Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

A sharp tap on his forehead.

That was what tore Jason from sleep.

His eyes snapped open, breath catching as his muscles coiled tight. His instincts were screaming danger before his vision even cleared enough to register the figure looming over him: Hood, clad in his usual suit but drenched in blood, the metallic tang of it thick in the air. His lips had curled into that unsettling smile, the one that never reached his eyes.

Jason’s pulse kicked up. "What are you—"

Hood pressed a gloved finger to his own lips, the motion slow, almost mocking. "Shh. You don’t want to wake the birds, do you?"

Jason swallowed hard, and forced himself to glance down. Tim was curled against his side, face slack with sleep, one arm thrown possessively over Dick’s waist. Dick, on the other hand, was slumped against the armrest, mouth slightly open, his usual sharp awareness dulled by emotional exhaustion.

A knot twisted in Jason’s chest. They looked younger like this, more vulnerable, so much unlike their usual selves. It stoked the possessiveness that lived in his chest, that feral, snarling thing that curled its claws around his sternum and refused to let go.

"No," Jason muttered begrudgingly, the word gritted between his teeth.

Just like a few hours ago, they didn’t have to see Hood. No, that was Jason’s choice, his burden—to allow this creature to exist wearing his face, to wear his scars and his voice, to use him like a weapon even knowing how much stronger, how much hungrier it had become. And that meant it was his to deal with. His alone.

He shifted carefully, muscles tense as he slid out from under Tim’s weight, every movement measured. Dick exhaled sharply through his nose but didn’t stir, his fingers twitching briefly before going still again.

Once standing, Jason squared his shoulders and leveled a glare at Hood. "When did you get here?"

He should have woken up the moment Hood was back, should have felt his twisted presence, but he didn't, and as much as he knew he had some power over Hood, it still bothered him, goddammit.

Hood shrugged, the movement too fluid, too wrong, like his bones weren’t quite where they should be. "A few minutes ago."

A few minutes? Did that mean—

"Were you just staring at us like a fucking creep?" Jason narrowed his eyes.

Hood tilted his head, amusement flickering in the hollows of his eyes. "You’ve done the same before."

Red started to creep over his neck, heat prickling beneath his collar, but Jason refused to feel ashamed. Yeah, he did it, but that was different. They were his brothers. His to watch over, his to protect. It was practically his duty, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he needed the reassurance that they were there. That they were safe, alive, and within his reach.

Hood didn’t get to twist that into something wrong.

"It’s not the sa—" Jason started, voice rising, louder than he intended, before cutting himself off at the sound of Dick grunting  in his sleep. His fingers had curled into the couch cushion, body slightly shifting as if disturbed by the sudden noise.

Jason had quieted immediately, breath held as he watched Dick’s brow furrow, then smooth back into unconsciousness. He clenched his jaw. He’d almost woken Dick—stupid.

The last thing they needed was Dick’s crystal-clear fear of Hood kicking in, especially when said creature was standing right there, dripping with blood and nightmarishly grinning. Jason could already picture the panic that would flare in Dick’s eyes, the way he’d instinctively reach for a weapon that wasn’t there when he should be feeling safe.

He jerked his chin toward the hallway, a silent command for Hood to follow. But of course, the bastard didn’t just obey, he loomed, his presence pressing against Jason’s back like a physical weight, breath practically ghosting over the nape of his neck. Too close. Too fucking close.

But he couldn't snap yet, so Jason just kept walking.

Jason shoved open his bedroom door and stepped inside, barely waiting for Hood to cross the threshold before shutting it. He spun on his heel, ready to lay into the bastard—and fuck, Hood was right there again, his looming frame filling Jason’s vision, with barely an inch of space separating them, that sickly green glow flickering in his eyes.

Without hesitation, Jason planted a hand on Hood’s chest and shoved, the force of it enough to make the taller man take a single, deliberate step back. "Do you have any sense of personal space, or is that just another thing you’ve decided to ignore?"

Part of him knew this was just Hood messing with him, that the bastard thrived on pushing buttons and seeing how far he could go before someone snapped as he had done in their last talk.

But another, quieter part of Jason wondered if—for a creature like Hood claimed to be—proximity was something… new. If, like Jason, he was stumbling through experiencing all of this for the first time, and maybe that was why Jason had so much power over him.

The thought made something uncomfortable twist in Jason’s chest, and he quickly shut it down, burying it beneath layers of irritation and distrust. He didn’t have time to waste drawing parallels between himself and Hood.

Hood raised his hands in mock surrender, but the smirk never left his face. "Sorry." The word was a lazy drawl, dripping with insincerity. He took another step back, but the distance felt performative, like he was humoring Jason rather than respecting him.

Jason crossed his arms, fingers digging into his biceps. "So. Gonna explain all the blood?"

Hood spread his arms wide, "I told you I’d end the gang war. And that’s what I did. No innocents were harmed." A pause. A tilt of his head. "I even met two of your girls."

Jason’s muscles locked.

"If you even touched a hair on one of them—"

Hood huffed, "No touching. They didn’t seem to want any from anyone, anyway." He shrugged, then his grin sharpened, "Hope and Crystal are their names. I know you remember them."

A shiver ran up Jason’s spine. He did. He remembered his late-night talks with Hope, when the air would be biting cold, and he’d shrug off his jacket to drape it over her shoulders, walking her home through the labyrinth of Gotham’s alleys. He remembered how she’d always try to invite him in after a few months, her voice soft but insistent, and the day he finally gave in. They’d shared a cigarette on her fire escape, the smoke curling around them.

He remembered the exact night he’d met Crystal, too. She’d been a storm of fury and fear, torn clothes clinging to her frame, a jagged shard of glass clutched in her trembling hand. Her lip was split, blood trickling down her chin as she aimed the makeshift weapon at the man cornering her.

Jason beat the guy to death in a rage that bled green. And when he was done, he carried Crystal to Leslie’s clinic, his hands somehow remaining steady even as his chest burned with something he couldn’t name. She had thanked him with a hesitant kiss to his helmet.

Jason remembered each one of his girls, because no one else besides them would. He’d carved their names and stories into his bones, etched them into the marrow where no one could pry them loose. Hood must have known that, must have dug into the recesses of his mind and plucked those memories like ripe fruit.

"Then you know what I would do if you broke our deal," Jason said, his voice low, each word a threat unto itself. "How this…" He gestured sharply between them, "… thing would be over."

Hood rolled his eyes, the movement too casual, too dismissive, like Jason’s words were nothing more than an annoyance. "Relax, we just talked. Well, mostly." The green glow in his eyes flared briefly with… pride? "Can you believe Hope tried to attack me, thinking I did something to you? Crystal had to hold her back."

Jason blinked, caught off guard. A flicker of warmth spread through his chest, despite the unease clawing at his insides. Hope wasn’t stupid, she knew better than to pick fights she couldn’t win. And yet, she’d tried. For him. Because she thought Hood had hurt him.

Fuck, it was as stupid as it was heartwarming.

Jason let out a strained chuckle, shaking his head. "Of course she did."

Hood’s grin widened further, and he leaned in slightly, the bloodstains on his suit catching the dim light. "Yeah, then she wanted proof that I’m on your side." His voice dropped, the amusement in it turning darker, more unsettling. "So I gave her the head of her first trafficker."

Jason frowned. Her first trafficker? Hope had never told him about that. She’d shared pieces of her past, but never names, never specifics. So how the hell did Hood know? Unless he’d dug into her mind the way he’d clearly rifled through Jason’s.

But wait, why would Hood do that?

"You didn’t haveto do that," Jason said finally.

Hood tilted his head, the movement unnervingly fluid, like his neck wasn’t bound by human limits. "You would’ve done it eventually." He took a deliberate step forward, closing the distance Jason had tried to keep between them. "I just sped things along."

Jason scoffed, refusing to back up. "And what did you gain with it?"

Another step. Hood’s grin didn’t waver. "Nothing. I did it because you care about them."

Jason narrowed his eyes. That was it? No twisted motive, no hidden catch, just the blunt acknowledgment that Jason gave a shit about two people who’d clawed their way into the hollow spaces of his heart?

"So, it was that simple?" Jason raised his eyebrows.

Hood’s laugh was a low, grating sound. "Simple? No." He leaned in, close enough that Jason could count the flecks of dried blood on his cheek. "But you're always worth it."

Jason had to stop himself from wincing, as he had the last time Hood told him something so absurd. The words slithered under his skin, unwanted, persistent.

You’re something much better.

Yeah, sure he was. Jason wasn't delusional. He did what was needed, stained his hands with the dirty blood, dove into the sins that would condemn others, but he would never pretend he was anything better than what he was. He wasn't anyone's salvation, or hope, or inspiration.

No, he was the ugly thing victims needed at the worst time of their lives, so they could move on to something better in a way he never could. And that was what he would always be. A tool, a weapon, a reckoning, a necessary evil. So no, he didn’t get what the fuck Hood was talking about, why he was chosen, or why he was something ‘special’, but if it helped him keep his family, then fine. He’d play along, even if it felt like another knife twisting in his chest.

Hood straightened, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the tension. "Besides," he added, almost casual, "she hugged me after."

Jason frowned. Hope hugged him? The same Hope who flinched at sudden touches, who kept a knife taped under every table in her apartment?

Bullshit.

"Like hell she did." Jason spat, refusing to acknowledge the vines of jealousy wrapping around his ribs.

Hood’s grin turned razor-sharp. "Ask her."

"I will." Jason huffed. As soon as he left the bunker, he would go straight to his girls and ask about it. Speaking of confirming things… "Can I even trust what you said about no casualties?"

Hood chuckled, low and almost amused, like he was privy to some private joke Jason wasn’t in on. "Your man will tell you what you gotta know now."

His man?

Jason frowned, brows pulling together. "What the hell does that mean—"

Before he could finish, Hood tossed something at him, the motion casual, almost lazy. Jason’s hand shot out instinctively, catching it midair. He looked down and— it was his burner phone. He hissed out a breath, glaring at Hood, who raised his hands in mock surrender again, his grin wide enough to split his face.

The phone buzzed violently in Jason’s grip.

He glared at Hood for a beat longer before answering. "What?"

"Boss? Is it really you?" The voice trembled, thin and brittle, like a wire stretched too tight.

Jason rolled his eyes, tilting his head at Hood, who leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, his posture relaxed like he was watching a particularly entertaining show. "Who the fuck else would it be?"

"Well, there’s this…" Tobias, one of Jason’s men, hesitated, swallowing audibly. "Thing. He showed up, saying he was working with you. We didn’t buy it, of course, but…"

Jason’s patience snapped. "But what?"

"He took them all down. Everyone who had swooped in to take control of the gangs." Tobias whispered, the words hollow, like he could barely believe them himself. "Sending you the pictures we got now."

Jason pulled the phone away from his ear, the screen lighting up as Tobias’s message came through. The images were grainy, the burner phone’s screen barely holding up, but what they showed was clear enough. Jason flipped through them.

Corpses. Dozens of them, sprawled across the ground like discarded puppets, twisted in grotesque poses, their faces frozen in expressions of terror. Names carved into their skin, jagged and uneven, alongside lists of their crimes—HUMAN TRAFFICKING, RAPE, MURDER—the letters jagged and uneven, like they’d been gouged with a dull blade. Blood pooled around the bodies, dark and sticky, seeping into the cracks of the pavement.

Jason’s gaze flicked to Hood, who was watching him with that same grin, like he was waiting for Jason’s reaction. He put the call on mute.

"You did this?" Jason asked, though he already knew the answer.

Hood shrugged, the movement deliberately loose and dismissive, a physical echo of his tone. "You wanted the gang war to end."

Jason looked down at the pictures again. He had wanted it ended, and quickly. Civilians could be getting caught in the crossfire, innocent lives could be lost, and Gotham couldn’t afford another war on its streets. But this—

This was…

He should’ve been utterly horrified. The sheer, unadulterated brutality, the theatrical drama of the display, bodies left strewn about on display like macabre billboards. It screamed excess, even by Jason’s own hardened standards. Yet, as he stared at the images, a dark, twisted part of him, a part that remembered crowbars and cold concrete, coiled tight with… satisfaction.

Hood’s methods were brutal, yes, but effective. The names carved into those corpses weren’t random; they were the worst of the worst, the ones who’d slit throats and trafficked lives without a second thought.

And now, thanks to Hood, they were gone. Permanently.

Jason unmuted the call, his gaze locked on Hood’s grinning face. "I’m gonna ask you something, Tobias, and I need you to be completely honest with me if you want to live. Okay?"

The green in Hood's eyes flared brighter, a predator’s gleam that sent a shiver down Jason’s spine.

Tobias’s breath hitched, audible even through the shitty connection. But there was a reason he was the one who’d called—stupidly brave or stupidly loyal, Jason wasn’t sure yet.

"Okay," Tobias said, firmer this time.

"Any casualties?" Jason demanded.

"None were reported," Tobias answered immediately, the relief in his voice palpable but cautious. "But we can double-check. Confirm."

Jason nodded, still staring at Hood, who mouthed, "I told you so." The bastard looked far too pleased with himself, and Jason couldn’t decide if he wanted to punch him over and over again.

He rolled his eyes skyward, a brief, sharp exhalation escaping him as he looked away for a moment, "Do it. If any civilian was killed in the crossfire, I want to know. Immediately."

Hood pushed off the wall, prowling forward, boots silent against the floor, and Jason felt the weight of his presence like a shadow clinging to him.

Tobias swallowed hard before speaking again. "Yes, Boss. But if you don’t mind me asking—"

Jason almost laughed, the harsh sound catching in his throat. It was almost funny how quickly hardened criminals turned unnervingly polite when confronted with something they instinctively recognized as worse than themselves. "Just ask."

Tobias hesitated, then blurted, "You sent him, didn’t you?"

Hood stopped right in front of Jason, invading his personal space, tilting his head. "Yeah, did you, Jason?"

Jason didn’t flinch or break the intense eye contact. He looked up at Hood, and smirked, their gazes locked. "I did. He works with me." He let the words hang, savoring the way Hood’s grin widened. Then, he stepped forward until their chests nearly touched, and added. "But you did well not to trust him. I’m still checking his loyalty."

Hood’s expression sharpened at the remark, something dark flickering in his features.

Jason didn’t wait for more than that. He turned away, ignoring every instinct that told him to keep an eye on the dangerous supernatural creature he might have just royally pissed off in his line of sight, "Tobias, you’re in charge until I get there. Take over the territories and keep the men in line. Tight. If anyone steps out of bounds, even a fraction, I’ll deal with them personally. Understood?"

"Yes, Boss."

Jason ended the call with a decisive stab of his thumb and tossed the phone carelessly onto the rumpled bed, exhaling a sharp, frustrated breath. He could feel Hood’s gaze burning into his back as he repeated, "Checking my loyalty?" His voice dripped with mock offense. "After everything I’ve done for you, Jason?"

“You’re not a fucking puppy. You don’t get a treat for doing what I told you to.” Jason scoffed, turning to face Hood again, his glare unwavering. “Besides, how am I supposed to know  you didn’t just make the casualties disappear? You have that power, right?” The words were bitten off, each syllable dripping with skepticism.

Hood’s grin didn’t falter. He just leaned forward, his face inches from Jason’s, the glow in his sickly green eyes intensifying. “I do. But I followed your rules. Every. Single. One. Of. Them.” His voice was smooth, smug, like he’d been waiting for this moment, this accusation. Hood reached into his pocket, and pulled something out. “I even brought you a gift to prove it.”

