Chapter Text
---
Jason Todd knew he had a few screws loose in his head. Contrary to the unwanted opinions of Bruce Wayne, otherwise known as Monsieur I Have a Full Grown Tree Up My Ass, Jason wasn’t delusional.
He knew it wasn’t normal: the compulsive twitch of his hands against imaginary restraints when he heard something tick, the fluorescent green in his eyes, the restlessness that never left him, not really.
Jason would blow things up on a whim sometimes just to watch the world burn, enthralled with the lick of flames and coiling smoke strangling the city skyline. He’d think of another explosion - the one that changed everything - and palm his detonator with relish. This time, he’d think to himself, I’m in control. And for at least a little while, the fire from that damned warehouse, prickling beneath his skin like lit cigarette buds, would dwindle and turn to ash.
The bad nights were more numerous than Jason liked to acknowledge. He’d startle awake with the clown’s laughter ringing in his ears, and lose time to its echo. He’d choke on dirt that wasn’t there. He’d gasp and wheeze and still never fill his lungs with enough air. The walls would tighten around him like a coffin.
Other times he felt like a hermit crab in a shell a couple sizes too big, dimly aware of trembling and the dried blood stuck beneath his fingernails.
Sleeplessness was routine. Talia had forced his pieces back together, and fervent training and the All Caste had filled some of the holes, but most things, no matter how hard you tried, couldn’t be fixed. The wounds stopped bleeding and scabbed over, but when they peeled they left a scar. Jason hadn’t been unblemished since he was three and Willis had slugged him with a drunken fist for the first time.
Those initial months after his over-glorified dip in the Lazarus Pit, he’d spent a good chunk of his time fucking up the room Talia had given him. The blank walls and unused furniture made up an impersonal space that at first seemed uninhabited, but he’d transformed that room into some sort of pathetic safe haven. The sheets were a coarse, practical cotton in stark relief to the velvet lining funeral homes. On one of the walls, he’d carved a massive lopsided penis just to witness Talia’s careful composure crack. On the bedside table, he’d placed small trinkets and distorted figures he’d carved out of wood. Jason cut up the rich maroon curtains with a serrated knife; he’d been angry.
He was always angry those first few months. He’d been angry his whole life, but the Pit was different. It seethed and throbbed in his veins like venom, it sang a vicious tune in his ear, it made him want to curl inward until he stopped being and it made him want to stretch until he snapped and everyone knew he was there. It was vomit and bile lingering at the back of your throat. It was a deep cancerous ache that didn’t leave, a desperate need to hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt, stop hurting. He’d tear at things, make himself bleed, and still, tenacious green tendrils would wrap their sickening shadows around every thought, whisper long forgotten promises made anew only to be broken again. It never left, and wasn’t that ironic, that everyone and everything that Jason's ever cared about had abandoned him except the poison he never wanted, except the shards of glass digging into his cerebrum.
He’d had his room in the League, a place to cry and rip at his fraying ends until he felt empty. Within its confines, he’d tamed the Pit, or at least tried, until it spent its time dozing instead of prowling around in his subconscious ready to lash out.
The place was his, at least for a little while until the League had erased all signs of him and it was like he’d never been there. Robin had been his too, until it wasn’t. Maybe it’d never been his at all.
Then he just had Talia, with her tight-lipped smile hiding secrets and a teacup of freshly boiled Jasmine to offer him on bad nights.
After he’d left, it’d been the Outlaws. His team. Roy and Kori.
Now, years later, Jason didn’t even have that. They were all gone more often than not.
But the tea, he could brew on his own.
And Bruce, the self-righteous asshole, knew nothing about Jason but the broken remembrances of a “good soldier” that had died in Ethiopia. He’d peer at Jason with his steel blue eyes brimming with unbearable pity and not really see him at all. "Oh, boohoo Jason. You need help. Let's get you a nice cushy mattress in Arkham right across the hall from the clown himself. Then you can come home once you're all better."
No, fucking thank you.
Yes, Jason’s head was an ass over tits dumpster fire. But for once in his life, Batman could mind his own goddamn business.
