against the side of the building. He dropped to his knees in front of the younger man, studying his face, comparing it to the one in his memory. Yes, he was older, bigger, but there wasn't a shred of doubt in Dick's mind who it was.

"Jay?" He cupped his brother's face. "Jason! Come on, Little Wing. Talk to me."

And then, to his overwhelming joy, the man opened his eyes, and then here was really no more doubt. He struggled to focus on Dick, but then a slow, blood-stained smile emerged.

"I hate that fuckin' name."

Dick almost gasped in relief. Still holding him, he looked around. There was so much blood. "Jay, are you cold? How do you feel?"

"I'm not dead yet... again... so fan-fuckin'-tastic."

"How bad is it?"

He could tell he was trying to focus, to think. "Gun shot. Right shoulder. Think.. think the bullet went through, but 'm not sure. Abdominal laceration. Left side. Pretty damn deep, I think."

"Okay." Dick let go of him long enough to pull out the field dressing. He tore it in two and reached into Jason's shirt collar to press it against the entry point. Jason gritted his teeth but didn't make a sound. "Can you hold it there for me? Just reach up and put pressure on that."

Taking sharp, labored breaths through his nose, he finally managed to move his left hand and press it against the dressing. The white had already turned crimson. Dick took the second piece and after a second of searching, found the gash in his brother's side. He'd been right; it was deep, maybe even worse than the bullet wound. He pressed the second cloth against it and held. It took almost a full minute, but finally Jason looked like he'd gotten through the waves of new pain and wasn't about to pass out. Dick looked at him directly, made him focus.

"I need you to try to get up. Lean on me. We have to get you back to my place."

Jason nodded and tried to rise, but then stopped, looking around. "Damian?"

"The kid?" Dick asked. Was that his name? "He's right here."

The child in question came up between them, still looking scared, like he might burst into tears at any moment. To Dick's utter amazement, his brother forced his face to relax to the point where it was hardly possible to tell he was in any pain. He turned towards the boy and spoke with a kind of gentleness that Dick couldn't remember seeing from him before.

"Kid, I'll be fine." Jason assured the child. "'m in real good hands now."

The boy – Damian – seemed to accept that and relax a little. He watched as Dick slowly helped Jason up, one arm supporting him around the waist and holding the field dressing to the abdominal wound while the other held the arm Jason had wrapped around his shoulders. Somehow he got his brother to his feet.

"There's a..." Jason tried before a wet cough raked his body. Blood dribbled down his chin. "There's a real good chance I might throw up on you."

Oh, God, did he seriously think Dick cared about that? But he humored him anyway. "Don't. It'll take up too much energy on your part, and the stink will be a pain to get out on mine."

Jason tried to laugh but just ended up coughing again. "Your city sucks balls, Grayson."

Dick did laugh. It would all hit him later, he knew. The questions... There would be so many questions, but right now he didn't care about any of it. He didn't care about how it had happened. It was just so damn good to have him here, to hear him talk, even curse. He gave Jason's uninjured hand a small squeeze, partially to reassure himself the youth was real.

"I kind of want to kiss you right now."

His brother made a disgusted noise. "Curb that urge. Didn't... ah, fuck... didn't come back from the dead just to have you assault me."

They moved slowly for Jason's benefit, so it took loner than Dick would have liked to get them back to his apartment. When they finally walked through the door, he maneuvered Jason onto the bed and helped him out of his jacket, followed by the blood-encrusted shirt. He disappeared into the bathroom and came back with new patches of dressing, cotton balls, a roll of bandages, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol that he held up for Jason's inspection.

"I have to clean those," he said apologetically. "It's going to hurt."

Jason groaned. "I've been beaten, blown up, cut, and shot. Don't think you can do any worse."

He was wrong. Dick was sure more than just Superman could hear him all the way in Metropolis as Jason screamed and spat a string of curses so vile that his ears curled. But they were in Bludhaven, where screams were all too frequent. No one would come to investigate. Finally both of the major wounds were clean. Jason had been right about the bullet passing through which was one less thing to worry about, as Dick really didn't want to cause him any more pain digging it out. He placed the new patches of dressing against the sterilized flesh and wound bandages around tightly to keep them in place. Jason gritted his teeth.

"Don't take this the wrong way," he panted, "but right now, I hate your fuckin' guts, Grayson."

"That's okay," Dick grinned at him. He glanced over his shoulder at the boy who was perched on one of his kitchen barstools. "But should you be using that kind of language around kids?"

Jason shrugged as much as he could and huffed, the exact imitation of the noise he'd make when he was a boy who didn't get his way. "He's heard worse. Been through worse..."

"About that..." Dick dropped his voice so that the Damian wouldn't overhear. "Why does the cute little child in question think you're his brother?"

Jason sighed, also lowering his voice. "Because I am. So are you."

He gave him an intense, pointed look, but it still took half a moment for Dick to work out exactly what that meant. His eyes bulged, but Jason just nodded as if he could tell Dick had come to the right conclusion. He glanced at the boy again, then back to Jason.

"Who?" he whispered. The question needed no more elaboration.

"Talia."

"No kidding? Yikes!"

"Tell me about it."

"Does he know?"

Jason hesitated at that then jerked his head at Damian. "He knows. The capitol He doesn't. At least as far as we know. I guess he might. He's Batman." Dick's face must have registered the shock, because his brother added. "Little D knows that one, too. His mom told him. 'Bout you, 'bout me, 'bout our whole happy little family."

"I just..." Dick had to shake his head to clear it. He felt like he was in some kind of surreal dream that kept getting more and more outrageous, and he might wake up at any second. He didn't want to wake up. He wanted Jason here. Alive. "I'm going to need a minute."

"Yeah, take your time," his brother replied casually. "I had the last... three weeks or so to get used to him."

Actually Dick had meant he needed to process Jason being there, but he didn't correct him. Now that he studied him, he could see some of Bruce in the boy, especially around the eyes. There was a lot of Talia in him too, some in the skin tone. He wondered how Bruce would react. Ra's al Ghul had encouraged his relationship with his daughter because he considered Bruce a worthy heir, worthy blood to add to his own line. Dick hated to think of it in such... crude terms, especially when what emerged came in the form of an innocent child who was sitting only a few feet away, but speaking of the al Ghul family...

"Is that how it happened?" he asked, still quietly. "Did Ra's put you in the Lazarus Pit?"

Jason shook his head. "Talia did, and I don't think he's happy about it. Anyway, that was after. Their people found me in Gotham, wandering around the streets brain-damaged. Stuff happened before, but I can't remember. I mean, I remember some of it. Digging ou..." He stopped, and Dick didn't know if it was because he didn't want to relive the memories or because he wanted to spare him the imagery. "I don't know how I came back, but I was totally out of it until she tossed me in the pit. It's supposed to heal the sick, right? I think it sort of... rebooted my brain."

Dick thought that now there was a very good chance he might throw up. Jason had been in Gotham? For a while, as he understood it, maybe even a few years. He'd dug himself out of his own grave! He'd been in Gotham, alone and hurt, and none of them had known! How could that have happened?

"Jay," he whispered, touching his brother's shoulder. "I can't even... I'm... so, so very sorry."

"I don't want you to be sorry," Jason rebuffed. "I want you to believe it's me. That I'm not some kind of zombie or clone or some shit like that."

He didn't have to think about answering. "Of course, I believe it's you. Don't worry about anything now, Little Wing. You're safe. You're home."

"Not yet."

But Jason appeared to relax at the reassurance. The exhaustion seemed to finally catch up to him. He closed his eyes and leaned against the pillows, the first real smile of the night touching his lips. Dick knew what he meant. He wanted to see Bruce. Of course he wanted to see Bruce.

"I know," Dick slowly rose from the edge of the bed and brushed the strange white strands out of his brother's eyes. "Just rest for now. I'll take care of Bruce... Damian... Ra's..."

Jason's brow creased in a frown, and he opened his eyes for a moment. "How did you know Ra's' people were after us?"

A little birdie who I sohuld've listened to told me. Dick was about to say just that when a sad realization washed over him. He wouldn't know... he probably doesn't know about Tim! Jason was still looking at him expectantly, and he blinked.

"It was just a guess." He hoped he didn't look too suspicious. Lying well had never been one of Dick's strengths. "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of everything."

Chapter Text

While Jason slept, Dick tried to decide on what he was supposed to do next. Call the manor, of course... and say what?

Oh, hey, Bruce. You know how you spend every waking minute beating yourself up over Jason 's death? Well, funny story about that... And, oh by the way, Talia? Yeah, she might be dead, but don't worry: she left you a little something to remember her by.

Right. That would go over well. This had to be a conversation done in person, when he could actually bring Jason and Damian out for Bruce to see. It would probably have to be in Gotham, at the manor. Everyone would feel more comfortable there. Still, Dick figured he should at least call to see if Batman was back from the League mission. And there was another reason.

Alfred picked up the phone on the second ring. "Wayne residence."

"Hey, Alfie, it's Dick. You know if Bruce is back yet by chance?"

"Master Bruce was scheduled to return tonight, but he may have been delayed in the city on his way back. He has yet to return to the manor."

Dick sighed. "Alright. Thanks, Al."

"Of course, Master Richard. Is there a message I should relay on your behalf?"

"No, I'll get in touch with him a little later." He hesitated for a moment. Damian was sitting by Jason's bedside, apparently not paying much attention to him, but he lowered his voice just in case. "Al, do you also happen know where Tim is?"

"I have not seen Master Timothy tonight either," came the British-accented reply. "I believe he may be spending some time with his father."

"Oh, okay." He was relieved to hear that. There were only so many things he could handle at once. On the other end of the line, Alfred gave a pointed cough.

"May I ask as to the purpose of all these inquiries?"

"Umm... no reason?"

He could imagine Alfred rolling his eyes. The butler had never actually rolled his eyes, but right now Dick could see it very clearly. "You know you are not a very good liar, Master Richard. If something is the matter..."

"Nope," he said quickly. "Nothing's wrong. Everything's fine. Actually, everything's better than it's been in a long time. I'll talk to you later. Thanks, Alfred."

With that, he hung up. Dick hated to do that to him, but now was not the time. He put away the phone and walked back over to where Damian was sitting with Jason. The scene was touching, but still he placed a hand on the child's shoulder, and he looked up at him with questioning blue eyes. Definitely Bruce's.

"You're probably pretty tired, too." Dick said gently. "I made a spot for you on the couch if you want to take a nap."

But Damian shook his head. "Slept on the plane."

"Okay." He was sure it wasn't enough and that the boy was just staying up to make sure Jason was alright, but Dick knew better than to pick a fight about it. "But why don't we let Jason sleep for a while. Don't worry. He'll be good as new in no time. How about we go into the kitchen, you can tell me all about your adventures, and I make you something to eat?"

Damian peered at him suspiciously. "No M&Ms."

Dick had to bite his lip from laughing thus waking Jason. "You don't like M&Ms?"

"Jason said I should try them, but they made me sick."

"Well, Jason has a cast iron stomach that can digest the kinds of things no mere mortal can. He forgets that sometimes. So no candy, but I can offer you a turkey sandwich, juice or milk, and for dessert, a wide verity of fruit – as long as you're okay choosing between apples and oranges. Sound good?"

Damian nodded, and Dick smiled and held out his hand. The boy hesitated but finally took it, though he noticed he kept staring at it the whole way to the kitchen. When they entered, he hoisted the child to sit on the marble counter and opened the fridge. A part of him was a bit surprised at how easily he not just accepted but welcomed this boy into their odd little family. He was Bruce's son, which made him Dick's brother. It was just that simple. Nothing else – not who his mother was or the fact that he met him for the first time less than a few hours ago – mattered. Dick wondered if he'd been less selfish when he'd been younger, when Bruce had taken Jason in, if he'd been a better brother then, would Jason have suffered less.

Don't think about that, he told himself. What's done is done. He's back. That's all that matters. Just focus on now.

And right now there was a little boy sitting on the kitchen counter who was staring at him intently. Pulling out a juice box and packet of sliced turkey breast, he set it on the counter next to the child and looked at him.

"What?"

"Jason said you hugged too much," Damian explained, "but you haven't tried to."

Dick laughed. "Jason would say that. He didn't get enough hugs when..." He hesitated. "When he was here last time."

Damian cocked his head to the side. "Father didn't hug him?"

Not enough, Dick thought but he didn't want the boy to think his father would do any less than love him. So instead he said, "He'll hug him a lot more now, I promise. And you too. We're all going to hug you both so much, you're going to be sick of it."

The boy sniffed, looking a bit uncomfortable, and wiped at his nose. "I don't think I'll mind."

Dick's heart broke just a little. "Do you want me to hug you?"

Damian shrugged a little, as if it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, but Dick better be careful. He'd be deciding for himself if he liked this new big brother, thank you very much. Carefully, as if approaching a small wounded animal, Dick stepped in front of the child and wrapped his arms around him. Damian seemed unsure of what to do but then slowly returned the hug, resting his cheek against his chest. Dick held him for a few moments before taking a step back enough to look at the child but not really breaking the contact.

"See?" He smiled. "That's not so bad, right?"

"No," the boy admitted. "It was... nice. Someone should definitely hug Jason, too."

Out of the mouth of babes... "I completely agree. In fact, when he wakes up, you have my blessing to practice on him."

They talked some more as Damian ate his sandwich. Dick discovered that the child was incredibly bright and well-educated, neither of which surprised him. He was also starved for emotional attention, which sadly wasn't surprising either. Talia had apparently had her son study with tutors all over the world but had spent little time with him herself. He'd bonded with Jason though, who'd done the best he could over the short period of time and under such stressful circumstances. Considering he had never been the picture of emotional stability himself, Dick could only imagine what it must have taken for Jason. He was fiercely proud of his brother for it.

After he told him about the fire, Dick hugged him again. "I'm really sorry about your mom."

In his arms Damian just gave a small shrug, as if he had become somewhat numb to the loss. Dick didn't know what else to do, so he just held him for a little while longer.

An hour and a half in, the conversation turned into a little game. Damian would ask a question, usually starting with "Jason said...", and then Dick would reply, either confirming, slightly correcting, or adding to whatever he said. Yes, Bruce really liked Sherlock Holmes stories. He also liked Poe, but mostly the mysteries, not so much the horror. No, kids didn't always come from the circus – Dick put his head down on the table and laughed for a solid minute after that one – but this one did.

"After everything calms down a little, I'll take you." He promised. "Exclusive backstage pass and everything. The animals, the rides, the acrobats, the clowns..."

Damian seemed to think about it. "Can Jason come?"

"If he wants to. We might have to skip the clowns then, though."

"Why?" the boy looked puzzled.

Despite being put in an awkward position, he was glad that Talia had skipped telling her son about the gory details of his brother's death. Dick looked up when the brother in question entered the kitchen, effectively saving him from having to answer. Jason still looked far too pale, but he was walking under his own power which was good. Still, the bandages wrapped around his bare torso and shoulder looked like they would have to be changed soon. Dick gave him an disapproving look.

"You should be resting. Go back to bed."

Jason flipped him the bird. "Ask me nicely."

"Jay, I'm serious. Did you miss the part where you were shot and stabbed a few hours ago?"

"Yeah, but I wasn't killed and look how I bounced back from that." He winked at Damian and slid onto a bar stool next to the boy. "You got anything around here to drink?"

"Sure." Dick said flatly. "Water, juice, or milk? Take your pick."

