Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The thought came to him on an autumn night after shooting a human trafficker seven times in the chest.

It followed him all the way from the docks to a cheap place away from tourist traps where he could eat a quick dinner on a red plastic table outside.

His gaze lingered on the waiters leaning against the wall, chatting and smoking. A group of college students around his age cursing an exam over empty beers. A family of four, the sisters laughing at something drawn on a napkin. An old couple bickering about going or not to a party, eventually agreeing over a chuckle to leave early.

I miss home.

The feeling wasn't new. At night, during his worst burst of melancholy and masochism he would jump to grab his phone and google Gotham.

It was very rare for the city to be mentioned in international news. European channels, as far as Jason knew, had only brought it up once when a gas attack left the entire population in mass psychosis for weeks. They had dedicated half an hour of commentators to discuss what the hell was wrong with that place before moving on.

Jason found it a bit funny. In the old continent, they were completely unbothered by demons, magic users, curses, the supernatural as a whole, but the idea of random people with colourful costumes running around committing and stopping crimes was ridiculous. Maybe they had a point, still, Jason wouldn't be so chill about having Cthulhu as a neighbour.

There was nothing new about the twist on his chest, except that it didn't ease. No matter how many pedophiles' bones he broke or trafficking rings destroyed or victims rescued, the itch under his skin, reminding him he wasn't where he was supposed to be, wouldn't leave.

Which was stupid, he wasn't where he should be because he shouldn't be alive. It had nothing to do with his geographical localisation. If it were an easy fix, he would have gone back to the manor post resurrection, he would have taken a look at the streets that raised him and known what to do with his life. Instead he spiraled and raged trying to teeter himself to a world he didn't belong to anymore while ruining any chances of a future in the process.

Gotham wouldn't fix him. Nothing would.

So it was better to burn out away from people who he could hurt and try to make his second life not a complete waste of time by getting his hands dirty when no one else was willing to.

He stayed in movement, did the bare minimum to keep himself alive and his mind away from the past. New country each week, always working on a case, never resting because rest brought thoughts he had to keep away to not crumble again. A ghost in all meanings of the words, no name, no connections, just a blurry figure in security cameras and a trail of blood.

Until a bullet gave him an ultimatum.

Jason dodged the knife aimed at his chest with an upper body twist followed by a kick to his attackers guts and a punch to the skull.

Another threw himself at his side, sending both of them tumbling on the tar. Hands found his neck. Jason groped blindly for the previous assassin's weapon. 

As soon as his finger made contact with the metal he took it to the man´s neck. 

Again and again and again. 

No care for the fact that he was holding the sharp side and the blade cut into his hand at every stab. Blood gushed out like from a hose from the carotid, soaking his face. He kept going.

Adrenaline took control of his mind. All it mattered was to get back on his feet.

He stood up panting heavily.

There were around fifteen assassins, either dead or dying, lying on the small, steep alley. He had been coming back to his rented apartment when they jumped him like a pack of wolves. He kneeled in front of one of the least mangled ones. League of Assassins, of course. Neither Ras or Talia would forgive him so easily for putting a hole on their baby boy's chest. Jason was mostly sure they wouldn't kill him, but being dragged to Nanda Parbat to explain his actions wasn't in his plans.

His entire body felt like a giant bruise, he would have to flee the country immediately, his bag was always ready to go, train tickets, he could get some before daylight, he-

BANG BANG BANG

The world went white.

Cobblestone scrapped his bruised cheek, the blood from a nearby puddle right under his nose making him want to gag.

An assassin holding Jason´s own gun took a shaky aim again but it flew over his head hitting a pink wall instead.

At first try his hands slipped on the gore making him fall again, on the second he didn't have the strength to pull himself up.

He was shivering. It didn't hurt. His chest wouldn't move. Nothing would move.

Is this how Barbara felt?

He couldn't move, he couldn't move. The notion became an increasingly loud chant in his mind. If he was paralized…no help would come. He had to get up.

Air forced itself out of his lungs, none went in. 

Asphyxiation. 

He hit the ground again, that time slamming his chin on the stone, teeth clathering against each other. Still no feeling.

He was going to die. 

He was going to die away from home again. He wouldn't be buried next to his parents. He wouldn't be buried. His carrion left on the wreckage for stray dogs to feast on.

No one would know. 

There was smoke on his lungs.

No one was coming.

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't-

.

.

.

When he woke up from his panic-induced fainting, Jason tested his toes, his fingers, willed energy back into his spent body and dragged himself up the street away from the carnage and the approaching blue and red lights. The assassin who shot him lay limp, apparently his last breath was spent trying to get revenge, Jason could relate.

He was not dead. He was not dying. He had gone into shock; it was fine, just embarrassing.

Back at the T0, he went through the motions. Lie down, elevate legs, put on a jacket. The wounds on his back weren't bleeding too badly, so he slapped on some bandages and left stitches for when he didn't feel like throwing up anymore. He could fish out the bullets tomorrow, if he survived.

The soft white glow from the screen of his phone shone bright in the dark room. He hadn't felt like turning anything on. 

Two tabs open. One with plane tickets to Valencia, another to Gotham.

His thumb hovered over the confirm button. 

There should be a thousand thoughts in his mind at the same time, but instead, he was left with static only.

Home or keep running.

When he left, it was never meant to be forever. He just wanted to get away.

If he had died, it would have been permanent. No one to lay his body next to his parents, just an unmarked grave in a strange land.

Face the music or hide.

Nothing good would come of returning. 

They didn't want to see him again. He doesn't know what he would say. Another shot on the foot, another grief-induced despair. 

Jason Todd, ladies and gentlemen, always coming back like a weed to ruin everyone's day. Come and see what grave he will dig for himself this time. Won't someone put the kid out of his misery?

Dick tried. Bats and birds didn't kill, so Arkham was the closest they could get to a definitive solution.

There was a big chance he would be thrown back into that hell as soon as he stepped out of the plane. They had allowed him to do his thing once, but that was before the murder attempts, before he lost his mind, before he was an escapee with a set sentence.

An invisible clock ticked above his head, telling him it was now or never.

Did he even have anything to come back to?

Did he deserve to go back?

He booked the six am flight.

Let it be said that for all his flaws Jason Todd wasn't a coward.

He resisted the urge to bold all the way from the terminal to his window seat. Panic was controlled with blasting rock music on his headphones and a healthy dose of sleep deprivation that left his brain too fuzzy to consider consequences.

The seven hours passed in a blink. 

If asked he wouldn't be able to answer what the person by his side looked like or anything about the view. He went through the motions in a dream-like state. He grabbed his duffel bag, no checked baggage, he didn't own that many things, and made his way outside.

Gotham air was just as he remembered - awful. Enough chemicals to cause seven types of lung disease, and so beautifully familiar.

For a moment, he looked up, expecting Batman to jump from the nearest rooftop to deliver justice. He had used a fake name, fake passport, fake everything, even actor makeup to change his features just enough not to get flagged in Oracle´s cameras. Still a part of him thought the old man wouldn't be fooled, that he would sense Jason´s presence like a hound and go hunt.

Those were a child's delusions. Bruce was only human. Jason should have learned that years ago.

He got a cab to Crime Alley and had to pay extra to convince the man to actually get close to the Alley. 

Trash filled the sidewalks, graffiti covered nearly every single wall and Jason counted four cars with broken windows on the way to his old safe house. Some things never change. He wondered if anyone had been taking care of the place while he was away.

Batman and the others would do the basic patrol that applied to all city zones, but the Alley alone was a full-time job. Left unsupervised for too long and new gangs would show up left and right just to end up causing wars or merging with pre-existing ones and make them even worse. 

Someone had to keep dealers away from schools so the kids had a shot at a future, find shelters for the homeless that wouldn´t result in human trafficking scandals, and deliver money in unmarked envelopes every time the city hall decided to defund public initiatives to invest in luxury resorts.

There was some guilt at having left his home to fend for itself, but Jason rationalized he hadn't been helping much before.

Maybe at the start, but somewhere along the line, his priorities shifted from “help people and make the Bats see that I'm right” to “make the Bats see that I'm right and help people”. It sounded the same, but was a slippery slope into “I don't care who it hurts, they will see that I'm fucking right.” 

He could try to blame Bruce's fake death but the truth was that ever since the batarang to the throat he had been going down. That particular disaster was just the culmination of months of isolation, paranoia and his own messed up mind. It would have happened anyways, one way or another Jason was always going to tear himself apart.

His place had been raided, unsurprisingly.

Batman must have gone through all his major safe houses, he did have a lot of time to find them.

Jason didn't go inside. Instead, he turned immediately around and found an abandoned apartment, just like the one from his homeless days, to crash in. If the Bats had been in his safe houses, it was certain they left alarms and wires in case Jason ever returned.

Deja vu hit him hard as he set his bag down and peered through the boarded window. Just like that, he was ten again, alone in an abandoned place, shivering with his warmest coat on and wondering how he was supposed to go through the next day while watching the city lights flicker like a million little stars.

His breath formed pale clouds in the frigid air. A cigarette would be nice, and a mattress, he would get those in the morning.

He laid on a semi clean spot, away from cigarette buts and empty beer bottles, no needles at least. With a bit of work he could turn it semi habitable, posters on the walls to hide the cracks, sweep the floor, get camping equipment and a brazier, scrape off the most concerning mold stains. 

Talk about returning to origins.

What the hell am I doing?

Little Jason would be horrified to know that after all that struggle and hope, he ended up right back where he started. 

His dad used to say something about circles. Willis' circle had been getting out of prison, trying to go straight, promising little Jason and Catherine he wouldn't drink again, failing, accepting goon work, throwing furniture in drunken rages and going back to prison. Jason would get confused why dad kept making the same mistakes and promises over and over again, in a sick way he was starting to understand. 

If that had been Willis' circle, and Catherine´s drugs, did it mean Jason's would be loneliness and never having a place to call home? 

Squeaks of rats on the walls lulled him to sleep; he would deal with them tomorrow.

Chapter Text

His back was killing him.

Jason rolled to his side with a groan. Dawn light streamed through cracks in the pieces of wood, telling him it must be around eight in the morning.

Another thing to fix, he had always been a light sleeper when it came to both noise and clarity.

Renting a place would be better; he had around thirty thousand in unmarked bills stolen from various mob bosses, but as soon as Bruce found out Jason was back, the maniac would obsessively go through all apartments recently rented or purchased in Gotham to find out where Jason was sleeping.

His old bolt-holes were acquired through various bribes and complicated money laundering schemes, as offshore accounts kept off paper. All things that he didn't have access to anymore, without a criminal empire backing him up.

Of course, none of that would matter if he died of sepsis.

The bullets had been deep, missing his column by mere inches. Jason had taken them out, although roughly, and sutured too soon. 

Leslie’s voice played in his head as he used the camera on his phone to take a look at what was happening on his back. “Gunshot wounds are dirty. Never close them right away. Irrigate, debride, keep them open, and only close once you’re sure there’s no infection or retained debris.”

That was advice for people who hadn't been running on fumes and didn't live in constant paranoia of being jumped. When push came to shove, he would rather fight with possibly infected wounds than open ones.

In his defence, Jason had been almost sure they were clean. At every movement that sent a bolt of lightning through his spine, the certainty decreased.

Blue and purple painted his goosebumped yet burning skin with grotesque stains from shoulder to hip. The wounds themselves stood blurry, small dark red projections with black suture lines done haphazardly. Two were actively leaking. Jason zoomed in on the nasty bump, trying to figure out if it was pus or if the lens was dirty. Either way, he needed help. Fast.

