Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Danny stared down the barrel of his mother’s gun.

“How dare you,” she said, voice hoarse and barely there. Her hands were shaking. He knew, though, as he looked into the toxic green of the blaster, that her aim would hold true regardless.

He said nothing. Even if he had been physically capable of speech in this form, he would have nothing to say. He was exhausted, on all levels. He couldn’t do this anymore. His parents were the last of the stubborn Amity Parkers that refused to leave the town and there was no avoiding them when he was trying to defend what was left of his haunt, trying to defend the portal so that any ghosts wanting to enter the mortal world would steer clear. For their sake and his. The GIW had been in rare form lately and he wasn’t ready to find more ghosts strapped to a table.

He didn’t know how long it had been since the town was pulled into the Realms, stuck after he’d defeated Pariah with no way of sending it all back to the material plane. But it felt like a long time now. He’d lost track of the exact date since he’d given up on being human.

“Where is he,” she snarled, shoving the gun closer, feet away from his face. “What did you do with my son?”

He could give nothing but a rattling echoey sigh, distorted and piercing through the broken respirator. 

He was tired. Exhausted from his latest fight with Skulker. The hunter would not rest until he’d gained the rarest pelt of them all. Phantom’s. The child ghost. The Halfa. The Fetch. The ultimate prize. He didn’t have anything left in him after getting Skulker to leave, fighting for what was left of his life and winning by a hair. He couldn’t just dump the ghosts in the Ghost Zone anymore, not when he also lived there. They were either put in time out in the thermos or fought off. Everything within his body ached. Everything within his soul ached. He didn’t think he could survive this confrontation with his mother and he almost felt like… he didn’t want to.

He lay limp where he’d fallen after battle, resting against his own empty grave. His dad and Jazz had insisted on having the funeral after his first full year of being missing. His mom had gone off the deep end and refused to believe he was dead. She was only half right.

“You’re sitting on his grave,” she yelled, voice cracking with tears. “Where is he?”

He shook his head. He’d long since given up on returning to his family. On ever being human again. He died in that accident and pretending otherwise, no matter that he somehow wasn’t a full ghost, would only hurt everyone in the long run. He’d already hurt them so, so much.

His mom and dad were the last ones left in Amity and they needed to let go. They were already reduced to staying at a hotel for a good majority of the time, unable to stay within the Realms with their puny human bodies for long. They needed to move out, permanently. He couldn’t bare to see them waste away here. One Fenton haunting the Zone was enough.

After a few good beats of silence she drew closer- her gun drew closer. Her steps crunched in the dead grass around them, cast a sickly green from the glow of the purple neon sky.

“You wear the same HazMat my husband and I designed,” she said quietly. “You showed up the same time Danny had his accident.” The barrel of the gun made contact with the tinted shield that hid his face. “I need answers!” she screamed.

He knew his mother wasn’t dumb, however willfully ignorant his parents seemed at times. She was so close to connecting the impossible dots, but knew she would never make them. She didn’t want to. She wanted her son back and all that was left was a monster.

He could see his reflection in her goggles. The bright green pin-pricks that counted as eyes. The inhuman shape of the suit swallowing him. The face shield blocking any recognizable features and the entire ghostly glow that surrounded him. Maddie’s own face was hidden behind the face shield of her suit, but if he looked close enough he could see the fear and denial within her once familiar lilac eyes.

He pulled the gun closer and held it to his head. If she wanted to shoot him, he would let her shoot him. It would hurt, it would hurt a lot, but if that's what she needed to feel better or to have closure or whatever, he'd let her do it. He couldn't give her her son back, but the part of him that was still buried deep- the part of him that still loved his mother- wanted to give her something. It was just that giving up was all he could manage. He was just so, so tired.

“I watched your fight with Pariah, you know,” she whispered. “I saw how you Ended him.”

A jolt of surprise and fear flooded down his spine, his grip on the gun tightening. He hated being reminded of what he’d had to do to Pariah. Hated the blood on his hands and the feeling of the core he’d cracked between his teeth. But this was another level of fear, of disgust with himself. She saw him End another. His mother had witnessed him become a murderer.

“I could End you too, you know,” she said, a deep sadness in her tone. The fear within him spiked. She reached out a gentle hand and cradled his head. “End my little boy’s pain.”

Breath he didn’t need caught in his throat, a strangled sound erupting from his core. Inhuman and full of terror. He’d already been willing to let his mother shoot him, to let her take out her pain on his aching body. But she could actually End him here. She could End him knowing he was her son.

Pain like nothing else ripped through him, his emotions growing erratic and effecting his form. Everything warped and he dropped the gun like it burned as he scrambled back against his headstone, trying in vain to gather enough energy to fly. To get away.

“Hold still for me, won’t you, dear?”

Panic built within his chest, his core (his fragile, tiny core) rattling against his ribs. His arms and legs felt impossibly heavy as he clawed at the dirt to move away, digging and digging as he tried to hoist himself up over the headstone.

Here Lies Daniel J. Fenton

Beloved Son and Brother

Gone Before His Time

June 13^th 19XX – August 16^th 20XX

And wasn’t it funny, somehow? That he’d be dying, forever and fully, over his own empty grave?

He could feel the heat of the blaster warming up for the killing blow. Sense the necrotic scent of rancid ectoplasm building behind him. It would take more than one shot to End him, to cleave him open enough for her to snatch his core. To crush it.

“It won’t hurt too bad, baby,” his mom cooed. An edge to her voice he couldn’t identify. “Just like getting a shot at the pediatrician’s all over again.”

He couldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t. He was tired but he didn’t want to End. Not here, not now. Not at the hands of his mother. He couldn’t do that to her. Couldn’t let her shoulder that awful, awful guilt. He needed to get away. He needed so, so desperately to leave. Amity had long since emptied. There was no one left to protect within his Haunt. He needed to leave.

Something gave way beneath his leg, dirt folding into empty space with a horrific lurch. His face smashed into the ground as he unbalanced.

She shot him in the leg first. The one not buried in the dirt and hanging into nothingness.

A shattered wail was building in his core, as close to a scream as he could get. He was trying to gasp in as much air as he could through the clumps of dirt and fetid rot that surrounded all graves. He could feel the leak of warm ectoplasm leaving his burning limb. The more he lost the more it would take to recover. And the more it would take to get away.

She caught an arm next. It felt like she was toying with him. Pinning him down like yet another specimen to examine on the table. He could feel bone crack with the point blank range shot, his skin partially melting with the heat and bleeding even more toxic green ooze. He used his other arm to claw further into the depths. He didn’t know what was beyond this, but if he dug in enough maybe he could fall through. His hand hit something solid and he cried, desperate to break through and escape. It was his only option. He kicked at it with his leg, steel toe of his boot just barely scratching its surface. His hands were closer to whatever shape it made under the dirt. He punched instead.

She shot the base of his spine and he could feel his nerves twitch and writhe uselessly. She shot him again in the same spot and they fell still. He couldn’t feel them anymore. His digging and punching grew more frantic. He used his broken arm despite the pain, just needing to get away, away, away.

Cuts and bruises from his fight with Skulker were making themselves known in the frenzy, screaming and burning with his hurried movements. The knock to the head he’d gotten wasn’t helping things either. Everything was going blurry with panic and it hurt, hurt, hurt. He was sobbing without sound and the shaking of his core was constricting his lungs and making his chest heave. He was an animal caught in a trap, eating away at its own flesh in order to flee. To live.

Bright green broke through the ground in jagged lines, crackling with power as he felt his bleeding knuckles shatter whatever barrier had lain under the empty space. Everything gave way and the last thing he could hear was his mother’s shouting as he plummeted. Sweet relief overcame the dread as black filled his vision.

He woke, sometime later, on another man’s grave.

Here Lies Jason P. Todd

Beloved Son and Brother

Gone Before His Time

August 16^th 19XX – June 13^th 20XX

Chapter Text

Danny laid there, staying just long enough for his legs to probably heal enough to bear weight- he could feel them again at least. Then he heaved himself up from the gravestone. He mentally apologized to the soul of the guy whose grave he was disturbing before perching on top of the stone to rest again.

He could tell from the sky and the smell of the place alone that he wasn’t in Amity anymore. Wasn’t in the Ghost Zone anymore. A natural portal had probably opened up beneath him and dumped him- wherever this was. He'd call it lucky but he knew better. He was never lucky. Thankfully the place had enough ambient ectoplasm for him to absorb, else he’d have been stuck there to wallow in some random dude’s plot. Graveyards and Cemeteries tended to have a lot of ectoplasm hanging around, being a resting place for the dead, and were the most easily accessed to go to. But he could tell that this particular cemetery had more ectoplasm than it knew what to do with. The city he could see looming beyond its gates was also bursting with it, almost as much as Amity. And that place had a direct hole to the Realms forcibly torn into it.

Where the hell was he?

He had to weigh his options. Did he stay here? A stranger to the Shades that wandered these grounds? Potentially open to attack from any ghost that thought him an intruder? Or did he risk wandering the city to find out where he’d landed? If he stayed he could regain ectoplasm faster. If he left he could figure out what happened and prepare himself for the worst. Who knew how far from Illinois he’d landed, if he'd even landed in the right country. Or time. Nothing looked out of place, though- then again it was hard to tell just from a cemetery. But the cars he could see through the buildings looked about right, and the dates on the gravestone he was resting on meant he couldn't have gone too far back in time. No, the portal he'd gone through had only taken him through space not time. Probably.

Should he look for a newspaper? Or should he stay put?

The shakiness of his legs when he tried to put weight on them made the decision for him. He’d rest just a little bit longer.

He gathered his thoughts, fleeting as they were, and shook out the terror of being faced with his mom’s hatred. He needed to put the moment out of mind. Pack it in to a little tiny box in the very, very back reaches of his mind. He got away. She wouldn’t find him. He got away and, yeah, he was bleeding and hurt and so, so tired, but he was fine. Would be fine. Cemeteries were for souls to rest, and that’s what he would do. Even as he got dizzier and loopier with each ounce of blood that left his body.

He looked down and noticed the growing pool of ectoplasmic green-red blood leaking from his wounds and down into the loose dirt of the grave. Ah man, he really hoped that wouldn’t become a problem. He was in no mood to be fighting off zombie dudes resurrected from his own half-life juice. Was that even a thing that could happen? Knowing his luck it was. With how things had gone for him basically all of his life, the guy would wake up and immediately try to kill him and eat his brains. And be stronger than him. Like, it wouldn’t be the body of some STEM nerd that never threw a punch ever, but some jacked up professional boxer or something. Who also hated ghosts. And was immune to ecto-blasts, somehow. That’s the kind of guy he’d accidentally bring back to life, probably.

Jason P. Todd. The name seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place from where. Some celebrity? Maybe? Headstone didn’t seem all that fancy though, just neat and simple and plain. Maybe he had the same name as one? He thinks he’s heard Sam say it once or something- and he couldn’t think about that. About Sam. About how long it’d been since he’d talked to her or Tucker or even seen them. How long it’d been since he’d talked to anyone.

He wondered who this guy was. Who he used to be. The dates seemed pretty close. Pretty young. Fifteen. He was only a year older than when Danny had died. But Danny came back, however wrong, and this guy didn’t. This kid didn’t. He wondered, if given the choice, whether the kid would choose to come back or not. Did he have regrets? Unfinished business? Probably not considering there was absolutely no indication of a Shade around the grave. If he had regrets he would have lingered.

Well, at least that made the ectoplasm leaking into his grave less likely to resurrect him. Probably.

“Who are you?”

A gravely, deep voice spooked him into clumsily falling off the headstone in his bid to turn around towards it. And holy shit Batman, that was fucking Batman.

Gotham. Of course he’d landed in Gotham. Gotham would be the only damn place with this much ectoplasm just hanging around. And of course Batman had to just immediately find him trespassing. Honestly he would have preferred to take on the linebacker zombie.

“Why are you digging there?” he demanded. And there was just the smallest hint of anger, of anguish there that it made him want to bolt.

Because oh, Ancients, of course this guy's grave had to be important. Or important to the Batman at least.

He raised his hands up in the universal sign for peace. At least he hoped it was universal because he sure as hell couldn’t just tell Batman ‘I come in peace’. No. He had to have damaged his throat so severely when he half died screaming that his ghost form either couldn’t speak at all or would destroy half the city if he tried.

He scrambled back, frantically trying to move away from the headstone and Batman in the same move.

“I asked you a question,” he growled.

And fuck if the Bat didn’t sound pissed. Like Danny had offended him in the worst possible manner on purpose. What would even offend a man-bat-guy that badly? Shaking him awake from an upside down nap? Eating all the good fruit and or moths before he could have any? But, no, yeah, trespassing on the burial ground of someone that was maybe significant to him could do it. Ancients, why him.

Danny stopped for a moment to use his hands, abandoning his weird little crab walk scramble in order to try and placate the angriest furry he’d ever met. He shook his head and hovered his hands over his throat before making an x in the air. Maybe if he shook his head enough the Bat would get it.

“What were you doing?” he pressed, still heated, while moving forward with an ominous swish of his shadowy black cape. The Bat did not get it. "Robbing graves?"

Well. How in the hell was he supposed to explain that he wasn't some asshole graverobber? Sorry, Mr. Man I was just minding my own business being shot by my mom when a portal opened up! I wasn't digging in, you see, I was digging out! And he was just going to communicate all of this perfectly with interpretive dance and everything would just be fine, right? Okay. Okay. Plan B. He hadn’t even had a Plan A, but hell, he never worked well with plans in the first place so why should this be any different. He didn’t have enough energy to fly, but if he concentrated on using all his ectoplasm to turn invisible instead of healing… Well, he might bleed out before escaping but at least he might have a chance. Batsy sure wasn’t going to give him one.

And then he just- stopped being visible.

He still didn’t have enough juice to go intangible, unfortunately, but he’d have to just make do. At least his legs were sort of working, even if his right arm was still limp and broken and totally going to leave a trail of bright green glow-stick blood as he moved. Fucking fantastic.

He broke into a shambling run.

He heard the thick stomp of heavy boots take off behind him in pursuit. Slow, like he knew Danny couldn’t go far. Like he was persistence hunting. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He keened, a high pitch sound that came from his core, involuntarily. Too panicked to really stop it. He made for the gates in a mad, jerking dash. The boots were getting closer and he heard the thin thwip of air that meant his unsteady gait had just let him dodge a projectile. A Bat-a-rang, he thought hysterically. Batman just threw a Bat-a-rang at me. He’d always found it funny that Batman had the same naming sense as his dad of all people. Bat-a-rang meets Fenton Creep Stick.

He made it to the gates, chest heaving in air he technically didn’t need. He keened again when the gates were too heavy for him to budge. They weren’t even locked! He shoved again, his strength faltering as he lost more and more blood. He couldn't phase through them either. The cold iron of the bars wouldn't usually be a problem, but when he was this low on juice it was definitely an obstacle.

Batman was getting closer. This time he didn’t miss. Danny lurched against the cold metal when a sharp blade found its mark in his shoulder. The force of his stagger broke open the ornate gates and he fell over into the dirty sidewalk of the city streets.

If he could just dodge into an alley. Just gather enough ectoplasm to go intangible, even if just for a second. He might have a chance at losing the Bat long enough to heal more. All he needed was a moment.

He ran. He collapsed. He crawled.

The keening coming from his core was becoming a high-pitched background noise. Constant and shrill. It just kept going, reaching out and calling for help that wouldn’t come. No one could hear him. Anyone that could wouldn’t understand. If any of the ghosts he usually fought could hear his cries, they didn’t react. No one was responding. And why would they? He was just a worthless little Fetch. One foot in the grave and the other with the living. Stranger to both sides and no place to belong in the middle. He was an abomination that should have never existed in the first place. Schrodinger's creepy, creepy little boy.

He made it an entire block, dirt and grime rubbing viciously into his open wounds- the fabric of the hazmat suit not having enough ectoplasm to stitch back together- before a heavy boot landed on his back and pushed him into the ground. He released his invisibility with a chocked whine.

“Answers,” Batman said simply, voice low but betraying no emotion. The boot pressed him down further, ribs creaking from the pressure. “Now.”

He was running out of steam and fast. He wasn’t healing anymore, just getting worse. He had no idea what Batman might do to him if he let himself get captured. Beat the shit out of him even more? He seemed pretty angry. Leave him to die again in some back alley? But Batman’s known as the world’s greatest detective, he wouldn’t just let Danny go. No. He’d want to investigate. Want to dig as deep as he could into this new intruder to his city. He’d find out about the missing Amity Park and come to the truthful conclusion that it was Phantom’s fault. He’d find the Anti-Ecto Acts. Would he turn him over to the GIW or would he want to- look further into ecto-biology himself? From a direct specimen. Would Danny find himself on that cold, sterile metal table again?

He needed to get out of there.

He gathered his ectoplasm again, whatever he had left of it. Most of it was strewn across the streets and cemetery (and he can’t think about the trail that leaves, can’t think about how he could be found by the GIW, by his parents, by something worse). He felt the boot dig further into his back and then he rolled, going intangible under the Bat’s foot and landing in the gutter.

His ability flickered, bringing him back to solidity just long enough to get a swift kick in the ribs. He sputtered and coughed in a rasping hack that shook his entire body. He reached and reached and used as much energy as he could to go intangible just one more time, just long enough. He planned to sink further into the ground and hopefully hit a sewer system he can hide in when an ear-piercing bang rung out in the night and his powers flickered once again. If he’s not careful his core would retreat into itself to conserve energy, which would leave him human and impossibly vulnerable. He doesn’t want to ever know what the consequences of staying in Phantom form for the past few years would be for his human side. Would he just immediately die again? Fully this time?

Batman growled. “Red Hood,” he said, sounding like he was grinding his teeth. A new rogue Danny didn’t know about? Admittedly he’d stopped following the goings on in Gotham a long time ago.

“Get out,” a mechanized voice echoed into the empty street. “Or get shot.”

He could hear footsteps approaching, heavier and more about showing force than melting into shadow. The creak of leather accompanied it but Danny didn’t look to investigate. He was going to make himself small and think invisible thoughts. Maybe if he was quiet enough Batman would forget he was there.

Danny could hear the distinct sound of another Bat-a-rang sailing through the air before a second loud bang cut it off. He assumed Red Hood shot it from the sky. Because why the fuck not at this point. Yeah sure, just a new rogue popping up that can shoot accurately enough to take down a tiny Bat powered projectile, while Danny was trying his hardest not to die at the hands of the Bat himself by melting into the asphalt. Nothing new. Just a regular old Tuesday. If it even was Tuesday. He didn’t know anymore.

Batman, seeming more interested in beating up Red Hood rather than Danny, stalked toward the direction of the voice and- man, he really needed to move so he could see what was happening before whatever fight got him in the crossfire. Narrowly avoid Death By Bat just to get taken out by a flying chunk of concrete. Or bullet or whatever.

But he really didn’t want to move. He needed as much energy and ectoplasm as he could conserve and moving meant leaking more glow-stick juice. So no-go. If the concrete took him out it took him out.

All he could hear was shuffling and gun shots and other projectiles and growly Bat sounds. After a few moments of just listening he felt like he had enough energy to move. Best to get out of the line of fire. All he needed to do was crawl. And then he inched out of the gutter, making his way towards a nearby dumpster he could take cover behind.

And then another Bat-a-rang sunk into his thigh and his core screamed.

And then, so quickly he could barely comprehend what was happening, he was being picked up and thrown over a burly shoulder. All he could see was a blood-stained leather jacket and a nice ass. Okay. Okay, so Batman’s hot rogue picked him up and was running with him just lugged over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Well. Could be worse. Poor guy though, ectoplasm was a bitch of a stain to get out and Danny was losing blood all over the place.

He wasn’t really paying attention to what happened after that but he assumed they got away because in the next moment he was being tossed onto a ragged couch in some run down apartment and Batman was no where to be seen.

Red Hood, however, was now in full view.

And man, what a view. A body to do that ass justice. Maybe it was just the exhaustion and blood loss speaking but hot damn. Built like a shit-brickhouse, thicker than a bowl of oatmeal and just as tall. And the leather. Yeah sure the mask was a little creepy and the guy was covered in blood, but when was creepy ever gonna stop Danny from appreciating a fine physique? And he was just standing there like a finely-crafted statue, watching Danny blearily check him out.

Yeah, the blood loss was definitely getting to him.

“Alright,” Red Hood spoke, looming over him in all his glorious bulk, and pulled a gun from the strap on his sweet-jesusly thick thighs and pointed it at Danny’s head.

Ah, fun time was over then. No more lusting or coping with humor in order to distract himself from the reality of his situation. He was slowly dying- fully this time- on some dangerous dude’s gross couch. A mortal gun might not do much because of his ghostliness but it could still deal some damage when he didn’t have the energy to move or go intangible. This was a Gotham villain. The GIW would look tame in comparison to what a villain from Gotham could do.

“Just who the fuck are you?”

Maybe Red Hood was better at charades?

Chapter Text

“Just who the fuck are you?”

Jason held the gun steadily at the person’s head, waiting for an answer. He’d never seen a rogue like them around, clad head to toe in some altered version of a Level B Hazmat suit- black with white trim, a baggy outline obscuring their form, and glowing. And the blood they were leaking- at least he assumed it was their version of blood seeing as it was seeping from gashes in their suit- was a bright violent green. His grip tightened on the gun, green like Lazarus Water.

The neon green dots that blinked like eyes behind the tinted visor just watched him. He couldn’t say how he knew Walking OSHA Violation looked tired, but they did. Probably all their injuries catching up to them, but Jason had questions he needed answers to. Like why the fuck whatever noise they made in the street had tripped some sorta alarm within him. The kind of reaction you’d have to someone crying for help but times a thousand. Jason may not have come back from the dead exactly right in the head but that impulse he’d felt still didn’t sit right with him. He already didn’t feel in control of himself enough, he didn’t need Glow-Stick fucking that up even more.

“C’mon, kid. Need an answer,” he said, waving the gun a bit to hurry them up. The safety was still on but they didn’t need to know that. He had appearances to keep.

They looked offended before silently pointing to themselves and then holding up two fingers and then making a zero. They did it with one hand, the other limp on their chest.

A twenty-year old kid, then. Couldn’t blame him for thinking the guy was younger considering how short they were. Five foot two and a half, three at best and while the suit hid their frame they still seemed small. Thin. It had looked like Batman was beating up a child in the streets. And even if they hadn’t pulled off that weird scream thing Jason still would have gotten them out of there. Their answer brought up another problem though.

“Do you not want your voice recognized or can you just not speak? One finger for the first one and two for the second.”

They tilted their head to the side curiously and something told Jason the kid was also relieved, probably the way they relaxed into the couch a bit. Jason still had the gun on them though, so he didn’t know what the broken night-light was thinking there.

They held up two fingers.

Alright, he could work with that. The Chernobyl Roleplayer could be lying and still not want their voice recognized, meaning that their voice could be recognized and they were someone of note, but Jason doubted that with the way they hadn’t made an actual sound when B had kicked them in the ribs. He was going to kick Bruce’s ass for that, more than he had already. Or better yet, he’d find a way to make sure Alfred found out. Alfie would make sure he learned his lesson.

Next order of business; he was tired of using ‘they’ without knowing if those were the correct pronouns. He fucked up anyone who misgendered the girls and guys under his protection, he knew the rundown. They went by the pronouns they wanted no matter what parts they were working with and anyone who didn’t respect that got a sucker punch from Red Hood.

He held up a finger for each pronoun he listed off, “He, she, they, it, or something else?”

Discount Rave Costume sank further into the couch, getting comfortable. Again, the gun was still there and pointed at them. Had they noticed the safety was off? Whatever. His couch had been a lost cause before all this but it was definitely a bio-hazard now with all the blood the kid smeared on it.

They held up a single finger.

Alright. At least that proved he was cooperative and understood what Jason was asking. He sighed and holstered his gun. No point in using it if it wasn’t even working to intimidate the guy.

“Stay there,” he ordered.

Mister Irradiation Personified looked unimpressed and waved down at his body, which was still bleeding sluggishly and looked battered to all hell. Jason huffed and turned down the hall towards the bathroom. Sassy little shit. Lava lamp lookin’ ass.

This wasn’t one of his more well stocked safe-houses. Not that he had many of those or many supplies in the better stocked ones. He was still building his empire and most of his money and attention went to cleaning up the streets and protecting his own. Stuff for himself was secondary. He crouched down in front of the sink and started rummaging. Thankfully he had a ton of gauze and some saline. No antibiotics though. Probably for the best considered the leaky science experiment on his couch likely wasn’t human anyway; antibiotics might not work or might make it worse. He gathered it all up and then set out for something to write on and to write with. Needed to get a name so he could stop calling him shit like Angler Fish Impersonator. There were only so many nicknames he could come up with.

He dropped off the gauze and saline in front of the Zack from Sky High Kinnie and moved on. Kid gave him a lazy salute and heaved himself up to grab at the gauze. Jason turned and smacked his little irradiated hands away.

“I don’t know if you can even get septic but I ain’t having you die on my couch from an infection, you walking highlighter. Wash your fuckin’ hands first.”

He collapsed back and pouted. At least, Jason thought he was pouting. He couldn’t see it, but that was the general vibe. Fucking “This Is Not A Place Of Honor” type guy could communicate via vibes alone now. Mr. I-Look-Like-The-Thing-That-Crawled-Out-Of-The-Sewer-And-Ate-A-Mini-Van-Last-Week tilted his head back against the couch and gave Jason the wettest most pathetic looking puppy dog eyes he’d ever seen. He didn’t even have actual eyes! They were sparkling and teary like a fucking anime magical girl with slime powers or some shit. Unbelievable.

“Don’t make me bring the gun out again. Lizzie's been itching to let loose and she's got a mean streak in her.”

An incredulous look before Sklodowska-Curie’s poorest little meow meow turned and hunched over, shoulders shaking. Jason was sure if the brat could make noise he’d hear giggling. Broken ass squeaky toy motherfucker. He rolled his eyes, not like the kid could see it under the helmet but he made sure to emulate as much annoyance in his aura or whatever as he could. If jellyfish genes could communicate with vibes alone, so could he.

He stalked off to the kitchen to rummage through the drawers. God help him he did not want to resort to charades. He had a feeling Professor Utonium over there would just use it to mess with him. But, hey, at least the guy was in good spirits.

He found an old newspaper and a red crayon. Good enough. Why either of those things were there in the first place would remain a mystery he did not care enough to solve. He dropped the items on the couch beside the World’s Smallest Nuclear Reactor, who gave him an inquisitive look that he ignored before stalking back over to the sink, removing his gloves, and washing his hands. Like a decent fucking person that knew how to do first aid.

“Alright, scooch,” he grunted, dropping onto the dusty ass cushions and reaching for the gauze and saline. “Let’s get you patched up and you answer my damn questions already. You’re gonna use those,” he said, pointing to the newspaper and crayon, “to tell me what I need to know.”

The blank stare he got in return made him pause. “Wait, shit. Can you even write?”

An exasperated look and a roll of those glowing eyes answered him. Lime-flavored Mr. Mime nodded, gestured to the hand that was limp and likely attached to a broken arm from the weird angle, and then shook his head. Ah.

“I don’t care how messy it is, just figure it out with your other hand. Ambidexterity is a choice. Make it quick.”

Kid slumped his whole body back into the couch, just exuding annoyance before picking up the newspaper and balancing it on his lap and then grabbing the crayon. He tilted his head with a little wave that Jason took to mean to ask his questions.

“First off, Ghostbusters Reject, what are you?”

His eyes squished and Jason could have sworn he was grinning. Something about that last nickname must have really amused him. Jason really didn’t want to know why. He looked away for a long moment before putting crayon to paper and slowly wrote something down.

Fetch said the messy scrawl. Jason hummed, soaked the gauze in saline and pressed it against the biggest gash on the kid’s thigh. Stupid fucking Bat-a-rang. To his credit the James Cameron Movie Extra barely flinched at the touch.

“You gonna tell me what that is?”

A shake of the head. A one-shoulder shrug. Well, whatever. Luminescent Swamp Thing could keep his secrets.

“You got a name at least?”

Another look away. Probably coming up with something on the spot. He focused on the newspaper and wrote as neatly as he could, which still looked like drunk chicken scratch mixed with cursive doctor shorthand. Jason got the feeling that if he had a discernible mouth he’d have his tongue sticking out in concentration. Cute.

He held up the paper. Fetcher.

“Fucking really? That’s like a wolf guy named Wolfer or something. Or a dude named Human. What are you, fucking Moon Moon?”

Fetcher (ugh, could he really not have come up with a better name?) put an offended hand to his chest before tilting his head in a way that distinctly read as sassy and wrote a reply that took almost an eon to write out.

A guy named Guy?

Jason snorted. Guess he had a point there. Whatever. Fetcher it was then. Good. He’d run out of good nicknames. Now he had new material.

“Alright, Fetcher in the Rye, let’s get you patched up so you can get out of my hair. I don’t want any more nuclear waste on my couch.”

Fetcher nodded, shoulders sagging as Jason got to work on setting his arm and wrapping it up. He paused in the movement and looked up, asking something he probably should have before taking his gloves off and getting all up in the kid’s business.

“This shit ain’t gonna kill me, is it?” he asked, gesturing to the green goo all over the place.

A shrug. Fucking fantastic.

Then there was shaking and Fetcher’s eyes were squinted again. Bastard. He was laughing. He saw Jason’s flat look, heaved a sigh with his body, then shook his head. He tilted it, considering, moved his hand in a so-so motion and then shook his head again.

Jason huffed and just took that to mean, probably not but maybe. Great. Well, he’d already taken a dip in a Lazarus Pit, how bad could knock-off ghostbusters ectoplasm be?

He snapped the arm back and Fetcher inhaled a sharp breath, forcing a shuddering exhale as Jason poured saline over exposed skin (it looked white? Like vampire white. Maybe Fetch meant half-vampire?). He secured it with gauze and moved on.

He moved closer to wrap more bandaging around Fetcher’s chest. He smelled like limeade and the moment before lightning struck in a thunderstorm. Like power and death. They made eye-contact and Jason was close enough to the tinted face shield that he could almost make out the features of a face hiding under it. Slender and young, forehead covered in (white?) ragged bangs. He tied the wrap and pulled away. Interesting.

Fetcher shook himself before picking up the newspaper. He pointed to where he’d written his own name, gestured to himself and then pointed at Jason.

“You want my name?”

A nod.

“Red Hood.”

No reaction besides another bobbing nod. Kid didn’t know who he was then. Hm.

“You know where you are, Fetcher?”

A shake.

“You’re in my territory. In Gotham. Crime Alley. It’s not a pleasant place to be, kid. Found Batman beating the shit out of you just on the edge of my turf. What the fuck was up with that, anyway?”

A small shrug answered him. Fetcher looked away and seemed to shrink in on himself. Jason would have none of that now.

“Look. I’ll be the first person to say that Goth Furry Man is an asshole. I’m just trying to figure out what, exactly, crawled up his ass and died, alright? Make sure he doesn’t come after you again.”

Fetcher side-eyed him before moving the newspaper and writing again.

Accident.

Kid dropped the crayon and ran his fingers in the air in an upside down wiggle and then pointed to himself.

“You were running away?”

A nod. He made a circular motion in the air, pointed to himself, and then made a crawling motion. God, fuck, of course they’d resorted to charades.

“You crawled through a hole?”

He got a so-so motion before Fetcher paused and thought better of trying to mime out whatever he was getting at. Good. He picked up the crayon and wrote, handwriting still messy as all hell.

Portal.

“You crawled through a portal?” he questioned. How the fuck? You know what, no, actually, he’d seen weirder. Gotham was fucked up, weird glowing radioactive dudes wiggling through portals was not the worst that’d ever happened.

Mr. Radioactive in question nodded enthusiastically. He went back to miming. He made a rounded motion, like an arch in the air, and then wiggled his fingers in a forward motion out in front of the arch. Jason squinted. What the fuck was he trying to say here. He made the portal motion again above where he’d made the arch and finger-wiggle and dropped his hand down.

“You crawled from the portal onto…?”

Kid threw his hand up and tried again. He drew lines in the air, up long slanted left, short to the right, flat across, short to the left, long slanted right down, and flat across again. Then he laid his arm across his chest, closed his eyes, and laid back. Like a corpse. Oh!

“A fucking coffin?”

He pointed excitedly before making the so-so motion again. Then the arch and wiggle motion.

“A grave?”

More enthusiastic pointing and nodding. Fetcher was practically bouncing on the couch, which was probably not good for his wounds, but whatever. He wasn’t his mom.

Damn maybe Jason was good at charades, actually. He wondered if it would ruin his image too much to suggest to his guys to have a game night. Maybe just his closest lieutenants. Who said being a crime lord couldn’t mean kicking someone’s ass at monopoly?

“What about that would piss off Mr. Dark and Stormy Night, though?” he mused. Bats wouldn’t fly off the handle like that just for accidentally trespassing. He had that stupid moral code that Jason hated.

Fetcher gave a shrug, seeming to genuinely not know.

Jason thought back to where he’d found them. Fetcher couldn’t have gone far with his condition and an angry Bat chasing after him. The closest place a grave could be was-

Ah. The cemetery with his empty grave. Bruce's parents were buried in the fancy cemetery on the cliffs where all the rich fucks lived, looming above the city- too good to mingle with the poor. And despite being brought into that world for a time, Jason hadn't been important enough to be buried with the family plots. No, he'd been thrown into the small inner city place, simple headstone a bear minimum of consideration. But if Bruce hadn't cared enough to avenge him, why should he care about someone near his grave?

He clenched his jaw to control himself. Maybe not. Can’t jump to conclusions.

“Was it the specific grave you were on?” he asked through gritted teeth. Not that the tone translated much through the modulator on his mask.

A thoughtful tilt of the head and a reluctant nod. A hand wave. Maybe, then.

He kept in a sigh. “What were the initials on the headstone?”

Flat line down then curve. Straight line down and then an outward curve at the top. Straight line down and then a flat line across the top. J.P.T. Jason Peter Todd. Of fucking course. Of course that absolute bastard could rage and assault some random kid that’d crawled? Out his grave? On accident. But would stubbornly refuse to actually avenge him. To do something meaningful about his death and change how he took down his villains. To do something about that fucking clown’s kill count. No. Had to beat some rando within an inch of his life for doing nothing instead. Fucking hypocrite.

He was so going to tip off Alfred later. It was the best he could do with his plans at the moment. But if Bruce came anywhere near his territory again he’d get a bullet to the kneecap for sure. Maybe both for good measure. Couldn’t harm him too much, yet. Jason had plans for the bastard. For now he gathered himself with the placation of later. The Batman would get what was due to him. Shittiest not-dad of the year award included. Brucie would pay for his inaction. For not being there in time. For letting Jason die.

He had hoped. He had hoped so goddamn much that Bruce or Dick had done something about his death. That the clown had been made to pay for what he did. That maybe Bruce had learned his lesson about taking kids that weren’t trained enough out into the field. Letting them into the field at all. But lo and behold not a single fucking thing was different. Bruce had a new Robin. The Joker was still up to no good with nothing more than a slap on the wrist to stop him. Jason had been buried, tucked away in a Park Row two-bit cemetery (out of sight, out of mind) with Wayne stripped from his name. He had never accepted it before he died, but it still hurt. All of it did. He shoved it all deep down, folding that anger down within himself like he’d learned, ready to bring it back out when he needed it. Right now he had other things to focus on.

He dropped his gaze back to Fetcher, who was watching him intently. That bright green gaze was only a little bit disconcerting but whatever, he could deal.

“I won’t let him come after you again. You’re safe here so long as you follow my rules. Comprende?”

A serious nod and then a questioning motion.

“The rules?”

Another nod.

“Everybody looks out for everybody. Don’t mess with kids. Don’t deal to kids. Just don’t touch kids in general. Play nice with the sex workers or get wrecked. No murder or maiming unless its in self-defense or on my orders. Don’t fuck with the homeless or get curb-stomped. If you’re gonna deal it’s gotta be pure and if you’re gonna use do it safely. Snitches get stitches and never talk to cops.”

Fetcher blinked at the long list but nodded along and gave a peppy thumbs up at the end.

“Good. Now get some rest,” he said, swinging himself up from the couch and stretching. He caught the other ogling before Glow-Stick looked away. He’d save that for processing later.“I don’t have any food here so I’m gonna grab some. Do you eat? Got allergies?”

Fetcher shrugged and shook his head.

“What the fuck, little dude,” he asked before shaking his head. “Never mind. Just catch some sleep. If you sleep. Whatever. You can stay here for now. I’ll be back with food in a bit.”

Kid looked at him for a bit, blank green gaze a little unnerving. Jason felt like he was being assessed. Whatever Fetcher was looking for, he seemed to find it. He nodded decisively and then settled back into the couch, relaxing and sinking into the decrepit cushions.

Just what the hell had he gotten himself into now?

Chapter Text

What the hell had he gotten himself into now?

Danny hadn’t laid on a couch in what felt like years. Graveyard benches, tree branches, and mausoleum roofs were very poor substitutes for cushions or mattresses. The couch was rank and decrepit and leaking stuffing all over the place and it felt heavenly. There was also a weirdly abundant supply of ectoplasm just floating around the place. Ancients he hoped that didn’t mean what he thought it meant. He better not have invaded another ghost’s Haunt. He did not want to deal with a territorial asshole trying to fight him off when he needed to heal. He was not leaving this couch for anything.

Warily, he gathered up the ectoplasm telekinetically and wrapped it all around himself like a faintly glowing blanket, soaking it in with a small contented churr from his core. He still thought it was weird-all the animal like noises he could make. Noises that were instinctual and part of Core Speak, which was a lesser form of Ghost Speak. Ghost Speak itself was less about words and more about emotions and the vague intention of thoughts. Like when sounds and colors could convey a certain feeling or impression. He’d used a bit of it to talk to Red Hood even though Ghost Speak was something humans couldn’t understand or even perceive. It was an unconscious habit- Ghost Speak was the only way he could communicate with the other ghosts (not that they cared much for what he had to say most of the time) and he couldn’t even try to talk to anyone else usually.

It was nice that Red Hood still seemed to be able to understand him, it felt good to ‘talk’ with someone willing to play charades.

But, Ancients, what an embarrassing conversation. He’d been so delirious from being punch drunk and having blood loss. He was lucky he couldn’t talk because he couldn’t imagine what kind of filth he would’ve been spewing, waxing poetic about Red Hood’s juicy ass or something, if he could’ve. Just because it really was a juicy ass didn’t mean Red Hood had to know. Although, he probably already knew that. Man couldn’t walk around with that much cake and not know it. So, Red Hood didn’t have to know that Danny knew about and appreciated his ass. And thighs. And arms. And tits. Aaaand- he really needed to think about something else.

Red Hood being surprisingly hilarious? He called him Ghostbuster Reject and he didn’t even know Danny was a ghost. Not to mention all the names for Batman like Goth Furry Man and Mr. Dark and Stormy Night. He could tell that Red Hood was keeping back more of them too. He’d take any silly nickname Red wanted to give him if it meant he didn’t have to go by the stupid name he’d given himself.

Fetcher the Fetch. Red was right, it made him sound like Moon Moon. It would have to do though. He couldn’t spread the name Phantom around, couldn’t risk the GIW or his parents trying to find him in Gotham. The city had enough of its own problems without the property damage and disregard for by-standers that came with either group.

He felt bad that he’d only given Red Hood the partial truth. He was a Fetch, but that wasn’t exactly a term well used outside of ghosts and the Realms. Fetch- the apparition of a being yet still alive. The ghost of a living person. Both alive and dead. Half ghost and half human. Not that Danny felt all that like a human anymore. He hadn’t changed in a long time and the only reason he knew he still had a side of himself still alive was the faint heart-beat that thumped just under his core.

He still felt a tad guilty about hiding the whole “dead guy” she-bang from Red, but he didn’t need some weirdly nice Gotham Rogue knowing his entire being was against the law. That he could be turned over to the government for a hefty bounty. Didn’t matter that the guy had saved his skin, he’d been betrayed more than once and he wouldn’t risk it with a stranger. He also didn’t want to cause trouble. Red Hood looked like a guy that could handle himself but also someone who would protect his own to the last. He didn’t need anyone getting shot on either side because of him. The GIW didn’t care about collateral damage and they really wouldn’t care about hurting people they thought didn’t matter and destroying homes already falling apart. It was unfair and maddening, but it was how they worked. Ruthless and unforgiving.

Was it sad that the ghosts he use to fight to protect the town were now the least of his problems? Most of them had been scared off by the GIW after they’d gotten more competent and started experimenting. After the Anti-Ecto Acts got passed, most of the regular ghosts had made themselves scarce. Only the more powerful guys had dared to step foot into Amity, and then they became Danny’s problem. And then the whole mess with Pariah had happened and then none of the ghosts wanted to go top side. No, Danny’s post in Amity, stuck as it was in the zone, had become more about preventing humans from entering the Zone than the other way around. He had to stop the occasional reckless spirit, but for the most part they stayed scarce.

He hoped the Realms would be okay while he was gone. Who knows what his parents or the GIW could get up to in his absence.

He dozed on and off for a good bit, sleep light as it always was in ghost form. He could avoid eating when he was Phantom by absorbing ectoplasm, and he could get by with much less sleep in this form as well. But when he was injured, especially as injured as he was now, he needed to rest to get better. Needed to conserve energy and soak. Like a nice bath. A ghostly hibernation.

He started to feel better each time he blearily woke before going back down.

One of the times he could hear clanging and shuffling, like someone making food in a kitchen. He figured Red Hood would have gotten take-out. Was he making food? Maybe he was just dreaming. Dreaming of a better time in a more familiar kitchen…

It was all vague sensations and feelings. Just the warm light of the sun streaming in through the kitchen window. Just the suggestion of a fresh breeze blowing through and stirring up the scent of spices permeating the cramped space. The susurration of curtains in the wind.  Just the faintest sound of humming and soft laughter. Like he’d fallen asleep in the kitchen and he was hearing everything through a drowsy fog.

