Archive of Our Own

Jason is too aware of how much soul he has left in him. Another part of himself that is simply not enough.

But he’s come too far to give up. Given a second chance he didn’t want—there has to be some purpose. Some reason.

Gotham loves her son. It’s not enough.

Jason crawls out of that grave, fingers bleeding, most of his nails gone. He crawls, a broken boy, bleeding his soul out his body. By the time he comes around, nestled into the League of Assassins, he knows that he would have found more peace if he had never woken up.

He has nothing but the imprint of darkness and warmth and something so soft, it aches. So he does not remember, but he knows that it had been something gentler in death. So much gentler.

Yet—yet—with this second chance, he wants to do more. Finish something. He’s tired of wasted chances. Of things you don’t say. Of hoping it just gets better. Of asking someone to come help, please. Dad, pleas—

You help yourself.

Talia sends him to the All-Caste. They tell him that the Lazarus Pits have stitched his soul wound together. It cannot heal. It is held, by the thread of Pit Water weaving through it.

Careful, Ducra warns, Or you’ll bleed out through your fingers.

The instinct is to go after Tim, to hunt down his Replacement, and the Lazarus Pits urge on his rage. Goading him forward as Talia stokes the fire higher, pushing him to go for revenge.

He snaps out of it, on a roof perched in Crime Alley. Watching one of the working girls look around in paranoia, peering around her shoulder as she scrambles to help the homeless child she’s hunched over. He hears her say, “Baby, it’s not safe here for kids. You should know that, you’re old enough. Someone must’ve taught ya.” 

She checks over her shoulder again, helpless and desperate, wanting to help a kid but barely keeping her head above the water as is. Jason gets it, hates how many of his own reflections he can see in the scene. 

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” the boy cries out. “I know it’s not safe, but I’m tired. I’m so hungry.”

Revenge seems to lose its importance as he watches a shade of his younger self in the boy. He recalculates his plans as he drops down next to the two of them, holding out a granola bar to the boy. Silent, he hands all the cash he has on him to the woman, who takes it—hesitant but aware of its necessity. 

They don’t trust him until he speaks, because even through the vocoder, his Crime Alley accent is thick and recognizable. 

He takes the boy somewhere safe, finds him a home even if he has to check on it every week.

Red Hood is reborn here, as something he used to wish he had. Red Hood becomes someone who protects kids. That’s really the kind of legacy he wants. He’s not kind, but he’s theirs. Crime Alley keeps his secrets because already they have so little.

This can be just theirs.

A secondary truth: sometimes, a monster who only goes after other monsters is the only form of safety you have. Because when you live in Crime Alley, a place where everyone else has all but given up on, sometimes a monster is the only kind of protector you would really believe in anyways.

So you believe. Because you are tired of empty promises. And maybe it’s not right, but when there is nothing else—

Jason is tired of wasted chances. He just wants to finish something before his time is up. He’s not made for long living. He takes the Lazarus Pits and channels them into something productive, cleaning up the streets of Crime Alley. It’s not clean and it’s not right but it’s something—and Justice is so awfully gray for him these days.

A vignette darkening the edges of his vision, influenced by pleas unanswered. The crowbar had been piercing, in a sense that he can’t quite define. Bruising, blunt, unwieldy, but unrelentingly precise in its cruelty as it broke him into shades of black and blue. It had all been so piercing. Sharp.

Jason is doing his best to set up a system meant to outlive him. A Crime Alley that doesn’t really need him in the first place. Jason loves Gotham, born on her streets, in her arms. But he’s building foundations on goodbyes, steel frames from farewell, and safer streets from his own youth. He loves what Gotham gave him, but he cannot forget what it took. He’s tired. Mostly, he wants to close his eyes and rest a good while.

Gotham, teeming with spirits, edging too close to sentient, wails. Her son, comes home, only to say goodbye. Goodnight. Sorry.

Along the way, heads roll. He needs permanence, needs the worst of the worst to be gone in certainty because his own presence is fleeting at best. It doesn’t make it better. Or more right, when he stares at his hands wondering when a child grew up into a killer.

(There is no justification of the duffel bag of heads. Just anger. Biting. Piercing.)

You cannot teach a child how to reconcile with their own reflection. 

When Batman throws that batarang at him, slicing through his neck, Jason has a split second flashback—it’s of darkness. Of death, of hearth, of something so tender, he feels himself breaking. You could stop, it whispers, you could rest now. No one would blame you. He’s so tired. He’s so, so tired. 

But I would blame myself, Jason thinks. So he drags himself out that warehouse. And doesn’t get on his bike, knowing he’ll never make it to a safehouse. Would die there anyways. Instead—instead—he crawls into the shadows of Gotham and begs her to make a home inside of him. To turn her son into part of her shadows, to hold him so close that the light forgets his name, and she does.

She does. Wailing, she saves him and he pays in his humanity. It chips away at him. The All-Caste warned him about the consequences of magic, but he doesn’t regret it. Just hates that it’s another unfortunate symptom of survival he has to learn to live with. 

Jason thinks that Alfred wouldn’t be horrified. He would be devastated, if he knew. 

At least he’s never alone. The Pit is rage, it’s loud and it never affords him kindness. Gotham is different. Gotham is a song. A funeral dirge laid over a sweeter melody Jason might remember as Robin. Maybe this is his truth: tragedy only emphasized by rare glimpses of light. Reality made harsher in the death of hope.

Like every inch of the dirtiest parts of Gotham, he loves it anyways. The way it plays in his head, the way it keeps him company, the way it doesn’t know how to be anything except honest.

He does not pause long enough to question if he is human at all—he is still too human . Human enough to be sentimental, to hold on to ties that don’t really want him.

He meets John Constantine the way he meets most people who operate in the circles of the Justice League: by chance and in a bad situation.

This time though—he’s not the one in a bad situation. It’s Constantine, who is barely dodging blows from a shadowy figure, cursing as he tries to scramble something together.