He put back his layers and coat, the parts that had been in contact with the ground came back white with dust, his pants and hair were in the same sorry state. 

At least the doctor he was going to wasn't picky about the appearance of his patients.

“Open up, asshole.” Jason punched the metal door.

A string of muffled curses came through, followed by something heavy hitting the ground. Jason hoped the man wasn't drunk yet.

Cristiano opened the door, “Hood?” Just to close it immediately.

Jason went back to punching. 

“Go away!” The scream echoed in the underground parking lot.

“I can't!" He added kicking to his attack, even if it made his whole body burn in flashes. After a particularly hard one, he saw pure red. “I was shot. I'm sick. I`m feverish. I'm about to pass out. If you don't open, I'm dying here and screaming enough to incriminate you!”

His brain had gained one thousand pounds in the walk from the apartment to the clinic, every heartbeat hurt like his chest was about to explode, and his breathing came forcefully with conscious effort not to stop. Jason was no stranger to death, obviously, he knew when to push an injury and when to start fearing.

The fifteen detours he took to avoid Oracle’s surveillance didn't help either. Last time he checked, she had access to traffic cameras, security that didn't run in a private loop and all of GCPD's arsenal. His map could be outdated, or her facial recognition improved, so he took a black surgical mask and a baseball cap from the dollar store. It turned a twenty-minute walk into a one-hour stealth mission.

With surprising speed for a man whose liver was certainly rotten, Cristiano pulled him inside.

“I don't work for you anymore. You need to leave.”

Jason leaned on the surgical table, trying to subdue the wave of vertigo. “Do I look in a state to go anywhere?”

Cristiano cursed again, his worn hands pulling at shaggy grey hair as he passed. “Black Mask is going to kill me and my kids and their kids if he finds out I let you step foot in here.”

“Black Mask?” Jason blinked, both from surprise and to refocus his vision. “You working for that asshole? That's a new low.”

“At least he doesn't disappear and leave me out of a job.”

He was putting so much of his weight on the table that he was practically lying in it. “I had just escaped Arkham; a lot was going on.”

Cristiano stopped him with a raised hand. “I don't give a fuck what's going on with your life. Rogues are weird like that. What I care about is that the dude paying me hates your guts.”

Jason took a look around as an excuse to stall. The stank of ethyl alcohol couldn't conceal the traces of gasoline and carbon monoxide lingering in the air. The table he was using as a crouch took most of the space, leaving little room to move through boxes of medicine and one or two machines stolen from hospitals. He couldn't help but think the conditions were a downgrade from when the doctor worked for him.

“I can also pay you.”

Like a shark at the sight of blood. “How much?”

“Name a price.”

“Fifteen thousand.”

Half his savings. “Fuck off.”

“I'm risking my life here.” 

His bag only had ten thousand. He wasn't stupid enough to believe the doctor would do charity, but he might have underestimated how much of a jerk the man really was.

“You are a drunk who operates on criminals for a living; you should be used to that.” Cristiano merely raised an eyebrow at him. “Five thousand.”

“This isn't a movie, Hood, you can't say numbers and expect me to keep going down. Ten thousand, take it or leave it.” Jason chewed on his lip, then nodded. “Get on the table.”

The doctor let out a whistle when he saw what he would be working with. “Let me guess, you did this yourself, at three am, on the bathroom mirror of a service station.” A noncommittal grunt escaped his lips; the cold table was heavenly under his burning flesh. “Idiot.”

Ignoring the many times Cristiano left his patients half dead due to being too hammered to know what he was doing, he was actually a very good professional.

Most importantly, a chatty one.

In the middle of grumbles and insults, which made Jason´s certainty about his sobriety diminish, no sober man sassed so much at a guy with a kill count in the hundreds. Jason got to know all that happened while he was away.

Black Mask had a field day picking up the pieces of Jason's crew. Whatever the latex-faced monstrosity didn't grab was taken by the Falcone family or the Maronis. 

The freaks must have thrown a party when they heard the Hood got locked away. 

He would have to build himself again from zero. Below zero. After his Gun Batman stunt, trust from the Alley people would be at an all-time low.

Shooting rapists and beheading drug lieutenants walked the line of what most Gothamites considered acceptable, but after so many decades of being scared to walk down the street, Alley residents had been willing to accept radical approaches.

Hanging people by the dozen from lampposts was a step too far, though.

Jason had been more concerned with the shock effect to consider how his actions would be perceived by general audiences. He could see why public mass executions would be regarded as rather sadistic.

Scratch what he said earlier. It would have been the entirety of Gotham celebrating that he got stuck in hell posing as a psychiatric facility.

Conscience slipped him halfway through the proceedings. It was Cristiano’s rough voice that pulled him out of the hazy river. “-pieces of debris. So are you sticking around this time?”

“Unless the Bat sends me packing.” Dread crept up on him at the imminence of that confrontation, but still he spoke in a cavalier tone. 

He had always been too open, felt too much. Couldn't separate himself from cases; he took the victims´ suffering and rage as if they were his own and acted accordingly. That's what got him at odds with Batman even before his death. 

Erratic, irrational, hysterical, the words played around in his mind since Arkham. This time, he would control himself. He would be calm and detached and prove he wasn't a rabid dog in need of muzzling. 

A clear, unlabeled pill bottle was shoved into his hands. “Take these for two weeks twice a day.”

“What are they?”

“Pills.” If it was a ploy from Black Mask to get Jason to poison himself, he would give it to him; it was better than his normal ones.

Two knocks came from the door.

“Doc, I got into a skirmish. Can ya stitch me up fast?”

“Who is that?” Jason whispered, already putting on his shirt.

Cristiano wiggled his hands as if he wanted to strangle the air before motioning for Jason to get down behind a stack of cardboard boxes. “Mask’s enforcer. Stay hidden.”

The man's worn sneakers stepped inside, dirty with dried blood against the Nike logo.

“Thanks. The fucking junkie tried to stab me when I went to collect his debt, can ya believe it?” A bomber coat was thrown to the ground. “Got him in a van, let's see if he is still so cheeky with less a kidney.”

Jason held his breath during the entire proceeding, finger on the trigger. 

The stitches were done in less than five minutes. 

Funny thing about expecting the worst, when it does happen, there is no surprise, only a placid anticipation for the cue to act. Jason was already tensed to move when Cristiano tried to push the Frog out, safety off when it made him trip on his own feet and fall.

He and Jason locked eyes, the Frog's face twisted in terror at the sight of the white strip. Jason should have it patented.

Proximity to the door gave the Frog a head start on the chase.

Whatever painkillers Cristiano gave him were miraculous, or adrenaline was doing most of the heavy lifting as he parkoured over cars, waiting for a clean field of vision to take the shot.

He jumped to the top of a grey Mercedes; from there it was easy. One bullet to each knee. The man had been around ten meters away from the boom barrier before he fell, cellphone slipping out of his hand into a pool of motor oil.

“Hood? What about Hood?” A distorted voice came through the speakerphone. Someone didn't lose a second calling for backup. “Jimmy? Jimmy, where are you?”

Jason picked up. “Hell, very soon.”

His gaze went back to Jimmy, who, in the lack of better options, had decided to crawl away. The drag path of blood behind him made Jason feel a bit of pity. He didn't like killing petty criminals. Goons, specifically, reminded him too much of his dad. 

“You had to run, didn't you?” Jason hissed. “I don't even want to kill you, but you just had to make things hard.”

Jimmy babbled something unintelligible, his hands kept going up and down his body in search of a weapon Jason knew he didn't have or would have used already. “Please,” he finally managed to stammer. “I won't say anything, I-I won't. P-Please don't.”

Against all reason, Jason hesitated. The man in front of him was a piece of shit, no doubt of that, still, he had always restricted his vengeance to killers and rapists. Except that time you extended it to a child because you were throwing a tantrum. 

He didn't want his homecoming to start with blood. Not because of some spontaneous change of heart, he still believed that some monsters were better in shallow graves. No, his resolution was fully due to being aware that no one would tolerate him otherwise. The chances of them doing so with him defanged were already low; still, an ex-murderer was better than a murderer.

With Batman, you either bend or break, and Jason already broke once.

“What are you waiting for?” Cristiano screamed. His skin was covered in a layer of sweat from stress. He would never sleep right again, knowing that at any moment his whole family could die for the whims of a thug. Jimmy could speak tomorrow, or next month, or next year, or never, but the chance of him changing his mind would always be there.

It was a chance Jason wasn't willing to take; he could always get on his knees and fake remorse later.

He muffled out the pleas as he raised his gun, as he had done so many times before. Blood almost got into his eyes from the splatter. Jimmy lay limp with a bullet in the skull.

Breathing heavily, he turned his head upwards - only to see a security camera.

Public parking lots, those didn't run in a private system.

Laughter bubbled up his throat.

God damn it.

God fucking damn it.

So much for evasion and being inconspicuous.

Laughing hurt, it teared itself out of his throat leaving raw claw marks behind. Still he couldn't stop, it was better than to think of the mess he had once again made for himself.

He tried to control the corners of his mouth once the hysteria receded enough for him to realise how psychotic he must look.

Standing over a dead body, laughing like the Joker.

“Hood… You good?” Cristiano hesitantly asked. He was looking at Jason the same way Arkham nurses had. 

Jason nodded wordlessly as he stepped back inside the clinic to grab his jacket and medicine. 

“You are going to have Batman on your doorstep very soon. Good luck with that.”

Cristiano stopped on his frantic peaking through the door, “What? And what are you gonna do?”

“I'm going home.”

“Batman, I got a sighting.”

Bruce grunted in response. Young Justice better not have decided to throw another surprise party for Tim. He refused to be yet again guilt-tripped into letting metas wander around under the excuse of the anniversary of Tim's third mission. If only the decorations hadn't been so well-made.

“It 's Hood.”

His body went rigid. That couldn't be right. Last time he checked, Hood had been in southern Europe.

Icy silence fell over the cave. Tim and Cass stopped their sparring session, and Damian, who had been watching while sketching, closed the book with a sharp sound.

“You still got eyes on him?” 

“No, he dropped off radar five minutes ago.” A map popped up on the screen. Red dot on the south edge of the Narrows with a radius around too large for them to cover in time. “It will take you around fifteen minutes to reach his last position. More than enough for him to disappear.”

A cross-link between the area and Hood’s safehouses showed six possibilities, but the alarms in all of them remained untriggered. “Where was he?”

“Parking lot. I will send you the footage.” Oracle’s avatar disappeared to give space to a grainy security video.

There was no one in scene yet, only a handful of middle-class cars, some more expensive, others less, but around the same budget, and intermittent pixelation. No one had bothered to renew the surveillance in at least a decade.

Bruce heard the children shift behind him to watch. He almost told them to go away, even knowing they would ignore him. 

A man ran for the exit only to be hit - probably on the knees, judging by the way he fell - by an out-of-frame shooter. Bruce had a very good hunch who would be. He crumpled on the tar, head turned to his right in the direction from where the bullets came from.

The angle only allowed them to see the back of his head as Jason crouched to pick up the phone the man had been screaming into. “Can you give us the audio?” Bruce asked Oracle.

The footage rewound a few seconds to Jason picking up the phone. 

On call, a second man was borderline screaming. “Hood? What about Hood?Jimmy? Jimmy, where are you?” 

“Hell, very soon.”

Bruce had to control himself from flinching at the flippancy. That blatant disregard for life he didn't consider worthy, Jason had been taking pride in since his resurrection. It was everything Bruce stood against.