"What? No vodka? Tequila? Not even a beer? Jeez, and here I thought you might've taken that stick out of your ass after all these years."

"Okay, a) you don't have to go out of your way to use bad language in front of our little brother." Dick gave him his best sweet patronizing smile. "And b) even if I had any of the afore mentioned drinks, you're under age, too."

"And of course you have to be the responsible one," Jason rolled his eyes and elbowed Damian slightly. "He hasn't gotten on your nerves yet, has he, kid? 'Cause I'm about ready to make a run for it."

It was obviously a joke, but Damian quickly shook his head as if he really was afraid Jason might make good on the threat. "No, I like Dick. He's going to take me to the circus."

"Aww, ain't that cute?" Jason cooed. "Just make sure he doesn't leave you there."

"I would never do that," Dick quickly assured the child who turned wide blue eyes on him in question. "And while we're there I can show you a few tricks on the trapeze."

Jason raised a brow over the cup of he'd just handed to him. "Is there a lifetime membership pass? They'll just let you waltz in there and hijack the swings?"

"Oh, they should," Dick gave a casual shrug. "I own the place."

It was worth it just to see the look on Jason's face. His brother stared at him, his eyes almost as wide as Damian's. The child looked like he might actually squeal in delight – Dick would have given up a hefty chunk of his trust fund to see someone related to Bruce squeal – while Jason's jaw slacked a little.

"You... own Haley's circus?" He finally managed. "Since when!"

Since around when Tim came into the picture, Dick thought painfully. He'd met the now-Robin, at the time not even out of boyhood, while visiting the place he'd grown up. Tim had ended up helping with a case before shocking him with the knowledge that he knew all of their secret identities. He'd wanted him to come back to Gotham and be Robin again to help balance Batman who had become reckless and violent after the loss of Jason. Dick could never be the boy wonder again, but he'd encouraged Tim, guided him. In the end it had all worked out... except that Jason was back now.

"They fell on really hard times a few years ago," he said simply. "I just helped out."

"Yeah, no kidding." Jason looked impressed. "I was about to ask if that was a birthday present from Bruce. 'Cause in that case I'd have asked for a Batmobile for my next one. Just to go with the tires."

"You can still ask. I'm pretty sure he'd bring you the moon on a silver plater now if he could."

"Guess nothing says 'guilt trip' like your dead kid coming back to life."

An awkward silence fell across the kitchen, and Dick had no idea how to break it. Jason often did this, he remembered. Mocked things that hurt him to pretend that they didn't, to make them easier to bare. He'd been so much more fragile than either Dick or Bruce were ever able to see until it was too late.

The quiet was interrupted by Damian shifting in his seat slightly as he reached up and unconsciously rubbed at his eyes. Jason sighed and got up, tapping the child on the back lightly to get his attention.

"Alright, it's beyond past your bed time, kiddo."

"It's almost light out," Damian complained half-heartedly.

"Yup, just about the time all good little bat boys should be going off to sleep. Go on. I know Dick's made a really comfy nest on the couch for you."

The acrobat was both amused and fairly impressed to see that Damian trotted off towards the living room with barely an audible grumble, thus solidifying his suspicion that no matter how much he bribed the boy with hugs or tales from the circus, for now there was still only one brother he'd listen to. That was okay with Dick; from where he stood, it looked like being responsible for the child had done good things for Jason as well.

"My turn to play the big brother card." He smiled at the young man when the boy was out of earshot. "Let's get those bandages changed, and then you really should rest."

"Yeah, fine. Whatever makes you feel better," Jason rolled his eyes, but let himself be lead into the bathroom. As Dick worked on cleaning the blood and redoing the bandages, he was silent for a while before finally quietly asking. "Did you call home?"

"Yeah," Dick nodded but didn't take his eyes of what he was doing. "Bruce's been on a League mission for the past week. He should've been back tonight, but Alfred said he hasn't flown in yet. Don't worry, nothing's wrong," he assured Jason quickly, "I heard they all made it without issue. He probably got held up in Gotham on his way back. You know how he is: has to check up on everything."

Jason smirked. "Sounds like he hasn't changed."

If only, Dick thought painfully. Bruce had been better before Jason's death. Happier, healthier, more emotionally stable. Tim had given him some of that back, but not everything. One didn't just replace a lost child. Dick hoped Jason would understand that when the time finally came.

"I figured," he said slowly, "it's better for him to see you in person. It's not exactly the kind of thing I want to relay through Alfred."

"God, no. You'd probably give 'em both heart attacks. How is Al?"

Dick smiled. "He's Alfred. British stoicism and all that. When he sees you, the first question out of his mouth will probably be what you want for dinner."

Chapter Text

When he woke up, slowly at first, Jason had a strange disorienting sensation. It felt like he wasn't quite sure how much time had passed. He'd gone to sleep almost right after Damian, but hadn't there been an observation that it was almost dawn? However he could see only a minimal amount of light, and he felt like he might have slept a lot longer if something hadn't woken him. A noise. What was it? He blinked, sat up slightly, a little dazed, and stared.

"Dick!"

There had to be something else in supposedly-over the counter pain medication his brother had neglected to mention. Surely he must seeing things. Yeah, that's it. The young teen that stood in front of the bed had to a hallucination. He was just imagining the red, yellow, and green suit, the cape, the eyes hidden behind the lenses of a domino mask that he could have sworn were going wide. Was his imagination really... grinning? So Jason did what any self-respecting grown man would in the middle of a nightmare; he called for his big brother.

Dick's name ripped from his throat at the same second as the hallucination yelled, "I knew it!"

His brother bolted into the room at lightning speed, but Jason just kept staring at the boy who he was less and less sure was a product of his imagination... except that he had to be. Tearing his eyes off him, he watched Dick's face flash through panic, confusion, and then back to alarm and frustration as he quickly took in the scene before him. Why was he just standing there? He didn't even look worried that there was someone there masquerading in a Robin suit! The impostor, on the other hand, looked like he might explode from excitement. He seemed to almost bounce and... yup, he was definitely grinning.

"See!" he exclaimed at his brother before, to Jason's horror, turning his attention on him. "I told Dick you were alive. He didn't believe me, but I told him! It's such a huge honor to meet you, Jason!"

The pain from the gash in his abdomen and gun shot came back with a vengeful, and Jason thought he might actually pass out, but his head snapped up sharply. "You know this kid?"

Dick looked like he was considering cursing for the first time in his life, and the boy's excitement was momentarily replaced with confusion at the harshness in Jason's voice. And then – because no matter what he thought of it, Murphy's Law was a firm believer in him – Damian was padding over from the couch. The boy blinked his still-sleep-blued eyes at the three of them before frowning at the newcomer.

"Who're you?"

It was immensely satisfying to see some of the hyper-excitement drain from the importer. He stared back at Damian. "Who are you?"

The exchange was a horrible parody of the first meeting he'd had with the boy. When they had come face to face at the bottom of the stairs in Talia's mansion, and he had been shocked to learn that Damian was the biological son Bruce never knew about. He'd screamed at Talia for it, called her every vile name in the book for keeping the boy from their father. For this secret he had a sinking suspicion he knew who to yell at, and he hated it. Jason glared daggers at his elder brother.

"Explain! Now!" He demanded. "No, wait." He flung his hand so sharply in the fake Robin's direction that the young teen flinched as if struck. "Get him out of here, then explain."

"Okay, take it easy." Dick held up his hands in a calming gesture that only made Jason want to throttle him. But instead of complying, he turned to the youngest. "Damian, could you please go in the other room for a bit?"

That was not what Jason had asked for, but when the boy turned a questioning gaze on him, he nodded. He didn't want the child to witness the worst of his temper, witness him possibly murder Dick and whoever this new kid was. When he was safely out of sight – though most likely not out of earshot considering how Jason was feeling – he turned angry eyes on Dick.

"Now him."

"Jason," his brother said carefully, slowly stepping behind the young teen and placing both hands on his shoulders. "This is Tim Drake."

Was he actually supposed to care what his name was? He just wanted him gone! He wanted him out of that uniform, wanted Dick to stop pretending he knew this importer. The emotions raced through him so fast he could barely keep track of any other beyond his fury, but Jason thought he felt a twinge of... jealousy? That was absurd!

"And who the hell does he think he is? Or did I miss the part where it's Halloween already?"

If he wasn't so blinded by rage, Jason might have paid more attention to the look of hurt that passed over the boy's face. Slowly he reached up and removed the domino mask, which actually helped a little. Without it he looked almost like just some kid instead of a ghost. But that all changed with the next words that came out of his brother's mouth.

"He's Robin. The third Robin," Dick emphasized as if it was supposed to make a difference.

Jason thought he was going to be sick. He had to clench his fists to keep from doing something utterly destructive with his hands. "How long?" he gritted out, jaw set.

Dick took a breath. "About half a year after you... after you died."

Six months! It had take Bruce six fucking months to replace him! To just... forget he ever existed and get a new partner. As if reading his mind, Dick just shook his head and stepped away from the boy and towards him. He looked like he was considering touching him in some fashion, and then Jason wasn't sure if he could have restrained himself from taking a swing at his brother and possibly – hopefully – breaking the other man's jaw. It must have been written all over his face because Dick stopped just short of reaching for him.

"It's not what you think, Jay. Bruce wasn't looking for a partner. He didn't want one."

"Then what the hell is he doing in that suit?" Jason demanded. "Somehow I doubt the world's greatest detective missed something like a kid running around and calling himself Robin without his permission."

"But he needed a Robin," the boy chimed in, and Jason glared at him so hard the young teen almost backed down. If he bothered to, he might have been impressed that he hadn't. "Dick's telling the truth; he didn't want a partner at all. He didn't let me into the field for almost a year, but Batman needs Robin. He... he was broken after he lost you, reckless and violent. Someone had to be out there watching his back. I'm sorry..."

And then he kept talking. He said things, but Jason just couldn't pay attention. What did he mean 'broken'? What had happened to Bruce? What had that accursed city done to... to his father? Words were still coming out of the boy's mouth, and finally Jason just couldn't take it any more. He held up a hand and screwed his eyes shut.

"Dick, make him... make him stop."

The sound secede but the boy's mouth remained sprightly open. Dick looked at him with a mildly apologetic gaze. "Tim, can you give us..."

"No," Jason interrupted, swinging both legs over the side of the bed. "I just wanted you to make him stop talking. I need some air."

Actually he needed a smoke but lacking any cigarettes – or anything stronger; he was totally open at that point – air would have to do. Dick looked like he might argue. Jason rolled his eyes.

"I'm not gonna kill myself, so relax. Just gonna go up to the roof. That's it."

Initially – very initially when he'd been too young to understand the full range of the conflicting emotions people could have towards one another – Tim had been confused when the news came on and he saw someone who was definitely not Dick in the Robin suit. He didn't understand why or how it could have happened. It wasn't until he was a little older and more proficient at this detective work that he'd been able to learn more about the second Robin and the boy behind the mask. That was when he'd begun to understand that one can feel both happy and sad all at once.

Of course he was sad that Dick wasn't Robin anymore. He was sad once he learned where Jason had come from and how horrible it must have been for him growing up near Crime Alley. But he was happy too, happy that Jason was somewhere better now, that he'd been taken in by someone as amazing as Bruce. Jason's tale had started out sad but surely it would have a happy ending. There was no way it couldn't. Tim was young then.

When the perfect story had shattered, Jason became something else. Despite his best efforts, Tim had never quite been able to verbalize what that had was for Bruce and Dick – an indescribable loss, a lesson, a personal failure, a tragedy – but to Tim he was a hero. Dying had only immortalized him thus in the young teen's mind. He'd never know the second Robin the way he'd come to know Dick, never learn that he'd also been human. The story was finished, and a hero was all Jason would ever be.

Except that the story was not quite over yet.

He came up to the roof against Dick's advice. Actually Dick probably would have tried to stop him if he didn't have his hands full with the other boy, Damian. That was not something Tim had expected. He'd expected Jason to show up alone, if he managed to get far enough away from Ra's' army. That he'd come with this child, the son Talia had apparently kept from Bruce all these years, troubled Tim, though not nearly as much as Jason's violent reaction to him. Heroes didn't act like that... of course he knew that Jason had been through a terrible ordeal, but still...

The hero in question sat it on the ledge of the roof just a few feet away from where Tim had stepped out. There was only a jacket thrown over his bandaged torso and the feet that poked out of the haphazardly pulled on jeans were also bare. His hands rested on the ledge on either side of him. He didn't bother to look up when Tim cautiously approached, but to the teen's surprise he did speak first.

"You changed."

Tim briefly wondered what he meant when they'd never met before but quickly realized that Jason was talking about what he was wearing. He'd changed into civilian clothes that he always had on hand. It had distressed the young man so much seeing him in the Robin suit – completely unsurprising, now that Tim bothered to think about it for two seconds – that he figured this was better. It seemed he'd been right.

"I'm sorry." He said. "I should have thought..."

"You didn't." Came the curt cut off.

"I'm sorry." Tim bowed his head but took a seat on the ledge only about a foot away from Jason. The man didn't move. Encouraged, he tried. "Can I talk?"

"Whatever floats your boat, kid."

Jason's tone had an eerie detachment to it, and Tim didn't know which scared him more: that or the anger. It reminded him quite a bit of Bruce when he was trying to fight off whatever internal demons plagued him. He'd observed him at those times from a safe distance, and it always seemed to him that underneath it all, Bruce was afraid. Afraid that if he gave any action or voice to what he was feeling, he'd drown in it and take others down with him. Maybe that's what Jason was like too. It's okay, Tim thought with determination. He'd show him there was nothing to be afraid of.

He talked for a long time. About how he'd figured out their identities to begin with, how he tried to convince Dick to be Robin again, how Bruce had finally let him train but had not actually let him put on the suit for a long time. He talked a little about the Teen Titans. When he told him that his father was still alive and that his mother was murdered only after he'd begun his journey towards becoming the boy wonder, Jason humphed but still said nothing. He mush have just assumed Tim was an orphan from the start.

"I used to think so, too." The teen confessed before catching himself. "Sorry. I meant... when she was murdered, I thought that maybe it's something that... that had to happen to all of us before we became what we are."

Jason swallowed. No doubt he was thinking of the loss of his own parents.

"That was the first time I thought of quitting." Tim went on. "You convinced me not to." Jason raised a brow, and he actually blushed sheepishly. "I used to... talk to you, to your old Robin suit. When I couldn't figure things out for myself or couldn't talk to Dick or Bruce, I'd talk to you. I don't know. It made me feel better."

It was probably a bad sign when Jason laughed and shook his head. It was probably even worse that his first sentence of any length to him was, "Kid, Arkham always has room for more."

"Sometimes I think we should all be committed," Tim quipped but then blanched, realizing that this might have been one of his not-thinking moments. "Sorry."

Jason cocked his head and looked at him – actually looked at him! – for the first time. He was frowning. "That's gotta be the tenth time you've apologized and we just met. Did you do something unspeakably horrible to me that I'm not aware of?"

Tim was stunned. These sentences were just getting longer and longer! "I don't think so. I hope not!"

"Then stop apologizing, kid."

The teen nodded, then, emboldened, added, "My name is Tim." Another raised brow. "Not kid. Tim."

Jason chuckled, not in the scary way. "Okay, Not-Kid-Tim, what did you mean when you said you told Dick I was alive?"

