Status: Ongoing
Nice to Meet You Too, Sunshine
who are you? who am i? where is my helmet?
Steph’s wearing something filmy and probably more expensive than everything he owned before Bruce. It’s purple, because of course, and it screams money through a fucking bullhorn, fitting tight at her waist and making her skin glow.
She tucks a wayward strand of blond hair behind her ear, asking, “How do I look?”
Like something he doesn’t deserve to touch, Jason thinks. “Rich,” he says aloud, getting a frown. “Bruce needs us at this event. Oracle says that Two-Face is gonna crash it.”
Rich white people bullshit, Jason thinks bitterly, like he did when he was Jason Todd-Wayne, Bruce’s hand heavy on his shoulder. These people are so ostentatious, so smug in their wealth and power as they stand on the backs of everyone below them. The last party, before he died, the steak was served in real gold foil. On the streets the night before that, Jason had watched a ten year old get on her knees for twelve dollars.
Steph’s watching him, confusion hiding somewhere in her face, if he looks for it. She really is beautiful, an old school movie star with her hair floating about her shoulders, long legs covered so he can’t see the scars. He’s pissed off about the party and pissed off that he wants her. He’s not enough of a person yet to even think about that shit, and to be honest, neither is she. “I’ll come with you,” he grunts, impulsive.
“I guess extra backup would be smart,” she muses. “But you can’t come in the limo with me. You’re still dead.”
Doesn’t he know it. “I hate limos.”
She shrugs, going to the window nearest the door and looking out with an inscrutable expression. “You hate anything that feels good, Jason.” He’s angry that she’s right as the limo pulls up and she swishes out, a bright spot against the dull gray of concrete. With a wave, she’s gone.
+
He fades into a disguise that he’s used before; the Latino waiter, blending into the background. It’s easy to cover the scar, now, hunch his shoulders so he doesn’t impose. He’s lucky it’s only the Replacement and Dick here. If it was Bruce he’d be caught in a second, Bruce’s big hand clamped around his neck.
Jason spies on Steph from a distance; she’s a pretty girl even in a room full of pretty girls, he thinks objectively. He watches as she tilts her head back, laughing at something Dick says, her fingers tight around Drake’s arm.
It takes Jason a few minutes to realize they think she’s fine, think she’s normal. There’s nothing of the real Steph here. She’s a gorgeous, glittering thing and they’re all falling for it. He wonders if they’ll ever figure it out, heads over to her after they leave.
“Canapes, miss?” he asks, watching the blankness slot back into place. She doesn’t try to hide around him and he kind of likes that.
“Thanks.” She pops one in her mouth, chewing slow.
“You’ve got Dickie-bird and Replacement pretty well fooled,” he says casually, looking for any reaction.
She just shrugs, disinterested. “They expected the same girl to come back,” she says, taking another canape. “So I did.” Someone calls her name so she turns away. They’re standing close enough that the fabric of her dress catches briefly on his fingertips before she walks off.
+
Two-Face crashes the party, of course, surrounded by armed thugs, demanding ‘two pieces of jewelry each.’ Jason sees a woman clutch at her pearls, whimpering, feels an unexpected stab of pity. They’re just people, they’re stupid, but he watches a man shield his wife, sees one woman struggle and spit.
He runs to a bathroom, changes fast, leave his outfit in the trash. He hates playing a waiter anyway. Steph is right next to him, a purple streak against the background as he turns to punch some guy in the face. His blood is up, pounding in his ears til it’s swallowed him whole, easy as anything, the throb of his knuckles against flesh. God, he was born for this.
Steph catches his gaze from across the room and grins, fierce and real. Blood flecks her chin, neatly matching the lipstick she’s still wearing. For a moment he’s back to back with Dick, the sizzle of his escrima sticks sparking through the air. Jason’s taller than him, finally; he’ll never outgrow Dick’s shadow but he’s bigger physically.
When they break apart Dick winks, saucy, does a flip that would be impossible for anyone else. Jason breaks a man’s arm in three places and it’s over, Two-Face with his head under the Replacement’s boot, his men groaning. They all exchange victorious grins.
+
After Two-Face is handcuffed and carted away by the cops, they head for the roof, him and Steph facing Drake and Dick. Steph’s got a bone shard in her hair that he brushes off, careful so his glove doesn’t catch on the strands.
Dick watches with his usual level of overbearing brotherly instinct, asking, “Settling in well?”
“Sure,” he grunts, rolling his eyes where Dick can’t see. The way he talks, you’d think Jason had just gone off to college or something. The Replacement is staring at him, Jason can sense it even though the whiteout lenses. He’s a smaller thing than Jason would’ve expected, bird boned and shorter than Steph. “What’re you looking at, Replacement?” Jason asks, deliberately aggressive, flashing a smirk that’s gotten him punched in the face more than once.
“My name is Tim,” he says flatly, body language never changing. Dick’s already moved in front of him, trying to be subtle; it was the one thing he was never good at. Jason’s suddenly furious, aching hurt underneath. The Replacement gets Dick’s protection, accepted into the fold like it’s nothing while Jason watches from outside.
He gets the uniform, he gets the family, he even has Wayne in his name now. Jason should’ve killed him while he had the chance. The thought must be obvious. Drake takes a step back, something small and miserable on his face.
That calms Jason down more than anything, more than Dick’s nervousness or knowing Steph’s there. Jesus, the kid can’t be older than eighteen, what the hell is Jason doing? He promised himself he wouldn’t get like this. Slowly forcing himself calm, he rolls his neck. “Okay. Tim.” He smiles, making nice. It’s not like being friendly will kill him. Probably.
+
Because Jason’s life is terrible and forever doomed to suck, the Replacement comes home with them. He soars overhead in that ridiculous glider, each move precise. Like every Robin, he brings something new to the table; not Dick’s grace or Jason’s ferocity, but a kind of single-minded focus that Jason can see even as he hops from rooftop to rooftop.
“Why is he with us?” Jason hisses to Steph over the comms, ducking under a billboard. The night is warm enough that his jacket feels like too much, too heavy.
“He’s my best friend,” she says easily. Jason spots the kid doing a perfectly executed flip that was clearly copied from Dick, feels a frustrated flash of understanding.
After they get home and change they regroup in the living room, Jason sprawled on his couch and ready to fight again. But the Replacement-Tim-comes out and he’s tiny, crossing the line from cute to pretty with big brown eyes. He’s a black kid, the first of Bruce’s sons.
Jason sizes him up for a second; he knows a lot already, knows that Tim’s too hard on himself, works long hours, has a twitchy, nervous edge to him. Jason had been so angry, seeing Bruce risk the life of another kid, seeing someone else in his uniform.
Almost he wants to be angry now, except Tim is shifting from foot to foot, glancing at Steph, clearly so eager to please it makes Jason ache. He’s been there, he’s worshipped Bruce, starved for any kind of attention and ashamed of being starved.
So he smiles, softening his sharp angles and being the better person if it kills him. Again. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
‘How’ve you been since I dropped you from a helicopter?’ he wants to ask, remembering the flutter of Tim’s cape, the surprised look on his face. Him and Dickie, both the same. They’ve been working these streets for years but they’re still shocked when someone’s mean to them.
But Jason’s not here to be an asshole. His instinct is to be shitty but he can grow beyond that or something. Barb would have worded it better he’s sure. Jason catches Steph’s eye; she looks politely disinterested, not that that means anything.
He settles further into the couch, meanly glad that there are no other chairs in the living room so Tim just has to stand there, awkward, while Steph sits on the couch. Facing Tim, Jason kinda feels like he and Steph are Tim’s disapproving parents. The thought makes him smirk, because he’s trying but he doesn’t have to be a saint in his own head.
“So, uh. How’re you guys doing?” Outside the cowl, Tim is a little softer, a little less harsh. Well, they all are, actually. Except for Jason himself, he thinks.
“Uh, we only just got back from a fight, pendejo,” Jason says, knowing he’s being a jerk but sometimes it’s like he can’t help himself.
Tim’s expression changes from placid to stormy in a second, taking a step forward. “Everybody knows what pendejo means, asshole,” he snaps, showing an unexpected strength of backbone. “And I could hear you over the comms back there. You forgot to switch to private.”
Jason looks to Steph; she’s watching them without expression, her eyes somewhere far off. He can’t find any help in her. “Jeez, I-”
“I get why you hate me, and I’m sorry, but I’m Robin now,” Tim continues, hands fisted at his sides. “You need to stop being such an asshole about it.”
Jason wants to rise to the bait, desperately; he’s got a gun tucked into his waistband right now, or his fists will do. Tim took the Robin costume, he took Dick’s protection, he took Bruce; and that’s when Jason stops himself, cause that’s what it’s really about, isn’t it? It’s always about Bruce, with this family. He doles out affection like it’s costing him something and he wonders why his children fight each other for it.
Steph puts a hand on Jason’s bare arm, her skin a few degrees cooler. Not like she’s holding him back; more like she’s holding herself back. He wonders how badly this situation makes her want to run. A fight between her best friend and whatever Jason is to her.
“I’m sorry,” Jason gets out eventually, a little forced but it’ll do. He’s not here to fight with this kid who, honestly, did nothing wrong. Steph leaves to the kitchen, where he can hear her putting the dishes away, slow.
“You killed Black Mask,” Tim says after a few seconds, not what Jason expected. He’ll take it though.
“Yeah.”
“For Steph.”
It’s not a question. Jason shrugs one shoulder anyway. For most people, when they say they’d kill for a friend, it’s hyperbole. For Jason, he means it. “Sure.” He wonders if this’ll be the thing that gets Tim to snap, to take a swing. It’s been a while since the bruises on his face healed, the ones from Bruce during the attack on the city. Jason touches the skin near his eye, remembering. “Estás enojado, amigo?” he asks. You angry, friend?
Tim rolls his eyes. “I speak Spanish, Jason. Stop trying to use it to be mysterious.” Jason laughs in spite of himself, entertained by this kid who’s clearly, blisteringly intelligent. “What else do you speak?” Jason asks in Mandarin, and then Arabic.
Tim responds in both, something almost like a smile touching his lips. Steph comes back in with carrots and hummus, the atmosphere much more relaxed, Jason chatting to Tim in Spanish, teasing him about his accent. There’s something like a smile on her face, too.
+++
Jason’s flicking through channels, not really paying attention, til he lands on the news and it’s Harley, her awful, lipsticked face and…look, he gets it, okay? He gets that she was brainwashed and hurt too but all he can see when he looks at her is her handing over the gun he first killed with.
Joker turned him into this but she helped, he thinks petulantly, stuck staring at the TV. Harley’s been out on the streets for a while now, causing mayhem. Jason can feel his shoulders tensing up, can hear Harley’s high pitched cackle, getting tenser and tenser until Steph walks in.
“Jason?” He rolls his neck, annoyed with himself cause he’s better now, he’s getting better he has to be.
“What?” he snaps, sharper than usual but there’s no reaction from her. Of course.
“I was just gonna ask what you’re making for dinner.”
“Arroz y haichuelas,” he answers, flicking to the next channel. Bruce’s face beams back at him, and honestly? Fuck his life.
“Is it spicy?” Steph asks, and Jason resists the urge to roll his eyes.
“Ugh, no, Steph. It’s not that spicy.”
“Can we get ice cream after?” It’s unusual enough for her to ask to do something that he looks up, confused. She’s blank faced, except there’s something a little hunched about her, her gaze focused over his head.