Jason scowled, his eyes narrowing as Hood pressed the object into his palm. His fingers instinctively curled around it, the texture unfamiliar, rough yet smooth. He looked down.

The Robin symbol.

Not his Robin symbol, of course, but Damian’s. The bright red crest, once pristine and radiating youthful, arrogant pride, was now grotesquely defiled. Thick, dark, dried blood clung to the edges, crusted into every intricate groove like it had seeped deep into the metal itself, staining its very purpose.

Jason’s breath hitched violently, snagging in his throat. His world collapsed, telescoped down to the horrifying weight of the small, bloody piece of metal in his hand that encapsulated everything he had been as a kid. His ears started ringing, a high-pitched, piercing whine that drowned out all sound, a wall of noise inside his skull. He could feel the weight of it, the implications.

He looked up at Hood, his vision sharpening, focusing on the creature’s face: smug, arrogant, filled with that twisted amusement that made Jason’s skin crawl. The green glow in Hood’s eyes flickered, mocking him, taunting him.

Jason didn’t remember moving.

One moment, he was standing there, the Robin symbol clenched tightly in his fist, the next, Hood was pinned against the wall, Jason’s forearm a steel bar crushing his windpipe. The force of the impact rattled the entire room, shaking dust from the ceiling, and the sound echoed like a gunshot in the sudden, charged silence.

“What the fuck did you do to him?” Jason snarled, a raw, guttural growl scraped from the bottom of his soul.

The veins in Hood’s neck bulged grotesquely, his skin blotching an angry crimson, but that fucking grin didn’t falter. If anything, it widened, the corners of his lips stretching unnaturally, too wide, too sharp, revealing teeth that seemed pointed in the dim light.

Jason wanted to carve it off him. At that moment, nothing else registered but the horrific image seared into his mind: the possibility of his baby brother, insufferable, murdeerous little shit though he was, broken, maimed, or dead. The possibility of a child discarded like trash. Yes, Hood has thrown Damian out of a fucking building already, but knowing Bruce would save him.

He’d been furious then, but there’d been a sliver of certainty, a fragile reassurance that Damian would survive. What if this time… what if Hood had done it for good? The thought clawed at Jason’s mind, a dark, gnawing dread he couldn’t shake.

"This is getting repetitive, you know." Hood mocked, his voice strained but still dripping with that infuriating smugness.

He was messing with him. He had to be messing with him, after having just given him proof, actual blood from his baby brother. The sheer, calculated cruelty of it ignited a white-hot fury that corroded Jason's insides, a molten rage threatening to consume him whole, burning away any last shred of restraint.

Jason's forearm pressed even harder against Hood’s throat, the muscles in his arm trembling with the effort. "Answer the fucking question."

Hood’s grin twisted, his lips stretching in a grotesque parody of amusement, and he rasped. "Found the baby demon poking around Tim's stuff and then sneaking out of his apartment. My plan was just to watch after you told me not to meet anyone in your family without your authorization, but he wanted to talk. So we talked." His hands hung limp at his sides, not bothering to fight back.

Messing with Tim's stuff? Sneaking out of his apartment? Why? What would Damian—entitled, vicious, Bruce’s perfect little heir—be doing there? Part of him, the part still steeped in green and fury, snarled that it had to be something twisted. Maybe planting evidence. Maybe rifling through Tim’s things for leverage. Maybe worse.

But another part, smaller and quieter, a fragile thing almost drowned out by the roaring in his skull, whispered something dangerous: what if Damian was worried about Tim in some pathetic, twisted way? What if the little shit had finally, impossibly, realized what he was missing by shoving his brother away?

Jason’s jaw tightened, his vision sharpening as he focused on Hood’s face, searching for any hint of deceit, any flicker of malice. For anything that would make sense.

But there was nothing. Just that fucking grin, those glowing green eyes, and the sinking realization that Hood wasn’t lying.

And that was worse.

“Then what’s this?” Jason shoved the Robin symbol in Hood’s face, his fingers trembling with the force of his anger. The blood was still there, staining the metal, staining him.

Hood’s eyes flicked down to the symbol, then back up to Jason, his grin faltering for the briefest moment before returning, sharper, crueler. “That’s proof.”

Yeah, no shit.

"I know that." Jason’s chest heaved, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps, voice cracking under the weight of memories—a crowbar’s arc, laughter ringing in a warehouse, the snap of a bone. “Proof of what, you bastard?”

Hood’s voice dropped, low and gravelly, filled with a darkness that made Jason’s skin crawl. “Proof that I’m on your side.” He tilted his head slightly, his grin twisting into something grotesque. “That I’m following your rules. Even when it’s… tempting to do otherwise, or did you forget what he did to our Tim?"

Jason didn’t forget.

The memories were knifed into him, jagged and raw: Damian’s sneer, the way he’d dismissed Tim like he was nothing, like he didn’t belong, while Jason just stood there watching.

Watching the way he’d pushed, and pushed, until Tim had finally broken, slipping away from them all, burying himself in work and bad habits and distance. Watching Tim slip away from them all, retreating into a suffocating world of endless work, dangerous habits, and impenetrable distance. The way his shoulders had hunched defensively, the way his once sharp voice had dwindled to a defeated monotone, the way he’d simply stopped fighting back. Because what was the point?

Remind you of anyone?

The voice in his head was cruel, mocking.

Yes. It fucking did. The recognition was a physical blow.

Jason had been both victim and perpetrator once. Angry, bitter, poisoned by the Pit, lashing out with fists and bullets at the family that had seemingly replaced him, at the perfect little bird who had dared to occupy his space in the nest. He had tried to kill Tim, just like Damian did, wanting to carve him into a bloody warning sign of what happened when they forgot Jason Todd.

And the worst part? The part that curdled his stomach now? He’d meant every single second of it. Every brutal punch that landed, every bullet fired with intent, every sneer dripping with venom. He’d wanted Tim to hurt, to bleed, to understand in his marrow the agony of being erased, replaced, discarded.

And now, Tim was doing the same thing Jason had done for years after crawling out of his grave: Isolating, building walls, punishing himself internally, refusing to let anyone get close enough to see the fractures. The parallels were a jagged mirror, reflecting a past Jason despised, and they made his chest ache with a sickening, hollow pressure.

He hated them.

Hated how clearly he saw his own fractured reflection in Tim’s haunted eyes, how intimately he understood the desperate, self-destructive logic driving him. And yet, tangled in that hatred, was a twisted, shameful thread of something else: a fierce, almost possessive love for the fact his little brother was like him in this fundamental, broken way. Because if Tim was like him, scared and furious and pushing everyone away… then maybe, just maybe, Jason wasn’t as utterly, irrevocably alone as he’d always believed.

And that realization, that desperate, pathetic scrap of connection forged in shared damage, was the cruelest joke the universe had ever played on him.

"Of course, I didn’t fucking forget," Jason spat, fingers tightening around the bloodied Robin symbol. "It doesn’t mean I want the kid dead or maimed."

Damian was still his. His to hurt, his to protect. His little brother, no matter how much of a cruel little brat he insisted on being.

Hood tilted his head, the green in his eyes flickering like embers. "I know." The words were smooth, almost amused. "Which is why when he challenged me to a fight to the death, I didn’t finish what he started."

Jason’s grip on Hood’s throat loosened slightly, his forearm trembling as the weight of the words settled over him. Damian challenged Hood? To a fight until death? What the actual fuck was wrong with that kid? He’d always been reckless, a volatile mix of arrogance and lethal skill, but this— this was monumental, breathtaking idiocy. A charge towards a cliff edge Jason knew all too well.

Jason couldn’t decide if he wanted to throttle Damian himself or shake him until whatever screw was loose in his head tightened.

“What the fuck was he thinking?” Jason huffed.

His mind raced, trying to piece together the scene. Hood, towering and monstrous, and Damian, a kid barely scraping five feet, standing his ground against something he couldn’t possibly understand, let alone defeat. It was classic Damian, prideful and stubborn to a suicidal fault, but it didn’t make it any less infuriating.

Then again, this was Talia’s son, arrogantly brave, raised to spit in death’s eye. And, yeah, Jason could admit that the sheer idiocy of picking a fight with Hood had to come straight from Bruce’s side of the gene pool. That self-righteous, martyr-complex bullshit.

Hood’s grin softened, just enough to feel less like a sneer and more like a quiet acknowledgment. “He’s your brother.” The words were simple, blunt, devoid of inflection, but they hit Jason like a punch to the gut.

Yeah, Damian was his brother. His. A fact as undeniable as it was inconvenient. And despite everything—despite the kid’s arrogance, his cruelty, his unwavering loyalty to Bruce, and his fucking mistakes with Tim—Jason couldn’t deny the protective instinct that roared to life. 

It wasn’t love, not the kind Dick or even Tim would’ve recognized, but it was something. Something fierce and ugly, something that made Jason want to lock Damian up somewhere safe where he couldn’t get himself killed before he hit twenty.

"Yes, he is." Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, a harsh sound like steam escaping a valve, forcing his white-knuckled grip on the Robin symbol to loosen before he dented the metal entirely. Because Damian wasn't dead. But… "You could've killed him."

Hood’s teeth gleamed in the dim light. “I could've,” he said slowly, “Could’ve torn him apart, piece by piece, and left his body for the bats to find." He leaned forward despite the pressure against his throat, his breath hot against Jason’s face. “But I didn’t.” A pause, heavy with implication. “Because you and Tim told me not to.”

Just like that, huh? A rush of adrenaline surged through Jason, electric and undeniable. This was a lot of power, more than he’d anticipated. He’d known he had it the last time they talked, but now he had proof of it, tangible and undeniable. And it should’ve been too much, overwhelming, something he couldn’t handle. But instead, it felt right, like slipping into a well-worn jacket that fit perfectly.

Jason had to ignore that sensation for now and remember what he needed to find out. He couldn’t afford to get lost in the rush.

Jason pressed his lips into a thin line. “You touched him?”

Hood’s grin didn’t falter. “Briefly.” He said, casually, like he was talking about the weather, not Damian. Not his brother. "I sedated him. But I did hug and carry him."

Wait, what?

"Why?" Jason bit out with a slight tilt of his head.

Why would Hood do that?

Hood’s expression shifted, just slightly. "Because you would’ve done it."

That was… okay, yeah. Admitted reluctantly, it was exactly what he would’ve done. If he’d been there, if he’d seen Damian hurt or vulnerable, he would’ve done the same thing. But hearing it from Hood, imagining this creature, this thing, holding his sedated baby brother in his arms, cradling him like something precious… it didn’t make it any less unsettling that it could be soft.

“Where is he?”

Hood’s eyes gleamed, the green intensifying, pulsing like a heartbeat. “Home.” He said pointedly, "For now."

Jason stepped back, abruptly releasing Hood. He turned away, running a hand through his hair, the metal of the Robin emblem digging into his palm.

"What? Not even an apology for thinking I hurt him?" Hood snorted and rolled his shoulders.

Jason wasn’t sure how to feel.

"What did you expect? Work on the way you deliver things," Jason snapped, gripping Damian’s Robin symbol tightly in his hand. The edges dug into his palm, "And next time a member of my family wants to talk, walk away."

He looked down at the crest, at the blood, dark and crusted, clinging to the metal like a permanent stain. He huffed, frustrated, and grabbed the edge of his sweatshirt, rubbing at the blood with rough, jerky movements. The fabric smeared the crimson, but it didn’t disappear.

It never did.

He scrubbed harder, his jaw clenching. He didn't even know why he was doing it, no, he did know. It was because somewhere in the rotting cavity of his chest, it was still ingrained in him that Robin’s symbol was supposed to be bright, untainted—hope, light, all the bullshit Bruce had drilled into them.

It was stupid. Fucking stupid, because this symbol was already soaked in the blood of children. Children like him, who'd worn this crest and died for it. And no matter how much he scrubbed, the blood was still there, etched into the grooves, staining the metal like a constant reminder of everything Robin had cost them.

Hood’s voice cut through his thoughts, "Not satisfied? I can always smear more of your enemies’ blood on it next time." It was clearly ironic, but it still grated on his nerves.

Jason’s head snapped up, his glare hard enough to cut glass. "Shit, why are you like this?" He spat, tossing the crest onto the bed. "It’s a miracle that Hope and Crystal told you anything," Jason muttered, turning away.

He didn’t want to look at Hood, didn’t want to see that smug grin or those glowing eyes. He especially didn’t want to acknowledge the uncomfortable, grating truth: Hood had done precisely what he’d demanded—crushed the gang war, shielded his family—and yet, it settled in his gut like lead, a fresh twist of the knife already buried deep in his chest.

For a few moments, there was silence.

Then Hood spoke, his voice lower, quieter, stripped of its usual mocking edge. "It’s not like I can really be anything else, Jason."

Jason froze. The room plunged into an even deeper, unnatural quiet. The air grew heavier, like Hood’s words had shifted something in the atmosphere. Jason wasn’t sure if it was the tone, almost wistful, or the implication behind them. Either way, it unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He turned slowly, his gaze meeting Hood’s. The green in his eyes was softer now, dimmer, a dying flame. Jason opened his mouth to respond, to say something, but the words caught in his throat. Hood didn't wait for him to say something, though.

"But it’s not like I want to be anything else either." Hood chuckled, low and throaty, the sound vibrating in the small space between them. It was unnerving, hungry, calculating, as if he were dissecting Jason piece by piece. "I like it," He shrugged, the movement casual, dismissive, but his stare never wavered. He took a step closer, then another, his boots silent against the floor, "I like the blood spilled in my name. I like the brutality of the violence I can enact. I like the chaos I leave in my wake."

Jason’s jaw tightened, his pulse quickening despite himself. "You’re not exactly supposed to like that," he huffed, trying to shrug off the visceral horror coiling in his gut, to dismiss it as just another facet of Hood’s madness.

Hood tilted his head, the grin softening into something almost playful. "And yet I do," he said. "But I also like what you got going here." He gestured vaguely, his hand sweeping through the air as if to encompass the room—the bunker, the city, the fractured family Jason clung to. "I like killing people for reasons beyond whim. I like the thrill of having someone who undeniably belongs to you." His gaze lingered on Jason’s face as he stopped in front of him, "And honestly… I like this thing more than I probably should, but that’s the thing about me: I’m not bound to anything but my own will."

Jason felt a chill run down his spine. He wanted to step back, to put distance between himself and Hood, but his feet refused to move. He was rooted in place, pinned by Hood’s presence, so close, too close. It felt like a physical pull, an invisible force drawing him in, holding him captive.

"But I just can’t be human like you," Hood continued, his voice dropping lower, softer, a gravelly whisper that carried an unsettling weight of sincerity. It sounded almost apologetic, a dangerous contrast to the words themselves. "Will that be a problem?"

It should have been. It should have. Hood had just admitted he was a monster, that he liked being a monster, and he had no intention of changing. Everything about him screamed danger, chaos, destruction. He wasn’t human, couldn’t be human, and yet—

And yet, that flicker of something else held Jason captive.

Jason’s eyes narrowed as he studied Hood’s face, the faint shadows playing across his features, the subtle shift in his expression: something almost vulnerable, almost human. It was fleeting, there and gone so fast Jason might have imagined it. But it lingered in his mind, a dissonant note in the symphony of Hood’s monstrous certainty.

And then it hit him, a cold, sickening wave washing over him. Wasn’t Jason a monster, too?

His chest ached, the truth of it clawing at his ribs. Everything he had done, everything he was doing, was fucked up. He had broken Tim’s leg, tormented him, used fear and brutality to force him into submission. He had allowed Dick to be tortured by Hood, let Hood start a gang war, and even now, he let Hood roam free despite the destruction left in his wake. His own men were involved in crimes he didn’t allow.