“Tt. Hood, what are you doing here?”
Jason almost groaned out loud as he heard the familiar, disdainful voice behind him.
He turned with a grimace to face Robin Number… Five? Everyone was getting their own Replacement nowadays. His rifle, slung across his shoulder with practiced ease, shifted with him off the doorway his target was gonna exit from three buildings away. Damian Wayne, or Al Ghul, depending on which parent you chose to acknowledge, attempted to loom over him with a scowl.
Apparently, the kid had slipped onto the roof at some point during Jason’s silent, enthusiastic cursing of Bruce Wayne. The Red Hood let out a string of colorful curses at himself for not paying attention to his surroundings. Sniper 101. Talia would have sneered at him much like her beloved demon son was right now.
“Better question, kid,” Jason sighed. He re-orientated himself, positioning the rifle back towards the empty space soon to be occupied by Unfortunate Victim’s head. ETA five minutes. “What the hell are you doing here? Slip off without Bat’s permission? I can’t help but notice you’re on your own tonight.”
Damian shifted warily at the corner of his eye. It appeared that the kid was attempting murder through the intensity of his glare alone. Honestly, the resemblance to his father was uncanny.
“My business is something that an imbecile like yourself should not concern yourself with.”
The kid snarled. Snarled. Who the hell actually snarled? What was Bruce teaching this kid?
“And I’m not stupid.” Robin said with a pointed look at Jason’s rifle. “Who’s the victim tonight? Some nameless thug that injured your fragile masculinity?”
At that comment, Jason couldn’t help but snicker. Damian was similar to both his parents in many ways, but the kid’s bark was like his mother’s. And kind of like Dick Grayson. Or maybe it was Alfred, the saint, and his influences. Robin certainly didn’t get accented snark from an emotionally constipated man dressed in a bat suit.
“Look, Robin,” Jason tried with resignation. The words tasted bitter on his tongue. “As much as I’m enjoying this reunion, no matter what you try, by the end of tonight, there’s gonna be a pool of brain guts on that rooftop. This guy is a thieving, homicidal rapist who sells drugs in schoolyards and I will gladly end his fucking waste of a life. So to save us both some trouble, I suggest you wander back where you came from and pretend you never saw me.”
The kid scoffed. “Father would disapprove if I let you murder someone.”
“And if he didn’t, would you care?” He challenged.
Robin didn’t reply, instead shifting closer. Jason guessed the… ten… eleven… thirteen-year-old (Hell, how old was the kid again?) was hoping to disarm him discreetly. The Red Hood exhaled carefully. ETA three minutes. Up ahead, he spotted a flicker of movement in one of the windows below. Shadows moving upward. Then the door opened, and the first figure stepped out carefully onto damp cement. A dozen men later, and if his source was right, the target would follow and arrogantly leave the protective circle to flick his cigarette onto the grimy street below. Just behind him, Damian was getting ready to move.
Jesus, just his luck to get Bat interference the one time he really couldn’t afford it.
The kid still hadn’t replied. Jason wondered if he’d stumped him.
Ha. ETA two minutes.
The Red Hood cocked his rifle back and slammed the butt of his gun into Damian’s abdomen before letting it fall to the ground. Robin let out a breathless oof, staggering back and falling harshly onto the cement. It took the kid only a second to get back on his feet, but that was long enough for Jason to get into a defensible position.
With one of his snarls (seriously though, snarls?), Damian lunged. Jason ducked the first brutal kick, then twisted to the side to avoid a jab to the ribs. He swerved around, avoided and blocked and grinned sharply under his hood until Robin was the one at the edge, then backed away with an irritated grunt when the kid leaped into a truly Grayson-like handspring. He only narrowly dodged the next furious hit, this time aimed at his shoulder. From the whistle of air, Jason guessed there’d been enough force behind the blow to shatter his collarbone. He raised an eyebrow. “Father” would certainly disapprove of that.
