Archive of Our Own ^beta

The smell of cheap Chinese takeout and the sound of debates on watching a Disney or Pixar movie floats down the hall. The gala to celebrate Jason legally coming back to life had gone well; everyone had attended and all of the small arguments took place in deserted corners for the most part. 

All elbows thrown were below the collars and away from cameras.

So there is cheap Chinese takeout, one of the only places still open late at night that was willing to deliver to Bristol, to make up for finger food that never fills anyone up. The fight to settle on a movie was just for fun.

Only now, Jason is staring into the good liquor cabinet two doors down because his skin is crawling.

Staying legally dead had too many perks. One was avoiding things like tonight's gala with all the flashy food, bubbly champagne, and restrictive clothes. Kept him away from being the next gossip headline, the big news, just for stepping out of the manor to shop. Let him stay away from people wearing shoes worth more than two months' rent at one of his Crime Alley safe houses.

At least in Bruce's manor, where it was home with people who were family, he never felt like a street rat counting pennies again.

His skin is crawling.

What little food Jason had eaten at the gala had settled badly in his stomach. It was like his tongue could still feel the trail of bubbly fruit from the champagne. Scraping it against his teeth wasn’t helping him get rid of the taste or the feeling, and eating more food seemed like a bad idea, so here he is… 

Two doors down from what sounds like a literal fistfight, futilely scraping his tongue against his teeth and staring into the good liquor cabinet.

"Brown! Unhand the remote control!"

"Why don't you come and get it?"

"Damian! Stephanie! Tim, stop recording and help me!"

Jason can hear the fight progressively getting louder, they were going to attract Bruce at this rate and wake Alfred up, but all he can do is stare at his choices. The scotch and whiskey.

Jason pours himself whatever is in the decanter from whenever Bruce last had guests over in this room to share a drink with. 

It burns going down and tastes nothing like the fruity thing that champagne was. He pours another and it goes down just as easily, chasing away the feeling of bubbles popping on his tongue. The third glass trails a road down his stomach to where the food is sitting before he has to swallow a mouthful of saliva that threatens to make him gag.

Jason pours himself a fourth glass and leaves it on the table. He’s realizing he didn't eat nearly enough at the gala to be knocking back fingers of scotch a few doors down from his younger siblings.

But his skin is still crawling. Now, looking into a glass of expensive scotch and tasting it on his lips, he suddenly feels like he’s in a different body at another time.

"Cass, could you please? TIM! Get DOWN!"

"And get stabbed? Stop the demon brat!"

"Damian, put that knife aw— give that to me!"

Someone had started a movie and it adds to the noise of the shouting but it all seems muffled to Jason. The hands on the table don’t seem like his own, the way they move to lift the glass to his lips feels distant, but the burn of the alcohol feels real.

Nothing else feels real. 

"Mr. Todd-Wayne," people said at the gala, "I'm so sorry you had to go through such a horrible ordeal."

Meaningless platitudes for a tragic cover story they treated like a ruined dress. Always standing just on the edge of impolite. Always asking for one more dance from the new hot topic, the recently revived Wayne boy. 

Giving their condolences in one breath while trying to gain his favor with the next.

His skin is crawling, rich scotch is on his lips, there’s fighting in the other room, and there’s the memory of hands on him that he can’t brush off. Suddenly Jason can't remember why he ever agreed to come back.

There were too many memories overlapping.

Cold fall nights on the street before the weather started turning when he knew he didn't have nearly enough to last him through the first cold snap of winter, let alone the season.

Hungry and hot summer evenings when everyone had guarded their water too closely and he was just too thirsty; when all the cool squatting apartments were taken. 

Pollen-filled spring when Ivy always chose to run rampant more often.

Jason can hear something crash and break down the hall through cotton in his ears but can't manage more than a slight flinch.

The glass in his hand feels too heavy but his hand itself feels as light as a feather. Detached and distant. Everything seems wrong but he can’t tell exactly what and doesn’t know if he cares.

The scotch is a fire in his rolling stomach, his head fuzzy, his eyes staring at the fingerprints he left on the glass of the decanter.

Everything suddenly feels so far away. He feels so far away.

The study door creaks wider, and Jason realizes he can't hear fighting anymore before he lets that go. He feels too big for his body, his skin is crawling, there are too many memories, and he wants to float.

"Jason? There you are, Dick didn't know where you went." Bruce. That was Bruce. 

Jason should respond, but he needs to figure out where his lips are and how to get them to move. 

He feels like he’ll disappear completely if he moves his eyes away from the fingerprints on the decanter. Jason can’t look away.

His skin is still crawling. His ears are ringing with memories of people yelling. There are memories overlapping of hands he could never escape.

“Jason? Jaylad? Are you okay?” There are hands that feel too real to be memories that come and go away quickly. Bruce sounds worried about something. 

Jason should help. Jason was someone who helped people now. But Jason isn’t here right now and it’s easier, better, to drift instead of fighting his way back.

“Jason, can you look at me?” No, he didn’t want to, but there were also memories of people demanding he look at them and he had never denied them before.

Bruce’s eyes always seem so blue until you get closer and see how gray they can be. Right now, they look very worried as Bruce kneels in front of him and makes an aborted motion to reach out.

“Jaylad… can I take that glass from you?”

The glass is heavy and helps weigh him down to earth. It always makes it easier to act like it doesn’t hurt when people take things from him though, so he lets go when Bruce reaches out. He lets his eyes wander to a corner as footsteps echo down the hallway. More people always means more pain.

There are voices in his head from one too many memories where he ends up in rooms almost as decadent as this.

“Bruce? Jay? What’s going on?”

‘What’s your name? Jay? You seem hungry, Jay.’

Always smarter to give a name that isn’t your own but not so different you forget to respond. Someone’s calling him with a hand on the shoulder while Bruce tries to warn them away, and it’s the easiest thing to turn with a tilt of the head, look through his lashes, and lean his weight on one hand. Jason knows the picture he paints, even with the added bulk.