Jason started waving the gun around, allowing them a side profile. He was frustrated, angry at the man for something. The little Bruce could see of his face had dark bruises and marks on his neck that could be hands, it was impossible to tell for sure with such low definition. 

The man was begging, that much could be understood in mute. Jason hesitated, he lowered the weapon with a thoughtful expression, incisors playing with the lower lip as he did as a child when Bruce quizzed him with a difficult case.

Don't do it. He glared fiercely at the screen as if he could push the thought through time and space into Jason’s head.

For a moment, it seemed like it worked. Jason's finger moved millimetres away from the trigger, until something caught his attention out of frame in the same direction he had come from.

His face hardened with resolve. In a fluid motion, he raised the gun again and executed his victim.

Because there was no other way to put it. The man had been on the ground, pleading for his life, he posed no threat. The only silver lining was that Jason didn't appear to take any pleasure from the killing as he had before, but that was not nearly enough.

Bruce thought it was over. Jason didn't move, instead looking down at the gore he created with an expression Bruce couldn't place. Then he looked up, and his eyes met the camera.

Fear, or merely surprise, twisted his features, making him resemble a deer in headlights. 

Then he smiled and started laughing.

Someone gasped behind him, Bruce didn't care to see how. Horror twisted him from the inside out as he watched that burst of dark glee.

It was a taunt.

When he came back from the timeline to learn that Jason was in Arkham, the things he had done to force Dick's hand, Bruce hadn't known how to react. He secretly scoured every news article and read the reports until his eyes burned. He had Oracle hack Arkham’s system so every new psychiatric evaluation or updates in his son’s conditions would be automatically stored on his computer.

He never visited. He couldn't. Not after Dick telling him that his goodbye message, something he had intended to be soothing, caused so much distress. It was better for everyone if Bruce kept his distance. When it came to Jason, he only knew how to make things worse.

Once he had checked the camera in Jason’s cell, only once, after what he saw, he never managed to bring himself to do so again. 

“Looks like Todd finally lost what was left of his mind,” Damian remarked.

Jason had calmed down slightly but still seemed to be struggling to control his satisfaction. He didn't turn to the camera again as he walked away.

“Maybe, I should call-”

“You and Bat Girl go check every safe house we know of, don't engage if you see signs of recent movement,” Bruce cut Tim. He put on his cowl, already moving for the Batmobile with Damian in tow. “Robin and I are going to the garage.”

Bruce forced himself to think clearly as he started the engine. Jason had been in civvies at the time of the murder, no helmet in sight; he had visible injuries and showed surprise at the camera, so he also hadn't had the terrain analysed. Everything pointed to a lack of premeditation, unusual for him. As impulsive as he could be, Jason always planned his stunts carefully.

There had to be a reason he went to such an unassuming localisation, and it hadn't been tracking the man.

“It was a sloppy display,” Robin sneered, looking up at Bruce. “We will have him in Arkham by the end of the week.”

Robin wanted him to say something else, that much Bruce could tell. He remained silent, only dignifying the comment with a hmm.

Arkham. Bruce never thought that the day he would be forced to put one of his own children there would arrive. Dick had to be the one to do it last time; Bruce would have stalled, incapacitated, bargained, but he knew he wouldn't have brought himself to do what needed to be done.

He twisted the wheel, taking a too sharp turn too fast. The wheels skidded under the abuse, leaving tyre tracks in the tar.

Last time, he let Jason get away after his escape because he hoped distance would help him regain himself. But turns out his vacations had done nothing, he spent them killing and still came back just as unstable as he was before.

That smile engraved itself on Bruce´s mind. Jeering, "Go on, Old Man, come get me. See how many birds I can take down this time." Bruce wouldn't allow it for the sake of all his other children. There would be no more cut throats or bullets in chests or rage-filled vedetas.

He would get the strength to do what he should have done before. Jason would go back to Arkham, and Bruce would visit, find him the best psychiatrist on the continent and if that didn't work, the best in the world and outer space. 

Batman would stop the Red Hood once and for all, and then Bruce Wayne would drag his son back to the light, kicking and screaming if he had to.

Chapter Text

How to make your ex-family believe you are no longer a danger to yourself and others?

Jason wasn't lucid enough to come up with an answer. Since he let himself collapse on the dirt of the bolt hole he had been forced to call home, time lost all meaning.

He would fall asleep twisting and turning, only to wake up with the sun in the same spot, leaving him unsure if it meant he was out for a few moments or a whole day. His thoughts ran wild, incoherent rambles of Batman being near, having to go find food for his mom, it was almost time for patrol, he had to be quiet, or the orderlies would sedate him again, overlapped by echoes of conversations he didn't remember having. Were they fake? Or was his brain forgetting? Doctors hated it when he lied, according to them, Jason did so a lot.

In his most awake moments, he would blindly reach for a water bottle or one of the packages in the pile of non-perishable food he stockpiled before the high of adrenaline ended. Crackers tasted like nothing, they left a dry paste glued to the top of his mouth and a rancid feeling on his tongue that water did nothing to erase. Most of the water fell to his face anyway, his hands refused to be steady.

His body burned and froze in bursts. Hell, arctic, hell, arctic, take off coat, put coat, sweat, shiver, shouldn't he be doing something? Talia didn't like it when he slept in, officers also didn't, he should finish his case. Dad would be mad if he were still working on it when he came back from prison.

There were pills, he had to take the pills. When his phone…His phone equals pills. The phone was making a sound.

His throat burned so much, but reaching for the bottle would imply moving. “Alfred, can you fetch me the bottle?” He mumbled. Alfred didn't reply; he must be mad, too. Jason swallowed them dry.

More time passed. He closed his eyes to darkness and opened them to light. The warehouse stretched endlessly around him; he should move to avoid being hit again, but Joker had broken his back long ago. He closed his eyes again.

On a day only God knows what, he got up on wobbly legs for the first time when the need to pee became too unbearable. The toilet had been completely ripped from the grimy tiles, which may have been white at some point before turning a disgusting shade of greenish yellow, leaving a giant hole in the middle of the bathroom, so he used an empty bottle. That was something from homeless times he had never wanted to repeat.

From then on, he forced himself to sit up when eating or smoking. In his haze, he had remembered to get a dozen packages of Marlboros, but no pain meds (he would be concerned if nicotine addiction wasn't the least of his problems) 

A quick check let him know it had been ten days since he blew his cover; if no one had found him yet, chances were the hideout was solid.

Nightwing had arrived in Gotham somewhere during his fever. Journals were quick to report those kinds of news on slow days. Someone had called him, maybe Bruce, but who didn't matter much; the why was more concerning, it meant they felt the need to get extra hands on deck. The same hands that had taken Jason down last time.

Usually, Batman only ever called Nightwing for help during crises like a threat that extended Gotham´s perimeter, a massive Arkham breakout, or a disgraced ex-Robin who had threatened his sons more than once.

He took a long drag, letting the smoke settle in his lungs before blowing it in Batman’s direction. The hallucination didn't react, it rarely did. Jason had learned that baiting it for reactions was not only useless but self-destructive.

“I know this looks bad, but you aren't heartless.” Batman stared, cold eyes trying to prove the opposite. “Your whole thing is reforming criminals and second chances and all that shit.”

He stood up, ignoring the way his legs protested. Recovery had been accelerated due to his old dip in the pit, but it would still take him one or two days to be fine. “I will say whatever you want to hear, how sorry I am, how right and perfect you are. I will be a fucking non-lethal delight.”

Even as the words left his mouth with a hiss, a bitter taste lingered. The loud admission that he was about to betray all his convictions yet again. This time in the opposite direction.

And for what?

Forgiveness and reconciliation were such distant dreams that he didn't bother entertaining them. He had just been lonely and homesick; a life so empty wasn't one worth living. He had no right to expect love, but if he got them to let him work in Gotham, no matter the conditions, he could feel like himself again, as much as there was left of him. 

Three days later, one more than expected, he was back in action.

Checking online news, the patrols' formatting of the last week kept the consistent pattern of Batgirl with Spoiler. Nightwing, Red Robin, and Robin together. Then Batman on his own.

Which both meant that they were wary enough to form a trio and lose area, and Batman wanted to take care of Jason himself.

Cain would also have been a good choice for Robin's bodyguard, but he suspected that fraternalism had played a big part in getting both birds under Nightwing’s protection. Then Spoiler couldn't go alone if they made a team of four, and five would be a crowd.

His chest tightened painfully as he put on the helmet. Explosives ready to detonate if he even whispered the code word under his breath. He hadn't been joking when saying he would rather die than return to Arkham.

Under him, the city extended further than the eyes could see. A concrete jungle he had been cursed to love.

It was show time.

“Hey, Dick. Ahm…Look, I don't know how to put this nicely - Jason is back, and Bruce is losing his mind.

We saw him murdering one of Black Mask’s men on camera, and then, like laughing, it was weird. Bruce thinks it's a threat; he has us doing this intensive manhunt and hasn't slept since then. Damian is being even more bitchy than normal, and Steph says if she has to do another twelve hours of surveillance, she is going to quit…Things aren't fun in Batland right now.

It's just…can you come help? I have been meaning to call, but didn't want to bother you. But like Bruce is on the verge of an aneurysm and you were the one that dealt with it last year…anyways, call me back when you can.”

Dick hadn't known one moment of peace since getting that message.

Flashes of fire and blood took control of his vision. The rumble of a train under his feet, Damian’s gasp as the bullet broke skin, the mind-crushing terror of not knowing if he had already lost two brothers, or three. If anything happened to his siblings again while he was away, he would never forgive himself.

So he rode to the mansion at breakneck speed, got himself a dozen traffic tickets, and was greeted by Bruce´s scowl. 

“I heard what happened,” Dick offered vaguely. He would rather not denounce Tim, who was making himself invisible by the microscope.

All the others were gathered around the training mats.

Bruce replied to him with a stiff nod. “I was going to call you.” If that was true or just an excuse for Dick to not get upset at being kept in the dark, it was unknown. “We need to talk; all the others can go.”

Stephanie whispered, “Good luck,” on the way out. 

Dick sat in the second chair in front of the computer and forced himself not react. Arkham files, Jason's files. Lines and lines with passages underlined in blue, Bruce deemed important. That wasn't what got Dick’s blood running cold - it was the pictures.

If not by his air being slightly damp and his clothes changed into a white shirt whose material appeared paper-thin, anti-suicide, his brain provided, unhelpfully, Dick would have believed they got him from transport straight to the front of a camera.

Fresh bruises, still forming with light red turning purple, littered his face, where fists met flesh after he had lost the face mask. His eyes, bloodshot, pupils blown wide and glassy with tears, stared at the lens with an intensity that made Dick want to turn it off. His face was twisted, his mouth pressed into a thin line, making it hard to know if he was about to cry or rip out the photographer's throat, maybe both.

Dick hadn't kept up with what happened after the fight. He told himself it was because he had been busy keeping Gotham together, then Bruce was back, and he would take care of it.

“What do you want me to see?” He asked when the silence got too long.

Bruce narrowed his eyes as he zoomed in on the diagnosis box. “CPTSD, a non-specified mood disorder together with antisocial and narcissistic personality traits.”

“How much of it do you believe?”

“Only the CPTSD part.” 

Dick nodded. Non-specified mood disorder, Dick had a suspicion that it was simply a label doctors had slapped on reports when they couldn't pin anything specific on him and didn't want more trouble. The antisocial and narcissistic parts were just wrong and made him believe Arkham psychiatrists had the same skill as people who labeled every single antagonistic character in movies a psychopath without knowing the meaning of the word.

