Chapter Text
If there was one thing Jason knew about it was fear
The fear of coming home to an angry father, an overdosed mother, of an empty stomach, a cold night, a crowbar, a bomb, of being left behind
He knew fear all too well, like the back of his hands, like every scar he memorized on his body, like taking apart the guns he wields, like the words on his grave
His revival was a miracle, an imperfect dream only reality for him for a reason he didn’t understand. From the moment his eyes opened in the dark coffin of his tomb he was afraid, afraid as he clawed open the casket, afraid of the glowing green pit he emerged in, afraid of what had become of him
He knew rejection just as well, his fathers harsh words, his mother choosing death over him, being nothing more than a replacement for his brother and no time having passed before he himself was gone. Batman choosing joker over him only solidified that; he would never be anyone’s choice. The night in the apartment, before that bomb, the searing wound in the flesh of his neck was all the reminder he needed. Nobody’s choice
A fact of his life he had grown to live by, every habit surrounding that truth. Time passed, his reputation grew, his name spread through the underground like wildfire, eating through the corrupted treats with precision and ease, blood filled the sewers, bullets lined the alleys. Corpses left dead in the harbor. He had grown efficient, learned in his death he no longer had a reason to go the extra mile, so he didn’t. The red hood was silent, the red hood was fast, the red hood would not wait to hear begs and pleads of those deemed unfit for the Gotham streets
His peace with the bats was cordial, dedicated entirely on a business standpoint. He knew they didn’t want him, knew he had no place in their perfect family, knew they still hated his tactics and style. He didn’t bother with familials, never engaged with his once sibling's small talk. He knew his place, and his place was not among them. He was called to aid for a night, maybe help on a case for two, but he knew that was limit of it, he was an alley, nothing more but another card to play on turn
They only ever called him if they were desperate, desperate enough to choose him as last resort
Concern was something foreign to him, maybe once he knew it, learned it from Batman who’d grab him by the scruff of his costume and pull him to sit and check his knees, bandage his hands, stitch his side all while muttering words of his carelessness underlying something more, something parental, something affectionate. Once Jason let a bullet graze his shoulder to get such attention from his father. The arms that held him so gently, the look in the eyes of his mentor so caring, the gentle kiss pressed to his forehead made it all worth it tenfold. Jason never did that again despite the many dreams of such affection recurring
A normal drug bust like any other night, Robin was at his side, Batman across the warehouse, Red Robin and Nightwing somewhere else. There were goons everywhere, armed with machine guns and pipes and knives and all the usual assortments. He’d been careful, every bullet hit his targets but not kill, he promised not to kill when working with bats. Every dodge, every dive, every trigger, every movement trained with ease. Robin was flanking him, with skills far more impressive than he had at his age (no wonder Batman preferred him) when a hiss of pain sounded from his left
His eyes narrowed as Robin winced back, an arm pressed to his side, expression contorted in pain, Jason didn’t hesitate to step in front of the assailant and ended the man with a single bullet. Keeping the young boy behind him, he ignored every hit, every slice, every stab until blood soaked his shoes and the floor below. The warehouse was dark, the lights shot out, the pained whimper behind him the only sound aside from his breathing
“Robin took a hit. This side clear.” He lifted his hand away from his helmet, eyeing the suspicious glare of what might’ve been his brother. He heard words of the com, angry snarls and questions pointed at him; he ignored them as he always did. It wasn’t until the familiar flip of a cape and heavy boots against concrete that he rose, meeting the expression of his former father
“Hood.” Jason notes the anger in his tone, the menacing step he took forward, the glare that was reserved only for those who truly deserved the expression. He notes the way Batman’s eyes sweep the corpses, the way they soften momentarily upon seeing Robin before landing back on him with a disarisfied hue. “I thought we talked about this. No killing.”
“Corpses don’t shoot twice.” Nightwing landed beside him, immediately dropping to one knee to observe robins condition, a hand already on his forehead and back, slowly shifting his position more comfortably with a tender grip that Jason envied. Batman stepped towards him again.