For a moment, Jason struggles, thinking about if he’s still qualified to jump in and lend aid. But who’s he kidding? Of course, he’s going to jump in. And he wasn’t ever dumb enough to let his skills with the All-Blades dull. Sighing, he moves forward, focusing on the oily feeling of the shadowy figures and the evil their aura radiates. Ducra would have been inordinately pleased, watching him draw the All Blades for their intended purpose. 

The flaming swords feel comfortable in his hands, but he doesn’t give himself more than a second to think about their familiarity. Calling out, he shouts, “WATCH OUT!” And whirls past Constantine, cutting through the first shadowy figure. It explodes in a shriek, cut off as it dissipates. Jason is relentless, a deadly tornado as the next few minutes turn into slash, duck, stab, dodge, over and over.

The rest of them attempt to corner him by attacking together, but Constantine distracts a few of them, and Jason ducks under blows to bisect the last of the shadowy figures around him. He doesn’t even take a breath before jumping in to help Constantine. 

By the time he’s killed them all, he’s out of breath but relatively unharmed. He looks at the flaming swords in his hands, unable to help the satisfied smirk as they disappear. 

A low whistle comes from his right. “Oh boy,” Constantine drawls, “Now what has Batman been hiding? Were those the All-Blades I just saw?”

“You’ll be overjoyed to learn that you found out before Batman. He doesn’t know,” Jason says, and he’s delighted that you can hear his glee even through the vocoder. 

Constantine snorts in disbelief. “You’re telling me that Batman, detective extraordinaire and fear itself,” he waves his hands, “doesn’t know about your fiery soul swords? Are we talking about the same man?”

Jason feels almost feral as he says, “Yes, that’s what makes it even better. He doesn’t know. Also, how do you even make contingencies for soul swords? Especially the All-Blades—which can’t even hurt him anyways.” Not that that would stop Batman from trying to create a contingency plan. Not that Batman knows that.

“How much do you know about those swords anyways?” Constantine squints at him.

Jason looks incredulously at him. “Do you even know how you get the All-Blades? It’s not like you can pick them up off someone, Constantine.”

“So when the hell did you train with the All-Caste, Red Hood? They’re not exactly welcoming.”

“Yeah, well neither am I. I guess I fit right in,” Jason rolls his eyes. “It’s been nice. Let’s not do this again.” He starts to walk off, looking for a place to shoot his grappling hook.

“The All-Caste are gone, now. I reckon I could count on one hand how many people can wield the All-Blades nowadays. Maybe it’s just you,” Constantine’s tone is nonchalant, but his eyes are intense and prying.

Pausing, Jason looks back. “I’m special like that. Don’t tell Batman.” Jason ignores the conflicting emotions he feels, recalling the time he spent with the All-Caste. This isn’t the place to process that. Even though he’d known about it—it still hasn’t quite fully set in that Ducra and Essence are gone.

“Hey, I still have questions!” Constantine calls out.

“Keep having ‘em,” Jason calls back as he swings into the air. 

It’s not a matter of earning kindness. This, he is sure of. All children deserve kindness.

We are not born knowing how to love. So gradually, love becomes what the world around you says love is. It becomes what you see. It becomes what you wish you saw.

The words mom and dad are scattered across years, sharply separated by different times and different people. Mom is still what he associates with Catherine, while Dad is still indisputably Bruce.

(He does not know how to imagine a world where Willis ever came close to Dad).

(Just the same, he wishes he never tried to place Sheila near the same category as Catherine).

Love, for him, is something tired. Something unrelenting but scarred over. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes still breaking. He’s always been something of a romantic. Too willing to make something more of what has already broken. 

He is more tired of wasted chances than dreamers.

So, settled back into Gotham, sitting at one end of a string pulled taunt to Batman and company, he is expecting no more than routine.

Keeping Crime Alley, what little he calls home, as close to safe as he can get. Magic does not like to play in Gotham, as much as it refuses to abide by most notions of rules.

It’s why he’s not prepared to find the body of a child, tampered and reeking of malicious intent. If it wasn’t Gotham, he would say it reeked of magic. But in truth, there are weirder things hiding in the shadows. It doesn’t stop the green from taking over his mind.

Doesn’t stop him from breaking everything he sees in the warehouse as he carefully guards over the body of a little girl, too young and left so callously. As if she was worthless, a means to an end more than a person. Something to be used instead of a future snuffed out.

“ They shall have stars at elbow and foot;”

He reminds himself that he knows Death; they are no crueler than living. Softer, if not kinder.

“ Though they go mad they shall be sane, ”

Even unhinged and drowning again in Lazarus pits, he has enough mind to keep himself leashed and leave any potential evidence untouched. At least, the presence of the city keeps him from completely losing control. Despite this, his movements are jagged and wild as he rips into the rest of the warehouse, empty crates splintering under his rage.

“Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;”

It’s unfair, he thinks. It’s wrong.

“Red Hood! Stop! Stop.”

He freezes, and the green starts to fade from his vision.

It is a fight. It is a wound. It keeps hurting, somehow, finding his own reflections in other children. (And somehow, the world keeps turning.

Just like it did, the first time he saw the older street kids look at him, straining and pitying and shattering into each other).

“Though lovers be lost love shall not;”

“Constantine, why are you here?” It’s well known to all magic users, including the “good” ones, that you don’t meddle in Gotham. Because she will chew you up and spit you back out.

(Jason knows the price of survival in Gotham, has paid the price twice over as a shadow sits in the back of his mind. Is it horrible that he is comforted instead of horrified these days?)

“And death shall have no dominion.” 

“Finishing up a case, until I saw some crazy spiking in magic. Which led me here. Has anyone ever told you that your rage literally sends ripples into the fabric of reality?”

“No,” Jason says, “But I think it’s a new thing.” He counts on his fingers that any one or any combination of resurrection, All Caste, Lazarus pits, or a deal with Gotham herself could contribute to the power his rage now apparently disturbs or disrupts.