The hand leaves his shoulder with a spasm and a jerk straight to Dick’s chest where Dick is staring in confusion. 

Dick. Right.

"Little wing?"

"What’s wrong with Todd? Did he take something?"

'Just a little something to relax. No? Your choice, I guess.'

Too many voices. Too many memories.

'Drink, Todd.'

Memories and scotch on his lips and League accents and hands on him he can't brush off.

"Is Jason okay?"

"I'm not sure, for now… Tim, why don't you and Stephanie take Duke and Damian to the other room? Babs, Cass, can you make sure they don't try to sneak back over, please?"

Voices are rising again and feet are shuffling but Jason is floating. His eyes are still stuck where the ceiling met the wall. Weight on one hand and head tilted to leave his throat exposed.

"Everyone but Dick, leave," Bruce is standing, his voice edging towards the Batman growl. So Jason stands up and forces himself to step towards the door where everyone is crowding and pushing against Dick.

"Jason, where you going?" Duke is reaching out past Dick as if to stop him.

It's a struggle to find his voice but he has to respond; this question expects an answer.

"He said to leave," because Bruce said everyone and everyone included Jason, even if he feels more like a shell of a body than a person right now.

"Don't be an idiot, Todd; sit down."

'Sit, Todd.'

Jason drops to his knees, head tilted back, palms open to the ceiling on his thighs. Just the way Ra's likes.

The silence is heavy but Jason doesn’t mind. Sometimes the quiet just means it's a test he managed to pass and other times he's left in silence for hours before anything happens. He's used to heavy silence. He uses it to float further away.

The next time people speak it's all in a rush and filters in through static.

"What the fuck is he doing?"

"Jason?"

"Son… do you want to get up and sit on the chair instead?"

But that is a trap because he isn't supposed to get up. No one calls him ‘son’ and asks him to get up. He’s supposed to wait for orders. So he waits, looking up through his lashes into the corner of the room, and feeling a million miles away.

"Get the kids out."

"No! What? You can't — something is going on with Jason and you want us to leave ?"

"I wanna help, I can help. I'm not a kid, man! I'm not leaving!"

"Enough. Babs, Cass, take them and leave right now. This is non-negotiable. I need you to watch the younger ones. This is not something you need to see and definitely not something he would want us to see in the first place. Go." Dick sounds mad, but Jason's job right now is to sit and wait so that isn't his problem for now. "I'll be right behind you."

"Dick is right. Let's go."

"Barbara! C'mon!"

"Out. We go." Cass… sounds more strained than usual. Jason should worry about why, but it isn't his job to do that.

"Todd, go sit on the sofa." And that… that is an order from a painfully familiar accent. 

After that order, all the angry voices that rise in volume come to a painful stop when Jason gets to his feet in a fluid motion. Making his way back to the sofa he was on earlier, he sits back down, placing his hands palm up to the ceiling on his thighs, eyes down towards the ground. Orders are easy and orders are simple. He never has to think… just follow.

"What the fuck . What the fuck was that, Damian. What the hell did you do?"

"I didn't do anything, Drake. I told him to go sit, and he did!"

"Well, you did something because he sure didn't move when B asked if he wanted to go sit on a chair!"

"Stop!"

Ringing silence. Deafening fights. Static in his ears. Crawling skin. Hands he could never brush off. Rich scotch on his lips. Someone ordering him around with an accent he can never forget.

Too many memories.

“Out, now.”

“Cass—”

“Out. Now.” 

More silence where Jason takes the chance to float further away. Away from his heavy body, shuffling footsteps, and the creak and click of a door closing. 

“Son, can you look at me please? I’m not going to touch you. Can you look at me?” 

Is this a game? Where has Ra’s gone to? Is this one of the tests? Is Jason supposed to listen to this man that isn’t Ra’s? This is too confusing and different and Jason doesn’t want to think and there is only one way to find out the correct answer anyway…

Blue-gray eyes. Bruce.

What is Bruce doing? Jason stares at Bruce’s eyes and feels himself float further away. His fingers feel numb, his breaths distant, and his blinks feel too slow. 

“Jaylad, can I put this blanket on you?” A bright green thing in the corner of his eyes is passed from hand to hand and lifted into his eyesight. But this is a test. Jason isn’t supposed to answer these questions and isn’t supposed to get blankets while waiting.

But Bruce also isn’t supposed to be here.

Where did Ra’s go?

“Jay? Can Bruce give you the blanket?” Someone asks from the side, just out of his line of sight. Jason doesn’t turn his head to check, doesn’t glance over to see, because he is supposed to keep his eyes on Bruce. 

‘Let’s get you under the covers.’

Voices. Memories. A simple thing to nod.

Bruce lifts the blanket slowly, keeping his hands in view at all times, and drapes it across Jason’s lap, covering Jason’s hands with the action. The scratchy material rubs against his palms, still raised to the ceiling, and Jason fights the instinct to curl his fingers into it. He drifts further away. He passed.

Static in his ears. Crawling skin. Scotch on his lips. 

“Jaylad, can you count down from 100 by sevens with me?” 

Another test. Easy. Jason doesn’t even have to stop floating too much for this because he’s used to these tests; Ra’s loves these. Making him count. Making sure he was in the moment. Jason memorized all the patterns just to keep floating just for these.

He counts with Bruce. Not so quick that it’s obvious he’s memorized all this but not so slow that he gets in trouble for taking too long. The perfect medium. Balancing on a sword's edge. 

He reaches ‘two’ and stops and floats away again. He passed.

“Jason?”

He’s not supposed to respond to this. So he doesn’t. Where is Ra’s? Is he just watching? It doesn’t matter anyway. Jason isn’t supposed to care about anything. 

“Jay?”

‘Jay.’

He should respond to this like he’s done in all his memories, but this one doesn’t seem to be asking for anything specific that Jason can tell, so he doesn’t move. 

“Jason, can you tell me what color the blanket on you is?” 

“Green.” Easy question.

“Okay, good,” Bruce’s eyes flick to the side as he talks, “that’s correct.”