“I thought I told you no killing.” The harshness Batman always used on villians, on criminals, on the joker. The one he used for him.
“Your son was shot, perhaps you should worry about what truly matters in this situation.” The adrenaline was wearing off, the aches and soreness slowly filtered into his bones as did the knowledge of a significantly deep wound somewhere on his chest. His armor was dark, he’d had worse. No one was there to carry him home
“Jason-“
“Bruce. We need to get Damian back to the cave.” Nightwings urgent voice broke the tension of the air, his worry palpable in the dark warehouse. He was cradling Damien carefully, the bullet having lodged itself somewhere in the kids shoulder. Jason stepped aside, allowing Batman to rush towards the child’s aid.
“Rethink your methods Hood or I will rethink this arrangement.” Jason knew loneliness, he knew rejection, he’d known it his whole life. He turned, slowly walking away with no response. Knowing the feeling didn’t make it hurt any less, experience only made him dread what inevitably would come next. Rejection hurt more than any explosion or poison or crowbar, and his strikes were up. They wouldn’t see the way he bit his lip bloody to keep a sob from escaping, they wouldn’t see him dig a finger into the fresh wound on his side, the wouldn't see how his bike sped away
Home was a word he had grown to love the meaning of. Home meant safety, meant comfort, meant warm blankets and heated air and full stomachs and clean clothes. His home was the batcave, his home was wayne manor, he had not been home since he was fifteen years old
His apartment was never his home, it was his nourishment, his rest, his recovery, but never was it his home. The water ran cold after seven minutes, the lightbulbs were half burned out, the fridge had spoiled vegetables and the pantry had canned soup. The walls were empty, the trash was piling up, the couch had so much dried blood it’s color permanently was altered but he didn’t mind. Didn’t mind as he stripped off his boots, his gloves, his mask, his chest plate, his pants, his undershirt. He didn’t mind as he lay down on the worn fabric despite the wound only adding to the biohazardous mess. Sleep was always a relief, a welcome, and just maybe he would forget the night before
There was a text on his phone waiting for him when he woke, a message to the stupid family group chat cass added him to some months ago. He’d never sent a text on it, rarely opened it, but he did. It was a picture of Dick smiling wide, holding Damian under his arm and Tim perched on his other side all on a medical bed in the cave. Damian’s shoulder was bandaged tight and the caption was something stupid for those not in Gotham to see and-
He left the ground chat without another thought, resting his head back on the couch’s armrest with a groan. He was cold, freezing, the window was still open and he was wearing nothing but boxers. The air was hazy and cool, his eyes felt heavy again. He knew he had to rise, to get up, stitch his side, and shower, and eat something, and-
A nap wouldn’t hurt
But he couldn’t let down the people
His people
The kids of crime alley, the ones just wanting to live their lives. He knew what it felt like when the system was put against you, he knew the fear of living in Gotham. Sure they’d probably prefer nightwing, ever the charmer, wide smiles, bright eyes, all encouraging rather than a masked man with a loud bike and a gun. They’d probably even choose Tim, calculated and smart, who would stop crime before it happened. But just like they never got their first pick, and unlike them he wouldn’t give up on they placed they called home
If even a single kid could go home and hug their mom just once more, It'd all be worth the fight
It took him three hours to get off the couch, another fifty minutes to move his aching body to the shower, ten minutes to wash the grime from his flesh, two minutes to dress himself in clothing too thin for the cold apartment, fifteen minutes to begin to cook
He’d always known how to cook, if he wanted food he’d have to make it for himself, make it for his mother. When his father was home he’d cook exclusively for him, keeping his head bowed low to avoid the consequences if he upset the man, making as little sound as possible, wiping every mess away till the kitchen sparkled
When Batman picked him up that habit carried, he’d sneak down to cook for Bruce and only made one plate, leaving it on the counter for his adopted father to find in the spotless kitchen. It took two weeks of his routine before an intervention, Alfred had calmly explained it no longer was his duty to cook, that he was a child who should’ve been cared for rather than the one doing the work. He never could forget the eyes Alfred looked at him with, those with such genuine affection and care. But he never could shake the feeling he wasn’t doing enough for Bruce, for Batman, for the man who took him in. He straightened his shoes in the front, always folded his clothes neatly, he kept his room free of mess, and did his best to not bleed on the carpet. Sometimes when the guilt truly ate him alive he’d do it all again, refold every shirt, vacuum every rug, polish every surface. It was never enough.