He could justify it all—protecting his family, keeping crime under control—but at the end of the day, it didn’t change the facts. He was no better than Hood. They were both monsters, stained by the same violence, bound by the same darkness. The only difference was the mask Jason wore, the lies he told himself to sleep at night.

And now he had this creature wearing his face, capable of unparalleled destruction, a force of nature barely leashed, and still… Hood listened to him. Followed his orders. Protected his family. Hood had taken the worst parts of Jason—the rage, the ruthlessness, the Pit’s lingering poison—and amplified them, honed them into something sharp and useful.

Hood leaned in closer, his breath warm against Jason’s cheek, "Well?" he prodded.

Jason let out a breath, the sound almost a laugh. How could it be? How could he let go of this? Hood was dangerous, unpredictable, feral. But he was also his. And Jason couldn’t deny the strange sense of power that came with it, the intoxicating feeling of having someone willing to do so much for him.

To do what Bruce had never been able to. What Bruce had always refused to do.

And part of Jason, the pathetic, starved kid who had once made Bruce his entire world, scrabbled desperately for reason. It tried to whisper Bruce’s justifications, tried to remind him of Bruce’s own trauma, the rigid lines he couldn’t cross. It tried to defend the man, to insist Bruce simply couldn’t have done what Hood did, that it wasn’t a choice but a limitation.

Jason tasted bile. He couldn’t stand that pleading voice inside him—that weak, clinging remnant of the boy who still craved Bruce’s impossible approval.

"No." Jason smiled, turning fully to face Hood, "That won’t be a problem. As long as you don’t cross my lines, Hood."

Hood nodded, his grin widening impossibly. He leaned forward, hands clasped behind his back like some grotesque parody of a gentleman. "Deal, Jason."

For a moment, Jason just stared at the black holes of his green eyes and wondered how long this could last. How long would it last?

A creature like Hood, bound only by his own shifting, capricious will as he claimed, was inherently volatile. For now, their desires aligned, Hood seemingly content to follow Jason’s lead. But what happened when Hood decided he was tired of obeying orders, of playing by Jason’s rules? What would happen when he decided Jason’s carefully drawn 'lines' were too constricting, too human?

Would he tear through Gotham? Would he turn his sights on Jason’s family, on Dick and Tim, and carve out their hearts just because he could? Just to prove a point?

The answer was terrifyingly simple: Jason would be utterly, and completely fucked. And so would everyone he cared about, dragged down into the abyss with him.

A voice, soft, precise, and cuttingly logical, echoed in Jason’s mind, sounding far too much like Tim for comfort. End this now. While you still can. Before he becomes an unstoppable problem. It was the pragmatic advice, the cold calculus of survival Jason would expect from his little brother. But as much as he respected Tim’s pragmatism, Jason couldn’t bring himself to listen.

If he ended this, if he sent Hood away, what then? He’d be in a prison, one he might not be able to get out of, and Tim and Dick fall right back into the soul-crushing cycle of Batman’s war, the same cycle that had nearly destroyed them all before. He’d seen the cracks, the exhaustion, the slow erosion. He couldn’t let that happen again, not while he had breath in his body. Jason could hold his own in prison, he’d survived worse hells.

But the thought of his family silently fracturing, year by brutal year, until eventually they died alone in their pretty little hero suits while Jason rotted uselessly far away… that was a torment he refused to endure.

No, no, Hood was here, offering a way out, a chance to keep them safe, to keep them together, with him. And if he could give them healing, or even bring someone Tim cared about back—

Jason’s thoughts shifted abruptly, a new realization dawning.

He straightened, his expression hardening as he looked Hood in the eye. "You told Tim you could bring his Supes back. Can you really? Or were you just messing with him?"

Hood tilted his head, the motion exaggerated and quite theatrical. He looked up at the ceiling, humming softly, almost mockingly, before his gaze dropped back to Jason. "Yeah," he said with a shrug, "I can do it. I can bring him back, whole. But he won’t come back the same."

Jason’s brow furrowed, a flicker of unease twisting in his gut. "Like me? Or worse?"

They could deal with it if Conner came back like him. It would be brutal for Tim though, shattering even, watching his friend grapple with the Pit's madness and the scars of the grave. Jason liked to think he hadn't come back a complete disaster, a functioning weapon if not a whole man, despite the mountain of evidence screaming otherwise. But worse? Worse, and coupled with a Kryptonian's god-like power unleashed without restraint…

It would be a problem.

Hood made an amused sound, low and resonant, vibrating in the air like a bass note. "Not like that." He leaned forward, his grin widening until it looked like it might split his face. "He’ll be Conner. Just… mine."

That… was useless.

"What’s that even supposed to mean?" Jason's frown deepened.

Hood didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, his face inches from Jason’s, the green in his eyes intensifying. Jason forced himself to stay still, refusing to flinch despite the instinct screaming at him to back away. Hood’s breath was warm against his ear, his voice unnervingly loud. "One of our birds is listening."

Ah shit.

"One of our birds is listening." Hood’s voice echoed through the door, low and unnervingly calm.

Tim froze.

Ah shit.

His ear pressed against the wood, every muscle in his body locking tight. His heart slammed against his ribs hard enough to ache. Slowly, he peeled himself away from the door, biting back a hiss as his broken leg protested the movement. He glanced over his shoulder, down the hallway, toward the dimly lit living room where Dick was still sprawled on the couch, blissfully unconscious.

He’d just… quietly hobble back. Pretend he’d never left the damn couch. Yeah, that could totally work. Gritting his teeth, Tim shifted his weight entirely onto his good leg, wincing as he pushed himself awkwardly upright. Step by careful, but quick step, he began to move down the hallway, his breath shallow, his hands outstretched for balance—

A hand grabbed the back of his collar, yanking him backward so hard his feet left the floor. Tim’s breath caught as his balance tipped, his arms flailing uselessly before he crashed onto his ass with a grunt. Pain shot up his bad leg, sharp and immediate, and he cursed under his breath.

"What the—!?" Tim started, twisting to look up.

Jason loomed over him, his hand still gripping Tim’s collar, his mouth curved into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. "Eavesdropping? That’s not very nice, Timmy." The nickname dripped with condescension.

As if you haven't done much worse, Tim bit back, but he didn’t try to squirm out of Jason’s grip. It would be useless anyway. Instead, he glanced past Jason to the cracked bedroom door. Hood's words swirled around his head, hammering against his skull.

I can do it. I can bring him back, whole.

That easy? The sheer arrogance of it slammed into Tim. Instantly, the memories of his own desperate attempts to clone Conner came rushing back, not as a gentle tide, but as a brutal flood, each failed attempt a jagged shard lodged in his chest.

The suffocating insanity of those endless cycles: the sterile lab smell, the agonizing wait, the crushing weight of hope turning to ash. The despair that had clawed at his insides every time he’d stared at another lifeless body, another hollow shell that looked like Conner but held nothing of his light, his warmth, his him. The way he’d clung, white-knuckled, to the faintest, fraying thread of hope, the desperate belief that this time it would work, it should work, even as the mountain of evidence piled up around him, burying him alive.

"Now that you can talk to Hood, do you still think he means it?" Tim asked finally, quieter than he intended.

He couldn’t bring himself to meet Jason’s gaze, instead focusing intently on a scuff mark on the floor between them, a tiny imperfection to anchor himself.

Jason tugged Tim’s collar lightly, like a teacher scolding a misbehaving child. "You’ll have to be more specific." The casual endearment landed like a small blow.

Tim hesitated, his fingers curling into fists. A part of him shouted that he should be laser-focused on the terrifying implications of Jason communicating with the entity possessing him, the undeniable proof their connection was deepening, twisting into something potentially catastrophic.

And yet…

"About Conner," he said, the name cracking in his throat like thin ice.

He couldn’t let go, could he? The thought was a bitter accusation. He’d thought he had buried that desperate hope when he walked away from the cloning project, shoveled dirt over it deep enough to pretend it didn’t exist, and didn't ache like a phantom limb. But then Hood came, offering him the impossible, and after hearing him talk to Jason, it was all he could think about.

Logic was muffled, drowned out by the roaring resurgence of that fragile, fraying thread of possibility. It was stupid, reckless, but the sheer gravitational pull of that sliver of hope, of the chance, however slim, to see Conner, the real Conner, not a hollow shell, was a force he found himself powerless against.

"Honestly? I don't know anymore." Jason sighed, the sound heavy, tired. He crouched down until he was eye level with Tim, his hand still gripping the back of his collar. “What’s the last thing you heard him say about Conner?” Jason asked, low, definitely cautious.

Tim didn’t have to dig deep into his memory. Each word Hood had said about Conner was right there, branded into his mind, etched into his skull like a perpetual echo.

His breath trembled as he forced the words out. “He said Conner will be himself. But… his.”

Those words messed with him.

On one side, he didn’t care. Not really. Even if Hood had said Conner wouldn’t be himself, if he’d claimed he’d come back worse than Jason, Tim wouldn’t have minded. Even if Hood had predicted that Conner would return as a monster, a puppet with his strings cut, Tim would’ve ripped out his own ribs to make space for whatever emerged.

He could take Conner’s pain, his rage, his violence any day. He’d let Conner break him bone by bone if it meant seeing his eyes flicker with life again, any kind of life. As long as Conner was back, as long as he was here, breathing, alive… none of it mattered. So Hood’s promise should’ve been a balm. Conner still Conner. Still his, with all his sharp edges and soft smiles.

Wasn’t that everything?

But on the other side, logic strained, pulling at him like a leash. He couldn’t ignore the gnawing doubt, the insidious voice whispering that this was wrong. It hissed that this was a perversion, a violation threaded into the marrow of who Conner was. Conner, who’d rather shatter than kneel. Who’d fought so hard to belong to no one.

“So, after you tried to run away,” Jason continued, his voice breaking through Tim’s spiraling thoughts, “Hood told me what that means.” He hesitated, his jaw tightening as he looked away for a moment, avoiding Tim’s gaze. "Kon will be himself. He’ll have his own will. But Hood will own his soul.”

Tim stared at him, his mind racing. Soul? That word—vague, intangible, theological—felt like a punch to the gut. He didn’t believe in souls, actually. Not in the way Bruce did, or Dick, or even Jason when he was feeling philosophical. To Tim, souls were faulty metaphors, shorthand for the chemical symphony of consciousness, the fragile architecture of memory and choice that made someone someone.

And Hood claimed Conner would remain intact. Same hands, same laugh, same stubborn tilt of his chin. So why would it matter if Hood owned his soul? Why should it matter?

But it did. It had to. Because whether he believed in souls or not, it wasn't his on the line. Tim swallowed hard, his throat burning. He wanted to scream, to argue, but the words caught in his chest, tangled in the mess of emotions he couldn’t untangle. He wanted Conner back. He wanted him here. But he couldn’t ignore the gnawing guilt, the shame of even entertaining the idea of bringing him back like this, bound to Hood, owned by him.

“Look,” Jason said, as if sensing Tim’s turmoil. “I’m not telling you not to do it.” He reached out, his hand resting on Tim’s shoulder, “I just think we should get to know Hood better before letting him bring your little boyfriend back to life and own his soul.”

That was reasonable, but—

Boyfriend?

Tim’s eyes widened, a flush spreading up his neck as he glared up at Jason. "We are not— he isn’t my boyfriend." The denial came too sharp, too quick, his pulse thudding unevenly beneath his skin.

They were never like that.

Conner’s laugh ringing across the Titan’s cafeteria. Pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on watchtower duty, warmth bleeding through fabric. A hand lingering on Tim’s back after a mission, always pulling away too soon.

Yes, Tim was aware he liked Conner in a way that was different from Bart and Cassie, that his eyes lingered on his body longer, that something twisted inside of him every time Conner touched him, but that was just him being embarrassing. A defect in his traitorous brain he’d buried under tactical reports and sleepless patrols. He would have never ruined their easy rhythm, their trust, over something as flimsy as the way his breath caught when Conner smiled.

Jason huffed, a low, amused sound that made Tim’s ears burn hotter. He released Tim’s collar and stood, his smirk softening into something… almost fond. "Whatever you say, little bird."

Jason grabbed Tim’s arms and hauled him upright with ease, wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him. Tim clutched at Jason’s shoulder, his broken leg dangling awkwardly, throbbing with every shift of his weight.

"All I’m saying is," Jason continued, "We shouldn’t rush this."

Jason was being reasonable. Jason. Jason Todd. Out of everyone in this godforsaken mess, he was being the most level-headed, the most cautious right now. Tim choked back a sound that wanted to be a maniacal laugh. Things really were catastrophically bad, weren't they?

Because Jason was right. He absolutely should get to know this Hood entity better before signing away Conner's soul. It demanded investigation: motivations, goals, the full Bat-paranoid checklist. Standard procedure.

Tim could do that. He had to do that. He could clamp down, smother the desperate, primal scream echoing from every single cell in his body that demanded he seize Hood now, damn the consequences, and just bring Conner back. He could force himself to be cold, to be calculating. To be reasonable.

"Okay," Tim said finally. He swallowed hard, forcing down the bitterness that threatened to choke him, and focused on the new information he acquired. "So, is Hood just a voice that comes out of you, or does he have a body now?"

The first option was scary enough, but the second? The idea of the creature, which already looked creepy enough in Jason's body, getting its own meant danger.

"He’s got his body now. When he isn’t in me, he can just… walk around." Jason admitted.

That could mean so many things. Maybe Hood was in Jason's body because he wasn’t powerful enough to have his own. But if that was the case, what had Jason done to speed up the process now? Kill? Was that what fed Hood—death, violence, chaos?

Tim didn’t know much about the Pit or its mechanics, but it made a twisted kind of sense. The thing that warped minds and souls, would feast on destruction, growing stronger with every life taken, every drop of blood spilled.

Then again, there was the equally disturbing possibility that Hood could always have had his own body. That he’d chosen to stay inside Jason deliberately. But why? Why Jason? Out of everyone who’d ever entered the Pit ,like Ra’s al Ghul, who’d submerged himself in countless times, or any of the other nameless souls who’d been twisted by its waters… why did Hood choose Jason? What made him so special?

"I can see the gears turning in your head, Timmy." Jason tapped Tim’s forehead with his index finger, the motion playful. "What are you thinking?"

Tim glanced up at Jason. He couldn’t just say everything he was thinking, not with Hood potentially listening in, watching through Jason’s eyes. Tim wasn’t about to give him any more ammunition.

Instead, he asked, "What does he look like?"

Jason pressed his lips into a thin line, an almost embarrassed expression tightening his features as he looked away briefly. "Like me, okay?" he admitted, "But taller, bigger. Like... a demon version of me." He shifted his weight, discomfort radiating off him.

Tim tried to picture it: Jason, but distorted, stretched, and warped into something monstrous. Taller, broader, with horns and fangs? It would be quite a funny picture if it weren't for the fact that Hood wasn’t just a voice in Jason’s head anymore. No, he was a physical entity, a force that could walk, talk, and act independently. And if he looked like Jason, or worse, like a twisted version of Jason, then that meant…

Tim swallowed hard, pushing the thought aside. "I want to meet him."

Jason scoffed, "It’s not that easy, kid. You don't get to just schedule a meet-and-greet with him."

Tim rolled his eyes, shifting his weight onto his good leg to relieve the pressure on the broken one. "You told me to get to know him better, right? That’s what I want to do."