He rewinds the last few minutes and realizes he was being kind of a dick. He’s not going to apologize, cause that means admitting he was being a dick and then there’ll be a whole big mess of feelings that he doesn’t want to deal with right now, so he smiles instead, stretching his arms over the back of the couch. “Yeah, Steph. Of course we can get ice cream. Strawberry or vanilla?”
Her posture loosens a little as she takes a step to sit next to him. Her shorts today are made of some thin fabric that moves a lot, riding high on her thigh. Jason gets a glimpse of pink underwear before he clears his throat and forces himself to focus on other things. “Black raspberry.”
He shifts a bit so he can see her face. The corner of her mouth is turned up, which means he’s forgiven. “Cool.”
“Cool,” she echoes.
+++
Jason was brainwashed to hate Batman. He wasn’t brainwashed to hate Bruce, who took him off the streets, snuck him cookies when Alfred said no, Bruce who would shrug off his playboy persona as soon as they stepped in the house. The Bruce who Jason was starting to call Dad in his head before he died.
He can hate what Batman represented; a constant war, his soldiers left as collateral damage. He can’t hate what Bruce was to him; a home, finally, a family pre-made and ready to love him. So maybe he ran into Bruce on the streets a few hours ago, and it’s fucked with his head, who cares?
It’s weird to turn a corner and bump into the man who left him to die, pretend not to notice the way he’s limping a little. Old man isn’t just a nickname anymore. The war on crime breaks everyone. Bruce had dropped the persona for once, nodding at Jason before strolling away. None of that billionaire playboy charm bullshit.
It’s not like Bruce is gonna act like they’re even friendly. Steph rolls her eyes when he tells her this. “You literally tried to take over the city once, Jason. With fear gas. He never once thought about going after you.” Sighing at his bewildered look, she continues, “Bruce loves you as much as he loves Tim, or Cass, or any of us. Maybe not as much as Dick.”
Jason nods; everyone loves Dick, it’s not something to be jealous over. “You think?”
She’s in the kitchen, leaning over the counter writing a shopping list. Her hair shimmers gold and for a moment he forgets all about Bruce. “Of course. I’m the most emotionally stable out of all of us. I know these things.”
He snorts; Steph is just as fucked up as he is if not more. He knows she’s aware of this, probably smirking. “Okay, Steph,” he says, letting it go. She laughs once before the silence in the apartment is broken only by her scribbling.
+++
“I’m just sayin’, I’m just…y’know,” Tim slurs, delightfully drunk, the fuckin’ lightweight. Jason watches him from over the rim of his glass, sends a glance at Steph. She’s two drinks in, a little softer around the edges, stripped out of everything but the skintight shorts and sports bra she wears under her suit.
Tim’s taken his armor off; without it, he’s even smaller. Bruce really went all out on the armor with this one, Jason realizes. No surprise there. Tim’s leaning heavily against Steph’s shoulder, her hair a bright yellow against his dark skin.
Steph raises an eyebrow, putting an arm around Tim’s shoulder as he pushes his face into her neck, affectionate. “Sttttteph. Love you.” Jesus, this kid is adorable. And if he’s thinking that, he must be drunker than he thought. Still, Jason kind of hates himself more for trying to kill him. It’s been a few weeks since they first met and things are easier now.
Jason rolls his neck; his shoulders hurt all the time now, leftover damage from a lot of time spent hanging with his arms tied over his head. Best position for Joker to beat him, when he couldn’t curl up. That, or the wheelchair. He spent so much time sitting in that goddamn wheelchair.
Jason shifts, shuddering, can nearly feel the barbwire Joker always used around his chest. Fuck. He doesn’t want to be doing this right now.
“Jason?” Steph’s watching him, concern hiding in the blank planes of her face. As she and Tim have gotten drunker, she’s been more herself again, without the faint smile and cheer of Fake Steph. It’s easier, not to see what she was before, not to wonder whether he’s changed that much, too. Probably.
“What?” he grunts, taking a long drink, grimacing. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. His fingers are beginning to tingle, a sure sign he’s had too much.
“You still with us, Jason?” Tim’s grinning, loose, almost an entirely different person from the tense Robin he was earlier. Probably because Jason’s stopped wanting to kill him. It’s been a few weeks since they first met, and things are easier now.
“Yeah,” Jason says, rough. “I’m still with you.”
+++
When Jason comes to, briefly, at around 3 in the morning, Steph is still awake. She’s leaning back on the couch, Tim’s face pressed to her arm, slack-mouthed and drooling, slouched halfway off the seat. His ankle is a few inches from Jason’s face, deceptively delicate. Jason’s seen the damage this kid can do.
“Steph?” Steph’s looking down at him; he can’t see her face in the halo of the streetlights outside and it’s making him uneasy.
Jason spent too much time in Arkham with people who had faces cast in shadow of the spotlight Joker always cast on him. His worst memory is the first time Joker showed up, wearing a Batman costume, the sick bastard. Jason had thought, for one hopeful moment, that Bruce had shown up, that all he’d get out of this was a broken ankle and some bruises, a scolding from Alfred. Then Joker had stepped into the light.
Jason hates this, hates that the smallest things bring him back, catch his breath tight in his ribs. “Steph?” he says again, hearing his voice tremble. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s 6’3 and built like a truck, he shouldn’t be scared of a small girl sitting in the dark.
She leans forward, into the light. He examines her face, the dark pits of her eyes, and relaxes. It’s just Steph. Tim makes a snuffling noise, toppling over, burying his nose in the curve of Steph’s hip. Jason darts his gaze there, the skin silver in this light, the scars almost hidden.
Steph’s just a little softer than the rest of them, round curves where the others, even Cass, have muscle. She got into this later than them, had a kid, and it shows. He wants to…God, he wants to fall into that softness and never come out. “Jason.”
He jerks up, still on the edge of sleep, losing track of where his eyes are supposed to be when he usually tries not to let his gaze drop further than her collarbones. She’s beautiful, she’s so beautiful. The blank behind her eyes only makes her better, makes her understand.
“Mm?” She’s resting her hand on Tim’s head, fingers curving around his skull and onto the sharp planes of his cheek. Jason gets to his elbows, head swimming, still drunk. He’s only been out for a half hour. The carpet is rough under his cheek, but he’s slept in worse places. There’s no more words from her, so he slips back into sleep.
+++
“Who was the first person you ever killed?” Steph asks over coffee, tapping her spoon against her cup.
Jason sputters and spits, halfway through a returning thought in their continuous argument over best authors. He says Gabriel Garcia Marquez, she says Sharon Creech. He’ll sway her eventually. “What?”
“You heard me.” Steph’s expression never changes, but he catches the edge of reprimand in her voice.
“I don’t. Uh.” He clears his throat, hunching into his seat. Everything is too small for him now, even the coffee cup he cradles between his fingers. “Why do you want to know?” She’s looking behind him, at the people walking by outside the window. Gotham City, always busy.
“Bruce wants to know,” she tells him, not bothering to lie. He appreciates that, ignoring the hot curl of anger in his gut. Of course Bruce wants to know, the nosy bastard. Just wants to brood over Jason’s fall and what he probably considers betrayal. If Jason didn’t kill, even with what he did to Gotham, Bruce would’ve taken him back. He tells himself he doesn’t want that.
“And if I don’t tell you?” he snaps, standing, looming over her. His empty cup tumbles to the floor. Usually he doesn’t use his size against her, doesn’t want to. “Have you been telling Bruce everything, talking behind my back?”
Steph runs her eyes up and down his body, unimpressed. “You’re being irrational.” The barista is staring; he sits back down, sweeping the cup from the ground and tossing it over his shoulder, knowing it’ll land in the trash. “And I haven’t been telling Bruce anything,” she says, something angry flashing across her face. “That’s the only thing he’s asked me.”
“Sure,” he scoffs, leaning back in his seat, glaring at her. He doesn’t like being angry with Steph, but this is Bruce, the man controls everyone. He’ll bet she runs back to tattle to him just like all the others, hoping for a scrap of affection, and that nastiness is Joker talking. Doesn’t matter.
Jason bares his teeth, getting a returning look from Steph, emotion bleeding into her expression as she gets angrier. “You act like you’re the only person he’s let down,” she hisses, hands in fists on the table. “At least he wanted you. I was never even let into the Manor. I was always just some stupid girl from the Narrows, the second-rate daughter of a second-rate villain. I never even expected Bruce to come when Black Mask got me, I didn’t have hope, I just lay there and he hurt me and Bruce did nothing. I’m still not good enou-”
She cuts herself off, folding back in on herself as Jason watches in stunned silence. The skin high on her cheeks is flushed, her hands white-knuckled. He wonders how she hides that feeling, when he can’t. How long it’s been since she showed this much emotion. He’s around her all the time now, she can’t fool him like she does the rest of the family. “I haven’t told Bruce anything,” she repeats, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Blockbuster and Catman,” he says after a few seconds, rubbing his thumb over the old scar on his index finger. When Steph looks up her gaze is sharp, seeing right through him. “The first people I killed. I don’t. Um. I don’t know which one was first.”
Joker dressed them up as Batman and brought them to him. He was drugged up to the gills by Harley, confused, almost relieved when she pushed the gun into his hands and told him to shoot. At least it would be over, at least Batman would go away and maybe they’d stop hurting him. Wishful thinking. Fuck, he hates this, all this sharing. People say that opening up is as painful as pulling nails, but Jason has had his nails pulled out before, so he would know the feeling. That was worse, but this is pretty bad, too. He doesn’t want to remember the pain, being on his knees before Joker. Steph deserves this, though, she deserves the parts of him he’s able to share. “It’s fuzzy,” he mumbles. “You can tell Bruce. First time, I didn’t want to.”
He holds her gaze for a long moment, searching for pity, finding only understanding. “Thank you for telling me,” she says, very softly. He nods once before she’s starting a new conversation, something lighter that doesn’t make his stomach churn. He’s grateful.
+++
“Jason!” He can hear Steph through the water of his shower, as he’s halfway through rinsing his hair.
“What?” he hollers back, cocking his head.
“Get out here!” “I’m showering!”
“Get out here!” she yells again, this time her voice holding the edge of command. He groans aloud, turning the shower off before wrapping a towel around his hips. If Steph wants to order him around, she can deal with his naked chest. Although he kind of wishes the towel was bigger, or he was smaller. “Jason!”
“Jesus, Steph, what?” he grumbles, walking into the living room. She’s in her costume, standing in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips. She’s a little bossy when she’s in uniform. He kind of likes it. There’s a slight roundness to her eyes when she gets a look at him, an intake of breath he can hear from here. Must be a reaction to all his scars.
Jason slicks his wet hair back with a hand, pulling his muscles tight, watching her eyes track the movement. What is up with her today, she never watches him for this long. “What?” he repeats, and she makes a small movement that would be a jerk to attention on most people.
“Uh. I got cut on patrol.”
“Need me to stitch you up?” She nods, dumb like she usually isn’t. “Okay, then. Why don’t you go sit at the kitchen table,” he says to her, enunciating clearly like she’s stupid. Worry blooms in his chest; maybe she got hurt worse than he thought, maybe she’s got blood loss making her slow.
He watches as she makes her way to the kitchen table, taking off the plates of armor, peeling her suit to the waist. There’s a slice in her forehead, bleeding a lot like head wounds always do, staining her hair red. “What happened?” he asks as he grabs the first aid kit, hitching the towel higher on his hips.
She makes a small noise, but she’s expressionless when he turns around. “Fucking ninjas,” is all she says. He makes an agreeing hum as he folds her hood back; it’s always been unclear to him why so many criminals rely on swords and jumping when there are guns to use.