When he first met his older brother he had seen the aggression in his eyes, the fury, betrayal, hurt, anger at Bruce at bringing a new kid, anger at him for accepting the offering the world gifted him. Jason always noted the fakeness of the smile, the way dick would purposefully hit harder in sparring, the subtle boasts in their achievements and landmarks. Jason never mentioned it, the behavior eventually faded, Jason never forgot it
When all was said and done, when he sat there, strapped to that chair, waiting for the blow, he could count the time his older brother truly smiled with him on one hand. Dick wouldn’t miss him.
When he rose from the grave he had been angry, angry at the world for bringing him back, angry at himself for dying, angry at Batman for not saving him. The years passed in a blur before he caught wind of the new him, his own replacement, and all the rage he knew dick felt suddenly made perfect sense. It was a moment of weakness when he attacked the tower, a low point in his life when the anger boiled over and as he stood over the shivering form of his little brother he realized he truly was no better than his father
That realization almost led to his death a second time, but he didn’t want an empty funeral. He didn’t want to be buried alone again. He still kept the gun, loaded with a single bullet
Patrol was rough as always after an injury, the way his head spun when he flipped, his balance shifted when he dodged too fast, the sting of not being fast enough to avoid a hit. He didn’t kill for an hour, then accepted the truth dangling over his face. It didn’t matter what he did, he never would be enough for his family. The red hoods territory grew, as did the kill count he’d racked up, he never mourned the lives he took, no one would mourn his.
Damian rejoined the bats after a few days benched, Jason couldn’t help but envy the way he so effortlessly fit in with the group. Dick’s affectionate hand in his shoulder, Tim’s teasing with a wide smile on his face, Batman watching them all with look in his eye only describable as pride
Jason didn’t hesitate to leave again
His side healed quickly, not as fast as Alfred’s stitching wouldn’t allow but still better than average. His skin was still cold, freezing no matter what he wore but he didn’t mind, he never minded. Cold was as ingrained in his body as was the constant ache in his bones, as was the constant hunger in his stomach, the racing of his heart. Being red hood has exemplified every one of his traits, both good and bad, he no longer had a person to pick up the pieces when he inevitably fell short
He was called back again, back to work with bats, back after his month long near radio silence. It was Red Robin who dropped in, handing him an envelope with the case information and the specifics of what they would need his participation for. He so desperately wanted to refuse but he knew he couldn’t, knew he never would. Some days he wished he could tell them, scream at them across the roofs, curse them out with every breath he could make so they’d know a fraction of what he felt, but that day wasn’t tonight. It never would be more than an impulse.
He met at the location, his guns strapped to his thighs, his build menacing and strong as ever as he grappled to the rooftop
“Jason!!” Nightwing sprung over, a grin already stretched wide on his face, reaching out s hand before retracting it just as fast. “It’s good to see you.”
He grunted in response, not trusting the words he wished to say
“I don’t see the reason for Todd’s help.” He rarely agreed with the youngest brother but he certainly did there
“Extra eyes, extra hands, extra manpower, Intel.” Tims response was logical and curt, the truth in his words resonated in him with a familiar pang of loneliness; never they would just want him around
“Has he been debriefed?”