"Oh, that," Tim laughed. "I was there when you called the manor. Remember? About a week and a half ago."

Both brows shot up that time in genuine surprise. "That was you? Damn, what're the chances? And you put it all together from that one phone call?"

"No." He shrugged casually as if it was no big deal. "But it kept bothering me. I thought you sounded familiar. So then I got bored and started poking around the computer down in the cave and saw that Ra's was following something. A lot of it was just gut feeling. I guess I'm not really surprised Dick didn't believe me. You're not going to be mean to him about it, are you?"

"Huh, maybe you do know me," Jason fained nonchalance. "I'll think about it."

Chapter Text

"I'm seriously pissed off with you."

Those were the first words Jason spoke as he stepped back inside the apartment. The replacement – Tim, he had to keep reminding himself – was still on the roof, probably a little afraid to follow so soon. Dick met him on the doorstep, looking so apologetic that Jason wanted to punch him all the more for it.

"Don't say you're sorry." He cut him off when the man opened his mouth. "I'm tired of people telling me they're sorry. When you're sorry, you do something about it or you stop saying it. Are you going to suddenly take that suit away from him?"

Dick sighed. "No. But I am sorry you found out the way you did. Tim had lousy timing..."

"You seriously think there would've been any good timing?" He really didn't want to hear the boy's name.

"...I didn't realize he'd come here tonight."

Jason glared at him. "You should've told me."

"When?" his brother asked miserably. "When you were bleeding to death in that alley or when I was patching up that bullet hole in your shoulder? You gotta cut me some slack, Jay. It's been a rough night for all of us."

Had he really just gone there? After all Jason had been through coming back from the dead, being brain-damaged, institutionalized, and living on the streets, being found by Talia, taking a dip in the Lazarus pit, then spending six months in captivity, and finally running across the whole of Europe and the Atlantic ocean, this was the welcome he was receiving?

"I'm sorry me being back inconveniences your perfect little life! No wonder you didn't believe the kid. You just didn't want to."

Dick's face hardened. "That's not fair. I wanted to tell you and I was going to when you were a little stronger. I'm... I'm trying to look out for you, Jay. I didn't last time but I'm trying to make up for it now."

"Well, you're doing a piss poor job," Jason shot back.

The hurt look on his brother's face was almost enough to make him stop, take it all back, and tell Dick he was sorry, that he hadn't meant it. But the rage still boiled and he needed to take it out on someone. Dick was the chosen victim because... well, frankly because he partially deserved it, but also because Jason knew he could take it. He'd always been the strong one. Still there was a voice inside his head, the same one that had helped guide him since his reawakening into the world, that said this was wrong.

Take a step back, it told him gently. Hurting your brother will not make you feel better now, and you'll only regret it later.

He already regretted it. Jason had spent so long just wanting to get home. Was he really willing to give that up now? However shitty the execution was, deep down he knew Dick meant every word he said. He was just not a very good liar. Jason was too tired to fight with him anyway. The interrupted sleep after the night he'd had and all the rage that had burned through him left him exhausted, even though the sun had almost completely risen by then. He took a deep breath.

"I'm going to try to get a few more hours of sleep," he declared, and Dick nodded approvingly. The issue was far from resolved, but he knew his brother wanted him to rest. Jason glanced around. "Where's Damian?"

The child in question was curled up on the bed instead of his place on the couch. Even in sleep he was frowning, lying on his side, one hand fisted in the sheets Jason had thrown aside as he bolted out. Dick offered to move the boy, but Jason just waved him away.

"Go take care of your new Robin," he said dryly. "Think I might've scared the little bench-warmer."

He thought there would be some sense of relief with his brother's departure, but there wasn't. Jason still felt nearly as confused as the first time he laid eyes on the impostor only a couple hours ago. Except that confusion morphed into something else. What if he was the impostor? He'd been away for so long. What made him think he could just come back and expect everything to be the same? All of that required too much thinking, though, and he was so tired.

Despite his best efforts, Damian stirred when moved onto the bed. "Jason?"

"Yeah, it's me. Go back to sleep."

The boy didn't rise but rubbed at his eyes as if attempting to wake. "Are you okay?"

God, no. "It's fine, kid. Everything's fine."

He was as far from okay as it was possible to get, but for Damian he could pretend otherwise. However Jason was almost as bad at hiding his emotions as Dick was at lying, and the boy was the son of the world's greatest detective. The frown on his face told Jason he didn't buy it for a second. He scooted closer, mindful of Jason's injuries, and for once the young man didn't stiffen at the contact. It was actually felt good to be needed, to be around someone who had never lied to him or intentionally kept any secrets.

"We don't have to stay here," Damian pointed out very quietly. "If you don't want to."

That took him aback a little. He shifted to look at the child. "I thought you liked Dick."

"I do. He's really nice… but if you don't like it here… The other one upsets you, I could tell."

Jason was touched. Not that he wanted Damian to get in the middle of all of this – Dick had been absolutely right to send him away earlier – but it was nice to know someone was looking out for his feelings. He smiled weakly and wrapped his good arm around the boy who squeaked a little, surprised by the sudden affection where Jason hard rarely been able to show much before.

"I… didn't expect there to still be a Robin," he said as simply as he could. "That's all."

Damian sniffed. "I don't like him. We could just make him go away."

Wasn't that what he wanted? If this boy was not in the picture, everything would be back to normal. But something in the way the eight-year-old said it sent a chill up Jason's spine. He suddenly remembered what the boy had said about being trained, and this wasn't a whiny comment made by a child. There was something cold about it, like Damian really could make the replacement disappear. It reminded Jason far too much of himself.

"It's not his fault," he said, attempting to pacify the child. And it really wasn't. When he thought about it, Jason realized he was angrier at Dick, even Bruce, but the kid who talked way too much was not the problem. He would have been furious to see anyone else as Robin. "Anyway, we're not going anywhere, little D. I have to take you to your dad."

"My father?" For some reason Damian looked alarmed.

"What?" Jason blinked.

"You said 'my' father, not 'our' father."

Oh, damn. Jason screwed his eyes shut. He'd been referring to Bruce as 'Dad' specifically for Damian's benefit, to drill home this 'brothers' idea that the boy had initially had so much trouble with. He'd also said it to Talia, to make her feel just how much she'd hurt all of them by keeping them apart. But in the privacy of his own head, he'd been 'Bruce', same as always. That is, at least until recently. The closer they got to Gotham, the more natural the familial term had felt. He was calling him that for Damian, anyway. Why couldn't he think of the man who'd given him a real home as 'Dad'?

But now he was angry and hurt and it was back to 'Bruce', 'your dad', not 'our', which clearly was not going over well with the boy. Since he lost his mother, Damian had lived on Jason's promise to get him to Gotham and introduce him to his... their father. And now Jason himself was undermining that very plan.

"Sorry." He held the boy closer, rubbing his palm across the child's back in wide soothing circles. "It was just a stupid slip."

Dick was not sure what to do. Calling the manor again seemed like the obvious thing. Surely Bruce was back by now, but he so badly wanted Jason to be calmer, better when the reunion took place. As much as he'd clearly wanted to be back home before, now Dick was not at all certain he wouldn't lash out at Bruce. Despite each others attempts, their relationship had been rocky just before Jason's death. He didn't want to return him to his father like this.

Sitting across the kitchen island from him, Tim gave him a disapproving look. "I don't think you're right."

Dick held up a finger to his lips indicating for the teen to be a little quieter. It was already mid-afternoon, but Jason and Damian were still sleeping and he was inclined to let them considering the night – weeks, months, years – the pair had. Tim lowered his voice but persisted.

"I don't think you're right," he repeated. "I think you need to call Bruce and get him over here now, before something else happens."

"Showing up in the Robin suit definitely didn't help," Dick gave him a pointed look.

"I know. I already said I was sorry. It's not like I knew he'd be here tonight. I had no idea where he was. I'm tracking Ra's' people, and as far as I can tell, they're still in the UK. That, and... I admit: I didn't think."

"Yeah, well, it's done now, but stick to civvies for the time being." He paused at the coffee maker, poured himself a cup, and then finally actually raised his eyes. "Look, you were right, and I apologize for not listening to you right away. But Jason being here, especially now that he's found out about you, it's not all as simple as you think."

Tim frowned. "I thought you said he took it better than you expected."

"I meant he wasn't outright violent," Dick elaborated. Tim stared at him like he'd just earned a one-way ticket to Arkham. In the teen's mind, it simply wasn't possible. Heroes just didn't go on random rampages because of what he perceived as a small misunderstanding, but Tim didn't know the real Jason. "You think it's all over, that he's just going to calm down, accept this and move on, but it's not. Jason buries his feeling..."

"How is that different form anyone else we know?" Tim demanded. "Especially Bruce."

Privately Dick had to admit a lot of similarity in that department, but aloud he said. "Because he ultimately can't control them. Bruce rationalizes his way through everything, even things he shouldn't. Jason can't do that. Like I said, this isn't over. I want you to be careful."

The frown on the teen's face deepened. "He won't hurt me."

"No," Dick agreed. Jason had never laid a hand on a child. "I don't think he'll hurt you now. But he'll most likely find a way to hurt himself, and I'm afraid Bruce in the process."

Tim shook his head and shifted on the barstool. His fingers wrapped tighter around the steaming cup in front of him. Dick knew what he was thinking. Neither of them said the unspeakably painful accusation aloud, but he knew the teen thought him little better than Talia. The reasons might be different, but the end result was the same: Dick was not telling Bruce about his sons.

The two in question entered the kitchen just as Tim looked like he was about to say something else. Both were dressed and washed, but it looked like sleep had not improved Jason's mood, and Damian was determined to follow his lead. The boy didn't even respond to Dick's smile and attempt at greeting, choosing to instead cross his arms on the island counter as he climbed up, set his chin in the center, and glare daggers at Tim. Jason silently went for the coffee.

"Do you guys want some breakfast?" Dick offered. "I have bacon and eggs, bagels..."

"No donuts?" Jason quipped.

For this, Dick allowed himself to send the other man an eye role. "No cop jokes."

"Yeah, I'll pass." His brother ignored him. "Last time I checked you couldn't cook to save your life. Guess that could've changed though. Everything else has."

Ouch. Dick sent Tim a look that clearly read "See what I mean?". At best, Jason was going to be passive aggressive about it which was only marginally better than just aggressive. The teen nodded almost imperceptibility before, to Dick's alarm, turning to his brother.

"Hey, you know there are..." Jason gave him a sharp pointed look, eyes shifting to silently indicate Damian. "Errr... you know there are bad guys after you?"

To his surprise Jason almost seemed to relax. It took him half a second to catch on to what had just happened. Jason was very much aware of his perusers, but he hadn't told Damian that it was the boy's grandfather they were running from. If Tim had let it slip, there might have been another explosion, but luckily he'd gotten the hint faster than Dick did. Jason seemed to appreciate that in some manor.

"Yeah, I know," he replied casually as if it was no big deal. "Saw one of them in Ireland."

Ah, so it was going to be that. Talk about work rather than anything personal and pretend nothing's wrong. It was downright frightening how much both reminded him of Bruce at that moment. Dick watched the two over his coffee. Jason's casualness and relaxed demeanor was so out of character that he was sure even Damian wasn't buying this charade.

"So I'm thinking we should probably come up with some kind of plan for when they do get here," Tim suggested.

"Who's 'we'? Last time I checked there was someone else wearing my suit."

Ouch again. Dick felt bad for the teen, but Tim didn't look too upset. "To be fair it's not exactly your suit. Mine doesn't have scaly underwear. Seriously, it took three Robins to come up with pants for this thing?"

To his eternal surprise Jason actually laughed. He didn't even mind what the young man said next. "That's because the original's an exhibitionist."

Okay, he minded a little, especially when Damian finally deigned to raise his head only to ask, "What's an 'exhibitionist'?"

"Good job, Jay." Dick glared before turning to the youngest. "He's saying I like showing off."

"Aha, that's the G-rated version." Jason took a sip of the coffee he'd just pored for himself and grimaced at the bitter taste. "Tell you the other one after puberty."

God bless Tim who tried to steer them away from that topic. "Okay, funny costume aside, why can't there be two Robins?"

Jason looked surprised, and Dick had to admit even he hadn't thought of it. Actually he hadn't thought of the role much at all until Tim showed up. Hadn't Bruce intended to bench Jason for a time right before his death? He expected Jason to be angry at being replaced, but even if Tim was not in the picture, he was not so sure it was a good idea for him to be out in the field again so soon. What he was certain it was far too soon to be having this conversation, but as Jason recovered from the initial surprise, the choice was taken out of his hands.

"Let's start with the fact that no matter what you might think, you don't know me, kid, and I sure as hell don't know you. All I know is that you just showed up here in a version of my suit. Kinda hard to build a trusting work relationship on that..."

Tim was undeterred. "I can tell you anything you want to know. Just ask."

"...Not to mention two birds in the field would make for messy communication."

"So just change the name slightly. Why don't you be... ah... Red Robin! I can help you design a whole new suit!"

Jason appeared more exasperated than angry when he looked at Dick. "Your new little bird makes it hard to hate him being so damn happy and enthusiastic. It's kind of disgusting actually."

"He's just trying to impress you," Dick said as if the young teen wasn't standing right there and was amused to see annoyance flash over Tim's face.

"Well," Jason glanced at the Tim. "I haven't tried to kill you yet, so mission accomplished. For now."

Dick cleared his throat. "Can we save this discussion for later?" Like when we see Bruce.

"Sure," Jason shrugged and jabbed a his thumb in direction of the youngest in the group. "We might both get beaten out by the latest petitioner for the position anyway."

Damian was either didn't get it or was ignoring them. When Dick looked, he was idly fiddling with the remote to the thirty-two inch flat screen that hung on the wall to the right of the stove and sink. He might not have even been intending to turn it on, but suddenly the television sprang to life. The boy looked up with mild interest.

"There might be some cartoons on channel five or seven," the eldest said. Jason gave him a look as if he'd said something completely idiotic.

"He doesn't watch cartoons. Here, D, give me that." He retrieved the remote from the child. "Let's see what's been going on out in the great big world."

What was that called? Precognition? None of them were metas but right now something inside was screaming at Dick to take the remote from Jason and turn off the television. The program seamed harmless at first. Something about security systems upgrades provided by Wayne Tech. What had that been for again? Dick tried to remember even as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. The news reporter said it first though.

"The new motion sensors will be installed in every cell in Arkham, starting with none other than the Joker's. The infamous killer has plagued Gotham for years and had managed numerous escapes from the asylum, though eventually he was always apprehended by Batman. Here's hoping that Wayne will succeed where thus far the authorities and the dark knight have failed: keep the clown in he box. Coming up..."

Chapter Text

There were a few second of quiet in which Dick could pretend that what just happened didn't or that Jason had known already or that he miraculously would... what, accept it? No, this wasn't just the calm before the storm. The perfect silence that fell across the kitchen was a prelude to a hurricane, and he used the last few precious seconds to get the two youngest out of the path of the eye. He quietly but firmly order Tim to take Damian up to the roof and remain there until he came and got them. Simply sending them to the other room wouldn't help. Not for this.

At first Jason simply stared at the now-blank television screen as if he didn't understand what he'd just seen. Dick suspected he didn't. He took a careful step towards his brother.

"He..." Jason attempted to speak but his voice broke. He swallowed and tried again, the space between his brows creased. "He's... he's still alive..."