Bruce maximized one of his highlighted passages. “I was hoping you would give me some insight on this one.”

Self-destructive behavior appears to function primarily as an interpersonal control mechanism over perceived adversaries, revealing an instrumentalization of alleged symptoms rather than sustained affective disturbance.

He took a moment to digest the meaning disguised by medical jargon - he is faking to mess with others.

“Absolutely not.”

“Dick-”

“No, just no. How can you ask me this?” 

Memories came back again.

He had never fought someone so willing to die before and prayed to never have to again. Jason had moved erratically, taking hit after hit Dick had intended for him to dodge, as long as it meant he would also get a punch in. He pushed closer until Dick had no choice but to throw him arrowingly close to the edge of the train, but still, he didn't stop spilling venom freely, latching on to any reaction that increased violence. At one point, he had been dangling, dangling, with one hand over a fall hundreds of feet tall, and still chose to push Dick away instead of accepting help.

He wouldn't stop until one of them was in a coffin. For a few horrible moments, Dick thought he might get his wish.

Nightwing held himself back the right amount, but all it would have taken was for Jason's taunts about having killed two Robins to get into his head, for him to hit too hard or hesitate in the wrong moment. That train had been going at one hundred miles per hour; if any of them had fallen, there would have been no body to bury.

“He showed no signs in all my previous interactions with him,” Bruce insisted like the stubborn idiot he was, “and he has revealed himself to be adept at mind games.” 

He doesn't want to believe it.

Somehow, his son faking going through a breakdown for sport and sadistic pleasure was the more desirable outcome.

Dick took a deep breath. “You didn't see him then. Your death…It affected him, then the message was the nail in the coffin.”

That fucking message Dick had played on loop.

Bruce's face turned sour. “It was meant to be comforting."

“Of all my failures, you were the greatest,” Dick scoffed, quoting the hologram that showed in his nightmares. “Very comforting, B. I’m sure the vague references to something so traumatic you won't even name also helped a lot.”

Now he was getting mean.

“Are you going to send him back there?”

His eyes moved to the words on the screen. Medication prescriptions - sedatives, mood stabilizers, antipsychotics - together with clinical observation, which didn't make sense together - lethargy, aggressiveness, dissociating, hyper-awareness.

Bruce was looking at it too. Dick wanted to ask if he had visited, if the concerning records were a sign of something worse than incompetence, but couldn't force himself to bring up the fact that he didn't. There was no point, of course, Bruce had visited, the way he was, he would have spent every Wednesday spying through a barred window.

“I don't see any other choice.” Bruce finally replied, his gaze still locked on Jason's picture. “He needs to be contained. Blackgate isn't a psychiatric institution. Any other choice would be too distant for me to monitor.”

Dick nodded despite the bitter taste it left on his mouth. “But you have to believe me about this. It wasn't a trick. He…the things he said weren't making any sense.”

Bruce closed the files. “You are emotionally compromised.”

“Fuck off.”

They spent the next few days making no progress. Every corner of The Narrows and the Bowery had been subjected to an intensive search; they checked residential buildings, underground lines, warehouses, and even went as far as to make Red Robin and Batgirl personally peek through the windows of every home rented in the last three months in case Jason had used a very good fake alias and face mask.

They were running dry on options. No formed acquaintance had been contacted, no moves in the criminal underworld. According to the shady doctor, they figured Jason had gone to see, the murder had been an isolated incident.

Keeping his return secret, inconveniencing Black Mask, and still having that dubious moral high ground Jason liked so much. There had been discussion about which of those reasons ranked higher on Jason's priority list when committing the crime, but still, it was a dead end.

The atmosphere in the mansion was downright miserable. Bruce carried a dark cloud around him; Dick couldn't say he was in a much better mood, but at least he didn't make it everyone else's problem.

Cass absorbed Bruce’s feelings by osmosis, Barbara was working herself to the bone day and night, Damian borderline suggested extreme violence at every chance, a problem Dick didn't have the willpower to address for now, and Steph agreed after each round of intensive patrol. Even Alfred walked with a permanent scowl on his face.

The only level-headed one was Tim. Dick shouldn't be so surprised; the kid had dangerously low levels of self-preservation. After Titans Tower, he had jumped back to action as if nothing had happened. That night, he did the same. Another thing Dick wouldn't be bringing up until the manhunt was over.

“Maybe he only wanted to fuck with us and already left,” Steph groaned as they returned yet again empty-handed.

Tim twisted in his chair to look at her. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he is a sadistic prick.”

Bruce hadn't said a single word besides dismissive orders the whole night. That familiar urge to grab him and crack his head open to take a look inside made Dick ignore his best instincts and ask, “What do you think, B?”

He got no answer, big chance Bruce didn't even hear, with how focused he was on mapping underground routes Jason could be using.

“I think we may be misinterpreting the situation,” Alfred replied in his stand while distributing cups of lemon tea.

Damian took a sip, twisting his nose. At the comment, not the tea, no one would twist their nose at Alfred’s tea. “How does one misinterpret murders?”

“One murder more than a week ago, as far as we are aware.” He moved stiffly to hand a cup to Bruce. “Hardly seems to me like a declaration of war.”

“And the laughter?” Stephany raised an eyebrow.

To that, the butler had no answer. “I’m only suggesting an open mind. I know Master Jason’s history is not the best, but bias never helped anyone.”

As if on cue, the alarm went off.

“Where?” Bruce shot up, grabbing his belt.

Oracle popped up on the screen. “Two, one at the docks, the other in Crime Alley.”

“All of you spread through the docks, I check Crime Alley.”

“Alone?” Dick shouted, but Bruce was already inside the car and speeding away.

It was a slow nightfall as far as Gotham went. Too slow. 

Silent enough for them to hear crystal small muffled cries as they entered warehouse number seven.

They moved in formation, leaving no one's back unprotected. Not one single box or crate in sight, only empty scaffolding and bare walls. Fewer places for a bright red helmet to hide. Cass jumped to a raft; Dick also would have, but he preferred to have everyone at arm's length for now.

On the furthest corner, hidden from sight, with old sheets. Cages. Filled with humans. His eyes struggled to understand what he was seeing: children piled on top of each other, wearing dirty rags and crying out for help at the sight of vigilantes.  

The locks were simple to pick. In ten seconds, they had them all open and were distributing lollipops in hopes of getting some calm enough to talk.

“Is Hood behind this?” Even as he asked, Dick couldn't find it in himself to believe. There were many, many awful lines Jason had crossed, but this…

A girl looked up, eyebrows furrowed. “Who?”

Southern accent, so it went beyond Gotham. “Red helmet, white strip of hair.”

Dick wanted to cry in relief when she shook her head. 

Steph and Damian took control of questioning after, children responded better to someone near their age, and Steph had more candy stashed than the rest. Tim and Cass went outside to deal with the police force, and Dick called Bruce. He had a suspicion that finding children hadn't been a coincidence.

“B,” Dick whispered to his comm, “it's a distraction, Hood is-”

“I know where Hood is.” Bruce lifted his eyes to stare at the metallic nothingness of his son’s helmet. Ignoring the twin warning Barbara was giving him.

Jason tilted his head. “Yeah, sorry about that.” Bruce was sure he wasn't apologetic in the slightest. “But I really needed to speak to you alone, and I heard whispers of a trafficking ring, so it's a win-win.”

The faint light of street lampposts slithered into the abandoned apartment. The same place where once Jason had held the Joker at gunpoint, where he tried to make Bruce turn his back on his morals, where he slit his son’s throat. The apology, assurances that it had been a mistake, had been gathering dust inside his chest for over a year; it wouldn't be that day they saw the light.

“Go on.” Bruce clenched his fist. “Speak.”

Chapter Text

Slowly, Hood raised his hands. Movements deliberate as he lifted the helmet to reveal his bare face. No mask. A ploy for easier emotional leverage. The same reason why the kevlar had been lowered just enough for the scar on his neck to be visible. Bruce refused to focus on the dark circles under Hood's eyes, the sickly pallor of his skin, and the way his hair fell in dirty, limp curls. The helmet remained protectively pressed against his stomach, though, possibly a throwing weapon in case things turned violent. Hood had used it as an explosive device before.

“I don't want to fight,” Hood spoke slowly, almost in a whisper.

The affirmation was risible; his second son had done nothing but goad both Bruce and his brothers into fights since his resurrection. “Then turn yourself in peacefully.” Hood stiffened at the challenge. “You killed a man.”

The grip on the helmet got tighter, and Bruce prepared himself to have to dodge a bomb at any moment soon. Next came the delusions, how killing was necessary, for the good of Gotham, that Bruce was weak and a hypocrite and-

“I´m sorry.”

What?

“I said I'm sorry.” He hadn't noticed that he said the question out loud. “I haven't killed anyone for months now. At that moment, I was confused. I had just gotten back, I was trying to return to fighting how I knew, but… I have been feeling awful about it; it made me realize that I don't want to kill anymore.”

Bruce wished he had a way to confirm that claim. Hood had made himself nearly untraceable while away; the most Bruce got were scarce sightings by vigilance cameras and witnesses of a red helmet or a young man with a white strip of hair. Criminal organizations did not report their losses to the police, and any murders Bruce linked to Hood could easily have been unrelated, with only a country connecting them in an environment as dangerous as the organized crime underworld, where people went missing daily.

“Then why did you laugh at the camera?”

Hood´s brows furrowed for a moment. Regret, sadness, shame, planning a lie? Bruce wished he knew. “I´m not crazy if that's what you are asking.” A slight smile graced his lips before Hood seemed to think better about it and returned to a placating expression. “I wanted you to come to me, that's when I realized I needed to speak to you. I was panicking a bit, taunting you seemed like a reasonable plan.”

“I would have looked for you either way.”

Hood´s face twisted, pained. “But you can't deny it made you more motivated.”

The facts weren't adding up. Bruce hated that despite the gaps, he felt himself shifting, wanting to believe. “If you wanted to be found, why did you spend so long hiding?”

At that, Hood looked as if considering whether Bruce might be stupid. An almost petulant pout and twist of his nose, the same he did as a child when an explanation about any topic didn't satisfy him. “Because I had been shot and was recovering.”

“You have enhanced healing.”

“I was very shot.”

It was all wrong. He was supposed to be starting his task of redeeming Hood, not falling for his explanations. But what if there was a chance that he had already redeemed himself slightly? Just enough that a stay at Arkham and being labeled as a Rogue would be more damning than helpful.

Jason´s hold of his helmet slowly moved in Bruce's perception to self-soothing, his negligence in wearing the usual mask a means of creating a genuine emotional connection with his father, rather than manipulation. Still, keeping the scar out was a clear tug at heartstrings paired with the stage choice. Damn it, he was too biased for a proper read.

Finally, he managed to speak in a tone neither threatening nor warm. “So you claim you won't kill again?”

“Never,” Jason offered too eagerly.

“But you want to remain in Gotham and act as a vigilante?” Bruce guessed, to which Jason nodded. Of course, none of his children would ever give up the masks. It was the answer to his second question that came off as a surprise. “And you want my approval?”

Another eager nod.

Jason didn't need approval, never did. As a child, he wanted it, craved it like a starving man in a desert, which, in a way, with his childhood, he had been, but when a dilemma arose, he would choose what he perceived as right, no matter anyone's opinion. Bruce used to find it endearing.