It was warm. The oven was on. There was something giving off steam on the stove. He could hear pots clanging and utensils clinking. He could hear murmuring and rustling. There was the sensation of closeness and a sort of comfort and togetherness he rarely felt. It felt like contentment. It felt like love.

“Hey, sweetie,” his mom said, voice soft and dulcet. He could feel a warm hand rubbing his back. “It’s time for dinner now, sleepy-head.”

He said something in reply but he couldn’t hear it. He felt dizzy, like the room was spinning and everything he’d felt started to distort and spiral. His mother said something again but her voice came out cold and distorted and angry.

“What did you do with my son?”

“Hey,” a gruff voice, still staticky from being filtered, spoke as he was shaken awake. He blinked as the dream he’d been having floated away from his mind, forgotten as he rose from Nocturn’s hold into the realm of the wakeful.

“Black-white-and-green-all-over,” the voice said again, a hint of amusement lacing the words, “time to wake up and smell the bacon.”

“Food’s ready,” Red Hood said, straightening from where he’d been hovering over Danny to wake him.

Mrrp?

His core let out a little sound, much like a cat just being woken. Cats and ghosts had a lot in common, sounds wise, and he was discovering new sounds he could make all the time. Most ghosts could just talk and Core Speak was considered something more intimate, to be used with close friends, lovers, and allies. But for him, it was the only way he could communicate until he could find a way to learn sign. His core seemed particularly talkative around Red Hood, too. Strange. Maybe because Red was the first person he’d encountered in ages that didn’t want to immediately kill him?

“H-ohmygod.”

He blinked, stretching and tilting his head in question. What was that about?

“You’re adorable, kid,” Red answered, teasing.

Red Hood had his hands on his hips, arms bare in all their glory without his jacket, and was wearing an apron. A red apron with frills and a cute little skull printed on it. Who was this man to call Danny the adorable one?! Clearly he hadn’t seen himself in a mirror. It didn’t matter at all that Danny couldn’t see his face- the personalized apron was more than enough. Did he make that? Did someone else make it for him? He had so many questions he couldn’t ask.

Danny chose to just flip him off instead.

Red shook his head and headed back into the kitchen. “Get your ass in here and eat this soup already. You look like you’ve healed enough.”

If Danny could groan, he would. The thought of moving was not appealing. He had already told himself that he wasn’t moving from the couch for anything and that included whatever soup ‘The Red Hood’ decided to shovel into him.

Could Red even cook? He had a whole apron thing going on, but that didn’t really mean anything. Maybe it was a gag gift because of how bad he was at cooking. He shuddered. Well, no one could be worse than his parents. He’s pretty sure sentient food beats out burnt to a crisp any day. There wasn’t any smoke or sign of fire so that was encouraging at least.

He was mostly healed at this point, scrapes gone and bleeding stopped. He could move his arm again and he didn’t need to channel all his ectoplasm into healing alone. His thigh and his shoulder were still throbbing from the shitty Bat-a-rangs but they were on the mend. Honestly, for how bad off he’d been he was healing pretty well and pretty quickly. The benefits of being a dead guy. And landing in a city rich with the stuff that helped him. He had enough he could probably go invisible and freak out Red, but he’d refrain for now.

Still, he flopped over the cushions, debating on whether it was worth it to move or not. He didn’t need to eat and its not like his senses were the same in ghost form as they were in human form. He didn’t smell the same way and while he’d never tested it, he probably couldn’t taste the same way either. So what did it even matter-

And suddenly there was a mass of looming Red just hovering over him and then- still very suddenly, he was being lifted up from the couch. Cradled in very warm, very nice arms.

“H-up we go-,” Red Hood mumbled, very very close to Danny’s ear and making him shiver. He was carried princess style into the kitchen and plopped down into a rickety wooden seat. He stared dumbly down at the, frankly, delicious looking bowl of chicken noodle soup as he tried to process what the hell just happened. Everything was tingly and his mind was blank. He had phantom (haha) sensations of warmth where Red had held him. When was the last time he’d been touched without being hurt?

“Like a handful of grapes,” he heard Red mutter as he settled into the seat across from Danny. Wow, rude.

Red picked up a spoon and used it to point at Danny’s bowl. “Eat.”

He huffed and slid down in the chair a bit but picked up the spoon anyway. If he could grumble he would. He made sure to look as petulant as he could as he dipped his spoon into the broth. He stared dumbly again as he tried to figure out how he was supposed to eat.

He heard a mechanical click and looked up to see that Red had retracted part of his mask somehow, leaving the bottom half of his face bare. A cupid’s bow. Hm. A cupid’s bow turned up into a smirk. Red pointed again.

“Eat.”

His voice was odd without the modulator, smooth and deep. And very clearly amused. And Danny really, really needed to think about other things. He had enough to worry about than to be distracted by a nice voice. One guy treats you like you’re not a monster and suddenly you go ga-ga for him. The thought made him sag further down into the chair, piercing the night with a shrill squeak. Fucking hopeless.

Danny sighed internally and went back to trying to figure out how to eat. Well, if he was healed enough to go invisible he was healed enough to go intangible. Partially.

He made the mask intangible but still visible, so to someone else it didn’t look any different from before. Then he brought the spoon up and let it pass through the mask unhindered. Oh Ancients. Chicken noodle soup. Good chicken noodle soup. He couldn’t smell it before, but he could now, and it smelled divine and tasted even better. He would die a second time for this soup. Hell, he might kill someone for this soup. Red Hood wanted someone gone? He would do it. He’d do it for soup. He kind of wanted to cry about it. How long had it been since he’d had something to eat? Let alone something this good. And even less something that was home-made and this good. Yeah, if he kept thinking about it he would definitely cry.

He took another eager bite, willing to sink into the flavor- rich with things he’d almost forgotten about like garlic and onion and carrots and celery. Spices he couldn’t name giving it a taste like nothing else. He felt a deep warmth spread through his body and his core purred with contentment.

He blinked open his eyes that he hadn’t even realized he’d closed to find Red Hood staring at him.

“How the fuck are you doing that?” he asked, incredulous.

Danny tilted his head in feigned innocence. He had no idea what Red was talking about, no sirree.

“Don’t give me that, you know what you’re doing,” he said, pointing an accusatory finger towards him. “How the fuck are you doing it?”

Danny rolled his eyes and dropped his spoon. He held up his hand and then phased it through the table, waving his fingers in a little ta-da motion afterwards.

“Alright. Density-shifting,” he said, sounding just a bit exasperated. “Okay. That’s just a thing you can do, then.”

He didn’t know what density shifting was but figured it was close enough to intangibility that he nodded. He picked up his spoon but before he could eat the most delicious meal of his life, Red had another question.

“Anything else you can do that I should worry about?”

He paused (a tragedy, really). It’s not like he could actually give a list. He could write it, yeah, but where was the fun in that. It also didn’t help that he couldn’t remember half of his powers on a good day. They were instinctual. Like a muscle he didn’t know the name of that he could flex. He could move the muscle but its not like he was aware of it. What it was called or how it worked.

He shrugged and continued eating.

“You know, glow-stick, there’s gonna come a point where I need answers,” Red said, voice wry.“I’ve let you get away with a lot already. Don’t think I’ll be lenient again,” he spoke with finality.

Danny regarded him seriously. Red Hood had let him move on without explaining things multiple times now. He was grateful for it honestly. He didn’t know how he would even start to untangle all that he was to this stranger. He couldn’t even do that with people he knew and trusted. And he didn’t want to go through being interrogated within an inch of his half-live again either. At least Red was being civil about everything.

He put his spoon down again (mournfully) and gave Red Hood a solemn nod. There wasn’t much else he could do to convey his thanks and his seriousness, but Red seemed to get the message.

“Good. Don’t cause trouble and it won’t be an issue.”

He wanted to laugh at that. Like he could ever stay out of trouble.

Red must have sensed his amusement because he made a motion with his head like he was rolling his eyes. Danny could tell even though he couldn’t see them behind the helmet. Looks like they were both able to communicate with body language pretty well, probably why Red was so good at reading him.

They ate in silence for a bit, the distant sound of sirens and gunfire lulling to a background noise he wouldn’t have thought he’d get used to so easily. But it was still somehow familiar, like a song he knew played on an instrument he’d never heard of. Police sirens instead of ghost attack sirens and gunfire instead of the odd electric crackle of ecto-blasts.

Danny melted into his chair as he finished his last bite, the warmth of the soup turning him into a puddle of goo. His belly felt full in a way it hadn’t in years. The last meal Jazz had made for him had been when he was what? Sixteen? Before she left.

“So,” Red started, voice firm. Danny wanted to groan again. He didn’t want to have serious discussions, not now. All he wanted to do right now was become one with the table and savor his beautiful, beautiful soup. But Red Hood was relentless. Merciless.

“You said you climbed out of a portal?”

He nodded. Miserably.

“You got any way to get back through said portal?”

He stilled. No, he didn’t. He really didn’t. He'd been fighting for his half-life too much to have time to think about it. 

So he thought about what would happen next. Would he go back to his Haunt? Could he? He’d found his way topside and the only stable portal connecting the two halves was in the ruins of the place that Amity used to occupy. Both his parents’ portal and Vlad’s had been victims to the shift into the Zone, both weirdly inverting on themselves, collapsing and reforming- twisting reality in ways it should never have twisted.

Vlad’s portal never stabilized, shrinking down and imploding in on itself- condensing like a dying star becoming a black hole but bursting out in radioactive shock-waves instead. It took out half of Elmerton in the explosion as well. Thankfully the neighboring town had been evacuated the moment Amity disappeared so there weren’t any casualties. But it had definitely been a close call. His parent’s portal survived on a miracle, creating an exit for the townspeople when everyone realized that the city was stuck and there was no going back. Nobody died but- there wasn’t a single citizen who hadn’t lost everything. There was only so much that could be transported through the portal after all. It was the only time anyone ever let him near enough to help, if only to use his strength to carry the boxes of meager belongings through to the other side. Boxy knew better than to mess with them when he was around.

The truth was that he didn’t have anywhere to go. Anything to do. If he weren’t only half-ghost then the loss of his Haunt and Obsession could have Ended him, but as it were it just made him sad. Restless. Core-tearingly despondent. He’d already just been listlessly haunting the cemetery, fighting ghosts when they wanted to pick a fight with him. Skulker was really the only one that tried anymore.

The most he could hope for was a natural portal popping up that he could sneak into, and that was only if it didn’t spit him back out somewhere completely different instead of the Zone. While Gotham seemed to have an abundance of ectoplasm, that didn’t mean it had an abundance of portals.

Would he build a new place for himself here? Haunt a new graveyard? He could never be human again. He’d left that life far and long behind. Maybe he’d find a house to haunt, be a proper ghost and scare some people.

The thought left a bad taste in his mouth, but he elected to ignore it. He’d only just felt a little like a human again. A mistake.

He’d stalled long enough. He shook his head and waited for Red Hood’s reaction.

“Anyplace to go?” he questioned, tone flat. Danny couldn’t begin to tell what he was thinking, he kept his cards close to his chest. But maybe there was a hint of concern there? Or maybe he was being too optimistic.

He shrugged, truthfully not knowing how to answer that. He could try to get back to Amity, but that was a long, long while to walk and a major fight with the GIW and his parents that he didn’t want to pick. Or he could settle back into the cemetery he’d been chased from. Visit his old zombie pal, Jason and dodge Batman again. It’s not like he needed human accommodations. Nothing an old mausoleum wouldn’t do.

Danny could see the black eye-cover of Red’s helmet narrow (and wasn’t that a trip). He could feel the other man’s stare, intense and analytic. He waited.

Red Hood sighed. “Well, for now, you’re staying here until you’re healed completely. Then we’ll figure it out as we go.” He pressed a button on his helmet that made it drop back down and recover his face, then stood up and picked up the empty soup bowls. “Don’t need Bold and the Bleakness trying to kill you over something stupid again.”

Danny nodded. He could agree to that. He’d stay until the Bat-a-rang wounds and his broken arm fully healed and then drift back to the cemetery. No need to bother Red Hood any further than he already had. He didn’t deserve as much kindness as he’d already gotten. The man might seem to be a crime lord, but he cared about his people and had a surprising amount of warmth. A man like that didn’t need to worry about a thing like Danny.

He would fade out when Red Hood left and go back to where he belonged. Some dusty old mausoleum he could guard. And then he would wait out the rest of his existence there, protecting bones no one cared about anymore for as long as he continued to walk this plane. Maybe someday he’d fully die and make his way back to the empty streets of Amity, maybe by then the ghosts of his neighbors would have repopulated the town. Maybe he’d see his friends again. Maybe, someday, he could rest.

It was as good a plan as any.

“Alright, kid, rest up for now,” Red said, rinsing out the bowls and setting them to dry on a rack by the sink. Danny just watched the man move about the kitchen, enjoying the view. Red ducked out of the apron and folded it up until it was as small of a bundle as it could go and stuffed it in a side pocket on his utility belt. Well, huh. So he just carried that around with him then. Fascinating.

He turned back to Danny and pointed a stern finger in his direction. “I don’t wanna see you anywhere but that couch until you’re fully healed.”

Danny rolled his eyes and nodded. He’d be fine. Red Hood wouldn’t see him anywhere but the couch, not once he went invisible.

Red pulled his gloves on, Danny watching with rapt attention. Maybe a little too much attention when he pulled his jacket back on and his arms flexed with the movement. Hmm.

“You need help back to the couch, glow-stick?”

Danny felt himself flush, face probably turning green under the mask as he scrambled out of the chair and stumbled back to the couch, shaking his head along the way. He plopped down onto the cushions and melted a little into the blood-stained fabric with a bit of intangibility.

Red Hood huffed and shook his head, making his way toward the window and throwing a leg out and straddling the sill.

“Rest up and I’ll see you in the morning, Fetcher,” he called, giving Danny a wave.

Danny gave a wave back, a little sad that this would be the last time he saw Red Hood. He’d be gone in an hour or two, ready to haunt one of the smaller cemeteries of Gotham into perpetuity. For now, however, he’d take another nap and rest like a human just one last time.

Chapter Text

There was a part of Jason that knew he wouldn’t find Fetcher in the safe house when he returned, but there was another (stupider) part of himself that had hoped to find the sassy little shit where he’d left him. He knew the first time had been a miracle and probably owing to the fact that Fetcher had been exhausted and recovering. He really hoped the kid had healed fully before he left. It looked like he already had a pretty fast healing rate, but Jason still worried. Like an idiot, really.

He wondered where Fetcher went. Jason didn’t believe for one second the kid actually had a place to go. But then again he literally glowed green and walked around in a Hazmat suit, which meant he was kind of hard to miss. So he had to have a place to go, to hide. Because Jason sure as shit hadn’t seen him since he left. And no, he had not looked. Well, maybe he looked a little. But it didn’t matter because he hadn’t found the fucker anywhere. There and gone again in a single night.

Jason should not be as preoccupied about it as he was. He had plans. He needed to focus. Didn’t matter that he’d felt almost calm for the first time since he resurrected around the kid (four long, long years of mindlessness and anger and a sort of helplessness and despair he hated). Fetcher was gone now and all he could do was sink back into his rage and learn to swim willingly within the haze all over again. He’d done it before and he’d do it again. Rage was useful. Anger was something he could mold and carve to his satisfaction. He would use it as a tool to strike down those that needed striking and avenge those that needed vengeance. Himself for one.

Tall, Dark, and Emotionally Repressed wouldn’t know what hit him. The Batman had failed him. Bruce had proven that while he may have loved Jason, he hadn’t loved him enough. And wasn’t that just the story of his life? Jason had never been enough. Would never be enough. Always second-rate. A good Robin, sure, but not near enough to live up to the first one. To Dick’s spark and skill and flamboyance. Dickie had set the standard for what a Robin should be and Jason had never been able to live up to it. His Replacement got closer than he ever could and it stung. Too arrogant, too forceful, too angry, too reckless. Too much, yet never enough. Jason was loved but it always came with conditions. Jason was mourned but his death had still not been enough to put a stop to the Joker. Just another page in his story instead of the catalyst to his end. He hadn’t cared that Bruce was too late to save him, he’d cared that Bruce had still not considered his death enough to put a permanent end to Joker’s murder sprees. That Bruce had lied about Jason being his son. 

When Jason may or may not have pushed Garzonas off the balcony, Bruce had told him it was inevitable that Garzonas Senior would come after them for revenge. Bruce had told him explicitly that it was Jason's fault three more people died because he'd supposedly killed Garzonas. Because it was inevitable that a father would avenge his son. Bruce had told him, under no uncertain terms, that it was natural for a father to avenge his son's death. Bruce had told him it was Robin's fault Batman had to crush Garzonas Senior under a pile of cars. Because a parent would always exact bloody vengeance for their murdered child.

But, despite murdering Jason- brutally, horrifically- the Joker still lived. 

Which meant one of two things. Either Bruce's strict moral code was more flexible than he let on and the Batman had more blood on his hands than anybody knew (which would still be a slap in the face because it would mean he was able to kill and just wasn't killing the Joker) OR he had never considered himself Jason's parent. Had sold himself as a protector, a father, a mentor- but had never meant it. And Jason was willing to bet it was the latter. 

It pissed him off.

Jason would just have to do what he'd always done. Care for his own damn self when it seemed no one else was willing.

If the Batman, so-called protector of Gotham city, wouldn’t put an end to the festering blight on humanity at large that was the Clown Prince of Crime, then someone else would. Jason was not afraid to bloody his own hands if it meant more innocents could live. If it meant that people like Jason had been wouldn’t have to die anymore. Die broken and bleeding and scared. Thinking that Batman would save you, would pull you out of the wreckage and make sure everything was alright. Thinking that Batman would go to the ends of the earth to make sure you lived. Thinking that Batman would do anything to avenge you if you didn’t. He would not let anyone else live that lie. Die with that lie.

Because that’s all it was. A lie.

If Jason, a child he had brought in and personally trained, was not enough, then there weren’t many others that were. How many people would finally be too many? How many lives would end before the Joker’s? His hadn’t been worthy enough to count as the sacrificial lamb to end it all. Though, he supposed, he hadn’t been worth much anyway. Bruce could bluster all he wanted, pretend to be angry that someone had trespassed on Jason’s grave. But the fact of the matter was that nowhere on that headstone had he been given the name Wayne. Unclaimed and unwanted and unavenged. He wondered, sometimes, if it had been Dick that had died instead of him, if that would have been Bruce’s breaking point. But Dickie had never been stupid enough to get himself killed. Dickie was family, Jason wasn't and never had been. 

Not like reckless, angry, arrogant, Jason.

But, now, now he had a plan and he would put those traits to use.

He would continue to take over the Alley. Expand his territory and take over all trade from Black Mask and any other Kingpin trying to rule the underground. He would control the drugs, the arms, and any other goods. He would destroy what he couldn’t control and control what he couldn’t destroy. Drugs would sell no matter what he did, so he would make sure they were pure and out of the hands of minors. He would provide refuge for the weak and weary, clean spaces and warm places. He would do what Batman could not and rid the city of its more heinous strains of crime. And he would be as ruthless about it as he needed to be. He would not hold back because of he was squeamish, not if it meant doing what needed to be done. He would not be so selfish as to put his conscious above the lives and well-being of others.

He would show the Bat what the city could become before he put Bruce’s morals to the test. Before he found out what Batman’s breaking point really was.

*

Something wasn’t right.

“He is on a leash for a reason…” Ra’s voice was muffled where Jason’s head was still ringing from the blow. Blood from his split lip was falling slowly to the concrete floor of the compound below him, stark red against dull gray. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t look up without risking another slap to the face from Ra’s. He simply watched as the blood dripped. If he looked closely he could even convince himself there was a hint of green. “… you need to tighten it before I take the lead from you entirely.”

Talia was standing beside him, stoic as her father berated her Jason’s failure. Training here was brutal and it was hard enough to tame his undead limbs into some semblance of normal movement, let alone into the advanced precision of movement the League called for. Jason felt like a clumsy fool, an empty shell of a person.

He had been brought back to life, gasping and screaming, only to be made into Ra’s al Ghul’s dog. A disobedient and useless one at that. Ra’s was very clear about his derision for Jason, that he would be very willing to kick him in the ribs if he felt it was necessary. Talia said nothing to argue against him.

Why did it feel like his blood was on fire?

There was just the barest impression of cold tile and deep shadow. Recollection was hazy and soft, like the dream of a dream.

“The only reason you cling to him is because you think it will win you favor with your estranged Beloved to have brought back one of his sons. It is a weakness to be so attached to such… dead weight.”

“I am not attached, Father. I am simply doing what I think is necessary in order to better shape him into the weapon we require.”

A sharp bark of a laugh, derisive and detached. Like an Emperor about to sentence one of his subjects to death.

“He will never be an effective weapon. We both know this. He was always the worst choice for Robin, and never good enough for the mantle. This has not changed with time and death. He would be of more use to us as a test subject. We are still unaware of how he came back after all- I would be far more interested in seeing what his organs look like than putting more effort into training something so useless.”

Fire felt like it was everywhere- like his brain was simmering, exposed, in the hot sun.

Talia cradled his face with one hand and Jason had to fight the urge to snap at it with his teeth.

She frowned at him even as she moved it to continue wrapping his arm in gauze. “Do not give me such looks. I do what I can for you within the bounds of my own stage and puppet strings. You are lucky he lets you get away with as much as you do.”

“He doesn’t let me get away with anything,” Jason growled. “He just doesn’t care how much I chew on the furniture as long as I’m still useful as his dog.”

“Tt, this is how he treats everyone,” she said, pulling his arm up to better wrap the wound. “You are not special. We are both lucky that he is allowing you to go on your mission at all, that he is uncaring of what you do. You have to be more careful or he will think you are no longer worth the trouble.”

“What’s he gonna do?” Jason scoffed. “Throw me back in the pit?”

Talia was silent as she continued to wrap the gauze around his arm before tying it off and moving away.

“Yes.”

Bones weren’t supposed to feel like they were melting- like he’d been dipped in lava.

The cloying feeling of choking on a thick and viscous fluid, how it burned like a chemical reaction as it slid down his throat- cutting off his oxygen. Of not knowing what was happening or why, not remembering anything before suddenly remembering everything. Only to drown, alone in the dark. But it was the opposite of dying. The heart pumped regardless, sharp and rabbit-quick in his chest, growing faster the longer he went without drawing breath. Bones snapped back into place, splinters slicing through muscle to rejoin the whole like shrapnel in reverse. Raw skin crawled along his nerves and bloomed as the burned and necrotic parts sloughed off entirely. He was being reborn, reformed within an uncaring womb.

Only to drown. Alone in the dark.

Jason woke with a gasp, desperate to draw in oxygen to his burning lungs. It took him several tries before his breathing steadied out and he realized he’d been having a nightmare. The sheets around him were drenched in sweat, like he’d broken a fever in the middle of the night.

He groaned and rolled off the shitty mattress. He hated having flashbacks of the pit, hated reliving his time with the League.

Ra’s was an asshole, plain and simple, and Jason planned to never go anywhere near the guy again. He wouldn’t be anyone’s tool or science experiment. He would not be thrown back into the pit.

He shuddered at the thought.

Ra’s underestimated him. Which was good, because it meant Jason would be harder to take down. And it would be a take down. Ra’s expected him to come back when called, to heel at his feet like a mindless and obedient dog. But Jason wasn’t going back without a fight.

He had a mission to complete first though.

He grabbed a towel and wandered to the kitchen to wet it, looking out the grimy window over the sink. He scrubbed his face and glared out into the raging night, sirens wailing and screaming in the distance. A typical soundscape in Gotham.

He had plans to change that, and no immortal shriveled prune or self-righteous furry in spandex was going to stop him.

*

Six months he’d been running everything. Killing off rival gang members, making sure everyone knew the rules and the consequences for not following them. Pissing off Black Mask and eating more and more of his territory, claiming the Alley for himself. Teasing Batman and dodging his attempts at a take-down. He wasn’t ready to give up the ghost just yet, Brucie needed more patience than that.

It was just another run-of-the-mill patrol of the area. Checking in with his lieutenants, keeping them in line and making sure no one was breaking the golden rule. Checking in on the Corner Workers, making sure they had everything they needed and that no one was trying to rough them up. Checking in on the camps, making sure everyone had food and water and shelter and anything else they needed. Keeping the pigs away from all of them.

So, imagine his surprise when he finds trouble. No, not that he just finds trouble, that was expected and the reason for the patrol in the first place, but that he finds trouble and Fetcher was in the middle of it. Trying to stop it? From the looks of it?

Taking in the scene, there were three figures. Fetcher, some guy in a black jacket and ski-mask (like you couldn’t get anymore cartoonishly criminal), and a girl all done up in high-heels and a short leather dress. Nadi if he had to take a guess. Looked like some bozo had been trying to mug one of the Ladies of the Night. Had been because Fetcher had the guy in a headlock and was- Giving the guy a noogie? The girl in question seemed to just be watching, hands on her hips and grinning, make-up and hair without a single smudge or ruffle. Fetcher must have intervened before Bozo could get very far then.

Jason joined her in watching the show. Bozo tried to pull a knife and Fetcher just kept one arm around his head and used the other to snatch it away without effort. Then he density-shifted it into his suit and gave the guy a finger wag. Like some naughty kid.

“That’s the third knife he’s done that with,” Nadi said, sounding on the brink of hysterical laughter.

Nadi, from what he had learned of the sex workers under his protection, was always one to deflect with humor when things went south. Served her well in this instance because it kept her calm and able to enjoy the show. She wasn’t new to the block either so this probably wasn’t the first time she’d had a knife pulled on her. Probably the first time a walking radiation hazard saved her though. Or, knowing Gotham, maybe not.

“He hurt you at all?” he asked her, just to make sure.

“Nah,” she said turning to him with a smile that didn’t falter at the sight of his helmet.

He was trying his best to keep his reputation good with the ones under his protection, so he was happy to see her without fear around him. The ones who should fear him were the ones that broke the rules, not the ones he made the rules to protect.

“Little man in the funky suit,” she said, pointing to Fetcher with an impeccably sharp nail, “jumped in the second I started yelling at that asshole.”

“Good,” Jason replied. “How long has this been going on?”

“Mm,” she started, brown eyes looking up in thought, “about ten minutes, I think. Glow-boy’s been keeping him down for a while.” Her eyes gleamed. “I just wanna see how many knives is gonna get involved.”

Fetcher had been keeping that man in a headlock for ten goddamn minutes. Amazing.

“Oi, Fetch,” he called, watching as the vicious little nightlight jumped at his voice and dropped the guy, who flopped to the ground, boneless, with a groan. “What are you-”

Jason watched, stunned, as Fetcher held his hands up in surrender and then disappeared. Just fucking vanished into thin air. He switched his helmet to night vision, heat vision, anything and everything. No readings. Nada. Nothing. What the fuck.

“Aw,” Nadi whined, disappointed, “you scared ‘im off.”

“I did not!” he protested. Because really, he hadn’t meant to spook him. He was just glad to see the kid up and about and apparently well enough to take on random muggers. At least Batman hadn’t gotten to him, from the looks of things.

“Big bad Red Hood,” she sang, “scaring off my savior!”

He sighed. At least someone was having a good time.

Bozo groaned, face still planted in the ground of the dirty back alley. Oh, right. Assholes to punish. He moseyed over, making sure each boot thunked heavily against the asphalt. He watched Bozo grow tenser with every step he got closer.

“Talk,” he commanded. Fetcher wanted to play good cop (silly cop? ridiculous cop?) to Jason’s bad cop, so be it. He had a reputation. He could be a bit playful with the girls or soft with the kids, but trouble-makers got no mercy.

“I-I didn’t do nothin-,” Bozo started, stammering and struggling to move up onto his hands and knees.

Red Hood took care of that with a swift kick to the ribs.

“Try again.”

He wouldn’t stand for someone trying to shift the blame. Trying to get out of the consequences of their actions.

Bozo groaned and curled up on his side. Jason had no sympathy.

“Fine, fine,” Bozo said, face still one with the concrete. “Know the girls always carry a lotta cash from workin’. Figured it would be an easy grab. Wasn’t plannin’ on hurtin’ her.”

Nadi scoffed. “I worked hard for my money, asshole.” She loomed over him, hands on her hips, and Jason let her. “You thought you could just grab it off me?” She pressed a threatening heel against the guy’s bruised ribs. “I’da fought you off myself if little cujo hadn’t tackled you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Bozo said miserably. “Just throw me to the cops already.”

Jason tsked. “No pigs in the Alley.” He paused, thinking it over for a moment. Guy looked young and scruffy. Desperate for money by the sounds of it, if he was willing to go for someone in Jason’s territory. Knew to keep more than one knife on him, so stupid- but with some street smarts. He could work with that. “You’re working for the girls now, as penance.”

“What?!” Bozo and Nadi shrieked at the same time.

Jason held up his hand for silence. He pointed at Bozo first. “Room and board and something better to do than trawl the streets for blood money.” Then pointed at Nadi, “Extra set of hands to do whatever you want.”

Nadi’s eyes gleamed again at that. “Whatever I want?”

Smart woman.

Bozo collapsed back down with another pitiful groan. Served him right. Jason crouched next to him, making sure he had the guy’s attention and letting a little murderous-intent bleed into his voice.

“Pull this shit again and there won’t be a second chance.”

He bared down on him, making sure it got through that thick skull just what would happen if he crossed the line again. He was lucky he’d gotten away without any maiming this time. Next time, Hood would have his head.

Bozo nodded, face pale and clammy. Jason stood up, satisfied, before turning to Nadi again.

“He tries to pull anything, let me or any of my crew know.”

And with that he grappled off, climbing back to the rooftops and running his route with a distracted air. Looking for a neon green glow he knew he wouldn’t find.

*

The second time Jason caught sight of Fetcher out and about, it was a much bloodier encounter.

Some of Black Mask’s men had ambushed him mid-patrol, thinking they could catch him by surprise and bring him in to their increasingly irate boss. Too bad for them that Jason wasn’t a man so easily caught off guard. If there was one thing that Bats taught all the Robins that served them well- it was paranoia. If you think they’re always out to get you, you’ll be prepared for the many times they actually are.

Five against one, but Jason was packing all five of the Bennett sisters tonight and he had more tricks up his sleeves besides.

One shot to the jugular. One pistol whip to the face. One kick in the ribs and two shots to the kneecaps. Two men trying to grab at his arms at the same time, missing, and getting swept off their feet by one of Jason’s own.

One guy got an arm around his neck in the aftermath, pulling tight, and one of the two he’d knocked over popped back up and wrestled Lizzie out of his grip. Two were completely out of commission but that still left three stubborn bastards. The third one got in a shot to his thigh while he was throwing off the others.

He hissed, the bullet was unable to pierce his armor but still left a nasty bruise.

He pulled Mary out of her holster and took a rapid shot at that third guy’s hand, taking out his gun and leaving him out of the game for the rest of the fight- screaming and trying to staunch the blood pouring from his missing finger.

The other two had backed off, noticing that their odds were dwindling fast.

One guy pulled a knife, the blade glinting strangely in the light of the street lamp. Looked like it was coated in something. A paralytic, a poison? No matter what, it wasn’t likely to pierce his jacket or his armor. And the guy should know better than to bring a knife to a gun fight.

He took the shot but the guy dodged.

Idiot number two pulled a gun himself and fired off, three shots, all going large. One to the brick behind him, one to the pavement, and one to the dark of the night beyond them.

Idiot number one, being faster than Jason anticipated, made a lunge toward him and his knife skimmed the sleeve of his jacket on the left side, cutting a long and jagged stripe before just barely nicking his wrist where his jacket ended before his gloves.

His hand went numb. Fuck.

Whatever was on that knife, which shouldn’t be able to cut through his jacket, was potent. The edges of his jacket where it’d been split open began to sizzle. Double fuck. That one was his favorite.

He swung around and shot at idiot number one, being careful to dodge around the bullets being fired by idiot number two.

The tingling sensation of numbness was starting to crawl up his arm.

Idiot number one fell to a bullet in the shoulder, poison knife clattering to the ground while the guy screamed. Idiot number two was starting to look antsy, realizing he was the last man standing. Jason may be down an arm but he wasn’t about to let the guy go running. He shot- but the guy was squirrelly and dodged so that it only grazed his shoulder even as he booked it out of the alley. 

Damn it. 

Jason picked up the knife that had been sitting so innocently on the dirty pavement, giving it a closer look. The green was bright and had a glow to it that was strikingly familiar. Reminded him of kryptonite. But why in the world would a goon for Black Mask have a knife made of kryptonite? Had the guy been moonlighting as a Metropolis villain? And why the fuck would it be effecting Jason like this? Last he checked he was still one hundred percent human, not an alien. 

He'd probably need to give it over to Doc Thompkins so she could figure out what about the blade had paralyzed him. It had to be something other than kryptonite, but if he wanted any chance of reversing the effects it was having on him- he'd need to hand it over. 

The numbness was reaching his chest. Would the paralytic kill him? Stop his heart? Or just leave him trapped? He needed to get out of there. Needed to get to the doc before he potentially suffocated on his own stupidity. If he hadn’t been so fucking distracted… He hadn’t seen Fetcher in a week and a half now…

And then, well, think of the devil and he shall appear.

One minute the alley was empty and the other his little savior blinked into existence, looking eerie and otherworldly in the thin stream of flickering red neon lights that managed to pierce the dark side street. 

“Long time no see, Jellyfish,” he said, trying for a casual tone as his left leg started going out on him.

The kid gave him a flat stare before standing underneath him and swinging Jason’s left arm over his shoulder.

Fetcher was- cold to the touch. Like he’d been standing in a snowstorm and the chill had permanently sunk into his very being. He felt like static shock, like pinpricks of electricity were swirling around under the latex-like material of the suit. He felt completely unnatural and yet somehow familiar. Jason wondered, not for the first time, just what, exactly, a Fetch was.

The kid froze for a second, staring down at the knife still in Jason's right hand. Carefully, he folded it and stowed it in a jacket pocket. "Ah-ah, can't have this one."

Fetcher shook off whatever had come over him (trauma, maybe?) before giving a noiseless huff and dragging Jason forward. 

“How many knives you even got in there?” Jason asked, trying to distract himself from the numbing sensation crawling further through his chest. His lungs were starting to stutter.

Fetcher held his free hand up in a gesture reminiscent of a shrug that didn’t move his occupied shoulder. So he didn’t know. That wasn’t concerning at all. The little glow-worm got them to the mouth of the alley before motioning to the street before them. Asking for directions.

Jason jabbed the thumb he could still move towards the left. Man he hoped Leslie would help him.

It was only after Leslie reluctantly let him go and he exited the clinic that he noticed Fetcher had disappeared again.

*

Twice was a coincidence, three times was a pattern.

This time it was in the rain, heavy downpour obscuring everything in sight and the occasional flash of lightning spearing the dark in a thunderous roar.

Bruce had caught him on one of his runs.

They were on the edge of the roof, his boots slipping just the slightest against the slick concrete that bordered the ten story drop as Batman gripped the shirt that covered his chest armor in his fists, holding him up and being the only thing between him and the pavement below. One hand of Jason’s scrabbled against the slick armor on Batman’s arm and the other held a gun against the man’s head.

Red Hood laughed, bordering hysterical, the sound crackling and grating through the filter on his helmet. “Let me go, Batman,” he demanded, gun digging against the mask over Bruce’s temple.

“Who are you?” Batman growled, agony underpinning his words and it flooded Jason with a righteous glee that made him ache. Oh, Brucie, Brucie, Brucie he thought. You’re so close to figuring it out but you’re still not sure.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he said, trying not to cackle. The sweet, sweet fury painting his father’s ex-mentor’s face was delicious. He might not be ready to lead Batman to his pièce de résistance but he could still enjoy teasing in the meantime.

“Tell me,” Batman demanded, shaking Red Hood within his grasp, making Jason’s boots slide ever further toward the edge.

“Or what,” he snarled, “you’ll kill me?”

He nudged his gun to an angle beside Batman’s head and shot, the bullet flying into the air but the blast and the noise pushing Bruce away and startling his grip loose. Jason used the momentum to push up and arch in the air, feeling the rain and the wind against him as he flew. He flipped and felt the beautiful, intoxicating rush that came with free falling. Distantly he could hear Batman yelling, but all he wanted to concentrate on was feeling the pull of gravity before he landed.

He pulled out his grapple and aimed. It slipped and he cursed. The building was too short to sustain his fall for long and he didn’t have time for another grapple to hook and swing. He was meeting the pavement fast. Too fast. He wasn’t usually this sloppy. His landing would be messy and painful, but if he moved right, he’d live.

Cold hands caught him a single story from the ground and slowly lowered him down until his boots hit sidewalk. The glow around them told him he knew who his savior was.

When he was released he turned. The hands that had caught him were gone, and so was the rest of Fetcher. He tsked in annoyance. He’d need to hunt the kid down at this rate.

He looked up to see if Batman was still there. But if he was, he couldn’t see anything through the rain.

*

Of course he was living in a graveyard. Because why not, right?

It was one of the last places Jason tried searching. Ever since Fetcher had risked Batman’s wrath again by catching him a few days ago, he’d doubled his determination to find him. He shouldn’t let himself get so distracted from his main goal, but keeping Fetcher within his sights and making sure the kid was safe was now part his master plan, apparently.

He could see a faint glow up in the branches of the single hickory tree planted in the cemetery Fetcher had originally been chased from. The one Jason was buried in. He tried not to have any particular feelings about that. He watched as the green shell of a hickory nut fell from the branches and bounced on the ground. Well, at least the kid was eating.

“Hey,” he called, watching the branches shake when Fetcher startled. “Get your radioactive ass down here.”

He backed up and watched in fascination as the other man swung down from a branch like a monkey before he dropped like a stone. If the forty foot drop did anything to his ankles when he landed directly on his feet, he didn’t let it show. What the fuck was this guy?

Fetcher walked closer, posture cautious but casual. Like there was at least some modicum of trust but he still knew to be wary. He tilted his head to the side, a question.

“How many crimes have you interfered with on my turf?” he asked, crossing his arms. He was genuinely curious. He’d gotten reports from his lieutenants that mister nightlight had been spotted multiple times preventing a mugging or defending a Corner Girl. A little vigilante in the making, all he needed was the blue eyes and black hair and he’d be perfect Wayne Bait.

Fetcher scuffed his shoe against the grass and hid his hands behind his back before shrugging, trying to act innocent. Little shit.

“Listen,” he said, “if you’re gonna play vigilante here, it’s gonna be on my orders.”

Fetcher raised his head and tilted it to the side again. Another question. He sighed.

He walked closer, steps slow and careful so Fetch wouldn’t disappear on him. He didn’t want to spook the guy. “No more living in trees and popping in and out of nowhere,” he said firmly, close enough to see his curious glowing green eyes. “If you’re gonna work in my territory, then you’re gonna be on my payroll.”

The green glow narrowed and Fetcher crossed his arms. Defiant. Defensive.

Jason scoffed. “If you mess with things you don’t know about you’re going to get hurt. Or get someone else hurt.”

The arms dropped but stayed crossed, his head tilted to the side. Accepting but still questioning.

“I’m not going to stop you from saving people,” he said, “since that seems to be something you want to do.”

“But,” he lifted a finger, “you gotta listen to me. And you’re going to live in an actual goddamn house, you heathen. And eat actual food. I don’t care if you’re not human, no man under my protection is living like a monkey unless they are one.”

He paused. “You aren’t some type of monkey, are you?”

Fetcher seemed to double over. Shoulders shaking in silent laughter. Probably a no then. But, yeah, sure, laugh at him for not knowing what the fuck a Fetch was and trying not to make any assumptions.

“Alright, alright,” he grumbled as the other seemed to finally gather himself together. “You coming or not? I’m setting you up in a safe-house and then putting a fucking bell on you so I know where you are.”

Fetch wiped a tear that wasn’t actually there from his tinted mask and mimed catching his breath before nodding and gesturing for Jason to lead the way. Then he paused and tilted his head. He lifted his arms and made a little paw motion beside his head and moved his head back and forth. Jason could almost see green ears and tail appear.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

Fetcher leaned forward, arms out in some sort of questioning shrug. Why not? he seemed to say, with some mocking edge. Little shit knew what he was doing.

God, Jason really hoped he wouldn’t regret this

Chapter Text

Danny would often just drift about the apartment. Haunting it. He certainly wasn’t living in it. One would have to be living first, in order to do that. No, the safe-house apartment Red Hood insisted he stay in was a place he haunted. Shambling aimlessly unless called upon by Red Hood himself or the screams of someone in need within the Alley.

He’d been in the Alley, working under Red’s command, for three weeks now and he’d say he was getting pretty familiar with his surroundings now. Learning the layout, learning the people, learning the rules both known and unspoken. Learning more about the politics and about Red Hood’s hostile takeover.

He’d been right that Red Hood was a new Gotham Rogue. But he’d been wrong about the man’s character. He was ruthless, true, but only to those that crossed the line. He could be callous, but only to those that deserved it. Sure, the duffle bag of heads was probably a bit much and might even be considered needlessly cruel. But he’d done it with purpose. He’d done it for a good reason.

Red Hood was trying to take over the Alley and make it better. He’d seen the plans. The strategies in motion. Harm reduction. Protection. Housing projects. Assistance programs. All of these funded by his gang, run by the community, and controlled by Red Hood through his lieutenants. He was a Crime Lord in the sense that all crime within his purview was controlled and run through him. His methods were bloody and oftentimes vile, but they worked. Danny had come to really admire him in the few weeks he’d been running errands for the guy.

And he was, honestly, often just running errands.