"Incarcerated in Arkham," Dick tried, though he knew it meant next to nothing.

"But... how is he still alive?" The anger hadn't come yet. Jason just looked... confused.

He reached out to him, but his brother jerked away with such force that when Dick stumbled back he knocked over one of the cups. It shattered on the tiled floor, contents spilling everywhere, and the sound of it must have jarred Jason out of his daze. When he moved, Dick thought he might take a swing at him, but his balled up fist actually connected with the coffee pot still sitting on the counter. Thankfully it was almost empty, but the jagged shattered glass instantly cut gashes into his brother's hand.

Dick couldn't have that. Bracing himself for whatever happened, he grasped Jason's shoulder and forced him to turn around until they were face to face. The look in his brother's eyes terrified him. There was more than a little touch of madness to it. Jason struggled and he was far stronger than Dick remembered, but he'd braced himself for it and held firmly. He wasn't about to let his brother hurt himself again.

"Jay." He used as calm of a tone as possible, the one he'd used when the young man had seen Tim for the first time less than six hours ago. Telling him to calm down would no doubt have the opposite reaction, so Dick simply said, "Breathe."

For a moment Jason stopped struggling and looked at him like he was insane. "'Breathe'? You're using calming techniques on me? I don't want to be calm! I want to know why that piece of filth is still alive! How is that even possible!"

Dick swallowed. What was he supposed to say? 'They don't execute the legally insane'? Jason knew that. That's not what he was asking. He couldn't think of a single thing that would make this better for his brother, but he had to do something. In the struggle and the first outburst of violence, both of Jason's wounds, still fresh, opened up again. Dick could see blood seeping through the bandages onto the shirt he'd borrowed. He had to take control of this immediately.

"Let's call Bruce," he offered suddenly. "Right now. Let's call him. You don't even have to say anything. Just... just hear his voice."

Last night – hell, even a few minutes ago – it might have made all the difference, but now it only served to fuel Jason's anger. With a roar that didn't even sound human, he swiped a hand across the counter. Cups and dishes and the drying rack of utensils went clareting and smashing to the floor. Dick wondered if it was terrible that his first thought was about how many knives were in that pile. But he also didn't fail to notice that Jason was striking out at anything within reach but him. That was promising. It showed at least some level of control remained.

"Come on." He made an attempt to guide him to the living room where there was more space and less sharp objects. Jason flinched and shrugged him off but stalked over on his own accord. For a moment Dick thought it might be okay, that he might actually let him call Bruce and let this all end well. But as soon as he reached for the phone, Jason snapped.

"Don't touch that! Why should I talk to him, huh? Why should he even care that I'm back!"

On Bruce's behalf, Dick felt hurt. "Jay, he's like..." No, not 'like'. "He's your dad. He loves you, misses you. He'll be... overjoyed to see you."

"Like hell!" The next crack was the coffee table top as Jason's kick sent it skidding towards the brick wall. "All I've done since I got here is interrupt everyone's lives! Why should it be any different with him?"

"It's not because you're not interrupting anything. Yes, I was shocked, but, Jay, I'm so so very glad to have you back." He didn't look like he believed a word of it. Dick tried again. "Or let's just go to Gotham right now, so you can see for yourself."

Jason's eyes shifted to the door, and suddenly Dick knew exactly what he was thinking. He got between it and his brother just as Jason began to make large pointed strides towards the exit. Dick held up both hands, palms splayed open. Jason just got angrier.

"I'm not going to Gotham!"

"Well, you're not just going for air."

He had no illusions about the fact that if he let him walk out that door, something terrible was going to happen. Jason was angry and injured and not even close to thinking straight. He wouldn't just be returning in a few hours after he cooled off. This was not something that could be solved by getting some air. It wouldn't work this time. It hadn't even worked last time either. Jason hadn't forgiven them for Tim, just suppressed the anger.

He glared and tried to step around him, but Dick moved, blocking his way again. His brother exploded. "Fucking move, Grayson! Before I break in that pretty face of yours!"

"Jay, please!" He actually had his hands clasped together in a pleading gesture. "Please, I am begging you, don't do this. Don't run off. Don't let it... this can't be be like last time. I... we... we can't lose you again."

Jason actually snarled, a more beastly than human sound. Dick had seen the look before on wild animals in the circus, those that had been caged but never tamed. They took the first opportunity to escape and more often then not ended up hurting someone around as well as themselves. God, but he didn't want that for his brother.

"What about Damian?" He tried to reason. "You were there for him after he lost his mother. What would he do without you?"

"He has a father," Jason shot back. "Maybe he'll care more about flesh and blood than..."

"You know that's not true," Dick cut him off more harshly than he'd intended. "He loves all of us. We've fought more times than I can count, but I've never doubted that. Not once."

"No. No, you're right." Something went ice cold in Jason's voice, so much so that Dick almost wished for the red hot fury to return. "If it was you the Joker had taken from this world, he would not have stopped until that piece of shit was in the ground."

"He wouldn't. I wouldn't want him to." Dick hoped to God the words came out as firm as he meant for them. In truth he had no idea how he'd feel if their places were reversed. He could only hope he'd be able to honor the ideals his mentor, the man who raised him, represented. He took a careful step forward. "Jay, you don't really want him to have walked down that road. If he had, you would've come home and not recognized your father."

"Why do people always say bull shit like that!"

"It's the truth! He would have killed him and then what? It wouldn't have brought you back. It wouldn't have taken away his pain. Nothing could then, and only you can now. No one just... forgets about or replaces their child."

"He sure as hell did!"

"He took on a new partner," Dick said as calmly as possible. "He didn't forget you. He grieved... grieves for you every single day." Even if he doesn't admit it to anyone.

"Yeah, as his great failure," the youth spat. "I bet he's got some stupid plaque that reads, 'Jason Todd: Good Little Soldier.'" When Dick could do no more than give him a helpless look, he threw back his head and barked with bitter laughter. "Oh, God! There really is, isn't there? That's all any of us are to him; Not sons, but soldiers. Perfectly expendable and replaceable."

"You're wrong," the acrobat's voice went soft and quiet. He couldn't fight with him anymore, didn't know how. "Go to him and you'll see. Right now all I can say is that you're my brother and I love you, no matter what you believe. So dose Bruce. You have no idea what loosing you did to him. There... there aren't words to describe it. He buried a piece of himself with you."

Jason stood perfectly still for a moment, eyes downcast. Dick wished he would look at him. The anger he could take, but he had no idea how to read this. He just knew not to expect anything good from it. Jason set his jaw, fists balled up at his sides. When he finally spoke again, his voice was bitter cold.

"He loves me so much he could bury me, but not my killer. He could soil his hands putting dirt on my grave, but he couldn't put him in the ground."

Despite the words, he seemed quiet enough that Dick dared take another step forward to wrap his arms around his brother. Jason didn't return the gesture, but he didn't really expect him to. He just stood motionless, but he let Dick hug him which, as far as the elder man was concerned, was progress. Still, his brother felt cold. So very cold. Dick's heart broke for him, but he knew there was nothing else he could do. He could only hope that once they got to Gotham, Bruce would be able to get through to him.

He pulled back a little but still held his shoulders. Dick looked him directly in the eyes, even if Jason still refused to look at him. For now it was as good as it was going to get.

"Jay," he said gently. "I'm going to go get Tim and Damian now. Then I'll take a look at that dressing, get you some clean bandages, and then we're going to go home. All of us. Alright? Can you stay here for just a moment? Just one minute, I promise."

He had no choice but to take the silence as confirmation. The door was halfway open when Dick paused, hand on the knob, and turned to look at his brother over his shoulder. Jason still hadn't moved so he ended up speaking to his back.

"It'll be okay," he said quietly. "He won't beat us now that we're all together. We're not going to let him win."

It took five seconds to make it to the roof taking two steps at a time, but a full minute to convince them it was okay to come back to the apartment. Damian demanded to know what was going on, and in the end Dick had simply picked up the boy and carried him inside. It was another fifteen seconds before he arrived at his door again. His wide open door that he could have sworn he closed.

Jason was nowhere in sight.

Dick sighed, too tired and unfortunately unsurprised to panic. Tim surveyed the damage with a low whistle, and he wondered if the teen finally understood just how different the real Jason was from what he'd imagined the second Robin would be like. He hated to shatter the teen's illusion, but they all had to face reality. Damian pushed at his chest, and he set the youngest down with no little reluctance. The child looked around and turned a questioning gaze up at him.

"Where's Jason?"

He had to wonder if he'd spared a thought for the boy, about what his disappearance would do to the child. It would've been nice, Dick thought dryly, tonot give the kid anymore abandonment issues. He was mad at Jason for his blind anger, even though he knew it was not without cause. He was mad at Tim for showing up when he did, even though he should have listened to him from the beginning. He was even mad at Bruce that he… wasn't psychic and didn't know this would happen? Dick sighed and rubbed his forehead. No, the person he was really mad at was himself.

"Ah, Dick?"

He was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of Tim's voice. The teen looked pale and pointed towards the closet, the one that held his Nightwing uniform, Escrima sticks, and other field utilities. Dick stared. How was it possible that it was open?

"That thing has a security key pad lock on it," he protested, more to himself than to Tim.

The teen gave him a look. "Is your password still 'trapeze'?" Dick stared at him. "Is that different than a few years ago?"

Of course! Dick mentally kicked himself. What kid in his right mind figures out his big brother's password and tells him he knows it? He was officially the biggest idiot in the world. But walking over to the wide-open closet, Dick had to frown. What had Jason actually taken? The suit was still there, so were all the grappling hooks, sticks, and… oh, no…

It was an unspoken rule among their family that out of respect to Bruce no one who had trained with him would ever use a fire arm in the field. Except that Dick did own one, though not by choice. The gun was standard issue of the Bludhaven police department, and he only carried it for his day job, never as Nightwing. It was always kept either in on him or locked away.

And now Jason was gone, and so was the fire arm.

It was at that moment that Dick truly realized that, no, he couldn't handle this by himself.

Chapter Text

The only up side at the moment to being a cop was that Dick had a portable siren on hand. Thus he wasn't terribly worried about being stopped as he did eighty-five miles an hour across one of Gotham's bridges. Neither of his passengers said anything. Tim seemed to be worried and deep in thought, no doubt trying to reconcile the events of the last few hours with what he thought he knew about Jason. Damian just stopped speaking all together, and Dick wasn't sure if he blamed him for Jason leaving or for simply... existing. For all he knew, in the boy's mind everything was fine until they'd come here.

They were half-way through the city when Tim shifted in the front passenger seat. "Are you sure he'll come here?"

No, Dick thought. I've been wrong about pretty much everything else so far. "There's nothing for him to do in Bludhaven."

"You think he'll try to go after the Joker? He'd have to break into Arkham and with the new security system..."

"You're assuming he's thinking rationally," Dick corrected. "He's not. I mean, not at all. But he has nowhere else to go. Everything and everyone he could be after is in Gotham."

As far as Dick knew, at least, and a part of him actually hoped Jason's thoughts were leading him towards Arkham. There was a good chance he'd be stopped before he actually got to the Joker, but there was another reason as well. Because if he wasn't planning on using that gun on the clown, there were only two other targets Dick could think of and both were too terrible to contemplate. Tim sat back, arms crossed.

"Guess it'd be too much to hope for that he just comes back to your place and waits for us."

He didn't ask about his injuries in front of Damian for which Dick was grateful. He had patched him up but under that kind of stress and violence Jason could very well inflict on himself – hopefully only unintentionally – it was all the more imperative they get to Bruce first. Dick still had no idea what he'd say to the man. He just tried to concentrate on driving.

They reached Wayne Manor in another twenty minutes. By that time the sun had begun to set, but Dick expected that Bruce was still home. If he had to hunt down Batman mid-patrol, it would be precious hours lost that Jason simply didn't have. Dick spared a glance in the rear view mirror at Damian, but the boy was still quiet, not even bothering to look around the grounds of the estate as they made it up the drive way. He sighed, stopped the car right at the front door, not bothering with the garage, and got out. Tim and Damian were already out of the car, and he walked around to their side, kneeling by the boy.

"Damian," he said gently. "We're going to go inside in a second. I'm going to talk to your dad first, and then I'll bring you out to meet him. He won't be able to stay with you the whole evening, though. He'll need to help Jason, but then they'll both be back, and we'll all have plenty of time together."

The boy looked up at him. "He'll bring him back?"

"Absolutely."

Don't make promises you can't keep, Grayson.

The voice in his head sounded eerily similar to his brother, and Dick hoped he wasn't lying to the child. He offered him his arms, and Damian let himself be picked up and carried the rest of the way to the doorstep. Tim rang the bell, and there was a collective intake of breath from all three. Dick silently counted to himself. When he reached twenty-two, the door opened. Alfred was about to give them his customary greeting when his eyes fell on the boy. Anything he meant to say died on his lips.

"Hi," Dick forced a cheerful smile. "Alfred, this is Damian. He's eight. Damian, say 'hi' to Alfred. He pretty much runs everything around here."

Neither spoke. The look on Alfred's face somehow managed to remain perfectly composed though his eyes and loss of speech gave away his shock. Damian just looked away and wrapped his arms around Dick's neck tighter. He wasn't about to give away his heart again so easily. The eldest shifted the boy in his arms and cleared his throat.

"Right... umm... is Bruce still around?"

The butler kept staring at the child but recovered quickly, perfectly professional once again. "Master Wayne is down in the wine cellar, but I expect he will be leaving for the party soon."

Translation: Bruce is suiting up in the cave and will be out on patrol at any moment. Dick nodded and set Damian back on the ground. "Okay. Tim's going to take Damian here into the kitchen and give him some... milk and cookies while I go get Bruce."

With some obvious reluctance on the boy's part and some prompting from the teen, Damian finally stepped over the threshold of the manor but instantly turned back to look at him. Dick gave him a small reassuring smile and nodded. He wished he could take him himself, but there was just no time. He couldn't let Bruce leave. When the boys were finally out of earshot, he stepped inside himself and let Alfred close the door.

"Master Richard," the butler gave him a pointed look. "With absolutely no offense intended towards Master Timothy, but you cannot keep doing this."

Dick held up his hands. "It's not what you think."

A single brow went up. "My only other alternative is that you had a far wilder youth than either myself or Master Bruce is aware of."

He couldn't help but laugh. "Now it's really not what you think. But since we're on the topic, you might want to ask Bruce about his wild youth."

It took Alfred much less time to get that implication than when Jason had told him about Damian's parentage. The look of surprise also passed faster, and the butler straightened.

"I shall prepare a room for the young master."

He was about to turn and head up the stairs, but Dick caught his arm. "Make that two."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Two rooms. One for Damian and..." Dick swallowed, "and Jason's old room."

The space between the man's brows creased. "You know very well we do not..."

"It's for him," he blurted out. "For Jason. He's back, Alfred. I don't know how, I just know it's him. He brought Damian to us, but he's in trouble, and I... I can't help him. He needs Bruce."

He hadn't explicitly expected Alfred to gasp or anything of the sort, but when the butler grasped for support he instantly moved forward to give him his arm. Jason's death had had an impact on all of them, and Alfred also had the added burden of watching Bruce self-destruct in the years afterwards. When he managed to finally compose himself and looked up at Dick once again, his wrinkle-marred gaze was slightly shiny.

"Richard." The old man looked sad, tired, but there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Be gentle with him."