“Last time you operated in Gotham, Tim was beaten into a coma, Damian was shot, and dozens of civilians were killed.” He said as much to see Jason´s reaction as to remind himself why he had to stay grounded and not give in to his fatherly instincts to ask Jason if he had been sleeping.

His face turned into a pained grimace. “I'm not like that anymore.” He seemed like he wanted to add something else, but unfortunately chose against it. Any extra clue on what was happening in his son´s head would have been welcomed.

The psychiatrist's notes whispered in the back of his skull. Mind games were one of Hood's favourite tactics; he could be an amazing actor when putting his mind to it. Reckless and strategic. Overemotional and a deceiver. Jason and Hood. A killer and Bruce's boy. There were too many contradictions in a single person.

He had to choose fast. Every second he stalled was a chink in his armor for Hood to take advantage of.

“Are you willing to compromise?”

Jason blinked, then nodded once again.

His other children couldn't, wouldn't, be put at risk, Bruce had to make sure of that. If he played his cards right, he could keep them safe, Jason under control, and work on a slow, careful reconciliation from there.

“Give Oracle access to your helmet. I'm talking about 24/7 camera, microphone, localization, and control over all its features.” He paused. “Also, always use the helmet on patrol.” Better not give him obvious loopholes.

A moment passed, then Jason brought the metal close to his dry lips and whispered some muffled codes. The eyes glowed green, then blue. "My personal Big Brother just has to track it and ask for access.” He didn't sound upset with the privacy violation. It just made Bruce more wary that he was walking into a trap. “Anything else?’

“She will give further instructions later,” Bruce replied to hide the fact that Jason had complied so easily; he was too shocked to come up with more conditions.

You found a way to win, and everybody still loses. 

Jason’s grip on the helmet went back to pressing it against his stomach, his face the picture of stoicism. Eerie, uncanny, Jason was never neutral. The very concept of indifference went against his core as a human being.

There was something Bruce was missing, a mistake he was making. 

Every second stretched infinitely. Jason made no motion to move, nor speak; he merely stared at Bruce with burning intensity. The same way Damia had, willing him to say something, he couldn't figure out what.

So he left before the stare turned into a plea. He turned around, making peace with the fact that he would have an extraordinarily hard time explaining the new developments to the rest of the family. “Don't disappoint me.”

That sounded more ominous than intended. Jason agreed, judging by the full-body shiver and the tension. “I won't."

Jason was coming to terms with his new digital overlord. As long as he ignored that the helmet, which once symbolised his freedom, had turned into a glorified ankle bracelet, he could even call himself content.

The first patrol had been a tentative test. A small run only dealing with petty thieves and creeps.

He tied up a carjacker to a lamp post, and nothing happened. He grappled all around Crime Alley, also without a problem. Tried unsuccessfully to speak to Oracle and gave up after the fifth awkward silence.

Only when on the verge of delivering a kick to the head of a John who got too handsy did his parole officer make herself known. 

“I wouldn't do that if I were you, Hood.”

The distraction was enough to make Jason lose balance and be rewarded with a punch to the ribs by the men’s friends. He ended up knocking the two unconscious before hissing angrily to the air. “What was that for?”

“Non-lethal force only, you know the rules.” She sounded so cold. Which Jason expected, but still, it was the first time Babs spoke to him after resurrection, and very different from how she used to be; he would have to get used to it.

“It wasn't lethal; it would have only knocked him out.”

He could perfectly picture her taking a sip of coffee before shrugging. “Better safe than sorry.”

The pattern didn't change the next time Jason went out.

She wouldn't speak unless to tell him to go easy on a perp, or add more rules to the ever-increasing list she enforced with nonstop beratings.

“Don't contact old members of your crew, it's a risk.”

“Do you really need to smoke while patrolling?"

“I sent that case to someone else. Stick to simpler things for now.”

“Smoking kills.”

“Put the guns away.”

“I don't care if he is a bad person; you can't go threaten the mayor.”

“For the last time, drop the cigarette.”

He managed to walk around the gun issue after bargaining for rubber bullets. It was the only concession Oracle allowed him.

Sometimes her instructions made no sense until they were looked at retrospectively. She would arbitrarily tell him to switch paths or forbid him from setting foot on determined city districts for the rest of the night or a week, or whatever she felt like. It wasn't until breathing through his frustration that Jason realized she was keeping him away from any birds. Which, once again, was fair but ouch.

Randomly, she popped up not to criticize but to ask where he was going, and why, and was planning to kill someone, did he have any evil plan, had he gone insane yet? His retelling was a slight exaggeration, but the feeling remained.

He debated about leaving the helmet under a bridge until exhaustion made him give up on that plan. Too much risk of a homeless person stumbling upon it, or Jason needing to get geared up quickly and being unable to go retrieve it. Besides, denying Bruce access to know where he lived might make the old man paranoid enough to call off the deal. 

There was no point in staying in the abandoned apartment. Jason still didn't move. He didn't have the willpower to look for anything else.

Besides, he had done good work on it.

His days were spent cleaning. Laboriously, almost obsessively, he scrubbed, mopped, and swept every inch of it. Once, he spent the whole day from sunset to sundown on his knees getting the bathroom tiles back into pearly white. At night, his hands were pleading with him for mercy from the amount of bleach he spilled on them, and his head spun pleasantly; he wasn't sure if from hunger or the bleach.

He smoked a cigarette either way.

No matter how far he had fallen, he wouldn't live in a filthy house ever again. 

Take that generational circle.

The helmet was kept wrapped in a blanket to give him some peace of mind about the constant surveillance, not that it mattered. He was pretty sure he had spotted a new hidden camera on a nearby roof pointed directly at his window. He kept the blinds closed at all times, even if he had to admit that he missed sunlight.

The times he left the apartment during the day could be counted on a single hand. Three, five-minute commutes to get cigarettes, cleaning products, and the occasional batch of more non-perishables.

But he was back in Gotham. Just as he wanted, so he had to be happy.

He kept reminding himself of that.

One of the psychiatrists in Arkham once told him that daily affirmations were a good coping mechanism. Considering the quality of the care he got there, he wasn't sure if that was actually true, but it was still better than nothing.

“Hood,” Oracle's disembodied voice made him jump up from the bare mattress with his heart in his throat.

He forced his tone to be calm as he moved to free his helmet from its synthetic fur prison. “Yes?”

He prayed she wouldn't start speaking to him outside patrol. The cold tone from the abyss watching his every step, hearing his every breath, always ready to scold him, had begun to slip into his nightmares. 

“There’s a situation near you. I'm sending coordinates.”

“You are dispatching me on a mission?” 

“Hurry up.”

A wave of indignation bubbled up inside his chest. He may have agreed to be under constant vigilance due to lack of better options, but he wasn't Batman’s little soldier anymore. Red Hood patrolled when he wanted; he wasn't commanded like a dog to go hunt.

He picked up the helmet to say exactly that to Barbara when Batman appeared by his side. “Not you again.”

Batman kneeled. A dark look on his face, much angrier than what the real one had donned. “Are you going to argue with a direct order?”

Oh, so he was feeling talkative. 

“I don't work for you,” Jason scoffed.

Batman lingered closer, enough to make Jason curl on himself despite knowing better. “I'm allowing you to work on my city after everything you did, and you dare to refuse to help.”

“I-”

“Enough excuses!” Jason swore he could feel the scar on his neck burning up. “You said you were different, so prove it. There is no point in keeping you around with all the risks it brings if you can't be useful."

Batman's silhouette grew larger. The cap extended predatorily, its inky black fabric curled around Jason, threatening to swallow him whole. He could feel the cold nesting around his bones, as cold as Batman's eyes, the unforgiving, piercing blue the only clear feature on the indistinct blur of his face.

Jason bit his lip, feeling cracked, dead skin, and the familiar taste of blood. “Oracle…” He dared to glance sideways. The rest of the apartment had been absorbed into the abyss. Jason´s hands trembled, his mouth drier than when he had been sick. A growing static filled his mind as the eyes became closer, not human anymore, two shiny, precious stones. 

The tendrils brushed against his shoulders, then wrapped around his ankles and wrists. Something hummed by his side, and he caught a brief flash of yellow and green and red, so much red.

No, no, no.

“I'm on my way,” he blurted out, closing his eyes and pressing his hands against them until it hurt.

“Hmmm?” Barbara spoke. “Great…Are you okay?”

Jason rubbed his eyes, only hesitating a bit before opening them. 

Batman was gone, his apartment remained the same, and he was alone. “I'm fine.”

Chapter Text

The price had gone up again. Last week, granola bars were fifty cents cheaper. 

Some generic overproduced pop song played for the sixth time since Jason had decided to dissociate in the cereal aisle. It was drowned by baby cries, the squeaks of the shopping carts on overpolished linoleum floors, and dozens of voices in parallel conversations simultaneously. Fluorescent white lights reflected in the cardboard box, too many of them, stinging his blurry eyes, turning the nutritional value into hieroglyphs. To add more pressure to his ever-increasing headache, a woman had decided to try all perfumes in the cosmetics section at once, creating a stench of toxic roses that burned his nose.

I want to kill someone.

The lens of a security camera glinted. At the sight, he straightened his back, forcing the thought away as if Oracle could see it branded in his flesh.

He pretended to be reading the production details. Displaying the self-regulation he had been enforcing upon himself since coming to terms with the fact that nothing in his day was his own anymore. He moved hyperconscious of his every step, his intonation, what would Bruce think of each second of footage. 

Four, maybe five minutes staring into nothingness to play cool, in case she had nothing better to do than spy on his shopping. Jason could never be sure, but paranoia had become a constant. When in doubt, they were watching, they were judging.

It didn't have to be necessarily violent or malicious behavior. He wouldn't speak to hallucinations near the helmet or pace back and forth mumbling theories for cases to not be labeled a loony. Wouldn't sing karaoke to the songs he put to fill the silence, or walk around the apartment with his body scars showing, or say the stupid little daily affirmations out loud because the thought of any of them witnessing was mortifying.

It was a good thing, everything considered; it forced him to keep the act of being normal until it became second nature.

“Oh, Red Hood, right?”

He dropped the granola bars back into the shelf. “Excuse me?”

Unbothered, the woman stepped into his personal space, a finger pointed at his head with a smirk. “The hair.”

He opened his mouth just to close it immediately after. It was a distinctive trait, sure, but he hadn't patrolled without the helmet since he came back. There had to be more than one person in the city with white hair. The shrill cries of a child begging for an ice cream suddenly turned fifty times louder.

“I don't…”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to be weird.” Great job on that nosy stranger. Accusing people of being criminals while they tried not to starve was very rude, even if she happened to be right. Thank God he didn't have a civilian identity to be leaked; worst-case scenario, he just wouldn't come back to that grocery store. “I also had it like that for a while.”

“What?”

“Back when it was trending.”

Jason figured they were having very different conversations. Just by looks, she had glitter on her hair and a silver crop top looking ready to go to some nightclub to make all the bad choices people their age should be making, while he had picked up his clothes from the floor and relinquished brushing his hair because ‘it's just a quick jump to the corner shop, it's not like anyone cares.’

“Yeah, but I did it at home and never got like pure white.” She curled a bit in herself at his blank look. He vaguely remembered he should smile to make her more at ease, but couldn't wash the disbelief away from his face. “Yours looks great. With him back, I might try the style again.”

Oh, so she was deranged. Got it.

“Cool.”

It had been said in the most dispassionate way possible, but still she smiled again, showing pink braces. “Can I get the number of your hairdresser…and maybe yours too?”