He saw the exact moment Jason realized his own logic had been turned against him.

Jason’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing slightly as he glared down at Tim. "Fine," Jason said finally, "But you listen to me when it happens. Not Hood, not Dick, not your own fucking logic— me. Got it?"

Tim nodded, a quick, decisive dip of his chin. It was all the concession he needed. If Hood could bring Conner back, if he could make that happen, then Tim needed to know everything about him. He needed to understand him, predict him, control him if necessary. And he wouldn't make the same mistake he made with Ra's this time. He wouldn't underestimate the power, or the cost.

Jason's arm tightened around Tim’s waist. "Come on, let’s get you back to the couch before Dick wakes up and starts freaking out when he sees that you’re gone."

Already? The protest flared hot and immediate in Tim's chest. He’d barely been out of the couch, limbs stiff and mind fogged, and he was so fucking tired of sleeping, of the forced inactivity while answers felt just out of reach.

"Wait," Tim said, an idea sparking in his mind, "What if we started our investigation already? He’s sleeping for now."

Jason’s gaze flicked between him and the living room, where Dick was still sprawled on the couch, his breathing slow and even. The faint glow of the TV casted shadows across his face, softening the sharp edges of exhaustion that had been there earlier.

"He’s gonna wake up soon," Jason countered, a derisive snort escaping him, barely audible over the steady hum of the bunker’s ventilation system. "And the second he does, he'll try something stupid. You know he will. Especially if he notices you’re gone."

"Then we’ll come up with an excuse. Say I needed to use the bathroom or something." Tim shrugged, tilting his head when Jason shook his head, "C'mon, he’s fast asleep. This is our best shot to get a head start on this investigation."

Jason exhaled through his nose, hand pressing on Tim’s waist as if he were debating just dragging him back to the couch and ending the conversation there. As if Tim would just let him do that. "You’re not exactly in top shape, you know," he said, gesturing to Tim’s broken leg. "And we don’t even know where to start."

Tim’s jaw clenched, frustration bubbling beneath his skin. He hated this, hated the persistent ache in his leg, hated feeling useless, hated being treated like he couldn’t handle himself. Sure, he wasn’t at his best right now, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be useful. For God’s sake, he was still Tim Drake. He wasn’t some helpless kid anymore.

Tim leaned against Jason’s side, his weight uneven on his good leg, feeling the tension coiled in Jason’s arm. He cleared his throat, "Well, if you give me access to the computer I asked for before," he said, glancing up at Jason, "I can access my closed network and review Dick’s cases. It’s a good place to start."

It was, frankly, the only viable place to start from their current position. His closed network was a meticulously crafted, heavily encrypted system designed precisely for emergency access, from anywhere, under any circumstances. He hadn't imagined needing it while trapped in a bunker, injured and babysat by an overprotective Jason Todd, but well, at least its utility remained undeniable.

For a moment, Jason didn’t answer, his expression thoughtful. C'mon, c'mon, trust me for once. Tim held his breath, waiting.

Finally, Jason let out a low breath. "Okay. But if you play me in any way—"

Oh, here we go. The script was practically etched in stone.

Tim cut him off with a scoff, his lips curving into a dry smirk. "Yeah, I know. You’ll kill a bunch of random criminals, burn down half of Gotham, and probably break my other leg for good measure." He rolled his eyes, "Very scary, Jason."

He shouldn't be this numb to the threats, this casually familiar with the litany of violence, but he was. By now, the predictability of it all edged into dark humor.

Jason’s mouth twisted into a pout, an actual, ridiculous pout, and Tim couldn't resist poking the bear. "Aww," he drawled, tilting his head slightly, "are you pouting?"

Jason made a face, his nose wrinkling in clear, almost comical irritation. "I’m not—" he started, but Tim didn’t let him finish.

"Yes, you are," Tim interrupted, his grin widening. It was a fleeting glimpse of the fiercely protective, sometimes petulant Robin he’d once chased across rooftops with a camera. "You’re pouting like a kid who didn’t get his way. It’s kind of adorable, actually."

Jason cursed under his breath, his glare intensifying. "Just…" He gestured sharply at Tim, a choppy motion that cut through the air, his tone dropping to a low, dangerous thing. "Promise me you won’t double-cross me, Tim."

Tim inhaled slowly. He couldn’t promise that, not honestly. Yes, he wanted to avenge Dick, uncover who’d attacked him, and make sure it never happened again. But after that…

After that, it was his duty. His obligation as Red Robin, as a hero, to bring Jason to justice. To end this violent, chaotic crusade, whatever this was. The thought twisted in his gut. Because yes, Jason had kidnapped him, broken his leg, and forced him to obey him.

But he’d also cared for him? He carried him out of Freeze’s lab, patched him up, and kept him safe. He’d worry about feeding him decent meals, nagged him about getting enough sleep, and for God’s sake, he’d even lectured him about finding a fucking hobby.

It was ridiculous. Insane, even. Tim knew that, intellectually. The cognitive dissonance was staggering. But Jason… Jason had called him brother. He’d treated him with a rough, infuriating sort of familial concern, even when Tim had fought him tooth and nail every step of the way.

Tim swallowed hard, the bitterness rising in his throat. None of that mattered in the end, did it? Jason was a criminal now, a murderer, someone who was systematically taking Gotham apart brick by bloody brick, and it was happening because Tim failed. And he couldn’t let that slide, couldn’t turn a blind eye just because Jason, in his own twisted, violent way, had shown him… something terrifyingly close to love. A fractured, possessive, dangerous love, but love nonetheless

He had to do what was right, even if it meant betraying someone who’d, against all odds, loved him.

"I promise, Jason," Tim said in the end with a small smile, the lie smooth and practiced. He’d always been good at lying, at shaping his words into something that sounded true even when they weren’t.

But this… this was the best lie he’d ever told.

Jason studied him for a long moment, his gaze piercing, as if he could see straight through Tim’s carefully constructed facade. But then his grip on Tim’s waist loosened slightly, a fractional concession that felt like a small victory and a crushing weight all at once. "Good," he muttered, his tone softer than Tim expected. "Let’s get to work."

Something twisted inside Tim—bitterness, guilt, he wasn’t sure—but still, he snorted. "Thank you for your vote of confidence. It took long enough."

"Don’t get too cocky. I’m still in charge." Jason smiled, something genuine, warm in a way Tim couldn't stand.

Tim barely had time to roll his eyes before Jason was guiding him, half-dragging, really, down a narrow hallway, deeper into the bunker’s labyrinthine layout, toward a section Tim had never seen before. Not that he was allowed. The air grew cooler, the hum of electronics reaching his ears.

The weight of Jason’s arm around his waist was steady, but the grip remained firm, possessive, like he expected Tim to bolt the second he relinquished even an ounce of control.

"Relax, I'll let you enjoy your power trip for a while," Tim provoked, just to see the reaction. Jason didn’t rise to the bait, just shook his head with fond exasperation.

Tim hated him for it, hated the ease of that expression, and despised himself even more for the treacherous flicker of warmth that sparked in his chest at being cared for like this, held close and guarded, even though he was still a prisoner.

They stopped in front of a heavy, reinforced metal door, nondescript save for the sleek keypad and the dark lens of a biometric scanner embedded flush into the wall beside it. Jason shifted, keeping one hand on Tim’s shoulder as he leaned in to let the scanner take his iris. A soft beep, then the whir of machinery as his fingerprints were checked next.

Tim's mind instantly kicked into overdrive, analyzing the setup. Okay, that was some serious security, he cataloged internally. Multi-factor biometrics plus a keypad code. It would be a bitch to bypass remotely, but physically, with enough time and the right tools... He just needed the access sequence. Tim subtly craned his neck, angling for a clear view of the keypad as Jason’s free hand moved towards it.

But before his eyes could even focus on the first digit, Jason’s other hand slapped firmly, completely, over his eyes, plunging him into darkness.

"Is this really necessary?" Tim grumbled, trying to jerk his head away.

Jason’s grip didn’t budge. "With you? Of course."

The sound of the door unlocking hissed through the air, followed by the heavy groan of metal sliding open. A rush of cool air hit Tim’s skin, carrying the faint scent of ozone and something metallic—like fresh wiring or steel?

Then Jason’s hand dropped away.

Tim blinked, eyes adjusting to the sudden flood of fluorescent light. The room beyond was smaller than he expected, but packed. A sleek workstation dominated the center, multiple monitors stacked in an arc, their screens dark but humming with standby power. Along the walls, rows of servers blinked with quiet efficiency, their indicator lights flickering in a steady rhythm.

But it was the computer setup that caught Tim’s attention.

High-end. Military-grade, if he had to guess. The kind of rig that could slice through firewalls like they were tissue paper. He noted the custom biometric scanners flanking the keyboard, palm, and retinal readers that hinted at layers of security far beyond standard encryption.

Jason nudged him forward. "You wanted access. Here it is."

Tim swallowed, something sharp and eager flaring in his chest. He hadn’t touched tech like this in weeks. Hadn’t been allowed to. But this wasn’t just a computer; this was control. Jason had handed him the keys to his entire operation.

It boiled down to two terrifying possibilities: Either Jason trusted him far more deeply than Tim had ever dared to imagine. Or this was an elaborate test, and Jason had contingencies buried so deep Tim hadn't even begun to scratch the surface.

The uncertainty churned in his gut, a cold counterpoint to the eagerness. Ignoring the dull, persistent throb radiating up his leg, Tim limped the final steps to the imposing workstation. He sank into the command chair, the expensive leather sighing softly under his weight. It was unnervingly comfortable—ergonomically sculpted, clearly built for marathon sessions.

Like it was made for someone exactly like him.

He could do so much from here. Trace Jason's movements, send a distress signal to the Titans, even alert Bruce—

Jason finished his swift biometric scan, the retinal reader flashing green. He leaned over Tim, his presence suddenly overwhelming, boxing him in. Strong arms rested on the chair back, effectively caging Tim against the console. "Well? Get to work, genius."

Focus.

Tim typed quickly, pulling up a secure connection. His own network, meticulously constructed, was still intact, just as he’d left it. Encrypted, layered, hidden behind enough proxies and digital smoke screens to make even Oracle hesitate for a crucial moment.

Tim hesitated, then input his credentials.

The screen flickered, then—

ACCESS GRANTED.

A bright-red, urgent notification popped up in the corner. Tim’s fingers froze mid-keystroke, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the alert.

“What is that?” Jason asked, leaning closer, his breath warm against Tim’s ear. He leaned in further, his breath a warm, unsettling puff against Tim’s ear. The proximity sent an involuntary prickle across Tim’s skin, a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature, while his heart gave a traitorous, annoying thump against his ribs.

God, he was so pathetic that it was annoying.

“Security notification,” Tim muttered, clicking on the alert.

The screen shifted, displaying a log of accessed files, IP addresses, and timestamps. His stomach sank as he recognized the entry point. His own laptop, the one he’d hidden in his apartment. The one no one should’ve been able to find.

“It means someone accessed my network,” Tim added, and scanned the details, his mind racing. The code was Oracle’s, for sure. Clean, efficient, unmistakable. But Barbara had been in his apartment? Why? Why would she investigate him now?

“Ah, that little shit,” Jason cursed under his breath.

Tim glanced up, frowning. “What?”

Jason sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Hood caught Damian messing around with your stuff and sneaking out of your apartment. It was probably him, that demon brat.”

Tim's frown deepened. Damian? Damian had been in his apartment? Investigating him? Why— wait, no, of course, he had. Of course, Damian would be the one to see through the cracks, to uncover the mess Tim had made of everything. It wasn’t like Tim didn’t deserve it, but a part of him, a stupid, ingenious, aching part buried deep, had desperately wanted to believe that Damian might come looking for him, might willingly try to look for him instead of doing… that.

He shook his head, forcing the wave of useless self-pity down. Focus. He needed to focus on Damian's security instead of his own selfish feelings. “Is he okay? Did Hood hurt him?” He tilted his head up to face Jason.

Jason shrugged. “Yeah, Hood just drugged him and carried him to the Manor. ‘Kid's fine.”

He said it so casually, like it was just another Tuesday. Just drugged him. Just carried him. As if that wasn’t already crossing a line. But then again, this was Hood, this was Jason’s Hood, and the bar for acceptable behavior had long since been buried six feet under.

"How do you know that’s the case?" Tim inquired. "That Hood didn’t lie to you, and that Damian isn’t dead?"

The words tasted bitter, ash on his tongue. The idea should comfort him. If Damian was dead, it meant no more competition for Dick’s attention, no more sneering remarks, no more reminders that Tim didn’t belong in the Manor. He could slip back in, pretend he was still part of the family, still wanted.

It was a cold, ugly thought, and part of him clung to it like a drowning man to driftwood.

The rest of him recoiled, a shudder raking down his spine.

Because whether he and Damian wanted to admit it or not, Tim cared about that little brat. He’d seen the cracks in Damian’s armor: the way he hesitated before petting Alfred the cat, as if tenderness was a language he hadn’t earned. The way his perpetual scowl would fracture, just for a heartbeat, when Dick ruffled his hair, surprise flickering in his eyes. The way he tried, in his own spiked, furious way, to just be… human.

And in the end, Damian had been right. Tim was a parasite. The worst kind. The kind that believed he could stay.

"It’s just… a feeling," Jason rubbed the back of his neck.

Tim scoffed, glancing up. "You’re relying on confirming Damian's life on a feeling?"

Jason smirked and tapped Tim’s forehead with two fingers. "No. I’m gonna check if the brat’s good tomorrow. But for now…" His expression softened, just slightly. "I feel like Hood did what he said he did."

Tim wanted to believe Jason, wanted to trust that the Red Hood hadn’t torn Damian apart and left his small, broken body for Gotham’s bats to find. But the doubt gnawed at him, relentless.

"Feelings aren’t proof," Tim muttered.

Jason’s smirk didn’t waver. "Neither’s that fancy brain of yours, sometimes. Gets tangled up in its own wires. Overthinks."

Tim glared at him, "So, what, you’re just going to wait until morning?" Tim asked, his tone clipped. "Am I just supposed to take your word for it?"

Jason gestured a hand dismissively. "Pretty much."

Tim shook his head. "Unbelievable." He turned back to the computer. If Damian was alive, if Hood had really just drugged him— Tim didn’t know. It was all so convoluted, and his thoughts tangled themselves hopelessly. It felt rigged against him. Tim wasn’t supposed to care, he wasn’t supposed to care. It just wasn’t fair how much he cared.

Tim’s fingers flew across the keyboard as he pulled up a new window, navigating swiftly through layers of encryption to the deliberate breach he’d left in the Cave’s security systems months ago, a backdoor granting him full remote access if needed. He hesitated, then glanced at Jason, trying to read him.

"Can I?"

Jason raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening into something genuinely amused. "You’re asking for permission now?"

Tim rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Can I?"

"Knock yourself out."

Tim started typing, his brow furrowed in concentration. The Cave’s system was notoriously complex, layered with Bruce’s ingrained paranoia and years of Oracle's meticulous upgrades, but Tim knew its digital architecture like the back of his hand. He’d practically grown up hacking into it, navigating its defenses like a familiar maze.

He scrolled rapidly, the entries blurring past on the large monitor.

Jason leaned over his shoulder, "What are you looking for?"

Tim didn’t answer right away, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he scrolled through the logs. The monitor’s cold, blue glow reflected sharply in his eyes, etching deeper lines of concentration onto his face. "They must have taken Damian straight to the Med-Bay if Hood just dumped him there," he muttered, half to himself, his gaze flicking across timestamps and access codes.