Robin made use of the momentary advantage to send a sweeping kick that put the Red Hood off balance. Jason sprung away with a series of flips to get some breathing room. He’d never be as spry as Dickhead, but he could hold his own.
He relaxed into a looser stance, feet shoulders width apart and elbows angled outward. Robin really was good, and while Jason might’ve gotten the upper hand eventually as it was, he was on a time crunch. A serious, gotta-go-or-squander-three-months-of-work type of time crunch. The Red Hood drew his favorite knife, the one Talia gave him the night he left for Gotham. Robin swore in Arabic as a glint of silver streaked dangerously close to his neck. With renewed vigor, Jason forced the kid on the defensive. He took a chance to glance over at the rooftop several adjacent buildings away. Just in time to glimpse the 5’8 half-Latino, half-caucasian striding outside with a cigarette hanging from his lips.
Shit. The Red Hood had to finish this now.
Time to get creative.
Jason scanned his surroundings. Rusting pipes branching out from a panel. Loose rubble abandoned precariously close to the edge. Cracks spreading on the cement from too many days expanding in the scorching heat of Gotham’s summer sun. He let himself be cornered, allowing the barrage of blows to direct him toward a broken burgundy brick. Then, crouching down and forcing Damian back with a low kick aimed at the groin, the Red Hood exchanged his knife for the piece of rubble and hit the kid on the back of the head. He winced in apology as Robin crumpled to the ground.
“Ouch, kid.”
Jason dropped the brick, and returned his knife to its holster. He hurried into position. By some miracle, Frank Salados, the arrogant bastard, was still out in the open. Apparently, he’d wanted a few more drags out of his cigarette before he disposed of it. The Red Hood had cut it close. Terrifyingly close. He breathed. His fingers, shaking with adrenaline, steadied. He cocked back the hammer of his rifle. Aimed the scope of the gun. Jason rested his finger on the trigger with an inhale like one of his instructors had taught him. An exhale. Fire.
The bullet reached its target within Salados’ head. The men and women around him exploded into panic, milling about in a mass like an upset anthill. Another mob boss, an old-timer by the name of Ted Bones, was hurriedly escorted out of the line of fire. One of the guards, a blonde in his late twenties with the misfortune of acne scars and a receding hairline, would scope out the surrounding buildings for the sniper. He’d see nothing but an empty skyline. A moment later, another wearily proclaimed the boss dead after his futile search for a pulse.
Robin, an hour later, would regain consciousness safely tucked in a hospital bed in the Batcave. His head throbbed. Alfred, with furrowed eyebrows and a heavy continence, would pass him a glass of water. The Red Hood, the butler would go on to explain after inquiry, had called in Damian’s location, his statement to Oracle brief and expressionless. When Batman had arrived, he’d found more than just Damian. An empty cartridge had been hastily abandoned at the edge of the roof, and three buildings west, a blood splatter remained.
---
Back in one of his safe houses, a musty apartment with a kitchen sink that had a grudge against working properly, Jason sat in a living room with peeling, piss-colored wallpaper. He fidgeted with a pistol, dismantled it. Put it back together. Absentmindedly wondered if he was quick enough at it to qualify for a Guinness World Record. Probably not. Jason was good, but he’d never been the best.
Maybe being ranked as world’s most dead inside undead shouldn’t be alive living person would be more fitting. Then again, resurrection was a lot more common these days. Except Jason liked to think he deserved the title for being OG zombie hero. Not that he was a hero anymore, at least by conventional standards.
With a wry twist to his lips, Jason found himself rummaging through his utility belt until he found a polishing cloth and tools he didn’t even know he was looking for. Might as well clean the pistol parts resting in each hand too.
He sank deeper into the sofa, an ugly black tattered thing that reminded him of a bat. Cause of course it did. This particular safehouse was unfrequented enough that doing so released a cloud of dust. It settled in the air, and Jason had to stifle a sneeze. His eyes were watering now, and his day had been shit enough, he couldn’t be sure if the cause was the dust or something else far less corporeal.
His trigger finger twitched, slower than the rest of him when it came to knowing when the job was done.