“Go help this family move in, I know you have super strength. Put it to use.”

“One of the girls isn’t feeling well and Ms. Bajorek made her some soup. Drop it off for me. You don’t have anything better to do anyway.”

“Here’s a list of groceries and a tip for Mr. Nguyen when you get them. I’m making you and the Alley kids lunch today. Don’t argue, I know you haven’t eaten, Glowstick.”

When Danny asked, the man had shrugged and said, “Well, since you won’t tell me more about what a Fetch is I’m gonna take the name seriously. So, you know,” and handed him a list, “go fetch.”

For all that he was a Crime Lord that did Crime Lord things, there was also quite a bit of mundane managerial tasks he had to do to keep everything running. And he was so meticulous about it all. Danny would often watch him in awe, hovering over his shoulder as he ran calculations and mapped out routes. Patrol routes that would cover the most vulnerable areas, delivery routes that would hit the most in need, drug running routes that would ensure the product stayed clean from the source to the buyer and cutting down anyone that messed with it. Red Hood had plans upon plans upon plans. Take out an uprising here, build a clean shelter for the houseless there, plant a communal garden, shoot one of Black Mask’s men in the kneecaps. Everything had a time and a place and was leading towards a safer city. Even if his methods were less than desirable.

Red Hood did bring him on more serious tasks, though. Ones that needed doing quickly and efficiently and viciously. Ones where mercy wasn’t likely and back-up was needed for stragglers. Red Hood never ordered him to take a life, never made him cross that line he was reluctant to cross. It wasn’t that Danny had any compunctions against killing, but he didn’t think he had the stomach for it himself. Didn’t think he could live with a death so directly on his conscious when so many were already piled there. He didn’t want to think about the ghosts that might come back to haunt him. He admired Red’s resolve all the more for it. He was ruthless but he was practical. He didn’t shy away from taking a life that didn’t deserve to keep living, but he spared all those that could reform.

Danny was always there as his shadow, as the menacing monster he kept on a leash. He was starting to earn a reputation in Gotham’s criminal underground. Red Hood’s loyal dog. Get too close and he might bite. (He’d only ever done that once, turning his mask intangible and lunging, his fangs sinking into reprehensible flesh. The woman had been beating a child. She lost her arm for it.)

He was also known, embarrassingly enough, as a sweetheart to the vulnerable. A mystery and most times scary and off-putting. But the girls still cooed whenever he came to their rescue, the elderly would pat his rebreather covered cheek, and the kids insisted on following him around (the braver ones even attempting to climb him like a tree). He didn’t know how to feel about it. Most of the time he popped out of invisibility rather than mingle. He was supposed to be a monster. Just a ghost haunting the city. In Amity the people had fled at the sight of him, screaming even as he saved them. They knew what he was, knew to treat him accordingly. But- the people here- they- It was different. He tried not to think about it too often.

Communication was something he was working on. Red Hood seemed to be the only one really able to puzzle out his game of charades, the others taking ages to guess what he meant or giving up after the first few tries. He rarely went anywhere by himself unless Red Hood specifically sent him out or it was an impromptu rescue, so it wasn’t often a problem if Red could translate. One of the kids had given him a whiteboard and a dry-erase marker at one point, making it so much easier. He kept them phased in his suit whenever he went out. One of the guys that ran with the girls had offered to teach him sign, but the lessons were slow-going and sporadic. He’d only had two in the past three weeks. But maybe someday he’d get there. He didn’t try to ‘speak’ much anyway. These past three weeks had been the first time in years anyone had even tried to talk to him. Most Amity Parkers had seen him and run and the ghosts he fought just tried to kill him.

Again, he tried not to think about it too much.

There wasn’t much else to do, though. He drifted through the halls of the apartment Red Hood had shoved him into, only occasionally using the couch for naps when gathering ectoplasm wasn’t enough to recharge, and it left his mind free to wander to dark places. Places he didn’t want to visit.

It felt odd. To inhabit a space meant for humans. To have a place to sleep and eat and live again. Red had come by a few times with ingredients and cooked for him in the empty kitchen, saying he didn’t care what Danny was- he needed to eat sometimes. Danny would obediently eat when the man was there, but the leftovers often went to rot. He felt bad about it. That was food that could go to someone else, someone who needed it more. But he could never bring himself to eat without company. It felt wrong. Ghosts didn’t eat. Didn’t need to eat. Often he would open the fridge and just stare. Stare at the food that was made for him, the food that he was allowed and encouraged to eat. It felt like too much and he’d shut the door.

He’d been drifting through the kitchen when the walkie-talkie Red used to talk to him from a distance with crackled to life. They’d tried regular burner phones, but something about Danny’s whole- being, didn’t agree with good signal. So after pouring a little bit of his own ectoplasm into the radio, the walkie-talkie seemed to be the only thing to work.

“You there, Fetcher?” Hood’s voice was extra staticky through his mask and the radio, but at least he didn’t seem hurried or in pain. Starting a mission or patrol instead of in the middle of one, then. Danny really didn’t like it when Hood called on him because he was injured, hated seeing the man in pain like that even as he felt honored to be trusted.

Three taps against the speaker. Yes.

Danny couldn’t exactly talk into the radio and without working burner phones he couldn’t text. So they had a system of taps that Hood could hear instead. Three for yes, four for no. Two taps for help, and five for false alarm.

“Good. We got some fuckers trying to take back territory for Black Mask. Need you to help me scare ‘em shitless.”

Three taps. Pause. Three more. Hell yes.

“Good boy,” and damn if that didn’t give him a highly inappropriate shiver. “Meet me on the roof and we’ll plan our ambush from there.”

Well, here’s hoping for a fun night of bashing heads and shooting out kneecaps.

*

Danny stumbled into the tiny bathroom of his apartment, clutching his stomach in a bid to stem the flow of toxic green blood, gloved fingers slick with the substance.

His free hand slammed down onto the sink counter for balance as he wobbled and he made the mistake of looking up. Looking up into the mirror.

He never looked at his reflection. Hated the sight of it. The reminder that he was no longer human. Would never be human again. The thing that gazed back at him from the surface of the mirror was a monster. With the lights off in the bathroom it was extra eerie. Black hooded figure blending into the shadows, nothing standing out except for the pinpricks of glowing green eyes- reflecting like tapeta lucidum from under his tinted visor. The outline of his breathing apparatus just barely there, like the maw of a beast just barely in view. The only other source of light was the glow of the blood dripping through his white gloved hand.

He turned from his reflection with disgust and tumbled into the bathtub, hoping to rest and soak in whatever ectoplasm he lost. Here he could just- lay down and also not make a mess. He’d hate to have Red Hood flambe another couch because of him.

He hadn’t meant to get shot. Honest. He’d gone intangible, he knew he did. The bullet should have never hit his abdomen. It should never have caused as much damage as it was currently doing. He was bleeding so much… Man he really hoped Hood didn’t show up while he was trying to heal in the bathtub. He didn’t need to face the man while delirious with blood loss again. The first time was embarrassing enough, he didn’t want a second.

The wound was healing so slowly… There was something about that bullet. About that gun. Something wasn’t adding up here.

It was like he’d been hit with one of his parent’s inventions all over again.

Black Mask wouldn’t deal in ectoplasm, would he? What use would he have for it? He’d heard something about a kryptonite shipment that Hood was planning to ambush, so maybe the rarity? It was from another dimension after all. Didn’t matter that the place where Amity used to be was still crawling with it and so was Gotham. It wasn’t easily harvestable for humans. The GIW or his parents might be the only ones with a good supply, and even then they couldn’t control what type it was. For weapons it might be useful, if it was combative ecto. Some people had adverse reactions; tingling, numbing, temporary paralysis. If you were a ghost or ghost adjacent it was worse. So much worse.

In the beginning, most Amity Parkers were fine if they got hit by a blaster, just annoyed and covered in goo. But as time went on and more and more people were exposed, more and more of them started becoming susceptible to the many uses ectoplasm could have. Good to use for healing with the regenerative ecto but also more likely to be hit by a stray blast of combative ecto and not come back up. His high school classmates had been particularly vulnerable, having been infected multiple times directly. The combative type would take them down and then the healing type would bring them right back up. It could take time, though, if you were human- time some of his classmates hadn’t had enough of.

They’d lost a lot of people before they realized they had to be more careful with their shots. Before they realized that the thing that was killing them could also bring them back. Stupid. It’d all been so stupid. It had taken so, so many times of him trying to frantically heal everyone hit before his parents arrived to shoot him indiscriminately, before anyone realized he was trying to help them. And even then they hadn’t trusted him. It was one of the last things he did before giving up on being human. The last time he’d pretended to be alive, just to sneak into his parent’s lab and leave them a sample of regenerative ectoplasm and a theory written in his dad’s handwriting.

It didn’t matter how careful his parents pretended to be with it- the suits, the breathing apparatuses, the heavy gloves and protective eye-wear- they still slung it around in the name of taking down evil ghosts. Shots firing every which way- hitting people and poisoning the land around them. Whatever got the ghost. Whatever “saved the day”. It’s not like it actually hurt anyone, right?

Ectoplasm was a funny thing. It’s what ghosts were made of. What they fought with. What they ate and used to heal. What the lairs they inhabited were made of. Goo but with feelings. Multipurpose soul juice. The thing that he was losing a lot of…

Man, he was starting to feel a bit dizzy. He sure hoped the wound would start to heal itself soon, before he fainted and couldn’t do anything about it… Would be a silly way to fully go out. Bleeding out in a bathtub.

Oh, his vision was going black.

Well, it was no worse than the first time he died…

*

He could remember the initial disappointment the most. How his parents had deflated so completely when the culmination of decades of work had failed them at the most pivotal point. He remembered the uncertainty- they could live off the patents, yes, but the prints weren’t exactly bought all that often and they mostly got by on the grant money. And if the grant money was gone because none of their inventions or theories or anything ever worked- then how would they survive? He remembered the despair. He remembered the relief he felt when the portal didn’t work at first. Maybe without the portal in the way his parents would pay more attention to him, spend more time with him. And then the guilt hit because his parents just looked so sad. He remembered the discomfort, the whole family dressed in their restrictive HazMat suits. He remembered how suffocating the SCBA felt to breathe in and how hard it was to move in. How hot it’d been. He remembered his parents ushering them all back to the entrance to dress down in heavy silence.

He remembered his parents going back to the drawing board, however dejectedly, and learning to resent the portal all the more for it.

And then Sam had presented him with a challenge. A dare. Goading him into exploring the portal on his own. To look into the maw of the monster and place himself between its teeth. This was a mystery in need of exploring and Danny was the only one that could do it.

They’d huddled together, the three of them, at the entrance to the lab. Sam eager, Tucker reluctant, and Danny… Danny had been scared. They’d snuck in after his parents had left, and they’d been alone in the lab when they really, really shouldn’t have.

Uneasy, he had donned the HazMat suit once again. Piece by piece. White with black trim. Specifically designed by his parents to deal with non-vapor ectoplasm. Not that they’d seemed to ever encounter it. He had prepped all his pieces, made sure his tank was full of oxygen. Checked for cracks and tears. His hands had shaken the entire time. He had pulled the mask over his face, pulled the overalls over his jeans and clipped them into place. He had snapped the nitrile gloves on, tearing one in the process and having to get another. He had then stopped to watch his hands flex under the black material, trying to put off the inevitable. The hooded coverall had come next, slipping his socked feet into the strange material of the white suit. His socks had been mismatched- one red and one blue. Then the black boots with steel toes and shanks. Then the outer gloves. Then the tape to seal it all in. To seal him in his tomb. And lastly he had shrugged on the tank and connected it to his mask and turned the oxygen on. And with heavy, heavy feet, he’d made his way into the lab proper. To the dreaded portal.

He could remember the chill he’d felt, before he’d even stepped near. Remembered the sense of impending doom. He’d taken one last look back at his friends, taking in the hesitant thumbs up from Tucker and the happy shooing motion from Sam. She’d thought it all so cool. Thought that trying to study ghosts, trying to punch a hole in their dimension to do it, was all just fascinating. After though… After she couldn’t even think about ghosts without paling, without running. Running from him.

He’d seen the pale imitation of a reflection in the glass that sectioned off the entrance from the lab proper, face unrecognizable behind his mask and gaping hole of darkness set behind him. Translucent like he was already a ghost. He’d pulled the small flashlight his suit had within its pockets and had shone it into the abyss, a small slice of light piercing the sticky shadows. He’d felt the livewire energy hum beneath his feet when he’d stepped inside, but did not heed the warning. It was just wires and metal plating. Nothing more and nothing less. It was another of his parent’s failed inventions. He’d thought nothing more of it before diving further in.

The cables. The cables that his parents- his mother more- had been adamant about keeping tied away and neatly stored within the machine itself had been strewn about. A result of his father’s frustrated tinkering in the aftermath. And what had it mattered to him that he hadn’t placed them back where they should have gone? His prized invention was moot, anyway. There was no harm in leaving a mess when the mess was inert. When nothing was likely to happen anyway.

But Danny hadn’t seen them. His pen light had been facing above, checking the upper pallet of the monster he had climbed inside. Checking for teeth. And then he’d tripped. And he’d felt fear like he’d never felt before. Heart-stopping. He’d faintly heard the grumbling roar of a hungry beast, felt the eagerness like it’d been palpable around him. And his hand had landed on a button that shouldn’t have been there. The secondary on switch that had been forgotten about. Until that moment.

And after that it was nothing but pain. Burning, scorching, tearing. Fire and shock and blinding white pain like he’d never experienced in his life before. Like he was melting and being ripped to shreds at the same time.

And all he remembered was screaming and screaming and screaming until sound ceased to exist. And there had been nothing but green and green and green until color lost all meaning. He remembered feeling like a puppet cut from its strings, like a small prey animal dropped from the maw of the wolf- bitten and chewed and half-dead but spit to the ground all the same.

Anything that had immediately happened after his half-death was a blur. Stumbling out of the portal feeling wrong. Not even noticing that he was completely alone in the lab. That Sam and Tucker had fled with the flash and the screaming. He barely remembered doffing his gear, completely haphazardly and with no regard to the burnt and melting pieces. Collapsing on the bench and blacking out until he was being shaken awake by his sister. Jazz had been crying, taking in the lichtenburg scar that was less lighting through his veins as more burns across his skin in the same pattern. She’d been desperately shaking him awake. He remembered looking over and seeing his parents watching the swirling green of the functioning portal with gleeful awe. His mother turning with a question on her lips before it all morphed into concern. He remembered his mother and father being so worried about him as they had loaded him up into an ambulance. But he’d also remembered that the portal had come first. That the portal had always come first.

Scratchy sheets and thin blankets. Bland jello and plain broth as his vocal chords healed from being shredded by his screaming. Burn cream and bandages. Stress tests and neurological checks. Can you squeeze my hands? Breathe deep for me. Look into this light. Can you raise your arms? Twitching nerves and bradycardia. Hands that would shake under stress and a temperature permanently low- no matter what they did to raise it. All he’d ever felt was suffocated. Overheated. Drowning.

Low, low, low. Everything had been low. Dangerously. Blood pressure check. Low. Alarmed Nurses and Doctors, checking and rechecking. Adjusting the cuff, moving the cuff, using a manual cuff. Low, lower, lowest. Heart rate check. Too low. Too, too low. Stand up. Sit down. Walk. Move. Please, please move. And it would get higher, just a little bit. Acceptable. But not for having just been forced to jog. Respiration check. Slow, slower, slowest. Breathing any faster had made him feel like he was going to panic. Temperature check. Freezing. Frigid. Too low, again and again. He’d never felt so cold in his life. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

But his heart was still beating, however slow. His lungs were still expanding, however infrequent. He was still alive. Mostly. Probably. Right?

Sam and Tuck never visited. He hadn't known then if he'd wanted them to. He didn't want them to see him like this. He didn't want them to see him at all. They'd left. They'd goaded him into poking the bear and then left him to be mauled on his own when it woke. They hadn't even checked to see if it'd killed him or not. But they were still his friends. His best friends. The people he thought he could trust with his life. In the end, he just hadn't known what to feel about it. 

And then the changes began.

It didn’t happen until he’d been released from the hospital. Cleared only after meeting with every specialist under the sun and getting hesitant approval for outpatient care. Talks of pacemakers, burn treatments, and invasive surgeries in his future. And then he fell through his bed.

Not out of. Not on top of. Through.

He’d woken up in a panic underneath his bed- and holy shit had it been rank under there, he really needed to clean more- in the dark and in the dust, not knowing what had happened. He’d crawled out from under it and flopped back onto his bedspread, heedless of whatever grossness he’d dragged with him. He’d been too tired to think about why he’d woken up under the bed, but in the morning- bed sheets covered in dust- it had been harder to forget. But there had been no answers, not then. Nothing to even guess at, nothing at all to tell him that he hadn’t just died in that accident, but had become something else, something other. He hadn't just woken up under his bed, he had become the monster under it. Inhuman.

He’d woken up a different day, feeling heavy and like it was hard to breathe. He’d felt disoriented and out of sorts. Then he’d seen his hands. Covered in gloves. White, rubbery, chemical-resistant gloves. And with dawning horror he’d looked down and seen those heavy white steel-toed boots. And the bunched black material of a hazmat suit. The colors were wrong- he was wrong. But it was the same suit. The same one he’d almost died in. And suddenly he’d realized that maybe that almost wasn’t as almost as he’d first thought. That there hadn’t been an almost at all, just death. Just. Death.

And then he’d spiraled. Had he been pretending this whole time? Convinced himself and everyone else he was alive when he’d really been a wolf in sheep’s clothing? A monster just waiting to tear off the thin veneer of life he’d disguised himself with?

And then there had been a knock on his door and the surprise of the sound had shocked him into reverting back to human form. And from there the process had been slow and painful, but he’d learned. Learned of the word Halfa, the term Fetch, and what it meant for him. Learned how to fight, quick and dirty, in order to prevent himself and the rest of his town from becoming full ghosts. Learned that despite his heroics, deep down, he was still a monster. Other. He’d never been exactly normal, not with parents like his, but now it felt impossible to be comfortable in his own skin. Unsettling. Disturbing. Nightmarish. A creepy little boy with creepy little powers. It was all he’d become and all he’d ever be. Didn’t matter how cool the powers were on the surface, how much he distracted himself from the truth by playing with them. He’d still had to deal with the fact that he was no longer human. Not fully. And no one knew. Nobody would ever know. He’d seen to that.

Not that it mattered now. Not with everybody gone. Long gone. And it was all his fault.

*

“Son of a bitch,” came the familiar static of Red Hood’s voice, rousing Danny from his dazed state. “Don’t you fucking die on me you limp noodle!”

Danny wanted to groan. He could feel bandages tightening around his midsection, hands- shaking hands?- winding the fabric around a tender bullet hole, parts of his suit cut off and leaving his skin vulnerable to the air when it so rarely was.

No. Danny clumsily signed. It was one of the few things he could sign, along with- Good.

“No,” Red said angrily, “you are not good. I had to fish a bullet out of you, Fetcher!”

He sounded distressed. Or maybe that was just Danny still delirious from blood loss. Again. He really needed to stop doing that. He let out a calming trill, hoping that would get the man to relax and stop yelling. It did not.

“Don’t you make stupid noises at me, Jellyfish,” he reprimanded, voice terse. He was close, so very close, hands still busy wrapping up Danny’s abdomen. Red’s body loomed over his, crammed into the tiny space of the tub. He could see the tweezers and saline and suspiciously green bullet still sitting on the lid of the toilet next to them. “You’re a fucking dumbass coming back here and just laying in your stupid toxic blood. What were you planning to do? Marinate? Idiot.”

He wanted to protest. He signed another No. And even tapped out four taps for a No he would use for the walkie-talkie for good measure. He hadn’t exactly planned to keep bleeding into the bathtub, alright? How was he supposed to know the bullet would stay lodged in there? I mean, sure, he could have made an educated guess before passing out, but still.

“What kind of guy that can density-shift gets shot in the first place, anyway?”

Danny rolled his eyes and smacked Hood’s shoulder for that. Not his fault the bullets were phase-proof when they shouldn’t have been.

“Don’t you smack me when I’m trying to save your life,” he grumbled, tying off the wrapping and sitting up. “Asshole.”

Red crossed his arms and glared down at Danny, his bulk almost blocking out the light above them. His knees caged in Danny’s hips and they were awfully, awfully close. Damned blood loss again.

He sighed without making sound, his shoulders rising even as he felt a twinge from his would pulling. With the bullet out he’d start healing in no time. Not that Red knew that. He patted Hood’s thigh in reassurance and immediately regretted it. What the hell kind of juicy-ass thighs did this man have? What the fuck. He needed to focus, dammit.

He motioned with the other hand for something to write with, scribbling in the air.

“Don’t you carry a whiteboard?” Red asked flatly.

Danny pointed to the wrappings around his wound. He kept the whiteboard and marker in his chest. He couldn’t phase that out right now if he tried. He couldn’t phase anything right now. He was surprised to find that he was even still in his phantom form, probably thanks to Hood’s interference, otherwise his core would have retreated into itself and used all other available ectoplasm to heal while in “human” form.

Red shook his head and climbed out of the tub. “Alright, alright, jellyfish. H-up we go.”

How many times was Danny just going to be casually scooped up by this guy and carried like a princess? Twice was already too many to keep his dignity intact. Once again he was plopped onto the couch and left as Red rooted around for something to write with. Deja vu, much?

He came back with a legal pad and a purple crayon. Why crayons? Always crayons?

“Explain,” he demanded, handing off the utensils.

Danny grabbed a cushion and used it as a makeshift table of sorts to balance the legal pad on and began writing. At least this time he could use his hands properly. Even if they were shaky from the anemia.

Bullets didn’t pass through like they should have. Something is wrong. They shouldn’t be like that. Coated in something Black Mask shouldn’t have access to.

He flipped the pad around, Red grabbing the edge to keep it steady as he read.

“Well, kid,” he said, slowly. “Looks like you’re fucked.”

Danny flipped him off. Not helpful, Red.

“Any idea what this substance is that our number one enemy shouldn’t have?” he asked, settling down to sit on the flimsy coffee table right beside the couch. Danny was surprised it could hold his weight.

The question made him pause, though. Did he tell Red Hood about ectoplasm? Risk the man finding out more about what, exactly, kind of monster he insisted on harboring in his territory? Risk his only ally ratting him out to the GIW?

He kept silent, hesitant. He trusted Red. He did. But not that much, not yet. If it became a bigger problem, became a problem that was going to hurt others, then he’d confess. But for now he shook his head, hoping Red would take his silence as contemplative instead of edgy.

(The incident with the knife that had left Red Hood himself paralyzed with a dangerously growing weakness, was far from his mind. He hadn’t seen the green sheen to the knife that cut the man. Had no reason to know that combative ectoplasm would have such harsh repercussions for him. The consequences of this were yet unknown.)

Hood hummed and Danny couldn’t tell if it was because he believed him or not but mercifully the man moved on. Unmercifully, Danny did not like the change in subject.

“You need more hand-to-hand if your powers are going to be useless. You rely on them too much as it is.”

Danny ripped a page from the legal pad and threw it at him. He knew how to fight just fine, thanks! Sure he’d learned it all on the fly, but still! He could brawl!

Red snickered as he caught the paper and threw it back. “Non-negotiable, glowstick. I’m kicking your ass for almost dying on me tonight.”

Danny threw his hands up, exasperated. He hadn’t almost died! He’d have been fine! Probably. Maybe not. But still! No ass kicking required! He crossed his arms and tried to project the feeling of a pout. Maybe he could puppy-dog eye his way out of this. Red Hood was built like a tank and if he was the one that was going to teach Danny how to properly fight, then no thank you. He may be okay with the thought of dying by those thighs, but he’d rather not be bruised all to hell first. He also didn’t want to loose any more dignity and he was sure that sparring with Red would take all he had left.

“Nope,” Hood said cheerfully, ignoring Danny’s silent protests as he moved toward the kitchen and rummaged around Danny’s fridge. “No amount of sparkly-eyed looks will get you out of this, lava lamp. I’m talking to Sandra in the morning and setting up a time in the dojo for us and that’s final.”

Danny waved his hand in a flopping motion, resigned. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. Woe be unto him and all that. Death by Hood punches it was.

“Why do you not have anything in this fucking fridge ever,” he heard Hood mutter, along with clinks and bangs as he moved about. “I swear to Batman’s furry ass if you haven’t eaten since Friday you’ll be wishing I killed you earlier tomorrow.”

Batman’s furry ass?! Tomorrow?!

“Don’t act surprised,” he rebuffed, voice still distracted as he dug through cabinets and gathered any and all cookware that was only there because Red brought it in the first place. “If you insist you’re fine I’m gonna treat you that way. I know you have accelerated healing.”

Danny slapped the couch cushions so Red Hood would properly hear his protests. Ancients, he really was going to die. Hood was going to kill him. Kill him good and dead. He was not long for this world. Goodbye, all, there wasn’t anything good keeping him here anyhow.

“Well, shit, at least you got cheese and bread. Somehow. How have neither of these gone bad already?”

Ooh, does that mean grilled cheese is on the menu? Suddenly he found his will to live.

He popped up from behind the couch like a meerkat looking towards the kitchen, excited at the possibility of cheesy-bready goodness. The only thing missing was tomato soup, but he knew he didn’t have that in his cabinets.

Hood leveled a threatening spatula at him as he turned to face the living room. “You. Get back down. Losers who bleed out because they agitated wounds don’t get the good stuff.”

Danny huffed and fell back into the couch. Spoilsport. It’s not like it even hurt anymore. He was fine. Would be fine. Probably.

Oh man, he was really gonna hate tomorrow. But tonight- grilled cheese and witty banter would heal his heart and soul. And probably also the ectoplasm. But, the power of Red Hood’s grilled cheese was not to be underestimated.

Chapter Text

Fetcher, somehow, had in fact mostly healed by the afternoon and was listlessly dragging his feet as they made their way to the dingy little dojo Lady Shiva kept hidden away near the Narrows. Jason still planned to take it easy on him but he wasn’t about to let the other know that. Let him dread the training, Glowstick deserved it for scaring Jason shitless when he found the kid passed out in a pool of toxic green in the bathtub. He’d noticed the small specks of blood leading away from the fight just a little too late. He’d been too busy tying up loose ends and he’d been terrified at the thought that he wouldn’t get there in time. Not that he cared about the stupid jellyfish or anything. He was just a convenient tool.

(He was lying to himself and he knew it, but it was something he did not have the time to acknowledge.)

Sandra had been willing to let him use the dojo when he called, but only on the condition that she meet the person he was training. To asses them. Jason agreed but it made him nervous. He hoped that she would just dismiss him. It’s not like Fetcher really had much fighting spirit, or inherent skill. He was scrappy, like Jason had once been. Learned to fight in the moment, off the streets. Got better out of necessity. Sandra didn’t really have a mind to train those she thought unworthy- it was a waste of her time. Jason just hoped she’d dismiss him and move on, letting him train the kid without worrying she’d come back and challenge him to a fight to the death. He also didn’t want her reporting anything back to Ra’s, which was part of the negotiation to use the dojo. No telling the League anything about Fetcher. She’d been even more intrigued by that and it made him nervous, but ever since he’d bested her with a single chop to the neck, she’d respect his wishes. He still didn’t really want The Lady Shiva getting anywhere near Fetcher but her dojo would be the best place for them to train privately and freely without wrecking shit.

Last thing he needed was for anyone to see Fetcher throw him through a wall with his super strength on accident. He had a reputation.

He wondered, often, what a Fetch really was because Jellyfish sure had a shitton of powers that didn’t make any fucking sense. Invisibility, density-shifting, strength, night-vision, accelerated healing, weird chirping noises, super-hearing (he wasn’t sure on that one, but it’s not like he could ask), and the ability to hover. He couldn’t fly, as far as Jason could tell, but he could hover in the air like he just chose to let go of gravity. He could get places pretty fast that way too, floating about buildings while Jason grappled and roof hopped. Strange as hell. 

He didn’t press, though. He knew a thing or two about keeping secrets and he wasn’t about to force one out of a kid that was doing it out of self-defense. Fetcher didn’t have a malicious bone in his body- Jason would extend to him just this little bit of trust. (That time he’d seen the guy rip someone’s arm off for trying to stab a kid didn’t count. Anyone with good sense would have done that.)

He was all dressed up in full Red Hood gear, doing a small ground patrol with Fetch along the way. Might as well get a look at the state of the streets before beating the shit out of each other. He’d do a full patrol in the night after. He didn’t have any plans that needed direct oversight tonight so he could be a little leisurely with his run.

The sun was setting, dusk rolling in with golden rays straining to be seen through the omnipresent fog. The sidewalk was cracked and covered in trash, bullet holes, and suspicious stains. The buildings around them were grungy and gray and one strong wind away from falling apart. If he looked close enough he could see people, broken and wary, huddling within dark homes or darker alleyways. The sounds of the city drifted down to them like they were far away and muffled. Like the life and hubbub of city-living didn’t touch these streets, the dirty underbelly to a dirty underbelly of a city. Like nothing dared to move in these parts, still and watching, always watching. These were Red Hood’s streets and he would see them change.

Lists and plans and calculations spun through his head as they walked (and hovered, lazy ass) toward their destination. Soon they would be filled with life like they’d never seen before. They would be safe. They would be clean. They would be happy. Materials to fix the sidewalks. A committee to clean up the trash and keep it clean. A crew to restore the buildings and create stable, affordable housing. Programs to fill the housing with the houseless- to give them clean homes, clean clothes, and good food. The sun did not shine in these parts of Gotham, but he would bring the light to them regardless.

They stopped on the edge just before the Narrows and ducked down a strip of alleyway that could barely be called that. Jason’s shoulders scraped the building on either side. They made it to a nondescript door that nearly blended into the bricks around them. He knocked in a rhythmic pattern and the door slid to the side, revealing Sandra in all her Lady Shiva glory. He could almost feel Fetcher’s curiosity and fear spike behind him.

“Lady Shiva,” he greeted, since it seemed she wanted to play dress up with the rest of them today.

“Red Hood,” she greeted back, voice flat and expression drawn. Like she didn’t want to be here even though she was the one that insisted. “Dog,” she said, looking over Jason’s shoulder where he knew Fetcher was hovering.

He could feel the guy reel back in offense and he had to stifle a snicker. He knew the kid hated the reputation he’d been given by the guys on the street, that had apparently spread enough for Sandra to get wind of it. Red Hood’s loyal dog. His fault for choosing a name like Fetcher and biting people, honestly.

Fetcher heaved a silent sigh and melted onto Jason’s shoulder, resigned, before giving Sandra a little wave. There, now they’d all introduced themselves and Sandra could just- leave. Preferably.

She did not.

“In,” she commanded, stepping into the dark behind her and beckoning them to follow.

They were on the landing of a very thin and narrow staircase that traveled down deep into the dark. Fetcher shut the door behind them and they heard an automatic click as it locked. The three of them ventured down into the depths with nothing but the eerie glow that Fetch constantly had surrounding him lighting the way.

They came to another door, a sliding one with paper panels. Or at least, that’s what it looked like at first until you noticed the metallic sheen to the white panels. Shiva pressed a hand to a pad next to the door, which is when Jason noticed the claw rings over her nails- a strange addition as Shiva usually favored swords and knives if she was going to use a weapon- deadly sharp and with an odd green sheen. Always fucking green. The door slid open with a pneumatic hiss. Alright. Here’s hoping she didn’t just lock them in there. Though, Fetcher could probably just shift out of there if they needed. Man, having a guy with powers on his side was fucking sweet. Batman didn’t know what he was missing, the ass.

The dojo they entered was spacious and empty and brightly lit. Plenty of room for them to throw each other around without consequence.

Sandra walked to the side, pressing a small button that turned an entire wall reflective, like a mirror.

“I want,” she said, circling him and Fetcher like a hawk, “to see every angle. I must see everything to know if you are worthy.”

Fetcher tilted his head to the side. A question. He’d told the other a little about what would be happening here, but not the full “she might challenge you to a deathmatch” bit. Still, he knew to be wary of Shiva and that’s what mattered.

“Move,” she told Jason and he sighed before stepping away and leaving Fetcher to her mercy. It felt wrong to do so. Like a betrayal. He shook the feeling off. Everything would be fine.

Shiva circled again, ready to strike at a moments notice. Fetcher looked tense and guarded, glowing eyes watching her every move. The room was quiet, unsettlingly so. Shiva made no sound when she walked and Fetcher didn’t even look like he was breathing. Jason got the feeling he was watching two predators face off. But that couldn’t be right because Fetcher might be vicious sometimes but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Shiva pounced first, practically growling as she fell through Fetcher when he turned intangible. Jason felt like he could sense a sharp amusement from the other as he turned and ducked another blow from Shiva. He turned invisible but Shiva's gaze still seemed to track him, striking with a kick the moment he became visible again. It landed, right where his bullet wound had just healed, making Fetch curl over himself. 

"Weak," she hissed, arm snapping out but only passing through Fetcher's head. 

Jason shuffled on his feet, uncomfortable. That would have been a killing blow if Fetch hadn't density-shifted in time. But he had shifted in time. It was fine. Everything was fine. 

Fetcher lunged to throw a punch but his aim was off, his fist going past Shiva's head as she easily dodged and grabbed his arm, pulling it with a sharp tug to bring it behind his back- her other hand, the one with the claws, readying to strike at his neck. Another move that could kill him. 

Jason clenched his fists and forced himself to stay still. Fetch twisted out of the hold, almost looking like he was melting.

It didn’t last long, however, as the Lady caught him off guard and took him down before he could let her phase through him, keeping him trapped on the floor so quickly he couldn’t react. She had a hand poised above his chest, the sharp claws on her nails pulled together to a point, ready to strike with deadly force.

“You rely too much on your power,” she spat before thrusting the hand down.

Jason choked on a shout, stepping forward to stop her even though he’d never make it in time. 

Her nails sunk into his chest like it was made of goo. And Jason might have thought this was just another handy use of intangibility if it weren’t for the sudden convulsions from the other. Shiva bent down and whispered something in Fetcher’s ear before releasing him just as Jason roughly shoved her off.

“He’s here to learn,” he yelled, crouching over the kid as his convulsions stopped and he looked to be panting. Good. At least he was still breathing. “You weren’t supposed to touch him!”

Shiva sneered. “He doesn’t deserve my space. My time. He’s worthless.”

“It’s not up to you what he’s worth,” he hissed, pulling a gun from his holster. “I earned the right to use your dojo as I please after defeating your arrogant ass. Leave.”

He should have done this from the beginning. Should have never let her negotiate. Never let her anywhere near his- (he hesitated to say friend, even within his own mind, but the sentiment was there). Fetcher was hurt before this and was likely injured even more now. He clenched his hand around the gun, toying with the safety. He wanted to kill her for touching what was his. He’d hoped to keep a somewhat cordial relationship with Shiva, hence the agreement in the first place. But now all he wanted was her dead.

“You managed a lucky hit,” she spat, glaring daggers even as she moved back toward the door. “Your replacement does better than you.”

He fired before he even had time to think, bullet embedding into the brick wall behind the spot Sandra’s head had been a few seconds earlier. She gave him an unimpressed look and backed further toward the stairs.

A shaking hand patting his calf brought him out of his rage, but only just. He looked down to find Fetcher giving him an unreadable look before patting his calf again and giving a wobbly thumbs-up.

His distraction gave Shiva the opportunity to escape. He sighed and holstered his gun again. He crouched until he was closer to Fetcher and looked him over with a critical eye. He looked a little worse for wear but not too terrible all things considered. He was shaking just slightly still, but he didn’t look to be in pain.

“You good, jellyfish?” he asked, watching as the shakes slowed until coming to a stop altogether. Fetcher took a deep breath and then nodded before hauling himself up. Jason followed.

“Whatever she did, she wasn’t supposed to,” he said, trying to soften his words even though it felt awkward in his mouth. 

Fetcher was rubbing at his chest, like it was tender, before waving a dismissive hand. Whatever she’d done he seemed to be shaking it off now. That took a weight off Jason’s shoulders at least.

Fetcher turned to Jason, eyes squinted in a playful smile. He gestured around the empty dojo before dropping into a fighting stance and beckoning Jason to do the same.

He snorted. “You know you aren’t allowed to use your powers here, right? You got shot because you couldn’t dodge once already.”

Fetcher rolled his eyes and repeated the beckoning motion.

Jason circled him instead. “How much mobility do you even have in that suit?”

Fetcher dropped the fighting stance and tilted his head to the side. Thoughtful. Then he shrugged and looked at Jason before doing a full body wiggle, as if to show him just how mobile he could be.

Good god he looked ridiculous. Jason had to suppress his laughter, trying harder than he had ever tried in a long, long time. He was silent as he reigned himself in before choking out, “Don’t ever do that again.”

Fetcher just tilted his head to the side in the opposite direction and stepped closer. And then wiggled- his arms going out to the side and his body shimmying like he was trying to dance like an inflatable tube man. The fact that he was- whatever the hell he was, made the motion slightly more fluid, like he was made of jello. What the fuck.

Jason pulled in a deep breath, still refusing to laugh. He would not give in to this little shit. He could never know. “Fucking. Stop that.”

He stepped closer and Jason stood his ground, refusing to back away even as the other got right up in his face. And fucking wiggled.

Jason caught him by surprise with a headlock and flipped him over his shoulder. He heard the satisfying thumb of the other’s body making contact with the floor and subsequent wheeze of air being knocked out of his lungs. Good.

“Back to my original question,” he ground out, looming over Fetch and placing a boot against his chest. He didn’t press down but he wasn’t about to let the other up at the moment. “Can you fight in the suit. Properly? Do you get overheated? Do you even have anything else or are you stuck in that? I’ve never seen you without it and you’ve never asked for a change of clothes.”

Fetcher blinked up at him slowly. Gathering his thoughts. He was quiet for a while, the air around him melancholic for some reason. Eventually he gave a weak shrug, not looking Jason in the eye and instead staring up at the ceiling and laying limp against the floor.

Jason nudged him with his boot. “Strip.”

He got a bewildered look in return and a hand gesture as if to say, what the fuck?

“You heard me,” he said, moving to the side and hauling the other up under the arms like a kitten before setting him on his feet. “Strip.”

Again with the blank stare. Jason rolled his eyes, moving his head with the motion to really emphasize the point through the helmet. “You don’t know if you can take off the suit, so try. If things go horribly wrong for some reason, then stop.”

Fetcher held his hands on his hips before raising one, palm up, and giving Jason a flat stare. Why? he seemed to say. He put his hands up in fists and waved them like he was boxing before resuming the questioning stance. We’re here to train, why bother with whatever this is?

“What happens if you get shot again and I need to asses the wound but we don’t know what taking the suit off would do to you? What if your suit is getting in the way of a fight? Edges getting snagged or the tank getting in the way? What happens if something interferes with your suit and you need to get rid of it quick?”

Fetcher’s shoulders dropped and he waved his hand to stop Jason. Alright, alright. You made your point.

The room was still, bright lights and shiny flooring creating a harsh glare and emphasizing just how large and empty the room was. Jason waited patiently as Fetcher seemed to gather himself, hesitant and thinking deeply about his options.

There was something sad about him, something scared. But Jason didn't back down from the demand, he really did need to know what would happen if something happened to the hazmat suit the other wore. It’d been bad enough fishing that bullet out of his abdomen, if he needed to rip the suit he wanted to know he could do it safely. If there was any merit in what the Bat Bastard had taught him, it was that paranoia was always worth it in the end. He didn’t know anything about Fetcher’s deal, and it seemed Fetcher didn’t either. He wondered about that. He could be some type of alien for all he knew, but it didn’t feel like that. The kid didn’t seem like he was always a Fetch, like he wasn’t born as he was now. He had the same air as some of the rogues or even other heroes he used to work with. Those that came into their powers and had to learn through trial and error, those that felt tortured by their powers. Cursed instead of blessed.

The other stayed on edge but eventually gave a small nod in assent. Good.

He gestured to the wall that had turned into mirrors and then made a wave as if to turn them off. Jason shrugged and meandered over to the panel Shiva had used earlier, finding the button and deactivating the reflective surface.

He wondered if Fetcher was afraid of seeing his own reflection and what that said about his mental state. Not that Jason was one to talk, but the thought was still there. He had so many questions he wanted to ask, but refused to ask them to break their unspoken agreement not to pry into each other’s business. Fetcher hadn’t once asked why he was doing what he did or anything else about his shitty backstory. Jason could extend the same courtesy. (How inhuman was he under that suit? Had he been human before? What caused it all? Why had he been running and why did he not have anywhere to go? Why had he ended on top of Jason’s empty grave? What in the hell had he been doing that he never took off his hazmat suit?) He leaned back against the wall and waited.

Jason watched Fetcher and Fetcher watched Jason. Neither made a move. The small green lights that he assumed were Fetcher’s eyes slid to the side and the moment was broken. Anticipation still laced the air as Fetcher turned his back and slid off the first glove, breaking the tape that sealed him into his suit. They kept their distance and their silence as the zipper of the suit came down and the hood and breathing apparatus were unlatched and removed.

They both paused, waiting for a reaction. Would he spontaneously combust without the suit? Why had he never bothered to take it off? How long had he been stuck in there? When nothing happened Fetcher’s shoulders sagged and he continued on with his impromptu strip show.

He looked… surprisingly human.

His hair was white. It was white and glowing. It hovered over his back, weightless and ethereal. It had jagged chunks like it had been sawed at and then grown out. It looked like it was made of fog and he couldn’t help but think it beautiful.

The skin of his shoulders was pale. Deathly pale and white, with deep black delicate veins visible in tangled trails. His left shoulder was covered in black marks that branched out in fern-like feathering patterns. They looked familiar but Jason couldn’t place from where. The lights of the dojo caught them as Fetcher continued to strip down and he could see a faint red glow in the center, like the dying embers of a fire still burning. He had to stop himself from asking.