His voice dropped slightly as he added, "So, I'm looking for his medical records." A brief pause. Then, quieter, "He updated yours just a couple hours after you died."

Tim wasn’t even supposed to know that. Bruce had locked those files behind layers of encryption, but encryption had never stopped Tim before. He’d stumbled across Jason’s records during one of his late-night hacking sessions, and morbid curiosity had gotten the better of him.

The earliest entries were small things—malnutrition, bruises, minor fractures—probably from before Bruce had taken Jason in. Then came the Robin years: more breaks, more bruises, one alarming note about internal damage after a particularly rough patrol. All things Tim had expected, in a detached, clinical way.

But the last updates—the ones timestamped hours after Jason’s death—those were different. Even in his youthful arrogance, even when he truly believed he could surpass Jason in every conceivable way, those haunted his nightmares. Broken ribs. Fractured scapula. Shattered facial bones. Internal bleeding.

And finally, the brutal, simple cause: suffocation. He hadn't stopped there. Driven by a compulsion he couldn't name, he’d cross-referenced the sterile medical jargon with the fragmented security footage he'd unearthed, matching each devastating injury to the precise, terrible moments before the warehouse erupted.

He hadn’t meant to. He’d just needed to know exactly how much better, how much tougher, how much more he would have to be than the last Robin who hadn't come home.

For a few moments, Jason didn't say anything, and Tim was too focused on the security logs to let himself glance at him.

"Smart." Jason only hummed, but there was a melancholic note to it.

Tim could have looked at his brother then, could have tried in some awkward, stumbling way to offer comfort, but the compulsion to find the answer was stronger.

"There." Tim pointed at the screen to show Jason, "Last update: heavy sedation. No injuries reported."

Tim’s chest tightened again, relief and something darker twisting together.

Jason straightened, his smirk softening into something almost fond. "See? I told you."

Tim leaned back in the chair. "Yeah," he muttered, hollow. "You told me."

"Good." Jason ruffled his hair, the gesture startlingly gentle. "Now focus on Dick’s case before he wakes up and starts mother-henning."

Tim swatted his hand away, but the warmth lingered, stubborn and unwanted. Just like everything else in this godforsaken family.

"Can I at least check what Damian accessed on my laptop?" Tim stared at Jason dead in the eyes, his jaw tight, fingers poised over the keyboard.

He needed to know which part of his meticulously constructed life Damian had dissected, which carefully guarded secrets the little demon had uncovered. He needed to know so he could bury them deeper, lock them away behind layers Jason couldn’t casually breach.

Jason snorted, resting his arms on the head of his chair, hands loosely resting over Tim's chest. The gesture was almost affectionate if not for the sharp grin on his face. "Always in need to control everything, huh?"

Okay, yeah, Tim was painfully aware of how controlling he was. It was a survival mechanism, not a personality flaw. But that wasn’t the point right now. The point was Damian and the violation simmering under Tim’s skin.

"I bet you'd be crawling through the logs too if it were your stuff he’d been poking through," Tim retorted, forcing himself to ignore how clingy Jason was being, and how much he didn't seem to hate that as he should.

Jason tilted his head, the amusement in his eyes flickering with something more calculating as he considered Tim’s point. A beat passed, then he shrugged, "Fair enough. Go on."

Tim didn’t wait for him to change his mind. His fingers moved quickly, navigating away from the Cave’s system and leaving no digital footprint behind. He considered embedding a hidden message, a ghost in the machine only Oracle’s sharp eyes or Bruce’s relentless scrutiny might detect—proof he’d been there, proof he wasn’t as controlled as Jason thought. The urge to leave a trace, something that whispered, I’m still here, I’m still alive, clawed at him.

It was reckless, dangerous, but the idea lingered, gnawing at the edge of his thoughts. He glanced back at Jason, who stared at the screen without blinking. Trusting him now, yes, but still watching. And that was before even factoring in Hood, whose magical presence could be anywhere, somehow knowing Tim’s intentions before he fully formed them himself.

Magic. Always twisting the rules, always tipping the scales unfairly.

With a controlled exhale, Tim forced the tempting thought down, shoving it back into the dark corner of his mind, where desperate ideas festered, and focused on the task at hand. Not yet. Let Jason trust him a little more. Let him think Tim was fully on his side.

For now, he needed to focus on Damian.

He navigated back into his private network, the one Damian had breached. The logs were meticulous, Tim had designed them that way, and it didn’t take long to pinpoint Damian’s access. He frowned as he scrolled through the list of accessed files.

Damian had started with the basics, case files, mission reports, standard reconnaissance, the kind of thing any Bat would dig into. But then the trail shifted. His stomach twisted as he saw the next folder Damian had opened.

Access: Family Archives.

Tim swallowed.

The screen blurred for a second, his vision momentarily swimming. He forced himself to breathe, a slow, deliberate inhale, then exhale, pushing down the rising panic as he mechanically kept scrolling. Every file, every encrypted note, every meticulously gathered scrap of information Tim had ever compiled on the family, laid bare. 

The detailed medical reports, the unflinching psychological assessments, the carefully documented patterns of behavior, strengths, and vulnerabilities, each one a thread in the tapestry of their lives, woven together by Tim’s hands.

And then, the worst of it.

Access: Personal Notes.

Damian had gone deeper. Much deeper.

Tim watched as the accessed files changed from routine investigations to private folders, his private folders. The ones that held everything.

Everything.

The little things that made them themselves: the way Dick hummed under his breath when he thought no one was listening, the exact shade of Jason’s frustration before he snapped, the quiet moments when Bruce’s shoulders sagged just a fraction too much. The details no one else noticed, the patterns Tim had cataloged, not out of obsession but necessity. Because if he could predict, he could help. If he could help, maybe he could stand himself for being around them.

And then there were the notes—scribbled in the margins of case files, typed in the dead of night when caffeine and exhaustion blurred the line between hypervigilant paranoia and aching clarity. All of it laid bare now, stripped of context, reduced to something pathetic in Damian’s hands.

Exposed. Judged. Seen.

Access: Damian Wayne.

“Damian likes tea more than coffee. I suspect it reminds him of his Mother. Talia liked tea too. Pretends to hate Alfred’s tea, but always finishes his cup." (PS: Stole his Earl Grey stash 3 times this month. He keeps replacing it with fancier brands.)

Tim’s pulse thudded in his ears as he clicked, again, and again, to the next, to the next, to the next.

“He’s obsessed with animals. Won’t stop sketching them, especially the Manor’s animals. I’ve caught him sneaking Titus into the library at least three times. He’s soft for strays, even if he pretends they’re beneath him." (Addendum: Batcow has better security clearance than me now. Send help.)

Subject exhibits signs of perfectionism stemming from early childhood conditioning. Likely result of League training. Note: Increased aggression coincides with periods of perceived failure. Recommend—

It all tangled together, faster and faster, until it was a mess.

“Lack of hobbies outside combat training + social isolation = unhealthy coping mechanisms. Encouraged participation in animal welfare program at Gotham Academy. Secured funding + sponsorship to ensure Damian’s involvement."

"Subject has begun incorporating Richard’s mannerisms into his combat style. Likely attempting to emulate approval. Note: Richard remains unaware. Recommend—

Tim clicked out, and his nails bit into his palms.

Damian had seen it all. Every observation, every analysis, every quiet attempt to help without being noticed. Every time Tim had adjusted patrol routes to account for Damian’s blind spots, every time he’d subtly redirected Bruce’s attention when Damian was spiraling, every time he’d slipped a solution into Damian’s path and pretended not to notice when the kid took credit.

Everything. His private calculations, his hidden interventions, his pathetic attempts at… what? Brotherhood? Damage control? Laid bare.

And now Damian would know.

Tim’s breath hitched. He could already see the smirk, the sneer. Damian would weaponize this. He’d twist this careful, hidden scaffolding of support into something pathetic, something obsessive, something weak. Of course he would. This was ammunition. Proof that Tim was exactly what Damian had always accused him of being: a stalker, an outsider, a sad Robin who clung too hard.

"Damn, Timmy," Jason's voice cut through the silence, thick with something between amusement and disbelief. "I knew you were a little stalker, but that's kind of Olympic-level creepshit. Even for you."

Tim's spine stiffened. He didn't turn, didn't look away from the screen. "I just keep an eye on everyone. In case—"

"In case what?" Jason's chin settled on top of Tim's head, his arms sliding around Tim's shoulders in a mockery of an embrace.

Tim swallowed. He didn't have an answer. Or maybe he did, but it was too pathetic to say out loud.

He couldn't say it. Couldn't admit that he tracked their patrol routes, their injuries, their favorite foods and coffee orders because if he didn't, if he wasn't useful, then why would they keep him around?

In case they don't need me anymore.

"It's what I do," he muttered instead, the words tight.

Jason hummed, the sound vibrating through Tim's skull. For a second, Tim thought he'd push, demand the truth, rip open the wound and make him bleed with it.

But Jason just sighed. "Sure." Then—

His arms tightened, pulling Tim back against the chair in a grip that was almost possessive, and Tim stiffened even more, his pulse kicking up.

"What are you doing?"

Jason chuckled, his breath ghosting over his hair. "Just get to work already, little bird."

Tim wanted to tell Jason to fuck off, to violently shrug him away and put miles of cold, safe distance between them. Because Jason didn't understand, couldn't understand the crushing weight settling on Tim's chest. He wasn't the one who'd have to crawl back to Bruce, head bowed, and lay out every mistake, every failure. Damian had undoubtedly already painted him in the worst possible light, a picture of incompetence, now Tim would have to face Bruce's cold, calculating judgment.

No, Jason was the expected failure, the one Bruce had already written off, even if Tim never understood why when Jason's only sin had been being a child. But Tim? He was supposed to be different. He was supposed to be better, smarter, more. He was supposed to be the flawless Robin, the one who fixed things, the one who earned his place. He was supposed to be enough.

And this—

This whole precarious, fragile sense of belonging he'd stupidly found curled in Jason's presence, as terrifyingly good as it felt to finally, finally mean something tangible to someone who was still alive, still here and solid against him, was the ultimate, humiliating failure.

Just another reminder that he hadn't lived up to Bruce's expectations, hadn't been the Robin who could mend all the fractures, who could somehow make up for all the deep, painful cracks spiderwebbing through their fractured family. He was another broken piece.

Tim tried to oblige his mind to stop reeling. Jason shifted, nuzzling his cheek against his hair, as if he could sense Tim's stress, but not one word was uttered. The gesture was casual, so careless, but it sent an unexpected pang through Tim’s ribs.

He hated this. Hated how much it mattered, this stolen comfort. Hated, most of all, how effortlessly it worked, how his traitorous body instinctively leaned back a fraction, seeking more.

“Okay,” Tim muttered, shaking off the lingering unease about Damian and getting to work.

He clicked away from Damian’s file, forcing his breathing to steady, his hands to stop trembling. He couldn’t afford to spiral now, not when giving Dick justice was at stake. He navigated to Dick’s case reports, his fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. The screen flickered as the files loaded, and—

"Shit." Tim breathed out.

Thousands, if not tens of thousands, of case reports, each meticulously logged and organized. Page after page after digital page, a relentless scroll bar stretching into infinity, spanning years of Gotham’s history, and Dick’s career. He’d always known Dick worked himself to the bone, but seeing the sheer, staggering magnitude laid out in cold, hard data… it was staggering.

A tidal wave of dedication made tangible.

"That’s… a ton," Jason said with something between admiration and exasperation, leaning over Tim’s head. Tim could hear the frown in his voice without even glancing up.

"Yeah," Tim said. "I forgot how much Dick worked."

Dick Grayson was always in motion, always doing something. Whether it was patrolling Gotham’s rain-slicked streets alone in the dead of night, leading the Titans through interdimensional crises, or juggling the chaos of Blüdhaven, Dick had never been one to sit still, to rest. And it showed in the sheer volume of cases he’d taken on. Tim had always admired that about him, but now, staring at the endless list of files felt… overwhelming.

Daunting.

A monument built on sacrificed sleep and personal time.

"I’ll narrow it down," Tim said, more to himself than to Jason, already typing in a series of filters. "Focus on the cases where he partnered with another hero, villain, or vigilante. That should help."

Jason hummed, his breath stirring Tim’s hair. "Good call."

The list refreshed, shrinking dramatically as the filters took hold. But even halved, decimated, it remained a colossal wall of text. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of entries still scrolled past.

"Still a fuckin' lot," Jason commented, his voice dry.

"I know," Tim said as he began the slow, methodical scroll through the diminished, yet still intimidating, list.

Each file represented a moment in Dick’s life, a partnership, a connection. It was a reminder of how beloved Dick was in the hero community, how many lives he’d touched, how many people he’d worked with. He had a way of drawing people to him, of making them feel seen, valued.

Tim wondered if they knew what had happened, if they would have rushed to help Dick the way Dick would have rushed to help them.

""Why does he have to be so damn social?" Jason grumbled, his tone teasing but with an undercurrent of exasperation.

Tim smirked faintly, fingers never pausing in their rhythmic dance across the keyboard. "Says the guy whose policy is to shoot first at whoever enters his territory."

Jason huffed, "First of all, I have friends in the vigilante community, okay?" His tone was indignant, and Tim could picture his face: the slightly narrowed eyes, the pout that somehow managed to look both annoyed and amused. "And second, Bruce is objectively worse. He still has that archaic Meta rule and won’t let another cape set foot in Gotham unless the city’s literally about to blow sky-high. At least I don’t have a whole fucking written policy about keeping everyone out."

Tim paused, a faint chuckle escaping him. Right. Jason did have friends—sort of. Kory and Roy, mainly, though Tim wasn’t entirely sure how Jason had managed to wrangle them into his orbit. He still remembered being at Dick’s apartment one evening, nursing a lukewarm soda, when Kory had returned from a mission with Jason and Roy.

She’d practically bounced into the room, animatedly recounting every detail while Dick sulked in the corner, his jealousy palpable even as he tried to hide it behind a strained smile. It had been equal parts amusing and awkward, and Tim had quietly wondered if Jason even realized the effect he had on people.

"Right," Tim mused with a snort, his smirk widening. "How could I forget the time you stole Dick’s red-heads?"

Jason’s laughter rumbled against Tim’s back, deep and genuine. “Hey, I didn’t steal them,” Jason protested, the grin evident in his voice. “They just liked me better. Can’t blame them for having good taste.”

Tim rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips. It was strange, this easy back-and-forth. Comfortable, almost. Like they were just brothers teasing each other, not a kidnapped vigilante and his rogue brother-turned-criminal.

The first case file popped up on the screen, and Tim’s focus sharpened instantly. The filters he’d set excluded male partners, Kory, and Babs, narrowing the list to Dick’s female work partners. His fingers paused mid-type as his eyes scanned the details.

A female partner, named Helena Bertinelli: Huntress. He remembered her. They had worked together, and he had even cleared her name when she was accused of murder once. Which, admittedly, wasn’t entirely implausible given her lack of a no-kill rule, but Tim knew her well enough to be certain it wasn't her style for that particular crime.

Dick had worked with her on a couple of missions in Blüdhaven back in the day. He pulled up her partnership history with Dick. The dates were sporadic, but the cases were impressive. Huge organized crime busts, international espionage, and the occasional high-profile takedown. Tim clicked into the last case, his gaze darting over the summarized notes: Mob infiltration. Low casualties. Successful extraction.

“Helena, huh?” Jason mused. “She’s… intense. I worked with her a few times.”

Tim nodded. “She’s effective.”