She’s already taken the mask she wears under the hood off, leaving it on the table. It’s a flat black space like Cass wears, with eyeholes where Cass has none. He likes her Spoiler costume better than what he’s seen of the Batgirl one. Or the one as Robin. He’s glad she’s Spoiler again, out from under Bruce’s thumb.
Underneath the hood her eyes are still clear; he leans over her to check the back of her head, running his thumbs gently over her skull to feel for more blood or bumps. Her hair is soft as it runs through his fingers. Her gaze is roughly at eye level with his abs, inches away from his skin. Now is not the time to be distracted, he reminds himself. “Seems pretty shallow. Take deep breaths.” Steph’s eyes slip closed as his fingers touch her skin, pinching the cut together, threading the needle through it.
Alfred used to do this for him, would sit him down in the Batcave and force him to stay still, would bring him chocolate milk after to soothe his sweet tooth. Alfred held him together, even when Bruce was at his worst.
Steph lets out a breath when he’s finally done, tying the thread off. He’s not expecting her to lean into his touch, but he smooths his thumb over her forehead anyway, smearing some of the blood. They can both do with some kindness. It’s funny; in this lighting he could almost mistake the look on her face for affection. “Thanks, Jason.”
He takes a step away, pushing his hair away from his face again. Wet, it gets in his eyes and it’s annoying. “It’s nothing.” She smiles anyway, a little distant but hey. He’ll take what he can get. He thinks, lately, that she’s starting to come back, after being untethered for so long. If it’s because of him, he’s honored. “Can I finish my shower now?” he teases, grinning. He doesn’t wait for an answer, spins on his heel and heads for the bathroom. Steph huffs a laugh behind him.
+++
After a few weeks where he’s on his best behavior, barely even grumbling, Steph lets him out on patrol. Lets him, he thinks, like a dog. She promised not to follow him, not to interfere, but he’s already had to slip out from under Dick’s watch and narrowly avoid Tim’s. He has no doubt that Barb’s cameras are following him through the city.
Running like this, over rooftops he knows like the back of his hand, he could almost pretend he’s Robin again, the kid who had plans for a different costume in the future, a Jaybird. It prods at him like an ache, he’s not trusted. Well. He shouldn’t expect to be.
Still, when he catches a black shadow following him smoothly through the night, he thinks for a moment about shooting it. Just a warning shot, it’d barely graze her arm. Steph would kill him, though.
“Are you here to babysit me?” he snaps, running high on adrenaline and old memories. He knows that’s Joker speaking, the nastiness isn’t him, not really. Cass tilts her head, crouched easily on the gate at the edge of the roof they’re on. He rolls his shoulders, puffing himself up, ready to fight. There’s no way he can take her, though, doesn’t matter the training he has.
“You’re scared,” she says, seeing right through him. He stiffens. It’s unnerving, watching the black space where her face should be. This Batgirl is creepy. “You belong.” He wonders if it’s just him being crazy, or if her words are coming easier than the last time he saw her. She peels her mask up to her nose, giving him a sliver of a smile. “Welcome.”
Just like that, all his worries are eased; that he doesn’t belong here anymore, doesn’t fit in Gotham, that the family won’t be able to take him back. Jesus, Cass could make millions as a therapist. He knows she can read what he’s thinking, but he grunts a thanks anyway, stepping backward and off the roof, away from her eyes. He doesn’t want her knowing everything.
+++
“Fuck, please, please, I don’t know anything,” the man tied to a chair in front of Jason sobs, cradling his newly broken fingers to his chest, blood dripping from his jaw where Jason took two teeth just for starters.
“Where are they?” Jason asks again, smiling pleasantly inside the helmet.
“I don’t know,” the man sobs. Alonso Carboni, age 32, a small time hood with big aspirations in the human trafficking business. So far he has three counts of rape under his belt. There aren’t going to be any more.
“Where are the girls, Alonso? You could work with me, we could be pals,” Jason croons, tapping his blackjack against his palm. So far Alonso’s ribs are only cracked. That could change. He didn’t tell Steph what he came here to do, cause it would upset her. The Bat family will beat up a criminal, dangle them off a building, but they stop at torture. Jason doesn’t stop at anything.
He rests his boot between Alonso’s leg, inches away from some very personal areas. His eyes widen. “Please…”
“I can hurt you until you tell me, or we can make this easier on ourselves,” Jason coaxes, pressing his foot down. “I’ll even let you go afterwards.”
He should kill Alonso, scum like this doesn’t deserve to live, but he promised Steph. Alonso lets out a long breath, wheezing a little. He’ll be fine. “They’ll kill me.”
“I’ll kill you, too,” Jason promises, not sure if he means it. He remembers friends taken off the streets, girls who never came back, and steels himself. He means it. “I am willing and able to hurt you for hours beforehand, Alonso. Tell me so you can stop wasting my time.” He pushes his boot down more for emphasis.
“Okay! Okay. They’re in Kingston, 86th and Third. Red brick.” Alonso lets his head hang, sniffling like the pathetic bitch he is. “The girls are in the basement.”
Jason beams, lowering his boot. “See, Alonso? I knew we could be friends.” Alonso’s smile is watery with relief, his eyes widening in the seconds before Jason knocks him out. He spins, gun out, when he hears a sharp intake of breath behind him.
It’s just Dick, of course it’s just Dick, it’s always going to be the most beloved son of the superhero community who sees him at his worst. Dick’s escrima sticks are clasped lightly in each hand; he’s tense but not combat ready. “I heard on the police scanners that there was screaming here.”
His eyes won’t leave Alonso’s swollen face, the blood dripping onto his chest. There’s fear and concern in his eyes. Jesus, sometimes Jason forgets that Dick doesn’t have the same training he does, that Dick didn’t learn the ugly stuff.
“What, he’s not dead,” Jason snaps, annoyed. Dick’s Disney prince face is sad, big blue eyes watching him. It’s unfair to be that pretty, it really is. The slow curl of guilt fills his stomach, which is stupid, he’s not supposed to kill people and he didn’t. Torture isn’t death. This guy isn’t even permanently damaged, for fuck’s sake.
“You’re. Uh. Pretty good at torturing people,” Dick says after a few more moments of silence.
“Well, I always did learn best from experience,” Jason says bitterly. Dick’s face is so expressive when he’s Nightwing; the corners of his mouth turning down with grief, shoulders slumping like it’s physically weighing on him. Jason bites his lip, wanting to take the words back. What is wrong with him? Why does he have to hurt everyone? Dick’s never been anything but the best guy Jason knows, the brightest. He doesn’t deserve Jason’s sharp edges.
“Jay…” Dick catches himself, throwing a wary glance Jason’s way. “I mean, Jason.” Jason allows the slip, tilting his head to show he’s listening. “Does it still hurt?”
Of course it fucking hurts, he wants to yell. His shoulders ache constantly, his jaw will never close right again, he can’t sit certain ways or his back aches. The J on his cheek is always there. But Dick won’t get it, Dick’s one of the good ones in the family, him and Tim and Cass and Barb. Jason’s not gonna drag him down to his level.
“Nah,” he answers instead, slipping his knife back into its sheath. “I don’t feel anything.”
+++
Black Bat and Red Hood are perched on a rooftop overlooking Grand Avenue; it’s a Thursday night, chilly, the summer blending into fall. Nothing’s going to happen. Cass is crosslegged on her gargoyle, hands resting loosely on her knees. Jason dangles his legs over the side next to her, heels thunking against brick. Neither of them like to talk much, or Cass can’t, really, so it’s quiet.
He catches a hint of a sound, familiar, the hair on his arms prickling. Cass tilts her head, tensing as the sound comes closer. It’s high pitched, cackling, it’s the Joker. He’s come back. Cass is saying something Jason can’t hear over the roaring in his ears as he scrambles backwards, already turning his cheek to take the worst of the blow that was always coming.
Cass leaps, pinning him down, but his heart is pounding and he rips her hands off, shoving her away, his suit too small and the only protection he has right now. Cass rolls easily to her feet, kicking him so hard in the chest that he feels his heart stutter, breath leaving in a huff.
“Stand down!” she orders, eerily reminiscent of Bruce. Jason goes still, taking in deep, heaving breaths through his air filters. “Not Joker.” She sweeps her hand out to the opposite building, where Joker’s grinning face is plastered on one of the screens.
It’s just a news program remembering the years since his death. Jason almost had a panic attack over fucking CNN. He tears his gaze from Vicki Vale’s serious face, why is he like this? Scared, weak, he’s the broken Robin that Joker always said he was. “Hood.”
Jason looks up at Cass’s black mask, her head inclined towards him from where she’s standing. “Sorry.” She shakes her head, kneeling. “I’m not…I’m sorry. I’m not good enough. He ruined me.” Cass folds her legs, facing him, the cape draping over her form and turning her into something bigger than she is.
“I don’t…Hm.” Cass pauses, looking for the word. “When I was small.” Despite his fear, chest still heaving, Jason makes an encouraging noise, waiting for her to speak. “Bones…broken.” She mimes a bone being snapped with her fists; Jason winces. “Many times. Agony.” She holds her hands out in front of her, examining the fingers like she’s seeing where everything was broken, every hit she took. “But they healed. Healed different, but…” She looks up at Jason; he knows she could be talking about him or herself or Steph or any one of them, really. “Still good. Still work.”
He fakes a huge smile, like he doesn’t see what she’s saying underneath. Sure, Jason’s healing, but like Cass said; bones heal, too. Only they’re never quite the same. Or they heal wrong, he thinks darkly. “Okay.”
“Stop brooding,” she scolds. “Like Bruce.” He catches amusement in the set of her shoulders and laughs in spite of himself, taking the hand she offers to pull himself up. She tugs so hard he stumbles. Her and Tim, tiny but strong. No wonder they get along so well.
“Alright, B,” he says, feeling a pang of nostalgia. “Let’s get back to work.”
+++
After about two shots and a lot of Steph’s prompting, Jason goes back to Wayne Manor. Of course, he does it in the dead of night while Bruce is on patrol, but it’s a step. The usual traps and alarms are off. Steph told them he was coming, then.
Alfred is awake; Jason sometimes wondered, as a kid, whether Alfred ever slept. He’s in the kitchen, painstakingly shining the silverware. Jason leans in the doorway and watches him for a bit, feeling the prick of tears in the back of his throat. It’s been a while. “Hey, old man.”
Alfred’s too British to flinch, turning stiffly in his chair to face Jason. “Hello.”
“Hi.” Jason rubs his thumb over the scar on his index finger, without guns or helmet to fiddle with. He came here unarmored on Steph’s urging, and he’s grateful for it now as Alfred surges to his feet, giving a handshake that turns into a hug.
“Master Jason.” His voice shakes. Jason nods, hugs him back, feeling the delicate bones of an old man.
“Miss me?” he asks, trying and failing to keep the mocking tone from his voice. Alfred steps back, unruffled, face settling in familiar, stern lines.
“Of course. We all did.” Jason opens his mouth, about to disagree. Alfred stops him with a look. “Do not argue with me. I’m an old man. Who knows how much time I have left for senseless bickering?”
Jason snorts a laugh. “You’ve already outlived me, Al.”
He immediately regrets that joke when Alfred stiffens, pulling his shoulders back. “I can only wish I hadn’t, Master Jason.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Jason stares at his feet, searching for words. The last time he saw Alfred was the night he went after Joker, at dinner. Lasagna, he knows. He remembers cause he threw it up later after the third crowbar hit to the stomach. He can’t remember what his last words to Alfred were, but he’s willing to bet Alfred does. At that dinner Jason was a ball of nerves, knowing he was going out to kill Joker, ignoring everything Bruce ever taught him. “I didn’t mean. Um. I’m sorry.”