“What happened here?” Constantine says, softer.

“I intend to find out,” he says, entirely too heavy. Someone has to bring them justice.

The lack of a missing persons case gives away that this child is one of Crime Alley’s.

If Red Hood does not bring them justice, who will? 

“And death shall have no dominion…” 

- Dylan Thomas

“I’m busy,” Jason insists, ignoring Constantine. He’s not surprised that the man has tracked him down to ask questions. “You know, with the body I found.”

Instead of the questions about the All Caste, or even the case itself, Constantine asks, “What’s your connection to Batman?”

Jason laughs, unable to hide the grating tone, the grit hidden in it. “I don’t know why I’m surprised he didn’t tell the Justice League. Now that I think about it, I’d be more surprised if he did.”

“His secrets have secrets, Red,” Constantine comments in agreement, lighting a cigarette. “Also, I’m part of Justice League Dark,” he waves his hand vaguely, “You know we don’t do the whole superhero thing quite like the spotlight heroes do.”

“What about Wonder Woman?”

“I don’t know, what about you stop avoiding the question? What’s your connection to the Dark Knight himself?”

“We’re…complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it. You owe me.”

Jason turns away, refuses to meet Constantine’s eyes as he says, “I was Robin.”

“What?”

“I was the second Robin.” He stops.

Constantine is gentler, as he finishes, “And you died.”

“Yes.”

“Did he think you were dead?”

“No, I did die. I have the scar to prove it.” He traces the Y shape on his torso, unforgiving and unforgettable. 

“So, you came back,” Constantine narrows his eyes. “That’s not it. No joyful return of the long lost son?”

“I came back angry. I killed. They didn’t like that. So I wasn’t his son.”

I wasn’t wanted.

“Hmm.” Constantine projects skepticism that Batman would just abandon a thought-to-be-dead resurrected Robin.

“We had our fair share of confrontations. Then he threw the Batarang. I got the memo.”

“That’s a little vague, kid.”

Jason glares at him. “Yeah, on purpose.”

Constantine looks at him. “I somehow doubt Batman would give up on Robin, even just by the principle of it. Doesn’t seem like the sort to give up what he considers his.” His son. His city. 

Laughing, Jason feels the tone of his voice start to edge into hysteria. He yanks the collar of his uniform down, revealing the gruesome scar over his throat. Tapping it, once, twice, he says, “Hope this doesn’t ruin your worldview, magician man.”

The cigarette falls out of his hand. “From a batarang?” he breathes out, in shock.

“He chose the Joker over me,” Jason says, shrugging, “I was angry, when I came back. The Pits were part of it, but I won’t lie and say I wasn’t wondering why the Joker was still walking. I made him pick. And I lost my gamble.”

There’s no need to say the whole story that the wound tells: it had been close. 

Maybe he had almost died a second time. Jason doesn’t mention that he would’ve, if not for Gotham.

Constantine stares. “Did he hit you there intentionally?” Was it a kill shot?

Jason shrugs again, “I don’t know. I don’t particularly care to find out, because he didn’t come to check later either. Message received.” A hint of bitterness makes itself known in his voice. 

The nighttime silence brings a hush over the conversation.

“You’re still a good kid,” Constantine offers, his own form of comfort. “I don’t know if that’s reassuring because I see more shades of gray than black and white, but you do good work. You’re trying.”

Jason tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Thanks.” I needed to hear that. I wanted to hear that so bad—at first from Bruce, but then from anyone at all.

Ain’t that just fucking sad?

With a bullet lodged into his leg, he calls Constantine, ignoring the fragility of his broken ribs. “Constantine, I could…use a favor.”

Jason trusts Constantine, as much as he can these days. It’s an honor, but it also means that when he does call, it’s dire. Constantine doesn’t hesitate.

“I don’t know why you keep calling me,” Constantine laments dramatically, even as he appears and immediately starts wrapping Jason up. “I’m fairly shit at healing magic and barely know first aid.”

Jason laughs. “Who else is there to call?”

“Kid,” Constantine says, and he’s serious instead of blasé, so solemn instead of arrogantly irreverent. “You can’t keep doing this.”

Jason is all tragedy, when he answers, “I know.” I’m okay with that is unspoken, but hitched to the end of his sentence.

Forever is for gods. Whatever he is, it’s not that. Maybe the reward of living is that everything ends eventually. 

Jason puts pressure on his side, ignore the blood pooling between his fingers. Gritting his teeth, he manages to get his phone and call Constantine.

He’s unsettled by this case, how close it seems to be to magic. To be frank, he’s also sure he’s going to need help, especially if his wound was caused by magic as he suspects. Two birds, one stone, and all that. His chances of survival dramatically increase if he calls Constantine, who’s a weird surrogate uncle at this point, and he really needs the input on the case.

As soon as the call connects, Jason says, “Constantine. I have a case. Need you to consult, could be someone messing with some nasty magic. Also, I may or may not be bleeding out in an alley from a curse right now after investigating said case.”

There’s a pause. “Goddamn, kid. You don’t mince your words, that’s for sure,” Constantine breathes out. Jason hears rustling in the background, and assumes that Constantine is getting ready to find him. “You had to wait until you were literally dying to ask?”

“Two birds. One stone. All that.” Jason’s breaths get heavier as his sentences get shorter. “Maybe…hurry.”

“You’re so goddamn lucky I’m already hanging around Gotham for something else.”

“You can fucking teleport.” Jason deadpans, cringing as his side twinges.

“Yeah, and be fucking glad for it.” This time the voice comes from the end of the alley.

An exhale of relief leaves Jason as he drops the phone. “Do I even want to know how you knew where I was?”

Constantine gives him an extremely judgmental look as he approaches, “Magic.”

Jason lets out a strained laugh. “Cheater.” 

Bending down to inspect the wound, Constantine informs him, “Cheating the rules of reality is half the appeal of magic.”

“We get it,” Jason hisses as Constantine prods at his side, “You’re a con man too.”