Jason chuckled. “Effective’s one way to put it. She’s a bit terrifying.”

“You’re one to talk." Tim raised an eyebrow, “You’re not exactly a poster boy for approachability.”

Jason grinned. “Fair enough.” He paused, then added, “She’s not exactly Dick’s usual vibe for partners, though.”

“Maybe not." Tim shrugged. "But she’s reliable. And Dick… he values that.”

Jason hummed, "So we don't put her on the suspect list?"

“She’s got issues with Bruce, but Dick? Not so much. She’s got strong morals." Tim reasoned, trying to imagine the Helena he had worked with, making Dick stammer and shrink in fear. He chose to go with logic, "And she’s tough, but she’s not stupid. Attacking Dick like that would bring down Bruce. She wouldn’t risk it.”

"Unless she knew he wouldn't tell anyone," Jason said with a dark edge.

Tim's fingers stilled over the keyboard, the faint, persistent hum of the computer the only sound cutting through the thick, tense silence. He knew exactly what Jason was suggesting – that Helena might have exploited Dick's silence, that she could have been the one to inflict that deep, hidden hurt. The idea twisted sharply in his gut, sour and wrong, clashing violently with everything he'd witnessed of her character, everything he'd believed.

He shook his head sharply, a quick, jerky motion that sent his dark hair brushing against his forehead. "As I said," he repeated, his voice tighter than before, "she has strong morals."

Jason scoffed, a low, derisive sound that vibrated through Tim's skull where Jason's chin still rested heavily on top of his head. "People said the same about plenty of rapists before the truth came out."

The word, rapists, landed with the brutal force of a physical punch, driving the air from Tim's lungs. He knew Jason wasn't wrong. History, society, the news – it was littered with monsters who'd been lauded as saints, pillars of the community, right up until the horrifying moment their crimes were dragged into the light. But this was Helena.

He'd worked alongside her in the shadows, fought beside her against tangible threats. He'd vouched for her integrity, defended her fiercely when others had questioned her loyalty or her methods.

The thought of her betraying that fundamental trust, of being the source of Dick's haunted withdrawal, felt like a fundamental crack threatening the foundation of his own judgment.

"Jason." Tim's voice came out strained, his fingers curling into fists against the keyboard. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to unclench. "I know her. She wouldn't."

For a few long seconds, Jason didn't respond. When he finally sighed, it was heavy, reluctant. "I'll trust you on that, little bird."

The words should have been comforting. 

They weren't.

Guilt curled in Tim's chest. He hadn't defended Helena well enough. He should have had more to say, more proof, more certainty. But the truth was, he didn't know, not for sure. He'd thought he knew Ra's, too. Thought he had it all mapped out, the man's strategies, his patterns, his sickening brand of affection, right up until the moment the Demon's Head had shattered every assumption with hands that weren't supposed to cross that line.

And now here he was, dismissing the possibility that someone else, someone good, could have done the same to Dick.

His stomach churned.

Because it wasn't just about Helena. It was about this, about the way they were picking through Dick's life, dissecting his relationships, trying to pinpoint the moment someone he trusted had turned on him. It was about the sickening realization that this was what Dick must have felt in the aftermath. That bone-deep wariness, the way every touch, every glance, became a question. Could it have been you too?

Tim swallowed hard, his throat dry.

When he'd come back after Ra's, it had taken him months to stop flinching at unexpected touches, to stop scanning every room for exits like a caged animal. Nights spent jerking awake at shadows, days where the brush of a shoulder in the Cave sent his pulse skyrocketing.

It wasn't the same, couldn't be the same, but the shadow of it lingered. The fear. The violation. The profound sense of being used. The way trust became something fragile, something to be measured and doled out in careful increments.

And Dick? Dick, who wore his heart on his sleeve, who believed in people with a fierceness that bordered on naivety… what must that have done to him? To realize someone he cared for, someone he'd let in close, had looked at his open, trusting nature and seen only something to use, to exploit?

Tim inhaled shakily, forcing his thoughts back to the present.

"Look," he started, "If we get nowhere with the 'probably' and 'maybe' list, we come back to the 'no' list and investigate everyone in it. Even Babs and Kory." It felt wrong to even say that, but he had to, "Okay?"

Jason didn't answer right away. Then, softly, "Okay."

The word was a concession, but it didn't ease the weight in Tim's chest. If anything, it pressed harder, a quiet acknowledgment of the ugly path ahead.

Because the truth was, he didn't want to suspect anyone. Not Helena, not Kory, not the dozens of other allies Dick had let into his life. Dick had always been the kind of person who saw the best in people, who gave second chances even when others wouldn't. He didn't want to believe that kindness could be a lie, that trust could be weaponized. But he'd learned the hard way that it could.

And if digging through Dick's past, if questioning every smile, every partnership, was what it took to find the truth, then that's what he'd do. No matter how much it hurt. Because Dick deserved that much. And Tim owed him that much.

The next file loaded with a soft chirp: Wonder Woman, Diana Prince. Tim barely had time to skim the case details before Jason scoffed. "No. She didn’t do it." He said, leaving no room for argument.

Tim agreed—Diana was practically Dick’s aunt, had watched him grow up, had even sparred with him when he was still small enough to be knocked flat by the flick of her wrist. But that didn’t mean anything. Plenty of predators groomed their victims over years, gaining trust before violating it.

The thought made his stomach twist, the fact that he was thinking like that of a hero like her, but he couldn’t dismiss it just because it was uncomfortable.

"You sure?" Tim kept his voice neutral.

Jason’s weight shifted behind him, his chin lifting off Tim’s head as he straightened. "Are you kidding me? She’s Wonder Woman. She frees women from trafficking rings. Beats rapists to pulp for fun." The words were laced with something close to indignation. Then, quieter, "Besides, I worked with her as Robin. Didn’t get that vibe from her."

Tim hummed, scanning the case details: an international mission, minimal notes, standard League efficiency. That did track. Diana’s moral compass wasn’t just strong, it was unshakable, usually, but still… There was something else there, something personal in the way he spoke about her.

"You haven’t worked with her in a while, though," Tim pointed out, probing. "Why?"

A beat of silence. Then Jason’s voice dropped, almost hesitant, as if the admission was being dragged out of him against his will. "I didn’t come back as the kind of guy she’d want to work with. So I thought… better to avoid her." A pause. "It's not like I can take her on."

Tim’s fingers stilled over the keyboard. There was something raw in Jason’s admission, a vulnerability he hadn’t expected. Jason appeared to fear her rejection. Not because he doubted her strength—Diana was Diana, after all—but because he cared what she thought of him?

It was… unsettling. Jason didn’t do reverence. He was the one who sneered at consequences, who reveled in being the monster Gotham feared. He mocked Batman, needled Nightwing, and dismissed the League’s authority with a sneer. Respect wasn’t something he handed out freely, least of all to someone who embodied everything he’d once fought for and everything he’d since turned his back on.

Tim risked a glance over his shoulder. Jason’s jaw was tight, his gaze fixed on the screen but not really seeing it. For a second, he looked younger. Not the Red Hood, not the crime lord, just Jason, the Robin who’d once stood beside Diana in battle and hadn’t been able to face her since.

And now? Now he couldn’t face her, not after everything he’d done, not after the blood on his hands and the darkness he’d embraced. It was a quiet kind of shame, one Tim hadn’t thought Jason capable of feeling. He’s not afraid of her power, he realized. He’s afraid of her seeing him, really seeing him, and turning away.

Tim turned back to the monitor, swallowing the odd tightness in his throat. "Yeah," he muttered. "The 'no' list it is."

He clicked to the next file before Jason could reply.

But the thought lingered.

Jason admired her. And that, somehow, felt like the most human thing about him yet.

The next file was Donna Troy. Tim clicked into it, a slight knot in his throat. Donna had always been a constant in Dick’s life. A close friend, a trusted ally, and a source of unwavering support. A muscle jumped in Tim's jaw as he studied Donna's mission logs: three separate incidents where she'd taken a hit meant for Dick.

He thought of Conner catching him mid-fall from a collapsing building, Bart's laughter as he saved him from a blast, Cassie's sword flashing to deflect a bullet from his blind spot.

“I know her too. You can put her in the ‘no’ list.” Jason said simply. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty.

Tim pressed his lips into a thin line. He got it. He really did, Donna was practically Dick's family. But sometimes it was the closest people—the parents, the siblings, the childhood friend, in this case. Even if it would have offended him if someone ever accused Conner, Bart and Cassie of hurting him like that, they had to consider it.

Right?

“Just like that?” Tim retorted, his tone sharper than he intended. “I thought we were suspecting everyone.”

He tried to imagine it: Donna standing over Dick, touching him against his will, making him beg for her to stop. The image didn’t fit. Again, it felt all wrong.

But so had the thought of Helena or Diana betraying Dick, and they weren’t completely off the table yet either. Tim’s jaw clenched, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. This wasn’t about what he wanted to believe. It wasn't about who he liked, who he knew, who felt wrong. It was about the facts, the evidence, the truth, and he had to remember that.

Jason shifted behind him, his weight pressing against the back of the chair. The closeness was grounding in a way Tim didn’t want to acknowledge. It was easier to focus on the case when Jason was there, a constant reminder of why they were doing this.

Protecting Dick wasn’t just about justice, it was about making sure this person couldn't hurt him ever again. Protecting Dick meant carving through every lie, even the comfortable ones. Because if there was one thing Tim knew, it was that Dick would forgive too easily, would give second chances where none were deserved. And that was why they had to be the ones to draw the line—

Jason’s hand moved from Tim’s chest to his throat, gripping it lightly and tilting Tim’s head back until the ceiling lights haloed Jason’s face. The sudden shift made Tim’s pulse spike, but he held Jason’s gaze, refusing to flinch even as the warmth of Jason’s fingers pressed against his windpipe.

Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind him who had control here.

“Look, Timbo,” Jason said, his voice low and edged with something Tim couldn’t quite place. Anger, maybe, or something far more complicated. “It’s Donna. I’ve known her since I was a kid. And when I came back…” He trailed off, his grip tightening slightly before he exhaled sharply. “She was one of the only people who didn’t hate me for coming back wrong.”

Tim swallowed, the pressure of Jason’s hand on his throat a quiet reminder of the power dynamic between them. He wanted to argue, to snap and say that Jason hadn’t come back wrong, that Bruce’s silence had been grief, not hatred, and that Dick had mourned him, but Jason’s expression stopped him—the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw clenched like he was bracing for a blow.

There was something raw there, something vulnerable that Tim hadn’t expected. It made Tim’s chest ache, a hollow pang that reminded him of the first time he’d seen Jason’s autopsy photos, the jagged edges of a story that never should’ve ended that way. Jason believed he’d come back wrong, and logic was a flimsy shield against a wound that deep.

So Tim focused on the logic again instead.

“You didn’t give me any logical reason,” Tim pointed out and stared dead at Jason, daring him to argue.

Jason’s jaw tightened, his grip on Tim’s throat tightening slightly. For a moment, Tim thought Jason might snap, might lash out the way he usually did when pushed too far. But Jason only sighed, a sound that carried more exhaustion than frustration. His expression softened just a bit, the hard edges of his face giving way to something almost, but not quite, apologetic.

“Can we just put her in the ‘no’ list for now?” Jason asked, almost pleading. “Trust me, I have a feeling around rapists, and she isn’t one.”

Tim’s brow furrowed. That phrasing, a feeling around rapists, wasn’t something he’d expected. It was too specific, too loaded, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He wanted to press, to ask what Jason meant, to dig deeper into whatever trauma or instinct informed that statement. Jason had done the same with him, so part of him burned to mirror Jason’s own relentless excavations, to peel back the scar tissue until they both bled truths.

But Jason’s hand fell away from his throat so abruptly it left Tim’s skin humming, the sudden rush of air-conditioned air cold where calloused fingers had been, and the moment passed. Now wasn’t the time.

“Fine,” Tim conceded, though the word tasted bitter on his tongue, and turned back to the screen, navigating to the next file. “But we’ll circle back. After we’ve vetted the others.”

“Deal.” Jason hummed in agreement, his arms shifting slightly around Tim’s shoulders and holding him against the chair again.

It was oddly comforting for something that came right after he gripped his throat, the memory of Jason’s fingers pressing into his windpipe still lingering like a phantom ache, warmth seeping the same way Gotham’s smog eventually stained even clean rain.

His eyes flicked to the name on the top of the next file: Zatanna. Magic. That could complicate things. He clicked through the details, scanning quickly. A magical artifact gone rogue, Dick and Zatanna coordinating a retrieval mission.

"Zee? Really?" Jason asked, leaning over Tim’s shoulder, his tone genuinely perplexed.

Tim frowned, glancing up at him. "Zee? You two are that intimate?"

Jason scoffed, straightening slightly, though his arms still bracketed Tim in place. "No, I just called her like that to annoy her. I was working on a murder case with Roy that turned out to be magical. We walked into her."

Tim blinked, processing the sudden influx of information. Jason casually mentioning a magical murder case with Roy, walking into Zatanna like it was a perfectly normal occurrence—it was a lot to unpack.

"I heard she's nice," Tim said carefully, trying to steer the conversation back to the file on the screen.

"That's total bullshit. She turned my spleen into a rabbit for a whole hour." Jason said, tinged with resentment, as if the memory still stung, and probably did, considering the anatomical gymnastics involved.

Tim couldn’t help but chuckle despite himself, the sound soft but unmistakably amused. "What did you do to deserve it? Because you definitely did something to deserve it besides being annoying." Tim raised an eyebrow, already picturing Jason doing something incredibly reckless, then acting annoyed by the consequences.

"I just shot a bad guy next to her head." Jason dismissed, and Tim could hear the smirk in his voice.

Of course, he did. Only Jason would piss off a powerful magician like that for no reason. Tim rolled his eyes. "Well, that was a you problem, then," he countered, scrolling through the mission details. He paused at a photo of Zatanna, mid-spell, her hands aloft, eyes glowing with arcane power. She looked every bit the master magician, commanding and poised. "She likes Dick."

It was hard to reconcile that image with Jason’s spleen-turned-rabbit story.

"Yeah, well, who doesn’t?" Jason snorted.

It was a rhetorical question, but it hit harder than he intended. Dick had always been the golden boy, the one everyone gravitated toward. Charismatic, kind, and effortlessly likable.

Jason nuzzled his cheek against his hair, as if seeking comfort, which was absolutely ridiculous. "Which is why we have to suspect people we never would."

Tim almost flinched at the reminder. Right. They had to suspect everyone, even those who adored Dick, because trust had become a liability. The thought churned in his stomach. The idea of Zatanna betraying Dick felt… wrong.

But wasn’t that the point? The person who hurt Dick had to be someone he trusted implicitly, someone who could get close enough to exploit that trust. Someone who could slip through the cracks of his optimism and kindness. Tim’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating.

The file was thorough. Detailed mission logs, notes on Zatanna’s involvement, even references to her personal interactions with Dick. She’d never given them any reason to doubt her. And yet, they couldn’t afford to take anything at face value.

He sighed, leaning back slightly. "Well, for now, she’s a 'maybe,' only because of her magical potential," Tim said, clicking to the next file. "We’ll come back to her."

Jason nodded, his chin digging into the crown of Tim’s skull again. "Okay."

They went through Harley and Ivy's next, Harley’s maniacal grin stared back from a surveillance still, frozen mid-laugh beside Ivy’s cool glare.Reformed villains, although Ivy hardly fit that description with her relapses. They had worked with Dick on a case involving a child trafficking ring that had stolen Ivy's infamous sex pollen. The details were clean, straightforward, with nothing that raised immediate red flags.