Making his way down to the cave felt a little like walking through time. He could see it as it was now but it was as if his mind superimposed elements of it as it had been. The computer was not nearly as high-tech during his tenure as Robin. There had been far less trophies, and the car was little more than just another black vehicle with a fancy head-piece. The man who he came upon at the bottom of the stairs had changed almost as much as the cave.

He used to smile, Dick recalled.

"Bruce?"

He was standing at the computer, already suited up, but the cowl was still pushed back. He didn't look surprised to see him, but then he never looked surprised at anything. Dick took a deep breath and tried again.

"I need to talk to you."

"So talk," came the brusque response.

That tone set Dick's teeth on edge. It was at times like these that he remembered why he'd moved to Bludhaven in the first place. But he couldn't get angry with him now, Dick reminded himself, not with what he was about to tell him, with everything that was at stake. However he also refused to talk to the back of that damn cowl.

"Come up to the house." Bruce looked up sharply, but they had known one another for far too long for Dick to be cowed. He wouldn't be backing down. "Change out of the suit and come upstairs. I need to talk to Bruce Wayne, not Batman. It concerns his family, not the mission."

There was a short stretch of silence, but then his mentor asked, "Are you alright?"

Dick gave a weak smile. "Relatively, yeah, but I...we really need your help"

Ever the master detective, he zeroed in on that one word. "Who is the 'we'?"

"I'll tell you everything when you come up." Dick tried not to be annoyed. "Bruce, please."

The heavy cape was unclasped with a few snaps and fell to drape over the large chair.

"Give me two minutes."

Jason no longer saw in anything but shades of black, white, and red. It wasn't explicitly true, but it was more than just a metaphor. There was something wrong with his vision. It felt a little... fuzzy around the edges. Jason idly wondered if it was from the blood loss. He knew he hadn't even come close to recovering from that fight but could think only clearly enough to move without aggravating them too much. The hoodie that he'd bought at one of the airports was zipped atop of Dick's shirt. It worked out; the red hid most of the blood stains.

It took several hours to navigate his way from Bludhaven to Gotham. More graffitied subways and monorails strewn with trash, more evidence of ruin and decay. People either didn't notice or didn't care about the gun tucked into the back of his jeans. No one wanted any more trouble than the city already provided. Of all the things that had changed since his death, Gotham was not one of them. In the past he would have swung across both cities in no time, but he wasn't Robin, the boy wonder, anymore and never would be again. Knowing what he did now, Jason realized it would not be possible even if the replacement wasn't in the picture. The enormous hurt of it was almost too small in comparison to the overall realization:

He didn't belong here anymore.

Not in Gotham, not with the family, maybe not even in the world as a whole. Everything and everyone had moved on but he'd stayed the same. No, not the same. His anger and resentment and pain had grown, only they'd been pushed to the side because the kid had needed him. But now Damian was safe with Dick and soon Bruce. He'd done one good thing since his resurrection, and now it was time to do another.

Even if it was the last thing he ever did.

Chapter Text

He was not apprehensive as he followed Dick back upstairs to the manor. What was there to be worried about? If there had been a world-wide emergency, he would have heard from the League and everything in Gotham was closely monitored. He assumed that if something had happened to Tim or Alfred or Barbara, Dick would been rushing him to the car, not practically ordering him back into the house. But the younger man did seem unusually pensive.

At the very top of the stairs he stopped and looked at him over his shoulder.

"Do you remember..." he swallowed. "Do you remember that day at the circus?"

Of course he did. He remembered it as clearly as the murder of his own parents, had seen himself in Dick as the then-boy looked down from the trapeze platform. All he remembered thinking was, Not again, but it was quickly followed by a sense of determination. Leslie and Alfred had done the best they could for him, and now it was his turn. The city – his responsibility – would not destroy this child. Looking at Dick now, at the man he'd grown into, Bruce couldn't be more proud, and for a second it occurred to him that he didn't say it nearly enough. Dick had become everything he'd hoped for him; strong, brave, compassionate, every part the heart that Bruce rarely found himself capable of expressing.

He had saved the boy from the circus, but he'd also failed another. And it wasn't a boy, but a man who looked back at him now.

"You told me it would be okay," Dick reminded him. "You knelt and took my shoulders and told me it would be okay. Try to remember that now."

They exited into his study where Alfred greeted them, standing as formal and rigid as Bruce had ever seen him. He didn't miss the silent communication that passed between his oldest friend and Dick, and then Alfred left the room. Bruce turned to his first protégé.

"You were about to explain."

Dick nodded and looked him directly in the eyes. "Okay, first thing's first, I guess. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Talia's been missing for a couple weeks. She... might be dead."

Outwardly he remained impassive, but he did feel a twinge of sadness. There had been moments in the past where it had felt like the woman truly understood him. Had she not been so loyal, so brain-washed by her father... It didn't really matter now. Their paths had diverged a long time ago. Still, she had meant something to him once upon a time. Not that he let it show now. Instead he asked:

"How did you find out about this?"

The young took a breath and shifted his weight from one foot to another. Bruce's eyes narrowed. To the untrained eye Dick might have simply looked like he was uncomfortable, but he knew better. Dick was stalling, the only question was, why? The answer came when Alfred returned, flanked by Tim and another boy Bruce didn't recognize.

Dick walked around to him and gently prompted the boy to move forward until he was standing right in front of Bruce. The child glanced up at him but instantly looked down again, suddenly fascinated with the carpet, but the man couldn't take his eyes off him. Dick stepped behind him placed both hands on the boy's shoulders.

"Bruce, this is Damian. Talia's son. He's eight years old," Dick added as if it was information of vital importance. As if he didn't understand the silent implications without it. He met Dick's gaze, looking hard at the young man.

"Talia's son." He repeated. Dick tensed, and he returned his gaze on the boy.

This is wrong...

As much as he would have liked to think so, not every thought that passed through his mind was always rational or under his control. Looking at the child now – small, frightened, innocent – all Bruce could think of was that, no, no this was not his son. They had taken his child from him already. The world had murdered Jason and replaced him with this... impostor. Mordred, who might have been a son of the blood but could never be a child of the heart, who would bring Camelot crashing down through war from within.

A cuckoo bird chick in a robin's nest.

A changeling.

But then he remembered another story. In it, a father and king of sorts, had two sons, though he favored the elder. But the elder – the warrior – had been killed in noble combat. The younger – the scholar – asked his father:

"Do you wish our places had been exchanged? That I had died, and he had lived?"

And in his grief and madness the father answered, "Yes. I wish that indeed."

This is wrong...

Slowly he knelt in front of the boy. His hands replaced Dick's on his shoulders as his eldest took a step back. He tipped his chin so that their eyes could meet and saw that they were not the eyes of an impostor. They were his own and his father's. The boy was the same age he had been when his parents were murdered. He searched the child's face and managed a small smile.

"Hi, Damian."

The boy looked up shyly. "Hello."

"Do you know who I am?" For everyone he'd mentored, Bruce was still not very good at speaking to small children on their level, but Damian didn't seem to mind.

"My mother told me. You're Bruce Wayne. Batman." The child hesitated before speaking the final words. "You're my father."

He nodded, again unsurprised. "You may call me that, if you like. Or you can call me 'Dad' or 'Bruce'. Whatever you're most comfortable with."

Personally he would have probably been most comfortable with 'Bruce'. He'd never been 'Dad' to any of them, though Jason... No, don't think about him now. It isn't fair to the boy. Still he couldn't help the tension and uncertainty, feeling – knowing! – that he was doing something wrong. There should have been more... emotion! Something other than the however-brief flash of resentment he'd be berating himself for for the foreseeable future. The kid deserved better than to have a father who lacked the emotional capacity to be genuinely happy to have him.

The boy looked down again. "I... I've been calling you 'Father', if... if that's acceptable."

"That's perfectly fine." He would make it fine, he vowed. "And, Damian, I am very sorry about what happened to your mother."

Bruce still didn't know exactly what that was, but those were still words that the boy needed to hear. Whatever issues he'd had with Talia – and there would be more now – children often needed to hear that their parents had cared for one another in some capacity for however brief a time. Besides whatever had actually happened, Dick could tell him about it privately later. They would not be discussing a mother's potential death in front of her child.

Dick took a step forward, touching the child's hair to get his attention. "Okay, Damian, remember what we talked about? I'm sorry to interrupt, but I really need to talk to your dad for a few minutes. Tim and Alfred are going to give you a tour of the upstairs and show you your new room, alright?"

Bruce rose, wondering what else there could be. Dick had come to him and said he needed help. Not that he had something to show him or someone to introduce, but he had explicitly asked for help. What could be so important as to interrupt this? Whatever it was Damian knew and considered it important enough not to argue.

"Go with them," Bruce nodded encouragingly to the boy. "I'll be up in a minute, and then we can talk more."

"But not for too long," Dick added giving Damian a pointed look.

The boy nodded a little reluctantly and followed Tim and Alfred out the door. He paused, looked back at Bruce as if wanting to say something, then thought better of it. Tim did stop, but it was Dick he turned to.

"Do you want me to stay?" the teen asked.

"No," the young man shook his head. "It's all on me. Thanks, though."

Tim closed the door behind him, and they were finally alone. Dick blew out a breath. Bruce thought he hadn't seen him this nervous since an incident when he'd been doing doing gymnastics down the stairs using the chandelier as a trapeze and had brought the whole thing crashing down. That was before his career as Robin. Considering he had just rather calmly introduced him to the child he never knew he had, Bruce had to wonder what else could have such an impact. He should say something now, shouldn't he?

"Thank you," he tried putting as much sincerity into his voice as he could.

Dick looked a bit surprised but then smiled. "I just met him yesterday myself. Didn't exactly want to tell you over the phone, so... He seems like a good kid, you know? Smart. Misses his mom terribly but tries to hide it. Wonder where he gets that from, huh?"

He'd meant for it to come out as a joke, but Bruce didn't smile. He didn't want this for any of them, but somehow it kept happening. First his parents, then Dick's, Tim's mother... Jason's entire short life had been one long string of tragedies, and now there was this boy. Bruce hoped he would follow in Dick's footsteps rather than his own, learn to live with the grief without it consuming him. He was so young!

"Anyway," Dick went on. "It's not me you should be thanking. I just drove from Bludhaven. It wasn't me who brought him across half way across the world. You... ah... you might want to sit down for that one."

He remained standing, of course, arms crossed. Dick just sighed and shook his head, as if it was the exact behavior he was expecting. It probably was. The young man stepped forward, brought his hands up, fingers flexing, then lowered them again. He licked his lips and bit the bottom one. Alright, this was getting ridiculous.

"You," Bruce said mildly, "are officially scaring me. Congratulations. Now tell me who brought Damian here. Was it Ra's?"

"No!" Dick's head jerked up. "There's a good chance he'll show up on your doorstep in the next few days with a small army, but no. The truth is... Jason did."

There was absolute silence.

He stared at him, completely uncomprehending the words that had just come out of his mouth. It was as if his brain just flat-lined and no new information was getting through. Why was Dick looking at him like that? Like he was watching for signs that he might drop dead at any second?

"Bruce?" The young man cautiously cocked his head to the side.

"I... I don't understand what you're saying." He admitted.

"Jason," Dick repeated slowly. Why did he keep saying that name? "Our Jason," He indicated at the space between them. "Your son. My brother. Oh, God, Bruce, please don't do that thing where you go away in your head. I really need you to hear me. I need you to be you. Batman might've lost a partner, but Bruce Wayne lost his son, and only he can help him now."

He felt the wrecking ball of emotions coming, and in a last attempt to prevent it all he managed was, "No. No, it's impossible."

"We know it's not," Dick was obviously trying to stay calm too. "I don't know how it happened. The Lazarus Pit was involved, but only to heal, not resurrect him. Tim found some kind of clues before hand, but when he tried to convince me, I didn't believe him. Not until Jason showed up in Bludhaven with Damian. Please, please tell me you're hearing what I'm saying."

The wrecking ball finally hit, and Bruce unconsciously backed into the large mahogany desk. Images raced through his mind. Flashes of a boy with so much life, so much emotion he'd never learned to hide them for good or ill. The boy who loved and hated everything with such unrestrained passion. With Jason there had never been a middle ground. What had been his first thoughts when he first saw him? He's so scrawny… but so brave. What had been his last? Why did I leave him alone when I knew he'd run off! I'd give anything to see him grow into a man.

His hands clenched the edge of the table in a white-knuckle grip.

How did this happen? Batman demanded. How did I not know about this?

But Bruce Wayne screamed, I don't care!

He raised his eyes to Dick, momentarily confused why the other man looked so blurry, then swiped at his eyes. The young man dutifully pretended to glance away until Bruce looked up again, gaze hard and clear.

"I want to see him. Where is he?"

Dick looked uncomfortable. "That's the bad news. Tim showed up, which… he didn't exactly take well, but on its own might have been okay. But he found out that the Joker's still alive, and… he went ballistic, to put it mildly. I couldn't talk him down, and he… he ran off."

No… not again! How… how could this be happening again!

"Why didn't you stop him?" He demanded far sharper than he'd intended.

Dick's head snapped up. "Because I couldn't! Short of knocking him out, I just… I probably should've, but after everything… We just got him back, and he was hurt and furious and…"

"Hurt?" Somehow he knew Dick didn't mean that in the emotional sense. It was too much of an understatement.

Dick swallowed. "He'd been shot. After they flew in to Bludhaven but before he could find me. Shoulder wound. He was protecting Damian from some thugs they ran into, and one of them got in a lucky shot. I patched him up, but, Bruce, he's not okay. Physically or mentally."

Shot? Some street punk put a bullet in his son? No, this was not the first time, but it felt like yet another crushing blow. Somewhere out there Bruce was sure there was a place in hell just for him where he was forced to watch every single person he loved die over and over again in every brutal way imaginable. The idea that Jason was back, but out there alone, injured, and angry – angry at him! – tore away at him. What if he couldn't get to him in time again...?

Don't, Batman warned. Don't even think like that.

"You think he's headed for Arkham," he looked hard at Dick. "After the Joker."

The young man nodded. "He... he took my gun, and before you ask, no, I didn't just leave a fire arm lying around. It didn't occur to me that he knew the combination to my closet."

I didn't mean to snap at you, Dick. I'm sorry. Aloud he only said, "It's done. I'm going to go out and find him. If he comes here first, contact me, and keep him here. There are sedative solutions down in the cave." Don't hurt him! "Have one on hand."

Dick nodded, looked down, then took a breath and set his hand on Bruce's shoulder. The contact almost made him jolt in surprise. Dick had been a happy child, free with his affections. At the time, Bruce remembered being used to it, but as they'd drifted apart, distance and coldness had become the norm.

"I'm sorry," the young man said with utter sincerity. "I know between this and Damian, you must be completely overwhelmed. I've had the last day to process and my nerves are totally fried. I wish... I wish I'd been able to keep him from leaving."

What was the right thing to say? Bruce was quiet for a moment, then set his lips in a thin line. "If it had happened here, I'm not sure I could have done any better." He finally admitted. "After all this time, could I have raised a hand to him? Probably not."

"I think it would have just made it worse," Dick agreed sadly. "That's kind of what I meant when I said he needed you, not Batman. He could deal with another Robin – barely, but he could – but... He thinks that by not avenging him, it means you forgot him or... or that you didn't care."