There were nice ways to say it, Jason couldn't remember any. “No.”

He left without buying anything, mumbling sorry on his way out and lighting a cigarette. It had been years since he talked to another person in a civilian context, no secret agenda, no schemes. Even his vigilante interactions could be summed up as threatening and being threatened. All things considered, this year he had spent longer speaking to his hallucination of Batman than to real human beings.

It wasn't like he didn't miss it. In theory, he would daydream about being approached for a friendly chat. But reality was harder; it had been too long, and he didn't know how to do it anymore. Add what he thought was flirting to the mix without the mask to give him a protective barrier. Nop, not happening. He wasn't interested in one-night stands and wouldn't drag an innocent civilian into his mess by dating.

At least this fluke couldn't be blamed fully on him. She had some obvious problems, styling her hair after a murderer.

The music from his headphones was so loud that his phone showed him a warning about hearing damage. Bruce would hate it. Deliberately obstructing one sense in a setting full of possible threats. Gotham had gone mute under the sound of the electric guitar, not even the rush hour horns slipped through.

Back at the apartment, the interaction kept replaying in his mind enough times to make him want to bang his head against the wall. He hadn't done that in four months. And wouldn't break the streak because that kind of behavior was meant to be done alone. In the luxury of privacy, which he had given up on. Oracle might not care about him losing himself over granola bars, but it would definitely trigger something if he tried to smash his brains a la Joker.

Every time she spoke, his nerves went haywire, making his skin cold and his ribcage constrict, only for it to be a mundane tip about the traffic being awful on the bridge. If he had vitals tracking on the helmet, she would think he had anxiety.

It was either watch pirated movies on his phone all night or go patrol. He chose the option that gave him a chance to throw himself off buildings.

“-then my wife told me she needed some time, but I didn't…Hey! Are you still listening?”

Jason blinked lethargically. “You were talking about your divorce.”

The would-be mugger groaned, his hands twisting anxiously the ski mask Jason had ripped from him. “We are not getting divorced.”

“Sounds like you are.”

At the mix of annoyance and confusion on the man’s face, Jason shrugged. “What do you want me to do, exactly? I can't fix your marriage, or find you a job.” He played absentmindedly with the kriss knife. “There is actually a big chance your life is more on track than mine.”

“It's just…” The man threw his arms up dejectedly. “Nightwing always gives me this super motivational speech.”

His eye twitched. That time, Jason couldn't stop himself from snapping, “Yet you are still robbing people.”

“I-”

“So why would I give you speeches if they don't work?”

“That's not-”

“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

“Are you quoting-”

“So since you didn't mug anyone tonight, I will let you go,” he pressed the tip of the blade against the soft flesh of the thug's under chin, “but if I catch you again, I will have no choice other than to employ tactics more direct than words.”

He ran away without answering. Rude.

“And your wife can do so much fucking better!” A stray cat scrambled from trash cans as the shout echoed down the alley. 

If still in his crime lord days, Jason could have offered him a job in the Red Hood gang, which, while still a criminal organization, had had very good pay and health benefits. 

Oh well, let Nightwing’s motivational talk lead every lost soul in Gotham to a better life. Jason snorted to himself. That usually had such great results.

He pulled the grapple. There was no real crime happening, but he could still watch the streets from above. The heights always had a soothing effect on him; he might go visit his favourite gargoyle on the way.

That was until he heard the laughter, right before Oracle’s hurried order for him to turn around.

Mid swing, he twisted his body, using his weight to gain momentum and turn the pendulum motion sideways. The crash with the nearby building’s wall was undignified, on top of making his shoulder pop, sending waves of warm throbbing pain all over the right side of his body. 

One second, three seconds, five, ten. The laughter didn't stop; they hadn't noticed him.

He should have listened to his gut and stayed home with the new Frankenstein.

Jason pressed his back against the bricks, feet firm on the fire exit he landed on, then, after a long, long inhale, slammed the humerus back into place in a single violent motion.

“A little advance notice next time,” he breathed heavily.

Oracle cursed, the sound of tipping passing over the line. “Sorry, sorry. I’m coordinating Batgirl and a bank robbery at the same time.”

Against his better judgment, he leaned forward. He was two floors lower than them, but the angle was just right to get a sideways view of Nightwing doing a one-handed handstand with a large plastic cup of some drink on the sole of each foot. Spoiler moved to snatch the brown one, something with chocolate and cream, but Nightwing was faster. He moved his legs out of her reach while still keeping balance, earning Red Robin to put a hand over his mouth.

He didn't realize when misplaced curiosity turned into fascination. Even as they dropped the shenanigans and sat on the edge, Jason couldn't look away from the relaxed postures. Spoiler’s casual lean on Red Robin’s shoulder, Nightwing’s lips with a slight tilt upwards, moving around words without a trace of venom.

An idyllic picture he almost forgot existed in real life, or tried to forget. This felt too personal. If he squinted, he would have been able to see his Robin self, with his bony frame and freckled smile, sitting on the same rooftop with a younger Nightwing. He could still see that kid with the present version.

Turning around would be the right move. He couldn't.

Red Robin crossed his legs, watching Spoiler chew her thumbnail. Nightwing had been given the remains of her drink, a bored look on his face as he took over the cityline, gaze moving absentmindedly until going lower, then lower until meeting Jason's own.

Oh fuck.

Dick’s eyes widened, then squinted, his mouth turned into an O three times as he opened and closed it while muttering something to his earpiece. Spoiler and Red Robin followed his eyes, except they moved quicker from shock to aggression, hands immediately over weapons.

Tim and Stephany, he could do. Not Dick. 

Wind howled in his ears. The train lurched, then roared, metal screaming beneath him as it gathered speed. His boots slipping on the rattling steel roof, the world tilting beneath him. And in front of him, Dick, just him, only him, frozen in motion. A look of rage on his face like Jason had never seen before, it was glorious. He wanted to hug him. He wanted to kill him. Both at the same time, head burrowed in the crook of his neck while ripping his heart out to put it back on after.

No, no, he had to get away,

Before thinking, if he ended up mush on the ground, no one would ask him for explanations, he jumped from the train. Street lights passed him in white and yellow blurs. The city, full of trees, too many, it was a forest, except it couldn't be, twisted dizzyingly around him.

Lungs burned, they shouldn't be burning yet. He barely ran.

Something broke behind him.

He parkoured over a defaced billboard, then dived from a height of twenty stories into the narrow streets of Park Row. Police sirens all around him, their hands grabbing him from the inside out.

Left at Old Joe’s pawn shop, footsteps became more distant. Into the narrower streets, there was an indistinguishable shout, diving under the boarded-up door where the Thai restaurant used to be, hiding behind the remains of the service counter. 

He tried to hold his breath, but it came too fast, raspy and painful like a dying animal.

“Hood, what the hell were you doing?”

The sudden noise was enough to make him flinch violently. “Nothing. I didn't do anything.”

“I saw that,” Oracle groaned. “You stood there for thirteen minutes and twenty-four seconds."

“And you didn't tell me to move?” Panic mixed with misplaced indignation laced his voice. 

Her tone matched. “I did. Five times.”

So much for proving he was mentally stable. If not, by his certain Oracle was fed up with him already, Jason would have lost shame and asked her to lie about how long he had spied, like a creep.

Walls closed around him; he was in the cell, he was in the warehouse, he was in the coffin, he was having his throat sliced. There was no oxygen.

Footsteps sounded again. Outside, they were walking the street, following a trail.

“Don't tell them where I am.” He aimed for a request; it landed on a plea.

Oracle went silent. For a moment, Jason thought she had muted him and was discussing with the others the best way to get him committed.

“I won't, but-” There was a but, there was always a but- “you need to breathe. Hoo- Jason. Jay. In and out, slowly, it's okay, they are gone.” She mimicked a slow breath. “In…and out…”

His fingers curled on the edge of a fallen sheet. Against his throat, the iron collar pressed against his neck, no leeway, just like the cuffs. “It's too tight.” 

“What is too tight?” She was still there. He didn't know if it was a good thing. “Is it the helmet? Take it off then.”

He obeyed, the hit of cold, if not a little musty, air like a balm. The roaring in his ears softened into a dull rush.

Time passed at snail's pace as he regained his own body. It was not until the shaking in his hands turned from a violent tremor to a faint quiver, steady enough for him to light a cigarette, that he turned to Oracle again.

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it. Do we call it a night?”

“Yeah.”

Exhaustion washed over him, but also a weird contentment - she didn't give him up.

Barbara controlled every crime alert in Gotham; she was the bridge between the bats and the GCPD, monitored any abnormality in the city from financial to supernatural, did in-depth research for cases, gave instructions to sometimes six vigilantes, all in different missions simultaneously, in situations where a single mistake could mean death. On top of that, recently she had been made the full-time babysitter of one Jason Todd, a task Bruce didn't let her refuse.

It would be a lie to say she didn't resent the ungrateful job. If anything happened, it would be on her; if anyone got hurt, she was the one who should have been watching. And as much as she had missed Jay, she couldn't pretend that there weren't very valid reasons why she had been put up to this. So sure, sometimes she snapped. Became absorbed in other tasks, then hurriedly went to check on him to make sure things were still fine, told him to pull punches or avoid a fight, not because she thought anything bad was about to happen, but because she didn't have time to make sure it wasn't. She didn't like to think of herself as vindictive, yet she admitted the feeling had been there at the beginning.

With that all out of the way, she could also say that she wasn't about to throw him under the bus.

“Respectfully,” Steph pulled down her mask, “you have no idea how creepy it was. Picture two glowing white eyes, unblinking, unmoving, watching you from the darkness, and then he just,” she snapped her fingers, “vanished.”

Barbara had an easier time picturing panicked breaths and a trail of cigarettes long enough to cause nicotine poisoning. “But nothing happened.” Three disbelieving looks. “I forgot to tell him you were there, and he was just patrolling. It was a coincidence.”

“Then why did he run?” Tim pointed out, then paused, considering. “More importantly, why did he stay there for so long?”

With a squealing of wheels, she needed to upgrade the chair soon, Barbara left the computer to look them dead in the eyes. “I don't know, I don't live inside his head.”

She had her own theories born from a few weeks of observation, but Jason would kill her, not literally, she was ninety percent sure now, if she dared to share them out loud. Like all of them, he was prideful when it came to vulnerability. 

Dick, who had remained inside his head until then, gave her a small head tilt, which translated to “talk alone?” She nodded.

“Spoiler, Red Robin, I got Signal needing help with early patrol.” 

Both raised an eyebrow at her but did as said. With Steph whispering to Tim loud enough for everyone to hear, “Duke is not even patrolling today.”

He rolled on the wheels of his feet, always unable to stand still. “Did he say something when he saw us?”

“Nothing.”

“The whole time?”

“The whole time.”

“What did he do after?”

Dick seemed to assume that with the younger ones away, she would start spilling everything, which made her slightly uneasy. She had agreed to report anything potentially dangerous and/or suspicious, not personal issues. Especially not panic attacks. 

She pondered the answer carefully, trying to be truthful without feeling like she was committing a betrayal of some sort. “He was upset, not angry, but it was clear he didn't want to have that confrontation.” She pursed her lips. “I thought you had agreed with Bruce’s no contact thing.”

“That was before he spawned in front of me,” Dick protested.  “And I agreed because this whole thing is more fragile than Bruce’s communication skills.” He scratched the back of his neck, a tic passed down from Bruce to all of them. “We have a lot of bad blood. I didn't want to set him off…which I just did.”