His gaze caught the slide of the suit as it fell from slim jean-clad thighs. Jeans that hugged curves he didn’t know Fetcher could have. They looked like any pair of jeans the average guy might wear, something more lived in and comfortable, with small rips and tears from age. The other slid his feet from the boots and stepped out of the remains of the suit. He had mismatched socks and some part of Jason was struck by that- adorable.

The lithe muscle of his back, what could been seen underneath the black tank-top he wore, tensed and bunched as he reached up to remove his mask and goggles. He placed them with his suit and refused to turn around even as he took off his second set of gloves and stood still.

Jason lifted off the wall and stalked closer, watching the other repress a shudder at his approach.

“We can’t spar with your back to me, you know,” he prodded, voice flat through the modulator.

He could see Fetcher gesture over his own face and then reach back and make the same gesture towards Jason.

“Mask for mask?” he asks.

He nodded, hair bobbing around him like it was underwater.

Jason had his domino on underneath and he knew Fetcher was putting a lot of trust in him by doffing all of his protective gear. Gear he knew the other hadn’t taken off in years. Fetcher wasn’t from Gotham, wasn’t a native that would have even a slim chance of recognizing him. Hell, he could face him without the domino and be fine. It’s not like he went anywhere as himself much anyway, and no one who knew him from- before- knew what he looked like as an adult. Who did the other have to tell, anyway? When he wasn’t with Red Hood he would wallow in an empty apartment until Jason called on him again. He knew that. Fetcher was loyal and couldn’t speak- and beyond anything… Jason felt like he could place some trust in him. Not much, granted, but a lot more than he placed in anyone else.

He sighed, the sound crackling unpleasantly through the helmet. He could see the other flinch but continued, poking at the mechanisms that kept his helmet on. “All’s fair, I suppose.”

Fetcher whipped around at the sound of his voice, free from the modulator, and both of them froze.

His skin was pale everywhere, his lips were blue and cracked. His eyes were a pale milky green, iris and pupil barely distinguishable from the sclera. The burning black marks from his left shoulder traveled up his collarbone and neck and unraveled delicately below his jaw. He looked… young. Younger than Jason, even though he was really a year older. And he glowed. It was- almost angelic in a way. Jason had never been more desperate to know how his voice sounded than in that moment.

Fetcher seemed to shake himself from his own thoughts and smiled, small and charming, and gave Jason a little wave as he walked closer.

Jason returned the smile with a vicious grin. “Ready for me to kick your ass, jellyfish?”

Fetcher’s smile sharpened and he dropped into a loose stance, hand reaching out in a taunting ‘bring it on’ motion.

Oh, now here came the fun part.

*

Fetcher was scrappy, Jason would give him that much.

His moves weren’t refined or thought out well, but they packed a punch when he wanted them to. He was shit at dodging, but why wouldn’t he be when he could usually just density-shift away from whatever was trying to hit him. Jason wouldn’t let him get away with that though. Black Mask, and Shiva somehow, for whatever reason, had weapons that could harm Fetcher regardless of his powers and by god was Jason gonna make sure the other could dodge them. He was not about to find the guy bleeding out for the third fucking time.

He batted an arm away and grabbed it in the same motion, pulling it behind Fetcher’s back and keeping him in place. He grabbed the other arm when it moved to swing at him as he wrapped another arm around Fetcher’s neck. He loomed over the shorter man with a smirk and propped his chin on his head, delighting in the cloud like wisps of hair around it.

“Ah, ah, jellyfish,” he sang, “you’ll have to do better than that.”

He let go when Fetcher reared back to donkey kick him in the shin. Kid was vicious.

Fetcher spun around- and he was fast, Jason acknowledged, but he projected his moves way too much. He could see the punch coming from a mile away and grabbed Fetcher’s fist before it could make contact- Jason’s own hand encasing the other’s much smaller hand. He grinned as the little glowstick growled at him and tried to pull his fist back, the strength of his wiry muscle just enough to tilt Jason forward, but not nearly enough to make him let go.

Fetcher, the clever little biohazard, used the tilt to kick up and nearly got Jason in the chin if he hadn’t let go and allowed the other to tumble to the ground. He didn’t expect the second kick though (he sure did like to try and kick the shit out of Jason) that had enough force behind it that it sent him stumbling down on top of the shorter man.

And then they were close- too close- and Jason could see every detail of Fetcher’s pale white face. The spidery-black veins hidden under soft white skin, the soft blue lips and long white eyelashes. The faintest hint of freckles dashed across a slightly crooked nose. And green, green eyes. Eyes that were narrowed in concentration and likely calculating the next move to heave off the giant hunk of muscle keeping him pinned. Jason grinned and it made Fetcher growl again, the sound rumbling in his chest and Jason could feel it.

The moment broke when Jason noticed his eyes flash. Flashed a brilliant blinding green.

Green like the Lazarus Pits. Green like the rage Jason could feel climb within him at moments that felt too close to loosing complete control. Green like death and pain and betrayal. Green like danger, danger, danger.

Green like his murderous gaze in the mirror.

The first thing he could remember was drowning. Choking on toxic green liquid that surrounded him on all fronts. It was in his mouth and nose, his eyes, his ears, it was in his throat and lungs. He remembered dying a thousand deaths, over and over. He remembered death and pain and betrayal and not-good-enough-never-good-enough and then black and cold and nothing. Then suffocating on green. Filling with desperation and a rage he could not place. Feverish and clawing at his throat. He remembered breaking air, gulping in oxygen in frantic pants. Remembered not recognizing anything thing around him. Remembered wanting his Dad and not finding a single trace of him. Remembered pain, pain, pain. And rage, rage, rage.

Jason reared back, jumping to his feet and placing a heavy boot back on Fetcher’s chest in a parody of their earlier more playful moment. This time he pressed down, hard, and watched as the other’s face fell into confusion and hurt. He batted at Jason’s calf but he didn’t relent. Couldn't.

“No more games,” he snapped, red hot rage burning under his skin and making his teeth clench. “No more dodging.”

He pressed down further, almost feeling Fetcher’s rib creak as he loomed over the traitor. The sneak. He watched as the other’s face morphed into white fear, eyes going green, green, greener. Good. He should be afraid. He couldn't believe how stupid and trusting he'd been. Naive in a way he couldn't afford to be anymore. He'd deliberately let the other get away with not answering his questions, not telling him the whole truth. And this is what he got. Of course this would happen, of course Ra's would manage to break him further even from a distance.

“Did Ra’s send you?” he spat. “Are you here to report back to your Master? To tell him it's not worth keeping me alive anymore? You here to stab me in the back before dragging me back to the League?”

Fetcher shook his head, fear and confusion clouding his eyes. Jason knew better though. Everything was far too convenient; the grave, the green, the threat from Lady Shiva. Was Ra's the one supplying Black Mask? Were Shiva's claws a way to reign in their dog? Had Jason thought he'd been holding the leash when it'd been Ra's the whole time? Monitoring and trying to regain control over the weapon Jason was meant to be. Had they been using Fetch the entire time? A spy. A bargaining chip. Another dog just like Jason.

Well, fuck them. He wasn't going to fall for it. Wasn't going to fall back under the Demon King's heavy thumb. Wasn't going to risk being thrown back to the pits or into a lab. He wouldn't choke on his leash again. Not for anyone or anything. He was his own person.

He would not be anyone’s tool.

“What are you?” he asked through bared teeth, grabbing Fetcher by the front of his shirt and hauling him up close. “A Pit Demon? One of his assassins that got a bit too close to the Lazarus water? Another experiment he forged?”

Fetcher flinched in his hold at the last question and he started to struggle. Jason would have none of that.

“Answer me!” he yelled, shaking the other, who only darted his eyes around in panic and kicked at Jason’s shins. Green (and shouldn't he have noticed the similarities more before this?) blood started to seep from the wound only mostly healed on his abdomen. The black veins of char that wound up Fetcher’s side started to burn in the center, glowing in tandem with his weak scrabbling. A whining sound started up in his chest, a whimpering call for mercy that Jason did not heed. He would not be fooled. Nothing good ever lasted for him, having Fetcher by his side was no different.

“Fetch,” he snarled, spitting the word like an insult, and the other’s eyes snapped to his- green to green. “Are you just another monster Ra’s created?”

The traitor bared his teeth, showing Jason the fangs hidden behind his lips for the first time. He could see green tinted tears spilling over onto pale white cheeks, but he would not be moved. The bright lights of the dojo burned everything and Jason could feel a faint trembling under his fingers. Silence laid heavy between them.

He released Fetcher and watched as the other fell back onto the slick flooring with a blank face, tears still falling.

“Leave,” he hissed. He wouldn’t get any answers. And he was too weak and sentimental to take out the threat before him more permanently. “Go back to the hell pit you crawled out of.”

Silently, without another sound, without another movement, Fetcher vanished.

Good riddance, he thought, ignoring the sudden ache in his chest.

Chapter Text

It’d been one of the last times he’d been Danny Fenton. One of the last times he’d kept up the facade of humanity. One of the last times he ever saw his sister.

She was home for break, traveling all the way back from her fancy college to shack up at Fentonworks because she had no other place to go. He knew she hated being there. Hated being around their parents. Hated being around him.

Ever since his accident (where he died, where he became other) she’d alternated between excessive clinging and cold distance. Like she was afraid of something. Afraid of losing him. Afraid of him. The more he went out as Phantom, the more he slacked in his studies and ignored his friends that ignored him in turn, the more he broke curfew- the more distance Jazz had put between them. Then she graduated, got a full ride, and left- never looking back. Only until she had to.

He’d been bleeding from the side, because in those days it was rarer when he wasn’t, and trying to patch himself up to stem the flow of red-green-red blood until his powers kicked in enough to heal it up. Technus had gotten him with a nasty saw blade attached to an old brick phone that he hadn’t expected. He should have been paying more attention, should have been better.

He really should have been paying more attention to the people in his house.

He’d climbed in from the window- all in human form so as to avoid the ghost shields around the house. His parents never noticed or bothered to check in on him if they did, so he’d been careless about heaving himself in. He hadn’t noticed Jazz standing, arms crossed, in the corner until she’d gasped at the sight of his wound. At the blood. Red-green-red.

He’d seen the bright green glare of his eyes flashing reflected in hers. A mirror image imposed over fear and building rage.

“What did you do with him,” she demanded, voice trembling but furious. She left the shadows of the corner and stalked toward him where he’d frozen by the window.

“What did you do with Danny?” she hissed, like a viper about to strike, ready and willing even with the warble in her words.

He remained frozen, struck dumb by fear and panic, frantically trying to think of an explanation. An excuse. A lie. Anything to make his sister stop looking at him like that. Stop looking at him the way she had for the past few years.

“I don’t know-,” he stuttered out as Jazz moved closer and closer, anger making her entire body tremble with every step. His voice was scratchy and painful. He hadn’t had cause to speak in weeks before this.

“Don’t you start that,” she snapped, looming over him. She’d always taken after Dad, height-wise. “Don’t you lie to me. I’ve suspected for years what you are. That- that green only proves it!”

“Jazz-”

“Stop it!” she grabbed his wrist, grip strong and bruising. The neon light of his eyes lit her face at a sinister angle, casting her features in deep shadows. Twisting it. “I know my brother. I know he’d never be like this. Danny would never hurt people like you do!”

He didn’t hurt people! He didn’t, he didn’t. Never on purpose. Never because he meant to. And yet. People still got hurt. People got hurt around him and it was still his fault, because he was the one that opened the portal. He was the one that brought hell upon Amity Park.

He could see his own reflection in her eyes, caught by the monster that stared back at him. Caught by the fear he found underneath. The fury of his sister.

She lunged, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. “Where is he?!”

Tears were cascading down both of their faces. The desperation in Jazz’s voice shook Danny to his core.

“I know who you are,” she intoned. She released him when he still couldn’t muster a response, her face falling into a more terrifying blankness. “I know what you are. Ghost. Phantom. Monster.”

He recoiled, struggling in her grip. He wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t. He wasn’t. He was still himself! Still Danny! Wasn’t he?

“Get out of my house,” she said, back turning to face the wall and her voice still flat. “Get out of his room.”

“Jazz, please,” he croaked.

He didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to give up the last shards of his shattered humanity. It didn’t matter how dangerous it was to live with his parents like this, on edge during every second of the day and never knowing when he’d get caught, get torn molecule by molecule. Because if he was still here, if he was still trying to go to school, if he was still trying to keep his life together, it meant he had one. He never wanted to die. Never wanted to come back like that.

She whirled around and any words he’d been trying to gather to plead his case fled at the sight of her face. She was still cast in dark shadow, but her eyes blazed, still wet with tears. She was angry, she was afraid. She was hurt. He’d done that. He’d done that to his sister. The sister that had practically raised him.

“It would be better,” she whispered. “For them. For me. To have closure. You aren’t my little brother. For whatever reason you won’t tell me, he’s gone.”

She turned again, a sob wracking her thin frame. She was so thin. Where once she’d trained with their mother in martial arts and packed on wiry muscle, she was now skin and bone. Tears she’d shed had only emphasized the bags that laid underneath. She was shaking. Her hair was dry and thinning. He hadn’t noticed before. Hadn’t noticed how much the stress was getting to her. How much she was hurting. His parents had remained oblivious. Jazz had not. He couldn’t do that to her. He wouldn’t hurt her like that.

“I don’t know if he’s missing or dead, or- or something else. You won’t tell me.” Her voice was strangled with tears, thin but sharp. “That’s fine. It’s actually not, but I can’t force answers out of you.”

She turned her head, arms clutching her torso in some facsimile of a hug. He could see the fear and apprehension on her. He hated it.

“You’re too powerful. I’ve seen you fight. And I’m no hunter.”

She walked away, towards the door of his room, hand reaching out to clutch the door knob in a white-knuckled grip. “But please, stop pretending he’s still here.”

She left. He left. He never returned to that house.

*

It’d been an all too familiar confrontation when Red Hood finally saw him for what he was. Nothing but a monster. He’d heard the word so many times now, it was imprinted into his very core. Spat in anger, shouted in fear, whispered in horror. All at him. He didn’t know why he tried. Why he kept trying to connect. To feel alive again, feel human again. It never worked. He was too unnatural, too beastly. Grotesque.

He died. He was dead, dead, dead. No amount of wishful thinking would change that. He came back wrong. Inhuman. Freakish. The humans feared him and the ghosts hated him. He couldn’t even die properly. Couldn’t be a ghost properly.

Alone. He was alone. And that’s all he would ever be.

He didn’t deserve anything else. He’d hurt too many people. Jazz. His mom and dad. Sam and Tucker. Valerie. Her father. And he hurt ghosts too. Ember, Desiree, Technus. And he’d killed. Ending may not be a one-to-one correlation with murder, but it still wiped a being from existence. If anything the way he’d crushed Pariah’s core between his fangs was more visceral. The screaming and screaming and screaming. The tearing and ripping and- consumption. He’d crushed Pariah’s core and eaten it. Ghost Hunger, the Fright Knight had solemnly called it. An instinct ghosts had when fighting so viciously, fighting over territory. Pariah had stolen and claimed his Haunt, he’d asked for a fight to the End the moment he’d taken Amity into the Zone. And he lost. And now it didn’t even matter because his Haunt was lost to him anyway. When the people left, so did his reason for protecting his territory. Then, falling into the portal into Gotham had really cemented the loss.

He was just a ghost with nothing to haunt and a long list of people he’d hurt. Red Hood was simply a new name to add.

He wasn’t even sure what triggered it. It had already just been a waiting game, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He knew that at some point Red would change his mind, figure out what Danny truly was and act accordingly. He’d been so angry with Danny despite how hard he’d tried to be good this time. He wanted to be helpful, wanted to save people where he hadn’t been. Nobody else needed to know the pain of dying, or the pain of coming back different. But he couldn’t go back out there, out there into the streets. Gotham at large was Batman’s territory and he already knew how the Big Bat felt about him. Crime Alley was Red’s territory and he wouldn’t dare to step foot back there without permission.

It didn’t matter how badly he flinched and had to restrain himself every time he heard a scream.

He wouldn’t leave the sanctity of the tree he’d perched in anyway. Not without the protective barrier of his suit. He’d been in such a frantic hurry when he’d left that dojo that he hadn’t grabbed all his gear. Usually, with it being made of ectoplasm, it would reform if it got torn or ripped. He’d never taken it off though. Not like he had on Red’s request. He could tell that the pants were starting to reform around his legs, but it was taking time. Most of his ectoplasm was going towards his wound from before. It might take up to a week before his suit was fully back. He’d left a lot of ectoplasm back at the dojo by leaving his gear, all of it likely turned to goop by now.

He would just spend the rest of his afterlife (however long that was) in this hickory tree in the cemetery, foraging for nuts when he felt up for it. Nothing much else he could do. Back to square one.

“Yo, Cujo!”

He startled at the shout. Had someone lost their dog in the cemetery of all places? Maybe he could help… No. He’d just scare them. But something about that voice was familiar…

“Ey! I’m talkin to you, puppy dog! Get your florescent ass down here!”

Nadi? Why was she here? And was she- looking for him? She couldn’t be. Sure, they’d ‘talked’ a few times after he’d taken down Charlie for her, but she still didn’t have a reason to track him down. It’s not like he worked for Red Hood anymore. But- Maybe she was in trouble? Did she need help?

Worried, he made most of his body intangible so as not to rustle any of the leaves of the tree and took a peek to check on her.

She stood there among the graves in her usual work clothes, hands on her hips and not a hair out of place. He always wondered how she could walk in heels that tall and if she ever got cold with so little clothing. At least she had on a large fur coat to keep her warm in the chill of the night this time. She also looked kinda pissed though. Charlie hovered behind her, looking nervous and wringing his hands.

It was nice to see the man cleaned up. Access to regular hygiene products and clean clothes did wonders for him. Stable amounts of food and shelter helped him fill out and look less gaunt overall as well. As far as Danny had seen he also took his job seriously, making sure the girls- mostly Nadi- had everything they needed and were well taken care of. He was kind of proud to see the man had come so far.

“C’mon kid, I know you’re up there,” she called, staring straight at the tree Danny was hanging in. “I’m not stupid, baby. Trees don’t glow like that on their own.”

Curse him and his bioluminescence.

Reluctantly he turned invisible and started climbing down the tree, making sure to shake the branches on the way down so Nadi could see that he was coming. He didn’t want her to see him like this, without his mask, without his suit, but he also didn’t want to make her stand in the cemetery all night for no reason.

His feet moved the grass, marking his steps where the sight of his body didn’t. The rustling sound alerted Nadi of his approach and she smiled. It was small and kind of sad but at least she wasn’t screaming.

“What are you hiding for, baby?” she asked softly, looking just past his shoulder. “I’ve seen you before.”

He shuffled in place but made no other move. Nadi sighed and he could see Charlie shifting uneasily behind her. Charlie knew to be afraid of him, even if Nadi seemed naively fearless.

“C’mon now, baby boy. I came all the way out here to see you. It took a shit load of annoying Hood to get him to tell me where you might be, you know.”

And that certainly caught his attention. Hood had told her where he was? Hood knew where he was? He… hadn’t hunted Danny down to throw him out even knowing where he was? Even told one of the people under his protection his location? He had so many questions and no way to ask them.

“Looked like he was gonna blast ya head off if ya didn’t stop, too,” Charlie muttered.

“Oh hush, you,” she said, swatting a perfectly manicured hand towards the other. “Hood wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“You’re fuckin’ nuts, Nadi,” Charlie scoffed. “Man decapitates people for fun.”

“Mn, whatever,” she dismissed. “Anyway, Cujo, where have you been, baby? I ain’t seen you around at all the past week! And Hood might have told me where you were but he wouldn’t tell me what happened.”

She crossed her arms with a pout, expecting an answer. But he didn’t have one for her. He didn’t want to think about that day in the dojo. Didn’t want to think about the pain. Think about the anger and betrayal he’d seen in Red’s eyes. Danny didn’t know what he did, exactly, but it’d only been a matter of time before Red threw him out anyway. Better now than later when Danny had fully settled in. He didn’t deserve company like this. Didn’t deserve to pretend to be human. Didn’t deserve Red Hood’s generosity.

“Baby,” she said, voice so, so soft and gentle it hurt, “talk to me. Please. I miss my little savior.”

He struggled not to whine with his core, trying to keep the sound in. Her little savior. She missed him. He didn’t know what to do here. Didn’t know what he could even try to communicate. He wanted to disappear on the spot, wanted to leave so she wouldn’t say those kinds of things to him. Things that made him hope. He couldn’t let her do that. But more than that he couldn’t leave. Wouldn’t. He needed to disappear, but more than anything he wanted to stay. Even if it ended in disaster again, he wanted to stay.

His powers flickered with his indecision until he finally dropped the invisibility altogether. He braced himself, closing his eyes even as they filled with tears.

He heard a gasp from Nadi and flinched away. Charlie mumbled a “No fuckin’ way” and he waited for the screaming. Waited for the anger and the fear.

It never came.

“Oh, mi vida,” Nadi cooed. “Look at you. You have a face!”

Charlie, who was standing just behind Nadi and peering around her arm, snorted a startled laugh. He looked disbelieving and wary. But he didn’t look scared. Nadi didn’t look scared either. She stepped closer and Danny held in the flinch at her hands coming close to his face. He almost melted when all she did was cup his cheek and run a hand through his hair. His core rumbled and more tears fell from his eyes at the touch.

He didn’t deserve this. He shouldn’t let her get so close. But he couldn’t pull away. It felt so nice.

“Oh, look at your hair, you poor thing,” she tsked as she ran her fingers through the ragged strands. He’d tried to cut it once, on his own, on one of the last few times he’d been human (pretending to be). He’d been so frustrated with it and he’d already fled the house and it had kept getting in his eyes and its not like he’d had access to scissors. Frustrated ectoblasts did not good hair-cutting tools make. The chunks he’d burned away hadn’t grown back right and the others were growing far, far too long. Not that he’d noticed much before now. His hair stayed under the hood of his suit. Hidden away. Probably why he hadn’t tried to shoot it again.

“This won’t do,” Nadi murmured. “This won’t do at all. Your face is far too pretty for hair like this. It needs to be fixed.”

The words made his face scrunch in confusion. Fix it? Pretty? He was a monster, inhuman. He wasn’t pretty. He couldn’t be fixed.

“Come,” she said, dropping her hands to tug at his arms, gentle, as she started backing up. “Come on. I’m gonna give you a hair-cut, baby. And then we’ll talk about why you’ve been hiding out here.”

He stepped back, phasing his arms out of her grip. He couldn’t. He couldn’t leave the cemetery. If the Batman didn’t hunt him down, then Red would. He’d told Danny to leave. Told him he was a traitor. A monster. He wouldn’t go back into the other’s territory and that’s exactly where Nadi would want him to go.

He shook his head, backing up more to put space between them. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

“Okay,” Nadi said, holding her hands up. “Okay, mi vida. Don’t go. Please.”

He stopped. Wary.

“You don’t have to talk. But, please, come back with me?”

He shook his head. She didn’t understand. He back up another step, preparing to flee. He shouldn’t have let her get so close in the first place.

“Wait!” she pleaded. And he did. “Is it the hair-cut? Do you not want that? We don’t have to, baby. Just- please?”

He shook his head again. She still didn’t understand. No one ever did. Why was it so hard? This is why he’d never tried before. Never tried to talk. To communicate. No one ever understood. No one except-

He made it to the hickory tree, patting the trunk and looking back at Nadi. He pointedly tapped the trunk again, pointed to himself and then the ground of the cemetery. He pointed to himself, then the direction of the gates and shook his head. Nadi could visit all she liked, but he couldn’t leave. The cemetery, a resting place for the dead, was the only place he belonged anymore. He needed to stop pretending he was still alive and stay in a Haunt he deserved. A place empty and cold aside from the other restless shades.

Nadi deflated, heaving a sigh. “Mi vida, you can’t stay here. This is no place for you. Please, please, come with me.”

He smiled, small and hurt. She was wrong. This was the one place that was for him.

“Okay!” she cried, seeing his intention to return to his new home in the bough of the hickory. He paused. Waiting to see what she would say.

“I’m going to leave,” she declared, hands on her hips. He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “And I’m going to get everything I need. And then I’m coming back and cutting your hair.”

He blinked, not expecting that. She would willingly come back? Willingly see him again? Do a favor for him, even? Why was she so determined? What could possibly posses her to do something like this? What madness had overcome her? This wouldn’t end well. Not for either of them. He shifted uneasily at the thought. She shouldn’t come back. Shouldn’t sympathize with him. Shouldn’t waste her time on him. But it was all so nice. It felt so, so nice. He’d forever be a fool, always falling for the same trap over and over again. Believing he could be with people without it ending in disaster.

Reluctantly, he nodded. He quickly flew back up into the branches of the tree, fleeing at the sight of her smile. He only hoped she wouldn’t get in any trouble with Red on his behalf. It wasn’t her fault she hadn’t seen him as the terrible thing he was yet.

He played with the ends of his wispy hair, the strands floating in the air around him and twining around his fingers like smoke. A haircut, huh? He wondered how she’d even manage that.

It might be nice, though.

*

Bruce stared at the screen for what felt like hours and hours, a question rotating within his mind with no solid answer. Had Jason Todd come back to life? Had his son fallen soldier clawed his way out of his own grave? Had he been alone and confused? Further failed by Bruce when he wasn’t there in time?

Had Jason Todd, his greatest regret, come back just to taunt him? To make sure he knew how badly he had failed? To hurt him so, so completely? He couldn’t sleep for how much it pained him to think that the magnitude of his failure was far greater than he’d first thought. Not only had he let Jason die, but he hadn’t been there to help him when he came back, either.

But how.

The grave was watched. It had sensors. He’d had Jason buried far from the Wayne family plots, closer to the Alley that the boy had grown up in, in order to avoid looting and antagonistically nosy reporters. The grave being further away, he’d put up sensors in order to know the moment anyone not authorized approached. If anyone had tried to disturb his boy’s body after death he should have known.

He hadn’t accounted for Jason getting out on his own.

He’d hoped. In the beginning. Every day he’d visit that grave and wait. And every night, the death of his youngest soldier still fresh, he’d go home disappointed. Bitter with himself. Feeling foolish for thinking there was even the slightest chance. He'd known that Jason would never come back. Could never come back. No matter what scheme he tried to think of, no matter what favor he tried to think of to pull, there was no reviving him. The brain damage had been too severe. The boy’s body broken beyond anything. He’d seen the damage first hand. He knew what he’d done.

And yet.

There was a chance he was back. There was a chance that his boy had come back. That Jason, however changed, was alive again.

And he was killing people. Spiting Bruce and all he stood for.

He lowered his weary head into his hands, cowl pressing uncomfortably against his face. Why now? Why like this?

Red Hood wasn’t the only mystery to have fallen into his lap either. The green glowing boy was wrapped up in all of this as well. But he didn’t know how. He’d let his temper, his hurt, get the best of him when the boy had first appeared on Jason’s grave. He’d already been scolded thoroughly for that by Alfred, and he had come to regret it some on his own. But that didn’t change the mystery of the boy’s identity. Hell, the mystery of the boy’s species. He was an unknown variable in Gotham and Bruce couldn’t stand to leave it alone. The boy could be dangerous, doubly so now that he’d taken up with Red Hood’s gang.

All he had to go on were rumors.

Security footage shorted out or was taken over by Red Hood in the first place. The blood that had been left after their initial fight had come back inconclusive. He had no record of whatever substance the boy was made of. His intentions were unknown. His power set was unknown (and he had powers, that much he’d been able to glean). His origins were unknown. And every lead Bruce looked into became a dead end.

He didn’t have the time or energy to dedicate to the case, not unless it directly involved the Red Hood. The Jason Todd case.

Thankfully Tim would be coming back to Gotham soon, a small break from his work with the Titans. He could offload the case to Tim and not think about the immense guilt he felt every time he looked at his latest Robin. He’d sworn after Jason’s death that there would never be another, and yet Tim had wormed his way into Bruce’s life and refused to leave. If he distracted himself with Red Hood’s case and gave another one to distract Tim, maybe they wouldn’t have to interact as much and Bruce wouldn’t have to feel so goddamn sad about it.

He’d give Tim the courtesy of welcoming him back before leaving himself. He’d follow his next lead back to Ra’s and question the man within an inch of his life. If he had had anything to do with Jason being resurrected and then subsequently kept from him, he didn’t know what he was liable to do.

First, he’d wait for Robin to come home. He felt like he was always waiting for his Robin’s to come home, they so often left the nest.

*

Harley was waiting.

She knew she was being hunted and there was no escape. That was fine. She didn’t want to escape, she was here to deliver a message to the newest Bat running in the streets. Oh, Red Hood may not want to admit he was a new Bat, but Harley knew better. Boy wasn’t exactly subtle with his identity and while Brucie B might have trouble accepting the truth, she knew better than anyone that people could have a habit of coming back from the dead. Her dear Mistah J had managed it enough times. Jason Todd coming back and antagonizing his old man was no surprise. That it took him this long to find her was what was surprising.

“Harley Quinn,” said a voice, deep and heavily modulated. Harley wondered if the baby boy wonder had really grown so much or if it was a mask. Or maybe it was a side-effect of his resurrection. Who could tell.

“Baby bird,” she sang, swinging her hammer up onto her shoulder. “Good ta see ya again.”

“How-”

She spun to face her intruder. She was precariously perched on the ledge of an abandoned building out near the docks. She’d been waiting for Red Hood to show his masked face and he didn’t disappoint. She swung her hammer out towards the boy, leaning back over the edge and using it as a counterbalance to keep herself on the roof. Hood kept his gun on her the entire time.

“Puh-lease,” she said, “you may be able to taunt ol’ Batty boy about who you are, but don’t think you can fool the fool here, Jaybird.” She relished in watching the big little guy flinch. “You’re not exactly subtle, ya know.”

“What do you want, Harley,” he asked, although it didn’t really sound like much of a question. She pouted at him. He was the one to hunt her down and, yeah, she might have caused a little trouble to get his attention, but still. She knew what he wanted.

“It’s not about what youse can do for me, but what I can do’s for you.” She swung her hammer again until it rested on the ledge and she leaned on it for support. “I hear ya been lookin for Mista J.”

And she had heard about that. Rumors wafting up from the underground about Red Hood being on a hunt for the Joker. The other rogues thinking the man was insane, he already had a hit on him from Black Mask (not something any of the usual rogues were willing to touch without testing more of Red Hood’s skill (they were mostly insane, not stupid. No one wanted to battle a guy willing to go toe-to-toe with Black Mask and seemed to be winning.)) and now he wanted to tango with the Big Guy? The Clown Prince of Crime?

Rule number one for Gotham villainy- never work with the Joker. Everyone thought they could control him, predict him, work around his brand of crazy. No one ever succeeded. Ra’s got the little bird killed trying to work with Mister J. Penguin got blasted in the ass the last time he’d tried to hire the Clown for help. Harley was the only one that could match the Joker, the only one that could work with him without it backfiring. She was the harlequin to his jester, the tit to his tat.

“You know who I am,” he said. And she did. That was part of the point here. “You know what I want with him. You’d give me your ‘precious puddin’ for nothing?”

She didn’t like being mocked like that, but she let it go. It wouldn’t do to lose her temper here.

“I wouldn’t say it’s nothin’, Little Hood,” she said, twirling a lock of blonde hair around her finger. “An’ sides,” she added, trying her best to look sad, “me and Mista J ain’t exactly square anymore. He hurt me good and I’ma lookin’ to hurt him back. I let you attem an’ we both win in the end, ya see?”

“If he hurt you so bad, then why don’t you want revenge for yourself instead of handing it off to me?” he sounded cautious, but willing to believe her. Sucker.

“Well, deep down somewheres in here,” she pointed to her heart, “I still love the guy.” She swooned, nearly falling off the roof with her dramatics, but she kept her place. She knew how to balance, to walk that thin, thin line. “Wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger. You, on the otha hand,” she stopped to sweep a hand in Red’s direction, “gots plenty a triggers to pull.”

“Don’t play with me, Harleen,” he growled. Ooh, so scary. She’d seen that boy in pixie shorts, chasing crime in his greenie-tighties, she wasn’t intimidated by him. He might have a gun, but she had a hammer. And hyenas if the situation called for it.

“Ain’t playin’!” She said, swaying on the ledge with the force of her denial. “Pinky swear!” she held up a pinky, but kept her other hand behind her back, crossing her fingers.

“Heard ya got a doggy to play with anyhow,” she said, distracting. She knew his little friend had run off without him. Poor boy had never been any good at playing nice.

“Ran away,” he said, voice curt and closed off. Ooh, she’d definitely hit a sore spot.

“Aw, that’s too bad!” she cooed, before stretching her face into a wide, sharp grin. “Was hopin’ we could play fetch.”

“Tell me where he is or get shot, Quinn,” he growled. Oh, maybe the nerve was a tad too sensitive. Oopsie.

“Party pooper,” she pouted. She swung her hammer up onto her shoulder and sauntered closer, ignoring the had tightening on the gun still pointed at her head. She knew he wouldn’t shoot. He needed her intel too much. Boy was too much like his dad for that.

“Alright,” she said, “Mistah J is gonna be havin a little party. Don’t know why, just that he is. And I so happen to have an exclusive in-va-ta-tion.” With that she pulled out a little card and waved it around in the other’s face.

He made a grab for it and she pulled back. “Ah, ah,” she sang. “You gotta promise you let me know when you RSVP. I wanna see you crash his shindig, ya dig?”

“Fine,” he bit out. And Harley could just hear him grinding his teeth. Gosh, she loved riling up the Bats. He snatched the card out of her hand and she let him. He pulled out a grapple (classic Bat behavior) and was about to swing away before she shouted after him.

“Maybe you can bring your little doggie friend too!”

She laughed as she dodged the bullet that embedded itself into the concrete where she’d been standing a second earlier. Oh, what a fun little bash they would have. She clapped and laughed as she hopped down the fire escape, switching to a jaunty whistle as she strolled the docks. She knew why her puddin’ was throwing his soiree. Knew that it wasn’t something the baby bat could crash. Not when he was the guest of honor! Sure hoped he liked the cake they picked out for his welcome home party! And the explosives!

Chapter Text

Nadi had never seen hair like Fetcher had. It wasn’t- hair- not properly. It was soft like fog, wispy like a cloud. And it moved like it was underwater, flowing and floating and altogether, frankly, a bitch to cut. But it needed to be trimmed, because it looked like someone had taken a torch to some parts of the poor kid’s skull. Chunks were burned off. She also wasn’t about to give up after all the trouble she’d been through to get little cujo to agree to this.

She’d walked ten blocks round trip to her apartment and back, Charlie huffing and puffing from just a simple folding chair and bag the entire time. Packed a sheet and all her usual hair-cutting tools. She knew her way around some scissors- a lot of the girls came to her for trims instead of paying for a full stylist. She used to be a barber, way back in what she liked to think of as her past life.

That time felt so long ago. Before she was Nadi, before she walked the streets of Park Row. She used to live in the nicer parts of Gotham, sitting pretty with a stable job, stable apartment, stable family. Then she transitioned and everything went to shit. Fired, evicted, disowned. The whole nine yards or whatever. No big deal, though. She liked where she was at in life now, despite it all. And most of the time she was genuinely happier here, working the corner as the woman she was always meant to be instead of suffering as the man society wanted her to be.

She’d found her people here, in Park Row. Crime Alley. The other cast-offs and has-beens. The others that didn’t belong. And this poor baby boy was yet another reject. A poor soul left for dead in the slums. He was such a sweetheart, and she wasn’t about to let him fend for himself so completely. Not if she could help it. And she could, if only a little bit. She would cut his hair, she would feed him, she would offer a shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen. She wouldn’t let anyone else feel like she once had. Alone and abandoned. All it ever took was a small kindness, a tiny gesture of good-faith. She could do that. She’d move heaven and hell if it meant the sweet boy that had saved her, had saved many others in the Alley, wouldn’t be so skittish. So alone. Sure he was vicious, but only when he needed to be. Only to protect others. Boy didn’t have a mean bone in his body. She wasn’t completely sure he had bones in his body, but that wasn’t important.

What mattered was getting his hair fixed.

She couldn’t do much for him. Couldn’t even begin to fix all that was wrong with him, all the wrong that was done to him. She could kill Hood for scaring her baby off. She didn’t know what he did but she was going to kick his ass for it. Crime Lord or no, he deserved it. She’d already kicked him where it hurt when she’d gone after him about Fetcher being missing in the first place, but he could do with a few more.

The boy was purring under her hands as she carded her fingers through his hair. Purring. That was goddamn adorable. How dare Red Hood do anything to upset him when the boy could purr.

She snipped away, gently brushing as she went. Thankfully, even with the singed edges, his hair still had a bit of length so even after she was done it would still hover around his shoulders. Literally hover. He looked good, fluffy like that, and she didn’t want to cut it any shorter than she had to. He’d already flinched once at the scissors coming close to his little pointed ears, she wouldn’t have that again.

“Almost done, mi vida,” she murmured, trimming the last strand and dropping it to let it float. “You doing okay?”

The purr rumbled like he was humming in agreement. Fuck that was cute.

She ran her hands through his hair a few more times, shaking out loose strands and fixing any tangles. Just enjoying the cool feeling- like mist and fog with only the slightest solidity- whirl around under her touch. Enjoying the purr it kicked up when she did it.

“All done, baby,” she said, reluctantly pulling her hands away and tugging off the sheet she’d wrapped him in, shaking it out to let the cuttings fall to the ground. They were, strangely, black. The moment she cut it away, his hair would turn black and solid like normal hair. She didn’t ask. It was none of her business.

She circled him and smiled. He looked a little goofy, still touch-drunk with his eye-lids drooping, all slumped into the chair like he was melting. His hair didn’t look half bad now, wavy and curling around his face, kissing his neck and cheeks as it swayed in an invisible wind. She’d done a pretty damn good job, all things considered. She wanted to coo at the sight of him, but she held it in. She didn’t want to spook him. They’d been doing so well so far.

She didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to leave him here. But she knew he wasn’t going to come, no matter how many times she asked.

“Do you wanna have a look?” she asked, moving to pull the hand-held mirror from the bag she’d made Charlie lug with them.

Fetcher’s gaze sharpened and he tensed in the chair, looking ready to flee. His purring had ceased. He shook his head fervently and she wanted to despair. What in the world had happened to him? What horrors had descended on her sweet, sweet boy?

“Okay,” she placated. “That’s okay.” She waited until he’d relaxed again, though not as much as he had been before. “You’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that you’re a very handsome young man.”

He rolled his eyes and she grinned.

“It’s true! You’re a pretty boy, and my handiwork only made you prettier.”

He stuck his tongue out and folded his arms.

She laughed. She wanted to stay. She wanted him to come with her. But it wouldn’t happen. Not yet, at least. Not until she could kick Hood’s ass and get him to fix whatever he’d broken here. She rummaged in the bag and brought out the thick blanket she’d packed and the bimbunuelos and gansito snacks she’d grabbed from the gas station for him.

She sighed and made sure she had Fetcher’s attention. “Alright, baby. I know I can’t convince you to come with me,” she said slowly. “I’m still sure I could smuggle you in and Hood wouldn’t say a word if he knew what was good for him,” she murmured vindictively, “but I can’t force you.”

He simply watched her as she handed the blanket and the treats over. “But, please,” she begged,” take care of yourself out here, mi vida.”

He gathered everything up in his arms and gave her a serious nod. She smiled at his solemn look, wishing with all her heart he’d learn to smile more instead.

“I’m going to head back to work now,” she said, backing up to give Fetcher some space. “But I’m going to visit again.”

She gave him a stern look this time. “So you better take care of yourself, baby. I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.”

He pouted, petulant, and huffed before giving her another quick nod and floating himself back up into the bough of the hickory he’d claimed for himself.

It was a small kindness, giving him that haircut, but she knew it meant more than that for the both of them. It was about acceptance. Accepting him as he was. About permission. Permission to seek comfort from her. Permission to see and be seen. She hoped he understood that.

Now, she had a Crime Lord’s ass to kick.

*

Alfred Pennyworth had served the Wayne family for many years now. Seen and done more things serving Bruce than he ever had in service to the Crown. One would think being a butler would be less exciting than a top ranking M15 agent, but one was not often employed and trusted by The Batman as a butler.

Seeing Bruce grow and raising him were some of the most rewarding moments of his life. Seeing him grieve and break after every death that piled upon his shoulders were the most heartbreaking moments of his life. Seeing him obsess over the possibility that one of his wards, one of his ‘fallen soldiers’, had made their way back to the grave, was nothing less than harrowing.

Once again, Alfred was witness to Bruce passively trying to kill himself- ignoring anything and everything but the case he was working on. The facts in front of him. Solving it all like a puzzle that had pieces one could fit together in the first place. Getting frustrated when it didn’t all fall into place. Bruce rarely acknowledged that sometimes cases didn’t have all the pieces, couldn’t be solved by fact alone, because to do so would admit defeat in his eyes. He needed logic and sense and many times life was far too messy for that. People were unpredictable and murders and villainy more so. But his boy had never been comfortable with things he couldn’t predict.

Like Jason Todd rising from the grave.

Alfred knew in his bones that Jason had returned, changed and broken, but returned all the same. He wasn’t about to say so to Bruce, the man would never understand the certainty he felt without the facts to confirm. But he knew. And it broke him just as well. He was over the moon to have one of his wards back in the living realm with them, for him to be alive again. But to see him torn and angry like he was… To see him so full of pain and hatred… Alfred couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand to know that he’d had a hand in the boy’s death. Had a hand in the neglect he’d suffered upon his initial return. It might not have been directly, but guilt never cared degrees of cause, especially when one cared. And Alfred Pennyworth cared more than anything.