Alfred clasps him on the shoulder, eyes softening. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” Well, that’s the first he’s heard of that.
“Yeah, well,” he says weakly, catching the edge of pity in Alfred’s face enough to scrape at his sore points. He’s fine, he’s not the weak, broken Robin anymore. He won’t let himself be. “I have to go,” Jason says, abrupt.
“Of course, sir.” Alfred steps away, impassive, shaking his hand once. “Come back any time.”
“Yeah. Uh. I will.” He offers a smile that’s shaky around the edges before ducking out, near running across the manor grounds to reach his bike.
Everything he sees is familiar and strange all at once, giving a dissonance that catches his breath in his chest. It’s been years, he doesn’t belong here anymore, or he’s back at the asylum and Harley’s about to shock him awake. He’s going to come back in a ball, in a room splattered with his own blood, smelling so bad that he doesn’t even notice it anymore and it’s going to hurt.
Choking on short breaths, he pulls over to have a panic attack on the side of the road, sitting with his back against his bike and his head between his knees. The Batmobile blows past a few minutes later, because of fucking course it does, the rumble of the engine Jason would fall asleep to after patrol. Bruce never sees him.
+++
“If it ain’t my favorite Batbaby!” Jason whips around, gun out. He’s been stalking alleys on Bleake Island, looking for some of Falcone’s men, who’ve scattered like rats after Black Bat interrupted their gun swap. Most likely they’re long gone, but he’ll put in the effort. Harley’s standing there, close enough that the barrel of his gun bumps against the upward curve of her nose. She grins, eyes crossing. “Oh no! And I thought we were friends.”
Swallowing the hot, aching urge to put a bullet through her babydoll face, he holsters his gun, spitting, “Fuck off, Harley.” She just laughs, pigtails bouncing. That was always the worst part, the joy she takes in her work. She’s smart, smarter than most, able to twist people around her fingers and giggle about it. Only stupid thing about her is her obsession with Joker. Speaking of, “Batman already killed Joker. Go away before I find out what else I can take from you.”
Something raw boils behind her face as she scowls, gripping her hammer. “One more word, Hood, and I’ll…”
“Careful,” he warns, tapping his fingers over the gun at his hip. “I’m a good shot. You would know.”
He takes ugly pleasure when she recoils, ducking her head. “Look, I didn’t come here to fight.”
“That’s new.”
“I gotta tell you something.” He waits, rubbing his thumb over the scar on his index finger. “You know Professor Pyg?”
Wrinkling his nose behind the helmet, Jason nods.
“Yeah.” “People tell me things, y’know? I’m a good listener.” She smiles nervously, bravado gone, and Jason is curious in spite of himself. “And you’re. Uh. You hang around. Bats is a little harder to find. So is the little Robin.”
“Don’t you fucking touch him,” Jason growls, muscling into her space. Harley’s already tried for Tim once, Jason’ll be damned if he lets her do it again.
Her blue eyes pop wide, then narrow. “I wasn’t gonna. Now listen, cause I gotta tell you something.”
He forces his shoulders to loosen, inclining his head to watch her. “Fine. What?”
“I know you don’t work like the Bats, not anymore. You kill people who gotta die, right?”
“Yeah, sure, Harley. Just tell me about Pyg.” She frowns, looking down, hands twisting. Her nails are chipped red and black, bitten down to the quick.
When Joker died, everything about Harley expanded for a while, like her crazy was held back by his. She got her own gang and her own costume and she was vicious. She shrunk down again though, after Jason tried taking over the city, when her last chance at Joker was gone. She’s better off.
“Pyg’s got a buncha kids in the old amusement park off Miagani. House of Mirrors.”
“And?”
“And y’know what he does to people! They’re kids, Hood.”
“I was a kid,” he snarls, touching the catch that takes his helmet off; not like it matters, he’s got a domino on underneath. “I was fifteen. It didn’t matter to you back then. Or have you forgotten?”
Harley bites her bottom lip, looking like the little girl her persona apes, eyes skittering over the J on his cheek. “Yeah. I mean, no. I ain’t gonna forget any of that.”
He moves away from her, not liking the honest emotion he sees in her face. “Yeah. Me either. I’ll get the kids, but stay the fuck away from me.” He puts his helmet back on, the panels clicking into place, and heads for his bike.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts out as he swings a leg over it. Not a sentence he ever expected to hear. Not a sentence he gives a damn about. Harley lost her chance to be sorry the first time she drugged him til he was drooling, twisted him til he didn’t know in from out. Jason doesn’t have to forgive everyone. He doesn’t bother responding as he speeds away.
+++
“You should come with me,” Steph says thoughtfully, pinning a wayward curl into place. He eyes the creamy curve of her neck where it dips into her shoulder, the scars hidden by skillfully applied makeup.
It’s a Wayne gala and everyone in the family has been ordered to show up. Well. Almost everyone. Steph’s dress today is a rich shade of blue, her eyes nearly too bright against it. It dips low in the front, almost to her belly, held up by prayer more than structure, he thinks.
“What are you talking about?” he grunts, trying to focus more on his book than her. Dante’s Inferno should be able to hold his complete attention, it usually does, but his eyes keep straying back to Steph, the pink pout of her lips, the fabric of the dress tight at her hips, flowing out to the floor.
“You should come to the party with me,” she says, like that’s obvious and feasible. He scoffs, bookmarking his page, placing the book aside.
“Yeah, sounds like a great idea. ‘Dead Wayne kid found alive, now a mass murderer. More at six.’ That’ll go over well.”
The eye roll he receives in the mirror makes him grin. “You won’t be recognized. No one remembers you.” That stings, a little, but he knows she didn’t mean it to. “And your face has changed.”
“So has my desire to suffer through shitty parties.”
“Fine. Forget I said anything.” There’s maybe, possibly an edge of hurt in her voice. “Limo’s here. See you in a few hours.” She sweeps out with a glitter of fabric, heels clicking. Jason groans.
+
Forty-five minutes later, Jason has hit two men’s clothing stores and spent a good ten minutes in the mirror fixing his hair. The scar’s hidden, he smells like oaky, expensive cologne, and he’s crashed Bruce’s party easy as anything. Doing good so far. Doing real good.
Jason wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers and slips through the broad double doors that he used to swing on, chasing Dick around the house; he passes the alcove where he used to do homework, staring off at the Manor grounds when he got distracted. It hurts, but he’s had worse.
The aching feeling in his chest doesn’t compare to Joker’s foot on it, steadily compressing, letting up just as his vision faded, getting him a breath in, not fast enough before the air was forced from his lungs again. Two broken ribs that time. He shakes the thought away, one of hundreds and they don’t matter.
He heads further into the mansion, past servants who have replaced the ones he used to know, Marta and Joyce and Bailey. There are at least two secret exits he could reach from here, but he walks towards the party instead, tugging uncomfortably at his collar. There’s gotta be a hundred people in here, laughing, decadent, cream of the fucking crop.
Jason grits his teeth, searching for the rest of the family. Dick is in the middle of a knot of people, center of attention, as usual. He tips his head back, laughing, eye catching. Natural. Dick’s always been the best at both sides of his identities; he’s kind and charming and fun no matter who he is.
Cass, on the other hand, is a shadow in gold at the edges of the party, her eyes lined heavily with black, staring down anyone who tries to approach her. Probably doesn’t realize she’s doing it. Tim hovers somewhere nearby, talking animatedly with a group of investors who nod along, enthralled. Fuckin’ genius, where does Bruce find these kids.
Speaking of, Bruce is nowhere to be seen: he’s probably out patrolling, obsessive as always, leaving with a model or two who’ll give him an alibi. Barb is here, though, wheeling her way towards Dick, who takes her hand once she’s close enough, smiling down at her bright like the sun, kissing her palm almost absently before he dives back into the conversation. Barb’s face is flushed and pleased, her fingers twining with his.
Jason keeps scanning, searching for Steph. Her blonde hair is easy enough to see, his eyes used to finding her shape, knowing her movements. She’s talking to an older man with a mustache, his face a little patronizing, still kind enough that Jason doesn’t bristle. He slips up behind her instead, tapping gently at her bare shoulder, stepping back before he can be tempted to linger.
She turns, already smiling the bright Fake-Steph smile he hates, letting it drop a bit and turn real when she realizes it’s him. Not much of a change, but he’s learned how to read her now.
“I saw you across the hall. Mark me down as stunned,” he gushes, cheesy, catching the older man watching them with indulgent amusement before he steps away. “May I have this dance?” Jason asks, extending a hand.
“You’re a cliché,” she tells him, but that doesn’t stop her from taking his hand, a light pressure that he curls his fingers around, tugging her in a little closer.
“What can I say? You inspire the poet in me,” he says, still playing, leaning a bit to speak with her; he’s taller than everyone else in the room. She just rolls her eyes as he sweeps her across the dancefloor, one hand in hers, the other low on her hip where it’s bare, feeling the silk of her skin and the muscle underneath it.
He dips her, just a little, finds his gaze trapped on the small dip between her collarbones. There’s some sort of glitter there; it makes her skin look as soft as it feels. He wants to kiss it, tears his gaze away before this can become something more. He doesn’t get to have this right now.
“I’m surprised you’re here,” she admits as they twirl past Tim, now wrapped in the arms of a woman who’s slightly taller than him, her smile victorious. Tim is a catch. “You barely had any time to get ready.”
He shrugs, daring to let his hand slip lower, curve around her hip, fingers close to dipping beneath the fabric on the small of her back. “I know. Do I clean up well?” he asks, grinning, knowing he looks good.
Her eyes slide over where the suit fits at the shoulders, to his jaw and over his mouth. Her lips twist up. “You’ll do.” He laughs and spins her.
+++
Jason has a whole five days where he doesn’t have nightmares, doesn’t hear Joker laughing in the dark corners. It’s. He doesn’t know what it is, whether it’s Steph’s help or his own healing or just time passing, scabbing over the wounds. Maybe all three.
Either way, he spends a day in civilian clothes, going out just for the hell of it while Steph’s at school. He’s finally able to go out into his city without the fist of guilt to his gut. Gotham will rebuild, he’s not near enough to break her.
The old diner on Hurley is still there, the same three waitresses who put his food down and smile with tired kindness. When he was little, when things got bad, they’d slip him leftovers behind the place. He leaves a huge tip.
After, he wanders, ducks into stores that he used to steal from, desperate, deodorant and underwear and tampons for his mom. He touches the folded up wad of bills in his pocket just for reassurance and immediately feels stupid. There’s a pleasant ten minutes he spends talking with one store owner, a burly guy named Stan who recently had twins; the man has strong views about the Batman presence in the city.
He heads back home once Stan’s finished talking, loping along Gotham’s streets not bothering to take the roofs. By the time he gets back Steph is home, waiting for him, her legs crossed. She’s wearing jean shorts over tights today, one of his leather jackets. It looks good on her, the sleeves a hair too long.
“Hey.”
“Hey. Where were you?”
“Out,” he answers, taking his own jacket off, draping it over a chair.
“Out?” There’s a sliver of worry in her voice; she pulls her legs towards her chest, which is cute. He likes watching as she loosens out, comes back slowly. This arrangement is good for both of them, he realizes. He brings her back, forces her to stay inside herself, and she stops him from spiraling, falling back into the Knight’s mindset.