What? How could he? Dick must have seen the shock on his face, because he shook his head. "I know you love him, but you need to tell him that. Don't take it for granted that he knows. Don't expect people to just read your mind. I'm pretty good at it, but not everyone is."

Had he been expecting that? Of course he loved Jason, but having years to think about it, Bruce knew he'd made a lot of mistakes with him. He shouldn't have made him Robin so soon. He should have worked with him to help him with his grief. He should have treated him more like a son and less like a solider. And looking at Dick now, Bruce knew Jason was not the only one he'd let down this way.

"You shouldn't have to read my mind either," he said quietly. Dick grinned.

"Yeah, well, somehow I managed to grow up into a semi-well-adjusted individual anyway," he quipped. "Mostly."

"I mean it," he said firmly, squeezing his eldest's shoulder. "When I... when we come back, things are going to be different."

"Yup," Dick nodded as if he absolutely believed him. "We're all gonna hug it out and have a big family reunion barbecue. Seriously, just bring him back. Go. I'll keep an eye on Damian."

Damian! Bruce silently winced. He'd already nearly forgotten. Pushing himself off the desk, he gave Dick a determined nod and moved towards the door of the study, but not to the entrance to the cave. Seeing Dick's frown, he turned slightly.

"I'm going," he said over his shoulder. "But I need a minute first."

He found the boy upstairs in the room Alfred had somehow already managed to prepare for him. It had been one of the larger guest bedrooms, so there was very little in the way of special items or decorations. Bruce made a mental note to make sure he helped Damian make the room his own. The child was looking at a painting that hung above the headboard but crawled down when Bruce entered to simply sit on the bed and look up at him.

"Did Dick tell you?" Were the first words out of the boy's mouth. Bruce nodded. "Are you going to go get Jason now?"

"Yes."

There was no 'I hope so' or 'I'll do my best'. Jason would be home tonight, safe and healing. He'd make sure of that. The boy looked satisfied.

"Good. Dick said you would."

"Well, it must be true then," Bruce offered a small smile before his face turned serious again. "I do want to talk to you, Damian, get to know you, but I have to bring your brother back first. I don't want you to think that I want to leave. Or that he wanted to," he added belatedly. "Jason cares for you very much."

Damian seemed to think about that. "He's trouble, isn't he?"

"Yes." Bruce replied honestly. There was no point in lying. "But I will bring him back. It'll be okay, Damian. I promise."

Chapter Text

Damian gingerly fingered the pictures in the photo album. There were some of Bruce as a boy and many of Thomas and Martha Wayne. The photos became more sparse after their murder. The few that were of Bruce at various functions and graduations showed the image of a solemn man. Small smiles returned when the young acrobat entered the pictures and more followed when Jason appeared.

And then the smiles disappeared all together. And they did not return.

Sitting next to the boy with the photo album in between them, Dick watched the flow of images with sadness. He wondered how much of it Damian understood or could extrapolate. His own mind connected every photo with memories, that like the images, became less and less happy. Was it possible to return to that happiness again? He wanted it so badly but knew that even if – when – Bruce brought Jason home, it wouldn't be the end of the story.

They finished with the first album, and Dick closed it. "It's been a long day. You want to try and sleep?" he offered the boy, though he knew what the answer would be.

Damian shook his head. "I'm waiting for Jason."

We all are. Actually, it was probably a good thing. As much as he thought the boy should be resting, Dick also knew that it would do Jason a world of good to see him. He cared a lot for the child, had stepped in the path of a bullet to keep him safe. He was the only person Jason couldn't possibly be mad at. Seeing him again might be just what was needed to break through to him.

"I know," Dick said sympathetically and wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders. "Might be a long night for us though. Want to do hot chocolate with marshmallows? Maybe raid the leftover cookies?"

The boy wrinkled his nose. Right. Not a big fan of chocolate sweets. Jason would have remembered that.

"How about milkshakes?" Tim offered from his place at the foot of the bed. "We know how to make these amazing strawberry milkshakes."

Looking at the teen over the top of the boy's head, Dick nodded approvingly. Damian had not exactly been Tim's biggest fan – no doubt on Jason's behalf – so the move towards a peaceful co-existence was much appreciated. Damian eyed him suspiciously.

"What's a milkshake?"

"Blended milk, ice cream, and something else, usually fruit." Tim replied patiently. "Dick and I like strawberries, but you can put anything you want in there. Come on. We'll show you."

He rose and held his hand out to the boy. Damian didn't take it, but he did hop off the bed. "We have to make enough for Jason."

"'Course. Let's break out the industrial-sized blender."

Tim led the way down the massive stairs, and Damian turned once to make sure Dick was behind them before trotting off after the teen. He followed, but his mind wandered. He'd started this tradition with Tim to help him unwind, make sure that the young teen had someone to talk to about both costumed and civilian life, complain about school, friends, Bruce, the Teen Titans, anything he wanted. And it appeared to have worked; despite everything, Tim seemed well-adjusted and fairly happy most of the time.

His hand tightened on the wooden railing as he stopped. He should have done this with Jason, who had needed a big brother even more. How hard would it have been to spend a few weekends in Gotham with him? A few evenings just making milkshakes and goofing off to dumb movies? It would've cost him nothing but might have made a difference. How could he have let his stupid, childish pissing contest with Bruce stand in the way of what his little brother had needed so desperately.

Things will be different, Bruce had said.

Dick didn't know how much of that he believed. Some, to be sure. The intention was in the right place, but Bruce was damaged himself. He could only change so much at a moment's notice. But Dick would try, too. He'd be a better brother to all of them. A better brother and a better son, and somehow, between all their efforts, they would make this family whole again.

The first thing he did was head to Arkham. The grounds were under constant surveillance, and it did help that Wayne Tech provided the latest security system upgrade. Even from the car he could see through every camera in the asylum, but all seemed quiet. Every cell and hallway was locked down tight. He lingered an extra moment on the view from the camera that pointed to the Joker's cell. In his mind, he could see the madman as clear as if he was standing before him.

So many lives lost, he thought. It was little wonder Jason was angry. Would it have made a difference if he'd killed him? It might have made the world better, but it would have changed him irreversibly. Even now Bruce didn't know if he could be the father his children deserved, but if he'd allowed himself to be taken down that road, he would be lost to them forever. He could only pray he got to Jason in time now and that he could convince his son to let him be there for him.

Don't let him win, he thought silently, not knowing if he was talking to Jason or himself.

He put the car in drive and dialed into the cave. Alfred answered instantly. "Yes, sir?"

"I need you to calculate five of the most optimal routs from Bludhaven to Arkham," he said without preamble. "Use only public transportation. Upload them to the car with indicators at the three, four, and five hour points."

There was a momentary pause. "Uploading. Sir, none of these routs reach the asylum within five hours."

"I know. I just need to see where he could possibly be."

"And if he chooses a different path?"

He was silent. Jason was not thinking clearly, which made him more unpredictable. There was a very good chance he might not be able to intersect him on route. Even five paths was a lot to search, and if he reached Arkham before Bruce got to him, there would be a lot of trouble. Injured and irrational, he didn't actually think Jason get to the Joker, but he was armed. A lot of people could get hurt in the attempt alone, including Jason himself.

"I'll see to it," he promised, then belatedly asked, "Alfred, how are the boys?"

"As well as can be expected. Earlier, Master Richard was sharing a photo album, but I believe they have since then migrated into the kitchen. Master Timothy suggested teaching Master Damian how to make a milkshake."

Good. He should start making memories. "I have it covered here. Go ahead and join them."

"Sir, you may still need..."

"Then I'll call. I have to take care of Jason, but I also need to know the others are taken care of as well. Please... make sure they're alright."

Stoic as he was, even Alfred must have been surprised by the request. Had Batman ever asked anything on Bruce's behalf? He couldn't remember. Certainly not since long before Jason's death, and maybe not even then. But Dick was right; this situation required so much more than Batman.

"Of course, sir," came the reply followed by another short pause. "Be careful, Master Bruce. Bring him home, but be careful."

The call ended, and he glanced at the routs again. The second of the five took him fairly close to the G.C.P.D. headquarters, and he needed to make a stop anyway. Reaching out to the dashboard he sent out a short message.

Rooftop. 10 minutes.

-B

Gordon must have been wondering why he wanted to see him, but he hid his curiosity and apparently understood the implied request for discretion. The signal remained unlit.

"This usually works the other way around," the man quipped.

He didn't smile. "I need your help, Jim."

"Well, I figure I owe you a few. What's happened?"

"Nothing yet, but there is something I'm trying to prevent." He stepped forward into the light of the roof lamps. It was as much in the open as these meetings ever got. "There's a boy... a young man," he amended. "Late teens. Caucasian. Dark haired. He's armed and most likely on his way to Arkham. I'm trying to intercept him before he reaches there, but I may not be able to. I ask that if the police happens to apprehend him, you get in touch and relinquish him into my custody."

The commissioner's bushy brows rose. "That's a... rather unorthodox request."

"It's a very personal situation," he admitted. "The boy is not well. He was injured earlier tonight and is likely in sever emotional distress. I know I'm overstepping my boundaries with this, Jim, but I'm asking as a friend. I cannot express how important it is that he comes with me."

"I think you just did," the man pursed his lips. "I'm not in the habit of intentionally overlooking threats. I'll help you, but I want your word that he won't be trouble in the future."

"He won't be. I'll take care of him." I didn't before, but I will now.

But the next four hours after he left G.C.P.D. head quarters yielded absolutely nothing. He combed through every path up and down, going as far as to return all the way back to Arkham thrice, but still there was no sign of him. Had Dick guessed wrong about Jason's intentions? He didn't think so. Jason always had been impulsive and coupled with his inability to control his anger, it was a recipe for disaster that had come true dozens of times. He'd help him deal with the anger, Bruce thought. Hopefully in a way that didn't make his son hate him even more.

All he had to do was find him, but Gotham was a big city, and he was running out of time.

It was only minutes after he reached Arkham that Jason realized that it was not going to happen. He'd been running on nothing but anger and will since leaving Bludhaven, and his mind was in no shape to even begin to formulate a plan for breaking the Joker out of the asylum. Hell, with the new security, he couldn't even break in and reach his cell long enough to put a bullet in the monster's head.

Maybe once he was stronger... But how was he supposed do that? Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recognized that his body needed nourishment, but with his wounds still seeping blood, the weakness and fatigue had long ago overshadowed the hunger. Slowly making his way back towards the city, he couldn't even think about where to go.

I need that fucking psychopath dead! Jason silently screamed, though even the fury had lost some of its force to exhaustion. He should've killed him the second he could! I... I hate him!

But another tiny voice inside him cried out. No! I don't care! I... I just want to go home.

It was the voice of a child, so eerily similar to his last thoughts in his first life. He remembered it all so vividly, remembered thinking that from now on, he would listen, do as he was told, anything to be at home with Bruce again. Had he been 'Bruce' or 'Dad' in that instance? It had never been a conscious thought before, but Jason wondered if maybe – just maybe – in those last moments, it had been the later even then.

He couldn't tell when the emptiness around Arkham had given way to Gotham's city streets or when the bright lights of the popular ads in downtown morphed into the neon glow of much seedier businesses. Not even realizing where he had ended up, Jason sank to the ground.

It's pointless. All of it.

Something bumped into the concrete wall he was leaning against. Confused for a moment, Jason reached back and pulled the gun from the back of his pants. He'd almost forgotten about it. Not really thinking, he weighed the weapon in his palm then checked the clip. Full round. Figures, he snorted. Dick might be required to own it, but no one could make him use it. Damn golden boy. So fucking perfect. He pushed the clip back in, barely hearing the child's very small cry inside his heart.

No! No, please... I want... I want to see my dad...

Make it stop, he thought, feeling his heart twist. It hurt too much to listen.

The safety clicked off.

Chapter Text

He was back in the car and just contemplating returning to Arkham again when a call from Gordon came in. Taking a few seconds to calm himself enough so that as little emotion as possible showed through his voice, he opened the line.

"Yes?"

"I don't know if this is anything," Gordon said on the other end. "But two outside guards at Arkham reported seeing a 'strange silhouette skulking about.' Their words, not mine. I asked if they wanted me to send a car over to check it out, but they said that whoever it was hung around but then left. They just thought I should know. Does that sound like your boy?"

He thought about that. Left. Jason had been there, but he left. Was that possible? The timeline fit. He should have been able to reach the asylum by now. Was there a chance it was someone else? Batman ran through a mental checklist of all the inmates and those still at large. There was no one he knew out there at the moment who might want to break into the asylum.

"It may be," he replied noncommittally. "Please keep me informed if anything else happens. Thank you, Jim."

"'Please' and 'thank you'? This kid must really be important. I hope you find him."

"I hope so, too." Then he broke the connection and dialed the manor again.

This time Dick picked up. "Did you find him? Is he with you?"

"Not yet. I think he might have been to Arkham but left."

"Well, that's good isn't it?" He could hear Dick frowning. "At least he must have calmed down enough to realize there was no way to get to the clown. Maybe he's coming home."

If only. Jason's fury didn't tend to cool into rationality. Instead it often turned to simmering resentment. As much as he wished it, Bruce knew he wouldn't be going to the manor. But something in what his eldest said did strike a chord. When Jason ran away after overhearing that he'd been planning to take him off active duty, he'd returned to his old neighborhood.

A part of him – the Bruce part – rebelled at the idea. The East End? That wasn't Jason's home. He belonged in the manor with them. But the ever-rational part that was Batman demanded he think clearly. Jason wouldn't act the way he wanted him to act. He'd act the way his emotions drove him. He always had.

"He's not heading back to the manor," he said to Dick. "But I know where he is going. Hopefully we can be back by the end of the night. I don't know what kind of shape he'll be in, so check to make sure we have clean bandages, antiseptics, iodine..." On the other end, Dick chuckled. "What?"

"Nothing. It's just that, we always have all that stuff. You never ask. Don't worry; I'll double check anyway. Anything else?"

"Yes. Call Barbara." He'd meant to say 'Oracle' but the worlds of Batman and Bruce Wayne had become hopelessly entangled tonight. He wasn't sure they would ever be separate again. Not completely. He went on. "Ask if her birds can patrol tonight and tomorrow at least. I don't want you or Tim going out there. We should all be together right now."

"Yeah, sure," Dick hesitated. "Mind if I... not tell her that Jay's back? At least not until we're sure he's okay."

He knew that Dick must have been exhausted from all the emotional backlash every time he revealed the story. For Barbara, who Dick loved and who had suffered so much at the Joker's hands, Jason's return might very well feel particularly personal.

"Of course. I'll talk to you later."

Ending the call, he stepped on the accelerator. The East End was just a ten minute drive away, and he had to get there as soon as possible. Something told him that this was potentially so much worse than Arkham. There, Jason's target was under lock and key. He might have been apprehended, yes, but out in the city the person he was most likely to hurt was himself.

It was like being brain-damaged again or being back at the mansion when he'd lost all hope of escape. Slowly he let the numbness take over his body and mind. It wasn't hard; just let the cold flow from his fingertips and think of nothing. The blood-loss made it easier. If he sat there long enough, eventually it would end, if not from blood-loss, then dehydration, or someone coming by to put another hole in him. If there was one thing guaranteed in the East End it was trouble.

Or maybe just have it all end now...