He was nothing more than a sentimental old fool.

But he would help where he could. He would stand vigil with Bruce, care for the man wherever he would allow. He would keep in contact with Richard and Timothy, check in on them as often as possible ( he would not lose another ). He would place another cup of coffee by the Batcomputer and lie in wait. Nothing would move Bruce from the screens, not even much needed sleep, so he would do what he could and bring him finger-foods- easy to eat while typing away and staring, staring, staring.

He would receive cheeky letters from anonymous ( Jason ) persons and deal with his badly behaved Bat as best he could. Scolding the man for being unnecessarily cruel and letting his anger cloud his judgment. (And he would hope it would be enough for Jason, that his scolding would get through Bruce’s thick skull so that he might not make an ass of himself even more. That the crimes Bruce had committed against Jason would lessen rather than stack. That there might one day be a chance at reconcile. That Jason might one day come home .)

But for now he would do what he could. He would wait and he would serve, doing all the little and big things to help. He would keep the manor running even if no one but himself had set foot in it for some time. He would clean and sweep and cook and weed and dust and wash and do everything he possibly could to make the manor clean and welcoming and warm. All in the hopes that someday, someday, the family that had been so painstakingly built and torn apart here, might return. Rebuild.

That all his wayward children might call the manor home once more.

*

Tim had come back to a mess. Alfred had warned him, greatly under-sold the mess- sure, but had still warned him. Bruce hadn’t said anything at all about what had recently been happening in Gotham, only that he needed help with multiple cases.

Bruce needing help with multiple cases was always a bad sign. But Tim had never imagined something like this.

His predecessor potentially coming back from the grave. And murdering people. And Bruce absolutely losing his mind about it.

It wasn’t all that hard, in Tim’s experience, to make Bruce lose his mind. He wasn’t a particularly mentally stable man in the first place. It’d been the whole reason he’d insisted so much about becoming Robin in the first place. Batman needed a Robin. A balance. Otherwise Bruce could so easily lose himself to his grief and get swallowed up in the darkness. He’d seen it first hand after Jason’s death. How he hit harder, cut deeper, and had less mercy for his rogues all around. An inexcusable use of excessive force- all in grief and anger and guilt.

Bruce liked to pretend that he had no emotions. The he had the control to shut them on and off at will. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. The man was made of nothing but emotions. Anger and grief and fear and, astoundingly, compassion. Yes, he was logical and could be cold, and he didn’t talk about his emotions very well. But Tim knew they were there, brewing under the surface.

Bruce could talk about detachment all he wanted. Talk about shutting everything off in order to make a deduction. But that wasn’t what made Batman a brilliant detective. It was his stubborn nature, his drive. His empathy. It’s what made him a hero.

And Tim admired that.

But it also meant cleaning up his messes sometimes, and Tim admired that much less.

He’d barely been given a ‘how are you, chum,’ before Bruce was racing off to find Ra’s and question him about Jason. Leaving Tim to investigate a possible new meta hiding out in Crime Alley. Working with Red Hood. Working with Jason. To puzzle out motive and power set. To find a way to neutralize him should he be a threat ( and Tim didn’t think about how callous that was, how cruel that would seem ).

And thus, Tim did what he did best. Chug a lethal amount of Boosted Zestis and hack into every governmental database conceivable. He’d find something. He always did.

Except, hours later. He’d found nothing. Not a damn thing. No one outside of Gotham had any record of a glowing hazmat-clad meta that had green blood. He’d scoured any and all social media accounts across the world and no one had ever posted about it. No weird deep-web forum dedicated to sightings of the guy. No newspaper articles complaining about his presence. No tourist commenting about seeing him. Nothing. Usually with a meta like him, someone so conspicuous, there was something. A short video. A dedicated cult. A local news segment.

Anything about the guy was all from Gotham. All recent and none of it helpful. It didn’t explain where he’d come from. What he was capable of. Didn’t explain why he went by the name Fetcher of all things. Was he an alien instead of a meta? Had he been looking in all the wrong places this entire time, because they’d just assumed he was a meta when he wasn’t? Meta, alien, science experiment gone wrong. All questions and no answers.

Tim wanted to rip his hair out.

Bruce had said that it was definitely a hazmat suit, even if it was glowing and slightly customized. Customized to what conditions, though, was the question. Any lens footage had been corrupted so Tim could only rely on B’s overly detailed report for a description. A level B suit. So working with something that was a severe inhalation risk but less of a risk for skin contact. But the SCBA was described as something Tim had never encountered before. A lightweight tank connected to a full face mask and tinted eye-shield. Working with a substance that glowed ? Something that caused the glow that Fetcher let off? But the only things he could think of were either occult or radioactive, and if it was radioactive then he’d be wearing a level A suit. And the green blood. Bruce had described it as similar to Lazarus Water.

Tim shuddered.

What the fuck kind of lab accident might make you bleed death juice?

And then, miraculously, he found a lead. A pair of scientists that worked in hazmat suits that matched the description. He’d need confirmation from Bruce that they looked the same, but the tint to the eye-shield or goggles, despite not working with radioactive material was a big enough clue. The substance they did claim to work with didn’t make much more sense, though. Ectoplasm. From ghosts.

There was no way.

He refused to go down that rabbit hole without confirmation from Bruce. It didn’t matter how morbidly curious he was. He’d fall down that trail later if he wanted. For now he’d need sleep. He couldn’t go any further in his research and the lead he’d found was already slim at best. He felt like a failure, like he needed to keep going. But Alfred was already breathing down his neck about resting and there wasn’t much more he could do anyway.

He saved what he’d found on the Doctors Fenton and trudged up the stairs to his room in the manor.

He couldn’t do much, but he’d help where he was capable. Not with the main case. Bruce wouldn’t let him touch it. And it made him itch like nothing else to know that there was a case and he wasn't digging into it himself. But there was nothing more he could do where he wasn't either hitting the streets himself (tempting, maybe later) or being caught red-handed by Bruce. Which would only result in him getting grounded like a grade-schooler. But he could look into the secondary case as much as possible on his own, he’d ask about the similarity in the suits and then keep digging himself. He didn’t want B to fall into the same spiral that he had before, to get lost in grief with no one to help. He would be the Robin to his Batman. His support. His balance.

What little help he could give, he would.

*

Bruce would go to the ends of the earth if it meant righting his past wrongs. If it meant undoing the one mistake that weighed on him the most. If it meant bringing back his second ward, his second Robin. If it meant never having to go through the pain of having that little soul slip right through his fingers.

Nothing would ever change that though. Even if Jason was really back from the dead, it would not change the fact that he had died. That Bruce had lost him. Failed him. It wouldn’t change the pain that both of them had felt. The pain of dying. The pain of coming back. The pain of losing someone he never should have lost.

He’d made a promise . And he’d broken it. He was much more careful with those now. Much more careful with everything .

Except Ra’s’ skull.

He had the man pinned to the floor, unmerciful as he questioned the master assassin about Jason. About the sudden appearance of Red Hood. About Ra’s’ possible involvement in his resurrection and why he hadn’t done it sooner or told Bruce about it happening.

“You don’t have all the facts, detective,” Ra’s said, voice strained from the force of Bruce’s weight pushing him into the tile of his fortress.

“Then enlighten me,” he spat, knowing full well he was starting to let his temper get the best of him. He was better than this, but when it came to Jason- everything felt like it was too much. Like his anger and grief could boil over in an instant.

“The Waters cannot bring a person back from the dead!”

“That’s not a fact,” Bruce argued, trying valiantly to tamp down the fury that threatened to overcome him. “That’s a theory.”

“A well founded one,” Ra’s grumbled, indignant. Then quieter, “We tried to bring him back. Initially. Nothing was said about it because it didn’t work.”

Bruce lifted from Ra’s back and stepped away to give the man room to stand, watching intently for any sudden movements the entire time.

“Elaborate.”

“The boy died,” Ra’s began, brushing dust off his robes as he stood, “partially at my fault. I should never have worked with that mad clown in the first place, and the little Robin paid the price for it.”

Bruce stood in wait. He knew all this. Ra’s working with the Joker is what allowed the villain to capture Jason. It was a solid rule in the underworld of Gotham to never work with the Joker. He could not be accounted for, could not be controlled. Ra’s found that out the hard way.

“So, in order to rectify the mistake, Talia stole the body and replaced it with a convincing replica.”

Bruce closed his eyes and held everything in. He would not break here. Not in front of Ra’s. He’d been so overcome with grief when he’d dug Jason’s small little body out of the wreckage, that once he’d finally let it go- he hadn’t had the strength to look at it again afterwards.

“We dipped his body in the Pit,” he continued flippantly, “and nothing happened. We kept the body monitored for a time and then switched it out again after a continued absence of life.”

“So you wouldn’t know about a possible connection between the deceased Jason Todd and The Red Hood,” he stated.

Everything was slipping from his fingers. All his leads were turning to dead ends that didn’t make sense. He knew that The Red Hood was Jason. That was his Robin, returned from the grave. He could feel it, and there were so many clues that led to that conclusion. But they didn’t add up. Nothing was adding up. He felt like he was going insane, trying to finish an equation that he didn't have all the variables for but he already knew the answers to. He wanted to believe, more than anything, that Jason was alive, but he couldn’t trust that he was (because the disappointment would hurt him more than anything else if he wasn’t) because he didn’t have confirmation.

“Now, I didn’t say that,” Ra’s said, back turned to face the window and the red of the sun rising over the horizon.

“Explain,” Bruce gritted out for what felt like the thousandth time. Always asking for an explanation and never quite getting what he needed.

Ra’s sighed. “Jason Todd was found wandering the streets of Gotham,” he turned to give Bruce an inscrutable look, dark eyes heavy. “He was more akin to a walking corpse than a person. Running on instinct alone. We did not alert you to his resurrection because he was still not himself.”

“You don’t know how he came back,” he said more than asked. This was the more important question. How Jason could walk among the living so long after his death when Bruce would have done damn near anything to bring him back if he could.

“No,” Ra’s answered simply. “But a second dip in the Pit waters after he shambled in with Talia brought his mind back. Which was rather more of a miracle than his initial awakening.”

“Could the first dip have brought him back, but delayed?” None of this made any damn sense. This is why he hated working with magic and mystical things. They never made any sense.

The other man stared, hard and unforgiving. Irritated. “I have worked with the Lazarus Pits for a very long time. And yet I am still no closer to answers for questions such as yours. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“You can’t confirm, definitively, the reason Jason Todd came back to life.”

“No,” Ra’s said with a sneer, body tensing to strike. Bruce had overstayed his welcome then. “That’s for you to puzzle out, Detective.”

Bruce turned and left. There was nothing else he could gain from interrogating Ra’s and inciting the man’s temper. Bruce’s own was on a hair-trigger as it was. He would begin his long journey back to Gotham, only partial answers acquired and more questions whirling in his head.

There was little he could do now. He needed to get back to his city, regardless of what was happening with Jason. Regardless of if he’d come back as the Red Hood or not.

There was little he could do to make up for all the ways he’d failed his second Robin, all the things he hadn’t done in time, hadn’t done when it was needed. But he’d do every small thing he could, now. As Batman, all he’d ever been able to do was small things. One criminal apprehended here, one rogue put back in Arkham or Blackgate there. But the city was still torn apart, citizens still ended up dead. Like putting a band-aid on a gaping chest wound.

He’d never fix everything, but he’d do damage control.

*

Jason wasn’t much of a fan of waiting. Not when he was so much closer to executing the best part of his plan. He knew where the Joker would be soon. He had everything he needed ready. He would capture the crazy clown, beat him near to death with a crowbar to see how he liked it, and then set him like the spring in a trap. Bruce would be back from whatever jaunt he’d fled the city on and he’d be able to goad the big bastard into a chase.

Then he’d snare him and finally get the answers he’d so desperately been wanting.

Why hadn’t Bruce killed the Joker already? And what would it take for him to do it?

What would finally make the Big Man snap?

But first he had to catch the clown. He didn’t know what Harley was up to or what the party she’d mentioned was all about- and maybe he was being hasty in planning to just barge in guns blazing without gathering more information. But he was already antsy. He wanted this done already. He wanted to make Bruce choose. Either Bruce would finally kill the Joker or Jason would die by the man’s hand. Again. He would make Bruce suffer the choice, make him realize the severity of his decision to keep the mass murderer alive. Jason hadn’t been the only one killed by the clown, not by a long shot, and people would only keep dying if he was still free.

The Joker would find his end, one way or another. Jason would make sure of that- even if it had to be from beyond the grave again.

If Bruce chose to kill him instead of the deranged clown- Jason didn’t really know what he would do, but at least he’d have his answer. That Bruce had cared for whatever asinine definition of justice he had more than he ever had Jason. That Jason had never been a son to him. That Bruce cared more for his own personal morals than actually doing something to save the people of the city he’d sworn to protect.

He didn’t have confidence in which answer Bruce would choose.

Waiting also had the downside of giving him time to think. Something he currently didn’t want to do. 

He'd think about those eyes- the green- the sharpness there-

Jason paused where he stood in his kitchen, hands gripping the cast-iron skillet just a bit too tight. He could hear the metal creak under his grip, likely to snap if he didn’t relent. Which was ridiculous because it was cast-iron, but still. The kid’s eyes had reminded him too much of the Pit- of when he’d died and come back. Of the torture of resurfacing to a new world he didn’t understand.

If Fetcher had been working for Ra’s he’d been doing a poor job of it. It took Jason far too long to realize that, took far too long for the swirling mass of overwhelming rage to subside long enough to have a clear head. No word from Talia. No whisper of activity from Ra’s. Nothing at all to indicate that Fetcher was one of their agents. He didn't move like an assassin, and unless the kid was a world class actor he didn't behave like one either. Whatever mess the kid had gotten himself mixed up in, it wasn’t necessarily connected to the League, even if there was still some small whisper of doubt. Of what-ifs. Of paranoia. But- Jason had yelled at him. Called him a monster. And all he’d done- was cry.

Jason was the monster here, not Fetch.

He was likely better off sulking in the graveyard Jason had found him in anyway. It would have only been a matter of time before Jason turned on him. Or did something else to get him hurt, get him killed. Like father, like son.

When Nadi had come to yell at him about Fetcher’s disappearance, it had been something of a relief. Even if she had kicked him in the balls, it was still good to see that someone cared about the kid. Someone good. Someone that could help him where Jason couldn’t. And when she’d come back a second time to demand that Fetcher be allowed back into Crime Alley, he’d reluctantly agreed. He couldn’t face the other after everything he’d said and done, but he wouldn’t banish him for Jason’s mistakes.

He hasn’t seen the other since then. But he knows that he’s in the area. Seen the faint glow of the other brighten a dark alleyway, trailing after Nadi like he used to trail after Red Hood.

Jason shakes off his thoughts and goes back to cooking. Only to realize that he’d made two servings.

Silently, guiltily, he packed it away. He’d hand it out to the first person he sees once he leaves for patrol (no use in good food going to waste- even if his first instinct is to trash it). The sight of it made him sick.

He’d have to live with what he’d done and that was that. There was little he could do to fix things. Little he could do to help. But he’d keep his distance and let Nadi take care of Fetch where he’d failed so spectacularly. He didn’t want to face the other again, and it made him a coward- but he didn’t want to risk hurting the other more than he deserved. He’d already done enough damage.

(You’re too angry, Jason. You take it out on the wrong people. It makes you reckless. You’re going to get an innocent person killed one day because you couldn’t control your temper. This is not why I let you become my second Robin. You’re benched . Indefinitely.)

Jason was far from perfect and he knew that. But he’d take his imperfection and still try where he could. He’d fix the city, little by little. Build it up where Bruce couldn’t and clean it out where Batman wouldn’t.

Even if he died again proving his point to Bruce, even that little bit, would help in its own way. Make Bruce see where he’d gone wrong or else prove where Batman was failing. If the bastard was too stubborn to see that Jason was right about this, then Gotham had long been doomed anyway. His second death wouldn’t change that.

All he had to do now, was wait.

Chapter Text

Danny was at a bit of a loss. Red had allowed him back into Crime Alley. But he also hadn’t seen the guy since floating his way back in. Hadn’t been yelled at or told to leave, though, so he guessed Nadi was right in saying he could. It still felt wrong. Like at any moment he’d be chased out. Nadi had told him multiple times that she’d kick Hood’s ass six ways to Sunday if he said anything about Danny being there, and he appreciated it, but it still felt rude.

It was an eerily similar feeling to trespassing on another ghost’s Haunt.

He felt… conflicted.

On the one hand, Red Hood had taken care of him at one point. Made him food, given him a place to live (to Haunt), and given him something to do. A purpose. Something he’d severely lacked after Amity had emptied out. But then, just as easily as it had been given, Hood had taken it away. Forcibly. Angrily. And Danny didn’t even know what he’d done wrong. Not really. He hadn’t understood most of what Red had yelled at him for- hadn’t a clue who Rahz was- but he could feel the layer of betrayal under it all. He just didn't understand what he'd betrayed.

He could understand that he was a monster though. Had known it for a long time. He'd gotten far too comfortable, letting himself play act through living like a person again. Eating and sleeping and trusting. He wasn't fourteen and playing house with a family that wasn't his anymore. He was dead and he had to act like it. No more food, even though Nadi insisted. No more sleeping, especially on any furniture. No more pretending to live. He couldn't afford to forget that. Just because he'd left Amity Park behind didn't mean he was free to do whatever he wanted. He carried the weight of sins he could never be absolved from. 

People had died and it was his fault. He had to remember that. He was a monster, not just because he'd died, but because he'd failed. There was too much blood on his hands to ever go back. 

So was it ever really Red's fault? For just seeing Danny for what he really was? Maybe it was fitting that Red would finally see behind the metaphorical mask at the same time he saw behind the real one. At least he'd been found out early, before he'd gotten too used to acting human and getting comfortable, before it'd been too late to turn back (wasn't it?).

So he followed Nadi, doing whatever she asked of him around the Alley, and avoided Red Hood like the plague. If Hood wanted to talk, then Hood could find him. He glowed well enough for it, it’s not like he was hard to find.

Nadi and the girls were fine enough to watch over. Nadi was a saint for putting up with him. He’d trail after her at night, when she was working the streets, so she had two body guards instead of one- him and Charlie. But during the day he’d pull back to his hide-away in the cemetery. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome, and it left him on edge to stay in the Alley for too long. Where once it had started feeling like a Haunt he could settle into, it felt foreign now.

The girls and guys that Nadi hung around, and Danny hung around by extension, weren’t half as good at figuring out his charades, though. Not like Red had been. It was a little disheartening, and even though he could talk using the whiteboard, it still felt like too much of a hassle sometimes. It was a good enough excuse to keep his distance.

And he needed to remember to keep his distance. He couldn’t forget what he was again. It could put them in danger.

So, he drifted. Nothing new. He kept the girls out of trouble and made sure their customers kept in line. Occasionally let Nadi "feed" him gas station snacks that he just phased into his stomach to hand out to kids later. Took care of any crimes he saw if he knew Hood wasn’t nearby.

It was one of those times he’d been helping someone who was getting mugged by the docks when he’d heard the first explosion.

*

Jason hadn’t known what he was going to walk into after following the instructions on the invitation Harley had given him- but he sure as fuck wished he had.

Fuck the plan, he’d have found another way to snare the stupid clown without having to suffer the indignity of being thrown a welcome home party by the guy who killed him in the first place.

This was so goddamn stupid.

The abandoned carnival grounds near the docks had been the destination- because of course it was. If the freakish funny-man was anything it was certainly on brand. And the ‘party’ was specifically being held in the decrepit fun-house mirror building. Again, because of course it was.

What the fuck was his life? After life?

You know, when Jason had been so enthusiastic about being Robin all those years ago, this was not the shit he’d expected out of the gig. It was supposed to be magic. Supposed to be like flying. Not something that could end so badly with a crowbar and explosives. Nor something that would lead him to the creepiest fun-house imaginable. He was so fucking naive back then.

“Baby Jay!” Harley squealed as he stepped into the building, back tense and gun ready- safety off. She whipped around him, throwing an arm over his shoulders despite the fire-arm so very close to going off near her face. “You made it!”

“Couldn’t miss my own party,” he drawled, using the gun (Mina, this time) to gesture to the large banner hung on the ceiling, just above the entrance to the maze, that said ‘Welcome Home Robin!’ in bright red paint. At least, he fucking hoped it was paint. He didn’t see any obvious bodies, but that didn’t mean there were none. God, he fucking hated murder clowns.

Harley’s grin was sharp as she pulled him into the maze, the gleam on her teeth reflected all around. Her grip around his neck was iron-tight as it pulled him along. He knew this was a fucking trap, knew she’d been lying. But he’d wanted to snatch the clown more than he’d wanted to come up with a better plan. Hadn’t wanted to think it through and plan like he should have. Too distracted by other things, by guilt and by the rage burning in his chest. His fingers flexed around the trigger of his gun. If he was going to be an idiot at least he was going to be an armed one.

His eyes tracked their distorted reflections as they moved about the space, Harley knowing which trail to take. He took note of every turn, every dead-end they passed. He’d shoot his way out of the maze if he had to, but he didn’t want to waste bullets.

Sudden cackling rang out as they stepped into a large room within the maze, Joker’s image reflected from every angle as the green menace spread his arms out, bent party hat nearly falling off his head. He could hear the strains of circus music, crackling like an old radio being tuned, under the laugh. Streamers of red, green, and yellow were hung wildly, making the space more confusing as they were reflected in the mirrors in every direction. Artificial fog was blown in- obscuring everything even more- the hiss of the machine loud and startling. Bright, fluorescent lights cast harsh beams in haphazard directions, leaving deep shadows in unpredictable places.

“The guest of honor!” Joker crowed, grin just as manic as Jason remembered. Red splattered across his face. Blood or paint? “Welcome home, little birdie!”

And suddenly, Jason wasn’t as prepared for this confrontation as he thought he was. Everything felt small and confining, like the world had shrunk around him- like he couldn't breathe. This was the first time he’d seen the Joker since his resurrection. Since he’d died. And he was surrounded on all sides, the grin that haunted his nightmares coming from every direction. He was back in the warehouse. The phantom pain of broken bones and cracked ribs twinged as he could see nothing but that crowbar coming at him over and over and over again. The memory of demented laughter ringing out as he was beaten, slowly entwined with the real deal. He felt like he was suffocating, like he was back in that damned coffin again. He was frozen. Couldn't move. Everything was numb and his heart was going to break through his chest with how hard it was beating against his ribs. His lungs had shrunk and couldn't pull in enough air. He was dying again, he was sure of it. He could already feel the flames all around him, the smoke of the explosions coming to kill him again.

Harley took advantage of his distraction.

He wasn’t quick enough when Harley’s grip around his neck shifted and grew tighter. Choking him out until everything went black and the grasp on his gun went slack.

*

Something was wrong. He could feel it in his core. This wasn’t your run of the mill explosion disturbing the peace of Gotham. Something was wrong. 

He needed to go faster. To fly.

An unknown panic filled his chest as he tried to take flight, clumsy arms pinwheeling as his feet tried to lift off the ground with no success. Flying had always been one of the harder powers for him to master and even now, six years dead, he had trouble. He’d only ever been able to manage a fast hover or a higher than humanly possible jump. Low flight or a glide.

Right now he couldn’t even lift off the asphalt of the road as he ran toward the roaring fire, the dread like a pit in his soul keeping him grounded and growing worse with every failed lift off. He needed to be faster. He needed to be there already. Someone was dying.

Someone was dying.

*

He woke up in the same room not long after Harley knocked him out, tied to a chair that had been placed on a pedestal in the middle- his mirror image reflected a thousand times around him even though his eyes couldn't focus enough to see it. His helmet had been removed and even the domino underneath. Not like it mattered when both Harley and Mr. Pudding knew who he was. He could feel the irritating pinch of cheap elastic around his head and a circle of cardboard in his hair. They’d taken the time to give him a fucking party hat. Great.

He tested the rope, his muscles feeling lax and hard to work with while he did it. They’d drugged him. Nothing intense, as far as he could tell. Muscle relaxer, maybe? He didn’t like it. The rope was also unforgiving- wound tight and chafing. The portion tied around his wrists was irritating against his skin- his gloves long gone- and he could tell that if it stayed cinched much longer he’d start loosing circulation.

Underneath it all was this pervasive sense of fear, a deep, slow dread that was echoing coldly in his bones. He kept the feeling on a leash, refusing to give in to the panic. He couldn't tell if it was artificial, if the Joker had added a low dose of fear gas to the fog machine, or if it was just his past traumas coming back to haunt him. Either way it was both terrifying and inconvenient. 

“You know,” came the drawl of Joker’s voice, echoing around the mirrors with the clown himself nowhere to be seen. “You took such a long time coming back, that I almost thought you never would!”

“Were you betting on it?” Jason spat, words slightly slurred from his jaw feeling loose. Everything felt heavy, like he was being weighed down. At least he was still cognizant. Barely. Half out of his mind with whatever opiate, the other half gone out of fear.

“No, actually,” he said, sounding disappointed. “But what a fun thing to add to the Arkham betting pool.”

“What do you want with me?” Jason asked, tugging at his restraints again. If he kept the clown talking, he could distract him long enough to get free and beat the shit out of him like he’d planned. Probably. Even a shaking hand could still do damage. 

“Not as talkative as you used to be now that you’re a zombie, huh?” Joker said, voice still ringing out and bouncing around the mirrors of the room, making Jason feel slightly dizzy. Which was likely the point. There was a single light now, instead of dozens- just a bare lightbulb on a string and it was swinging around wildly. “Straight to the point, no time for chit-chat.”

“Maybe you’re just a shit conversationalist.”

Not even trying to dislocate his CMC would get him out of these ropes. They were too tight, too snug. And they weren't just around his wrists, they were tying him to the chair everywhere. Around his ankles, his thighs, and his chest. They were tightest around his chest, constricting, making every jagged, shallow breath a fight to pull in. 

“My, my,” Joker tutted, “little birdie’s got a dirty mouth now. You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

It didn’t sound like his voice was coming from a speaker, but it was loud enough that the clown should be in the room with him. Maybe around a corner? He couldn’t tell what direction it was coming from, only that it kept circling. And circling. The light just kept swirling, casting harsh beams into the dark. The shadows shifting like a living thing themselves.

“Get to the fucking point."

If he kept hyperventilating like this he was going to pass out before they could even get to the "fun" part.

“Well,” the Joker started, sighing dramatically, scratchy voice grating on Jason’s last nerve. “I’ve noticed that the big ol’ Bat has been taking an interest in you and, honestly, I’m a bit jealous!”

“Gross,” the response slipped out before he’d even realized. He could hear Harley giggling before a smacking sound rang out and he heard her quietly say, “sorry puddin’.”

Oh, he was gonna wring that clown’s fucking neck. Rage triumphed over fear and his vision swam in green. He was gonna turn that bastard into a squeaky toy, punch him over and over to see what fun noises he would make next.

“Anyway,” Joker continued, growl to his tone that wasn’t there before. “I figured- I take you out and Batsy has more time to focus on other things.”

“Like you?”

“Like me.”

Again, gross.

“Don’t think I didn’t know you wanted your pound of flesh from me, either. I just decided to go on the offensive about this instead of defensive. Take initiative. Be proactive. Get ahead of the game.”

The ropes had no give. They were just getting tighter, constricting like a snake around its dying prey. Fuck. He was so fucking stupid. If he hadn’t been so damn distracted lately, he wouldn’t have made so many mistakes like this. He needed to get it together already before he got himself killed again.

“And, you know,” Joker continued, “I was thinking, and thinking… and thinking- of some creative new way to kill you…” he trailed off, and Jason could hear footsteps but he still couldn’t see the clown. Just his own reflection, fear mirrored back at him a thousand times.

“But then I thought-,” and then the lights went out and he couldn’t see anything and suddenly he could feel something hovering over his shoulder and he did not like where this was going.

And then the Joker’s voice was right behind him, crooning with delighted malice, “if it ain’t broke!”

There was a whistling noise.

The crowbar came down hard with a crack! against his jaw.

“Don’t fix it!”

He toppled to the floor, still tied to his chair, his left side taking the brunt of the fall where he couldn’t brace himself. He could feel his skull bounce off the concrete. His lungs were constricting with panic. His mouth was filling with blood. Not again, not again.

“Also,” the Joker cackled, the lights in the maze flickering on just in time to watch him bring the crowbar down on Jason’s hands. “How fun is it that I get to murder you twice!”

Pain bloomed in his wrists and his fingers. Broken bones. Bruises. Blood.

“If I had a nickle for every time I’ve killed a Robin-,” Joker mused, stopping to tap the crowbar menacingly against the chair, “well, I wouldn’t exactly be rich but I’d definitely have more nickles than before!”

He watched the crowbar. Up and down. And tap. Tap. Tap. With every word it would thunk against the wood- dangerously close to his already broken hands.

Joker reared back and even though Jason could see it coming it still felt like a shock when he was kicked in the stomach.

Everything hurt. New wounds and old. Phantom pains from the first time he was beaten near to death by this man were making themselves known.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

The mirrors were starting to blur in and out of vision, flashes of the warehouse from before overtaking his sight. Everything was jumbling together in a mess of pain and uncaged fear and his lungs were straining against his ribs and his heart was beating so, so fast and he was gonna die again. He was gonna die.

He wanted Bruce.

The crowbar came down again. And again. Blood splattered the mirrors. Pooled on the concrete.

It was harder for the Joker to beat him while he was still tied to the chair but that didn’t stop him from hitting every inch he could get. All along his right side, blow after blow. And the whole time he was laughing.

Laughing and laughing and laughing.

Wack!

And Jason couldn’t breathe.

Wack!

Where was Bruce? Why wasn’t he here? Why wasn’t he here to save him? Batman always saved him.

Wack!

He wanted his dad.

“That should do it.” Jason could barely hear the Joker’s voice, faded and distorted as it sounded to his ears. He heard the clatter of metal falling to the ground. “Ta, little birdie! Have fun being dead again!”

“Oh, by the by,” he could only just hear the man, smug glee lacing his tone. “I’ve rigged up several bombs this go around. Expanding on a good idea and all that. Gotta make sure you don’t come back this time!”

The sound of feet tapping away, growing fainter and fainter. Leaving him with nothing but the roaring sound of his own heartbeat and the wet, ragged, desperate pull of air into his lungs.

He was going to die here. All over again. He could already feel the lick of fire crawling over him, the smoke choking him and scratching his throat, the pain of bones snapping as he was flung through the air. The sharp burst of pain that meant his skull was getting crushed.

He could hear the sound of ticking. A countdown. A bomb.

Maybe this time it’d be faster. Maybe this time the explosion would take him out instantly. Maybe this time there would be nothing left to bury.

Maybe this time he’d stay dead.

*

Bruce watched the wreckage from the screen of the Bat-Jet, scanning the drone footage that Alfred had sent him of the latest explosion to rock Gotham and her people. He was already traveling as fast as he could to get back to his city, but he couldn’t help but feel like he was too late. Like he’d failed, even though he couldn’t say way.

Something was wrong and it set a cold pit in his stomach to think that one of his children might have been caught up in whatever new trouble this was. Whether it be Tim or Dick or… Jason. He couldn’t stand to loose another soldier.

And then he saw it, on the edge of the camera, the mysterious meta that had been working with Red Hood around the Alley.

Just standing on the edge of the flames. Suspicious.

He closed out of the footage and focused on getting back as fast as possible.

*

Danny made it to the docks and stopped. Everything was on fire. Everything was wrong. Something was crying out in pain, something that tugged at his core. Something familiar. Something dying.

He broke out into a wild sprint, core leading him in a certain direction. He followed without hesitation. There was no sound but the roar of the fire and the crunch of glass under his boots. There was nothing he could see but flame and smoke and splintered beams. There was nothing he could feel but overwhelming heat and panic.

Where?

He listened. Nothing. He crept forward. Which direction? His core was no longer helpful. Just screaming.

Where?

He listened. Nothing. He turned. There was nothing but fire, and fire, and smoke. And rubble.

Where?

He listened. Nothi- There. Something- digital? Like a clock. Like a counter. Like another bomb. Like what had likely caused the first explosion. It started ticking faster and his heart matched the frantic beat. He had to find them. Now.

He moved forward through the debris, intangible, and searched.

There was broken glass everywhere. Reflective, like mirror shards, it made it all the harder to navigate the space. Fire danced in every direction, sometimes a mirage, sometimes real. Danny continued to sweep through it all, searching and searching. The beeping was getting louder. He needed to go faster, but he couldn’t risk missing the one he was searching for in the first place.

He felt like he was melting.

He moved forward again- there. His core cried out. He’d found them.

They looked broken. The remains of what was likely a chair they’d been tied to was strewn across the small patch of concrete, the legs and back of it still pressed against them with charred rope. There was a broad beam of wood, caught on one of the walls that was still standing, that looked like it’d shielded them from the roof coming down.

They were surrounded by a pool of blood and Danny didn’t know what to do. Wasn’t it dangerous to move people with certain injuries? If they were bleeding would moving them exacerbate the blood loss enough to kill them? Would any of that matter if the second bomb went off while they were still here?

They were still breathing, at least.

As gently as he could, even phasing his arms into the ground to maneuver without jostling them. One arm to brace the back, one arm under the knees. He got a good grip on them. Turned them both intangible. Then booked it.

Their body was large, too large, too awkward to carry. Their blood dripped down to the ground with every step, flying behind them and splattering against the concrete and mirror shards. The fire did not touch them, even if it felt like the heat was trying to devour them both. Smoke smothered everything. Without having to stop and search the area like he had before, Danny made good time fleeing the building and the area in general. He’d have continued to run to a hospital but the blood that slicked his hazmat was too concerning. He needed to patch them up first. Somehow.

The blanket Nadi had given him was phased into his stomach for safekeeping. As were multiple knives to cut it with.

He needed to find a place-

A loud BANG! sounded and Danny braced them both.

The bomb had gone off behind them, the blast sending wood and concrete and glass raining in every direction. The fire roared louder. The wind from the blast whirling past them in a concussive force. He kept them intangible until it passed. He pulled the other into an alleyway that just edged the docks, the noise of it burning being dampened. Like a pocket of safety. Or so Danny hoped.

He laid them down and pulled a knife, cutting the rope around their chest and wrists and legs and freeing them from the leftover chair pieces.

Their hands looked the worst off. Crooked and dark with bruises. Bleeding, but sluggishly at least. Slowing, stopping.

Right arm looked broken, leaking red too. He pulled the blanket out and cut a strip off to wrap it. Anything to stem some bleeding. He didn’t dare touch the hands. Pants were torn and scratched but nothing looked bad underneath. No gaping chest or back wounds but their breathing was rapid. Danny then remembered that smoke inhalation was a thing and tore off his breathing apparatus and the tank that connected it.

He didn’t know what being infused with ectoplasm would have done to the oxygen within it, but here’s hoping it would be fine.

He gently rolled them, noticing more blood was pooling around their neck. Shit. But then it looked like a wound from the jaw not the jugular. He balled up another slice of blanket and pressed it to the underside of their chin. He fumbled with the mask with one hand to put it over their mouth.

And then he noticed who he was treating.

Red Hood.

His hands trembled, mixed emotions entangling in his core, but he didn’t stop.

He placed the mask over his face, noticing that this was the first time he’d seen it completely bare. His domino was missing. He tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about anything except what was practical. (Not about his hands, completely mangled. Not about the blood, so so much of it. Not about any of the grief trying to well up inside him, churning like a building storm.) He fit the mask and moved the strap of it so it was holding the blanket in place, leaving his hands free.

He couldn’t take Hood to the hospital, especially not without a domino. But he needed someone. He’d taken Red to someone for medical attention before. He’d try the clinic again. Ancients, he hoped that doctor Leslie lady was still there.

Hood coughed, rough, body jerking with the motion. His eyes blinked hazily and a low groan escaped his throat before his eyelids fluttered closed again.

His eyes were very blue.

They opened again for a moment, staring at nothing, and Danny could see the man trying to say something. He leaned in close but heard nothing. Danny moved back, assuming that Hood had maybe become delirious with anemia. He couldn’t blame the guy, he’d be a hypocrite otherwise.

A low whine reached his ears and he paused to sweep a hand through Red’s hair to offer a moment of comfort. He couldn’t do much, but he hoped it would calm him for the time being. His aching core might not handle it otherwise.

He wrapped Hood up as much as he could and balanced the man and the tank in his arms before lurching to his feet with them both in tow. He really hoped he could remember the way correctly. The blood may not be flowing as bad, but he still wanted the man treated as quickly as possible.

So Danny, as quickly as he could manage, set off to find Dr. Leslie.

*

Jason’s entire body felt like lead. Heavy, weighed down. Like there was a current running over his body that had sunk to the bottom of a river.

He felt like he’d been hit by a truck. He would know. He’d absolutely been hit by a truck before.

This might be worse though.

He didn’t want to open his eyes. Didn’t want to face the world. Didn’t want to fully remember the latest fuck up that had knocked him on his ass. Joker’s laugh was already haunting him, he didn’t need it back in surround sound.

He was so certain that he was going to die. Again. Because he was a dumb-ass that fell into traps too easily with no backup and a foolhardy plan to out villain the villain in order to get what he wanted. And now, here he was, back to square one with nothing to show for his efforts except a broken... everything.

Great.

Question now was- how did he survive? He didn’t remember getting out of there on his own. He didn’t remember getting out of there at all. Maybe he was dead? But this didn’t feel like dying had last time.

(Dying hadn’t really felt like anything at all, not once the pain ended. Or, maybe, he didn’t have a memory of anything else after that. Had he gone to an afterlife? All he knew was that once second he was dying in a warehouse and the next he was waking up in a grave. This didn’t feel half as suffocating as the coffin.)

The only way to answer that would be to open his eyes. Dammit. Fuck.

Someone else was in the room.

He could hear them breathing. Steady. Slow. Someone else had been in the room with him while he was out and injured, which made him tense. But they also seemed to be asleep, which was confusing more than anything. He’d have to open his eyes to even try to guess who it was though. Which he hated. He’d nearly blown up again, the world should be nicer to him. He waited a bit longer, listening to the steady breathing from what sounded like the corner of a small room, before his curiosity (paranoia) finally got the better of him.

He blinked open his eyes, however reluctantly, and braced himself for a blinding light that never came. The room he was in was dim and small. And recognizable. The little sectioned off back room in Leslie’s clinic. Huh.

But who was-

He sucked in a surprised breath that made his lungs ache, making him cough and then groan when that made his ribs twinge. And his jaw ache. Jesus fuck he was a mess.

And Fetcher was there, awake and watching, hovering on the edge of his vision, unmasked face pinched in worry.

He couldn't deal with that right now. He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, fire roaring in the memory that immediately came back to haunt him. The pain. The explosion. The jeering laugh of the mad clown that had gotten the better of him again.

"The Joker?" he rasped.

Fetcher shrugged in a helpless sort of way. I don't know, it said. Then gestured toward Jason, I was looking for you, not him. 

"He got away?" Jason growled and pulled himself upright despite his screaming ribs, anger rising. "All of that bullshit and he got away?"

Fetcher's hands hovered above him, frantic and pleading without fully touching, as if begging him to lay back down. They were caked with dried blood.

"You don't understand," he said, voice strained as he clenched his jaw even as it protested, "He killed me. He beat me near to death and then detonated the bomb. I need him punished. I need him stopped. At any cost. I won't let him do that to anyone else. He's gotten away with so much already and no one's had the balls to actually stop him. And he got. Away."

Fetcher had gone still where he hovered above Jason, shocked frozen. His pale green eyes were wide with something, realization? Fear? Disbelief? But Jason was sinking into the madness of the pits, too far gone on the fury they whipped up inside him. 

"And for what? Me? My life? I don't matter, Fetcher. I already had my chance at life and I was too idiotic and arrogant to do what I needed with it. I'm only here to finish out my mission. Stop the Joker where Batman never could and show Bats that he's been wrong. Everything else is just secondary."

The pits riled within him, boiling his blood like a fever he could never shake. He wanted to claw into his own skin and rip out everything that was wrong with him, the rage that always simmered below the surface was tearing into his soul. If he even still had one. 

"The plan would have never worked," he hissed to himself. "I'm just as impulsive and reckless and stupid as ever- death didn't change that. Fell for that clown's fucking tricks. Knew it couldn't be that easy and I fell for it anyway. Desperate to get on with my plan. Distracted when I shouldn't have been."

His eyes snapped up to lock with Fetcher's, still wide and frozen. "Because of you," he snarled, green venom on his tongue. "Because despite it all I still felt fucking guilty. Even though you're the one that's spying for Ra's. You're the one that's here to drag me back to our master."

Fetcher bared his teeth at Jason, the lost look in his eyes gone and replaced with indignation. He swiped a decisive hand through the air, no. He put his hands up around his eyes like binoculars, the movement jerky and stiff before slicing the air again. Not a spy. 

"The hell you aren't!" Jason threw back. The anger was still building in his chest, searing hot and pushing against his bruised ribs and tattered lungs. "Pit recognizes pit. Ra's dipped you in the Lazarus waters, or maybe he just fished you out of them. Doesn't matter, I don't care. I care that he sent you after me. I care that you lied to me. I care that you're just going to drag me back there."

Fetcher slammed his hands down on the railing of the bed on either side of Jason's head, lip curling over his fangs and eyes flashing that sickening toxic green as he leaned in. Very clearly he mouthed, not. A. Spy. 

“Fuck are you doing here then!?” Jason exploded. "Huh?! Why save me? Why pull me out of there? Why the fuck would you risk yourself for me?! I'M NOT WORTH IT!"