“Wanted some fresh air.” He grins, reassuring, and she gives him a sliver of a smile back, relaxing into the couch.
“Oh. What’s for dinner?”
“Chicken.”
“Cool.”
She tucks a wayward strand of blond hair behind her ear, asking, “How do I look?”
Like something he doesn’t deserve to touch, Jason thinks. “Rich,” he says aloud, getting a frown. “Bruce needs us at this event. Oracle says that Two-Face is gonna crash it.”
Rich white people bullshit, Jason thinks bitterly, like he did when he was Jason Todd-Wayne, Bruce’s hand heavy on his shoulder. These people are so ostentatious, so smug in their wealth and power as they stand on the backs of everyone below them. The last party, before he died, the steak was served in real gold foil. On the streets the night before that, Jason had watched a ten year old get on her knees for twelve dollars.
Steph’s watching him, confusion hiding somewhere in her face, if he looks for it. She really is beautiful, an old school movie star with her hair floating about her shoulders, long legs covered so he can’t see the scars. He’s pissed off about the party and pissed off that he wants her. He’s not enough of a person yet to even think about that shit, and to be honest, neither is she. “I’ll come with you,” he grunts, impulsive.
“I guess extra backup would be smart,” she muses. “But you can’t come in the limo with me. You’re still dead.”
Doesn’t he know it. “I hate limos.”
She shrugs, going to the window nearest the door and looking out with an inscrutable expression. “You hate anything that feels good, Jason.” He’s angry that she’s right as the limo pulls up and she swishes out, a bright spot against the dull gray of concrete. With a wave, she’s gone.
+
He fades into a disguise that he’s used before; the Latino waiter, blending into the background. It’s easy to cover the scar, now, hunch his shoulders so he doesn’t impose. He’s lucky it’s only the Replacement and Dick here. If it was Bruce he’d be caught in a second, Bruce’s big hand clamped around his neck.
Jason spies on Steph from a distance; she’s a pretty girl even in a room full of pretty girls, he thinks objectively. He watches as she tilts her head back, laughing at something Dick says, her fingers tight around Drake’s arm.
It takes Jason a few minutes to realize they think she’s fine, think she’s normal. There’s nothing of the real Steph here. She’s a gorgeous, glittering thing and they’re all falling for it. He wonders if they’ll ever figure it out, heads over to her after they leave.
“Canapes, miss?” he asks, watching the blankness slot back into place. She doesn’t try to hide around him and he kind of likes that.
“Thanks.” She pops one in her mouth, chewing slow.
“You’ve got Dickie-bird and Replacement pretty well fooled,” he says casually, looking for any reaction.
She just shrugs, disinterested. “They expected the same girl to come back,” she says, taking another canape. “So I did.” Someone calls her name so she turns away. They’re standing close enough that the fabric of her dress catches briefly on his fingertips before she walks off.
+
Two-Face crashes the party, of course, surrounded by armed thugs, demanding ‘two pieces of jewelry each.’ Jason sees a woman clutch at her pearls, whimpering, feels an unexpected stab of pity. They’re just people, they’re stupid, but he watches a man shield his wife, sees one woman struggle and spit.
He runs to a bathroom, changes fast, leave his outfit in the trash. He hates playing a waiter anyway. Steph is right next to him, a purple streak against the background as he turns to punch some guy in the face. His blood is up, pounding in his ears til it’s swallowed him whole, easy as anything, the throb of his knuckles against flesh. God, he was born for this.
Steph catches his gaze from across the room and grins, fierce and real. Blood flecks her chin, neatly matching the lipstick she’s still wearing. For a moment he’s back to back with Dick, the sizzle of his escrima sticks sparking through the air. Jason’s taller than him, finally; he’ll never outgrow Dick’s shadow but he’s bigger physically.
When they break apart Dick winks, saucy, does a flip that would be impossible for anyone else. Jason breaks a man’s arm in three places and it’s over, Two-Face with his head under the Replacement’s boot, his men groaning. They all exchange victorious grins.
+
After Two-Face is handcuffed and carted away by the cops, they head for the roof, him and Steph facing Drake and Dick. Steph’s got a bone shard in her hair that he brushes off, careful so his glove doesn’t catch on the strands.
Dick watches with his usual level of overbearing brotherly instinct, asking, “Settling in well?”
“Sure,” he grunts, rolling his eyes where Dick can’t see. The way he talks, you’d think Jason had just gone off to college or something. The Replacement is staring at him, Jason can sense it even though the whiteout lenses. He’s a smaller thing than Jason would’ve expected, bird boned and shorter than Steph. “What’re you looking at, Replacement?” Jason asks, deliberately aggressive, flashing a smirk that’s gotten him punched in the face more than once.
“My name is Tim,” he says flatly, body language never changing. Dick’s already moved in front of him, trying to be subtle; it was the one thing he was never good at. Jason’s suddenly furious, aching hurt underneath. The Replacement gets Dick’s protection, accepted into the fold like it’s nothing while Jason watches from outside.
He gets the uniform, he gets the family, he even has Wayne in his name now. Jason should’ve killed him while he had the chance. The thought must be obvious. Drake takes a step back, something small and miserable on his face.
That calms Jason down more than anything, more than Dick’s nervousness or knowing Steph’s there. Jesus, the kid can’t be older than eighteen, what the hell is Jason doing? He promised himself he wouldn’t get like this. Slowly forcing himself calm, he rolls his neck. “Okay. Tim.” He smiles, making nice. It’s not like being friendly will kill him. Probably.
+
Because Jason’s life is terrible and forever doomed to suck, the Replacement comes home with them. He soars overhead in that ridiculous glider, each move precise. Like every Robin, he brings something new to the table; not Dick’s grace or Jason’s ferocity, but a kind of single-minded focus that Jason can see even as he hops from rooftop to rooftop.
“Why is he with us?” Jason hisses to Steph over the comms, ducking under a billboard. The night is warm enough that his jacket feels like too much, too heavy.
“He’s my best friend,” she says easily. Jason spots the kid doing a perfectly executed flip that was clearly copied from Dick, feels a frustrated flash of understanding.
After they get home and change they regroup in the living room, Jason sprawled on his couch and ready to fight again. But the Replacement-Tim-comes out and he’s tiny, crossing the line from cute to pretty with big brown eyes. He’s a black kid, the first of Bruce’s sons.
Jason sizes him up for a second; he knows a lot already, knows that Tim’s too hard on himself, works long hours, has a twitchy, nervous edge to him. Jason had been so angry, seeing Bruce risk the life of another kid, seeing someone else in his uniform.
Almost he wants to be angry now, except Tim is shifting from foot to foot, glancing at Steph, clearly so eager to please it makes Jason ache. He’s been there, he’s worshipped Bruce, starved for any kind of attention and ashamed of being starved.
So he smiles, softening his sharp angles and being the better person if it kills him. Again. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
‘How’ve you been since I dropped you from a helicopter?’ he wants to ask, remembering the flutter of Tim’s cape, the surprised look on his face. Him and Dickie, both the same. They’ve been working these streets for years but they’re still shocked when someone’s mean to them.
But Jason’s not here to be an asshole. His instinct is to be shitty but he can grow beyond that or something. Barb would have worded it better he’s sure. Jason catches Steph’s eye; she looks politely disinterested, not that that means anything.
He settles further into the couch, meanly glad that there are no other chairs in the living room so Tim just has to stand there, awkward, while Steph sits on the couch. Facing Tim, Jason kinda feels like he and Steph are Tim’s disapproving parents. The thought makes him smirk, because he’s trying but he doesn’t have to be a saint in his own head.
“So, uh. How’re you guys doing?” Outside the cowl, Tim is a little softer, a little less harsh. Well, they all are, actually. Except for Jason himself, he thinks.
“Uh, we only just got back from a fight, pendejo,” Jason says, knowing he’s being a jerk but sometimes it’s like he can’t help himself.
Tim’s expression changes from placid to stormy in a second, taking a step forward. “Everybody knows what pendejo means, asshole,” he snaps, showing an unexpected strength of backbone. “And I could hear you over the comms back there. You forgot to switch to private.”
Jason looks to Steph; she’s watching them without expression, her eyes somewhere far off. He can’t find any help in her. “Jeez, I-”
“I get why you hate me, and I’m sorry, but I’m Robin now,” Tim continues, hands fisted at his sides. “You need to stop being such an asshole about it.”
Jason wants to rise to the bait, desperately; he’s got a gun tucked into his waistband right now, or his fists will do. Tim took the Robin costume, he took Dick’s protection, he took Bruce; and that’s when Jason stops himself, cause that’s what it’s really about, isn’t it? It’s always about Bruce, with this family. He doles out affection like it’s costing him something and he wonders why his children fight each other for it.
Steph puts a hand on Jason’s bare arm, her skin a few degrees cooler. Not like she’s holding him back; more like she’s holding herself back. He wonders how badly this situation makes her want to run. A fight between her best friend and whatever Jason is to her.
“I’m sorry,” Jason gets out eventually, a little forced but it’ll do. He’s not here to fight with this kid who, honestly, did nothing wrong. Steph leaves to the kitchen, where he can hear her putting the dishes away, slow.
“You killed Black Mask,” Tim says after a few seconds, not what Jason expected. He’ll take it though.
“Yeah.”
“For Steph.”
It’s not a question. Jason shrugs one shoulder anyway. For most people, when they say they’d kill for a friend, it’s hyperbole. For Jason, he means it. “Sure.” He wonders if this’ll be the thing that gets Tim to snap, to take a swing. It’s been a while since the bruises on his face healed, the ones from Bruce during the attack on the city. Jason touches the skin near his eye, remembering. “Estás enojado, amigo?” he asks. You angry, friend?
Tim rolls his eyes. “I speak Spanish, Jason. Stop trying to use it to be mysterious.” Jason laughs in spite of himself, entertained by this kid who’s clearly, blisteringly intelligent. “What else do you speak?” Jason asks in Mandarin, and then Arabic.
Tim responds in both, something almost like a smile touching his lips. Steph comes back in with carrots and hummus, the atmosphere much more relaxed, Jason chatting to Tim in Spanish, teasing him about his accent. There’s something like a smile on her face, too.
+++
Jason’s flicking through channels, not really paying attention, til he lands on the news and it’s Harley, her awful, lipsticked face and…look, he gets it, okay? He gets that she was brainwashed and hurt too but all he can see when he looks at her is her handing over the gun he first killed with.
Joker turned him into this but she helped, he thinks petulantly, stuck staring at the TV. Harley’s been out on the streets for a while now, causing mayhem. Jason can feel his shoulders tensing up, can hear Harley’s high pitched cackle, getting tenser and tenser until Steph walks in.
“Jason?” He rolls his neck, annoyed with himself cause he’s better now, he’s getting better he has to be.
“What?” he snaps, sharper than usual but there’s no reaction from her. Of course.
“I was just gonna ask what you’re making for dinner.”
“Arroz y haichuelas,” he answers, flicking to the next channel. Bruce’s face beams back at him, and honestly? Fuck his life.
“Is it spicy?” Steph asks, and Jason resists the urge to roll his eyes.
“Ugh, no, Steph. It’s not that spicy.”
“Can we get ice cream after?” It’s unusual enough for her to ask to do something that he looks up, confused. She’s blank faced, except there’s something a little hunched about her, her gaze focused over his head.
He rewinds the last few minutes and realizes he was being kind of a dick. He’s not going to apologize, cause that means admitting he was being a dick and then there’ll be a whole big mess of feelings that he doesn’t want to deal with right now, so he smiles instead, stretching his arms over the back of the couch. “Yeah, Steph. Of course we can get ice cream. Strawberry or vanilla?”
