Chapter Text
Jason is not above breaking and entering. Honestly, after extortion, blackmail and kidnapping, not to mention the bodies to his name, he really can’t bring himself to feel bad about a little burglary between friends. Especially since he’s in a bit of a tight spot. Figuratively and literally.
He wedges himself under the bars of Roy’s fire escape, mindful of the secret cameras mounted at eye-level outside the window itself. He prays Roy hasn’t had the mind to change his security in a while. A good while. He wedges a knife between the window and the sill, cracking the weather-proofing carefully. It’s a simple window-alarm he’s trying to avoid, but God only knows what Roy has triggered into it.
He doesn’t have much time, either. The bounty on his head has followed him halfway across the country, and he’d rather it not follow its way into Roy’s life as well, the retired vigilante only recently back from the dead. (Jason envies that retired life sometimes…like now. When he’s running for his life.) But he’s desperate.
A few minutes of working the alarm, and it's dead. Jason slides the window open and crawls inside.
He’s instantly hit with how calm the apartment feels. It smells like a fancy candle, and even in the dark Jason can make out the shapes of a comfy arm-chair and a worn looking couch probably covered in blankets and stupidly monogrammed throw-pillows. Jason feels an ache for that couch and a few hours of silence, but that’s not what he’s here for.
He makes his way around the living room by touch and by memory, to where he knows there's a false floor-board, and a stash of Arsenal-grade weapons. Jason’s fingers find the catch easily, he lifts the panel.
It’s dark as pitch in the little hole, but Jason carefully rummages through it until his fingers close around the handle of a flashlight. Okay, just essentials, something to restock and fuck up some bounty-hunters.
Although , he thinks, It’s not like Roy’s using any of his shit anytime soon.
He flicks on the light, scanning through the contents and– oh. That’s Nightwing’s suit, balled up into the corner of the hole. The new one.
Jason grabs a bow and a quiver. Guess Dick and Roy finally shot the shit. In all fairness, losing your memories and coming back from the dead can affect your priorities (he would know).
He cringes a little internally, remembering the last year or so for ‘Nightwing’. In a way, Jason does wish he could’ve done more for Dick–( Ric?) . But he’s not really sure how much help he would’ve been anyways. At least Grayson’s back now, and he’s got a couple of wing-dings for Jason to nab.
He takes a few seconds to scribble out ‘ IOU,--RH’ on a paper-towel…then he cracks open the fridge. Jason is starving . And probably dying of thirst. He’ll make this fast.
He scarfs down some leftover spaghetti. It's ice-cold, but he could care less. He steals a water-bottle he recognizes as Dick’s and fills it all the way up before chucking it into a backpack he got from Roy’s stash.
There’s some granola bars in the pantry. Jason takes them for the road.
Time to go. He’s almost at the 20 minute mark and somehow still hasn’t been heard.
He sneaks out the way he came in.
The streets are frigid tonight. Jason never really was sensitive to the cold (either that, or his upbringing made him that way), but there’s something about the way the wind can cut through layers of clothing. He shoves his hands in his pockets.
He doesn’t really know where he’ll go from here. Certainly not Gotham. Or anywhere with this much surveillance for this long. He doesn’t know how the bounty hunters are tracking him, but the cameras plastered everywhere can’t be hurting their efforts. He sticks to the shadows.
His next task is finding a mode of transportation. He entertains the idea of carjacking and returning the favor when he’s no longer in mortal peril. Not for very long though. Someone’s following him.
An engine hums somewhere he can’t see it, but it doesn’t go away. There’s a rustle in the shadows here and there as he weaves his way to the lower part of the city.
Just his luck.
He thinks about the weapons in his bag—he should’ve stashed one on his person. He makes another sharp turn, and another. Climbing through an abandoned building to try and throw them off the trail.
Once inside, he presses his back into a dark corner. He digs through Roy’s bag for a long wicked Bowie knife. Should do in a pinch. He throws a couple flash bangs in his jacket pocket. Move, Jason. The engine is getting closer.
He climbs out the opposite window he came in, but his foot catches on something and he stumbles right into a pair of headlights parked thirty feet away.
“ Fuck.” He runs, the car engine squeals behind him but he’s already leapt through another window, this time shattering glass and landing hard on his side.
He scrambles to his feet and makes for the open stairwell door. He takes them two at a time, he’s got a much better chance outrunning these assholes on foot in a rooftop chase.
It’s starting to rain when he hits the roof, making the concrete a little slick. He prays the treads on his boots will keep him from becoming a Jason-shaped smudge on the street below.
He wastes no time jumping to the next roof.
Days of running and hiding have made him slow and dumb, when he lands on the roof he falls and knocks the wind out of himself. He gasps and rolls onto his back, groaning while below, a car door slams and voices bark orders. Jason is so frustrated he might actually cry. But he doesn’t have time.
He drags himself to his feet. Plan– he needs a plan . He doesn’t know this city well, he’s only been a few times since Roy moved. He doesn’t trust it the way he trusts Gotham. Where on earth could he find a hole to hide in here? Maybe he should’ve gone to Gotham. Focus .
More shouting from below. Jason breathes slowly through his nose, gripping the knife by his side.
Think, Jason.
He gets to his knees to dig through Roy’s backpack. A couple of hand grenades would be massively useful right now– there they are. He needs a distraction.
He pulls the pin on one, and then chucks it as far as he can–it lands a few roofs away.
Then the second right into the alleyway with the car. He doesn’t even wait to hear the explosions before he starts running–if he can make it to the river, then-
Something catches him in his right leg—and damn it, that stings, but he doesn’t stop moving. He lets his training take over–his league training. No surrender, no stopping, no looking back. He can beat these fuckers in a foot chase, and as long as he stays on the roofs, they stay on foot.
“Flank him!”
Something sails over his head, sticking in a water tank up ahead– is that a fucking javelin?
He can hear gunfire, but nothing touches him. Someone’s a shit shot. But he’s running out of roofs. He dives under a pipe, sliding to keep his momentum, and that’s when he sees the bastard with a rocket launcher. Overkill much? Jason scrambles to the side and leaps off the roof, just as his world is consumed in noise and fire.