Cold hands came up to cup his face and Jason flinched at how gentle they were when he'd been expecting pain. Fetch leaned close, the anger in his expression having broken to a devastating sort of sadness. He couldn't handle it. Jason closed his eyes, unable to look at something so soft. So heartbreaking. 

Fetcher's forehead touched his and the anger that had been swelling in his chest popped and deflated like a sad balloon- leaving him hollow. 

“I hurt you,” he said with a scratchy whisper, not knowing what else to say but the obvious. He was still just so baffled by why the other man was here. Why he’d gone through the effort to save him. Why he’d stayed when all Jason had ever done was hurt. Bruce had always told him his anger would be his undoing. 

He'd been hasty. Tricked so easily by the last villain he'd ever thought he'd trust. He was so fucking stupid for falling for his traps again. He should have known his plans would fall through, no matter how meticulous he’d been. Self-sabotage. Because he was foolhardy and careless and a moron. Just like he’d always been. Just like Batman had always thought him to be.

And Fetcher had risked himself for his dumb ass. Had been yelled at and hurt by him and still braved the clown and explosions and a burning dock to save him. He should never have put himself in danger like that. Not for Jason. 

“That was dangerous,” he told him, keeping his eyes closed to avoid having to look the other man in the eye. “You shouldn’t have put yourself at risk like that.”

He took a heavy breath, a cough threatening in his throat from the action.

“You should have just let me die.”

And then he felt a smack to his chest and opened startled eyes to find Fetcher still looming over him, angry and glaring with the slight sheen of tears threatening to fall. He pointed a stern finger in Jason’s face and smacked him again, lightly, to get his point across.

“Why do you care?” he asked, confused beyond anything why this angel of a man would do anything for him after the things Jason had done and said.

*

Danny leaned back after he made sure Red knew he wouldn’t stand for that kind of talk. Not from Hood. And he thought about his question.

That was the thing, though, wasn’t it? Why did he care? Because he sure as hell seemed to care more than just a cursory sense of obligation to not let someone die. Despite the fact that Hood had been an absolute asshole back in the dojo. Despite everything- he cared.

It was in the way he’d made Danny food. In the way he’d taken care of him. Made him feel human again, even if only for a moment. In the way he’d pester Danny to eat and sleep and patch him up when he got hurt. It was in the way he cared. About everyone in the Alley. The way he checked in on the girls so often. The way he brought food and blankets to the shelters so often. The way he tolerated playing with the Alley kids even when he was busy. It was in the way he talked about the changes he planned to bring to Gotham. To make it better. Make it livable for everyone. In how many people he wanted to help that way.

Yes, he murdered people. Yes, he was a Crime Lord. Yes, he could be a bit of a dick.

But he was earnest in his efforts to make the Alley, and Gotham at large, a safe place for innocents. He was a man made of compassion underneath it all. Made of strong convictions and strong emotion. Sometimes that emotion was anger and it overwhelmed him and he lashed out because of it. And yes, he’d lashed out at Danny, but Danny was nothing if not a glutton for punishment and if it meant having Red’s homemade soup again- he’d save the man any day.

He couldn’t exactly say any of that though.

So he simply stepped forward and smiled, small and tired and gave Red another shrug. Then he thought about it a bit and brought a finger to the other man’s chest, tapping the area where his heart was, reveling in the confused look it bought him.

“My heart?” Red asked slowly. “Do you… want it?”

Danny tilted his head in question, now also perplexed.

“Like to eat or something?”

He had to take a deep breath and turn away, shoulders shaking from the laughter he was trying to keep down. Red thought he saved him, that he cared- because he was saving his heart to snack on?! Why? What the fuck? What the hell kind of life experiences had this man had for that to be a reasonable conclusion?

He got himself under control and turned back around to see Hood giving him a bemused smile. It was a nice smile.

He huffed a bit and waved his hand in order to refute Red’s previous idea of cannibalism. Because really. He thought about it, how to convey everything he was thinking. Everything that made Hood a good man at his core.

He pointed at Red. You. And then he held up a hand, flat with his palm facing inward and his fingers touching his chin and pulled it away in a decisive, forward motion. It was one of the few signs he’d been taught so far. Good. And then he tapped Red’s chest again and could almost feel the beating under his fingers. Heart.

Red scrunched his nose and shook his head. “I do not. And that’s way too fucking cheesy a reason anyway.”

Danny rolled his eyes and smacked Hood for what felt like the tenth time already since he’d woken up.

Red smiled before it dropped. He looked up past Danny and toward the ceiling, staring at nothing with a grim look on his face. Danny couldn’t even begin to guess what he was thinking about.

“I was stupid,” Hood murmured. “All I’ve been since I got back is stupid. I never should have fallen for Joker’s trap. Never should have been so blind to what he was up to.”

Danny fucking hated clowns for a reason and the Joker was just one of them. He watched as Hood raised a heavily bandaged hand in an attempt to comb it through his hair, only to pull back and stare blankly at the mitten of gauze and wrap that enveloped both hands. He accepted his fate with a sigh, weary and broken and Danny wanted so badly to fix it, but he couldn’t. All he could do was watch.

“But I needed him. Still need him. He’s the center of the question, here. The crux of the whole problem,” Red kept talking, low and mumbling and Danny was certain that he wasn’t talking to him anymore. But he wasn’t about to stop listening.

“I underestimated how much it would affect me- seeing him again for the first time. I should have handled that better.”

Danny could see blood seeping into the bandages around his hands, likely from Hood agitating his own wounds for whatever reason. He reached out and caught one of the hands between his own, tapping at the edge where the wrapping stopped in a bid to remind Hood of what he was doing and to stop hurting himself.

“You don’t understand-,” he gritted out. “I need that fucker dead. I won’t let him murder anyone else.”

Hood closed his eyes again. “I should have been the line. My death should have been the line.”

And Danny froze.

No. No, he couldn’t be- He didn’t feel like a ghost. Or a halfa, even. But sometimes… No. There was no way. It was so faint. You couldn’t be a third of a ghost or whatever and he didn’t set off Danny’s ghost sense at all and- he was getting far too ahead of himself. He didn’t even know what Red Hood meant. Maybe he’d gone into cardiac arrest before. Been only medically dead for a few minutes. No ghostly business involved.

But was that what he'd meant- pit recognizes pit? Was that why he'd flown off the handle? He didn't know. But he had to make sure.

He leaned over Red where he was still reclined back in the bed Doctor Leslie had ordered Danny to place him. Bruised and bloody and broken. Almost dead a second time.

He held the man’s head between his hands again, solemn as he searched for- for something. Red didn’t say a word, just let it happen, eyes opening and trying to catch Danny’s- question what he was doing without interrupting. And Danny just looked into bright, bright blue and- there was a thin sliver of green. Ectoplasm green. Barely there and barely noticeable. But there all the same.

He pulled back and made Red focus on him. On his stare. All the while lifting a hand and turning it intangible to plunge into the other’s chest. If he was a ghost, or a half ghost, or a quarter ghost, he should have something of a core. Even if it was hiding.

Hood gasped and sputtered and coughed and tried to fight off Danny’s arm with useless hands. But Danny kept his soft grip on the uninjured side of Red’s face and brought his forehead down to rest on Hood’s, trying to calm him. It shouldn’t hurt- just feel weird. But he hadn’t exactly given the other a warning.

He felt Red shiver underneath him, the feeling of a ghost running a cold hand through your chest was never a pleasant sensation, but it was necessary.

He didn’t feel anything at first, waving a hand through Red’s chest, slowly combing through muscle and organ and bone and blood. He didn’t have much experience looking for a core, especially not in one currently still living, but he was letting his instincts drive him. He needed to know.

And then he felt it.

It wasn’t a core, not quite. Not so ghostly but definitely of the dead. It was half-formed and weak and felt like poison. It pulsed feebly when his fingers brushed over it, a chorus of anger fear rage pain betrayal betrayal betrayal rang out from the touch.

He pulled back, just enough to take his arm out of Red’s chest and let him breathe, but not enough that he left the bedside. He let Hood take in ragged breaths, coughing and heaving from smoke inhalation damage (he regretted it for that, but not enough to have stopped his search). When it looked like the other had calmed down and was about to question just what the hell Danny had done, he held up a hand.

He pointed at Red. You. He slid a finger across his own throat. Died. And tilted his head to the side to turn it into a question, even though he knew the answer.

“Yes,” Hood said, voice rougher and raspier than before, tight from the cough and likely sore throat. “I died, Fetch.”

Danny stared down at the man, debating on what to say. Red’s eyes, a blue that looked deeper in the dim lighting, searched Danny's but he didn’t say anything either. Just let the quiet sit between them for a moment.

Eventually, Danny lifted and hand and pointed towards himself. I. He slid a finger across his throat. Died. He held up two fingers. Too.

Chapter Text

Jason blinked up at Fetch and his solemnly earnest expression and could not wrap his head around what the other was trying to tell him. Idly, he noticed that Fetcher got his hair cut. It looked nice, trimmed down to his shoulders and the burnt edges gone, but it still floated distractingly in the air around his head. It looked fluffy and Jason was extremely tempted to touch it.

But haircuts could only distract him for so long.

Fetcher died too… He died. But he was here. But he’d died before too. The kindest jellyfish he’d ever met had died. And it would explain the green, if Fetcher had been resurrected like Jason had thought. But he'd claimed he wasn't a spy... But then he'd also never said he wasn’t associated with Ra’s. But how else would the kid still be here in not Lazarus water? So was he working for Ra’s or wasn’t he? Was it a completely unrelated instance of resurrection or something else entirely had brought him back? Was he actually a Pit Demon like Jason had accused? But. Everything felt jumbled in his mind. None of it made any sense. Maybe it was the weird feeling of having Fetcher’s hand comb through his chest still lingering and throwing his thoughts out of sort. He thought the fury would rise again, he thought he should be angry- his blood should be boiling and he should be seeing green again. But-

“What?” was about the only thing he could squeeze out of his ragged throat.

He watched as Fetcher fidgeted with his gloves for a time, picking at the fingers one by one before finally just taking them off. His hands were as white as his face but his nails were tinted green. It didn’t look like nail polish. Huh. They were also sharp. His hands were small but his fingers long, like you would expect to see on a pianist, elegantly proportioned. He watched Fetcher wring his gloves in thought before he looked up. He tilted his head in consideration before he mimed what looked like a fork? And then mimed shoving it forward- and then started fake convulsions.

Fucking seriously?!

“You-,” he had trouble gathering his will to address what he just saw. “Stuck a fork in a socket and electrocuted yourself?”

Fetcher then had the audacity to tilt his hand in a so-so motion and shrug. Like that explained a single goddamn thing. He wasn’t going to push it. He refused to touch any of whatever the hell that was. He would only come out of it more confused than he started. So, sure, Fetcher died by electrocuting himself like a dumb-ass but only sort of. Whatever.

He sighed, before asking the more relevant question, “How’d you come back?”

And Fetcher looked away, nervous. And Jason didn’t like that. Was it bad? Was it against his will? An experiment gone wrong? Had it been as horrific as Jason’s had been? Had Ra's done something to him-

Fetcher shook his head.

“No?” he asked. Did he just not want to talk about it? Did he not know?

Fetcher’s shoulder’s sagged before he pulled them back and looked Jason in the eye. He pointed to himself. I. And then pulled a finger across his throat. Died.

“Yeah,” Jason said slowly, perplexed. “You died. You said that.”

Fetcher shook his head again, agitated, before he seemed to give up and put a hand through his own chest this time. Just as weird as the first time Jason saw him do it. Kid was a black hole in there, just a bunch of shit packed into his own intestines. Jason didn’t know how he did that and he didn’t want to know. It was also odd to see him root around in there when he now had first hand experience how it felt. Like some grotesque reverse chest-burster. 4/10 would not like to experience again. Four because it still wasn’t the worst experience he had and while it was shocking it wasn’t painful. Felt like a fair rating all things considered.

He pulled out his trusty whiteboard and dry-erase marker and Jason was absolutely not prepared for what Fetcher wrote down when he flipped the board over for him to read.

I didn’t come back.

Oh god.

“What…” he trailed off and swallowed hard, trying to put his words together again. “Do you mean, Fetch?”

He gave Jason a small, sad smile before writing on his board again. He seemed to brace himself before flipping it over, expression wary when he did.

I’m a ghost.

A ghost. A spirit. Someone not quite there anymore. And he thought about the invisibility and the density-shifting and it made some modicum of sense, but at the same time it still didn’t make any sense at all. Fetcher was so alive. Jason could reach out and touch him. He smiled and laughed and bled. He couldn’t be…

“You called yourself a Fetch before,” he pointed out, still surrounded by more questions than answers.

The kid nodded and started writing again.

A Fetch is a type of ghost. I didn’t say so earlier because people don’t like ghosts.

He fidgeted after flipping the board over this time, jostling it so it was almost hard for Jason to read. But he managed. He didn’t like what was there.

“People… don’t like ghosts,” he said, trying to figure out who, exactly, had been so prejudice against a dead kid that he believed everyone hated ghosts. When a majority of the populace didn’t believe in them. At least he was pretty sure. He may have traveled in odd circles after coming back but he’s pretty sure he would have noticed if ghosts were suddenly a confirmed thing.

Fetcher nodded sadly, fiddling with the cap of his cheap little blue marker and avoiding eye contact.

“That’s stupid,” Jason blurted, watching the other blink in surprise and fumble with the marker- startled. “What the hell kind of discrimination is that? Ghoulphobia?”

And he watched as a smile tugged at the edges of Fetcher’s mouth, reluctant but growing. He ducked his head behind his whiteboard before angling it to write and still hide his face. Jason could tell he was still smiling, though, which is what mattered.

Ghoulphobia is a very serious problem and impacts Spirits and Undead-aligned people of all kinds. Including you.

“I’m sure,” Jason drawled, willing to let a little amusement bleed through, if only for a moment. “Speaking of spirits and the undead-aligned,” Jason began, not liking how Fetcher had counted him in that description, “what, precisely, do you mean by including me?”

Fetcher blinked. Tilted his head. He leaned on arm over the board and gestured toward Jason. You. And then he slid his finger across his throat and boy was Jason getting tired of that. Died. And then he flipped a palm up in a motion as if to say, ‘isn’t that obvious?’

“Yeah, I know I died,” Jason retorted, “but I came back. Living,” he emphasized. “Not a zombie. Got a pulse and everything.”

Fetcher tilted his head back, eyes closing, looking like he was trying to gather strength. Yeah, Jason felt about the same about all this. He didn’t like this conversation and yet, here they were, having it anyway. God, he’d just gotten blown up by a clown for the second time, could he have no rest? Could he not just live out the rest of his life/unlife blissfully unaware of the intricacies of how he came back and what he qualified as now if it was anything but human.

The other shook himself a bit before bringing a reluctant marker down on whiteboard again.

Not all the way. Not correctly. Something's off- I checked.

Jason blue-screened a bit, the inside of his mind becoming a window’s screen saver. One life-altering revelation after another here, just sucker punch after sucker punch when he was already down with a bruised jaw. He came back wrong. He’d fucked up coming back to life somehow. He wasn’t even aware that was something you could really fuck up. Should be a zero-sum game- you’re either dead or alive. But no, apparently there were more in-betweens than he’d realized. Fuck.

“You checked?” he decided to ask instead of thinking about literally anything else about this situation.

Fetcher mimed shoving his hand down and ah, yes, the hand-in-Jason’s-chest-and-rooting-around-thing he’d done earlier that Jason had decidedly not liked. Fantastic.

“Care to elaborate,” Jason said through gritted teeth. He died, big whoop. All that mattered was that he was back. That he was alive now. That he had a chance to seek vengeance, to get answers. To right the Batman’s wrongs. Even if he only had a limited time to do it. But he needed to know how much. If something went wrong with his resurrection did that mean he could die again at any moment?

Fetcher’s face twisted in uncertainty and he gave a sort of half-shrug before writing again and turning the board.

I’m not an expert. All I can really tell is that something is wrong. You have ectoplasm like ghosts do, but not a lot. And it’s like poison. But couldn’t tell you what it’s doing to you.

“Ectoplasm is real?” he questioned, thinking about the Ghostbuster’s movies, and deciding to not touch any of the other things Fetcher mentioned. Poisoned… He’d experienced the Pit Rage briefly when he’d come out of the Lazarus Waters but it had faded. At least he thought it had. He was a bit angrier than he had been before but he had a lot to be pissed about. “Wait, wait, do you know about the Lazarus Pits and would they have anything to do with it?”

Fetcher tilted his head in thought, pale green eyes flicking up to the side. His eyelashes were white and long and pretty, Jason noted while waiting for an answer.

Fetcher shook his head and took to writing, starting and stopping and erasing before writing again. He flipped the board over with a shrug, like he wasn’t sure about his answer.

Ectoplasm is all around, the ambient kind at least. The residue of Death. It comes in multiple forms and uses and its usually not visible to humans. You’ve seen it before because it’s in my blood. Organic Ectoplasm. Whatever a Lazarus Pit is might be ectoplasm, might not be. What you have in your system almost feels like Combative Ectoplasm. Like a bullet wound with the bullet still inside?

Jason blinked, “Like shrapnel?”

Fetcher nodded.

Jason fell back against his pillow, staring up at the ceiling and trying to absorb everything he’d learned so far. Fetcher died from electrocution that may or may not have been self-inflicted. Fetcher was a ghost. Fetch was a type of ghost, but he didn’t know what that specifically meant and he was pretty sure that Fetcher didn’t want to tell him. Fetcher’s blood had ectoplasm and was likely why it was bright neon green. Jason had ectoplasm in him and it may or may not have anything to do with the Lazarus Pits and it apparently felt like poison. Jason had not come back all the way like he’d first assumed. He sighed, deeply. What a fucking day already.

“Do I even want to know the difference between ambient, organic, and combative ectoplasm?”

The other sighed before scrunching his nose with displeasure and reluctantly erasing and writing on the board again. He seemed frustrated with every letter, like he wasn’t happy with whatever explanation he was trying to write. Great. Jason’s source of info wasn’t anything like an expert and he had no other way to find one. He was fucked.

Ambient ecto is the stuff that’s just everywhere. Like soup. Organic is the stuff that makes up ghosts themselves. Like blood and organs. Combative ecto is what it says on the tin. Used to fight. Regenerative ecto is used to heal.

Like soup? Like soup?! Jason just might kill the kid a second time if this kept up. That was a whole other forth category of ectoplasm on there too! And why was there a whole separate type of ectoplasm for fighting? Why was ambient ectoplasm just everywhere? Like? Soup? What made the types different? He still didn’t even know what ectoplasm was, aside from the ever helpful explanation that it was ‘death residue’.

“You’re killing me, jellyfish,” he groaned.

And then Fetcher was leaning over him, where he’d fallen back onto the bed in dismay, a soft look in his eyes and an excited little smile on his face that made him radiant.

“What,” Jason said flatly. What had he done to warrant that kind of expression? He didn’t deserve a look so gentle.

Fetcher pointed at him. You. He made a gesture with his hand starting from his open mouth waving outward. Called. He pointed back to himself. Me. He held one hand up, cupped slightly over the top of the other which he wiggled the fingers of- like tentacles. Jellyfish.

“Yeah?” he replied, not understanding why that would make Fetcher look so damn happy. It was just a nickname, a stupid one at that. He used them all the time, what made this time so different?

Fetcher rolled his eyes before pulling out the board again with a sigh.

You haven’t used any nicknames since the dojo fight. I missed them.

“Oh,” he said, a little choked. Fuck, what a punch to the gut. A fantastic reminder that he’d so thoroughly messed up when he lashed out at Fetcher in the dojo, let his anger take hold and jumped to conclusions. And that he still hadn’t apologized. He was a fucking mess and he didn’t deserve to have such a sweet guy around. But, for some godforsaken reason, the guy wanted to be around him. Looks like he’d just have to get over himself about it.

“Sorry,” he said, voice a little strangled. What he meant by that apology he didn’t quite know. Sorry for not using the nicknames again earlier? Sorry for not knowing that he missed them? Sorry for the hurt he’d caused with the fight itself? All of it and more?

And then Fetcher’s smile stretched wider- and on some level it hurt to look at. He didn’t deserve to see such happiness on the other’s face, not when he’d been the one to inflict so much pain. He wasn’t about to be more of an ass and fuck off about it though. That would just punish Fetcher- and he’d done enough already.

The ghost touched a hand to his chin and brought it forward, eyes warm and happy. Thank you.

“I-,” Jason said, pursing his lips, conflicted. “Don’t- don’t thank me for that. It’s not enough.”

At this the other looked perplexed, tilting his head again before picking his board back up, tapping his marker against the edge before writing.

Why? You thought I was there to betray you. You said mean things, but it wasn’t anything I haven’t heard before. Or anything that isn’t true.

And that just broke his fucking heart.

He wanted to beg and plead and make the other understand that he wasn’t a monster, wasn’t a demon, or an experiment gone wrong. He wanted to tell Fetcher that he was an angel. A precious soul. He wanted to tell him that Jason was the monster, not him. That he was so, so sorry for making him think anything else. But he knew, from experience, that words like ‘evil’ and ‘wrong’ were hard ones to shake. He’d been called all that and worse since he came back, vindictive and violent for all the things that happened to him.

Once upon a time he’d been a Robin, a spark of light and joy in the dark streets of Gotham, but those days were long behind him. He’d been afraid since his resurrection that death had changed him, irrevocably, and maybe for the worse. This new knowledge that he hadn’t come back all the way just confirmed it. Jason had come out of the other side filled with cold fury, a demon hellbent on vengeance, and he knew it. Fetcher came out of the other side an angel, a sweet soul, convinced he was a demon when he wasn’t.

He’d have to prove it. Little by little. That despite being a ghost, despite no longer being human, Fetcher was still good. That being a monster didn’t make him bad. (And maybe, maybe there was a part of himself that wanted to prove he wasn’t bad either. That while he was a monster too- he could be good again.)

“Jellyfish,” he said seriously, using the nickname with purpose, “I jumped to conclusions when I shouldn’t have. I-when your eyes went green- I just-”

And he wanted to run his hands through his hair in frustration, none of his words coming out the way he wanted. He wanted to explain himself to Fetcher, wanted to let the other know why he’d acted that way. But he couldn’t seem to wrangle them, couldn’t seem to work through the heavy knot his thoughts around it all had become. It required thinking about how he’d come back. Thinking about what had happened immediately after. Explaining all the things he’d seen and felt and had to endure at Ra’s hand. And he couldn’t.

He wanted to reach out to Fetcher, reassure him with a gentle hand that he hadn’t meant any of it. Run his fingers through that soft, cloud-like hair. Cradle his face within his palms to show him that he was unafraid to touch a so-called monster. Anything, anything to be able to convey what he meant without having to say the words. But his hands sat useless by his side, wrapped to all hell from how much Joker had broken them. His own stupidity, his own vindictiveness, had landed him here.

But Fetcher simply smiled, small and sad, and shook his head. It’s okay, he seemed to say, you don’t have to explain.

And it frustrated him because he wanted to explain. Wanted to tell Fetcher everything. He frowned and decided that while he couldn’t go in depth, couldn’t fully talk about it, he’d at least give the other something.

“I was brought back,” he began, stolidly looking up at the ceiling, “by the League of Assassins. An association that’s just like it sounds and is led by an immortal man named Ra’s Al Ghul.”

He pursed his lips, skipping over quite a bit of detail to talk about what felt more relevant. “Ra’s has a- thing is really the best word for it, even when it isn’t at all actually? I don’t know. Anyway, he has a thing against- uh- my former mentor, I guess. And he brought me back to use as a weapon against him.”

He felt a chilled hand (and he supposed being a ghost would explain why Fetch was always so cold) rest against his forearm, not demanding or cajoling, just there in support. He wanted so badly to hold it.

“What he uses to keep himself immortal and what brought me back is called a Lazarus Pit. It’s- incredibly toxic and-,” he swallowed heavily, trying to come up with any way in which to describe the Pits, “green. Very green.”

A look of understanding washed across Fetcher’s face and his hand squeezed Jason’s forearm a bit in reassurance. It burned where he touched, where he was unused to gentle contact, and he wanted more. He wanted to reach out and do the same, to touch, to reassure. To goddamn feel something under his fingertips. But his hands were beaten, bruised, and broken. He was broken. Fundamentally, broken.

“I should have never-,” he tried to say, his words growing thick and hard to speak again, “never taken it out on you. Just because I died- just because I… was afraid. And-”

The hand that was on his arm moved, another hand joining it as they both cupped his face. Still so achingly gentle. Fetcher moved closer, knocking their foreheads together and keeping his stare steady with Jason’s. He wanted to flinch away, wanted to look anywhere but into those soft green eyes- light and beautiful like peridot- because he was so scared at what he would find there. Judgment. Anger. Fear. But there was nothing but a calm reassurance within them, nothing but a certainty Jason didn’t think he deserved.

And then those eyes slipped closed, long white eyelashes brushing pale white cheeks and Fetcher purred.

“Holy shit,” he gasped as it felt like he was being surrounded by the deep, thrumming purr. It was comforting in a way he couldn’t express, in a way he’d never felt before.

It felt like the first time he’d been wrapped protectively under Batman’s cape. Like the first time Alfred had given him hot chocolate with marshmallows after a rough night. Like the first time Dick had even acknowledged him as Robin. Like the first time Bruce had hugged him. Like the first time Alfred had told him how proud he was of him. Like those rare soft nights with his mother, where she had held him and rocked him once upon a time, before everything had gone so bad.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to bask in the sound and never listen to anything else.

A deep rumble started in his chest that made both of them startle back. Beetlejuice junior blinked, rapidly, before grinning and leaning forward again, purring back. It felt like a weird feedback loop where King Boo’s purr caused his own to start back up and then the other would purr harder and he didn’t really know what the fuck was happening here.

“I can purr,” he said, voice flat while trying to work out how, exactly, he felt about that (not all that bad apparently, because his own purr didn’t stop). He looked back to the little guy, who was grinning wide- pleased with himself, and said, “You can purr.”

Ghost of Smugness Present nodded, happy as anything, purr growing louder and glow, somehow, getting brighter.

“How the fuck,” he asked, without really asking, the rumble in his chest making his voice stutter just a bit. Fantastic.

And Casper, the all too-self-satisfied ghost, just shrugged. Great.

So- just a checklist of things he’d woken up to so far: Fetcher himself and all the emotional turmoil just seeing him caused, pain like no other from almost dying by the hands of the Joker again, finding out that Fetcher had died and hadn’t come back, finding out that he hadn’t come back- not correctly at least, fumbling an emotionally stunted apology, and finally- mutual purring.

This was too much. He wanted to go back to sleep right now please and thank you.

“You’re awake,” came a stern voice from the doorway and it made Jason knock back into the bed with a groan. The purring from both of them had stopped the moment she spoke.

“Dr. Thompkins,” he greeted, hoping against hope that she would just knock him back into unconsciousness so he wouldn’t have to deal with the world anymore. “Lovely as ever.”

“Red Hood,” she said curtly as she made her way into the small room and began a cursory exam. When she held a stethoscope to his chest he breathed in deeply without needing to be told. He wondered how bad his lungs sounded after all the smoke inhalation. He recognized the steps to check for a concussion next, checking his reflexes and pupil dilation and what felt like a dozen other things. She was methodical and stoic as she worked, not saying a word except to direct him for the next test.

“You know,” she started, finally breaking the silence and placing the stethoscope back around her neck, “for some reason, I expected to recognize you without the helmet.”

And it was only in that moment that he remembered he didn’t even have his domino on. Bare-faced to the world. In the room with someone who’d treated his wounds plenty of times when he was younger. The only thing keeping his identity hidden was his presumed death and puberty. Leslie had narrowed her eyes, gaze roaming over his sloppy black hair and blue eyes and no doubt wondering if he was somehow related to Bruce.

“Is it because I’m prettier than you expected?” he asked, deflecting, and batted his eyelashes up at her, hoping to get her to stop looking so closely.

“Hardly,” she drawled back, tone dry.

He could sense more than hear the little slimer gijinka laughing at him from his corner. Rude.

“In any case,” Leslie said, “I don’t know what you did to yourself this time, the unknown poison almost taking you out was bad enough, but this is going to keep you down for longer than you’d probably like.”

He closed his eyes with a sigh, “I figured as much.” He opened his eyes and told Leslie, sincerely, “Sorry for all the trouble, doc. I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

She crossed her arms across her chest, white coat swaying with the motion, and made sure she had his full attention. “You’re going to need help. Whether you like it or not, your hands are the worst off and your other injuries mean you can’t exert yourself. If you try to recover on your own then you’re just going to end up back in my clinic with an infection or head injury because you fell trying to do too much all at once.”

“But-”

“No. I know your type. Secretive. Headstrong. Paranoid. I don’t care. My job is to make sure I don’t have to see you again unless its a check-up.”

He sighed again, something he felt like he was doing a lot lately. “Fine. I’ll find help.”

She nodded shortly. “Now, are you alright with your friend over there listening in or would you rather he step outside while I give you a run down of what to expect?”

Jason gave little banquo a considering look. Did he want Fetcher in the room to hear all the gritty details? He wasn’t exactly shy about his injuries and Fetcher had already seen and treated them on the scene anyway. He didn’t really care if the other heard or not. He watched as Fetcher twisted in his seat, nervous hands fluttering in his lap as he waited for Jason to make his decision. What cinched it wasn’t asking himself if he cared about the other hearing it all, but more about asking himself if he wanted Fetcher to leave. And, really, the answer was no. He didn’t want to make jellyfish leave.

“He can stay,” he finally answered, watching with a small smile as Fetcher seemed to slump in his chair a bit. He wasn’t the only one that didn’t want the other to leave then.

Leslie just nodded and settled down on a stool on the other side of the bed Jason was resting on. She swiveled it and pulled a file from the pocket of her coat, opening it and giving Jason a stern glare with each diagnosis she listed off.

“Right-sided hairline fracture to the mandible, bruised ribs- and probably a few fractures, but I don't exactly have an x-ray big enough to find out and I didn't want to press the ultra-sound wand against them and make them worse. We both know it wouldn't matter anyway because the recovery is the same regardless. Smoke inhalation damage that we might not know the extent of yet, so I want you and your friend to keep a look out for any signs of a worsening headache, dizziness, hallucinations, or any trouble breathing. I wouldn't worry as much about smoke inhalation from a normal fire but this is Gotham so who knows what the hell kind of chemicals were burning out there and made their way into your lungs."

She sighed, one hand still holding the file open and the other pinching at her nose. She sounded tired. "Your lungs sounded clear enough, for now, but I don't have the equipment really needed to be sure. Your ABG and CBC both came back fine, but without a CT or a bronchoscopy- there could be damage I don't know about. Regardless, you got a nebulized heparin treatment- which means try not to bleed because that is a blood-thinner, along with some albuterol and NAC. You're at extreme risk of pneumonia, between the ribs and the smoke. So if you come back and tell me you weren't doing any deep breathing exercises I might have to just smother you with a pillow. You've got lacerations everywhere, and a wound to the back of the head that I’m seriously surprised hasn’t shown signs of having caused a concussion.”

She looked him dead in the eye, "And we haven't even started on your hands."

“That bad?” he croaked, voice cracking as he asked. They hurt. They hurt like a bitch, and he was honestly afraid to find out the extent of the damage. He knew the Joker had done a number on them, but he’d be fine. He’d always been fine before, injuries were always temporary- until they weren’t.

“Hood,” she said, lips pursed, “you’re lucky you still have them.”

He grimaced and closed his eyes, not wanting to hear the words. Not wanting to face that reality.

“I did what I could,” Leslie continued, “but I’m not a miracle worker. I can preform general surgery, but to properly reconstruct your hands would take an expert. And a miracle.”

She sighed and snapped the file closed and placed it on his lap. “The details are all in there, but you really need to get them checked out by an ortho specialist, a plastic surgeon, any team more equipped to deal-”

“No,” he said lowly, still refusing to look at the rest of the world around him. “I can’t go to anyone legit.”

“You could lose them, if you don’t,” the doctor snapped.

He said nothing, knowing she was right but not wanting to admit it.

The stool creaked as Leslie stood and made her way towards the door. “Whatever you decide, you’re going to need help. Your hands, if you want to give them any chance of healing correctly, need to rest.”

“Red Hood,” she said, tone serious and heavy. Reluctantly he opened his eyes and met her piercing stare. “You are going to have to trust whoever helps you with a lot. It will be embarrassing and invasive and make you feel incredibly vulnerable.”

She pointed a stern finger back at him, “Don’t chance losing your hands just because you don’t like it,” and then left.

Just- yet another bomb to drop on top of everything else so far. Had he even been awake an hour yet? How long had he been out? Was it still the same day? The same twenty-four hour period? Because if it was, Jason would like to classify all of this as one of the worst days of his life. Afterlife. Whatever. Top five. Not the absolute worst but definitely fucking up there.

He felt the tap of a cold finger against his shoulder and turned to face Fetcher, who was holding up his whiteboard and looking at him imploringly.

Will you let me help you?

And damn was spooks way too good at puppy-dog eyes. He’d ask the guy to put his gear back on to spare him the power of them, if he didn’t know that the suggestion would probably backfire spectacularly.

They were probably rushing this again. This trust thing. There were still so many secrets between the two of them, even if there were less now. Something was bound to give between them. Nothing good ever lasted in his life and Fetcher was just another person that would leave him eventually. He couldn’t die like his first mom had, so it’d probably be something worse- a betrayal like his second mom? Or maybe Jason would do something stupid and drive him away again, hurt him, make him leave.

But he’d take all the time he could get for now. He was a bit of a selfish bastard sometimes.

A quirked a small smile and said, “Sure, bedsheet boy.”

And he reveled in the sputtering look of offense that crossed Fetcher’s face. And he laughed when the other threw his marker at him, even though it hurt.

*

“You got footage of him,” Tim stated as he stared up at the grainy image of the so-called Fetcher standing in front of the flames of the latest dock explosion.

“Mn,” Bruce replied, hands on the keys of the Bat-computer as he tried to enhance the image.

Tim squinted as the details only became more pixelated the further Bruce tried to zoom in. No amount of cleaning would render that image viable, but he left that opinion to himself. There was something he was able to notice, though.

“They really do look similar,” he muttered to himself, bringing up the image of the Doctors Fenton- that he’d yet to show Bruce- on his tablet.

Bruce stopped his work and turned to Tim without a word, demanding an explanation without actually demanding it. It was something that still put Tim on edge sometimes, but he’d convinced himself he was used to it. Tim handed the tablet over.

“It’s the best lead on Fetcher we have,” Tim rushed to explain. “The Hazmat suit he wears is customized and entirely similar to the ones worn and patented by the Fentons.”

He waited and watched as Bruce thumbed through what meager files he’d managed to scrounge up about the doctors; what they studied, where they’d studied, all their patents, their family history, the sketchy government agency they’d signed contracts with- everything he could scrape together. There were plenty of holes, strike-outs of huge swathes of information that he contributed to said government agency. Which was strange because Tim was usually so good at breaking into government severs and databases and really anything else he liked- but the GIW (a name he could not find the meaning of the acronym for) had protections like no other. What little he could find only mentioned warnings about keeping to paper and to watch out for someone called Technus.

“Ectoplasm,” Bruce stated, voice just as flat as usual. Tim winced.

“Yeah, I’m not too sure about that either,” he admitted. “But we’ve dealt with weirder things.”

“Mn,” Bruce said, tone suggesting he agreed. Then he turned and pulled all of Tim’s files onto the big screen, pulling the photos over to more directly compare. He sat down in the chair in front of the computer and focused his full attention on the task at hand.

Tim knew a dismissal when he saw one and decided to leave Bruce to his musings, figuring he could bribe Alfred into a late night cup of coffee. He felt disappointed in what little information he’d been able to offer Bruce, he needed to search more. Find more. Dig deeper. He could prove himself. He would do it. He’d help.

As he was making his way back to the manor he could swear he heard Bruce speaking to himself.

“So I really am being haunted.”

Chapter Text

They got back from Doctor Leslie’s clinic after she’d kicked them out in the early hours of the morning. Danny couldn’t really tell you which day or how long they’d been in her clinic, but he could tell you it was early. Too damn early for anything, let alone traversing the back-streets of Gotham and hoping no one tried to jump them while Red’s hands were tied. He carefully directed Danny down the streets and made sure he didn’t get lost as they made their way to one of Red’s safe-houses. From what he was able to tell it looked like the same one he’d first been brought to, the one he was most familiar with. The one that looked the most lived in.

They both collapsed on the couch and didn’t move for a long while, neither of them dropping off to sleep like they should have- just trying to process everything.

Danny chose to stare at the ceiling, the colors of everything around him seemed so bright- no matter how often he’d had his tinted visor off lately, it was still something he wasn’t used to. He’d... existed, for so long, with everything in shadows and bathed in a sheen of darkness. His face felt naked and vulnerable to the world.

He didn’t want to put it back on, though. Which was a new and terrifying feeling.

He chose to ignore it and bask in the silence of the apartment, the only sounds being the hum of the appliances and the distant hustle of the city. There was a surprising lack of screaming and sirens that usually plagued Gotham, probably from the ungodly early hour. Even the terror of Gotham had to sleep sometimes- the rogues and the bats all tucked away all nice in bed while the normies went about their day.

What a wild place he’d landed in.

He hoped that explosion hadn’t hurt anyone else. He’d been far too distracted by making sure Red made it out okay that he didn’t even think to look for any other casualties. Although, he was pretty certain no one else liked to hang around the carnival themed area of the docks so the likelihood of any others getting caught in the blast was low. But not zero. Whatever the case, it was too late now- the cleanup and aftermath having long since passed. Whatever bodies there may or may not have been weren’t something he could help with now. It wasn’t something he particularly want to think about either. (There seemed to be quite a few things that he didn’t want to think about.)

He thought, instead, about what to do with Red’s hands. As a ghost, Danny had some semblance of accelerated healing. So, theoretically, since Hood was also ghost-adjacent, he could have accelerated healing too. Maybe Danny could jump-start the process? Figure out a way to blast his hands with enough regenerative ectoplasm that it fixed them all shiny and new instead of making them radioactive? He also needed to take care of that poison pooling in the other’s chest. He didn’t like it. He’d never encountered ectoplasm that was so rancid before. Usually you could tell the intent of the stuff by the smell or the taste- some instinctual sense ghosts had to tell one type of goo from another. The stuff Hood had felt like nothing but pure malice. It had no other purpose but to hurt.

It was close enough to ectoplasm to bring the other back to life (if that’s even what did it in the first place) and give Red some ghostly attributes (like purring!) so it stood to reason that pure or at least regenerative ecto would fix it. But would flushing his system with it work? Would it eradicate the poisoned ecto or would that have to be removed first for it all to work? Would anything even happen at all? Would any of it help or would trying to do any of that just kill him all the way? Red had been alive with the bad-goo for this long without much consequence, who’s to say it even needed to be removed at all?

Danny didn’t know. Danny didn’t even have the slightest clue. He wasn’t a doctor. He wasn’t an expert. All he had were questions and shoddy speculations. Nothing he could test. Nothing he would dare mention to Red in case it went horribly, horribly wrong.

It would be fine as it was for now. Probably. Hood would just have to deal with his hands healing at a normal human rate, no matter how long and terrible that was.

They sat for a good while longer. Danny in a slowly growing panic and Red nearly dropping off to sleep right there on the couch a few times.

Then the awkwardness began. The first hurdle they’d have to jump while Danny cared for the other during recovery.

Red pulled himself from the couch with a prolonged groan- movement slow and likely agonizing. He didn’t move further, just shuffled from foot to foot in discomfort and looked into the distance with the most despondent look he’d ever seen on the other man’s face. Danny sat up and studied him, waiting for a cue to guess where he could help.

“I have to go,” Red whispered, voice wrecked from his sore throat and the pure helplessness in his tone.

They had a silent stand off. Hood glared at his hands, then Danny, then the bathroom door just down the hall before he circled back to his hands. He didn’t appreciate Danny’s silent huff of laughter at the action.

Danny rolled his eyes and held up a hand, holding up one finger and then two and tilting his head in question.

Red sighed. “One,” he said tersely.

Danny shrugged a bit, hauling himself up from the couch. Then he stepped closer, looking up into Red’s widening baby-blues with a smirk. Gently, he undid the tie to Red’s sweatpants and loosened them, then stepped back. He waved toward the bathroom and then mimed shimmying pants down using his elbows and then sitting, trusting Hood would get the message without him having to spell it out.

Red squinted at him before the light-bulb seemed to go off. “Fucking genius,” he muttered before speed-walking for the bathroom- happy he could do that by himself at least.

(How he got his pants back on without Danny’s help was a bit of a mystery, but none of the bandages had been disturbed so he let it go.)

Red Hood was a stubborn man. Danny already knew this, but trying to take care of him and make sure he didn’t use his hands only made it clearer. Hood was a stubborn bastard dead set on self-sabotaging his recovery.

He refused help wherever he thought he could get away with it and tried to sneak in doing tasks that he knew he couldn’t do on his own anyway. Danny had caught him multiple times trying to do things he shouldn’t- like attempting to get plastic over the wrappings on his hands in order to do dishes when Danny wasn’t looking. Kudos to him for thinking to protect the wrappings from getting wet, but he was still in trouble because he was putting undue pressure on his broken hands. Danny had also caught the man trying to put on his Hood Helmet™ and crawl out the window! He’d had a very stern “talk” with him after that- Danny threatened to take Red’s hands off himself if he tried that again.

It was all incredibly awkward at first. There were quite a few things you couldn’t do on your own if you didn’t have hands- not if you weren’t used to it- not without tools. And Danny had to be there to help him with all of it. He didn’t mind it- not really. It was a little odd with how intimate it felt, but he liked taking care of Red. That protective part of his core hummed with satisfaction at being able to keep Red healthy and safe. He was also perfectly happy to let Red have as much independence he could manage without using his hands- if he could use his elbows or feet or whatever other appendage or makeshift tool for the task then Danny would let him. He was surprisingly resourceful so long as Danny made sure he wasn’t trying to push himself past his limits.