Her posture loosens a little as she takes a step to sit next to him. Her shorts today are made of some thin fabric that moves a lot, riding high on her thigh. Jason gets a glimpse of pink underwear before he clears his throat and forces himself to focus on other things. “Black raspberry.”
He shifts a bit so he can see her face. The corner of her mouth is turned up, which means he’s forgiven. “Cool.”
“Cool,” she echoes.
+++
Jason was brainwashed to hate Batman. He wasn’t brainwashed to hate Bruce, who took him off the streets, snuck him cookies when Alfred said no, Bruce who would shrug off his playboy persona as soon as they stepped in the house. The Bruce who Jason was starting to call Dad in his head before he died.
He can hate what Batman represented; a constant war, his soldiers left as collateral damage. He can’t hate what Bruce was to him; a home, finally, a family pre-made and ready to love him. So maybe he ran into Bruce on the streets a few hours ago, and it’s fucked with his head, who cares?
It’s weird to turn a corner and bump into the man who left him to die, pretend not to notice the way he’s limping a little. Old man isn’t just a nickname anymore. The war on crime breaks everyone. Bruce had dropped the persona for once, nodding at Jason before strolling away. None of that billionaire playboy charm bullshit.
It’s not like Bruce is gonna act like they’re even friendly. Steph rolls her eyes when he tells her this. “You literally tried to take over the city once, Jason. With fear gas. He never once thought about going after you.” Sighing at his bewildered look, she continues, “Bruce loves you as much as he loves Tim, or Cass, or any of us. Maybe not as much as Dick.”
Jason nods; everyone loves Dick, it’s not something to be jealous over. “You think?”
She’s in the kitchen, leaning over the counter writing a shopping list. Her hair shimmers gold and for a moment he forgets all about Bruce. “Of course. I’m the most emotionally stable out of all of us. I know these things.”
He snorts; Steph is just as fucked up as he is if not more. He knows she’s aware of this, probably smirking. “Okay, Steph,” he says, letting it go. She laughs once before the silence in the apartment is broken only by her scribbling.
+++
“I’m just sayin’, I’m just…y’know,” Tim slurs, delightfully drunk, the fuckin’ lightweight. Jason watches him from over the rim of his glass, sends a glance at Steph. She’s two drinks in, a little softer around the edges, stripped out of everything but the skintight shorts and sports bra she wears under her suit.
Tim’s taken his armor off; without it, he’s even smaller. Bruce really went all out on the armor with this one, Jason realizes. No surprise there. Tim’s leaning heavily against Steph’s shoulder, her hair a bright yellow against his dark skin.
Steph raises an eyebrow, putting an arm around Tim’s shoulder as he pushes his face into her neck, affectionate. “Sttttteph. Love you.” Jesus, this kid is adorable. And if he’s thinking that, he must be drunker than he thought. Still, Jason kind of hates himself more for trying to kill him. It’s been a few weeks since they first met and things are easier now.
Jason rolls his neck; his shoulders hurt all the time now, leftover damage from a lot of time spent hanging with his arms tied over his head. Best position for Joker to beat him, when he couldn’t curl up. That, or the wheelchair. He spent so much time sitting in that goddamn wheelchair.
Jason shifts, shuddering, can nearly feel the barbwire Joker always used around his chest. Fuck. He doesn’t want to be doing this right now.
“Jason?” Steph’s watching him, concern hiding in the blank planes of her face. As she and Tim have gotten drunker, she’s been more herself again, without the faint smile and cheer of Fake Steph. It’s easier, not to see what she was before, not to wonder whether he’s changed that much, too. Probably.
“What?” he grunts, taking a long drink, grimacing. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. His fingers are beginning to tingle, a sure sign he’s had too much.
“You still with us, Jason?” Tim’s grinning, loose, almost an entirely different person from the tense Robin he was earlier. Probably because Jason’s stopped wanting to kill him. It’s been a few weeks since they first met, and things are easier now.
“Yeah,” Jason says, rough. “I’m still with you.”
+++
When Jason comes to, briefly, at around 3 in the morning, Steph is still awake. She’s leaning back on the couch, Tim’s face pressed to her arm, slack-mouthed and drooling, slouched halfway off the seat. His ankle is a few inches from Jason’s face, deceptively delicate. Jason’s seen the damage this kid can do.
“Steph?” Steph’s looking down at him; he can’t see her face in the halo of the streetlights outside and it’s making him uneasy.
Jason spent too much time in Arkham with people who had faces cast in shadow of the spotlight Joker always cast on him. His worst memory is the first time Joker showed up, wearing a Batman costume, the sick bastard. Jason had thought, for one hopeful moment, that Bruce had shown up, that all he’d get out of this was a broken ankle and some bruises, a scolding from Alfred. Then Joker had stepped into the light.
Jason hates this, hates that the smallest things bring him back, catch his breath tight in his ribs. “Steph?” he says again, hearing his voice tremble. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s 6’3 and built like a truck, he shouldn’t be scared of a small girl sitting in the dark.
She leans forward, into the light. He examines her face, the dark pits of her eyes, and relaxes. It’s just Steph. Tim makes a snuffling noise, toppling over, burying his nose in the curve of Steph’s hip. Jason darts his gaze there, the skin silver in this light, the scars almost hidden.
Steph’s just a little softer than the rest of them, round curves where the others, even Cass, have muscle. She got into this later than them, had a kid, and it shows. He wants to…God, he wants to fall into that softness and never come out. “Jason.”
He jerks up, still on the edge of sleep, losing track of where his eyes are supposed to be when he usually tries not to let his gaze drop further than her collarbones. She’s beautiful, she’s so beautiful. The blank behind her eyes only makes her better, makes her understand.
“Mm?” She’s resting her hand on Tim’s head, fingers curving around his skull and onto the sharp planes of his cheek. Jason gets to his elbows, head swimming, still drunk. He’s only been out for a half hour. The carpet is rough under his cheek, but he’s slept in worse places. There’s no more words from her, so he slips back into sleep.
+++
“Who was the first person you ever killed?” Steph asks over coffee, tapping her spoon against her cup.
Jason sputters and spits, halfway through a returning thought in their continuous argument over best authors. He says Gabriel Garcia Marquez, she says Sharon Creech. He’ll sway her eventually. “What?”
“You heard me.” Steph’s expression never changes, but he catches the edge of reprimand in her voice.
“I don’t. Uh.” He clears his throat, hunching into his seat. Everything is too small for him now, even the coffee cup he cradles between his fingers. “Why do you want to know?” She’s looking behind him, at the people walking by outside the window. Gotham City, always busy.
“Bruce wants to know,” she tells him, not bothering to lie. He appreciates that, ignoring the hot curl of anger in his gut. Of course Bruce wants to know, the nosy bastard. Just wants to brood over Jason’s fall and what he probably considers betrayal. If Jason didn’t kill, even with what he did to Gotham, Bruce would’ve taken him back. He tells himself he doesn’t want that.
“And if I don’t tell you?” he snaps, standing, looming over her. His empty cup tumbles to the floor. Usually he doesn’t use his size against her, doesn’t want to. “Have you been telling Bruce everything, talking behind my back?”
Steph runs her eyes up and down his body, unimpressed. “You’re being irrational.” The barista is staring; he sits back down, sweeping the cup from the ground and tossing it over his shoulder, knowing it’ll land in the trash. “And I haven’t been telling Bruce anything,” she says, something angry flashing across her face. “That’s the only thing he’s asked me.”
“Sure,” he scoffs, leaning back in his seat, glaring at her. He doesn’t like being angry with Steph, but this is Bruce, the man controls everyone. He’ll bet she runs back to tattle to him just like all the others, hoping for a scrap of affection, and that nastiness is Joker talking. Doesn’t matter.
Jason bares his teeth, getting a returning look from Steph, emotion bleeding into her expression as she gets angrier. “You act like you’re the only person he’s let down,” she hisses, hands in fists on the table. “At least he wanted you. I was never even let into the Manor. I was always just some stupid girl from the Narrows, the second-rate daughter of a second-rate villain. I never even expected Bruce to come when Black Mask got me, I didn’t have hope, I just lay there and he hurt me and Bruce did nothing. I’m still not good enou-”
She cuts herself off, folding back in on herself as Jason watches in stunned silence. The skin high on her cheeks is flushed, her hands white-knuckled. He wonders how she hides that feeling, when he can’t. How long it’s been since she showed this much emotion. He’s around her all the time now, she can’t fool him like she does the rest of the family. “I haven’t told Bruce anything,” she repeats, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Blockbuster and Catman,” he says after a few seconds, rubbing his thumb over the old scar on his index finger. When Steph looks up her gaze is sharp, seeing right through him. “The first people I killed. I don’t. Um. I don’t know which one was first.”
Joker dressed them up as Batman and brought them to him. He was drugged up to the gills by Harley, confused, almost relieved when she pushed the gun into his hands and told him to shoot. At least it would be over, at least Batman would go away and maybe they’d stop hurting him. Wishful thinking. Fuck, he hates this, all this sharing. People say that opening up is as painful as pulling nails, but Jason has had his nails pulled out before, so he would know the feeling. That was worse, but this is pretty bad, too. He doesn’t want to remember the pain, being on his knees before Joker. Steph deserves this, though, she deserves the parts of him he’s able to share. “It’s fuzzy,” he mumbles. “You can tell Bruce. First time, I didn’t want to.”
He holds her gaze for a long moment, searching for pity, finding only understanding. “Thank you for telling me,” she says, very softly. He nods once before she’s starting a new conversation, something lighter that doesn’t make his stomach churn. He’s grateful.
+++
“Jason!” He can hear Steph through the water of his shower, as he’s halfway through rinsing his hair.
“What?” he hollers back, cocking his head.
“Get out here!” “I’m showering!”
“Get out here!” she yells again, this time her voice holding the edge of command. He groans aloud, turning the shower off before wrapping a towel around his hips. If Steph wants to order him around, she can deal with his naked chest. Although he kind of wishes the towel was bigger, or he was smaller. “Jason!”
“Jesus, Steph, what?” he grumbles, walking into the living room. She’s in her costume, standing in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips. She’s a little bossy when she’s in uniform. He kind of likes it. There’s a slight roundness to her eyes when she gets a look at him, an intake of breath he can hear from here. Must be a reaction to all his scars.
Jason slicks his wet hair back with a hand, pulling his muscles tight, watching her eyes track the movement. What is up with her today, she never watches him for this long. “What?” he repeats, and she makes a small movement that would be a jerk to attention on most people.
“Uh. I got cut on patrol.”
“Need me to stitch you up?” She nods, dumb like she usually isn’t. “Okay, then. Why don’t you go sit at the kitchen table,” he says to her, enunciating clearly like she’s stupid. Worry blooms in his chest; maybe she got hurt worse than he thought, maybe she’s got blood loss making her slow.
He watches as she makes her way to the kitchen table, taking off the plates of armor, peeling her suit to the waist. There’s a slice in her forehead, bleeding a lot like head wounds always do, staining her hair red. “What happened?” he asks as he grabs the first aid kit, hitching the towel higher on his hips.
She makes a small noise, but she’s expressionless when he turns around. “Fucking ninjas,” is all she says. He makes an agreeing hum as he folds her hood back; it’s always been unclear to him why so many criminals rely on swords and jumping when there are guns to use.