“Were you scared for Tim and Steph?”

“Yes? No?” He paced in an elliptical shape. “I have no idea. I don't want to be, but this whole thing is strange.”

That was an understatement. After an obsessive search, Bruce had come back and called off everything without a good explanation. In less than one hour, he went from wanting Hood behind bars one way or another to explaining how Jason seemed regretful of his actions, and Bruce allowed him to remain free until proof of the contrary.

She was sure everyone preferred the second scenario to the first, but the change in tone was jarring.

“It can't go on like this.”

That was her only certainty. Bruce claimed that the very ambitious end goal would be getting Jason back into the family. She didn't know how exactly he was planning to achieve that, but his current tactic was having the opposite effect.

Sure, it kept them safe. No chance of him planning something under around-the-clock monitoring, but it couldn't stagnate there. There needed to be more steps if Bruce envisioned a reconciliation within this century. The man had been frozen by caution. She couldn't blame him; she still wouldn't send Jason alone anywhere with any of them. But if they didn't move from there, the whole thing was useless.

Jason wouldn't put up with it forever. At some point, he would either call it quits and run away again or do something everyone would regret.

Without asking her for permission, Dick grabbed the nearest keyboard and started to access the footage of Hood’s helmet. Barbara turned the power off with one click.

“I need to see.”

“Absolutely not.” He groaned, but she was set on her resolution. “There is nothing relevant for you there.”

Resigned, Dick returned to pacing. “Just answer me this, then. Did he look normal?”

“Define normal.”

He paused, biting his lip. “Were his pupils average-sized? Was he speaking coherently? You saw the train footage, you know what I'm talking about.”

She wished she didn't. A feeling she was sure all the witnesses of that disaster shared.

Objectively, the answer to both of Dicks questions would be no. Still, she knew the implied meaning.

“He was distressed but not like back there.”

That seemed to energize him even more somehow. He was powered by seven car batteries and too much sugar. “What if we did missions all together?”

She paused. “You want him on missions…with Cass, Steph, Tim, Damian.”

He faltered. “I don't mean- Something small, slow. To get him used to the sight of us and us to him. You have a way to immobilize him, a last resort if everything goes wrong.”

Not fully immobilized, although she had indeed figured out a command to shut down the helmet. No vision or hearing suddenly in the middle of a fight. She wasn't sure if Jason ever reflected on the fact that she could do that.

“I will be careful. I would rather die than let them get hurt again.” He turned to look into her eyes with such an intensity she couldn't find it in herself to question him. “But if there is any chance we can go back to the way it was, isn't it worth a try?”

There wasn't. 

They couldn't go back to before. Time moved uncaring for Dick’s feelings. Jason wouldn't ever be a child in bright colours and cheeky quips again, even if the notion also hurt her. But Barbara would also never walk, Dick wouldn't be as naive as he used to, Tim lost his baby cheeks, Cass didn't come to the WatchTower for guidance as often, Duke was preparing for college, and Steph was almost taller than Barbara. It wasn't about going back; it was about adapting to what it was. 

But at least that was better than the purgatory they drove themselves to. 

“I guess we could try. Good luck convincing Bruce, though."

“It was his idea.” Dick noticed her surprise and added. “He asked my opinion some days ago. I didn't know what to say.”

He still looked lost. Barbara wished she could help, but she also was.

“Let's give it a try then.” She tapped her headset. “I'm your security net.” 

In the first week, she wouldn't have minded having to turn Hood´s lights off - now she really hoped it wouldn't come down to it. That Bruce knew what he was doing. He probably didn't.

Chapter Text

Jason had always been a good actor. He used to come home and tell his mom how great school had been, even though he spent the day getting ignored for wearing dirty, threadbare clothes. Then evolved to hiding every bruise and scrape he got when getting caught stealing.

Everyone lied. He learned early that strangers on the street rarely meant their offers of help. Gotham's top society was even worse. You could spend a whole day laughing with someone, thinking you were the best of friends, then it turns out they despised you from the beginning and were only aiming for the social status of being close to a Wayne. There, he realized that candor was reserved for family, those were the ones to whom you could speak your mind without having to worry about a small comment coming back to haunt you.

Bruce and Dick once fell into that category - now he had to train in how to deceive them.

He took a deep breath. “It’s good to work with you again, Bruce.” That one almost made him throw up. 

The only thing more fake than his tone was his smile. Too wide, eyes empty. He held the small hand mirror, he had refused to hang a real one, and tried again. Don't show bottom teeth, try to crinkle the eyes. “Nice to see you, Dick.” It was a bit better. Still not enough, until he perfected facial expressions, he would keep the helmet on.

It could also be the light. He had set up some camping lanterns on the ground. It made shadows stretch upwards that hollowed his eyes, making him look even more haggard than normal.

“That thing on the other day?” He scratched his nape. “Weird story, turns out I was dosed with a small dose of fear gas. Yeah, neither Oracle nor I noticed because…because my helmet has a built-in rebreather. Shit.”

There was no way he would find a convincing lie. 

Whatever, if they wanted an explanation about his blunder, they would have demanded it already. He needed to focus on his overall act instead. He had managed to pull Bruce's heartstrings once during a small interaction in a controlled environment, but that was nothing compared to prolonged exposure. The quicker he managed to drown the overwhelming bitterness, the better.

Who cares that children were being put on the line of fire for the personal traumas of a grown-ass man? Or that Jason got his throat slit? Or that murderers were left alive to make more victims, so Bruce wouldn't feel bad? Or that the last words of the dad who had promised to love him unconditionally were that he never saw him as anything more than a broken future felon to fix? Or that no one had bothered to inform him that said dead man was alive?

Not him for sure. No, Jason was over all that.

Guilt was easier; he had pools of the genuine stuff. All he had to do was amplify what was already there and pretend he was tormented by everything instead of only sixty percent. 

He lifted the mirror. “Timothy.” Or Tim, Timothy could come out overly formal, almost as if he was making fun of the dude. Jason would hate being named Timothy. “Tim, I'm very sorry about beating the shit out of you…twice.” 

Finally, something genuine, but it was too nice, too fast-forward. He couldn't drop there, throwing apologies left and right, or they would accuse him of trying to trick them. Might even get mad. Jason would rage if Joker came up to him with a vague sorry. If Bruce did so, he would have to take it and be happy to get as much.  

It was a punishment. 

There was no other explanation. Jason cursed himself for being stupid enough to believe Barbara would let it be. She had taken pity on him for a moment, but that was it. They must have gone through the footage and reached the obvious conclusion that he was unstable. Bile burned in the back of his throat at the mental image of them gathered around the monitors of the Batcave, watching his pathetic display as if it were a family movie. 

But he had invested too much to give up now.

The shops being harassed by wannabe gangsters had all accepted his protection offers. His favorite bakery in the Narrows still made the honey and cinnamon cakes he would daydream about while away. He got his eyes on a charity organization to promote reading among impoverished youth who needed some extra donations. Next month, Shakespeare in the Park will perform King Lear, which he could watch in a different town, but wouldn't have the same nostalgia of being nine, freshly homeless, and still getting to taste a bit of culture. 

He was starting to suspect Gotham was titled ‘The worst city in the US’ not because of the astronomical crime or corruption rates, but because it kept people coming back for more like an abusive boyfriend. If Metropolis sent love letters, Gotham made you pay the bill and thank it for coming.

When Oracle told him he was to go on missions with them in the future, the lump in his throat barred him from protesting. He spent the entire day deep cleaning and cursing under his breath to find a semblance of peace. His apartment was already spotless, so he had to extend his efforts to the desert hallway. Hallucination, Batman whispered about all the ways it would go wrong while Jason took his vengeance on the carpets.

Then, around five a.m., his mind clicked, and it turned into an opportunity. What better chance than that to prove he was sane? He just needed to find the right approach.

Energized, he forgot all dreams of sleeping, not that he did much these days. A lightning shot through his body, screaming at him to practice, get ready. Shakespeare had nothing on the performance he was about to give.

His trial by fire began with an unremarkable case.

Money printing in the back of a seedy bar. It was part of a much bigger trafficking network the bats had been investigating for a while, not that they shared much about that with him. Not that Jason cared. It was only a small piece of a much bigger picture.

He dredged up protocol from his Robin days; he didn't follow even when holding the title. The mission was a test he had no intention of failing. Bruce would be nitpicky enough to make Oracle look like a slob. The hardest part was bastardizing his fighting style into a softer version of itself. He had non-lethal moves taught to him by the League that would still be considered too aggressive. Unnecessary broken bones wouldn't be tolerated. He was to be flawless.

Four smoke pellets were thrown into the room, leaving the perps bent over themselves in a fit of coughing. Jason dropped from the ceiling, taking them down one by one. It was so easy, a baby Robin could do it. He would have felt insulted if his heart hadn't been threatening to explode out of his chest, and no, it wasn't from smoking seven cigarettes in a row. With all the sleeping criminals hogtied together in the corner, he made quick work to extract all important information as he had done in the last three localizations. This was the last one. All that was left was delivering the files.

His ribcage shrank again at the sight of Nightwing on the agreed rooftop at the edge of Crime Alley. One deep breath after the other, he expanded his lungs against imploding bones. 

Nightwing nodded at him with a strained smile before taking the offered flash drive. He didn't look angry, which was a good enough sign, but Jason knew Dick was very skilled at both keeping grudges and hiding them. 

He looked the same up close, not a single hair off from what Jason had engraved in his memories from the past and endless hours of watching the family on amateur videos. That night with Spoiler and Red Robin, Dick had been more akin to a mirage than flesh and bone, an incarnation of his most shameful desires to exist as an actual human being; now, Jason had no doubt that both he and his fists were corporeal.

He kept his body language open, but not casual. Calm and professional. He didn't want him to think he was too comfortable. “Ignore the drawing.” He pointed to the waving Hello Kitty printed on the plastic. 

Dick lifted it to get a good look at the cat in her little yellow raincoat. "It's cute. Subversion of expectations and all that. I might have to get one myself.”

He shrugged as if a little awkward instead of fighting to not go into a defensive stance.“ They didn't have anything else at the dollar store.”

The comment did not receive a laugh, not that he expected one, but Dick became a fraction less tense. Jason silently congratulated himself, he hadn't been sure when buying it if the trick would work. He almost changed his mind at the last second and got a plain black one.

Leave it to Dick to be amused by the most random things.

Dick pocketed the flash drive, yet no one moved. “Thanks for this…. Maybe you could help us more in the future.” The last part came out stilted.

It wasn't a choice; Jason didn't see why Dick wanted to pretend they were equals, probably some control or mind game he hadn't grasped yet. Let's keep dancing around the giant elephant on the rooftop, then.

“Sure.” He didn't trust himself to say anything more without betraying how hard it was to force air down his windpipe.

Dick ran his thumb over the cheap plastic. “About that incident a few days ago,” here it came, "please, don't do anything like that ever again.”

“I'm not planning to.”

Any sliver of ease the cute cat had earned him vanished from Dick´s frame. “Jason, I mean it.” He didn't need to add that. Jason knew very well that Dick had no qualms about acting on his threats. “Not when it involves the younger ones.”

His ribs were piercing his lungs and squashing his heart in the process. It couldn't be all psychogenic; at some point, he had to be having a genuine heart attack. “I swear.”

The voice modulator took away all intonation. Jason had a setting for how much he could distort his voice. He had chosen one of the highest calibers, it turned every line into the same monotonous robotized tone. After having to spend so long convincing Oracle he was comfortable with meeting Nightwing, he hadn't wanted to throw it all away by letting him hear a single waver.