Still, they got into the 'maybe' list. Not because either Tim or Jason believed they had done it, but because again, this wasn't about belief. Jason pointed out how Harley always made sex jokes about Dick, and Tim reasoned how Dick's reaction to the drugs could have come from Ivy's pollen.

It was logical. Nothing else. Tim didn't like dwelling on the fact that they were doubting both women after everything they'd done to turn their lives around, that he was reducing Harley’s shaky redemption to punchlines, Ivy’s complicated morality to chemical variables.

More and more files piled up, each with new names and potential suspects. Most were villains, but a surprising number of heroes also found their way onto the 'maybe' list. Honestly, Tim was starting to develop even worse trust issues than he already had. It felt eerily reminiscent of when Bruce died, and he… he had to make that desperate deal with Ra's. But this? This was worse.

He wondered if Bruce ever felt this particular flavor of nausea during Justice League debriefs, assessing friends through the lens of contingency plans.

Jason’s arms loosened slightly around Tim’s shoulders as he exhaled, the tension in his frame easing. "You know, Dickiebird didn't always hate me when I was Robin. There were a few times, just a few, when he wasn’t a complete asshole." he mused, almost nostalgic.

Tim’s fingers paused over the keyboard, his curiosity piqued despite himself. "Oh?" he prompted, tilting his head back slightly to glance up at Jason. The dim glow of the monitor reflected in Jason’s eyes, softening the usual sharpness there.

Jason exhaled, a quiet laugh threading through it. "First time I ever did a quadruple somersault without breaking my neck, Dick was the one who caught me. Didn’t even say anything, just grinned like an idiot and ruffled my hair." His thumb brushed the edge of Tim's clavicle, unconscious mimicry of the gesture he described as his voice dipped, something wistful creeping in. "Like he was actually proud of me or some shit."

Tim knew that feeling, Dick’s quiet, effortless approval, the way his smile could make you feel like you’d conquered the world. He’d spent years chasing it, measuring himself against it. Still, he wouldn't miss the chance to mess with Jason.

Tim snorted, stretching lazily against chair to emphasize his nonchalance; "That’s not a memory, that’s just Dick being Dick. He would do that for anyone."

"Shut up, I’m trying to be sentimental here," Jason grunted, and his grip tightened, just enough to be a warning.

Tim rolled his eyes, "Yeah, well, he did that. A lot. Like when I finally landed a perfect flip off the trapeze in the Cave. He praised me and spent the next week telling everyone about it. Even Alfred."

Jason scoffed, but his thumb had started tracing idle circles against Tim’s collarbone again, betraying the bite in his tone. "Oh, please. That’s nothing. One time, I dislocated my shoulder mid-patrol, and Dick carried me begrudgingly three blocks to the Batmobile. Didn’t even bitch about it. Just kept cracking jokes the whole time like I wasn’t bleeding all over his stupid disco suit."

"Wow, emphasis on ‘begrudgingly," Tim drawled, nudging Jason’s ribs with his elbow.

Jason retaliated by pinching the back of Tim’s neck, "Oh, c'mon, at least he bothered with me." The jab lacked its usual venom, softened by the way Jason’s free hand had begun carding absently through Tim’s hair.

Still, Tim’s fingers stilled on the keyboard, the click-clack of keys dying mid-sentence. That stung more than he wanted to admit—Jason’s casual mention of Dick carrying him, the way it had been given so freely, like it was nothing. Dick had never carried Tim, always left that for Bruce, and then he got too big to be carried, and Dick handed him off. Too busy with Damian, too busy with Gotham, too busy with anyone but Tim.

But at least…

"He taught me how to drive," Tim shot back. "Let me crash his car twice and still didn’t strangle me."

Jason barked a laugh. "Oh, that’s your big thing? ‘He let me wreck his precious car’? Low bar, Timmy."

Tim bristled. "He also snuck me out after Bruce benched me for a week. And he—" He cut himself off, suddenly aware of how pathetic this sounded. Like he was tallying up scraps of attention, measuring them against Jason’s. Look, I got the rare holographic Dick Grayson validation, see?

Pathetic.

Jason went quiet for a second. Then, "He took me to get ice cream once after we went to the amusement park. Let me rant about Jane Austen for forty-minutes straight."

Tim blinked, something warm and unfamiliar curling in his chest. He’d never heard Jason talk about Dick like this—like he missed him, even just a little. It wasn’t the usual bitterness or sarcasm. It was… softer. Almost fond.

"That does sound like him," Tim admitted, quieter than he intended.

Jason’s chin nudged the top of his head. "Did he take you too?"

Tim hesitated, then exhaled. "Yeah. Said it was ‘tradition.’"

"That’s my tradition." Jason scoffed, the sound half-amused, half-indignant.

Tim smirked, unable to resist the jab."Guess he liked me better."

Jason’s arm tightened around his neck in a mock chokehold. "Bullshit. He just felt bad for you because you were a sad, stalker kid."

Tim elbowed him lightly, catching the soft grunt Jason tried to smother. "I was not sad."

"You had a scrapbook, Timmy. Laminated."

"That was research." Tim insisted, though the heat creeping up his neck betrayed him. He could still picture the binder’s embossed Bat-symbol, hidden under his bed like contraband.

"Sure it was." Jason laughed, the sound rumbling against Tim’s back. "It's like you think you're his favorite, or something."

Tim stopped himself from recoiling. He didn't. That was Damian, of course. He had accepted a while ago that this wans't even on debate. But Jason was implying he was the favorite, and Tim wouldn't let him get away with that.

"Well, it's not like you are his favorite," Tim shot back, knowing exactly what he was starting.

"Oh, please." Jason scoffed, leaning his weight more heavily onto Tim so he could twist and see Tim’s face. He fluttered his lashes dramatically, a poor, exaggerated imitation of Dick’s signature earnest expression. "I shot him so many times and he still goes—" He cleared his throat, pitching his voice higher. "'Little Wing, do you want to hang out?' 'Little Wing, do you want to crash at the Manor?'"

Tim almost laughed. Almost.

"As if that means something," he dismissed with a shrug, turning back to the screen. "Dick is forgiving with everyone."

The lie tasted bitter. No, Dick wasn’t that forgiving, not really. He’d seen Dick cut people off for less, watched him ice out allies who crossed lines Dick deemed unforgivable. But Jason? Jason got infinite chances. Infinite softness. Because Jason was his little wing, in a way that Tim never would be.

And wasn’t that the knife twist? That even after everything—the bullets, the betrayal, the Lazarus-fueled rage—Dick still looked at Jason like he hung the stars. Like he was worth every broken piece left behind.

Jason chuckled, "Okay, maybe. But I'm his Robin, whether he wanted it or not."

Tim swallowed down. Yeah. That was the heart of it, wasn’t it? Jason was Dick’s Robin first and always. The one he’d hated at first, but the one he’d fought for, the one he still fought for. Dick had chosen Jason, actively, passionately, in a way Tim had only ever witnessed from the outside. Had mourned him, loved him in a way that still felt raw, even years later. As if Jason was carved into Dick’s ribs, a scar he wore proudly, even when it hurt.

And Tim? Well, he was the kid who’d shoved his way into the suit out of necessity, because someone had to, because Gotham needed a Robin, and Dick had been too lost in the chasm of Jason’s death to even notice who stepped into the void, let alone choose him.

It slipped before Tim could hold it back. "Yeah, but I’m the Robin who didn’t die. That’s gotta count for something."

Ah shit.

The instant the words left his mouth, cold dread washed over him. Tim squeezed his eyes shut, muscles tensing, bracing for the inevitable backlash, for the snarl, the shove, the rage that always simmered just beneath Jason’s surface. And honestly, this time, it would be kind of deserved, because even he knew that was a cheap shot, a knife twisted in a wound that never quite healed.

But the explosion didn't come.

"Low blow, little bird," Jason groaned dramatically and practically fell over Tim, a warm, solid weight like a sack of bricks, one heavy arm draping across his shoulders. Jason’s other hand flopped dramatically over his own chest, fingers splayed as if clutching a mortal wound. "Low blow."

Tim let out a grunt at the sudden weight, the air whooshing out of his lungs, but he couldn't help the smirk that opened on his lips. "Sorry, not sorry."

"You’re lucky I like you, kid." Jason sighed, shaking his head like Tim was some kind of incorrigible stray he’d accidentally adopted and was now stuck with.

"Lucky?" Tim repeated, raising an eyebrow. "More like smart. If you didn’t like me, you’d have broken my arms instead of just my leg. Calculated risk."

"Don’t push your luck, Timmy." Jason’s grin was all teeth, sharp and dangerous, as he deliberately shifted more of his considerable weight onto Tim, just to hear the satisfying little wheeze it punched out of him.

Oh, what the— He's heavier than he looks!

"Ugh, get off me," Tim grumbled, frustration warring with the lingering amusement.

He planted his hands against Jason's solid chest and pushed with all the strength he could muster, hating the tremor in his arms, the pathetic weakness left by lack of exercise and constant drugging. It was like trying to shove a brick wall. Jason didn’t budge an inch, didn't even acknowledge the effort. Instead, he just buried his face deeper into the crook of Tim’s neck like an overgrown, dangerous cat seeking warmth. A low, contented hum vibrated against Tim's collarbone.

When shoving proved useless, Tim slumped back into the chair with a defeated grunt, his arms flopping uselessly at his sides. "You’re not gonna win the discussion like that."

Jason’s response was a muffled chuckle against his skin, "Who says I won't?"

Stupid. All of it. Tim rolled his eyes, but didn’t try to push him off again, partly because he knew it was pointless, partly because, despite himself, the weight was weirdly comforting. Like an anchor. Not that he’d admit it. Ever. Especially not with Jason's stupid shampoo smelling suspiciously like Alfred's lavender hand soap.

He wouldn't let Jason win this one, though.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “Okay. Then explain why I got to be his best man at his fake wedding with Kory.”

Jason froze.

Tim savored the silence, the way Jason’s grip on him went rigid, the way his breath hitched just slightly before—

“WHAT.” Jason removed his weight with violent grace, straightening to his full height, an indignant expression on his face.

Tim could finally breathe straight again, but his grin widened. “Yep. It was something about her planet. He asked me personally. Said I was ‘the only one who could handle the responsibility.’”

“You’re lying.”

“Nope.” Tim popped the ‘p,’ smug. He flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. “Guess that settles it.”

Jason made a sound like a tea kettle boiling over, hands flailing wildly in the air before crashing back down onto Tim’s shoulders with jarring force. His grip tightened, then slackened, as if he couldn’t decide whether to shake some sense into Tim or shove him clean off the rickety chair entirely. “That—! That doesn’t count! That was when I was dead, wasn't it?”

Tim feigned nonchalance. “Still counts.” he stated, simple and final.

Jason growled, shaking him lightly. “You little—!”

Tim’s laughter spilled out. It felt good, genuinely good, this stupid, pointless argument. Normal. Like they were just brothers, ribbing each other over something meaningless. For a moment, he almost forgot why they were really here.

Then Jason’s grip loosened completely, and he let go. His expression shifted, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, “... He really asked you, huh?”

Tim’s smile softened. “Yeah.”

After a few moments, Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing at the back of his neck before he spoke again, "Fair enough, I guess. It’s not like he would have asked me when I was Robin or after I became Red Hood, anyway. It’s just..." He trailed off, then shrugged, a single, sharp jerk of his shoulders. "...not our kind of shit."

Tim hesitated. He didn’t know what to say. His throat felt tight suddenly, words tangling before they could form. Part of him wanted to argue, to point out that Dick hadn’t chosen him because he was the favorite, no, Dick had chosen him because he was there, available, and because Dick always cared too much about keeping everyone included, even when it hurt him.

But he couldn’t say that to Jason. Not now. It would have Jason forcing him to confront feelings Tim wasn't ready to deal with, messy, complicated feelings about Dick, about Jason, about his own place in this fractured mess. Besides, he was already tired of navigating the emotional minefield this family had become.

"Yeah, well," Tim said dryly, "I never tried to blow him up, so that helped."

Jason barked a laugh, sharp and unrepentant. "Hey, that was business. Nothing personal."

Tim’s lips twitched despite himself. He liked Jason’s laugh, liked the lack of sadness in it more than he should have. It was easier to deal with Jason’s arrogance and his brashness than the vulnerability that occasionally slipped through. Tim wondered, idly, if Jason would still laugh like that when the inevitable happened—when Tim finally used all this information to double-cross him.

He hoped so, with a grim sort of resignation. He’d take Jason’s fury, his predictable violence, over this quiet, gnawing ache any day.

"You know, I think you're really his favorite." Jason began abruptly, not even giving Tim a chance to recover or formulate a response. "Dick used to brag about you all the time."

Tim was caught completely off guard by the sudden, personal shift in the conversation. "Really?"

"Yeah. When he’d come back from visiting you in Gotham, he’d be all, ‘Jay, you should’ve seen Tim. He’s so smart, he figured out Bruce’s identity in, like, a week.’" Jason’s voice took on a mocking, high-pitched tone, imitating Dick’s enthusiasm. "'He will be one of the great heroes.'"

The words washed over him like a tidal wave. That… couldn't be it. He will be one of the great heroes. The sentiment felt impossibly grand, jarring violently against the raw memory of rejection. Tim wasn't even enough to stay as Dick's Robin, so why would Dick say something like that to Jason? The dissonance made his head spin.

"He said that?" Tim felt a flicker of warmth in his chest, despite himself. It was a fragile thing, tentative and uncertain, like the first rays of sunlight breaking through a storm. "You aren't just messing with me?"

He wanted it to be true, needed it to be with a sudden, fierce intensity. Because even if it didn't mean Dick loved him like he loved Damian, it could mean he thought Tim was good, thought he was worthy... for a while. And if he did, then maybe, just maybe, Tim could figure out what he did wrong to lose that, to lose Dick's mantle and trust when he needed it the most.

"All the time," Jason confirmed, teasing but sincere. "It was annoying."

Tim's ears rang, something powerful tugged at his heart, a confusing tangle of relief and profound confusion. What had he done wrong? Why didn't Dick want him as his Robin even if he believed that? How could he hold such faith and still cast him aside? How—

Wait, was that…

Tim smirked when he realized how Jason sounded, "Jealous?"

"Please," Jason rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner, "I don’t need validation from Dick Grayson."

Tim raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

Jason glared at him, but there was no real heat in it—just the usual exasperation, the kind that meant he was fighting a losing battle and knew it. "Watch it, Timmy."

Tim stifled a laugh, biting the inside of his cheek to keep it from escaping. It shouldn't be this satisfying to mess with Jason, but the guy made it so easy. Yeah, anyone looking from the outside would buy the whole lone-wolf act, the way he pretended not to care what Dick thought. And Tim might have believed it too, once.

After all, he had been treating Dick like trash lately, and it took him realizing his brother was raped to change it. But he was wrongly mad for Tim. It was different. As soon as he realized Dick needed him, he changed.

They lapsed into silence. It was weird, these trading memories of Dick, like they were siblings squabbling over a parent’s affection.

Jason broke the quiet first. "You know, he’d lose his shit if he heard us arguing over who he liked more, right?"

Tim grinned, a genuine flash of amusement breaking through; "Oh, absolutely. He’d have that look."

Jason chuckled, the sound warm. "And then he’d say some ridiculous crap like, ‘I don’t have favorites, I love you both equally’—"

"—in this voice," Tim cut in, pitching his tone into a perfect imitation of Dick’s most saccharine big brother cadence, complete with an earnest head tilt.