“Yeah, actually listens unlike you.” Tim shot back with a glare. Jason leaned against the railing, staring at the foggy evening sky
“You ok Jay, it’s been a while since we’ve seen you.” He glanced over to where nightwing slid beside him, the patented smile he always wore bright on his face, his blue eyes easy and inviting. The anger was gone from his eyes but Jason knew what truly layer under the school expression.
“Fine.” The guilt had been eating him alive more than usual, every step he took he knew wasn’t enough, not enough to repay the debts he owed, not enough to fulfill the purpose he was resurrected for, not enough for all the hurt he caused, not enough for anything he gave. He knew the mindset was dangerous, knew it was wrong, but oh how nice it would be just one more time to be carried in the arms of his dad, just once more-
“You sure, you know you can talk to me about anything right.” There it was again, the signature love that came with knowing Richard Grayson, the easy affection, the casual words that if truly held weight they maybe could have made a difference but they didn’t. Jason knew those words were to ease his brother's own guilt, that the only ones they were truth were the ones Dick actually loved. Not the corpse of a figure that even in life was a mistake
He bit his tongue under the mask, immediately stepping away from the rail to rejoin the others. He ignored the gaze sent his way, swallowing the familiar coppery taste. His time was borrowed, his life was borrowed, he had been gifted a second chance at life, another start to create something more than just a ghost at 15.
He wondered if any of them would come to funeral number two of his. Dick skipped the first one, no reason for the second. Tim might, public appearances or something like that. Tim was the one who should go the least, Jason had never showed an ounce of anything but cruelty to him, why would he even want to go see his grave. Damian wouldn’t. Jason knew that. Damian made it clear what his opinions were
Why bother with this, with them, with every day, every feeling, every decision being so heavy, so hard, so endlessly painfully difficult to a point of debilitating guilt to even stand, why bother live such a life when he had been destined to spent the rest of eternity in a grave?
He inhaled slowly, exhaling again as Tim called for them all to plan. He was given his place, his role with a silent tongue. He grappled to the location without a single word to the laughter surrounding him, lost in his own thoughts as he landed with a painful crack of cement on a rooftop. The air was sticky with anticipation and his heart raced with adrenaline of the fight to come, a heightened sense of dread casually seeping through his bones as he waited, waited for his time to move once more
History always repeated itself, to find truth for the future you look to the past, to learn from mistakes in order to thrive in the future. History always happened again and Jason always hated how fate laughed at his expense
There was a bomb in the warehouse, there was a bomb slowly ticking down in a warehouse
The fight was lengthy, it was brutal, it was difficult. The coms were free of the normal banter, the halls echoed with impact and cries of pain. Blood pooled on the fists of every attacker and every assailant slowly filled the halls with unmoving bodies and twisted limbs. Such a mindset he entered the warehouse with was dangerous, such thoughts made his dodges weaker and his punches harder, such thoughts made the fights shorter and the stitching longer. He knew better than to fight when feeling so burdened, why did he bother to come out
He was alone, always alone, alone as he walked down the halls, hearing the voices of his once family in his ear. He was alone, alone as he shot another nobody in the head, watching their blood stain the walls as did so many others. He was alone, alone as he walked further down the halls to check each room, which ones were empty, which ones were not, alone as he heard footsteps approaching him; alone aiming the gun towards the figure in motion pop
“Maybe this time you’ll stay dead!!! .” The crazed eyes of a madman met his through the mask, the man smiling sadistically as he pulled a gun out of his pocket. Jason saw the movement, shooting the man’s adm in an instant. He didn’t register the words spoken, registered nothing in his trancelike state of consciousness. The cry of pain never came from the man, instead laughter, laughter laughter laughing loudly and-
Jason kick the door in behind the man’s slumped figure, seeing the oh so familiar sight; a bomb placed on a crate next to a chair, his breath hitched, the grip on his gun shaking