“Con artist,” Constantine corrects smugly.

“For a man so knowledgeable in the arcane,” Jason says, “You sure avoid using magic in your battles.”

“I’m just an occult detective,” Constantine responds mockingly.

Jason rolls his eyes, “As much as Batman would like to believe that, we both know you’re in Justice League Dark for a reason. Also. I am trained by the All Caste.” At that, he gives Constantine a knowing look.

“And we’ll talk more about that after you aren’t dying,” Constantine informs him. “I have questions, and in return for this favor I’m doing you, you’ll be answering them.”

Jason silently judges him. “Bastard.”

“Not quite. You can call me John.”

Jason snorts. “It would give Batman a conniption.” He pauses. “Wait. That would make my day. Why haven’t I been calling you John?”

“Hell if I know, kid.” He squints at the wound, “Bad news. Your wound is cursed, and you would have bled out, regardless of what you did to stop the bleeding. Good news, it’s amateur work and I’m a professional. Brace yourself.” 

Jason would roll his eyes at the ego in John’s statement, but John doesn’t wait for an acknowledgment before he starts undoing the curse.

Jason tenses as pain shoots through him. He watches, eyes luminous green behind the helmet as the magic bleeds out of the wound. Ten minutes feels like ten hours as Constantine works, but Jason isn’t stupid enough to disrupt his concentration.

Abruptly, John drops his hands, wiping them on his pants and signaling that he’s finished. “Get moving, Red.” He yanks Jason up. “You know I can’t heal for shit.” Glaring at the grime on his trench coat, he continues, “Also. This place is fucking nasty.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whine about it, I was the one laying on the ground with an open wound. I’ll give you the address to my safehouse, and I’ll stitch myself up there before you start your interrogation.”

John grins evilly. “No, kiddo. We’re going to go see your dear father. I would hate to have you burn a safehouse just for me.”

“No.”

“Tough luck, kid. You’ll be unconscious before you finish your own stitches.”

Jason stares at him. Even through the helmet, it comes across.

“It’ll also be funny,” John admits. “Imagine their faces.”

The blood loss must be getting to Jason because he relents. Also, because he’s aware that none of the family knows how many times he’s run into Constantine recently.

So. It will be funny.

“Fine.”

“You didn’t really have a choice, but I’m glad.” 

Jason stands unsteadily on his feet, and ignores the lightheaded feeling rushing through his head. John clasps onto his shoulder, and he feels the lurch of teleportation right before it happens.

They appear outside the gates of the Wayne Manor, with Jason leaning heavily on Constantine. Pressing the intercom, John starts speaking as soon as it clicks, not waiting to be greeted. “Hello, it’s John Constantine. I’m here with a special delivery.”

Jason glares at him weakly.

There’s a pause. “Hold on a moment, Mr. Constantine.” Alfred’s voice is impeccably polite as usual.

Another click. “Constantine. Why are you here?” The gravelly voice of Batman greets them.

It’s their lucky day! Bruce must be in the Batcave investigating something. Maybe Tim’s on patrol.

“Red Hood is currently bleeding out in my arms—“

“What he means is hurry the fuck up and open the doors because I really need some medical attention,” Jason cuts in.

“Maybe you actually need parental attention,” John snarks back, but the jab is directed at Batman. Not that Bruce would know that John knows who Red Hood is, let alone their convoluted history.

Snorting, Jason asks, “Are you volunteering to adopt me, John?”

The burst of static across the intercom will delight Jason for days. The gates open. 

“Hey, Alfie,” Jason weakly says, trying for casual.

Alfred, as always, is the picture of calm. He steers Jason carefully towards the medbay. “It is always good to see you, Master Jason. In fact, I dare say I should be seeing you more.” He shoots Jason a pointed look.

“Come on, Alfie,” Jason smiles weakly. “Cut me some slack.” The glaring massive weak spot that is Alfred makes itself known as he instantly folds under familiar, steady hands and lets himself be stitched up.

John snorts from the wall, leaning against it as his eyes dart around the Batcave curiously. It’s a rare occasion to be let in, and John fully intends to take advantage. He goes to light a cigarette before he stops as a gravelly voice says, “Constantine.”

“Batman,” he deadpans, silently putting the cigarette away.

“Red Hood,” he says next.

Jason’s entire body tenses so quickly that he’s sure John can see it, even at the wall a good dozen feet away. He reflexively winces as it pulls on the still fresh stitches. Alfred squeezes his shoulder.

“Constantine knows your identity?” Batman asks. Jason supposes it’s the correct deduction to make, since he was brought here of all places.

The intent of the question might be innocent but Jason’s body, already in fight or flight, interprets it as accusatory.

His hackles rise. “Yeah? It’s my identity. It’s not like I was dishing out everybody’s. He already knew yours.”

Because he’s an asshole, John laughs and says, “Oh, should I be looking to pry more out of you?”

Batman ignores him and stares at Jason, nearly digging holes into him with eyes, “...Did you tell him or did he find out?”

Jason sighs and goes to throw his hands up in the air before Alfred’s admonishing stare stops him. “I told him.”

There’s a pause, and then the glare gains force. “Why?”

Jason thinks for a split second that Bruce might be envious that he told John, but Batman had to “figure it out.” Then he wonders if Bruce just thinks he’s irresponsible and randomly jeopardizing people. He will probably never know, since no one gets to be privy to anything happening inside that man’s ( his dad’s ) head.

“You’re acting like I don’t know the risks,” Jason says flatly. 

Before the Batcave can become any more suffocating than its already grown, Nightwing steps into the Batcave, opening with “Alfred–” He nearly reels back at the palpable tension in the room. “Jason? Constantine?” The confusion speaks for itself.

“Alright, that’s my cue. Let’s get out of here, John.”

Dick makes an aborted noise, and Batman seems to tense, as if to stop them.