“The numbers didn’t work… colors?” The voice moves to stand behind Bruce. Dick. Dick moves to stand behind Bruce. “Little wing, can you tell me something in this room that’s red?”

Oh. 

Jason knows this one. He has to go through the rainbow and find one of each color over and over again until they feel satisfied. Ra’s once made him do this 14 times and only stopped because Jason couldn’t find another purple, giving him a punishment instead. This one is harder to float away from. This one makes him stay in the moment the harder he looks. 

Jason hates this one. 

This is also a test. 

Where is Ra’s?

“The flowers on the rug are red.” Jason’s eyes flick down and then around to quickly clock which ones he can call out for the following colors. Too slow means pain. Too quick means they get bored with the game. A balancing act.

“Those are red. Good job, Little Wing. What about something orange?” 

Bruce’s lips are a straight line, his eyes crinkled in the corners. Dick is hovering over his shoulder tilted forward as if he wants to vault over Bruce to reach Jason, but Jason doesn’t care about any of that. He needs to pass this test for however long it lasts.

“The flower in the vase is orange.” Jason manages an extra long blink instead of a wince because he doesn’t know if Ra’s is feeling particular today and wants flower names.

“And something yellow?” Okay, so not feeling particular apparently since there are no interruptions from a centuries-old assassin. But Jason also hasn’t heard anyone other than Dick or Bruce talk in a while, and certainly not anyone with a League accent.

“The candleholders are yellow.”

“One thing that’s green, Jaylad?” 

Very not particular, considering he got away with calling gold candleholders yellow. He wonders if he can get away with saying the blanket but writes it off as quickly as the thought comes. Jason was already asked about the color of the blanket at the start. There’s no way he can get away with using it again now. 

“Dick’s sweatpants.” 

“Jay, do you see something blue?”

‘You have very blue eyes, Jay. Has anyone ever told you that?’

“Bruce’s shirt.”

“Something purple?”

“The tassels on the curtains.”

Jason doesn’t want to do another round. He sees more purple on some of the books on the shelves across from him, but he can’t see the titles from this angle and Ra’s always wants the book titles. There is surprisingly little green in this room as well. Jason is already struggling just on that one round finding items to balance out the obvious and interesting things to keep the game fun.

He knows he didn’t do so well balancing everything, but seeing how they finished the round and no one is doing anything to order punishments, he thinks it’s okay. He’s gonna count this as a win and work on floating.

His skin is still crawling.

"Jason, how are you feeling?" 

A trick question.

"B, should we do more colors? Why is this even happening? What was going on? What triggered this? What happened? We were supposed to watch a movie, and I —"

"Dick, take a breath. Breathe with me… Good. A couple more. Good. Can you go get Jason something to drink from the kitchen? Some juice, maybe?"

"Yeah… yeah, I should go check on the others too. I'll be back with some juice soon. I just – okay, yeah… I'll be back. I'll be right back, Jay."

'See you again soon, Jay.'

Memories on memories on memories on reality.

Dick disappears with purposely loud steps and the creak-click of a door. Bruce stays kneeling in front of Jason keeping eye contact; Jason hasn’t been given permission to look away. 

“Jaylad, do you mind telling me what you were doing alone here? You’re not in trouble, I’m just curious.” 

There’s no good way to answer this. Jason is having trouble piecing together a timeline right now and there is no good way to justify trying to be alone from the League. There was someone here with an accent ordering Jason. There was Ra’s. There is no good answer for being alone.

There is no answer where Jason ever ends up not in trouble .

But Jason never knows if silence is the better alternative.

Jason never knows if they’re asking because they already know his crimes and just want to see how much he lies.

“I just wanted to be alone for a bit,” because that’s the truth. Jason remembers loud voices, crawling skin, and fights that reminded him too much of Willis in the distance.

“You were holding a glass when I came in. Did you have something to drink?” 

Rich scotch on his lips chasing away bubbles on his tongue. A fire in his stomach. The unsteady feeling like he was floating in a pool. 

“Yes.”

Short concise confessions. Don’t try to justify your crimes. It wastes the breath you’ll need to bite back screams.

Bruce’s eyes dart across his face and body. Jason forces himself to stay relaxed under that scrutiny and keep his hands from clenching the blanket between his fingers.

“Okay, well, Dick should be back with some juice soon and we can get some of that in you. For now, though…” Bruce stands up, walking with loud shuffling steps towards the minifridge in the study to take out a bottle of water. Shuffling back over to Jason he kneels again and holds it out, unopened, “Do you want to drink some water?”

This is poised as a question, but Jason knows this isn’t one, so he carefully brings his hands out from under the blankets and reaches out for the water bottle with both hands. 

The chill on his palms is shocking and jolts him a little more back into his body. And as much as he despises the instinct and knows a half dozen ways to get around it, the crack of the safety seal is comforting. 

The water chases an icy trail where the scotch had left fire. 

It reels Jason further into his body. He hates it. 

Ra’s is still around here somewhere, and Jason still struggles to be accepted by Bruce’s family again after everything he’s done. Still, he never thought Bruce would be so cruel to do this for Ra’s. Jason has always dreamed of Bruce saving him. Not shocking him straight back into his body while wearing civvies after watching Ra’s put Jason on his knees.

The mouthfuls of water are making Jason feel sick, but Jason was told to drink. He doesn’t know if he is supposed to finish the bottle, but he isn’t going to stop and risk punishment.

About a quarter of the way through the bottle, Bruce speaks up after watching quietly the entire time, making Jason stifle a jerk of surprise. 

“Jason… you don’t have to drink the whole thing if you don’t want to. You can stop whenever you want. There’s also juice that Dick’s bringing if you want to wait for some of that too.” Bruce has a worried look in his eyes.

After waiting another second for someone with a League accent to speak up and order Jason to drink, he puts down the bottle and caps it. 

“Thank you.”

Gratitude for water. Gratitude for being allowed to stop. For being given options. 

A furrow is between Bruce’s eyebrows. There are fine lines around his eyes that are tight with worry. His eyes are a storm.