His dismantled gun had fallen onto his lap, and at some point, he’d dropped his tools too. Fuck.
Jason bit his lip (a bad habit Ducra hated).
He missed Ducra. He missed Roy. He missed Kori. He was alone.
He wished Talia was here, with her exotic perfume and jasmine tea, her whetted accent, the sheen of her swords as she polished them impassively across from him. Jason closed his eyes and forced his fingers still. Without much effort, he could envision the body from earlier that night collapsing onto the pavement like a marionette with its strings cut. The blood splatter had been minimal, more so than most. Frank Salados had been egotistical scum, a quickly advancing leader in the mob. The clinical hole in his head would stop him from hurting anyone ever again.
He’d deserved worse. The Pit agreed, giddy at the prospect of it.
Jason’s trigger finger twitched again, this time more violently.
He opened his eyes, blinked away the green.
One of his tools, a small steel screwdriver, had rolled partly beneath the sofa. He reached for it.
---
The next morning, Jason awoke to dim sunlight with a start. He’d had a dream, echoes of running and crunching bones and a gun clutched desperately in a clammy hand. He couldn’t remember.
His wrinkled bed sheets were damp with sweat. His entire body ached. He forced himself to stand anyway and tottered toward the low rise cabinet he'd haphazardly shoved against the wall a forever ago. A glance at his cell phone told him it was just after 8. He’d slept through the night. A gift from God, if there ever was one, not that those hours had been especially restful.
Rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes, Jason exited the room and entered the hallway. Similar to the rest of the apartment, it boasted blank walls and absent furniture. Its only distinguishing feature was a little square painting hanging at one end of the passage with the ink signature at its corner blotted out. The canvas, with its abstract streaks of earthy green and gold, had been there the first time he used the apartment, an imprint left behind by previous inhabitants, and it’d remain there for eternity if he had anything to say about it. Jason figured those who came after him could puzzle its story out like he had.
He smiled at the painting, didn’t really mean it, then walked past toward the kitchen. The pantry was far from well-stocked, but a while back, he'd stayed at the apartment for a little more than a week. There was a stale box of Cheerios somewhere if he could find it.
It was in the first cabinet he opened, the only item there. He grabbed a handful out of the bag and wrinkled his nose as he chewed on it. It was stale. Jason would have to buy breakfast today. Maybe go grocery shopping. He wouldn’t mind settling somewhere for a little while.
He shut the cabinet. Its hinges screamed in protest. Unwittingly, Jason was reminded of Dick Grayson.
---
"Jesus Christ, Goldie. How many cereal boxes can a guy have before he buys out the entire grocery aisle?"
Jason stared with no small amount of horror.
They were in Dick's apartment, only the second visit in the last year since Bruce had taken him in, and the entire ordeal had been awkward. That was an understatement. Extremely, I’m-gonna-cry awkward? Curl up in a ball and die?
Neither of them knew each other well, uncertain of what to say or to do. Jason felt like a rock that was trying… and failing miserably to contort into the right shape and fit through a cookie cutter.
"Well, Jaybird," Dick rubbed the back of his neck. "I like cereal."
Jason snorted at that, craning his neck up to stare skeptically at his predecessor. Even now, at thirteen, Jason was a lot shorter than Dick Grayson. When he'd complained about it once, Alfred had told him something about malnutrition and not eating enough and how he'd likely never be very tall. The old man had looked so upset about it, Jason had never brought it up again.
"Yeah, ok. I like cereal just fine myself," Jason said, remembering the lucky charms his mom would get him the month of his birthday.
After a brief pause, he considered the stocked cabinet once again. "But I think there's a lot more than liking going on here, Dickiebird. You have a raging hard-on for this shit."
There was a second where Dick just stared at him, then, with a strangled gasp, the older boy burst into laughter. Jason was used to the first Robin being all gallant and kind-hearted and professional like all the other heroes boasted, with his stupid perfect face. Sometimes, if he was unlucky, he'd catch a glimpse of angry Grayson too after the guy had another argument with Bruce. But right then, the Dick Grayson in front of him, laughing at one of Jason's stupid ass comments, was completely unfamiliar to him.