Jason expects John to make a fuss in order to watch the family drama unfold, but the man is uncharacteristically serious as he makes his way over to Jason. “Alright, kid, I’m not eager to stick around either.” Before either Nightwing or Batman can make much of a decision, they are gone.

Alfred cleans up the medical kit silently. It does not go unnoticed that Jason accepts help from John, and doesn’t protest being called kid. All privileges they do not have with him.

(The state of the family: barely working relationships. Jason trusts them with Gotham, not himself.

Jason does not know if he is brother or son or foe. Or all. Or nothing.

So they are a family of unsaid words, like they always have been.

Because they have grown up, not necessarily wiser.

And the string holding them together pulls tighter, knotted with the words, “Come home,” and “I miss you,” and “you are wanted,” still unsaid.)

Jason looks in on the Wayne family, feeling old hurts arise. He waits for the anger, seeing Dick be the older brother he had wished so desperately for. Waits for the anger, seeing Timothy Drake replace him. Waits for the anger, at Damian al Ghul Wayne, the blood son’s victorious return.

There’s anger. It’s not at those particular people—those are old scars. He knows that Dick is not perfect, merely a boy and now a man like the rest of them. He knows that Dick was carrying more than he could see, but hates that knowing doesn’t stop the jealousy, watching Dick bond with Tim and Damian in a way he never got. Doesn’t make it suddenly alright even though he’s grown older.

He knows now that Tim has never sought to replace him, that he was just trying to hold the fracturing Wayne family together. Jason hates that it fell to him to do it. Hates that knowing it doesn’t always stop the resentment. 

He hates that Damian was stuck in the hellhole of Ra's al Ghul’s grip and his mother’s harsh attempts at parenting before he got to Bruce. He hates that Damian seems to garner more grace from his violent reactions, but mostly hates himself for ever blaming Damian. 

He hates that they were all kids. Hates each and every circumstance, but if he did not grow past them, he would’ve drowned in his own bitterness. Mostly—mostly he is tired of dead Robins. Angry that the mantle is still carried, heavy with the body of fifteen year old Jason.

Waynes are stubborn. Bruce has not yet learned to fill holes with fresh soil before digging new ones.

Someone has to give. 

Someone does.

Jason leaves.

Bruce is not a bad man—no worse than Jason, at least. He would be a hypocrite to claim otherwise.

But he’s not perfect. He loses sight of the big picture, too preoccupied with details. His sense of duty is skewed, his intense focus on work leaves imprints on his children. He doesn’t know how to let go. 

But he’s kind, too. Helps, in the only ways he knows how. Bruce doesn’t need or ask for recognition. Jason has memories. Of his dad. Joy buried in books and a never ending skyline and—

Jason had needed a father far more than he had ever needed Batman. Far more than he had needed Bruce to be perfect. 

So when the box stays closed, the issue unaddressed, the tightening line of tension simply repressed—Jason wonders if miscommunication is a trope that is tired yet. Wonders if this is a him thing or a Bruce thing or a new language barrier.

If it’s selfish that he doesn’t want to be the one to reach out first. 

The scar from the batarang had shattered something else in him. He used to be afraid of enclosed spaces, of coffins, and he still is claustrophobic. But the coffin doesn’t even make the top twenty in his nightmares. But mostly, as he wakes up from nightmares of Bruce hugging him close, saying I love you, Jaylad as he slits his throat open, he thinks of coffins as the only place that kept him safe from both the Joker and Batman.

He wonders if he is still there, sometimes. If it would be so wrong to crawl back in. Even if he wouldn’t fit anymore.

How else do you feel safe living in a city where your murderer still roams free?

Sometimes, Batman calls him Hood. Lacking the respect to call him by Red Hood, he is just Hood. 

It might be better this way. He wonders if his nightmares will abate once his brain makes the connection that Red Hood has never been Jason to Batman. Jason is Jaylad, is Jaybird , is loved. Red Hood can’t be Jason. They want the kid back. Red Hood is the abomination desecrating his legacy.

The nightmares change. It’s not Bruce. It’s Batman. And it’s just violence. Red Hood, he growls, and slits his throat open, watching as he chokes on his own blood, bleeding through his fingers. Batman says, You aren’t my son. You’re a monster.

Jason wakes up with tears on his face. He still prefers this kind of violence to whatever I love you, Jaylad was. That hurts more because sometimes he doesn’t think he’d mind dying if someone held him like he was precious as they killed him. 

The kids call him Red. Red, like red riding hood. Red, like crayons and coloring books. Like something younger, more childish. Something with more hope. It makes him smile, aching with the feeling of loss.

If he is fighting for anyone, he is fighting for them. For his past self. For kid Jason, who he thinks could have been wonderful, once. He would die gladly, if just one kid got to live a little safer. A little more hopeful.

If just one kid never had to grow up like he did.

He misses his mom, hears her on the rare nights that he sleeps and dreams without violence. His mom, and he means Catherine Todd.

She hadn’t been perfect. She hasn’t even been a good mom really—chest deep, drowning in addiction and crumpling under the weight of an abusive husband.

Her flaws seem minuscule under the reminder that she wanted him. Chose him when he wasn’t even hers, took him in even as she was crumbling. Jason loves her, knows she loved him even on the days she couldn’t string out the words I love you. In his dreams, she strokes his hair and calls him my baby and says I’m so sorry, baby, and you’re still mine and when you come home, mama will be waiting for you, I promise.

After those dreams, he usually wakes up, yearning for the warmth of his mother. Not because it was easier, but because tomorrow was all they had to think about when it was just the two of them. When each breath was victory, life was simpler.

The secret no one can guess at: sometimes he has nightmares about Sheila. About her betrayal—she stood and watched, but Jason has nightmares about her cigarette smoke. Her indifferent eyes. 

In his nightmares, sometimes she laughs. Sometimes she picks up a crowbar too.

(They buried him next to her. They buried him next to her).

The less said about Joker, the better.

( Pain. Laughter. I would do anything to make it stop. Dad? Dad—please, I’m sorry. I’m scared. It hurts. 