He absently tapped the cold edge of the barrel against his temple. If he wasn't such a coward, he would have done this a long time ago instead of simply waiting for the inevitable end. He didn't belong in this world, couldn't even do it the favor of ridding it of that monster, so what was the point?

Tap, tap, tap...

How hard was it to pull that trigger? His first death had hurt mostly because of the separation, but this time he had nothing to lose, no one who would miss him. He was used to the cold by now, and at least that way the pain would end. Another flick of the wrist, and the metal edge connected with his temple again.

"Stop!"

The voice startled him so much that he was on his feet in a heartbeat. It was the surge of adrenaline that moved his arm to raise the weapon directly forward. The trigger was squeezed before he could even think, before he could look where exactly it was aimed. The bullet flew in almost slow motion, disturbing the dust particles as it whizzed through the air, but the intended target feigned right, and the bullet passed harmlessly through the cape.

Cape?

His fingers twisted and locked around the gun in a contorted death-grip. The figure straightened and walked forward in precise measured steps. Just before stepping out of the deepest shadows it paused and reached up to pull something away. Then the man stepped out into the minimal light, and Jason felt his throat close. He couldn't breath. Not Batman, but Bruce looked straight at him with eyes unimpeded by lenses, face no longer hidden under the cowl.

"Jason."

That voice... It wasn't his voice, not this soft, this full of emotion nearly to the point of breaking. He stepped back from the impostor never lowering the gun, but the man took another step forward. He held out his hands towards him, only furthering his certainty that this could not be him. He would have tried to disarm him first, but the man was reaching out as if he didn't even see the gun, as if he just wanted to touch him.

"Jason... Son..."

All of a sudden everything came crashing down around him; the realization of where he was – not just the East End, but Crime Alley itself! – and who he'd just shot at. Here? Of all the places, all the people, in the world he'd pulled a gun on him here? Jason's mind spun, dragging him back to another alley just a day ago, another gun aimed at Damian, then him. He fought against the tide of memories, but they weren't finished with him. What had he been thinking at that moment? That it was just like Bruce, just like when he'd been a boy staring into the barrel of a gun pointed at him and his family.

It had happened right here, and now it was Jason holding the gun.

And still he was ignoring the weapon, still walking towards him, and as the distance between them decreased, Jason was frozen in place. A step before he was close enough to touch him, Bruce paused and broke eye contact only long enough to look at his own hands. The black gloves landed almost soundlessly on the ground. The faintest sensation of bare fingertips against the skin of Jason's right hand sent a jolt through him, but his own fingers finally released their grip on the weapon.

"Dad?"

The gun landed on top of the gloves.

Jason screamed.

It was such a small sound, a little boy's cry that carried so much pain and anguish. Even from their faintest contact he could feel Jason shaking. Or was it him? Both? It's only pain, he told himself. But it wasn't. Not the kind he could fight. Screaming nerves he could ignore, push away, but not the cries of his son. Not the tears streaking clear riverlets down his dirt and blood stained face. He reached forward and whipped away one of the paths, smearing away the grime. The youth's breath hitched at the contact.

"Jason." Refusing to over-analyze, to think, Bruce just spoke. "I've missed you so much."

"I..." Jason tried, but he couldn't make anything else come out.

"It's okay." His father promised, running his fingers in a gentle caress over the side of his face, over his temple where for a few terrifying seconds that hated weapon had touched. "Your brothers told me everything."

Something seemed to snap inside him at that. He violently jerked away. "You let him live."

Even though Dick had warned him, the fact that the first words out of Jason's mouth to him were about the Joker had stung. No, he reminded himself. Those weren't Jason's first words. The first thing he'd said when he saw him was 'Dad'. Fitting. Right. What a son's first words to his father should be. Never again would he be anything less than a father to any of them.

But what could he say? How could he justify his actions? I would have killed him a thousand times over if I thought it would bring you back to me. Was that the truth? Would Jason believe that? Could he himself believe it? That madman deserves so much worse than death... But this wasn't about the Joker, couldn't be. It wasn't even about him. If Batman crossed that line, the world would suffer, but he understood now that it wouldn't be just that Batman had killed. Bruce Wayne would become a killer as well.

He stepped forward slowly, clasping the back of Jason's neck, not letting him look away. "You deserve better than to have a murderer for a father. I... I wanted to give you something – someone – great to look up to. Someone to aspire to be better than. Even when I thought you were lost to me, I wanted to make you proud."

"That's backwards!"

"No, it isn't." Bruce shook his head. "I was proud of my father. He was an amazing person, a healer. If I could be even half the man he was for all of you... If you could be half as proud of me as I am of you..."

"I've given you nothing to be proud of!" Jason choked back a sob.

"That's not true. You survived against incredible odds. You stepped in front of a bullet for your brother. You brought both of you home from across the world, and you protected him every step of the way. You've always been that, Jason: a protector, not a killer, and I am fiercely proud of you for that."

Jason wavered, but still Bruce could see it wasn't enough. Everything he'd said was true, but it was so precise, so logical. Should he have said that he'd kill the Joker? It was what Jason wanted to hear, after all, but then there was a good chance he'd know it to be a lie and would hate him even more for it. There had to be something Jason would hear, some way to get through to him.

Tell him, Dick had said. Don't just assume he knows.

"I love you." He said clearly, even though inside his heart felt like it might crumble.

Jason's breath hitched, his eyes screwed shut as fresh tears wet his lashes. His hand grasped Bruce's forearm.

"I love you," Bruce repeated with more force. "There is nothing you can do to make that not true. You're my son, and I love you."

That did it. The pain that had consumed Jason for so long finally overwhelmed him. His knees buckled, but Bruce caught him, wrapping the cape around them both. He let his son cry, release all his grief and anger as he clutched at the black bat emblem on the chest of his uniform. Slowly Bruce lowered them both to the ground, cradling Jason's shaking body the way one might a small child. The last time he'd held his son it was moments after hid death, but not this time.

For the first time in Crime Alley, life would prevail.

He held him for what seemed like forever, as the tears turned to dry sobs and finally went silent. Still neither let go. He barely heard Jason breath out, "I'm so sorry."

"I got you," he whispered against the boy's hair and pressed his lips to his temple. "Everything will be alright now, son. We're going home. There's nothing to be sorry for."

When he opened his eyes, it wasn't to the darkness of a coffin or the cold of the streets.

When he opened his eyes, he was warm.

Sunlight on his face made it difficult to keep them open, though, so Jason turned his head to the side. Only then did he get a good look at the room. It took him a second to realize that it was his room, the one at the manor. He scanned it slowly from the far wall to the door. Everything – every photo frame, every book, every trinket – was exactly how he remembered it. Even the sheets were the same ones, albeit freshly washed. Underneath them his body felt on the way to being restored as well. The wounds in his shoulder and abdomen had been anesthetized judging by the slight numbness and covered in fresh bandages.

He turned his head slightly to the side and smiled. Bruce was slumped in a chair next to the bed that was clearly too small to accommodate his large frame. God, he looked terrible, so tired and so much older than he remembered. Jason wondered how much of that was because of him. Most of it, he suspected. Still, his presence was so comforting... was it selfish of him to think that? He might have been asleep, but as soon as Jason stirred he opened his eyes as well.

The youth licked his dry lips. "Hey."

"Hey." His father moved forward and took his hand between his own. "How do you feel?"

"Head hurts," Jason admitted. "But I'll live. What time is it?"

"About five." In the morning? Jason frowned. That didn't make any sense. "In the afternoon. You've been out for half the day. Your brothers wanted to see you, but I told them you had to rest. They're all here, though. All of us are here for you, Jason. Anything you need, just name it."

"I need a smoke." To his own surprise the answer had nothing to do with the Joker.

Bruce gave him a wry look. "Anything non-hazards to your health."

"Maybe some water, then."

"Okay." The man rose. "I'll be right back."

There was something else Jason wanted to say. Something important, but he was already opening the door and moving away. Suddenly it came to him.

"Dad."

He called out the first title that came to his mind, then blanched, embarrassed. He'd never actually called him that to his face. Maybe in that alley, but he could chalk that up to stress. Bruce didn't seem at all put off though. He stopped and turned back to him.

"I've missed you," Jason managed weakly.

The man released the knob and walked back to his bedside. The bed sagged under his additional weight as he sat on the edge. Jason closed his eyes as a cool calloused palm cupped the side of his face. He never thought such a simple touch could be so comforting.

"I've missed you, too." His father smiled. "More than I can say. Rest, Jason. Everything can wait till you're better."

Chapter Text

The first person after his father to come and see him was Alfred. If there was anyone who he could honestly say hadn't changed a bit, it was the old butler. Apparently completely filled in on the events surrounding his return, he came by with a tray of biscuits and cup of tea, which Jason took gratefully.

"Thanks, Al."

"You're very welcome, Master Jason." The man smiled at him warmly. "And may I say it is good to have you back. No words can describe how grateful we all are for this miracle."

Jason returned the smile, a little weak but still there. Alfred patted his shoulder and departed, but his next visitor was not nearly as quiet.

"Let go of me, Grayson!"

He wasn't surprised that it was Dick who came to see him later in the evening. In some brief period of time when Bruce wasn't by his side, his older brother came bursting into the room with the biggest grin on his face Jason had ever seen. He was glad for the local anesthetic when Dick all but torpedoed his way towards the bed and grabbed and hugged him non-too gently. For the first few seconds Jason endured it, but this was getting ridiculous.

"Fuckin' let go!"

"No!" His brother protested. "Are you kidding? After everything? I'm never letting you out of my sight again!"

"Melodramatic much? It's gonna put a hell of a damper on your love life. And I'm not going to Bludhaven!"

"That's okay. My old room here is still available."

"For fuck's sake, Grayson!" He shoved at him. "See? Me? Here? Alive? I'll be fine unless you suffocate me first."

Dick released his grip and his face did turn sober. He moved back far enough that he was sitting only on the edge of the bed. Jason absolutely hated the look of pity his brother was giving him, but after what he'd almost done, he supposed he deserved it. He wondered if Bruce had told them just how far gone he'd been. Probably not, but Dick was damn good at reading people.

"Jay, I'm serious. Whatever issues… whatever anger you have, just talk to us. Me. Bruce. Anybody. No one's going to judge, and I'm not just saying that to be p.c.."

"No, you're saying it because you always have to be so fucking perfect. And in case you don't know already, I don't do 'talks' much."

"Okay, that's fine," Dick was undeterred. "There's a sparring mat down in the cave. Venting there is a hell of a lot safer than out in the streets. If you think you can take me, that is."

"Any time, any place, Big Bird," he scoffed.

"Well, the place you already know, but the time is not before you get better, Little Wing."

With the affectionate titles exchanged, things finally felt right between them. Dick's presence felt as it had when he first saw him in Bludhaven after his return. No anger or resentment, just the warmth of knowing his big brother cared. He had missed it the first time around, Jason realized. When Dick had tried to apologize for his absence during Jason's first life, he'd scoffed and brushed it away. He'd told himself he didn't need a brother, that he was just fine, but like with so many things, hind sight was twenty-twenty. It would have been nice to have Dick around, to have had a brother then.

"You're going back to Bludhaven at some point, aren't you?" he asked finally.

"At some point, probably, yeah."

He nodded. "I guess it's... your place and all that."

Dick grinned. "I'm a circus kid. Any place can be my place, but this?" he raised his eyes to the ceiling and glanced around to encompass the room and more. "This is our place. Our family. If anyone in this house ever needs me for any reason, I'll be here in a heartbeat."

"I know." And he did. It was an effort not to say something cutting and sarcastic, but this felt so much better. He bit his lip. "I think... I need you here. For a little while longer, anyway."

His brother's smile was warm. "Of course. Still gotta to teach you how to make those strawberry milkshakes. Someone has to supervise Damian when I'm not here."

The mention of their little brother reminded Jason that the boy still had not come to see him, and he'd been too afraid to ask. He knew he must be in the house, but he hadn't seen him yet. Being Damian, he probably wouldn't have come to visit either, not after Jason had just turned around and disappeared like that.

"How mad is he?" he finally asked Dick.

His brother seemed to weigh the question. "He's upset. He's been asking about you ever since we got here, but... yeah, he's upset."

"I should talk to him," Jason began to push himself to a more sitting position, but Dick just placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You need to rest, and giving him a little space might not be a bad idea. Kids are kind of... temperamental at that age."

Tim came in next, and it almost surprised Jason how much the young teen's presence didn't bother him. Unlike Dick, he didn't try to talk to him about his meltdown or running away, nothing from his past. Instead he presented him with a red domino mask that he held up between his thumb and middle finger for Jason's inspection. The young man raised a brow.

"It's for you," the teen elaborated. "It's like the new ones I designed for myself and Nightwing. Built-in night vision, thermal detectors, and a bunch of other goodies. I figured red for Red Robin. Unless you want to be something else? Maybe Bluejay?"

"Blue's Dick's color," he replied absently but took the mask from him anyway, turning it over in his hands. "Huh, didn't use tech like this in my day."

"It's pretty handy," the teen grinned. "Bruce has a huge set up way more elaborate in the cowl, but you have to really get into micro technology to fit it in a domino mask, and I'm guessing you're probably not a cowl kind of guy anyway."

"Why hide my chiseled good looks?" Jason smirked. "Thanks."

"Sure," Tim tried to shrug as if it was no big deal. "Whenever you get back out there, it'd be awesome to work with you. I always wondered…"

"Kid," Jason held up a hand to stop him. "You really don't have to try so hard."

He was blushing again. "Sorry. Yeah, yeah, I know. 'Stop apologizing'. It's just that not every kid finds out one of his heroes is back from the dead and then gets to sit across from him and have a conversation."

The teen's smile was so genuine it almost hurt to look at him, but at the same time inside, Jason was glad. Glad that there was at least one person around who smiled so easily, who seemed not yet burdened by the life they've all chosen or that chose them.

A fit Robin.

"Not every so-called-hero has a complete stranger looking out for them." The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. "Thanks for picking up the phone that day, Timmy."

After sleeping through the day and staying in bed most of the evening, he didn't feel tired, even a little restless. Whatever sedatives had been in his system seemed to have cleared, so he rose and made his way down the hallway. The manor was quiet. He passed at the slightly ajar doors to Dick's room and the new one that had been set aside for Damian. Pushing that one open a little more, he peaked inside.

In the ray of light from the hallway he could see the child's form on the bed and even managed to make out Damian's face. He still frowned in his sleep. After everything they've been through, how could he have just abandoned him like that? Jason wanted to go to him, to hold him and assure him it was going to be alright, that he'd never leave him again, but he didn't have the heart to wake the boy. He moved on.

His father's study was at the farthest end of the hall. When he entered, Bruce was standing over his desk, shuffling through papers, but he looked up the moment he walked in. Before he could tell him to go back to bed, Jason spoke.

"If you say I need sleep, that's a bit of the bat calling the former bird black. Which, I know, doesn't make any sense. Sorry, I spent the last two hours with Tim, and the babbling's rubbing off. Nice kid though. Made this for me."

He held out the red domino mask, and Bruce took it without a word, flipped it over to the inside and examined it. Jason went on.

"He keeps talking about suit designs and code names. Seems to have his heart set on Red Robin. I'm starting to think he seriously wants me out there with you guys."

"What do you want?" his father asked neutrally.

The question gave Jason pause. He bit his lip and put a hand on the desk, bracing himself just in case the surge of energy didn't last. He was back at home, back with his family. He already had everything he wanted. Well, almost.