Jason doesn’t know what he's doing wrong.

There are footsteps and yelling down the hall, and Bruce glances away to the door with a downward quirk of his mouth.

‘Jaybaby, daddy is just tired. Work was hard today. Mommy will talk to him, okay? Just stay nice and quiet in the room.’

The door to the study almost slams open, followed by the shuffling of multiple feet and Dick's voice following them. Raised voices in whispered arguments.

"No! Come back right now!"

"Come on, Dick! You're going back in!" 

"I have juice, Stephanie!"

"I can get juice, Dick."

Bruce stands with a frown and faces the door.

"Stop."

The noises die down and shuffling footsteps stop. Jason floats far away. 

More people means more pain. 

He lets the sting of hurt from knowing Dick brought these people himself fade as he separates himself from his body. Dick has always been protective of his family and Jason did so much to hurt them. Maybe this is Dick finally getting back at him the way he knew best.

It’s certainly working.

Too much thinking. 

Jason loosens his muscles, lowers his eyes to the ground, and floats away to wait for orders.

“All of you coming in here, arguing loudly, is not helping anyone. Least of all Jason. There is a reason I had you all leave. Do not make me ask again.” Bruce’s voice is carefully flat and in a tone that means he is fighting to keep the Batman growl away. 

“We just want to help, B… Dick’s allowed back inside…”

“Dick was coming back to pass along the juice, and I was going to send him back out, Stephanie.”

Jason can practically feel the wince through the fog in his brain at Bruce’s flat tone. Stephanie. Steph. Spoiler. 

“Dick, the juice, please. Then everyone can leave.” Jason can see Bruce’s arm swing up at the edge of his vision. Can hear people grumble their discontent and for a second Jason dares to press his fingers in the plastic of the bottle in his hands because maybe Bruce is here to help him.

Then Jason hears someone mumble something scathing in the language of the League. In the language of the Royal League. One that only the head family and their close confidants know. 

Something scathing he’s only ever heard from Talia and Ra’s. This is not Talia.

“Lan—” Jason cuts Bruce off when he slides off the sofa to land on his knees, hands back on his thighs, head tilted back, and water bottle between his legs. Ra’s is here again and Ra’s is angry.

Everyone stops talking.

His fingers are numb, his head is fuzzy, ears ringing. He feels like he was jettisoned from his body; like he was in the Batjet and ejected from the seat with no preparation. 

“ Sit on the sofa, Todd. ” The voice sounds a bit odd, but it’s undoubtedly the Royal League language in the right accent, and following orders is so much easier than doubting anything. He stands and sits.

“What. The. Fuck . Did you tell him?” There is controlled anger in that voice. There is tension in the silence.

“... I told him to go sit on the sofa, Brown. I think… I believe…” There are footsteps and people grabbing at each other, muttered curses and demands to be let go. More hurried footsteps before small feet appear in front of him. 

“Damian. Stop.”

“Grayson, stand down. You’re unaware of the situation, all of you, clearly.”

“And you are?” 

“More than any of you, Gordon.” 

“Enough. This is not about us. Damian, what’s going on?” Bruce sounds so much more tense. Why isn’t he getting all of them away from Ra’s? Why is Damian here? Damian is so small. All of them are. They shouldn’t be here. They should be getting the kids out. 

Baby bird needs to get away from Ra’s, and the baby bat should always stay away from his grandfather.

"Todd, I am not my grandfather. You are not in Nanda Parbat. You are in Gotham."

The words were sharp, stilted, and strained. They seemed unused to consoling someone.

This… this is a kid.

This is Damian, with his slight accent, who is still learning kindness for kindness's sake.

Robin.

This Robin is still not used to soft words for anyone. 

There was a Robin once that Jason met that had soft bright words for a panicked Jason though. One who taught him to find colors long before anyone else.

Long before even Bruce.

'Hi, what's your name? Jason? I'm Robin.'

A Robin who sat patiently, breathing deeply, calling out the rainbow, and flashing a blinding smile after it all.

'How about one more purple? No? Eh, that's fine. Purples are super hard.'

This is not that Robin, but this is also not Ra’s. This is his brother, who, for all their roughhousing, would never seriously hurt him. Not like this. Never like this.

"Robin…"

"Exactly, Hood. Not Grandfather, Robin."

"Robin… Damian. Gotham."

"Yes, Hood. Gotham."

"Ja–"

"Nightwing." Robin cuts Dick off with a sharp glare, and Jason feels his shoulders that were tensing loosen again. Keeps looking at green eyes that reminded him too often of the Pit but seem so much like salvation right now.

No Jays here. Not with Robin. Even if this isn't his Robin.

There is a split second of silence before Bruce speaks up, “Robin, report.” 

“I… I believe Hood thought I was my grandfather.” 

“How did you even figure that out? Did you know?” There is a chilling silence in the air as people shift behind Jason after that. Jason should speak up. Robin didn’t do anything. Damian didn’t know anything. But Jason is still fighting through the fog and finding all his limbs.

“I did not. He reacted to my accent. He reacted to what I said when I spoke in my language. There are only so many people in the world who speak that language, even within the League.” Robin is tense, feet spread for a fight, hands clenched. 

“Stop,” he can see Robin and Bruce snap their heads around to him at his small whisper, “please. Stop.” 

Bruce relaxes in the edges of his vision, Robin stays standing with knees bent on the balls of his feet, and there is silence in the room. His hands feel more real and Jason takes the time to glance around, moving through more and more of the rainbow with the memory of a Robin long past. Breaths deep and easy. Fingers rubbing circles in the smooth leather of the sofa.

Bruce kneels by Jason’s left knee and holds up the bright green blanket again, “Hood, do you want the blanket again?” 

The scratchy feeling was nice and it was warm. He nods and Bruce lays it carefully over his lap, keeping his hands far away from Jason’s skin. 

“Thank you.” 

Grateful for comfort. Grateful for the options. This isn’t Nanda Parbat. There is no Ra’s. 

He runs his hands across the slightly scratchy blanket and feels it warm the pads of his fingers with the friction. 