Their second big hurdle came with dinner.

Danny caught him trying to fumble with cooking utensils in the kitchen. He knew his cooking wasn’t that great, but come on! It wasn’t that bad! None of his food reanimated and he took that as a win.

“Ghoul boy,” Hood said after Danny had thrown a tantrum and pushed him into one of the rickety kitchen chairs and glared at him with his hands on his hips on accusation, “I’m tired of take-out. It’s been two weeks. And I don’t trust you to cook on your own after what happened with the bagels last Wednesday.”

Danny silently scoffed and threw a careless hand to the side. So I’d burned a few bagels. So, what?

Red glared. “You destroyed my toaster and nearly set the apartment on fire. The toaster isn’t even supposed to get that hot, let alone burst into flames that can’t be put out by a regular fire extinguisher. We had to toss it out the window and hope for the best! I don’t even know how you did that!”

Okay, so, maybe it was a bit worse than burning the bagels. But still! He could do something simpler! He huffed and threw his hands in the air. I could pour cereal without setting it on fire! Probably!

“You absolutely would find a way to set cereal on fire and you know it, Spooky,” Red retorted, irritated but also vaguely amused.

Danny deflated a bit before flopping into the other rickety old kitchen chair, scratching dejectedly at the sleek dark wood of the itty-bitty table the chairs surrounded. It sat in a small corner of the small kitchen in the smaller apartment.

The apartment itself was tiny but cozy- it felt a little lived in- even if it was still pretty barren. The kitchen was well stocked with utensils and appliances (fancy ones that Danny definitely never wanted to touch for fear of either breaking them or them breaking him), if not always stocked well with ingredients. There were extra blankets and pillows for the second-hand couch- all in bland colors and made of cheap material. It screamed of a temporary place, something put together with minimal thought and expense- always meant to be a safe-house instead of a home. Not to mention the cache of weapons and tools that took up the entirety of the guest room. And the industrial strength first-aid kit supplies stocked in with them. He’d only glimpsed the room once, Hood showing him briefly when he’d apologized about not having any extra space. Danny’d shrugged- he slept in a tree most times, he could stand the couch.

Red interrupted his wandering thoughts with a question he didn’t particularly want to think about. “How’d you manage to be so bad at cooking in the first place? You eat, even as a ghost, so have you just been foraging around the forest all this time, like some undead squirrel?”

Danny huffed some semblance of a laugh before sighing. The question had an answer, there was absolutely a reason he was so bad in the kitchen, but did he want to share it? Show such a sad piece of himself to Red Hood? He stared down at the table as he tapped a slow rhythm on the wood. He couldn’t feel it under his fingertips, even without his gloves on. He debated for a bit before pulling the marker and whiteboard from his chest. He hesitated, fiddling with the cap and making no move to write.

There was a soft hum from Red and he looked up to see the other staring at the ceiling with a frown on his face.

“I’ve always liked cooking,” he said, voice soft and distant. “Even when I was bad at it, even when I didn’t know what I was doing, and even when I was only doing it because if I didn’t then I wouldn’t be fed.”

Danny felt his core let loose a small mourning croon before he could stop himself, the sound not unlike a dove’s coo. He quickly slapped his hands over his mouth (like that was even where the sound had come from) and tried hard to fight off a blush.

Red let out a short laugh at him, his eyes focused on Danny now instead of some long-away point in his past. Red’s grin slipped, though, as he continued.

“Growing up in Crime Alley is tough. Even tougher with a shitty dad and a mom that couldn’t control her drug use. She tried her best, but her good moments- where she was coherent and cared- were few and far between,” he said before smiling a bit. “The neighbors would step in, sometimes, if I bugged them enough. If they were friendly enough. Learned a lot of different recipes that way, too. All kinds of folk can end up down here, on the ground floor of Gotham.”

He sighed. “Really had to learn to fend for myself when I was inevitably orphaned.”

Danny didn’t like the way he said that. Like it had only been a matter of time before he was left to the mercy of the streets. Like it was the expected outcome. Like it was an everyday occurrence. Or- like he had deserved it. Like the circumstances had been his fault. He crooned again, lifting up from his chair and reaching out.

He placed a hand over Red’s forearm, wanting desperately to hold his hand instead, but trying to give comfort where he could anyway. Hood laughed softly at his efforts and smiled at him.

“I wasn’t orphaned for long, Spooks,” he said, using his wrist to pat at Danny’s hand to let him know it was okay. “I got picked up eventually.” And then his face twisted into a grimace, a complicated series of emotions flashing across his face before he shook his head to clear it. “B wasn’t ever allowed in the kitchen, but Alfred taught me all kinds of tricks and tips and dishes to make. I miss it sometimes, honestly.”

Danny floated closer, lifting fully out of his chair to lean against Hood’s side, offering silent support. He didn’t ask, not wanting to bring up bad memories and knowing full well how painful it could be to think back on the good times before you died. Most times it was worse than thinking about the bad times; because you knew it would never be the same. That you could never, ever, go back to those times. Death, even temporary as it had been for both of them, was a force of finality. A curtain closing around your life as you knew it. Dying changed you.

Red smiled and leaned down to press his forehead to the top of Danny’s head where the foggy wisps of his hair licked at Hood’s shoulder. Danny just nuzzled him further before pulling back and picking up the board again. He wouldn’t share everything, but he could share a little. Just like Red had. He tapped the board for a bit before deciding on what to write, appreciating the quiet patience of the other beside him as he waited.

My dad was really bad at cooking- unless it was fudge. And my mom wasn’t too bad at it, but she’d get distracted a lot and end up burning things. And then she and dad would hole up in the lab most days anyway. It didn’t help that they would store specimen samples in the fridge next to the food either. My older sister tried her best, but she was too young for most of the big appliances at first and no one was around to teach either of us most of the time.

He decided to leave it at that. He didn’t want to go into the times the food came back to life. Didn’t want to think about how many thanksgivings and holidays had been ruined from the turkey reanimating and besieging the house or the cookies going up in flames and almost burning everything to the ground. Didn’t want to think about all the times Jazz had burned herself trying to keep them fed with something decent or how often she’d had to beat the blender into submission with the Fenton Creep Stick. He couldn’t look at a toaster without shuddering- probably why Red’s had combusted like that, actually- not after one had tried to eat him alive when he was five.

Red nudged Danny’s arm with his elbow, offering a silent comfort just like Danny had done for him. He also didn’t ask further, letting the knowledge sit between the both of them. Red hadn’t had a good childhood and Danny hadn’t had a particularly stellar one either. It’d taken time and perspective for him to come to that conclusion- about how his parents hadn’t been as good as they probably should have been. And that wasn’t even to mention what happened after the accident.

He caught Red looking thoughtfully down at the main jumpsuit of the hazmat he still wore, and heard the soft murmur of, “A lab, huh?” before Red sighed and slumped over the back of his chair. His huge muscley bulk made it creak ominously.

“Alright,” Hood declared, pushing himself up from the table and attempting to put his hands on his hips before thinking better of it. “Cooking lessons it is, then.”

What? Danny stood fully and moved to stand in front of Red while drawing a frantic question mark in the air. How the hell did he expect to do this without hands?!

Red shrugged. “I’m going to tell you what to do and you’re going to do it. Carefully and with strict supervision. And you might want to go ahead and grab the fire-extinguisher.”

Danny stared. This was not going to end well.

Oh well, it wasn’t his kitchen at risk here. He did grab the extinguisher, though.

“Open up the fridge and the cabinets, Jellyfish. I gotta see what we’re working with here.”

Danny did so, floating a little bit in order to reach the top shelves and ignoring Hood’s soft snicker at the action. Damn tall people. He stood back and watched as Hood went around, muttering to himself as he compared different ingredients- what little they had- and only occasionally asking Danny to pick something up and check its expiration date.

“The andouille’s still good, we have rice, and the spices are all in date- even if they’re not fresh,” he heard Red murmur as he paced around the small space in the kitchen, Danny now floating over the table to keep out of his way. “No aromatics, though. Didn’t have a reason to keep fresh produce. Miracle at all that I even had sausage and broth.”

He paced back towards one of the cabinets, lifting a hand before pulling it back when Danny made a move to lunge and stop him. He grumbled before using an elbow to shift the cans around himself.

“Tomatoes,” he said, nudging a can to the front and picking it up between his elbows to place on the counter, “so creole style.”

Danny would forever be impressed with how much Red had learned to improvise in the two weeks without his hands so far. The man had been put out at first but he was quickly learning everything he could and couldn’t do and what he could manage in more- creative ways.

The table was already littered with several ingredients, ready to be put to use once Red was finally done obsessing over having everything they needed. Oil, sausage, a bag of long grain rice, a box of chicken broth, a bottle of hot sauce and another of worcestershire, and several different spices and seasonings. One was labeled Cajun, so he assumed they were cooking something spicy.

“Fetch!” Hood barked, causing Danny to startle out of his floating and almost fall- barely catching himself before he hit the table. He looked up to see Red grinning at him and stuck his tongue out in retaliation.

“Grab my phone for me, would ya?” Hood asked before turning back around and assessing the bare cabinets yet again.

It had become a pretty common thing between them, Hood trusting Danny with his phone to text and help make calls. It was the only way Hood was allowed to still run his criminal empire- from a distance, and in turn Danny was trusted with the passcode and access to everything. Red had a surprising amount of numbers saved in there- always a person for something or another. Just as many numbers for Grannies around the Alley as there were for the gang members in his crew. Danny knew Hood was trying to build a community- trying to make things better in every way, but it was still astounding to see.

He’d called Nadi early on that way too. Yes, Hood had had to do the talking and Nadi had chewed him out real good before busting down the door to the apartment to make sure Danny was okay, but he hadn’t wanted to let her worry. She’d taken Red by the ear and chewed him out some more after fussing over Danny- telling Hood that the only reason she wasn’t tearing him a new asshole was because he’d already done that himself. He’d been surprised that Red had been willing to let her see him without his helmet- he’d still slapped a mask on but still. And even more surprised that he’d let her know the address to the apartment. It spoke a lot of the trust he had in both Danny and Nadi. He was in a particularly vulnerable spot with his injuries- yet he’d let them in.

He grabbed the phone from corner of the living room that had a tiny little table next to an open outlet with a charger plugged in. Hood had multiple phones- most of them burners- but this one was the main one so it got it’s own special little place. He popped it off the charger and skipped back into the kitchen, unlocking it and holding it up for Red to see.

He nodded and said distractedly, “Call Mama Pourciau for me, please? I’m hoping she has some of the ingredients we’re missing.”

Danny did as told, scrolling through the frankly huge list of contacts until he got to Mama Pourciau and clicked the call icon. He put it on speaker and held it close to Hood so he could talk comfortably. He wondered idly what they’d be making.

Well, he wasn’t about to find out through the phone call because Red was not speaking English while talking with Mama Pourciau. If he had to guess, he’d say French- but it also sounded different to any French he’d heard before. He’d have to ask later what language it was.

He zoned out while watching Red talk, his voice nice as it wrapped around words he’d never heard before- the accent of them pleasing in a way Danny never thought he’d have a thing for. And then the call ended on Mama P’s end and Hood was smirking at him over the dial tone.

He shook his head and gave Hood a sheepish look, floating back over to the living room to put the phone away in order to avoid the teasing light in his eyes.

“She’s going to be bringing a few ingredients by, so keep an ear out for the door. She didn’t have everything but it’ll do in a pinch,” he said and then paused and hummed thoughtfully. “Go find those blankets that Mrs. Almeida dropped off the other day, too. Mama Pourciau’s daughter had a baby a few months ago and those should do as payment.”

Danny grinned and gave a jaunty salute before hopping away to hunt down the downy-soft blankets Mrs. Almeida had knitted and brought over for them in thanks for paying her son’s bail last week. Joao had done nothing wrong and Mrs. Almeida had been beside herself when the GCPD had tackled him and taken him in. Danny himself had gone down to the precinct and haunted the shit out of them in retribution.

Most people in the Alley seemed to work within a complex network of barter and trade, working with each other to cover each other’s needs. At least, now that Hood was making sure there weren’t any trouble-makers to disrupt it they were. And he kept the cops away from things that weren’t their business. Before the Alley had seemed to be a free-for-all. An every-man-for-himself type of place full of cruelty and despair. Now, slowly, it was building into a community. Something beautiful.

When Mama Pourciau knocked on the door, Danny answered with a grin and an armful of brightly-colored blankets. The older woman-stout and dark skin lined with age- had cooed and kissed his cheeks and traded burdens with ease. She hadn’t flinched at all at the sight of his fangs when he smiled. Hadn’t even hesitated to hug his colder body, her warm one smelling like coco butter and spices. She just patted him on the cheek and told him he was a sweet boy with her pretty accent and then told him to tell Red Hood that she’d be happy to send him recipes any time.

He nodded, awed at her response to his monstrous nature and waved with his hands full of groceries as she left. He felt dazed as he made his way back into the kitchen.

Red laughed at the look on his face when he came back. “Komik,” he said softly, shaking his head before gesturing for Danny to put the bags on the table to join the other ingredients.

“Cooking one oh one,” he started. “Fancy cooking, at least, starts by making your mise en place.”

Danny stared blankly and waited for Hood to explain what that was. He didn’t know any French, thanks. He’d barely learned any Spanish in high school before he’d had to drop out. Thankfully, Red knew full well he was an idiot already.

“You gather everything you need, measure it all out, and have it handy for when you’re ready to put it all together,” he continued without any judgment in his tone. “So lets see what Mama P was able to scrounge up and put it all together.”

Danny pulled everything out one by one, Hood naming each ingredient as he did so. Onions, green and red bell peppers, celery, garlic, dried oregano and thyme, okra, and even a small amount of shrimp.

“Ooh,” he said when Danny’d pulled out the shrimp. “I’m gonna have to get that woman something more than blankets for that. Didn’t ask her for any shrimp, sneaky minx.”

Danny had spluttered at the phrase, almost dropping the shrimp in the process. Who the hell called a sweet old lady like Mama Pourciau a minx?

Red laughed at Danny’s fumbling but then mumbled, “Don’t tell her I said that.”

Danny rolled his eyes before miming closing a zipper over his mouth.

“Alright,” Hood said, stepping over to the cabinets and drawers and pulling one open with his elbow. “Time to slice, dice, and measure.”

Danny pulled all the tools they would need per Hood’s instructions, making sure to follow along and pay attention. He was determined not to set anything on fire this time. Right now, thankfully, they weren’t working with heat yet, just chopping and putting everything together. Pulling out things like a Dutch oven and setting it aside. Measuring cups of rice and broth and using little spoons for the spices that were then put in little cups. It was fascinating. It was… nice.

Danny didn’t know cooking could be like this. Slow and methodical and soothing. There was no yelling here- no shouting about sentient hot dogs or being careful with the stove that he was too small to use. There was no uncertainty here- no guessing and guessing wrong about the basics and ending up with inedible accidents or stinging burns. Just him, Hood’s low, patient voice, and the food slowly coming together under his hands.

Partway through, Red had them stop and look for the small radio he kept in one of the upper cabinets, wanting to listen to something while they cooked. He had Danny flip though several different stations before landing on one that played music you might be more likely to hear play from a gramophone- soft and brassy and old. He’d wanted to question it, but watching Red’s eyes close in contentment and his hips gently sway made him pause. Maybe another time. He almost nicked himself with the knife watching those hips.

“We’re going to use the stove now, jellyfish,” Hood said softly as he nudged Danny with one of those distracting hips. “You ready for that?”

He shrugged. Maybe another time he’d be nervous, certain something would catch fire, but with Red showing him what to do and how, he felt pretty confident he wouldn’t mess up so badly this time. He bumped his own hip against Red’s and moved all the things they’d be sauteing next to the stove as the other told him to.

He browned the andouille, no problem, and then spooned it out for later. He poured in the onion, bell pepper, and celery, smiling as he stirred and relished in the delicious smell. Cooking had never smelled so good before- not when he was the one at the helm like this. It was something he could get used to if it went this well each time. It felt far more relaxing than he’d ever thought it could. He was used to the kitchen being a war-zone, full of screaming and fighting and chaos. This was nothing like that here now; just the soft sizzle of the food, gentle strains of old slow jazz, and the low murmur of Red’s instructions.

Hood hummed, pressing close behind him- chest to back, and hooked his chin on Danny’s shoulder. He was surprised at just how comfortable it all was. He leaned back into the embrace, just a bit, and felt his core rumble with a contented purr. Hood huffed a small laugh, but Danny could feel the echoing purr from the other’s chest against his back. Red had them both slowly swaying to the music and Danny had never felt so- warm was the only way to describe it- in his life.

“Garlic now,” Red said into his ear, “just for a little bit. Half a minute about. Till you can smell it good.”

Danny shivered and dutifully poured it in. The aroma in the kitchen was already heavenly, but it just continued to get better and better the longer they cooked. He could see why Hood liked this so much now. Eventually all the ingredients aside from the shrimp were added into the pot- Dutch oven- and all that was left was to wait while it simmered for awhile before adding them in.

It was peaceful and beautiful and if he could bottle the moment up he would. Just the smell of spices cooking on the stove and the rocking dance with Red to soft strings and trumpets. He didn’t deserve such a good moment. Something so painfully human and full of life. He didn’t deserve something so dreadfully gentle. But he wouldn’t tear himself away for the world. Maybe it was selfish of him, but he couldn’t bare to let it any of it go.

And in the end, well, they’d managed to make a pretty damn good jambalaya. Even Red said so.

*

It wasn’t often that Danny dreamed. It wasn’t often that he slept in the first place, his ghostly nature allowing him to go for days without rest, and to dream within those handful of moments was rare. Nightmares, yes, they plagued him almost every time he couldn’t avoid dropping off to sleep any longer.

Dreams were different, though. Softer.

It should have been a nightmare, with what he was witnessing, but everything was distant and fuzzy around the edges. Like he was completely detached from the scene (the memory) he’d found himself watching from a completely different point of view. This wasn’t his memory, but it was of him, of something that often came back to haunt him.

He watched, in remote fascination, as his own clawed hand plunged into Pariah Dark’s prone chest and ripped out his core.

He’d been told by the other ghosts right before the battle, and in no uncertain terms, that taking the Tyrant King’s core was the only way to stop him. That without the original Council of Ancients to seal him away, putting him back in the Sarcophagus would do nothing. The only way for him to be defeated was to End him. And they’d all been fairly confident that Danny was the only one capable of doing it.

And hadn’t that been something? Every ghost that had ever kicked his ass had told him that he was the only one. The only one strong enough to defeat an Ancient King that had ruled over the Realms for thousands of years, that had previously only been defeated by being locked away by a group of powerful Ancients.

And he, an eighteen year old half-breed that they’d previously fought to hell and back, was their only hope.

He ran, at first. Scared out of his mind and fully believing that all his enemies were simply trying to get him to fully kill himself and act as canon fodder against Pariah to buy them all more time. Yes, he’d gotten stronger. Exponentially, every year. Especially after he abandoned the last shreds of his humanity and dedicated his full focus to developing his powers and fighting skills. He had no allies. Only four years of getting the snot beat out of him and a worryingly long list of powers that grew by the week. That wasn’t enough to kill a King. Not alone. Not by himself.

They’d found him and pulled him back, telling him his only choices were to either face the menace or be Ended himself. He hadn’t seen much choice there. They’d reluctantly laid out a plan to help him. They knew all their afterlives were at stake should he fail, but yet no one else stepped forward to do the job themselves.

The weight on his shoulders- his duty as a protector- had always been heavy. Especially when he’d just started out, when all he’d been was a scrappy fourteen year old just trying to survive. Just trying to protect the family that continually left him cold. Trying to protect the town that grew to hate him more and more. And when the GIW had invaded, it grew to protect other ghosts as well. It hadn’t been very hard, with the GIW being as incompetent as they were, but he still hadn’t wanted to see what would happen if they caught anyone. And it wasn’t like protecting the ghosts that hurt him had changed the status quo- he was far too used to saving those that would rather kill him than accept his help. But he gave it anyway.

And now they were forcing him. Telling him that despite all the animosity they’d treated him with, he was their only hope for survival. That he had to put what was left of his life at stake for them.

And he’d been so angry at first. Wanting to rage and scream and not being able to emit a single sound from within his suit. Because how dare they? How dare they pin this all on his shoulders? How dare they demand he save them after everything they’d put him through? After every fight, every taunt, every stab in the back.

And then Vlad, the idiot fruitloop that had started it all, had pulled the Fright Knight’s sword from the ground and transported the entirety of Amity Park into the Infinite Realms.

The people at the edges of his parent’s ghost shield had died. Humans couldn’t survive the Realms for long, and they could survive even less without protective measures like the shield. Not to mention however many casualties had happened when the ground itself had been rent apart with the transition.

And then the bastard had had the gall to tell Danny it was all his fault. That it was Danny’s cowardice that had killed them. Danny’s childishness that had caused everything to fall apart. He’d stood there, all smug and demeaning, pointing the sword at Danny’s chest as he placed the blame on someone else- completely disregarding how his own antics of tracking down the Ring of Rage for his own gain had been the reason Pariah was set loose in the first place. The Ring he still boasted on his finger.

It had never been more satisfying than that moment to punch the ass in his fanged blue face- the safety-goggles Vlad’d died in crunching under his fist.

The man liked to lord his superiority over everyone he came across, but especially Danny. Liked to claim that because he was the first of their kind, the first of the Halfas, and because he had years of experience and knowledge over Danny that he was better, and stronger, and smarter in every way and would always be so. That unless Danny gave in and became his student (his son), he would always, always be just a rash and ignorant boy. He liked to pretend, though, that it was also only a matter of time until Danny gave in. He used the fact that they were the same to twist the knife deeper and deeper. Insinuating that Danny’s path to becoming like him was an inevitability (and he refused to think about that).

But he was wrong; they weren’t the same. They were both Halfas, yes, but that wasn’t all they were. Danny was a Fetch, the ghost of a person still living. The true balance between life and death, a being both alive and dead in an even split. Vlad was a Draugr, a vengeful ghost with a corporeal body. There was still a part of Vlad that was living, however small, which classified him as a Halfa and allowed him to age the way a human would. But he was more ghost than human, even clutching to the last dregs of life within him as he was- claiming in vain he was human. Danny, on the other hand, had given up his life, denying that any part of him was still human despite the truth. Vlad was made from spite and slowly rotting flesh; Danny was made from tragedy and pure ectoplasm.

Danny had grabbed the sword from the distracted man, still cursing after the punch, and cut the hand that bore the Ring clean off in one vicious swipe. He’d never been so violent, never taken it that far before. And it had both felt exhilarating and terrifying. He’d shut down all feeling after that, grabbing the Ring for himself and leaving Vlad to scream and wallow in his deserved agony. They’d been lucky enough as it was that Pariah hadn’t taken the Ring from Vlad before that. With it, the King might have truly been unstoppable.

It’d been with the help of his enemies taking on the army, the Ring of Rage enhancing his Wail beyond measure, and the Sword of Nightmares slicing anything in his way, that he’d been able to fell the monster. He’d pinned Pariah to the ground with the Sword and used the enhanced strength of the Ring to dig into his chest.

(The Ring refused to leave his finger, stuck there- and forever making it impossible for him to speak without unleashing a world-ending wail. It stayed invisible most times, but he could feel it. Always.)

He watched, now, dispassionately, as a younger version of himself clutched Pariah’s core within his ectoplasm covered claws.

This was a dream, not a nightmare. He knew the difference well.

A figure appeared to his left, shrouded in a purple cloak and dark shadows, nothing of their face to be seen but deep red glow of their eyes- similar to the eye-shine of a predator in the dark. He knew the figure, but he couldn’t quite place from where. It was a memory on the edge of his mind, but he didn’t struggle too hard to grasp it. This was still just a dream.

The figure said nothing for a time, the both of them just continuing to watch the wretched memory play out. They watched Danny crush the core to shards and swallow it, watched Pariah’s body melt horrifically slowly as he screamed, watched as Danny pulled the Sword from the King’s body and plunged it back into the ground. Watched as he fell to his knees in despair when nothing happened- when Amity remained trapped forever in the Realms.

“Why this?” he asked of the figure, wanting to look away, but unable.

“A warning,” the other said, voice smooth and even, the softest curl of a lisp at the edges. “A reminder.”

“Of what?” he asked, knowing he wasn’t likely to get an answer. Because that’s how all of this bullshit ever worked. Never any answers, never any real help.

“All will be revealed in time,” the other said, pulling a staff from the depths of their cloak and tapping it on the grass beneath their feet.

And then Danny woke up, disoriented and head fuzzy with sleep, the dream slipping from his mind the longer he tried to think of it, until it was nothing but a disquieting echo.

Chapter Text

Jack Fenton was a big man with even bigger feelings.

When Jack felt things, he felt them strongly and deeply. When he saw a ghost for the first time, at age ten, he’d felt fear and awe down to his bones. It’d been a small haunting- just a glimpse of an apparition- but it’d been enough to launch a lifelong obsession. He’d fallen hard and fast into a world he didn’t think existed. He’d torn through any books he could find on ghosts and spirits and mediumship. On the afterlife. On the divine. How to find them. How to hunt them. His father had hated it all, called it blasphemous. And his mother had only ever been afraid. Afraid of the thought of ghosts, afraid of Jack's father's opinion on it all, afraid for her only son's future. 

But he had never let that stop him. The awe and the enthusiasm for learning had never waned, had instead filled him up so much that he felt that if he didn’t indulge and continue his research, he’d explode from the force of it.

And then he’d gone to college, bright eyed and naive. He’d been ridiculed at first- for his ideas, for his passion, for his insane beliefs. What self-respecting college freshman told people he believed in ghosts? He’d felt alone and adrift, though he hid it behind bombastic smiles and larger laughs. He thought he’d never be taken seriously... And then he’d met Vlad and Maddie. And he’d never felt so accepted. Maddie had encouraged him to look to the scientific side of spirits. Vlad himself had been skeptical, but willing enough to play along and suggest new avenues to explore.

Four years they spent together. Four long years of friendship and delving into the paranormal together. Of coming up with their greatest invention. A melding of the supernatural and the scientific. A portal. Fueled by the ectoplasm that he’d been able to sample off a physical medium during a séance. The only vial he’d ever been able to collect and keep stable.

And then the accident happened and they lost Vlad. Quarantined for years on end with no visitation allowed. And he’d been devastated and wracked with guilt.

But then he fell in love with Maddie- right out of post-grad, and he fell hard and strong and hadn’t stopped loving her since. Despite everything. Despite the nagging fear and uneasiness. Despite the cruelty he had seen her capable of firsthand. He still loved her.

Jack Fenton was a big man with big feelings. But the vastness of his guilt and grief over the loss ( disappearance? ) of his son was bigger than any feeling he’d ever had before.

They killed him- their son. Regardless of anything else about the situation ( was he a ghost? Was he possessed? Is he gone forever because of the accident or did they drive him away? ) they had killed him. Jack’s precious boy- his little son with nothing but the stars in his eyes and model rockets in his hands. Fourteen and already striving for a far off dream. A dream that would never come to fruition.

And they killed him.

Always, always that damn portal. First it put Vladdie in the hospital- quarantined and locked away for years on end, and then it took Danny down too- throwing around scary words like hypothermia and arrhythmia and neuropathy and shorter life-expectancy. They should have known better. They should have used more caution, been more careful. Not been so goddamn stupid!

The kids had never been particularly interested in the lab before, especially as they got older and Jack and Maddie’s work went from cool science to embarrassing crazy talk in their eyes. But they shouldn’t have gotten so lax. Should have still kept the lab locked up like they used to. Should have been more careful with the cables and wires and every single hazard down there. Either they’d killed him directly with their negligence or indirectly by creating the hole from which whatever demon took their son could crawl from. He couldn’t look at the damned portal without feeling sick now.

And the worst part of it was, Jack didn’t know what had actually taken his son from him. Had the accident killed him and they just didn’t know? Could a ghost even fake being human to that extent? Had another ghost entirely come through the portal and possessed him in the moment the portal opened? Or even later? Was there anything left of Danny? Or had Danny even left at all?

Jack knew about Maddie’s theory. She could try to hide it from him all she wanted, but he knew her better than anyone. He may be forgetful and oftentimes careless, but he wasn’t completely oblivious to reality. He’d come to a few conclusions on his own, after all.

Danny, and his death or disappearance, was inexplicably tied to Phantom.

What they didn’t know was how. Did Danny die in the accident, either instantly and with the ability to mask his ghostliness during his hospital stay somehow- or afterwards in a slow and agonizing march towards death, and Phantom was his ghost? Was Phantom a separate entity entirely that slowly took over Danny’s life and possessed him? Was Danny still alive in there? Was he conscious? ...Was he gone? Was there any saving him? If they tore Phantom apart would they find anything of Danny underneath or would they be killing what little was left of their son on this earth?

He’d put the date of Danny’s accident, the day the portal first opened its yawning, dangerous mouth, on his headstone. Claiming that as his date of death- claiming that whatever was left of Danny afterwards wasn’t real. Wasn’t him. He and Jazz were the only ones to be involved with planning the funeral. He was the one to choose the date. It had been the first time he’d come close to admitting that he was the one to kill his son. It had been the first time he’d gotten so filled with doubt. The first time he’d realized that no matter his expertise, no matter his experience in the science of ghosts and the afterlife- he didn’t have any answers. Didn’t have a single clue what could have happened to his son, what could have saved him, would could still save him even now- if there was anything left.

Maddie seemed to think that the answer was simple. That what was happening was straightforward- if sinister. She believed that Phantom was holding their son hostage. That either Danny was being jailed by the ghost and if only they could eliminate Phantom then he could be free and they’d have their boy back, or that Phantom had killed their boy and walked in his skin and it was their duty to tear the ghost apart in order to give Danny peace.

In either case, it meant Ending Phantom. Ripping him asunder until there was nothing left.

Jack wasn’t so sure. He didn’t know what to think. Didn’t know what to believe about what really happened to their son. But the fear that hurting Phantom would hurt Danny stayed his hand, kept him back from leaping to conclusions. Kept him from being as ruthlessly devoted to vengeance as Maddie was becoming. Jack wasn’t one to hesitate, but they’d already been careless enough with Danny’s life- he wasn’t about to rush in with guns blazing when he couldn’t be certain, down to his bones, that doing so wouldn’t make things worse. Wouldn’t be the final nail in the casket they’d already buried.

Ghosts couldn’t feel things, didn’t have consciousness the way humans had- Jack knew this. They were only things made of leftover feelings and instinct. Like a feral animal. Like something less than a feral animal. A human soul- but poisoned and diminished- following nothing but some instinctual obsession like a rabid beast. Mindless and ill. They could talk and communicate and scream. But there wasn’t anything actually there.

They couldn’t feel pain. Not in any way that mattered. Jack knew this. It’d been a cornerstone understanding of their research for decades now. There were no nerves to feel it. There was no brain to process it. There were no synapses, no neural activity, no brainwaves. Nothing but stray bits of electrical pulses suspended in goo, mimicking sentience by coincidence.

“Like monkey’s with typewriters,” Maddie had proposed once. “Any coherence in their speech is coincidental. They babble enough for long enough and they eventually stumble on something that we think makes sense. But that doesn’t mean they know what they’re saying. Like parrots at best.”

Jack was starting to doubt this, though. What was the brain if not electrical impulses running throughout a hunk of meat? Yes, that was a gross oversimplification, but still. Who were they to say that they weren’t oversimplifying as well? When had they become the experts? When had their inquiries become certainty? When had their experiments gone from questions to weapons?

They weren’t scientists. Not anymore. Not for a long time. They’d long since slipped down the path from science to hunting. Trapping. Hurting. Killing.

What Maddie had agreed to do for the GIW went far beyond science. It was needlessly cruel. She claimed it was all to know more. To learn more about ghosts. What made them tick. What they could do to fight them. What, exactly, it took to End them. To find out about Phantom’s whereabouts. Her methods of trying to glean information were akin to torture. He’d seen her squeeze the afterlife out of so many ghosts, with her bare hands, and a rage unlike anything he’d ever witnessed before in her eyes. So much ectoplasm ( blood ). So much screaming.

How could he believe that they were only mimicking when all they ever did was beg for mercy?

Jack was not a strong enough man to help her. He also wasn’t a strong enough man to stop her, either. He didn’t like what she was doing. Didn’t like the sort of person this was all turning her into. But he refused to stand in her way. He had no doubt that even if he did, she’d continue on her crusade regardless. And then where would she be?

So he sat back, something he thought he’d never do, and watched as his wife- the absolute love of his life, ran full tilt down a path she would never be able to come back from. Blood soaking deeper into her hands as she did.

And then they got a call that did nothing but make him nauseous.

Jack Fenton was a big man with even bigger feelings.

And he’d never felt a colder fear than he had when he witnessed the glint in his wife’s eyes when she ended it and whispered.

“Found you.”

*

Jason didn’t really know what to make of Fetcher. His self-appointed caretaker.

The man could match him for stubbornness- that he could tell. How he managed to thwart every single attempt at escape he’d made so far was beyond him. Jason figured it had something to do with being a ghost but it also wouldn’t surprise him if it was just Fetcher’s sheer force of will. He might just outmatch Alfred with his ability to mother-hen Jason into compliance. Not to mention he’d mastered his own Disappointed Stare that Jason hated. And the puppy dog eyes! No being in the world should have that much power. They were deadly.

He didn’t know what to do with it all. The softness. The gentle caring. The genuine concern for his well-being. The amount of effort Fetcher put in to making sure he was okay. It was overwhelming. He hadn’t felt like this in- well, maybe never. Catherine had cared when she could. And Alfred had tried his hardest to make him feel welcome. But it had always felt conditional. Catherine only cared when she was sober. Alfred only tried because Jason was Bruce’s newest ward- like it wasn’t something he’d do if it wasn’t his job. And Bruce- that was a whole can of worms he refused to open.

But Fetcher… Well, his Jellyfish really knew how to bully him into compliance. And he’d do it in such a way that Jason didn’t even mind all that much, which felt like the real miracle, honestly. There was just something so genuine about the guy. Like, despite everything- despite how much of an irredeemable asshole he was- Fetcher actually- somehow- cared. Cared about his well-being, cared about his safety, cared about his feelings for fuck’s sake. No one should care about his feelings. They weren’t important. His health? Sure. He couldn’t do his job- before as Robin and now as Red Hood- if he was too injured. Couldn’t let him be a liability. But this guy, this ghost of all things, cared because it was Jason that was injured, not his persona.

It scared him. Just a bit. Because damn if he couldn’t get used to this. And damn if he didn’t care about Fetcher just as much. Teaching him how to cook different things just so he could lean over the shorter man’s shoulder and direct him. To be close. Feigning fatigue from his meds and settling on the couch just so Fetcher would sit near him and keep him quiet company in the middle of the day. Asking for help with his clothes so Fetcher would put his cold, cold hands on his hips again…

He was plunging to the bottom of a slope he couldn’t afford to fall down in the first place. He didn’t have time for this. Didn’t have time for feelings. He had a mission. He had a plan. There was no time for detours. No time for softness or indulgence. Those kinds of things weren’t meant for him. He wasn’t allowed such kindnesses. He was not made for mercy.

So, why then, did he find himself curled up on his shitty couch with Fetcher lounging across his chest and the both of them purring.

It was another day that he’d claimed to be too tired to function from his pain meds. Which wasn’t a total lie, but it was definitely an exaggerated one. He felt heavy and drowsy- but the alternative was pain lacing through every inch of his body and keeping him completely immobile. He could work through it, had done it plenty of times- both the pain and the drowsiness. But it felt nice to not have to for once. He stacked up a lot of injuries in his days as Robin and then even more when he was training with Talia and all the experts she’d found. He was riddled with chronic pain from them all. Not to mention all the damage dying had done. His body had definitely not taken too kindly to that. If anyone could relate to that though, he figured it might be Fetcher.

It was raining heavily outside, thunder rumbling across the sky and raindrops lashing against the reinforced glass of his windows. It made his bones ache, but it sounded nice. It melded well with the soft jazz filtering in through his crackly radio and the contented rumbling radiating from the both of them. It all felt absurdly domestic.

They were both trapped under the weight of one of Mrs. Almieda’s blankets, the knit of it chunky and warm. And they were both pleasantly full from another meal they’d managed to make together- pierogi’s from Ms. Bajorek’s recipe. He’d taken to having Fetch or another one of his crew grab more groceries for them both now that they’d found a way to make homemade meals. Maybe he could get his ghost boy to eat something other than take-out and processed junk now. He knew the other barely ate anything as it was- so he was going to make sure that what he did eat was good for him at least. If he was going to make Jason eat regular meals then he was going to get the same treatment, dammit.

Fetcher’s purring was starting to taper off, wavering softly until he huffed and it picked back up again. Only to drop off as his breathing slowed a few minutes later. He was fighting sleep like a kitten and it was adorable.

“You good, Jellyfish?” he murmured into the ghost’s hair, the wispy fog of it curling under his chin.

It was quickly starting to become a regular sight to see the ghost without his suit, just lounging about the apartment in what Jason liked to think of as his civvies. Strangely enough he had to continue to take off the suit? Apparently it would just- reform around his body after a while. It also turned into goop after awhile. Then the goop would disappear and the suit would reform. It was strange as all hell but he wasn’t about to question it. He was just going to enjoy seeing Fetch in all his ethereal glory, relaxed and content for once. Honestly it was a little distracting most of the time, but its not like he had anything important to focus on anyway, so it was fine.

He got a whine and three taps against his chest in response to his question. Three taps, part of the radio code they’d come up with what felt like forever ago- something Fetcher only used when he was feeling particularly lazy with responding. (Yes.)

“Are we just going to have nap time then?” he asked, more to tease than anything.

He wouldn’t say no to another easy day just languishing on the couch with company. He knew these days were soon to end, and as much as he was itching to get back out into the Alley, he was going to relish these moments when he could. He wasn’t likely to find them again once they were gone.

Three slow taps against his chest and what felt like a yawn. (Yes.)

Jason let a smile curl on his lips and relaxed back down into his couch. He liked the slightly chilled weight of Fetcher lounging against his chest, the feeling of it grounding and cool to his usually overheated skin. Ever since he’d crawled from the Pits he’d felt overly hot. Burning, constantly burning. It made him quicker to anger, more annoyed and ready to lash out. He hated the heat like this, where it was permanently stuck under his skin. Fetcher’s ghostly touch seemed to be about the only thing that soothed it.

It also wasn’t a coincidence that they ended up- cuddling for lack of a better word, like this. It had started out as a ploy to get the ghost to sleep. He knew the other could sleep and had seen the ghost running himself ragged in the first few days avoiding it. He could deny needing it all he wanted but Jason knew better. He didn’t float as much, didn’t glow as bright, and didn’t talk with his hands with as much enthusiasm as Jason was used to. And then when he’d confronted him about it- he felt guilty. Because once Fetcher had admitted that he needed sleep, he also admitted that the reason he was avoiding it was because he was afraid Jason would try to sneak out while he was down. Which- well, he hadn’t been entirely wrong. He had planned on climbing out his bedroom window once he knew the other was asleep on the couch.

So they compromised. Fetcher would get his sleep and be able to rest knowing that there was no way for Jason to sneak out without waking him. It helped that Jason would often drift off with him. More comfortable than he ever thought possible with another being curled up on his chest. He’d also long since gotten used to the purring, enjoying the soft rumble they both emitted when they laid like this. He refused to think any deeper on what it meant.

Slowly, gently, he slipped into sleep himself.

It was warm and it was dark.

His body, and for some reason having a body came as a shock to him, was stiff and cold but the air around him- on top of him, swaddling him- felt uncomfortably warm. And then a heat, searing and unrelenting and burning everything burning, surged through him from the roots of his hair down to the ends of his toes. Everything was fire. Everything was black. He was choking on nothing and his nerves were coming to life within his body, only to strangle him.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe and he needed to get out.

And he moved his hands- he could move his hands - and felt the small soft space he was enclosed in. Padded and solid and too small- too, too small. He kicked his feet- he could kick his feet- and was met with the same awful padding. He opened his eyes- he could open his eyes - and there was nothing- nothing but a dark, dark void. All there was was stagnant air, darkness, and the sound of his own labored breathing. Nothing else. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

He clawed at the ceiling. He ripped the padding to shreds until he was met with wood, nails digging and scratching with increasing desperation- gaining splinters that he barely noticed. He needed out. The burning wasn’t stopping. He still couldn’t breathe. The burning fire in his veins was going to devour him whole. The air was thinner and thinner and the walls were starting to close in on him.

Everything hurt. Everything burned.

He needed to think, but he couldn’t. He needed to breathe, but he couldn’t. He needed out, but he couldn’t get there.

He could feel blood. Probably blood. Dripping down from his ragged fingers. He was going to break his hands if he kept struggling to rip through the wood above him. He didn’t care. He needed to get out. He wasn’t going to. He was going to stay trapped in this terrible burning box forever. Forever stuck, forever on fire, forever choking on nothing but fetid darkness.

“Use your belt-buckle, Jaylad,” a voice within his mind whispered to him. “Use it to break through the wood.”

He didn’t question where the voice came from, who the voice belonged to, or how it knew he was wearing a belt when he himself hadn’t been aware of it before it spoke.

He cared only about ripping the belt from its loops and fumbling with the metal buckle until he could use it to chip away at the wood, finally making progress. His relief at breaking through was short lived, however, when clumps of dirt showered down onto his face.

He choked and gagged and spat the dirt out but he still couldn’t breathe.