"I think," he said slowly, "I'd like to just be Jason for a while. Figure out who he is."

He might have imagined the breath of relief his father exhaled and wondered if he'd asked to put on a mask again, would Bruce have allowed it. Dick had said that he'd be so happy to have him back that he'd give him anything he asked for. Bruce himself had all but said it. Whatever the case, he certainly looked pleased not to be put in that situation. He came around the table and stood facing him.

"I can tell you some of that. You are the most amazing son and brother anyone can hope for, and your return is the miracle I will be thankful for every day as long as I'm alive. You're Jason Todd. Though," he reached behind him on the desk, "maybe not according to this."

Jason recognized one of the fake passports he'd been caring, the one that read 'Jason Wayne' next to his photograph. He took it from his father, tracing his thumb over the name.

"I liked that," he mused. "I... ah... I told Damian I was his brother. No," he frowned, remembering. "Talia said it first. When we first met, she introduced me to him like that, and I told him we had the same dad because," a snort, "because it was just easier than going into gory details. After a while, I didn't even think about it."

Bruce pressed his lips into a line and looked a little... sad? "I would never presume to replace your parents."

Jason shook his head vigorously. Damn, he'd misunderstood. "No, Dick had parents before you. I didn't. Not like a kid should. And then... and then I had you, but I was too wrapped up in anger... in something stupid to see it. And then it was too late."

"But it's not." A hand came to rest on his shoulder. When he met his father's eyes, they were clear with resolve but also slightly shiny, like he was holding back tears. "I'm, admittedly, late to the game with the... the 'dad' thing, but the more I hear it, the more I like it. If you let me, I'll do my best to live up to it."

Jason managed a smile. "Sure, Dad."

A comfortable silence descended on the study, then after a moment Bruce took the passport from him, examining it again.

"Whoever made these did a good job. They're nearly indistinguishable from the authentic."

"Don't look at me. They just... sort of appeared in my jacket. I didn't even know they were there until Damian and I got to that village. And there was also a lot of money. Different currencies and everything. I don't know how we would've made it so far without any of it."

"And?" his father prompted.

"And," he took a breath, "earlier in night, before the fire, I remember waking up hearing someone in the room, but then I thought I just dreamed it. You think Talia left all that for us. Why would she do that?"

"I have a few thoughts," the man said. "None of them I can be sure of."

Jason bit his lip. "Do you think... do you think there's a chance she's still alive?"

His father said nothing.

Fatigue finally returned so he reluctantly headed back to his room, but stopped at Damian's door again. From the hall he could hear the boy tossing in what sounded like the beginning of a nightmare, and this time Jason couldn't hold back. Slowly making his way inside, he carefully lowered himself on the edge of the bed next to his brother.

"Wake up." He touched the child' hair. "It's just a bad dream, little D. Wake up."

The boy jerked slightly, but then settled down. Slowly his eyes opened, focusing on Jason. No surprised registered as he blinked his long lashes at him.

"You left." Even drowsy, his voice was clearly accusing.

"I know," Jason replied apologetically. "I'm sorry. I was in a very bad place. Not with you and Dick in Bludhaven," he corrected quickly seeing the look of confusion and hurt on the boy's face. He took the child's palm and pressed it against his own chest. "In here. I was in a bad place in here."

"And now?"

"Now I'm in a good place," Jason smiled. "A really good place, and I'm not leaving. I swear."

Chapter Text

Dick didn't think he'd actually do it, of course, which is why when the fire on the barbecue really got going, he kept looking up at the sky as if it might fall at any second. Bruce tried not to feel insulted though he knew his eldest had every reason to doubt him. Damian seemed in much better spirits. The youngest was sitting under the shade with Dick looking at school brochures. Whether or not it was a good idea Bruce had yet to decide. Nothing could move forward until the legal paperwork was complete. In this case, his reputation as a notorious playboy helped. No one was surprised the papers bounced he had a child from 'some secret foreign affair'.

Jason's resurrection would be much more difficult to explain to the outside world. Finally it was Tim who suggested using the explosion and the fact that Jason had died on foreign soil to their advantage. He sat to his left at the outside wooden table, opposite of Jason at his right.

"Just tell everyone the Ethiopian government made a mistake when they returned the body," the teen suggested. "The explosion was really bad and Jason was in the area, but he wasn't in the warehouse. They found a body that sort of matched the description, but it was so badly burnt that a conclusive identification was impossible."

"And I didn't come back for years because I kept trying to find my birth mother not knowing she died in that explosion," Jason agreed. "I'll look like a brat, but... well, I did skip town and run away to another continent."

"It should hold," Bruce nodded. "We'll have Barbara set up a digital trail in case anyone goes digging. The only outside person at the funeral was Gordon, and I don't expect any issues there."

Because Jim knew. He was certain of it.

Bruce – or Batman, when it mattered – might have been the world's greatest detective, but Jim Gordon was a great one too. He's all but told him years ago and in the same breath said that he didn't want to know. Bruce understood and nearly breached that line when he'd asked for his help in finding Jason, but in the end, the status quo held. When he had come to see them, he'd nodded to Jason and smiled at him.

"I'm happy for you," the older man had said with genuine warmth. "Glad you found him."

Bruce didn't miss the slightly different phrasing. The story had been that Jason had returned on his own, but Batman had asked for his help looking for a young man of the same description less than a week ago.

Barbara had come earlier, the day after Jason's return. No one knew what they talked about behind the closed door of his room. Bruce was just within earshot when they emerged more than an hour later, the woman was wiping away tears and Jason bent to hug her.

"Talk to Dick," his son had advised. "And try to be happy."

"Are you?" Barbara wondered.

"Yes," Jason nodded. "Not every single second, but now more often than not."

He sat alone with him in the study that evening – something that had become a tradition since then – and looking at him, Bruce believed that.

But it was getting warmer and the outside air would do them all some good, so today was a day for that barbecue Dick had joked about. Having established their story, Jason rose and went to help Alfred while Tim wandered over to where Dick and Damian were sitting. Bruce regarded his family for a moment, then rose and disappeared back into the manor. He wouldn't be long, but there were still a few details to look into.

The passports and remainder of money lay down in the cave on the computer consul. He'd meant to do this days ago but had refused to let it take up time when his children were not fully healed. The currency was of little interest, but the passports were a different story. The documents themselves looked clean but upon careful study, he discovered something interesting on the insides of the leather-bound cases.

Micro transmitters.

He recorded the frequency before destroying them and checked it against all the ones in his databases. No match, not even on the ones Ra's al Ghul frequently used. Bruce looked at the items on the consul, deep in thought. Suddenly his back straightened.

"I dislike this habit of yours to barge into my home."

He didn't bother turning, though his guest would more than likely take it as an insult. Bruce didn't care. In fact, it was somewhat of an effort for him to get his anger under control. He'd been expecting something like this ever since Jason and Tim explained how they were sure the pair had been followed, but this was not the time he felt like playing nice.

When he did finally turn, his blue eyes glared daggers at the seven-century-old-immortal.

"What is it you want?"

"To the point, Detective?"

"I think that would be easier on both of us. I don't really care why you're here, but you will not take Damian. Or Jason. Or any of my children. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly. As it happens, I am interested in what happened to mine."

His eyes narrowed. "My only information comes from Jason, so it's probably nothing new to you. I'm sure you've already investigated the fire."

"I have," the man confirmed. "And the results were... inconclusive. No hint of arson but also no reason for it to have been an accident."

"I can't help you," Bruce said bluntly. "Right now I'm trying very hard not to break your jaw for not telling me about my sons."

"I told her this would happen." The immortal pressed his lips into a thin line. He seemed... if not remorseful, than at least somewhat resigned. "She wished to return your partner to you, but I warned her that you would wage war upon us for keeping him away for so long. Very well then; we withheld one, and now you have my daughter's child as well. A son for a son."

They aren't yours to give away! Bruce wanted to shout. Neither was Talia. Not like that.

"Then any businesses we have is over," his tone was clipped.

"For now," Ra's agreed. "If you hear from her, I expect the courtesy of being informed."

"I make no such promises." Bruce set his jaw. "You have two minutes to leave my property."

His father was in a foul mood that he tried unsuccessfully to hide, but Jason knew better. He had plans for tonight, had hoped everyone would be in better spirits after the barbecue so he could ask for what he needed. But something had happened to put Bruce in this mood, and he still had to ask or Jason was afraid he might lose his nerve and it would never get done.

"Dad?"

He pushed open the door to the study. His father was looking at something on his laptop but closed it when he entered. Jason gave him a look.

"Are you okay?"

He looked like he was considering his answer for a moment. "Ra's was here."

Alarm bells went off in his head. He finally caught up with them! After a week? Was he after Damian? Where was he now? Why weren't they doing something about it?

"He was here," Bruce repeated with emphasis. "During the barbecue. He's long gone now. Don't worry."

Jason exhaled. "What did he want?"

"To know what happened to Talia. I told him we don't know anything."

Which was the truth, as far as Jason knew. Of course Bruce often kept his own confidence. He could have found something he had not yet shared with the rest of them. They haven't shared their suspicions with Damian yet, and Jason didn't know how to begin to approach it. He didn't want to give his little brother hope only to tear it away. Besides, he didn't know which was worse, because, if Talia was alive, she'd chosen to remove herself from her son's life.

He knew all too well what that felt like.

He must have looked too deep in thought because Bruce frowned. "What's wrong?"

Jason shook his head to shake himself out of it. "I'm wondering if you would... come with me somewhere. Well, actually, you'd just drive. There's something I need to do. Alone. But I... I could use some... moral support."

His father was already rising, closing the lid of the laptop. "Which car?"

Jason smirked. "Do we have something... beat up?"

Less than a half hour later the black Infinity – Jason easily believed that it was the cheapest car they owned – stopped at the mouth of Crime Alley. He sat in the passenger seat for another moment, gazing out at the accursed street through the tinted window. He could feel his father looking at him.

"You don't have to do this," he told him gently.

"Yeah, I do," Jason sighed. "I have to... make peace with this place, find a way to leave it behind. This isn't just the place I spent half my life in; I can move on from that. But it's also the place I fired a gun at my father. That's not nearly as easy to forget."

A hand fell on his shoulder, and when he turned to look at him, Bruce's eyes held nothing of pity, only resolve.

"This is the place I lost my parents," he said. "But it's also the place I found my son. Twice."

Jason gave him a small smile and opened the door. "Keep the car running. I'll be right back."

He kept the headlights in his peripheral vision, trying not to feel anxious as the rest of the vehicle faded into the darkness. It felt like it was always dark here. He stepped across places that were all too familiar, spots on the ground where he huddled near vents to keep warm in the brutal Gotham winter. Walking further into the alley felt like walking into the past. He had to glance back at the car once or twice to make sure his father was still there.

Of course he was.

He rounded the corner and looked at the entrance to the run-down apartment building where he spent most of his youth. It was locked, but Jason knew if he twisted just right... applied pressure in just the right direction... There! The knob gave way, and he stepped inside. Taking the stairs two at a time, he made his way up and seconds later found himself in front of the door to the small apartment he'd shared with his parents. Jason knocked and when no one responded on the third try, twisted the knob.

It looked like no one had lived there since his departure. Jason circled the place slowly, gingerly touching the cupboard shelves that were barely hanging on by a hinge, running his fingers along the shelves and leaving paths in the dust. In the far corner he spotted the old mattress on the floor, the one with the few springs poking through, and hunched down by it. There was even a half-empty pack of cigarettes wedged between it and the wall. Jason picked it up and turned it over in his hands. He waited for the nicotine craving to come, but it didn't.

There were so many memories here, a few happy, most painful.

"You've come a long way, child."

At the sound of that smooth accented voice, Jason rose slowly. He wasn't really surprised, but he hadn't been expecting this now. In some ways the intrusion on his farewells was offensive, but in others it felt right that she was here. Another loose end to come to terms with. The more of them he could tie up, the better his new life would be.

"I'm not a child," he said, turning. "And definitely not your child. I got enough 'mommy' issues without adding you to the mix."

Talia looked back at him unapologetically. She was dressed far simpler than he was used to seeing. Just a jacket thrown over a black turtle-neck, form-fitting jeans, and boots. Still, in this part of town – probably in most places in Gotham – she would have stuck out like a sore thumb. The city rarely let beauty remain untarnished, though in this case he suspected she already had quite a collection of scars underneath the surface. They all did, after all.

"You're wrong." She said mildly. "What is a mother if not one who gives life? Did I not do that for you, Jason?"

"You kept me prisoner for six months!" He exploded. "Not even counting the year before!"

"I restored your mind and gave you the means of reaching your father," she countered calmly. "I helped keep you safe every step of the way. When you needed papers and funds, I provided that. I had my man follow you and drive you to flee when my father was closing in."

Jason was about to argue that, but suddenly he realized that the man he'd bumped into in Shannon had been with Talia every time he'd seen him. He'd just assumed that they all reported to Ra's. And she had given them the passports and money. Of that he no longer had any doubt.

"You were tracking us. How?"

"Bugs in the passport covers," she smiled coyly. "They transmitted on a frequency known only to me."

"And you started the fire." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

Jason blinked, confused. "If you really wanted to take us back to Gotham, you could've just flown us over yourself. Why this elaborate setup? Why the deception?" Why are you letting your son think you're dead?

"Because of my father. I disobeyed him once by restoring you through the Pit. Had he known I returned you willingly against his orders and taken Damian as well…"

She's telling the truth, Jason realized. She's really afraid of him. It felt like such strange concept. He couldn't really see Talia being afraid of anything, almost… almost in the same way he couldn't see Bruce afraid. But that wasn't true. Even his father was afraid of losing them. If Ra's had discovered her, could the punishment have been Damian's life? Or his own?

"So you bought us time." He looked at her. "And yourself deniability."

"At the cost of loosing Damian, yes." Her voice was full of sorrow. "You were right, Jason: he would have grown to hate me as much as you do."

"I don't hate you." He surprised himself when he realized the answer was honest.

She smiled sadly, then stepped forward and cupped his cheek with her right palm. And, yes, there was something undeniably maternal about the touch. "My darling boys. Born to be brave. Thank you. For everything, but most of all for keeping him safe, for bringing him here. I know how badly you've both wanted this, how happy it must have made you and your father."

"That doesn't mean Damian suddenly doesn't need you." Jason protested. "It's a really shitty thing, to lose a mom. Trust me, I know. Twice over."

"As do I. I wish I could spare him that, but for now this is the way things must be."

The touch withdrew leaving him cold. She at the door by the time Jason snapped out of it enough to call after her. "Bruce knows you're alive."

She half turned, unconcerned. "But he has you and your brothers to focus on. I'm not longer selfish enough to think that I should be the center of his attention. Be well, Jason. I imagine this is good-bye for quite some time."

Damn, he thought as he watched the door close behind her. Why'd she have to decide to grow a conscious now? He'd been perfectly happy to hate her for the rest of his life, both on his own and Damian's behalf, but maybe things had never been as black and white as he'd liked to have believed. The decision about whether or not to tell the boy ultimately lay with their father, and Jason was glad for it. He didn't want the responsibility for that one.

And speaking of which, he decided, time to get going. The tiny dirty apartment held no warmth, no more memories with which he couldn't part. It was simply the past, another life. His real one was waiting for him outside in the car. Jason couldn't help but chuckle.

Wasn't that how it all started?