Robin moves back as Dick kneels by his right knee and smiles up at him, “Hey Hood, how are you feeling? You want some juice?”

Choices that are never really choices… but this isn’t Nanda Parbat, and that wasn’t really Ra’s, and there is no Ra’s….

“No…” His voice sounds small, close to a mumble, and his hands clench in the blanket because mumbling isn’t accepted, but all Dick does is smile and put the juice on the side table. 

“That’s fine, Jason. You don’t have to drink that if you don’t want to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Do you want to do another round of colors? The rainbows?” And there was the Robin he knew, the bright smile, the deep breathing, the colors. He wants that again. The Robin that smiled at him while helping before Jason ruined everything by barging into the family the first time around.

He nods.

“Where do you see a red?” He flicks his eyes quickly behind Dick and eyes Robin, Damian.

“Rob– Damian’s bracelet.” That same one he claimed he would never wear when Duke got it for him before walking down to dinner the next day with it under his sleeve. Damian tucks it back under his sleeve now with red flushing up his neck. Jason’s almost tempted to call out his blush as a color… maybe the next round if it’s still there.

Dick stifles a chuckle, “That’s right, do you see an orange?” 

Damian shuffles off to a corner while tugging his sleeve down and there’s the sound of feet shuffling behind Jason. Duke whispering and Barbara responding. 

“That shirt you’re wearing in the photo on Bruce’s desk.” The absolutely atrocious one with green detailing that everyone groaned at when Dick bounded down the stairs for family day. Even Alfred shook his head just the faintest bit before leaving the room. It may have disappeared for good after that day as a sacrifice to Jason and Tim’s brotherly bonding.

“The very fashionable, suspiciously missing, orange shirt? Why yes. Good job!” A chorus of groans.

“Nightwing…” the exasperated tone from Bruce is half amused and half strained.

“I’m just saying B, it was a fine shirt and it was gone the next day! I’m not pointing fingers, but I am absolutely giving accusations!” 

“Those seem like the same thing.”

“There are no fingers in the second one, Duke.” 

“Nightwing.”

“Yeah yeah, I get it, B. ‘Move on, it’s a shirt.’ Well, watch when your shirt disappears. It’s gonna be all, ‘Bruce,’ for you. Anyway, you see a yellow anywhere, Hood?” The pouting disappears as soon as Dick looks back at Jason to show a wide smile. All sunshine and patience and all those things Jason didn’t really get or deserve anymore after everything he did.

His Robin. 

‘You see a yellow anywhere, Jason?’

Memories on reality.

“Duke probably has some on him.” It’s vague, he can’t even really remember what Duke was wearing before all this happened, but he’s betting on this. This family with the tendency to wear their own colors like some calling card. 

Dick’s eyes dart to Duke. Laughter rings around the corners of the room along with a muffled, “Shut up! It was a shot in the dark!” 

“He is indeed wearing yellow and now very embarrassed. Nice.” More laughter, and now there were some muffled threats that Jason lets wash over him considering they are more along the lines of dying clothes pink. He could worry about that later. “Spot any green?”

“This blanket.” The blanket felt a lot more real on his lap and a lot more scratchy under his hands. His whole body feels a lot more heavy compared to his head which is the only thing that felt floaty anymore. The breaths in his lungs feels real, the sofa under him feels solid, and his stomach is still rolling, but it feels less like it was happening to someone far away. 

“Just a couple more. One blue thing?” 

The memories in his head are quiet. His skin is itchy but not crawling. There is shame burning under his skin but no hands.

“The sky in the painting hanging next to the window. And the fourth book from the left on the second row down is purple.” He is okay now. He knows where he is, who he is, and more or less who is in the room from what he was hearing. The only problem now was the shame threatening to turn into anger. 

“Awesome job. How are you feeling now, Hood?” 

“Enough with the Hood, Dickhead. I’m fine.” Well… fine for now, but fine is fine, and the shame is his own problem. 

“Okay, Jason, that’s good.” That same blinding smile.

‘You feel better Jason? That’s good.’  

A squeak of wheels and then Barbara is in front of him, Bruce having moved away to whisper behind him and seemingly try to corral everyone out of the room. He appreciates the effort, but the old man should have learned by now that no one really listens to him.

“Jason? Did you want that juice now?” She seems nervous and unsure and totally unlike herself, which is valid given everything that happened.

“Sure, Babs. Th–” The thank you gets choked in his throat and killed. He coughs on it and when the juice gets pushed into his hands he takes the first few sips gratefully.

The juice is apple. He hates apple juice. 

Holding the cup away from him he glares at Dick who shrugs unapologetically, “I thought you would need the juice to feel better, and something you didn’t enjoy would help you faster. What does it taste like?”

“Like sugary piss.” It makes sense. If he had brought this to him and asked him to describe the taste in detail, it would have been just another way to get him back from dissociation, but he is fine now, so it’s just gross. 

Damian is edging away towards the direction of the door, and Jason knows he has to work through the shame that wants to curl into anger to do something about that. 

Damian isn’t Ra’s. Is nothing like the man. He can’t let the kid keep thinking he is anything like his grandfather.

“Damian,” The room freezes. No whispers, no shuffling, nothing. Damian stops where he is, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes as if he didn’t expect to get caught sneaking away in a room full of trained vigilantes. “It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean anything that it was you in particular.” 

It’s not even a lie. There were so many memories flying around in his head that it could have been anyone. It was just bad luck. 

“I’m not a child To— Hood. I don’t need you to lie to me.” Damian’s words are short, clipped, as if he’s smothering the words in his mouth, and the way he cuts off his name speaks more towards why than anything else. 

“You are a kid, baby bat, but I’m not lying to you this time. It could ha—” Damian whirls around to face him without actually looking at him, cheeks painted red. Suddenly the thought of pointing it out doesn’t seem as funny as it did earlier when he was trying to find the colors of the rainbow. 