Please. Let me just. Let me die please.)

In the wake of those nightmares, the shadows hold him close, hands enveloped in darkness. Gotham tells him that she would rather kill him than let the Joker have him again.

He is unashamed to admit this only brings him relief.

The case has been haunting Jason, following him into his sleep as he relives his own death. He doesn’t fight it, paying his version of penance for the children he didn’t make it in time to save. 

John tells him what he didn’t want to hear. “You’re right, Red. Someone’s messing with magic if I know anything about the occult.” 

“Do you know anything else?”

Sighing, John lights a cigarette. Jason observes the tension in his shoulders.

Finally, he talks, “Yeah, yeah I do. This is human cruelty and greed. It’s a group I thought was dealt with a long time ago–before I was around, for sure. I only know them by the generation of magic users before me. It’s above your pay grade, magically. I’m telling you because I need to handle them, but I think they’ve got more kids in Gotham right now.”

He takes a breath before meeting Jason’s eyes, “And I think they’re alive.”

Jason thinks about living and dying and what it means to choose, in all of this.

Of course, of course, he goes looking for the children. Because every child deserves someone to look for and after them. Every. Child. 

(Not again, he thinks. Not like this.)

Trust sneaks up on you. Jason doesn’t realize how much he’s come to trust John until he’s halfway across Gotham before he even considers that a few months prior, he would’ve insisted on being part of or responsible for handling the perpetrators.

His life feels like a smaller step of trust compared to handing over the reins of the tattered thing he still likes to call Justice.

Instead, he concentrates on finding the kids, mentally flipping through the four warehouses John had pointed out, each of them stinking with unseen magic. 

The first one is empty, with only scorch marks to show. Jason is quietly relieved that he can’t see any clues towards there having been any human presence ( blood. He is looking for blood.)

The second one gives similar results, and he gets even more tense. There’s a frenetic energy to him, as his vision starts to tunnel, focused on find them. Don’t let them feel what you did, alone. Abandoned.. 

In the third warehouse, the energy shifts. The atmosphere is too charged, and Jason may not be able to see magic the way John can, but even he can feel the air crawling. He only gives himself a breath before bursting through the doors, foregoing any sense of stealth in favor of his slowly rising rage.

First, he clocks the shadowy figures, faces pale and feverish, pupils dilated until their whole eyes are nearly black. They reek of magic, oily and wrong, bare imitations of the people they might have once been . The way they move similarly gives them away, both simultaneously too jerky and yet smooth, like a poorly animated character.

When he sees the five kids, only one awake, and four unconscious, he can feel the green of the Lazarus Pits inch in.

“Don’t look, okay, kiddo? Don’t look.”

He doesn’t hesitate as he goes after the figures, herding them far from the children. They didn’t expect a wielder of the All-Blades, and it shows. He turns and lets the green of the Pits take over. The Shadows come in next, and he drowns in the fabric of the night sky, a sea of constellations.

My child, Gotham whispers, as his body is all violence but his mind is soft. The rage of the Pits tempered by the inevitability of the night. My child, the shadows would have you as long as you allowed.

Sighing, heavy, Jason replies, You will have me as long as you will hold me like this—like I am precious.

Oh, child of mine, then we’ll have you forever, Gotham says, fond and warm.

Forever sounds beautiful, Jason answers, wistful.

He blinks back to reality as if he is breaking the surface of the water after a long dive. It’s gradual and forgiving, unlike the way the Pits used to yank him awake.

His hands are holding the All-Blades. His body aches, and he’s bruised. The ground is bloody, and he isn’t clean either. Most importantly, each and every person is on the ground, unmoving. Jason is unsure if they are dead or not, and can’t bring himself to care as he remembers the kids.

He rushes over, watching the boy tremble as he huddles on the ground, face buried in his knees and hands over his ears. Jason kneels in front of the kid, tapping the ground next him to let him know that he’s there.

Purpose, Jason realizes, isn’t always something that you find. Maybe it is given to you. Maybe you stumble upon it.

Maybe you suddenly see it, and know it as sure as the bones of your own body.

These kids are bleeding soul out their bodies. You know how to staunch the bleeding. You can replace the soul, if you donate some of yours.

Jason ignores that he’s pulling his own soul wound wide open, using everything he knows to keep these kids alive. He does the magical equivalent of a blood transfusion, ignoring that he can’t really afford it—that he doesn’t have the extra soul to replenish what he’s giving away.

Purpose has never been so clear. With the All Caste all but gone, he’s the only one with the practical knowledge to do this.

He remembers Ducra’s warnings: be careful. 

He has never been more careful. If he can spin hope out of his own tragedy—that will have been enough. To give these kids a shot at growing up, well. What better gift can he give than the one he never got?

Constantine’s going to look at him with those serious eyes, again. So far from the laughing magician he’s supposed to be. He’ll say, Kid, but it’ll sound like, Oh, kiddo, and he’ll laugh and be nonchalant and go home and smoke a whole pack—it hurts. That Jason is going to hurt him.

But Jason knows why he was brought back now. He’s never been more sure.

“Oh, kiddo,” Jason echoes, “You’re going to be just alright.” He brushes back the hair of the little boy, who looks at him, eyes so hopeful.

Jason takes off his helmet, ignoring that he unlocks the latches with a little more reverence. Ignoring that he puts it down next to him, and it sounds like acceptance. Like an ending. And he smiles, and it’s all, all Robin.

(Robin was magic.)

No magic is free.

All five of the kids are alive. 

Jason. Jason’s okay. There’s strain, already. But that’s okay.

Four of them were kidnapped, so he has to bring them home. He has to hotwire a car so he has a vehicle that fits all of them, but that’s fine.

Crime Alley keeps his secrets, loves him harder as he returns children to their families. 

Not all parents deserve children. The little boy confesses that his father sold him, eyes too sad and too knowing. Jason is very tired of the people that put a price on living.