Jason warily cracked a grin, and when Dick eventually stopped laughing, the awkwardness from before had subsided.
"So other than a weird-ass infatuation with cereal, what does the great Nightwing do out of costume?" Jason, always more comfortable with his back pressed up against something solid, leaned against the kitchen wall.
"For one thing, there's really nothing "great" about me, Jason. And as for the cereal thing, it's not weird, and you really should curb your profanity before Alfred actually follows through on his threat to wash your mouth out with a bar of soap."
"As Leslie would say," Jason smirked. He cleared his throat, attempted an imitation of the surly doctor with her rapidly greying blonde hair. "Dick Grayson, in order to recover, you must first overcome denial. This cereal addiction will ruin your life. Acknowledge the problem before," Jason gestured dramatically and lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper,"...it's too late."
Dick flashed a silly grin at him. The expression looked more genuine than Jason had ever seen it. It was crooked compared to Dick's practiced smiles for the press, left lip curling upward a little higher than the right one.
Dick leaned back against the kitchen counter across from him. "I think Leslie Thompson would object to being a therapist. Not quite the same type of doctor."
"Well... Good thing I'm no doc. Sure as hell is close enough to me."
The two of them shifted in place. The awkwardness was back.
Dick abruptly perked up. “I just remembered something!” He exclaimed as he scooted past Jason to the fridge.
Jason raised a brow. "Please don't say you have more cereal in there."
Dick's grin grew broader. With ridiculous flourish, he opened the freezer and gestured toward a large container. Jason stared suspiciously as the older boy presented it to him, before, with a sudden shift in demeanor, his eyes brightened in recognition.
"Is that Neapolitan ice cream?!" The younger boy, now smiling without reservation, stepped forward to snatch the carton out of Dick's hands.
"Alfred said it was your favorite," The older boy's smile turned wry. "From your reaction, I can tell that he's right."
Jason was beaming. "Can we have it now?"
"If you want."
---
Dick and Jason watched the baseball game on the screen. Well, they weren’t really watching. The dry commentator and cheering crowd was more background noise if anything.
Dick, now wearing one of the hoodies he had scattered on the floor, held the ice cream carton loosely. Together with Jason, who sat on his right, they'd already finished half the gallon. Alfred was gonna kill him, maybe come by to offer him poisoned tea.
"This is-"
Gulp.
"-really good, Goldie. Cause like, you know Bruce and Alfie. They’re so strict about diet. They’re always going on about shit like…” Jason gestured grandly with his spoon, deepened his voice, and put on his best Batglare. “Eat some more, Jason. You need to be healthy. You need more vegetables on that plate. Dessert later. Eat more!”
There was a brief pause as Dick snorted and Jason swallowed some more ice cream, then, "It's cool and all since Alfie's food is the best, and there's so much of it, but… ice cream.”
Dick nodded very seriously.
“My mom loved strawberry and I liked chocolate but vanilla was cheaper. And then we found out there’s Neapolitan which has all three and a fancy name that reminds me of that French dude. You know, Bruce has shit taste in ice cream. Honestly, those random chunks of stale chocolate are nasty…”
The kid prattled on, dramatic and cute and Dick adored and made agreeable noises at the right moments.
The second Robin turned to face his predecessor. "But hey, what about you? You haven't really," he wrinkled his nose, "said anything."
Dick was smirking. Almost instinctively, he leaned over to ruffle the kid’s hair. Over the next two years, Jason would get so used to it, he’d relent in silent suffering.
This time around, Jason just ducked out of the way with a scowl. Dick's grin was blinding as he finally spoke. "Holy Batman. If I knew ice cream could get you rambling like a drunk who can't hold his beer, I would've fattened you up with junk food forever ago."
Jason looked like a disgruntled puppy. Dick would later admit to himself that he hadn’t truly accepted the kid as family until that moment.
"Dick," His little brother cried. "I can hold my beer!!!"
...
"... Not even gonna ask."