“Stop lying, Hood. You thought I was Grandfather because Grandfather clearly did something, and you thought I was him with my accent, with the way I speak, and when I spoke my own language and —” Damian was blinking too fast, his knuckles white with how hard he was clenching his hands. Dick reaches out for him, and Steph comes around to this side of the room, but Damian sidesteps them all while talking. “And all of you thought I did something to him and that I knew what went on and—”

“And they were wrong for that.” Jason’s legs still feel a little bit like jello but he manages to stand up and reach over to jerk Dick away from Damian. He clearly isn’t helping. He walks past Barbara and Steph with their guilty faces who really aren’t going to be able to help. 

Somehow he’s the one talking the baby bat down.

“They were wrong for that. And they owe you a hell of an apology. You never knew, and even if you did,” Jason kneels in front of Damian, who is blinking too fast and biting his lips hard enough to draw blood if he goes on any longer, “you were a kid, Damian. You are a kid now and you were a kid then. What could you have done? What should any of us have expected a child to do what no adult did?”

Jason turns around to glance a bit at the room where Tim is grimacing at the floor. Dick is rolling his shoulders like he only does when he’s doing his whole internal guilt thing. Everyone else can’t seem to meet anyone else’s eyes except for Bruce, who meets Jason head-on with a stone face.

Damian catches his attention again with a near-silent, “You thought I was Grandfather.”

“Yes.” There’s no going around that truth and Jason’s not about to lie about it, “I did. But you did not cause what just happened. No one here did. That was a long time coming and I brought it on myself by having a few drinks I shouldn’t have had.”  Stupid really. The scotch on his breath is still threatening to send him reeling right back and Jason has to take a few seconds to turn around to reach for the apple juice.

When he turns back around with juice in hand, already swallowing a mouthful with a grimace, he finds Damian half a step closer than earlier. Wide eyes looking right at him. 

Ah. 

“Not going anywhere, Damian, just getting some piss juice to get the taste of scotch out of my mouth.” Damian takes two steps back for the half step he had taken and scowls at the floor.

“I don’t care, Hood.” 

He really is a prickly kid. This whole family is. He can’t even say it was genetic because this entire mishmash of a family is like this.

“Damian. It wasn’t your fault. It was my own mistake.” He really should apologize, but the apology was sticking in his throat and he feels like if he coughs it up he wouldn’t be able to stop. Would end up on his knees groveling and that really isn’t the direction he wants this to go.

“Do you swear?” Damian sounds small. He sounds his age. “Do you swear on your honor?” 

“I do. I swear on this whole family’s honor. This was not your fault, and you helped,” because that was important too. The kid did help and Jason is glad he remembered to add that in because he can see Damian’s shoulders loosening, the hands unclenching. Damian’s lips were swollen but there isn’t really a way to tell if it is bleeding. Jason takes another drink of his juice.

“Of course, I helped. What else would you expect of me?” Finally, eye contact. He can’t say he missed the haughty tone but if this is what it takes to make the baby bat sound his age he’s not gonna try for that again.

“Sure, kid, sure.” The smirk feels like it fell flat but the juice is running out and he can still smell scotch. The room is feeling claustrophobic with the way everyone is crowding it and just staring.

Jason grips his cup and stands up, beelining for the door, eyes on the hallway past the people in front of it, and pastes on a sorry excuse of his usual smirk on his face.

“Well, this is great and all, but I’m almost out of juice, there’s a movie waiting, and I’m pretty tired now, so how about we get out of this room.” 

“Jason?” Barbara calls out, but he keeps walking because that shame is really starting to morph into anger now and he wants to get out of everyone’s way. He doesn't want to lose his progress with the family to his damn stupidity. "Jason? If it wasn’t Damian, what was it?”

Jason’s feet stop without him really telling them to. Of course Babs would be the one to ask. Cass is watching by the door with narrowed eyes, probably reading his growing aggression as his anger turns into resentment towards the people keeping him from leaving this room. She shifts to stand more in front of Tim and Duke while whipping out an arm to drag Steph closer. 

That just pisses him off more even though he knows why she did that. He knows Cass might never trust him, and with good reason. He wouldn’t even begrudge her that, normally, but right now there is shame hot in his belly right next to the scotch and everyone has seen him on his knees. 

“Leave it alone, Barbara.” He tries to keep walking, Cass pushing everyone out of the way of the door to the confusion of the rest of the room.

“Jason. You swore to Damian it wasn’t him, you were in here drinking, what was it?” And Jesus fuck, he really needs to get out of this room. He takes another sip of the apple juice focusing on the acidic sweet taste of it.

“Barbara.” Cass clips out. Never looking away from Jason.

“What, Cass? You’re all wondering; I’m just asking.” 

He can feel anger filling him up, Cass is shifting to the balls of her feet, and Tim is shifting nervously as he cottons on to what is going on. Duke seems a bit nervous and frowns at Barbara, opening his mouth to say something no one will know because Jason's had enough.

“You know, I’ve always known I was never your favorite person Barbara, but you would think after years of being a vigilante, you would know better than to push someone who just had a fucking dissociative episode.” He turns to face Barbara who seems guilty enough, but Jason’s just full of rage now and being outside of the room is a faraway thought. 

“Jason… I’m sorr—”

“Fuck off.”

“Jason, why don’t we go some—” Dick is speaking up, the golden boy always trying to stop people from fighting. Playing the great big brother now. After Jason died. After Jason left. After he acted like he never wanted a sibling in Jason in the first place.

“Fuck you. You never liked me either.” Dick flinches back and Cass inches forward. Jason does his best to ignore her, pressing his fingers into his glass, and draining the last of the juice. 

“Everyone out. Let’s give Jason some space.” Bruce and his commanding voice, thinking he knows what’s best for everyone. Assuming he can save everyone from everything when he can’t even save his sons. 

“No no, don’t worry. I’m used to tight quarters and people watching me from every angle.” Everyone flinches at that. Even Cass. “Oh, too soon? Get used to it. I had to.” 

“What does that mean?” Barbara again, of course it’s Barbara again. She just can't help herself with him. 