“Oh I’m so glad it’s you who found me!!! Maybe this time I’ll kill two birds with one stone hmm, waddya say!!” The man’s smile only grew, blood dripping from his mouth as he laughed again, the sound ringing out in the dark hallway with every distorted syllable exactly like the first time in a warehouse room with a bomb and s crate and crowbar and the tape and-
“Hood, report.” His brothers were in the warehouse, Dick was and Damien was and Tim was and they weren’t supposed to die in a place like that it was his. His death he was the one who died it was his role to die his fate was death and it wasn’t theirs to fulfill it was his and-
Jason took a measured step forward, his knees weak at the sight, the man’s laughter in tangent to the way his heart beat in his chest. The gun clattered to the floor, unnoticed as he stared at the view. ‘Forehand?’ He flinched back, eyes wide as he searched for the sound of the voice, spinning around dizzyingly quickly as he choked out a breath. He reached for his helmet, ripping it off in panic. ‘Or maybe you prefer backhand?’ He flinched back, a hand on his cheek as the echo of pain he remembered so well returned to his body. He coughed, hunching over and wheezing, sandpaper fingers prying from his stomach as he spit bile on the floor
Three minutes
He could hear it, hear the sounds of a crowbar being swung, hear the exact moment of impact when it hit him, his ribs shattering, his shoulders snapping, his skin bruised beyond recognition and scarred beyond mangled. He could feel it, feel bone puncturing lung and blood spilling from every surface that wasn’t numbed from shock. He could feel the liquid in his lungs, heat the watery breath as he begged for Batman, for his father to save him. He begged for Bruce, for dick, for Alfred, for Sheila, for Willis, for all of them but no one-
“Hood? Hood, the buildings clear, rendezvous at the bank up north, copy?”
No one came. As the count down ticked down, no one came, as the numbers lowered to zero, it was him. The too skinny boy from crime alley, with eyes too wide for the world he lived in, with faith too strong for the city to ever dampen, with a smile too wide for a face that never grew old enough to fit it. He died alone in that room, in that chair, with a broken nose and an eye swelled shut, with his hair matted to his forehead and his teeth too broken to wear an expression
Jason dropped to his knees at the sight, every forgotten memory returning tenfold. Four years passed, four years since then and nothing ever changed, nothing changed except that he’d been a fool to make a mistake twice. The man’s laughter echoed louder, louder and louder in his head, drowning out all reason from his mind. Fear gripped his body like a noose but he didn’t cower in his place. His knees hit the concrete as the timer ticked lower
It was the wrong night for such a reminder
“Jason? Hood report, what’s going on down there?”
He could close the door and run away, tell them all to flee the warehouse, there was time for that. He could cut the wires or find a different way to turn it off, hell the bomb didn’t even look that big. He could leave the room, leave it all, go home, lay down on the couch, go to sleep until inevitably the thoughts that plagued his mind would stop and he could finally breathe again
His body was frozen, frozen solid, eyes transfixed on the counter down in front of him. Before it had been behind him, Joker would gleefully shout out minutes and he’d be left to count the seconds with beeps; did his countdown shine so bright? Did his light up a whole room with its orange glow that was so strangely captivating for its meaning. What would Batman think, would they lable it as suicide or accidental, would they mourn him or move on
“Jason. Do you copy? Nightwing en route.”
Would they set another monument in the cave, or let his memory die as did all the nobody’s of Gotham
Would they watch over crime alley for him, would they make sure to refill all the free little libraries he made sure were always stocked
Would anything change, or would life go on as if his life was nothing more than his, but a tiny drop a bucket too full to be remembered, the tiny name he’d carved out too insignificant to make any difference. It was foolish of him to hope for such, foolish for him to believe. They’d forget, they forgot and they’d forget again, they’d never spare a moment for him, it was foolish to think anything but. He wasn’t worth remembering
47 seconds
The laughter was too loud, too boisterous, too much. He could feel tears under his eyes, feel the warmth in his chest, feeling the pain of rejecting simmering deep in his bones as every number ticked down.
