Chapter Text
There's a witch standing in front of him, and her eyes are wide and wet, her hands trembling faintly as she stares at him.
"You saved me," she says, her voice trembling.
Jason spits blood on the ground and stares up at her, eyes narrowed and furious, and he shifts away from her, to where a puddle of red and black and gold is limp on the ground.
He saved her. He did the job. But this--this isn't what he wanted.
"Red," he murmurs, and tugs lightly on Red Robin's shoulder. He moves with the touch, and Jason's stomach twists, an uneasy pulse that makes him swallow hard because bodies don't move like that, all limp rag doll. Even when unconscious, bodies have to be moved, have to be manipulated into positions and into submission, they don't just--
There's a growing pool of blood, and a blank, empty expression and Jason's stomach heaves as denial screams through him.
"Babybird," he says, "Wake up."
Tim's pretty eyes are tucked away behind white out lens, and he should do something about that, but he can't. Because if he sees those sharp clever eyes empty and sightless, he'll break apart, shatter into a million pieces and he--he can't.
He can't.
"You loved him," the witch murmurs. She's one of Zatanna's contacts, a little whisp of a thing still figuring out her powers, and in over her head. They were just keeping her safe. It was easy, a milk run job, escorting her from Jump to Gotham, a week of shitty diners and shittier hotels, and Tim's pretty mouth irritating and distracting in equal measures. A week of hotel rooms where no Bats or Birds had bugs to listen to the quick handjobs and slow sex and giddy laughter and whispered promises.
A week. It was Dick's gift to them, because if they stuck around in Gotham City, Bruce was going to notice Jason was a little too attentive to his precious bird, and the last thing he needed was Batman coming after him with a shotgun.
Tim said he wouldn't, that B was so happy to have Jason back, he'd give him the moon, and it still wouldn't be enough. Jason still thought he'd probably object to his prodigal son fucking the family's precious omega.
"You love him," she repeats, like it's something she hadn't realized, in the week they spent together, like it's only in this dirty alley close enough to home, to safety, that he can feel the snap of Kevlar lined capes, that she sees what they hadn't bothered to hide.
It's fair, because it's only holding the cooling corpse of Tim in his arms that Jason realizes--yeah.
That's exactly what it was, new and precious and exciting and terrifying.
He loves Tim.
And Tim is gone.
~
The next six months are--
He doesn't think much. He can't think. He knows that Bruce and Dick were the first ones to find him with Tim. He knows that Red Hood went on a rampage through Crime Alley, tracking down and butchering everyone even tangentially related to the gang initiation that had killed Red Robin.
Bruce doesn't even say anything to him, about it.
Bruce doesn't say much of anything, these days, has fallen into a depression and rage that'd be concerning, if it didn't mirror Jason's own. It's the twin--Pack Alpha and Alpha Mate raging at the loss of their omega.
Dick's grief cuts like a blade, the scent of a pup less omega bitter and rancid, like slow rot that tickles in his nose. He takes Damian, and runs, first to Bludhaven, then Wally, then Donna, and then Jason loses track of them. He knows Bruce knows, and that's enough.
There isn't room for Dick's grief, next to his own.
There's isn't room for anyone's grief, next to his own.
Every day is a day that takes him further from Tim, from the warmth of his smile and acid bite of his sarcasm, and he wants--
He wants to lie down and join him. When he's honest with himself, usually when his hands are soaked in blood and he's a drink away from blackout, he'll consider his Desert Eagle and think about it.
Tim would be furious. Tim built his life around serving the Mission, in being what Jason could not, after his death, in being what Gotham and Batman needed, a life that killed him, and most nights it's that--the fact that Tim would hate him for considering it, that keeps him from eating a bullet.
~
Roy comes to Gotham. He doesn't say anything about Tim's trashed penthouse that no one has been able to pry Jason out of, doesn't say anything about the liquor and the red rimmed eyes, or even his scent, sour with rancid fruit over his scent of all spice and cedar and vanilla.
No one has commented on the grief scent, the scent of a mate in mourning.
He cleans up after Jason, and shoves him in a shower, and gets rid of all but one bottle of vodka, cooks one of Alfred's frozen dinners, and sits next to him on the couch, pestering Jason until he's gotten through half of it. And then he tugs Jason into a hug, mild beta scent of cinnamon and gunpowder soothing and sweet, and his fingers card through Jason's hair, until he's asleep, and he doesn't wake up screaming, hands tacky with blood that he can't ever wash off.
~
There's a whisp of a girl, standing in his living room, scentless and familiar, and she stares at him with wide wet eyes, just like she did, on the worst night of his life.
"I owe you a boon," she says, "and I have the control, now, to grant it."
His heart lurches in his chest, and she holds up a hand. "I cannot bring him back. And I cannot return you to the moment he was lost--it--you were there, we both were. I can't undo what I was there to see." She glances at Constantine, who looks--
Hung over and irritable, so nothing unusual there, Jason considers.
Nervous though. Whatever this is, Constantine has agreed to it, and he isn't sure it's the right decision.
"I can give you one chance, to go back. One point in time, where you can set in motion a new path. It's a chance, only. Do you understand?"
Jason stares at her, because he doesn't.
One point in time. One chance to set their lives on a different path, a path that means he could save Tim.
He doesn't understand, exactly, but he's a Bat, one raised by Bruce, and he can think, can logic out the possibilities. So many heroes and villains think they're superhuman, with the way they're always prepared for every eventuality. It's not super human. It's just thinking.
He looks at her, this girl who witnessed the best week of his life and the worst moment of it, too, and the way she's staring at him with fierce resolve, with hope and determination.
"Will--will I stay there?"
"No," she says, softly. "You will travel back. And you will have twelve hours, to change things."
"What happens after that?" he asks, and she shrugs. It's fatalistic and devil may care, and he remembers, just how much he liked this girl.
"I don't know. But--it might be better than this."
This world without Tim, where Bruce was diving for an early grave and Alfred was a ghost of himself and Dick had fled with the pack's pup, and Cass refused to come home.
Where he ached with longing and loss.
He nods.
"Do you know when you want to return to? Or do you need time?"
One point in time, where you can set in motion a new path.
Jason's jaw sets, and he nods. He knows exactly when to go, when everything started to go off the rails of his life. He opens his mouth, and tells her.