He’s not sure where to drop him off. Jason sighs as he hikes the boy higher on his hip, fully asleep on his shoulder. The kid’s quiet—learned to be, to survive. He ruffles the kid’s hair gently, aching at how small he is, his fragile innocence.

Gotham gives him the solution to his problem. Nightwing whips around the corner.

“Hood?”

“Hi there, Dickhead,” Jason’s casual remark catches Dick off guard. He isn’t one to use names at night, and he’s especially not one to say “hi there” to Dick when they cross paths on patrol. Jason is gruff on the best of days, and downright antagonistic and hostile on the worst. 

Taking it in stride, Dick starts to catalog Jason’s injuries, noting the boy he’s holding, but also the favoring of one side and the cuts through the uniform. Mostly, Jason looks tired, but everything about what he’s looking at feels wrong. Dick starts to feel fear creep in. Was Jason dosed with something? He’s never this candid with Dick. Never so casual.

“Little wing? Jason—no—Jason, what happened?”

“Don’t be scared for me. It’s okay, Dickiebird.”

He unlatches his helmet and smiles. It makes Dick want to cry, that smile that is too young, all full of the contentment he’d only seen on Jason as Robin. His eyes glow green. Something is so, so wrong.

“Little wing—you can’t tell me that. Not when your eyes are glowing green and you won’t say why.”

Jason is gentle, and Dick’s heart drops even though he doesn’t quite know why.

“Quit your worrying, mama bird. I’ll be alright.”

It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong. Jason doesn’t take off his helmet, not on the streets. Why does it sound like he’s saying goodbye?

“Here, Dickie. I’m trusting you with one of my kids,” Jason says as he pushes the little boy into his arms.

Dick takes his weight out of instinct, more than anything. “Your kids?” Dick asks, scrambling for some sense of understanding, trying to piece together the half of the conversation he’s not privy to.

“I saved him, earlier today,” Jason says, brushing the hair back from the boy’s forehead and smiling that tiny Jaybird smile as the boy’s eyes flutter beneath his eyelids. Dick doesn’t know what to do, faced with this Jason that is soft and young and still heavy with hurt. He hasn’t seen this Jason in years, and doesn't know what to do when faced with him.

“From what?” Dick asks, eyes still locked with Jason’s eerie gaze. 

“Just…a magic thing,” Jason says, and it tastes so distinctly of half-truth that Dick can feel it. “It’s fine. It’s taken care of.”

“Did the magic thing do that to your eyes?”

“You wish, Dickiebird. My eyes have been like this for…awhile. Not my fault you never noticed.”

Never saw me outside of patrol, without my helmet on.

It’s not said like an accusation, but it hits Dick like one anyways.

Jason has said harsher things before but he cringes a little inside at this one. 

Aches, knowing that he had been just as closed off.

But still…still allows the words to  land because they are a distraction in the end. He knows that the Lazarus pits will become an obvious answer as soon as Dick has his head on straight.

But the momentary distraction is  necessary, because the detective in Dick would put together that Jason has never called one of the kids that he’s saved his. They’re Crime Alley kids, sure. Under his protection, under Red Hood’s protection. But never his.

With the boy carrying part of his soul though…how could he be not at least a little of his? Jason’s kid? 

(Maybe Jason’s dreams can live on in a smaller body with more hope.)

It hurts that Dick doesn’t know this is goodbye forever. It hurts that he’s bleeding soul out his body and he doesn’t even have his older brother for comfort as it happens.

But he doesn’t want Dick’s anguish. Or Alfred’s, or Bruce’s, or Tim’s, or Damian’s, or anyone’s. He wants peace.

And if dying alone means he can die with a sigh, soft and trailing off—gradual and unhindered by desperate attempts to fix in the way that Waynes love to try…it will be okay.

Everything ends. This life, too, draws to a close.

Nostalgia softens the edges of Jason’s vision these days.

Something inside him wants everything to work out before his approaching death. He’s too much of a realist to entertain it, but he wishes he could say with certainty that he had an older brother. Or how many brothers he had. Or that he had any at all.

He hopes, somewhere out there, that there is a Jason that loves being a Wayne. That is loved in return. Just as well, he hopes that the Jason out there that is worse off, that is truly alone, finds closure.

Finds something close to peace. 

Mostly, he misses knowing that he is missed. 

Shuffling through photos, he allows himself to laugh at Dick’s shitty jokes as they pass through his memories, letting the angry, frustrated Dick he knew lie to rest. 

He lets Tim be remarkably intelligent and wonderfully snarky, all on top of nerdiness and fanboying and the awkward charm of a kid with a camera and a fuck ton of determination.

And he does, he really does let Damian be more than his mother’s influence. Lets him be a boy who wants to fit in. Who has the careful hands of an artist and animal lover, not an assassin. 

Jason lets himself be charmed by all of these people. 

He reminisces about his dad, too. Gentle and kind and generous. And sometimes fumbling, but trying. Stoic and silent and sometimes intimidating, but also soft. This is the dad he wants to remember.

Skating a finger across all their faces, Jason gets up and puts the photos in an envelope. Stares at the address he’s written out: a P.O. Box with Dick’s name on it.

Unable, even in post-mortem, to face his father. Or maybe tired of it, still holding an illusion his Dad and Batman separate. He’s predictable, as always.

At the end, this thought is nothing but a footnote. Fleeting at best.

Three impatient knocks come from the front door of his apartment. Jason freezes in his bed, too weak to move. 

No one is supposed to know about this apartment. This is the first and only time he’s been to this safehouse.

“Jason! I know you’re in there!” A distinctive British accent gives away who it is.

Rolling his eyes, he thinks fucking magicians and their tracking bullshit. Ignoring the knocks, he attempts to go back to sleep.

“Oi, if you’re going to be so stubborn, I’m coming in.” Jason hears the lock click after John’s declaration.

Oh no, he thinks. John is the only one who would probably be able to look at him and correctly identify what’s wrong. Jason is too weak to even get out of bed.