32 seconds
They were above him, maybe, probably, hopefully. They’d split up, sent him away, out of their sight, out of their minds, they probably forgot he was there
28
A wet sob escaped his lips, it hurt, hurt to breathe, hurt to exhale, hurt to blink back the tears that escaped his eyes, hurt too much to move his hand to wipe them, but he could feel every burning sensation that ghosted his body; every reminisce of the torture he endured under the hands of that clown, back when he believed he was worthy of savior.
15
No one would come for him. He’d die alone, again, dreaming of the warms arms of familiarity comforting him until he closed his eyes, holding him safely to their chest with a hand on his head, whispering all the words he never heard in his ear and running their hands through his hair like he always wished his father did with him. That at least upon death he’d be loved
9
Unconditionally, unrequited, unexploited, love. Just love. Just for a moment, just for a second, just for him. Just small glances in his direction when they thought he wasn’t looking. Just a pat on the shoulder or a hand on his back. Just a minuscule compliment or unassuming comment about something irrelevant but still something to be proud of.
7
Damian was safe, Tim was safe, Dick was safe. Bruce would be happy. Damian would have the family cleansed of someone he hated, Tim wouldn’t have to every day be reminded of fear when the word was brought up, Dick wouldn’t ever have to look at the boy who replaced him, wouldn’t even have to look at him with masked disgust again. And Bruce would get the family he wanted, no mistakes, no screw ups, nothing but a perfect, perfect family to be proud of.
5
He closed his eyes, he didn’t want to know when it would blow. He wanted to picture something nice, his mother, back when she was alive. His birthday, getting ice cream, the armchair by the fire with the blanket Alfred gave him, reading all the books his mind could ask for. When he’d cried himself to sleep in Roys arms and didn’t wake up alone the next morning. He exhaled even, the first true breath he’d taken all night. The laughter was quiet, he could hear footsteps somewhere but he didn’t care, the beeping was rhythmic and he could finally just stop.
“JASON”
It was warm, so very warm, burning white hot fire spreading across his body and up his back as shutters ran through his spine and over his shoulders in a painfully obvious sign of life. His eyes burned, acrid smoke filling his nostrils and coated his tongue in the disgusting taste of ash and dust. His ears rang with a static all too familiar, all too real for him to like. He wanted to lift an arm, wipe the smog from his nose but his arms wouldn’t move, why wouldn’t they move? Something was buzzing, making noise, what was that? He wanted it out of his ears, he wanted quiet, he wanted it to stop
There was something prodding him, touching his head, hands on his face, the mask…? He’d taken it off, right? He didn’t like the light behind his eyelids, he didn’t like the noise that followed, he didn’t like not being able to move. The tapping started again, the sound was above him, then another next to him, something was touching him, he didn’t like that. He wanted nothing of it, he didn’t like it. He wanted it to stop. His eyes were stung from the smell, he could feel the liquid rising to sooth the burn, he didn’t like that either. The bomb went off, why wasn’t he dead?
“-ON?!?” He didn’t like that sound, so close to his face, so loud. He died the first time, why not the second. Why was he alive? He coughed, wheezing coughs to clear the bile from his throat, silencing the ringing and laughter that plagued his mind through silence. His arms, whatever had his arms let them go he pushed up, pushed forward, grabbing onto something for balance as he bent over it, heaving out air to just breathe.
He couldn’t stand, he knew he couldn’t stand, his mind spun despite his eyes being locked shut, his body was too heavy, too light, too foreign to follow the commands he wanted it to, his knee collapsed, he pitched forward too fast, too forward, too much as he he braced for an impact that never came
Words were being spoken, he couldn’t hear them, the laughter was back, rising with a voice he couldn’t make out and crashing with an ever growing ring that filled his blackened vision. It was familiar almost, deprived of everything but his ears to hear the last breaths he took. Alone again, alone, left for dead, to be found and held like he wished for in life
He slumped forward, the sounds, the laughter, everything going quiet