Dick mulled over Jason’s words, then beamed again. Big and bright, and the most terrific thing was that Jason couldn't find a single thing fake about it.

“I'm glad you are back.” He almost dodged the hand on his shoulder, expecting a hit. “Let's just take things slow for now, okay?”

Oh, Dick Grayson was an amazing liar.

From there, he developed a system. 

Joint missions never deviated much from what Jason had grown to expect. Small to medium criminal operations, sometimes a B-list rogue. Nothing that involved much risk or complexity. He was sent to fight somewhere relatively far from the others, save for brief interactions. Those were the most critical moments.

Red Robin and Spoiler came as a duo. 

He wondered if they weren't secretly telepathic. Red Robin projected all his resentment into Spoiler, so it came out of her mouth instead of his. She was overall fine despite sporadically spitting venom, anything she could come up with; he had heard worse. It had the opposite reaction that she expected and endeared her a bit to him. That kind of fierce protectiveness was a trait that Jason respected. Tim was very lucky to have so many good friends.

Red took a dramatically different approach and went full professional vigilante mode. Jason wouldn't complain since it allowed him to answer with nods and monosyllables.  Soon, he would apologize. When the waters cleared, maybe then he would stop seeing flashes of red and broken bones every time he looked at the kid.

And Jason knew they were only two years apart, but there was a big difference between a soft-skinned Bristol boy and Crime Alley trash, no matter how close in age. Practically speaking, Jason had never been a child.

Batman stuck true to his role as the all-mighty supreme leader. Every time he opened his mouth, either to deliver sharp commands or corrections, Jason felt himself getting smaller. He wanted to scream that he wasn't stupid or crazy or a toddler, but any outburst would only confirm what they already thought of him. Sometimes he grumbled in grumpy protests to not feel like he was fully giving in, but never went further than that.

The worst was when hallucination blended with reality. Once, after a particularly close call, he spent ten minutes being berated until realizing there was a second Batman talking to Nightwing. 

For the first time since Arkham, he had mixed real Batman with the fake one. That freaked him out more than he wanted to admit. He almost sprinted to the nearest pharmacy to get his hands on some antipsychotics before the truth of how awful that idea was hit him.

Pills never helped, taking one would be admitting defeat and that he was truly insane. Not to mention the Bats’ reaction to seeing him buy that shit, it would be back to the loony bin, where they would pump him full of drugs until he didn't know his own name.

As soon as he got them to trust him just a little bit, and he regained scraps of freedom, the visions would go away. He just had to be a big boy and suck it up until then.

Nightwing was MIA. Spiritually, not physically. Jason only got glimpses of him from afar and an occasional greeting because, apparently, outright ignoring Hood all the time was just a bit too mean for the Golden Boy. 

Jason wouldn't blame him if he did. He was sure that his own night terrors (and day terrors) about their fight were more severe than Dick’s, because the other man was mentally stable and all that, but if they were even half as horrifying, then Dick was more than justified in never wanting to see his ugly mug ever again. And maybe Jason also had to look away from him sometimes when the feeling of cuffs around his wrist became overwhelming.

All of them could be handled with relative ease. Don't lash out, follow orders, and be silent. Sparingly, he could try a small trick like the Hello Kitty pen, but they were very difficult to accomplish under Oracle's nose.

His most successful one had been his gun ‘accidentally’ slipping from the holster mid-fight with a low-level thug. He pretended not to have noticed until he was about to leave, forcing Batman to pick it up from the ground and call him back. The look of surprise on the man's face when he realized it was unloaded almost made him smile.

“It was an easy case, so I only brought them for intimidation.” Jason had waved away the silent question as if it were obvious. “Rubber bullets are reserved for real bad guys.”

Of course, that only worked because his nightmare incarnate hadn't been there - Cassandra Cain.

An expert in body language of all things. What a sick joke. Jason could always feel her eyes burning holes in his soul. He barely dared to breathe in case she could see disease in the air he exhaled.

It wasn't hard to guess what she picked up. The same villain that had murdered dozens of people and nearly did so to her siblings came back out of nowhere, all soft spoken with bitterness, waryness, psychosis, and all sorts of nasty things screaming from his muscles. 

He ended up moving like a puppet with tangled strings near her. 

It was painful but predictable, so he should have known something was off when he was called for a minor Arkham breakout and the air was visibly more tense. Alas, it didn't hit him until he landed eyes on a sneer just like Talias’.

At last, they trusted him enough to bring Robin around.

Amazing.

Farce. Ignominy. Disgrace. Travesty.

Damian mentally hurled a new insult at the training dummy with each hit. Sand sifted through the several thorns in the fabric, his bare feet stepped on some scattered grains. He scratched his lower leg, then punched again, sending a renewed stream out.

The physical release did nothing to alleviate the desire to enact his fury on its cause. Merely the thought of that self-satisfied smirk with poisonous green eyes being defended by Father ignited a new wave of aggression. His next kick sent the dummy flying across the mats.

“I take it you are not happy,” Drake made himself known from the top of the stairs. He slowly walked down, energy drink in hand, as he took the mutilated training tools.

Damian grabbed a wooden sword from the rack. “You are the one who is too complacent.”

Drake had been on missions with Hood, worked side by side with him, just like Spoiler, Bat Girl, and even Nightwing. Damian wouldn't fault them; the ultimate decision rested on Father's shoulders, and now he was expecting Damian to obey and share the field with a Rogue who tried to murder him.

“I know it's not ideal.” Drake once again displayed his talent to conjure the most obnoxious sentences known to man.

“Not ideal?” He threw his weapon on the ground. “It's outrageous. Father is putting our entire operation in danger, trusting the word of a criminal. And now he expects us to blindly follow his distorted visions of redemption for a man who has proven time and time again to be a threat."

He ground his teeth. Displaying so much emotion wasn't in his plans, but it was the truth. Hood shamelessly murdered someone on camera, then had the gall to laugh about it, and all it took for Father to forgive the crime was an apology. He had been more strict when Damian beheaded a criminal on his first patrol.

Drake raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Dick would be better to explain this. At least nicer, but since there is only me here, I will make it simple.” Damian also wished for Richard in Drake´s place. “Bruce wants Jason back; he always has. He is the son that he lost, that he mourned. He would never pass up a chance to get him home. And from what I can tell, Jason also wants to be back.”

“So that means all his misdeeds are ignored?” He pointed a finger at Drake´s Gotham Knights sweater. “He hurt you, Drake. He beat you senseless twice, and you are willing to let it go.”

“I won't be the one between Bruce and the thing he has dreamed of for years,” Drake repeated more forcefully. “Come on, Damian. What do you expect Bruce to do? Kill him?”

No.

He didn't want Father to kill Hood. He and Richard had taught him long ago that all life was precious, he wasn't an assassin anymore and never again wanted to be, but they also embedded him with an understanding of justice. Rogues were incarcerated as both a way for them to improve their ways and a punishment for the people they hurt.

When Damian got shot, Richard hadn't hesitated in arresting Hood. Mother would flay alive anyone who dared to hurt him. Father demanded that he share bread with that scum.

Drake continued, “I know it feels wrong, but we get hurt all the time as part of the job. Two-Face tried to kill us hundreds of times, and he is doing well now.”

The only thing filling Drake’s head had to be air for him to believe that argument.

If Two-Face went back to his violent ways, Batman would have him in a cell by the end of the day. Damian was starting to suspect that no matter what Hood did, Father would always embrace him back. Had the bullet gone through his heart that night, would father have mourned him, then accepted Hood’s condolences and invited his killer for family dinner? What if Damian had been the one causing so much destruction and pain? He didn't think he would be welcomed back so easily.

Drake seemed to notice his sour mood and invited him to watch a movie. It was a testament to how upset Damian was that not only let himself be dragged to the couch but also didn't complain once against the unrealistic spy terminology or the rest of the family joining in, attracted by the sound of television like flies to honey.

He ended up with his head against Richard’s shoulder, his legs resting on top of Cain’s, and Drake stealing popcorn from a bucket Brown had pushed into his hands (she didn't even live with them)

The next day, the most underwhelming Arkham escape in memory occurred. Mad Hatter, Kite Man, and Calendar Man. 

The only remarkable detail about their plan was that it succeeded. The fools usually waited for more notorious Rogues to break out and slipped away during the chaos like cowards. Damian, Batman, and Red Robin chased Calendar Man; the rest of the family, Mad Hatter, and Hood took down Kite Man. 

Damian had considered Drake's words. Refusing to do missions with Hood would be counterproductive and a disrespect to his title as Robin, a name Drake had done a decent job of redeeming after the stain of his predecessor. Damian wasn't the one out of place; he wasn't the one who should remain home and change his routines. 

Hood had second intentions and was using Father's misguided compassion to get close to them. Not on Damian´s watch, he would uncover Hood´s schemes and show him exactly what they thought of him in the process.

“Try to only shoot criminals this time,” he had hissed through the coms before they separated to apprehend their respective targets.

A weak insult, Hood didn't even dignify it with a look as his retreating shadow disappeared. It made his grip on the katana tighten. How dare he ignore him? Only Red Robin reacted with a disapproving look, but Spoiler elbowed him on the shoulder and said something that sounded like, “We talked about this.” At the reminder of whatever previous conversation they had, Red Robin rolled his eyes and moved to follow Damian and Batman.

It wasn't until they had (almost) all the escaped convicts tied together and the authorities were on their way that Damian discovered what made Hood flinch. For once, he didn't spit the words with vitriol. Oracle had informed them that Arkham was ready to receive his three escapees, and Damian had mindlessly commented, "Can't they take Hood too?”

There it was. His hands trembled, momentarily, just a second. Damian tried again to be sure it hadn't been just a trick of his eyes. “Do you still remember the cell number?”

Again, an involuntary jerk. No verbal response, but it wasn't needed; he already got what he was looking for.

From there on, it was child's play to discover the connection. Mentions of his past crimes did not faze him, nor did death or resurrection. Although it might be because Damian had very few details about Hood's demise. All he knew was that he had ignored Batman´s orders in a brash attempt to prove himself and ended up walking right into Joker's trap. Damian would feel pity if it weren't such an absurd display of stupidity and a premonition of the adult he would grow up to become. Still, he chose to stay away from that topic as it might prove to be a trigger for Father,

Richard sometimes told him to “take it easy” after a particularly harsh remark, but Damian could see through the lack of conviction. His older brother did not truly disapprove of his actions; no one did. He merely felt the need to play his role as a conciliator. It encouraged him to push further, test how far he could go before Hood showed his true colours.

To be fair, Hood was harder to expose than expected. Damian would assume someone as hotheaded and brash would explode in a matter of days, but he did a reasonable job in containing his annoyance. Not once did he tell Damian, or Brown on a bad day, to shut up, or allow any expression besides his trembling hands to be visible. Once he asked Cain what she saw in his body language, the answer was a mix of discomfort and tension, but he held himself in such a strange way around her that she couldn't add more yet.

He couldn't keep waiting for Hood to incriminate himself. 

He started a journal. Hood didn't speak much, but sporadically Father asked him details about his travels or Gotham's underworld. Damian wrote everything down, together with any behavior considered suspicious, although everything about the man was suspicious.

Slowly, they started to pile up. Small inconsistencies, details that didn't match. It wasn't yet enough to create a case, but sooner than later, Hood would slip - then Father would have to make his choice.