She’s already taken the mask she wears under the hood off, leaving it on the table. It’s a flat black space like Cass wears, with eyeholes where Cass has none. He likes her Spoiler costume better than what he’s seen of the Batgirl one. Or the one as Robin. He’s glad she’s Spoiler again, out from under Bruce’s thumb.
Underneath the hood her eyes are still clear; he leans over her to check the back of her head, running his thumbs gently over her skull to feel for more blood or bumps. Her hair is soft as it runs through his fingers. Her gaze is roughly at eye level with his abs, inches away from his skin. Now is not the time to be distracted, he reminds himself. “Seems pretty shallow. Take deep breaths.” Steph’s eyes slip closed as his fingers touch her skin, pinching the cut together, threading the needle through it.
Alfred used to do this for him, would sit him down in the Batcave and force him to stay still, would bring him chocolate milk after to soothe his sweet tooth. Alfred held him together, even when Bruce was at his worst.
Steph lets out a breath when he’s finally done, tying the thread off. He’s not expecting her to lean into his touch, but he smooths his thumb over her forehead anyway, smearing some of the blood. They can both do with some kindness. It’s funny; in this lighting he could almost mistake the look on her face for affection. “Thanks, Jason.”
He takes a step away, pushing his hair away from his face again. Wet, it gets in his eyes and it’s annoying. “It’s nothing.” She smiles anyway, a little distant but hey. He’ll take what he can get. He thinks, lately, that she’s starting to come back, after being untethered for so long. If it’s because of him, he’s honored. “Can I finish my shower now?” he teases, grinning. He doesn’t wait for an answer, spins on his heel and heads for the bathroom. Steph huffs a laugh behind him.
+++
After a few weeks where he’s on his best behavior, barely even grumbling, Steph lets him out on patrol. Lets him, he thinks, like a dog. She promised not to follow him, not to interfere, but he’s already had to slip out from under Dick’s watch and narrowly avoid Tim’s. He has no doubt that Barb’s cameras are following him through the city.
Running like this, over rooftops he knows like the back of his hand, he could almost pretend he’s Robin again, the kid who had plans for a different costume in the future, a Jaybird. It prods at him like an ache, he’s not trusted. Well. He shouldn’t expect to be.
Still, when he catches a black shadow following him smoothly through the night, he thinks for a moment about shooting it. Just a warning shot, it’d barely graze her arm. Steph would kill him, though.
“Are you here to babysit me?” he snaps, running high on adrenaline and old memories. He knows that’s Joker speaking, the nastiness isn’t him, not really. Cass tilts her head, crouched easily on the gate at the edge of the roof they’re on. He rolls his shoulders, puffing himself up, ready to fight. There’s no way he can take her, though, doesn’t matter the training he has.
“You’re scared,” she says, seeing right through him. He stiffens. It’s unnerving, watching the black space where her face should be. This Batgirl is creepy. “You belong.” He wonders if it’s just him being crazy, or if her words are coming easier than the last time he saw her. She peels her mask up to her nose, giving him a sliver of a smile. “Welcome.”
Just like that, all his worries are eased; that he doesn’t belong here anymore, doesn’t fit in Gotham, that the family won’t be able to take him back. Jesus, Cass could make millions as a therapist. He knows she can read what he’s thinking, but he grunts a thanks anyway, stepping backward and off the roof, away from her eyes. He doesn’t want her knowing everything.
+++
“Fuck, please, please, I don’t know anything,” the man tied to a chair in front of Jason sobs, cradling his newly broken fingers to his chest, blood dripping from his jaw where Jason took two teeth just for starters.
“Where are they?” Jason asks again, smiling pleasantly inside the helmet.
“I don’t know,” the man sobs. Alonso Carboni, age 32, a small time hood with big aspirations in the human trafficking business. So far he has three counts of rape under his belt. There aren’t going to be any more.
“Where are the girls, Alonso? You could work with me, we could be pals,” Jason croons, tapping his blackjack against his palm. So far Alonso’s ribs are only cracked. That could change. He didn’t tell Steph what he came here to do, cause it would upset her. The Bat family will beat up a criminal, dangle them off a building, but they stop at torture. Jason doesn’t stop at anything.
He rests his boot between Alonso’s leg, inches away from some very personal areas. His eyes widen. “Please…”
“I can hurt you until you tell me, or we can make this easier on ourselves,” Jason coaxes, pressing his foot down. “I’ll even let you go afterwards.”
He should kill Alonso, scum like this doesn’t deserve to live, but he promised Steph. Alonso lets out a long breath, wheezing a little. He’ll be fine. “They’ll kill me.”
“I’ll kill you, too,” Jason promises, not sure if he means it. He remembers friends taken off the streets, girls who never came back, and steels himself. He means it. “I am willing and able to hurt you for hours beforehand, Alonso. Tell me so you can stop wasting my time.” He pushes his boot down more for emphasis.
“Okay! Okay. They’re in Kingston, 86th and Third. Red brick.” Alonso lets his head hang, sniffling like the pathetic bitch he is. “The girls are in the basement.”
Jason beams, lowering his boot. “See, Alonso? I knew we could be friends.” Alonso’s smile is watery with relief, his eyes widening in the seconds before Jason knocks him out. He spins, gun out, when he hears a sharp intake of breath behind him.
It’s just Dick, of course it’s just Dick, it’s always going to be the most beloved son of the superhero community who sees him at his worst. Dick’s escrima sticks are clasped lightly in each hand; he’s tense but not combat ready. “I heard on the police scanners that there was screaming here.”
His eyes won’t leave Alonso’s swollen face, the blood dripping onto his chest. There’s fear and concern in his eyes. Jesus, sometimes Jason forgets that Dick doesn’t have the same training he does, that Dick didn’t learn the ugly stuff.
“What, he’s not dead,” Jason snaps, annoyed. Dick’s Disney prince face is sad, big blue eyes watching him. It’s unfair to be that pretty, it really is. The slow curl of guilt fills his stomach, which is stupid, he’s not supposed to kill people and he didn’t. Torture isn’t death. This guy isn’t even permanently damaged, for fuck’s sake.
“You’re. Uh. Pretty good at torturing people,” Dick says after a few more moments of silence.
“Well, I always did learn best from experience,” Jason says bitterly. Dick’s face is so expressive when he’s Nightwing; the corners of his mouth turning down with grief, shoulders slumping like it’s physically weighing on him. Jason bites his lip, wanting to take the words back. What is wrong with him? Why does he have to hurt everyone? Dick’s never been anything but the best guy Jason knows, the brightest. He doesn’t deserve Jason’s sharp edges.
“Jay…” Dick catches himself, throwing a wary glance Jason’s way. “I mean, Jason.” Jason allows the slip, tilting his head to show he’s listening. “Does it still hurt?”
Of course it fucking hurts, he wants to yell. His shoulders ache constantly, his jaw will never close right again, he can’t sit certain ways or his back aches. The J on his cheek is always there. But Dick won’t get it, Dick’s one of the good ones in the family, him and Tim and Cass and Barb. Jason’s not gonna drag him down to his level.
“Nah,” he answers instead, slipping his knife back into its sheath. “I don’t feel anything.”
+++
Black Bat and Red Hood are perched on a rooftop overlooking Grand Avenue; it’s a Thursday night, chilly, the summer blending into fall. Nothing’s going to happen. Cass is crosslegged on her gargoyle, hands resting loosely on her knees. Jason dangles his legs over the side next to her, heels thunking against brick. Neither of them like to talk much, or Cass can’t, really, so it’s quiet.
He catches a hint of a sound, familiar, the hair on his arms prickling. Cass tilts her head, tensing as the sound comes closer. It’s high pitched, cackling, it’s the Joker. He’s come back. Cass is saying something Jason can’t hear over the roaring in his ears as he scrambles backwards, already turning his cheek to take the worst of the blow that was always coming.
Cass leaps, pinning him down, but his heart is pounding and he rips her hands off, shoving her away, his suit too small and the only protection he has right now. Cass rolls easily to her feet, kicking him so hard in the chest that he feels his heart stutter, breath leaving in a huff.
“Stand down!” she orders, eerily reminiscent of Bruce. Jason goes still, taking in deep, heaving breaths through his air filters. “Not Joker.” She sweeps her hand out to the opposite building, where Joker’s grinning face is plastered on one of the screens.
It’s just a news program remembering the years since his death. Jason almost had a panic attack over fucking CNN. He tears his gaze from Vicki Vale’s serious face, why is he like this? Scared, weak, he’s the broken Robin that Joker always said he was. “Hood.”
Jason looks up at Cass’s black mask, her head inclined towards him from where she’s standing. “Sorry.” She shakes her head, kneeling. “I’m not…I’m sorry. I’m not good enough. He ruined me.” Cass folds her legs, facing him, the cape draping over her form and turning her into something bigger than she is.
“I don’t…Hm.” Cass pauses, looking for the word. “When I was small.” Despite his fear, chest still heaving, Jason makes an encouraging noise, waiting for her to speak. “Bones…broken.” She mimes a bone being snapped with her fists; Jason winces. “Many times. Agony.” She holds her hands out in front of her, examining the fingers like she’s seeing where everything was broken, every hit she took. “But they healed. Healed different, but…” She looks up at Jason; he knows she could be talking about him or herself or Steph or any one of them, really. “Still good. Still work.”
He fakes a huge smile, like he doesn’t see what she’s saying underneath. Sure, Jason’s healing, but like Cass said; bones heal, too. Only they’re never quite the same. Or they heal wrong, he thinks darkly. “Okay.”
“Stop brooding,” she scolds. “Like Bruce.” He catches amusement in the set of her shoulders and laughs in spite of himself, taking the hand she offers to pull himself up. She tugs so hard he stumbles. Her and Tim, tiny but strong. No wonder they get along so well.
“Alright, B,” he says, feeling a pang of nostalgia. “Let’s get back to work.”
+++
After about two shots and a lot of Steph’s prompting, Jason goes back to Wayne Manor. Of course, he does it in the dead of night while Bruce is on patrol, but it’s a step. The usual traps and alarms are off. Steph told them he was coming, then.
Alfred is awake; Jason sometimes wondered, as a kid, whether Alfred ever slept. He’s in the kitchen, painstakingly shining the silverware. Jason leans in the doorway and watches him for a bit, feeling the prick of tears in the back of his throat. It’s been a while. “Hey, old man.”
Alfred’s too British to flinch, turning stiffly in his chair to face Jason. “Hello.”
“Hi.” Jason rubs his thumb over the scar on his index finger, without guns or helmet to fiddle with. He came here unarmored on Steph’s urging, and he’s grateful for it now as Alfred surges to his feet, giving a handshake that turns into a hug.
“Master Jason.” His voice shakes. Jason nods, hugs him back, feeling the delicate bones of an old man.
“Miss me?” he asks, trying and failing to keep the mocking tone from his voice. Alfred steps back, unruffled, face settling in familiar, stern lines.
“Of course. We all did.” Jason opens his mouth, about to disagree. Alfred stops him with a look. “Do not argue with me. I’m an old man. Who knows how much time I have left for senseless bickering?”
Jason snorts a laugh. “You’ve already outlived me, Al.”
He immediately regrets that joke when Alfred stiffens, pulling his shoulders back. “I can only wish I hadn’t, Master Jason.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Jason stares at his feet, searching for words. The last time he saw Alfred was the night he went after Joker, at dinner. Lasagna, he knows. He remembers cause he threw it up later after the third crowbar hit to the stomach. He can’t remember what his last words to Alfred were, but he’s willing to bet Alfred does. At that dinner Jason was a ball of nerves, knowing he was going out to kill Joker, ignoring everything Bruce ever taught him. “I didn’t mean. Um. I’m sorry.”