Jason moves to put the glass down on the table at the side of the room before he breaks it in his hand. Then he walks back to brace a knee on the arm of the sofa, one hand on the backrest and the other on the sofa seat itself, so that he’s bent halfway across and tilts his head as he stares Barbara in the eye where she sits in the front in her wheelchair. The silence is even more deafening now that he’s doing this fully in his body.

Barbara’s face is pinched, her body scrunched up in her wheelchair. He can’t tell what everyone else looks like but he doesn’t hear them moving. Can hardly hear them breathing.

“It means, Barbara…” His voice is smooth and airy, eyes hooded. He can see everyone in his vision step away while Barbara reaches for her wheels, “that you were always right all those years ago whenever you made those comments about me being a street rat.” 

And all of a sudden he sees her freeze in her seat. Her breath stutters and Dick is suddenly whipping around in a movement he can tell even from the edges of his vision is furious.

“What does that mean, Barbara?!” Dick’s voice is uncharacteristically cold. Laughably cold.

Jason lifts himself up to stand on his foot, one knee still up on the armrest, right arm leaning on the backrest. “Probably what it means, Dickhead. Not that you get to play the white knight here. You play a good big brother now, but you had to be around doing more than shouting at Bruce to even play at being a brother to me."

And this is a potshot. Dick did things with him. There were a few weekends there, towards the end, where Dick finally gave him a Robin suit and a phone number. Where Dick took him out to places to do things and acted like an actual brother. But compared to the amount of time yelling, screaming, and spewing hateful things… it seems so small now compared to all the beginnings everyone else got. Especially with the anger blinding him.

“We talked about that, Jason. I apologized, and we worked through that.” And well… fair. Though it didn’t seem fair right now with all this fucking resentment. But still… fair… he didn’t have to acknowledge that with anything more than a smirk and a shrug though.

“Anyway, what did that mean, Barbara?” That cold anger that comes with protecting his family. Barbara sitting frozen in her seat. Cold satisfaction mingled with guilt and anger in Jason’s chest.

“I just… There were some comments I made when Jason first came to the family.” Not just then, but he figures he’s doing enough damage to this family, “And I didn’t realize… I didn’t mean it like — it wasn’t meant to… I’m sorry.” 

Dick seems like he was gearing up for a whole thing, him and a few other family members.

“Enough.” Standing up properly, he brushes off the dust he couldn’t see from his clothes for something to do. “Enough… she really never meant it that way. She never outright called me a whore or anything like that either, so calm down. She also never knew, so enough with the witchhunt. It’s fine.” 

He turns back to the door, figuring that was that, and the doorway is clear this time, so he is going to go. No more juice, no glass in his hand, and everyone watching his every step.

“To— Jason…” The kid is sounding his own age again and using his fucking name. He stops and turns around to look at Damian who is looking right at him with his fists clenched tight again. “Jason… You swore it was not me… but you also say I am a child.”

“You are a kid, Damian.” 

“You protect children, Hood. You would lie to protect me. I do not put this above you if you see me as a child still.” Damian’s hands are shaking with how hard they are clenched. His shoulders are hunched, and fuck… if it was anyone else but his baby brother, he would have walked away. 

The kids can never learn how weak he was to them.

“I wasn’t lying, Damian. It wasn’t you.” He stops there and hopes it would be enough, praying to a god he believed in only when worlds were ending that it was enough. When Damian keeps staring and neatly sidesteps Bruce’s hand, ignoring the calls for him to stand down, Jason knows it isn’t enough. “It really wasn’t, Damian. You helped.”

A last-ditch effort before baring his dirty secrets to the entire goddamn world.

“I do not doubt that there is a possibility I helped. I also do not doubt you would lie to spare me, Hood.” 

So he has to do this. The anger is smoldering somewhere in his chest and it was shifting back to shame. 

“It… it really wasn’t baby bat. It could have been anyone here. I shouldn’t have come in here to drink in the first place like I said. It’s just the gala… I never feel good around galas.” Taking a glance around everyone is looking confused. Stephanie and Duke seem a little less confused, but they don’t fully understand.

“Why?” the billion-dollar question.

“When you live on the streets of Crime Alley doing what I did to survive the way I did… you meet a lot of people. Not all of those people always live in Crime Alley. Most of the time, they don’t live in Crime Alley at all.” And another glance around the room told him Stephanie and Duke definitely knew what he was talking about now and Tim seems just about to reach the same conclusion. Not surprising with the number of times he ran the streets when he was younger, apparently, just to take some pictures. 

“I do not understand.” Oh, this kid. He’s really still a kid for all he acts and denies it.

“A lot of people we see in galas were the same kind of people or the same people I would see on the streets as a kid, baby bat. And being adopted was fine and all until suddenly I had to go to my first gala and realize that a lot of those fucking faces were familiar. And suddenly, a lot more faces were interested in the street rat who got adopted quick by a billionaire. They wanted to know why a nobody like me got adopted by somebody like Bruce and thought maybe I provided… incentive .”

Damian’s shoulders were inching up. Bruce’s face is becoming a thundercloud. Dick is easing from a furious flurry to his scarier form of absolute stillness. Cass has eased back on her defensive stance, and Tim looks like he was going to cry. Fuck, he didn’t mean to do that. 

Duke and Steph look ready to storm out and punch some faces.

Barbara looks ready to be sick.

“I don’t… you… Hood stops people like that. When you first came to Gotham you got rid of everyone like that. You still stop people like that. They hurt you , why do you not stop them?” And that is such a naive way of looking at things. Because he wants to… so much.

So many other people deserve to feel safe and he deserves to feel safe, but he couldn’t get rid of them all.

“I did get rid of some. Quietly. But I can’t get rid of them all, Damian. There are just too many in the upper crust for that. I visited them in the night and set a very real warning on what would happen if they ever did anything like that again. I keep an eye on them. I stop the ones who think they can just try anyway,” Because there are always idiots who try anyway, who think the Red Hood stops watching, who thinks just because he stopped killing there are less creative ways to go about punishing people.