He hears footsteps draw closer. He freezes in the doorway. “Kid, what are you even doin—Jason?”

Jason lays there, pale, lethargic, and wasting. Wasting away. Eyes blinking slowly and breathing shallow.

“Heya, John,” he whispers. “Surprise?” He adds on with a weak laugh.

John looks at him flatly, ignoring the horror mounting in his chest. The panic. The fear. “You’re not sick,” he states.

“No,” Jason says, sad and knowing.

“Did you lie to me?”

“No. Maybe. Remember the occult case? I told you I got the kids out. Didn’t tell you I had to heal some of them by donating my own soul.”

“Jason,” John says, agonized.

“It’s okay, John. I knew I didn’t have enough extra to donate to one kid, let alone four or five. It’s alright. I’ve tied my loose ends.”

“No, kiddo. You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to pretend that everything is okay when you’re dying. Were you even going to tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to waste time trying to fix it. There’s nothing to fix.”

“I deserved the right to try— hey, Jason, stay awake. Stay with me—“

Black starts to encroach on Jason’s vision. He can feel himself falling unconscious, realizing with abrupt clarity that knowing he will die is still very different from actively dying.

“You know, I’m glad I get to say goodbye to you. Maybe it’s better that my dad or Dickie’s not here. Or Timmy, or Damian, or Cass, or Barbara, and especially not Alfred. It would break Alfred’s heart.”

Jason’s voice is softer than John’s ever heard. Vulnerable. 

“It would break more than just Alfred’s heart, kiddo.”

Jason’s answering, “Mmm,” is less of an agreement and more of a “agree to disagree.” His eyes are just sad. Maybe it’s poetic that his dad misses his second death too. Maybe it’s better. Maybe it’s better that there are less people to miss him, these days. His exit can be quieter. Less of an exit and more of a return.  

“You’ll have to stay alive so they can prove you wrong.”

Jason giggles, not all quite there, “It would take me dying for them to show emotion again. Waynes are all emotionally constipated.”

John tries to focus on Jason’s spiritual wound, but the source is hard to locate when Jason feels like he’s bleeding soul off his entire body. 

“ Don’t you dare give up on me, kid,” John hisses as he tries to pour magic into Jason, trying to stop the bleed out. He can see the life force wisping off of Jason, leeching away.

Jason’s eyes are distant, soft and content. “It’s okay, John. Don’t waste your energy.”

“It’s only a waste if you give up,” he responds angrily, trying to force some sense of urgency into Jason.

Reaching for his arm, Jason weakly squeezes, attempting to soothe him even though he’s not the one dying. “Thanks for caring, John. You’re kinder than you think.” His voice tapers off into a whisper, “Life is for the living. I never came back all the way.”

“Don’t say that, kid. You deserve to live, so fight for it, goddamnit!” 

He laughs and it’s sweet, and John thinks it makes Jason sound so young, “No one would blame you for letting me go. I remember being dead. I promise it doesn’t hurt. It stops, okay? So don’t worry.”

“You don’t get to talk like you’re already dead. Come on, Jason. What about those kids you saved? You gotta check on them.”

He murmurs, “ Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep...”

“I won’t even make fun of you for quoting poetry. As long as you’re fucking alive to do it.”

Jason lets out an exhale that might be a laugh. His blinks slow down. “…’anks fo’ bein’ ‘ere. I didn’t—wan’ to…alone again.”

In desperation, John instead slams his hands into the ground, dumping the last of his magic and demanding, “Gotham, save your son. He is at Death’s door. Do you love him or not?”

The shadows stir, and then they scream. “My son,” the voice wails, layered. Surging around them, a disembodied voice echoes, “…It…will…cost…”

“As long as he’s alive.”

The shadows swell and billow, creeping over Jason in a fog. The veins on his chest blacken, but his chest lurches upwards. Another streak of hair goes white, and the sclera on one of his eyes flips black.

John had assumed he would bear the cost. Magic is never so predictable. Jason exchanges another quarter of his humanity to live. 

There’s this terrible feeling John has—some instinct that tells him Jason would have rather died. That Jason is going to be angry about this.

But John. John is a selfish, selfish man, and if Jason is alive to be angry, then John will thank whatever higher powers.

“John,” Jason whispers as he wakes up.

John braces for the yelling and the fury.

“ John,” Jason says, again, and he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds heartbroken. “John, what did you do?”

“I kept you alive.”

Jason’s next breath is a little shallower. “At what cost?”

“You’re alive.”

“What if I would have rather died? At least, I would die mostly human.”

John clenches his jaw. “Do you think that’s fair to the people you leave behind?”

Jason laughs. And laughs. And laughs, until he cries. And cries.

(He doesn’t believe there are people to leave behind—who would miss him.)

Dying to self-sacrifice—to save a kid’s life, that’s a hero’s death.

In the end, it makes sense why he wakes up.

Jason has never been the hero.

He gets up, the next day. Keeps moving, even when it seems to lose all meaning.

Hates wasting chances, all the same.

“How many?”

“What?”

“How many times have you died?”

“Enough.”

“Jason—“

“Enough,” he says again, whisper quiet and tired. Heavy.

Lazarus pits tamed, while Gotham taps away in the back of his mind. An endless night home in his head.

Jason wants peace, as an ending. That would be…more than he dared to wish for. 

He stands at his grave, and traces the letters wistfully. Jason. Peter. Todd.

John squeezes his shoulder. 

Not today, Jason thinks.

(Dying does not make living easier. But it does force you to face the question of a second another try.)

Dick picks up the phone as soon as he sees who’s calling. “Hello? Jason?”

“Hiya, Dickiebird.”

“Are you okay?”

“I will be. Soon,” Jason is quiet for a moment. “Let’s meet over coffee.”

Even over the phone, the shock comes through. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Let’s do it.”

Jason keeps moving. Doesn’t waste his chances. 

Fault lines tremble

underneath my glass house

But I put it out of my mind

Long enough to call it courage

To live without a lifeline