Alfred clasps him on the shoulder, eyes softening. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” Well, that’s the first he’s heard of that.
“Yeah, well,” he says weakly, catching the edge of pity in Alfred’s face enough to scrape at his sore points. He’s fine, he’s not the weak, broken Robin anymore. He won’t let himself be. “I have to go,” Jason says, abrupt.
“Of course, sir.” Alfred steps away, impassive, shaking his hand once. “Come back any time.”
“Yeah. Uh. I will.” He offers a smile that’s shaky around the edges before ducking out, near running across the manor grounds to reach his bike.
Everything he sees is familiar and strange all at once, giving a dissonance that catches his breath in his chest. It’s been years, he doesn’t belong here anymore, or he’s back at the asylum and Harley’s about to shock him awake. He’s going to come back in a ball, in a room splattered with his own blood, smelling so bad that he doesn’t even notice it anymore and it’s going to hurt.
Choking on short breaths, he pulls over to have a panic attack on the side of the road, sitting with his back against his bike and his head between his knees. The Batmobile blows past a few minutes later, because of fucking course it does, the rumble of the engine Jason would fall asleep to after patrol. Bruce never sees him.
+++
“If it ain’t my favorite Batbaby!” Jason whips around, gun out. He’s been stalking alleys on Bleake Island, looking for some of Falcone’s men, who’ve scattered like rats after Black Bat interrupted their gun swap. Most likely they’re long gone, but he’ll put in the effort. Harley’s standing there, close enough that the barrel of his gun bumps against the upward curve of her nose. She grins, eyes crossing. “Oh no! And I thought we were friends.”
Swallowing the hot, aching urge to put a bullet through her babydoll face, he holsters his gun, spitting, “Fuck off, Harley.” She just laughs, pigtails bouncing. That was always the worst part, the joy she takes in her work. She’s smart, smarter than most, able to twist people around her fingers and giggle about it. Only stupid thing about her is her obsession with Joker. Speaking of, “Batman already killed Joker. Go away before I find out what else I can take from you.”
Something raw boils behind her face as she scowls, gripping her hammer. “One more word, Hood, and I’ll…”
“Careful,” he warns, tapping his fingers over the gun at his hip. “I’m a good shot. You would know.”
He takes ugly pleasure when she recoils, ducking her head. “Look, I didn’t come here to fight.”
“That’s new.”
“I gotta tell you something.” He waits, rubbing his thumb over the scar on his index finger. “You know Professor Pyg?”
Wrinkling his nose behind the helmet, Jason nods.
“Yeah.” “People tell me things, y’know? I’m a good listener.” She smiles nervously, bravado gone, and Jason is curious in spite of himself. “And you’re. Uh. You hang around. Bats is a little harder to find. So is the little Robin.”
“Don’t you fucking touch him,” Jason growls, muscling into her space. Harley’s already tried for Tim once, Jason’ll be damned if he lets her do it again.
Her blue eyes pop wide, then narrow. “I wasn’t gonna. Now listen, cause I gotta tell you something.”
He forces his shoulders to loosen, inclining his head to watch her. “Fine. What?”
“I know you don’t work like the Bats, not anymore. You kill people who gotta die, right?”
“Yeah, sure, Harley. Just tell me about Pyg.” She frowns, looking down, hands twisting. Her nails are chipped red and black, bitten down to the quick.
When Joker died, everything about Harley expanded for a while, like her crazy was held back by his. She got her own gang and her own costume and she was vicious. She shrunk down again though, after Jason tried taking over the city, when her last chance at Joker was gone. She’s better off.
“Pyg’s got a buncha kids in the old amusement park off Miagani. House of Mirrors.”
“And?”
“And y’know what he does to people! They’re kids, Hood.”
“I was a kid,” he snarls, touching the catch that takes his helmet off; not like it matters, he’s got a domino on underneath. “I was fifteen. It didn’t matter to you back then. Or have you forgotten?”
Harley bites her bottom lip, looking like the little girl her persona apes, eyes skittering over the J on his cheek. “Yeah. I mean, no. I ain’t gonna forget any of that.”
He moves away from her, not liking the honest emotion he sees in her face. “Yeah. Me either. I’ll get the kids, but stay the fuck away from me.” He puts his helmet back on, the panels clicking into place, and heads for his bike.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts out as he swings a leg over it. Not a sentence he ever expected to hear. Not a sentence he gives a damn about. Harley lost her chance to be sorry the first time she drugged him til he was drooling, twisted him til he didn’t know in from out. Jason doesn’t have to forgive everyone. He doesn’t bother responding as he speeds away.
+++
“You should come with me,” Steph says thoughtfully, pinning a wayward curl into place. He eyes the creamy curve of her neck where it dips into her shoulder, the scars hidden by skillfully applied makeup.
It’s a Wayne gala and everyone in the family has been ordered to show up. Well. Almost everyone. Steph’s dress today is a rich shade of blue, her eyes nearly too bright against it. It dips low in the front, almost to her belly, held up by prayer more than structure, he thinks.
“What are you talking about?” he grunts, trying to focus more on his book than her. Dante’s Inferno should be able to hold his complete attention, it usually does, but his eyes keep straying back to Steph, the pink pout of her lips, the fabric of the dress tight at her hips, flowing out to the floor.
“You should come to the party with me,” she says, like that’s obvious and feasible. He scoffs, bookmarking his page, placing the book aside.
“Yeah, sounds like a great idea. ‘Dead Wayne kid found alive, now a mass murderer. More at six.’ That’ll go over well.”
The eye roll he receives in the mirror makes him grin. “You won’t be recognized. No one remembers you.” That stings, a little, but he knows she didn’t mean it to. “And your face has changed.”
“So has my desire to suffer through shitty parties.”
“Fine. Forget I said anything.” There’s maybe, possibly an edge of hurt in her voice. “Limo’s here. See you in a few hours.” She sweeps out with a glitter of fabric, heels clicking. Jason groans.
+
Forty-five minutes later, Jason has hit two men’s clothing stores and spent a good ten minutes in the mirror fixing his hair. The scar’s hidden, he smells like oaky, expensive cologne, and he’s crashed Bruce’s party easy as anything. Doing good so far. Doing real good.
Jason wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers and slips through the broad double doors that he used to swing on, chasing Dick around the house; he passes the alcove where he used to do homework, staring off at the Manor grounds when he got distracted. It hurts, but he’s had worse.
The aching feeling in his chest doesn’t compare to Joker’s foot on it, steadily compressing, letting up just as his vision faded, getting him a breath in, not fast enough before the air was forced from his lungs again. Two broken ribs that time. He shakes the thought away, one of hundreds and they don’t matter.
He heads further into the mansion, past servants who have replaced the ones he used to know, Marta and Joyce and Bailey. There are at least two secret exits he could reach from here, but he walks towards the party instead, tugging uncomfortably at his collar. There’s gotta be a hundred people in here, laughing, decadent, cream of the fucking crop.
Jason grits his teeth, searching for the rest of the family. Dick is in the middle of a knot of people, center of attention, as usual. He tips his head back, laughing, eye catching. Natural. Dick’s always been the best at both sides of his identities; he’s kind and charming and fun no matter who he is.
Cass, on the other hand, is a shadow in gold at the edges of the party, her eyes lined heavily with black, staring down anyone who tries to approach her. Probably doesn’t realize she’s doing it. Tim hovers somewhere nearby, talking animatedly with a group of investors who nod along, enthralled. Fuckin’ genius, where does Bruce find these kids.
Speaking of, Bruce is nowhere to be seen: he’s probably out patrolling, obsessive as always, leaving with a model or two who’ll give him an alibi. Barb is here, though, wheeling her way towards Dick, who takes her hand once she’s close enough, smiling down at her bright like the sun, kissing her palm almost absently before he dives back into the conversation. Barb’s face is flushed and pleased, her fingers twining with his.
Jason keeps scanning, searching for Steph. Her blonde hair is easy enough to see, his eyes used to finding her shape, knowing her movements. She’s talking to an older man with a mustache, his face a little patronizing, still kind enough that Jason doesn’t bristle. He slips up behind her instead, tapping gently at her bare shoulder, stepping back before he can be tempted to linger.
She turns, already smiling the bright Fake-Steph smile he hates, letting it drop a bit and turn real when she realizes it’s him. Not much of a change, but he’s learned how to read her now.
“I saw you across the hall. Mark me down as stunned,” he gushes, cheesy, catching the older man watching them with indulgent amusement before he steps away. “May I have this dance?” Jason asks, extending a hand.
“You’re a cliché,” she tells him, but that doesn’t stop her from taking his hand, a light pressure that he curls his fingers around, tugging her in a little closer.
“What can I say? You inspire the poet in me,” he says, still playing, leaning a bit to speak with her; he’s taller than everyone else in the room. She just rolls her eyes as he sweeps her across the dancefloor, one hand in hers, the other low on her hip where it’s bare, feeling the silk of her skin and the muscle underneath it.
He dips her, just a little, finds his gaze trapped on the small dip between her collarbones. There’s some sort of glitter there; it makes her skin look as soft as it feels. He wants to kiss it, tears his gaze away before this can become something more. He doesn’t get to have this right now.
“I’m surprised you’re here,” she admits as they twirl past Tim, now wrapped in the arms of a woman who’s slightly taller than him, her smile victorious. Tim is a catch. “You barely had any time to get ready.”
He shrugs, daring to let his hand slip lower, curve around her hip, fingers close to dipping beneath the fabric on the small of her back. “I know. Do I clean up well?” he asks, grinning, knowing he looks good.
Her eyes slide over where the suit fits at the shoulders, to his jaw and over his mouth. Her lips twist up. “You’ll do.” He laughs and spins her.
+++
Jason has a whole five days where he doesn’t have nightmares, doesn’t hear Joker laughing in the dark corners. It’s. He doesn’t know what it is, whether it’s Steph’s help or his own healing or just time passing, scabbing over the wounds. Maybe all three.
Either way, he spends a day in civilian clothes, going out just for the hell of it while Steph’s at school. He’s finally able to go out into his city without the fist of guilt to his gut. Gotham will rebuild, he’s not near enough to break her.
The old diner on Hurley is still there, the same three waitresses who put his food down and smile with tired kindness. When he was little, when things got bad, they’d slip him leftovers behind the place. He leaves a huge tip.
After, he wanders, ducks into stores that he used to steal from, desperate, deodorant and underwear and tampons for his mom. He touches the folded up wad of bills in his pocket just for reassurance and immediately feels stupid. There’s a pleasant ten minutes he spends talking with one store owner, a burly guy named Stan who recently had twins; the man has strong views about the Batman presence in the city.
He heads back home once Stan’s finished talking, loping along Gotham’s streets not bothering to take the roofs. By the time he gets back Steph is home, waiting for him, her legs crossed. She’s wearing jean shorts over tights today, one of his leather jackets. It looks good on her, the sleeves a hair too long.
“Hey.”
“Hey. Where were you?”
“Out,” he answers, taking his own jacket off, draping it over a chair.
“Out?” There’s a sliver of worry in her voice; she pulls her legs towards her chest, which is cute. He likes watching as she loosens out, comes back slowly. This arrangement is good for both of them, he realizes. He brings her back, forces her to stay inside herself, and she stops him from spiraling, falling back into the Knight’s mindset.
“Wanted some fresh air.” He grins, reassuring, and she gives him a sliver of a smile back, relaxing into the couch.
“Oh. What’s for dinner?”
“Chicken.”
“Cool.”