“I don’t understand! Why not get rid of them all? Why not punish them all?” And Damian looks like he wanted to murder someone while crying all at once. He looks confused. He looks even younger than he actually is.

A glance around the room shows Dick, Bruce, Tim, and even Barbara with solemn understanding behind thunderous eyes. Of course, they would understand. Cass seems just as confused as Damian. 

He doesn’t really want to know what Duke and Steph are signing to each other about, so he quickly averts his eyes.

“Damian –”

“Explain!”

A giant gust of a sigh forces its way out of his chest unbidden and he groans with the last of his breath into his hands. “Okay… okay, fine.” 

Stomping forward, he reaches down to where the water bottle he was drinking from earlier lay sitting on its side on the floor and snatches it up. Guzzling half of the remains in one go and then forcing himself to swallow a couple times to calm his stomach, he turned to look at Damian again.

“If I got rid of everyone I ever met doing my job in Crime Alley as a kid in a gala? Then a good quarter of attendees would be gone overnight.” He lets that statement hang in the room. He thinks he hears Barbara gag for real. Duke and Steph stop signing in the corner of his eye. 

“Then why didn’t you? From what I heard, you did not hesitate to get rid of more than that number on your return to Gotham.” 

“They weren’t upper crust folks, kid. I did get rid of some of the ones I saw at the galas, the worst ones. But if I got rid of all the ones I want to or need to, then that leaves Gotham, hell, even companies nationally and internationally, flailing to pick up from that on multiple fronts.” He fiddles with the water bottle and eventually takes a couple more sips before continuing when no one talks, “The economic downfall from me killing everyone would have been a tragedy in itself. The unemployment rate from people being laid off because these companies have to replace all these CEOs and board members while saving money due to the stock price drops? Unthinkable."

Bruce is obviously trying to mentally figure out who Jason is talking about. There are a lot of CEOs and company board members that come to the fucking galas though.

“But you always did whatever you wanted and whatever you thought was right.” So young this kid. So used to living in money.

“Yeah. But if I got rid of all those guys, it doesn’t do anything other than putting a lot of fucking people out of work and on the streets. Not all of them would end up where I could protect them either. ” Damian finally looks like he’s kind of understanding why these people couldn’t die. “It sucks that I couldn’t do what I wanted to do when I first came back to Gotham, especially when I think of every other kid out there… but that doesn’t mean I’m letting them do it now.”

Damian looks a bit more mollified at that, though still plenty murderous. He’s trying to avoid looking at everyone else now. He wants to leave.

“Why did you go to tonight’s gala knowing this then, To— Hood?” They’re going to need to talk about it being okay to call him Todd if that’s what he feels most comfortable calling Jason, but that was for when Jason could actually look like he meant it. 

“It was my gala. It was supposed to be for me coming ‘back to life’ in the eye of the public, after all. I can’t exactly not be there.” 

“Then why did you agree to a gala in the first place?” 

“Actually,” fucking Tim, “Jason… why did you even come back to life publicly in the first place if you knew there would be a gala? And everyone here knew there would be a gala.” Fucking baby bird with his damn brain connecting all the dots.

“Bruce asked?”

“You could have said no, Little Wing…” And there was his guilty look telling Jason Dick would be going over every second of every gala ever.

“Yeah, well… a gala isn’t so bad. I just shouldn’t have come in here for a drink. I just fucked up, okay?” And Dick is starting to smile because, oh no… that isn’t what Jason meant. Jason didn’t mean to imply this family is worth a gala. “Anyway, this wasn’t Damian’s fault, and I wasn’t lying. Now I’m gonna leave and go to my room and rest and no one is going to fucking follow me.” 

He shuffles backward, whips around, and speeds towards the door, hoping that he can actually make it out this time when he hears Bruce’s voice.

“Jaylad?” 

He wants to scream. He just wants a hot shower, some snacks, and some fucking sleep. 

“Jason? Son?” Fuck. He swears this is the last thing he’s turning around for. “Please let me know if you ever feel uncomfortable somewhere. I don’t care if the invitation is sent in your name. I don’t care if it’s sent in mine. You are worth more to me than anyone else out there in the world.” 

He doesn’t have an answer for that. Doesn’t know if he has a voice.

Doesn’t even really know if he can trust it. 

But he remembers a Bruce who let him hide behind his legs. Remembers a Bruce who knelt on the floor in front of a half dozen cameras, and he doesn’t know how many eyes, to let Jason whisper in his ear that he couldn’t find the bathroom. 

Remembers holding Bruce’s hand until the exact minute Bruce said they had to stay before he started to whisk them away without even a single reminder. Listening to Bruce give excuses to leave well before the last minute was over as if he knew the time. As if he knew how long the excuses would take.

As if, even then, he wouldn’t have made Jason stay a minute longer than he promised unless it was an absolute emergency.

So maybe he can learn to trust this. 

He doesn’t manage to find his voice, but he manages a nod. 

He doesn’t wait to see if anyone has anything else to say before turning around and walking out of the room.

He’s only a quarter of the way down the hall with the room behind him still deathly quiet when suddenly Dick is saying, “Not yet. Just… Not yet.” 

And that kind of calm only goes into Dick’s voice with a special kind of rage that Jason never really enjoys seeing, so he speeds up. 

He turns the corner and sees a black mop of hair peeking out of the door and ducking back in, though he wouldn’t be able to tell you who it was even if you offered to double his trust fund.

He’s just about to close the door to his bedroom upstairs when there’s a sharp crash of glass. Jason jumps a good two inches off the ground and ends up slamming the door in the process, the nearly empty water bottle falling to his feet.

Leaning his forehead against the door, he breathes for a few beats.

‘Breathe with me, son. In for four counts, hold, out for eight counts. Good job, Jaylad, do it again with me.’

Eat some snacks he has stashed in the room, a shower, some sleep… and then deal with the rest of this mess tomorrow. 

He’s a newly alive Wayne boy, with a newly aware family, with the same damn communication problems. 

But he’s trying, and so are they, and tomorrow is a new day.