Jason groaned, running a hand down his face, but his shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. "God, yes. So fucking fake that it's honest. Only he can pull off that level of—"

A buzz echoed from Jason’s pocket, cutting through his voice. Tim's attention immediately went to it. Was that what he thought it was? Jason pulled away from their shared moment, the easy camaraderie vanishing as he fished out a cheap, nondescript burner phone. He squinted at the screen.

Tim’s fingers twitched. That phone. If he could just get it next time Jason fell asleep around him, he could call Bruce—

“Looks like someone is trying to get out of the bunker,” Jason hummed.

Tim’s stomach twisted. Dick. It had to be Dick. He’d probably woken up disoriented and alone on the stiff living room couch, and had panicked.

Tim understood that feeling, viscerally. He’d spent more than enough time trapped in Jason’s sterile, concrete bunker to know how oppressive the silence could be, how the cold walls seemed to press closer with every echoing breath when you were alone.

And Dick wasn’t exactly used to being trapped.

“He must have panicked,” Tim said quickly, glancing at Jason. “Waking up and not seeing any of us? You can’t blame him for that, Jason.”

Jason sighed and shoved the phone back into his pocket. "I don’t. But we’d better go now before I have to hunt him down through the damn ventilation shafts." He jerked his chin toward the computer. "Shut your network off. We’ll come back to this later."

Tim nodded, swallowing down the protest rising in his throat. He didn’t want to stop—there were still so many files to go through, so many leads to chase—but Jason was right. Dick was more important. And Tim, with his broken leg and drugged haze, was in no position to mediate if things escalated.

He quickly turned off the computers, the hum of the monitors fading into black. Before Tim could push himself up, Jason’s arm was already around his waist, hauling him to his feet with effortless strength. The contact was warm, and Tim despised himself for how easily he leaned into it.

The door slid open automatically as they approached, then sealed shut behind them with a quiet hiss.

Their way to the bunker entrance was quick, the silence broken only by the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Tim kept pace with Jason, leaning slightly into the arm still wrapped around his waist for support. His leg throbbed with every step, but he pushed the pain aside, focusing on the task at hand.

When they rounded the final corner, the scene at the entrance snapped into view. Dick was crouched low by the heavy security door, fingers hovering over the access panel, from being caught mid-tampering, his posture radiating a frantic energy. At the sound of footsteps, his head had snapped up, shoulders sagging in visible relief as he scrambled to his feet, abandoning the panel entirely.

"You're here. You two are still here." He said, soft, almost disbelieving, as though he’d convinced himself they’d vanished.

Tim's chest ached, a hollow pressure beneath his ribs that had nothing to do with physical wounds. Dick had genuinely believed Jason had dragged him off somewhere, maybe even hurt him, and then immediately tried to storm after them. That was kind of… sweet. Very Dick, too. He always worried about others more than himself.

Before Tim could say anything to ease the tension, Jason spoke. "Where else would we be, Dickhead?" His tone was light, lacking its usual sharpness.

Still, the words seemed to hit Dick like a punch. His shoulders slumped, and he offered a weak smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes.

"I looked for you two everywhere, but some rooms were locked, and I couldn’t break through them." Dick raked a hand through his hair, gaze darting to the sealed door before returning to them, his voice dropping to something quieter, almost apologetic. "I wasn’t trying to run away, little wing. I just… I didn’t know where you had taken Tim."

Tim’s jaw clenched. Seeing Dick like this—nervous, explaining himself—felt wrong. This wasn’t Dick Grayson, the fearless and confident one, who'd once disarmed a bomb strapped to a mayor's neck while cracking jokes about structural engineering. Now those same hands trembled faintly at his sides, anticipating conflict like a stray anticipating kicks.

And Tim absolutely despised it.

"And what did you think I’d have done with Tim?" Jason shot back, defensive now, his grip tightening around Tim’s waist like he was marking territory.

The movement was subtle, but Tim’s irritation flared. He glared up at him. "Jason, don’t start."

Dick’s face fell, his expression crumpling. He cleared his throat, glancing between them, and when he spoke again, his grin was wider but somehow weaker. "Not you. I was worried about Hood, Jay." He whispered, as if he wanted to keep it a secret.

Tim’s stomach twisted. So Dick relatively trusted Jason now, even after everything he was still capable of. The problem was Hood. Tim wondered if he should tell Dick that Hood had a body beyond Jason now. On one side, he deserved to know, but on the other, would that do any good when neither of them can fight Hood?

Jason made that decision for him.

"Hood won’t be a problem," Jason declared, softer now, almost reassuring. He glanced at Tim. "He’s under control, right, Tim?"

Tim. Not Timmy, not Timbo, not little bird. Tim got the message loud and clear. Jason was serious about not telling Dick, at least not yet. Maybe it was because he didn’t want to worry him more than he already was? Still, it wasn’t like Tim had much of a choice but to play along.

"Yeah," Tim said, forcing himself to sound casual. "He is."

A slight frown formed between Dick’s eyebrows, his blue eyes narrowing as he studied them. Tim could practically see the gears turning in Dick’s head, his instincts screaming that something was off. But Dick, ever the peacekeeper, didn’t push. Instead, he nodded, his usual smile slipping back into place.

"Okay," Dick said, drawing the word out, "So…" He took a step closer, his grin widening, "Where were you guys? And why didn’t you wake me up?"

Tim’s mind raced. Depending on how long Dick had been looking for them, the bathroom excuse wouldn’t hold up. He needed something plausible, something that wouldn’t raise more questions.

Jason began to speak, "I took Tim to—" but Tim cut him off with a shrug, "I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, so Jason let me play a game on one of his computers."

It wasn’t entirely bullshit. Tim had been awake, and they had been on the computer, even if the reason wasn’t gaming. Those were the lies that worked best, half-truths wrapped in plausible deniability. Jason shot him a look, one eyebrow arched as if to say, Really? But Tim only kept smiling at Dick, hoping the lie would stick.

Dick’s frown deepened as he stopped in front of them, close enough that Tim could see the faint lines of exhaustion etched into his face. "We’re allowed to use computers?" he asked, curious with a hint of suspicion.

Jason was quick to answer, "Tim is allowed. For now. Every day he can play a few hours, and I’ll watch over him."

Tim glanced at Jason, his gratitude mingling with a flicker of unease. Jason’s quick save had been smooth, too smooth, and it left Tim unsettled. They fell into this rhythm too easily, like co-conspirators spinning half-truths with practiced precision. It felt wrong, lying to Dick, especially when Dick’s exhaustion was etched so plainly across his face, his guard already half-raised.

Yet, at the same time, it felt necessary, like a correct twisted course of action. Tim hated the duality of it, the way it clawed at his conscience even as he accepted its inevitability.

 They didn’t have a choice. Not yet.

Dick’s expression lit up, his earlier concern melting away as he brightened at the idea of spending time with them. "Can I be there too?"

"Nah." Jason made a dismissive gesture, "And don’t give me the puppy eyes, Dick."

Dick’s grin widened, his posture shifting in a way that Tim knew meant he was about to lean into his charm. "Come on, Jay," he said, "Let me at least be there to cheer or something."

"Not happening, Dickhead. This is Tim’s time to unwind, not your chance to hover." Jason rolled his eyes, but there was a flicker of fondness in his expression, an almost imperceptible softening around the edges.

Tim watched them. It was strange, seeing Dick like this, so eager to be close to them despite what Jason had done, so desperate for their company after everything that had happened. Normally, Dick’s optimism was infectious, his ability to find the bright side of any situation was one of his most endearing traits. But now, it felt… fragile, a thin veneer stretched over something raw and aching.

Tim realized he hated it. Hated how easily Dick could slip into this role, how effortlessly he could make himself normal again. It wasn’t fair. Dick shouldn’t have to be the one constantly reassuring them. Yet here he was, smiling brightly, trying to reconnect with them in the only way he knew how.

"Fine, fine, I won't bother our little bird with the grace of my presence." Dick snorted, raising his arms in surrender, but Tim caught the way his fingers curled just slightly—tight, controlled—before dropping back to his sides. The forced lightness in his voice didn’t match the tension in his shoulders, the barely-there tremor in his exhale.

Tim’s chest tightened. Idiot. Dick was trying so hard to give them space, to not be a burden, and it made something hot and bitter crawl up Tim’s throat.

An idea flickered in the back of his mind.

"I'm hungry," he announced abruptly.

Both Jason and Dick turned to stare at him. Jason’s grip on his waist shifted, fingers digging in just enough to be a silent what the hell are you doing?

Tim ignored, tilting his head toward Jason. "Is it breakfast time already?"

Jason’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing, but he nodded. "Yeah."

Perfect.

Tim turned to Dick, letting his voice soften just a fraction. "Can you cook something for me, Dick?"

Dick blinked. For a second, his expression wavered, something raw and hopeful flashing behind his eyes before he smoothed it over with a smile. He reached out, ruffling Tim’s hair with a fondness that made Tim’s ribs ache. "Of course, Tim. What do you want?"

Tim was about to answer when Jason’s arm tensed around him.

"Why didn’t you ask me to cook you breakfast?" Jason demanded with something between indignation and amusement.

And there was the jealousy he expected.

Tim smirked, leaning into the taunt. "Well, can you cook?"

Jason’s eyebrows shot up. "Stop being a little shit. What do you think you’ve been eating from these last few weeks? Just take out?"

Tim widened his eyes in mock surprise. "Ohhh, so that’s why they all sucked."

Jason’s jaw dropped, and he sputtered, "You—"

But Dick cut him off, throwing an arm around Jason’s shoulders and pulling him close. "How about we cook together for Tim today, little wing?" His smile was warm, infectious.

Jason looked between them, his brow furrowing as he weighed his options. Then, with a groan, he relented. "Okay, but it's my kitchen, so I lead."

Dick grinned, squeezing Jason’s shoulder. "Deal."

Got him. Tim’s smirk deepened. Small victories.

They moved to the kitchen, and Jason deposited Tim onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island with a muttered, "Don’t move," the same careless efficiency he used for everything, as if Tim weighed nothing. Tim bit back a wince as his bad knee jostled against the counter, but he schooled his expression into something neutral before either of his brothers could notice.

Across the island, Dick was already rummaging through Jason’s fridge, pulling out eggs, milk, chocolate chips, and a carton of blueberries with the ease of someone who’d spent too much time in other people’s kitchens.

"Pancakes," Dick declared, setting the ingredients down with a flourish.

Jason scoffed, snatching the eggs from Dick’s hands. "Omelets. More protein."

Dick rolled his eyes. "Tim’s been drugged and locked in a bunker for weeks. He deserves something fun."

Tim leaned back against the counter, watching them with a mixture of amusement and unease. It was so normal—their playful bickering, the way Dick’s laughter filled the room as he flicked flour at Jason like a petulant child.

It was Dick who finally broke the stalemate, glancing at Tim with a grin. "Hey, Tim, tiebreaker. Pancakes or omelets?"

Tim hesitated, his gaze flicking between them. Dick’s smile was hopeful, almost pleading, while Jason’s expression was a mask of indifference, but the way his fingers tightened around the whisk betrayed him.

"Why not make both?" Tim suggested with a shrug. "You’ve got the eggs for it, right?"

Dick lit up immediately as he turned to Jason. "See? Solves everything." He clapped Jason on the shoulder, and for a moment, Jason’s scowl faltered, a flicker of amusement crossing his face before he shrugged Dick’s hand off.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Jason groaned, but there was no real annoyance in it. "But I’m cooking the omelets. Last time you made them, they tasted like rubber."

Dick’s grin didn’t falter. "Only because someone distracted me by setting the toaster on fire."

Jason snorted, but he didn’t deny it. He shot Tim a look—you’re enabling him—but Tim just grinned and leaned back.

As Dick mixed the ingredients, Jason diced vegetables with practiced ease, the rhythmic thunk of the knife against the cutting board filling the silence. Tim watched them, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm against the counter. It was strange, seeing them like this: Jason, the Red Hood, calmly chopping peppers like he hadn’t spent the last weeks terrorizing them, and Dick, the Nightwing, about to flip pancakes with the same carefree energy he used to flip off rooftops.

It was almost fam—

"Hey, Jason," Tim said suddenly, breaking the silence. "You’re cutting those peppers wrong."

Jason paused, his knife hovering mid-chop. "What?"

Tim grinned, leaning forward slightly. "They’re too big. They’re gonna cook unevenly."

Jason glanced down at the peppers, then back at Tim, his brow furrowing. "They’re fine."

"Tim’s got a point, Jay." Dick chuckled, tilting his head to get a better look at the peppers. "You’re kinda butchering those veggies."

Jason glared at them both. "You’re both annoying."

"Annoying and right," Tim shot back, propping his chin on his palm, watching them with amusement.

Jason pointed the knife at him, his expression mock-serious. "Keep talking, and I’m leaving the peppers out of your omelet."

Tim raised his hands in surrender, but his grin didn’t falter. "Fine, fine. I’ll let you ruin breakfast in peace."

Jason rolled his eyes but resumed chopping the peppers, this time into smaller, more even pieces. Tim caught the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and he couldn’t help the small swell of satisfaction that rose in his chest.

His focus changed to Dick, and Tim couldn’t help but notice the way Dick’s hands trembled just slightly, the way he kept glancing at Jason like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. It made him sick. Dick shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells around them, shouldn’t have to pretend everything was fine when it so clearly wasn’t.

But Dick was trying. So Tim would too.

Jason commandeered one side of the stove, scowling as Dick kept reaching across him for the vanilla extract, the butter, and the whisk.

"Move your elbow," Jason grumbled, shoving Dick’s arm aside so he could flip his omelet.

Dick dodged with a dancer’s grace, unfazed. "You’re hogging all the space."

"You’re distracting me."

"Excuses. Your omelet would be fine if you just—"

Tim cut in, smirking. "If he knew how to cook."

Jason’s head snapped toward him. "Excuse me?"

Dick laughed, nudging Jason’s shoulder. "Ignore him. Your omelet’s gonna be great."

Jason huffed, but Tim didn’t miss the way his shoulders relaxed just a fraction at Dick’s reassurance.

Tim kept needling him anyway. "I mean, unless you’re scared of a little criticism—"

Jason pointed the spatula at him. "You're this close to me feeding you nothing but protein shakes for a week."

"That’s child abuse." Dick gasped in mock horror.

Jason rolled his eyes. "He keeps saying he isn't a kid."

"Oh, so now I’m not a kid?" Tim raised his eyebrows, his smirk widening.

Jason muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "I regret everything," but Tim caught the way his mouth twitched, like he was fighting back a wide smile. Dick must have noticed too because he grinned, flipping a pancake with a flourish that sent a faint waft of batter-dusted air toward Jason.

Jason glared at him.

Tim held back a chuckle.

He’d missed something he never had. Missed the easy banter, the warmth, the way Dick made everything feel a little less heavy. Even with Jason’s sharp edges and rough demeanor, there was a sense of rightness here that Tim hadn’t realized he’d been craving.

So for a moment, he let himself forget everything else—the investigation, Hood, the mess waiting for them outside the bunker—and just breathed. It was a rare feeling, one he didn’t get to indulge in often. Safety. Warmth. Family.

And as false as it was, it was his for now.

Hey, dear readers! Thank you for all the comments, they motivated me to keep writing and finish this. I really hope you enjoy this new chapter, and would love to know how you feel about it, your favorite parts and what you expect to happen. Your comments are always appreciated!