He clawed through the dirt, the fire still burning, burning, burning all through his body and his lungs screaming the entire time. And it was taking an eternity and his hands were bleeding and breaking and throbbing and he was going to die here and-

Jason woke with a gasp and a jerk, nearly dislodging the body still draped over his chest with the force of it. He’d definitely woke the other though, who carefully lifted his weight from Jason by hovering up and away- not enough to be out of reach, but enough to give him room to breathe.

He needed it. He needed to feel the air in his lungs and see the soft glow of Fetcher’s light around him. To remember he wasn’t still buried in his grave. To remember that he’d made it out. He wasn’t still trapped.

It wasn’t often that he had nightmares about digging himself out of his own grave. That time and much of the days-weeks-months after that were all a blur. Incoherent. He’d been blind to everything happening to him, only vaguely aware of the sounds and sensations of the world. Everything except pain and the burning. The constant, constant burning. It had only been after his dip in the Pit that he’d been brought back to the surface and the fire slaked down to soft embers; still hot- too hot, but no longer a distracting inferno.

He felt cold hands tap at his cheeks, fingertips just barely brushing the skin. A question. Asking for permission. He leaned into the touch and let out a relieved sigh as the chill from Fetcher’s hands brought down the heat, soothing and cool like an ice pack on fever-hot skin. He felt the tap of an index finger under his chin; another question. He opened his eyes to find a concerned green gaze trained on him, his little ghost still floating carefully just above him.

“I’m fine, Casper,” he said, voice rough with interrupted sleep, “just a bad dream.”

He shifted to sit up on the couch better, might as well shake off the fatigue for now- it was almost dinner time from what he could tell of the slant and color of the sun through the windows. The rain had let up then, too.

He groaned as he heaved himself up without using his hands, the broken bones there aching more than usual from the aftershocks of his nightmare. Everything ached more after a nightmare. He managed to shuffle himself into a sitting position, socked feet dropping to the creaky hardwood as he leaned his weight into his elbows propped up on his knees. Fetch shifted until he was ‘standing’ in front of him, ghostly soles barely brushing the floor and cool hands coming to rest on his shoulders.

Jason glared down at his useless hands. Broken, beaten, bruised. They were never enough. Not enough to stop the Joker from beating him, twice . Not enough to dig him out of his own grave. Not enough to save his mother. Not enough to save anyone. Always falling short. Always breaking when he needed them. Always losing grip on the things that mattered most.

Fetcher shifted to card his fingers through Jason’s sweat soaked hair with one hand and tilted Jason’s head up by the jaw with the other. Exceedingly gentle, unbearably soft. Fetcher searched his eyes, patient and curious, but he didn’t move to mime any questions- just waited for Jason to speak on his own. Calm and cool and beautiful.

“I-,” he started, stopped, voice faltering in the face of his fuzzy memories. “I woke up in my casket. When I first came back.”

He paused, taking a deep breath and savoring the feeling of air filling his lungs and expanding his chest. They hadn’t really talked about his death or his resurrection before, not since that first conversation. It was something sort of always on the back-burner between them. Fetcher didn’t ask any more about his situation and he didn’t ask about Fetcher’s. But he still had- so many questions.

“I don’t know how I came back. I don’t know why. Why am I here? Why me? Why did I get to come back and not-”

Fetcher shuffled closer, pressing his legs in between Jason’s and forcing him to sit up from where he’d curled in on himself. Gently, achingly gently, he pushed Jason until his back was up against the couch and Fetcher was practically in his lap, cold hands coming back again to cradle his face in those softly glowing palms. His eyes, clear and green like the smoothest pieces of sea glass, bore into him and Jason could swear he almost heard the other speak. Not with any type of sound, but almost in his soul.

How. Why. You. he heard without hearing, whispers of wind and static shaping the words from within him, more feeling than any actual language . Ne-ver know. J-ust happy you here.

How much was this glowstick motherfucker gonna make him cry? He didn’t do tears. He was a murderer- many times over. He was a Crime Lord for fuck’s sake. He was raised trained by the most emotionally constipated man in the world! He was not gonna cry like a little bitch because some bioluminescent slimer gijinka pet his hair and said nice things to him!

“Asshole,” he muttered, ducking his head so the other wouldn’t see the stupid shine in his eyes. “Stop being so nice to me. I don’t deserve it.”

He meant it to be a joke- if a bad one, but there was just a bit too much of the truth in his words. Fetcher bopped him on the head, the motion so soft he barely felt it, but he could tell it was a reprimand.

“Fine, fine,” he grumbled, leaning his head back until it was almost hanging off the back of the couch. Fetcher settled by slumping against his chest, arms stretching out on either side of Jason’s head and knees bracketing his hips. Spooks was literally just sitting in his lap now. That was fine. Totally fine. Everything was fine.

He almost felt like he had emotional whiplash from the amount of feelings he’d had in the last few minutes. He wasn’t supposed to feel things in the first place. Let alone all of… that. Started with a nightmare and panic and ended with a cute ghost boy in his lap and the funny things that was doing to his heart.

Fuck. Alright.

Jason moved his hands- to do what, he didn’t know- and winced at the deep ache that throbbed through them. The pain medicine had definitely worn off, then. He let his arms fall limp at his sides and sighed in resignation. His mandatory vacation didn’t seem like it would ever end, and while it was nice to play house with Fetch- he still had work to do. He had a mission. He needed to set up the Alley with better resources and programs and- make the place a little less hostile to life. He needed to get it all done so it could run smoothly without his supervision, so that his work wouldn’t fall apart if when he disappeared.

And then he needed his answers from Bruce. From the Batman. From the Joker. He needed, more than anything, to know what Bruce would do when faced with the ultimatum. Would he rather stick to his stupid code and let the Joker run free to murder more and more innocent people at the expense of Jason’s life (again) ? Or would he surprise Jason and actually prove he cared? He doubted it, but he had to confirm it first. He needed to know.

Fetcher leaned to the side and shifted up, head resting on a now propped up arm, so he could look Jason in the eye. His other arm slid down until his hand was on Jason’s chest, settling just over his heart. His eyebrows scrunched in concern. He tapped on Jason’s chest twice (help) and then drew a question mark there (help?).

He sighed. “It’s just my hands, jellyfish,” he tried to soothe. “This isn’t the first time I’ve hurt them and that nightmare wanted to remind me of that.”

And fuck why would he say that when all it did was make the other sit up in alarm. That was the opposite of what he wanted. Why couldn’t they just go back to serenely napping on the couch and not worrying about anything?

Fetcher sat back, putting space between them Jason was already starting to mourn. Slowly, gently, he pulled Jason’s hands to rest between them, cradled in his own. His hands were broken, beaten, bruised, and fucked beyond repair. They were never meant to be held so sweetly. Fetcher stared down at them, a strangely guilty look on his face.

“I dug myself out,” Jason said to break the silence, hoping to distract Fetch from whatever was making him feel guilty of all things. “From the casket. It fucked my hands up for awhile, but they healed up just fine. Just like they’ll be fine this time. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

Fetcher shook his head, nodding down to where he cradled said hands, and gave Jason a look. They had both been there when Doc Leslie told him how badly his hands were injured. How they might never work the same. How he was lucky that he still had them at all. Jason looked away, avoiding that gaze and refusing to acknowledge the actual state of his injuries. It would be fine. Everything would be fine.

Eventually, Fetcher seemed to have made a decision and carefully let go of Jason’s hands before pulling out his little whiteboard. He must want to say something that was more complicated than pantomime could convey. He rarely needed the board with Jason, able to gesture his way through a conversation for the most part.

He flipped the board over and Jason’s breath caught.

I can fix them.

Chapter Text

Bruce went over the research again. And again and again. He was hoping he’d find something different after the sixteenth read through, but it never changed. What Tim found… he didn’t like it.

He’d been antsy this past week. Terrified about what it meant that Red Hood hadn’t been seen on the streets since the explosion at the docks. The explosion that Bruce had seen his son previous Robin horrifically injured by. That he’d been too late to rescue him from. Again. The one where he’d seen an Unknown, the one Jason worked with, standing at the edge and watching the flames.

So he dove into the research Tim had been able to dig up from the Drs. Fenton and tried to ignore everything else. Tried to ignore the guilt at leaving Tim alone to his own devices in the mean time when he’d only just returned from the Titans. Tried to ignore the admonishing looks Alfred sent him every additional day he stayed holed up in the Cave. Instead he sunk deeper and deeper into a haze of reading paper after paper, and rereading paper after paper. And, what little of it he could find in the first place, was all pointing in a direction he hated.

The Fentons… were odd scientists. To say the least. And he really was saying the least. But their research, without an outside source to better verify it, was sound. Thorough. Horrifying.

Ghosts, or ectoplasmic entities, were non-sentient. Non-sapient. They were impressions of emotions left after death. Unfeeling. Unthinking. Driven by nothing but the deceased’s final thoughts and emotions. Often violent ones. Thoughts of revenge, of regret, of nothing but the pain surrounding their death.

Monsters seeking nothing but to spread the pain that had been imprinted upon them. And territorial. If both Fetcher and Jason were nothing but ghosts, did that make the fire a fight for the right to haunt Park Row? A dispute that- that Jason lost?

He knew they could be harmed. Could be hunted. That much the Fenton’s research made clear. They could be captured and studied and released back into some vague mention of a Ghost Zone. Supposedly the place where they originated.

That part wasn’t very clear. They spoke of ripping a tear in the fabric of the universe, of punching a hole into some flipside dimension that was something of an Afterlife. They seemed to hinge all their research on it. What they called the Ghost Portal. There was no record of it existing, no patent for its schematics. No proof that they’d succeeded. Yet, a chunk of their research acted as if they had. As if it went without saying that the “ghosts” they studied emerged from the portal they’d successfully built.

Like they’d scrubbed that particular piece of research from existence. A lot of it was struck through. Much of it was missing. There were holes everywhere.

It didn’t help that after a certain point, it all disappeared. What he could find himself had to be recovered from deleted files. And then there was no trace of anything. It all just cut off. Abruptly and coincidentally in line with their signing on with an unknown government agency.

Dr. Maddie Fenton’s last published paper- one that had been erased, mind you- had been about their study of a smaller blob of a ghost. What happened when they cut into it, what happened when they brought it from inside the Zone to out (and that in itself was curious, did they have a lab inside the Zone?), and what happened when they injected it with different forms of ectoplasm. She’d made notes to indicate they planned to do more but that had been the last piece of research. Months ago. He’d been unable to find anything else after they signed with the mysterious GIW.

He’d gone back, then.

They had papers from college, barely acknowledged and never published. Papers they turned in in tandem with one Vladimir Masters, of all people. His school records at the University- disappeared after a certain point. He didn’t graduate early. He didn’t transfer. He didn’t withdraw. There were mentions of something, or more, the shape around that something. Records of the school repairing the classroom the three had done most of their research in. Vague condolences in the school paper. Professors continually marking Masters absent after a certain point in the semester but never docking points for it. But nothing further. No hospital records. No information on what happened; what caused the classroom to need repairs and what caused Masters’ continued absence.

His best guess was an experiment gone wrong. But he didn’t know.

The amount of things he didn’t know with this case was driving him to the brink. It was giving him hives.

He couldn’t find record of where the Fentons lived. He knew they lived in a town named Amity Park, they’d mentioned the place often enough in their research- touting it to be the most haunted town in America. But he couldn’t find it. No map could place it. No government database had it cataloged. No post office had an address for it.

Amity Park didn’t exist. Older maps, scanned in and therefore not originally digital, placed it somewhere in Illinois. So it did exist. Theoretically. Elmerton, supposedly its sister city, refused to acknowledge it, despite the fact that half of Elmerton itself had been blown off the map- everything going up in flames if it was anywhere in the radius of what was supposed to be Amity. Social media made no mention of it.

He looked into the GIW instead. And found nothing of use. He was a fair hand at hacking, but not near the level of Tim or Barbara. He loathed the thought of asking either of them for help on this, but he couldn’t crack their codes, could barely even find them at all. Their firewall was like nothing he’d ever seen before. Maybe it would make a good distraction for Tim. All he found on his own were a few vague mentions of an Anti-Ecto Act. A warning about an entity at large but with no description.

There was something more going on here. Something he very much didn’t like. But it would have to wait. He’d have to see the town in person at some point, maybe let Tim or Dick investigate. Dick had been pestering him about what was going on recently, maybe he could distract him with this. It would take him out of town and Bruce could even convince him to take Tim with him. That way he’d be alone for what was going to have to happen next.

They didn’t need to be here in Gotham when he went after Jason. Or, the thing that was what was left of Jason.

His ghost.

The mindless, twisted version of his second Robin- hellbent on revenge against the one that killed him and the one that failed to save him.

It would explain how he came back when even Ra’s didn’t know for sure. And if he’d had a dip in the Lazarus Pit it would explain even more. He knew from the research that ghosts could be tangible, frighteningly solid and destructive. And he suspected from the descriptions of ectoplasm that Lazarus Water was just another form of it. Making him stronger. The twisted after-shocks of the emotions he’d died with stronger. What Ra’s had brought back wasn’t Jason. Just a ghost- but worse.

It made Bruce feel entirely guilty. And sick. He’d only just accepted that Jason had returned. That he was alive. That he hated, rightfully hated, Bruce for what happened. But now? Jason might not be back at all and he’d have to learn to accept that all over again. Grieve all over again. Bury him all over again.

( He had yet to check the coffin. Yet to check the grave. If he’d had the thought to look inside, he might have changed his mind about it all at finding it empty .)

*

Danny shifted nervously, acutely aware of how he balanced on Hood’s thighs ( and man, did he have thighs for days ), and waited for some sort of reaction. He was unsure as it was about being able to heal Hood’s hands, he didn’t need anxiety about the man’s reaction on top of it all. He’d offered because he couldn’t stand to see the look of resignation, of helplessness, of pain on Red’s face when he talked about them. Like he thought their loss was inevitable. Like he thought it was his own fault they’d taken so much damage- that losing them, their function, was his punishment. Like he wanted to forget the pain of gaining those wounds altogether, the fear and desperation surrounding their creation, but kept pressing on the bruises anyway because that’s what he thought he deserved.

And Danny couldn’t stand to allow that look on his face remain for a second longer. His own hands were frigid and monstrous and soaked in blood. The hands of a dead man- brittle and cold and far too clumsy for something as sacred as healing. But they were all he had and damn if he wasn’t going to use them for Hood- to hold something gently for once.

The problem here was that he had… made a pretty bold claim. Saying he could fix Red’s hands.

There wasn’t a guarantee that manipulating his organic ectoplasm into becoming the regenerative type- assuming he could even manage that outside of the ecto-rich environment of Amity- and applying it to his hands in order to boost the healing process would work. It might not even do anything. Or it might just backfire. But… Hood was also some sort of ectocontaminated undead being- far more human than Danny would ever manage to be, sure- but still a guy that had ectoplasm running through him, which meant far better chances at absorbing the Good Goo. Yes, sure, the ectoplasm was some weird rancid variation of the combative stuff that he really needed to figure out how to fix, too.

But still.

He’d managed with the people of Amity, he could manage with Hood. It didn’t matter that these were completely different situations. Didn’t matter that the artificial liminals of Amity Park had been contaminated with pure ectoplasm. That when he’d healed them it was usually on instinct, sloppy and desperate, and usually with the regenerative ecto already on hand from his own wounds. Didn’t matter that he didn’t have the first clue on how the poisoned ectoplasm within Red would react to the healing. All that mattered was that Red had just looked so damn sad about it all and Danny had something that could help. So he would. He’d do anything.

Hood still hadn’t said anything.

He lowered the board, erased it, and started writing anew.

I don’t know if it’ll work. It might even make them worse. But there’s a chance- a small one- that I can patch them up. I don’t know what I’m doing here though so it’s pretty risky.

He flipped it over and waited again. He watched Hood’s eyes trace along the words, reading them agonizingly slowly. His turquoise stare was intense when his eyes flicked up and met Danny’s own.

Red leaned forward, intent, and said, “Do it.”

Danny huffed soundlessly in disbelief. He whacked Hood in the chest lightly with the whiteboard and then tapped at his own temple and made a sharp, sweeping gesture with his palm up. Think about it first, idiot.

“I don’t have to think about it!” Hood insisted forcefully before his tone turned plaintive. “Fetcher, Spooky, Jellyfish- you don’t understand. I don’t care about the risks. Hell, I don’t care if you fail- but if there’s a chance that you can fix my hands; fix them now- I’m gonna take it.”

Danny sat the whiteboard between them for the moment and crossed his arms, regarding the pleading face of his boss, friend, savior . He hadn’t expected a reaction as... vehement as this. He’d expected skepticism. Expected a careful measure of consideration, suspicion even. Or… honestly, a flat out rejection. Not… this.

“I need to get back out there, Jelly,” Hood whispered, leaning in so their noses were inches apart and Danny could see the intensity in his eyes up close. “I need to help my people. Save the Alley. I-,” he paused and looked away, a bitterness showing in his gritted teeth. “I have to get back to my plan. I can’t do that without my hands. Not without taking too much time. The people of the Alley don’t have the luxury of waiting for me to relearn everything from scratch. Black Mask is getting bold. Messing with kryptonite. I need to know what he plans to do with it. I need to get back out there now.”

Danny did not like the desperation there. The slightly frenzied gleam to his eyes. He could also tell that there was something unspoken underneath his words. That there was something more to this “plan” that Hood wasn’t telling him. Something, probably, that had to do with why he got his hands butchered in the first place. I have to strike now, he could almost hear, they already know who I am and I can’t wait any longer when the answers I need are so close. Red was thinking so hard it felt like he was projecting them into the little air between them.

Danny, already thinking this was a bad idea, grew more uncertain. This felt reckless, too rash in respect to Red’s health. Like they were playing with fire and Hood almost wanted to get burned.

But he couldn’t go back on it now. Couldn’t stand to see Hood disappointed in him, in his hands, in himself. Couldn’t endure seeing Hood in so much pain again.

His shoulders sagged in a soundless sigh. He straightened his back and gave a determined nod. He would do this. For Red. And just pray to whatever Ancients were feeling merciful right then.

Gently, he held the other man’s hands between them, slowly unwinding them from their bandages. He’d helped change them before, the motion soothing and familiar. Something about the ritual of it all both mundane and divine. Watching as white fabric revealed mottled flesh. Bruises and lacerations breathing in fresh air again. He watched them shake- ever so slightly- as he traced with a feather-light touch along the crooked fingers, the dips and lines of the palms, the bony jut of the knuckles. He bent his head and placed a reverent kiss- the barest brush of lips against skin, to a bruise that painted the meat of his thumb a dark yellow-brown. Hood watched, gaze fixed, remaining silent the entire time save for a single hitched breath.

Carefully, he lowered those precious hands and then leaned back for some space ( neither one of them saying anything about the fact that he hadn’t moved from Red’s lap this entire time ) before reaching into his chest and pulling out a knife. A special knife. An athame magicked to rend through spectral flesh. Which is why he kept it sheathed in its protective case and hidden nice and safe in his chest. Didn’t need any assholes getting hold of it. It’d been a bitch and a half to wrestle it away from Plasmius in the first place.

“Why the fuck do you have that in there?” Hood questioned, words spilling out of his mouth and looking surprised but unrepentant with them.

Danny shrugged, holding the knife aloft carelessly. Convenience. I have more.

“What-,” he sputtered, “How many do you have?! Where did you get them?! Are those from when we were patrolling? Have you been keeping them in there this whole time?!”

Danny flicked his wrist, waving off the man’s question, and used the incredulity as a distraction so Red wouldn’t stop him from what came next. To potentially heal Hood’s hands, he needed regenerative ectoplasm. The only way to get it without finding a way into the Realms, was to make it himself. He couldn’t just do that on demand, though. He was sure there were some ghosts that had that ability out there, but he’d never met them and he was sure they probably wouldn’t be willing to share their methods with him.

So, knife time. Athame time. Whatever.

He sliced along his palm, a dull green blood rising to the surface. He pulled a rag from his chest as well, cursing himself for not thinking this through and grabbing it before this. He felt Red lurch under him, thighs bucking up in an aborted move to stop him.

“Fetch,” the other growled, tone a warning. “What the fuck.”

He rolled his eyes. The fact that Hood had stayed still after his knee-jerk reaction told him that the other had figured out what he was up to. The grumbling was just because he didn’t like the method or the execution. He shook his head a bit. Big baby.

He put the rag to his palm and let it soak up the initial flow. The darker green ecto was useless to him, it was just the stuff he was made of peeling away from itself because of the blade’s magic. It let the regenerative ectoplasm bubble up from beneath in order to try and heal the wound. He mopped it up and used the athame to hold the wound open, waiting for the color to turn. Once it was a vibrant, toxic green he dropped the rag and let the “ectoblood” drip and coat his hands.

He looked up and almost laughed at Red’s disgusted look. Yeah, it was pretty gross, but there wasn’t much of a better way to go about it. That he knew of, at least. He wiggled his fingers towards Red’s face mockingly and repressed a laugh at the other’s returning scowl.

“Don’t make it weird,” he said with a grumpy protest.

Danny rolled his eyes. In what world would this not be weird? They’re both undead and Danny has to bleed all over him. They’re beyond weird at that point.

He gave the other no warning before picking up Red’s hands and holding them between his own bloody ones. He really, really wished he knew a better way to do this. Wished he knew what he was doing at all in the first place. But this was as good as it got, fumbling around in the dark and just praying anything would work.

He held Red’s hands as gently as possible while still making sure his ectoblood coated all of his injuries, his bruises and breaks. He would envelop the other in everything he had, surround him with his soul and sooth away all of his aches and pains.

He closed his eyes and concentrated, focusing on his core. He thought about healing, about mending, about soothing, and pouring his very being into fixing every break and every bruise. He could feel the ectoblood warm up under his fingers, glow brightening as it bent to his will. He could hear Hood hiss as it all seeped into his skin and dug into his bones, the heat of it intensifying as the ecto went to work.

It’d been a hell of a time learning how to do this for the Amity Parkers back home, especially when they would run and scream at the sight of him. Thankfully he hadn’t usually needed the athame to help, he was just already injured from one fight or another when he’d check on the bystanders. They hadn’t really liked it either when he’d bleed on them, but they always stopped screaming at him once their wounds sealed back up. He hadn’t even meant to do that the first time, he’d just been so panicked when he’d found Sam buried under rubble after an attack. He’d been freshly dead; his first year as Phantom. He didn’t think she even remembered what happened, but he did.

When his ectoplasm had sunk deeply enough into every part of Red’s broken hands, he could start to feel the extent of his injuries. The old breaks, the chronic damage, the new fractures and lacerations. And carefully, so carefully, he willed the ectoblood to stitch every one of them up.

He… struggled. More than usual.

He’d tried to heal someone without ecto-contamination once; an out-of-towner that’d been visiting family and had been caught up in an attack at the wrong time. Buried under rubble that most natives knew to avoid. They’d reacted a little bit like this. A rejection of the ectoplasm, where the human body recoiled and tried to destroy the foreign substance. Where it reacted so violently that the body started attacking itself in order to be rid of it. Their wound had already been fatal, his interference had at least made it quick. That didn’t stop him from feeling guilty afterwards, feeling the weight of their death on his shoulders and their blood and viscera on his hands.

Red’s body wasn’t reacting... quite so violently. But it wasn’t reacting like it should either. The ecto was oozing into his bones and binding the breaks together, but it wasn’t sticking, for lack of a better word. It was healing him, but it also wasn’t. Like wrapping a band-aid around a cut that needed stitches. Better than nothing and not necessarily useless, but not enough to fix it completely either. Something was stopping it from doing its job. Like there was a layer of ectoplasm already there, fighting it off- not taking kindly to the foreign ecto-signature. Danny didn’t like that one bit. He didn’t even know where to begin to address that, let alone fix it.

The heat of the ecto was starting to become too much to handle, a sign that it had done all that it could. But Danny tried to push it just a little bit further. Just enough to maybe get it to hold.

He and Red both hissed when the ecto bubbled and burned them. Danny dropped his grip and immediately blew a cooling breath over Hood’s hands in order to get the temperature down and cement the ectoplasm in place. What he didn’t expect was for it to make a makeshift icy shell. That was new. He knew that if he concentrated he could make the cold of his ghost sense come forward, but it’d never done that before. He couldn’t complain, though, because this way it would keep all the ecto in until it could properly adhere and do its job.

“Huh,” Red said, staring down at his frost-encased hands, turning them this way and that and watching the dusky sunlight streaming in through the window glint off the thin layer of ice as he moved them.

Danny nodded, wiping down his own hands with the rag and mopping up any excess ectoplasm. He’d already irrevocably stained the couch so he wasn’t worried too much about dripping any on the upholstery, he just didn’t want to leave a mess. He skimmed the rag over the cut he’d made on his palm, the wound already stitching itself together now that he was done using his ectoblood to heal. He didn’t really understand how it worked, but he knew, instinctively, that ectoplasm was ruled by feeling and intention . So if he was willing the cut to stay open and using his blood to heal, the ectoplasm would obey. Most of the time. It wasn’t an exact science, by any means.

He watched Red warily, hoping the man knew better than to immediately try to use his hands for anything while they still had the ice around them. He didn’t have much faith in that. Red had a horrible track record for recklessness.

He slumped his shoulders in a small and silent sigh and pulled out his whiteboard again. Better make sure Red knew what he was dealing with. That, while he’d pieced him back together- he could still fall right back apart. That Danny might have just failed him after all if it turns out the ecto didn’t stick. He felt a terrible lurch of guilt at the thought.

They’re still really fragile. Don’t push too hard. Something was wrong when I tried to heal them and I think it might be the Bad Goo you have going on. What I did might be temporary.

He watched, squirming, as Hood read over the words, waiting for the anger that was sure to follow when he realized that Danny had lied to him. Danny had told Hood that he could fix his hands, that he could absolutely heal him. And he’d failed. Sure, the bones might still stick together and he might have managed to actually do something there. But it wasn’t enough. It was half-assed and slipshod. Just like everything else he’d tried to accomplish in his life. Imperfect to the point of catastrophe. He might have even ruined any progress his hands may have naturally had.

At this point, if Red lost the use of his hands after this, it would be all his fault.

“Fetcher,” Hood whispered, voice full of an awe that made Danny flinch. He startled at the cold feeling of ice against his skin as Hood gently cupped his cheeks and tilted his head up so their gazes could meet. “Thank you. ”

He keened, the sound emanating from deep within his core; a small and pathetic sound. Hood grinned at him but he backed away, swaying back from his reach and getting perilously close to falling off the other’s lap. He picked up the whiteboard again. Red didn’t understand. He didn’t deserve his thanks. Didn’t deserve any sort of awe. He needed to make him understand.

It didn’t work like it should have! If you break them again the damage might be worse! Don’t thank me for fucking up!

He was near to tears when he flipped the board over.

“Jellyfish,” Hood said sternly, the sharp tone making Danny flinch again. “If I break my hands again, that’s on me. Not you. You told me from the beginning it could backfire.”

The frost on Hood’s hands was beginning to melt, allowing him to flex his fingers and clasp Danny’s chin with a better grip, tugging him back towards the inferno that was Red’s chest. He planted his hands against Red’s pecs ( and he would not think about that ) in an effort to keep some distance between them and from just melting against him. He felt far too guilty for cuddles. No matter how much he really, really wanted them.

Hood sighed, releasing Danny’s chin when he refused to make eye-contact- instead staring at the whiteboard that was resting on his thighs.

“You and I both know that the damage done to me was extreme,” he said, voice measured and tired and Danny still refused to look up. “That if something went wrong with my recovery, I might have needed to have one or both of my hands amputated.” Danny winced, but he kept going. “Especially since I can’t see a specialist. I don’t care that you couldn’t heal them all the way, the fact that you were able to do anything for them at all is a miracle to me.”

He finally looked up, making tentative eye contact and getting caught by the look of conviction on Hood’s face. He really thought that Danny had done something profoundly good for him. That he hadn’t just fucked up his hands monumentally. He looked at them where they laid on Danny’s thighs, holding him in place with a gentle grip.

They were still mottled with bruises, yellow and deep purple splashed in contrast to tan skin turned sickly pale from being covered for so long. Angry red scars stretched across their surface in jagged lines, crisscrossing each other with no rhyme or reason. He could feel them shaking, ever so slightly. They were still broken, still fragile. But they were also still there. Still functional. Still whole.

Danny, reluctantly, gave in. He knew how stubborn Red was. There would be no convincing him otherwise about Danny’s mistakes.

He let his shoulders drop and gave in to the warmth that was beneath his fingertips, head curling into the now familiar crook of Red’s neck. At least this way he wouldn’t feel so guilty about not being able to face him fully.

Chilled fingers carefully wound themselves within his hair, gently threading through the foggy mass that was slowly growing past his shoulders. He was trying his damnedest to repress a purr at the feeling. Why the hell were ghosts so much like cats in the first place? It didn’t make any sense at all and he resented the purr that was building in his core without his permission. He hated how easily it gave him away.

“I’ll take another week,” Hood murmured, voice a pleasant rumble Danny could feel more than hear with how he was pressed against the other’s throat. “I’ll stay in and be careful with my hands for another week. And then I’ll be extra careful with them when it’s back to business, okay? Does that sound alright to you, Ghost Doc?”

He huffed and gave a small nod, lightly pushing at Red’s shoulders at the same time. He shuffled around and maneuvered the both of them, Hood just bemusedly going along with his manhandling, until they were lounging back on the couch again. He didn’t want to think about it anymore, didn’t want to feel about it anymore either. A nap was what he wanted; to sink into blissful unconsciousness, and if it meant cuddling on the couch with Red? So be it.

He could feel the slight shake of a laugh in Hood’s chest once they’d fully settled. “If you wanted to sleep with me that badly, Fetch, you could have just asked.”

Danny lazily brushed an intangible hand through Hood’s stomach and relished in the startled yelp it elicited.

Asshole.

*

Something was bothering Bruce about the case, the one that Tim wasn’t allowed to look at. He knew this because Bruce kept looking for something, looking so relentlessly that he didn’t notice the times that Tim would sneak down to the cave to check on him. It’d been another week. Two weeks since he’d come back from confronting Ra’s and two weeks since Tim had shown him the similarities in hazmat suits.

And he knew that his case with Fetcher was connected with Bruce’s case with Red Hood. Fetcher and Red Hood worked together. But this seemed… worse. More intricately entwined. Bruce, who had offloaded the Fetcher case to Tim in the first place, took over both and booted him from the cave.

Not that that would stop him. Never had before.

No, Tim was going to help whether Bruce liked it or not. It’d been hell and back to get Alfred to agree, but he’d come up with a plan to get B out of the cave and himself down in it so he could get a closer look at the Bat-computer. Alfred was all for anything that would get B to take a nap for once in his life, he just didn’t like that Tim was going behind B’s back.

But Tim was determined.

He was going to find whatever the hell B was looking for and he was going to prove his worth again. If Jason was back- if one of the Robins that he’d looked up to so much was back- the one that he’d replaced… He’d have all that much more to prove. To show both Bruce and his predecessor that he was capable. Bruce had barely acknowledged him when he’d gotten back and he knew Jason wasn’t likely to even care who he was, let alone how good at his job he was. But Tim wasn’t one for complacency either, even when no one else paid any attention. That wasn’t anything new, anyway.

So. Tim drugged Bruce’s cookies.

B trusted Alfred, and usually he would be right to trust Alfred. But he should know not to underestimate Tim. Or Alfred when he was really truly worried about B. So, with Alfred’s supervision- if not express permission, he drugged the cookies. And Bruce took a nap.

He was going to be pissed when he woke up, but Tim was hoping to temper his ire by finding stuff and solving part of his case for him. Also, it’s not like Tim was doing anything new, not when Bruce had pulled the same drugged cookie trick on Tim. Multiple times. So, really, Tim was just using the lessons Bruce had taught him. Turnabout was fair play or whatever the hell. Tim may or may not have needed a nap himself.

So after shoving B onto the couch they kept in the cave specifically for situations like this, he cracked his knuckles and got to work.

And fuck was it work. After finding what Bruce had been toiling over the most, going back to over and over and over again, he hit the same wall that must have been driving B insane. He didn’t know who the hell the GIW were, but their firewall was like nothing else he’d ever seen. It was like it was alive. At least he knew why Bruce was so frustrated now, if whatever he was looking for was locked behind it, he’d be pissed too.

If Tim didn’t know that Bruce was going to be out for a solid twelve hours, he’d be worried. Fighting the firewall of some unknown government agency (if they were even actually with the government) was not what Tim thought would be one of the hardest won achievements of his career as Robin, and yet. It didn’t work the way code was supposed to work. It moved and shifted in a way that it most definitely should not.

At one point he could swear it growled at him.

Numbers would change value right before his eyes. The line of code he was working on would disappear. The more he worked the less it made sense. He thought he would have to give up (but he couldn’t, he couldn’t ) before it all snapped into place. The code suddenly seemed less like a wall and more like a cage. He couldn’t explain how he knew this when nothing had actually changed while he hacked, but he did. The growling grew in volume, like a guard dog snapping warning bites. And the more he worked, the more he realized- whatever was protecting the database wasn’t just protecting it. The servers the GIW worked on- they were insulated. Isolated.

Whatever caged the GIW database grew more frantic the more he dug in. Working faster to patch what holes he poked rather than attack him and kick him out. Like it was worried more about what was inside getting out, than him finding his way in.

It took him ten hours. And he could swear he heard screaming when he finally broke through.

The heavy weight of an admonishing hand on his shoulder let him know his time was up in that regard as well. But he’d gotten through at least. Even if he felt sick in the aftermath of it all (that scream).

Bruce didn’t say anything, just stared up at the files upon files now available for them to rifle through. Gently, he pushed Tim out of the chair and took a seat himself, pausing only long enough to give Tim a hair ruffle- the only sign of affection or acknowledgment he’d gotten from Batman lately, before setting to work and clicking away.

Tim- Tim left the cave without another word, feeling oddly guilty and bereft. He couldn't figure out why.

Chapter Text

He hissed as another crumbling shard of code bit into his palms and he staggered around the shattered remains of firewall still falling down around him. He needed to leave. Needed to get out of here and warn him.

Because he’d failed.

He, Technus, master of all things great and technological, had been soundly defeated by yet another plucky teenager. But this time held far more dire consequences than a bruised ego.

He was supposed to be the last stand, the last ditch effort to keep those, those monsters, at bay. He’d enveloped their systems; alert at all times for any leaks or cracks, making sure to keep his walls flexible enough to not be suspicious but also to never, ever, let them out.

And then someone else had broken in.

He should have been more prepared for the attack. Should have, in his almighty greatness, seen something like this coming. No one could ever leave well enough alone. No one could ever just let him bask in his own technological prowess and mastery over circuitry and code. For he, Technus, was truly the ruler of networks and wires and all things electrical. But he hadn’t seen it coming. Hadn’t prepared. Didn’t think anyone would bother digging into the systems like they had. From the other side.

And he’d had one job. Keep those despicable GIW agents from discovering Phantom’s whereabouts. Insulate their network and keep them from reaching the outside world without them noticing.

He knew from the beginning it was just a stop-gap measure. That despite all his impressive skill and power, it’d eventually fall. He’d just hoped for more time. More warning. He’d seen the state Phantom was in when he’d just- disappeared from the Realms. He’d known then he’d need to keep the Agents and the Fentons off the ghost child’s back, to give him time to recover and heal. Because if Phantom was down then they all were. Technus was no fool. Despite the stalemate they’d reached with all of Amity being pulled into the Realms, the Agents grew bolder and the Fentons more vicious by the day.

And Phantom was the only one that could stop it all.

So he’d snuck into the human realm, slinking into the truly tempting amount of hardware the despicable Agents wielded. It’d taken a great amount of restraint not to possess the lot of it all and begin his grand plans of world domination through ingenious engineering and ectoplasm. But he’d refrained, knowing he’d be caught long before he could enact any of his half-baked, glorious, plans. And then he’d taken over the systems, walling them in before they had any time to realize he’d done it. It’d been a damn impressive bit of ghostly manipulation, to be able to keep them out while staying undetected himself.

But now it was ruined.

And the ghost child, for better or worse, had a very strong and very trackable ectosignature.

So he, Technus, emperor of algorithms and automation, tried to follow that signature faster than the puny humans he’d left behind- being careful not to be seen. If they caught him it was game over. If they caught Phantom it was game over for good.

Incorporeal he hopped from electrical object to electrical object, jumping from signals and wires to waves and antenna. He was, regrettably, weak from the attack, and he could only do so much to move so fast and so far without being caught.

He followed the signature to a rundown apartment complex, landing and settling in a worn out little radio kept on a shelf in the kitchen. This was the spot where the signature was most concentrated, the feeling of the icy sharp and electrical pop of the ghost child’s scent seeping into the very bones of the place. Almost tangible. Ah. How nice, the boy had gone and acquired himself a new Haunt. And he’d made a friend by the feel of things. A sickly one, young and weak and injured, but a friend none-the-less. Hopefully that meant he was in better shape now. Hopefully, he, Technus, had nothing to fear and a warning would be all the child would need to rid the world of those nasty men in white.

He heard a door close and locks click into place.

A moment too late, then. Well, he supposed he’d just have to hunker down and wait for the ghost’s return. He could try and follow the boy through the electrical lines, but there was no guarantee he’d stick to a path with easy lines or find an easier way to communicate than possessing a radio. The protective snap of the boy’s lingering presence was strong here. He’d return.

He could stand to wait a bit, now that he’d found his quarry. Those Agents were incompetent (with a computer at least, with a weapon- they were getting scarily proficient) on the best of days. So long as nothing alerted them directly to Phantom’s whereabouts, they’d be safe for just a moment more.

*

Jason watched Fetcher squirming out of the corner of his eye. He seemed incredibly nervous and, honestly, Jason couldn’t really blame him. He was feeling just a bit nervous too. He’d taken the additional week off, just like he’d promised, but he couldn’t wait any longer before getting back out there and hitting the streets.

It was time to check up on everyone, make sure- with his own eyes- that the People of Crime Alley were doing alright in his absence.

He’d been antsy enough in the month he’d gone MIA, only able to run things from a distance and never being able to verify things weren’t going to hell behind his back. His guys had been getting antsy too, in his absence, constantly wondering when he’d be back in the streets. When he’d be enforcing his rule and protecting his people again. It hurt him to know they needed him out there and he couldn’t be there for them, that he was failing them.

The past week... his hands felt like hands again, and it’d only made him more anxious to leave. He was absolutely willing to suffer the small amount of extra downtime, though, because it meant he’d only be down for seven days instead of seven months. He might hate playing the long game, but he needed to make sure he was there for his people. That he wasn’t being stupid and putting lives at stake. And… despite how bad of an idea it was, he’d enjoyed spending more one-on-one time with his ghost. Where he could pretend that all of that wasn’t a monumentally stupid move. That what was there, and growing, wouldn’t end in heartbreak for both of them. Wouldn’t get somebody killed.

They needed to leave, rip the band-aid off in one go.

He looked back at Fetcher, hating to see him back in all of his suit, mask and eye-shield blocking his expressions. He’d gotten far too used to seeing every inch of his face, and having it hidden away again was unnerving. He sighed and put his helmet back on for the first time in what felt like forever. If fit snugly, the interior soft and padded and comforting. It felt right, putting his masks back on, layer by layer, domino first, then helmet, then Crime Lord. He would leave Jason behind in the apartment, slipping the persona of Red Hood back on like a well-worn jacket. A shield, a mask, a role to play in the great theatrical production of his own making.

He’d once told Bruce that all life was a game. The world was a stage. He was just finding a new role and making up new rules. Rules that suited him this time.

But first, he needed to check in on his people.

They stopped by one of Mama’s houses first. Mama, a shrewd woman that went by no other name, was in charge of protecting and housing all the prostitutes in his territory. It was a little old fashioned, to run things like a brothel- or more, a chain of brothels- but it was what kept everyone safest and happiest. Mama took no shit and did her best to look after every single one of the people under her purview. She was a good judge of character, too, and knew who to trust with the more vulnerable of her workers. She was the one in charge of hiring bodyguards, healthcare workers, cleaning staff, and picking who was in charge of managing each individual house.

From the phone-calls they’d made back and forth while he was on forcible medical leave, she ran things pretty smoothly. They hadn’t had much trouble so long as Black Mask’s more entitled men stayed out, and his own gang was more than eager to chase them away. He even called some of the girls himself to make sure they were truly happy and healthy. It felt too good to be true, how well things were going on that front, honestly. He couldn’t help but feel like they were lying, that they were keeping the truth from him- that things had actually fallen apart.

They stopped at one particular house first because it had a certain someone that would have his balls in a vice-grip (she’d kicked them enough already), if they didn’t stop and check in so she could see Fetcher in person.

Nadi squealed when she spotted them from the window, calling down to Fetcher excitedly.

“MI VIDA!” she bellowed, earning her disgruntled shouts from inside the building. “Oh shut up!” she shouted back through the window before turning back to them with a brilliant smile. “MY BABY! LET ME SEE YOU!”

Jason laughed, the sound distorted by his helmet and making it feel more sinister than it actually was. He could practically feel the embarrassed happiness radiating off of Spooky- who was hiding partially behind him.

He smirked and swiftly turned, scooping the ghost up from under his armpits and holding him up- presenting him Lion King style to the building. Fetcher wiggled valiantly in his grip, but didn’t phase out of the hold despite how easy it would have been for him, which was telling enough. Nadi herself doubled over the windowpane with laughter.

“You coming down to join us?” he called up once the cackling had petered out. “We’re going around for a check-in.”

He really probably shouldn’t invite Nadi along. They’d be stopping at other places- more dangerous places- discussing gang business, meeting with sketchier people, maybe running into questionable situations. But he knew she could protect herself, and if not then he and Fetcher would protect her. It was her choice to come or not. And Fetch really needed a gentler hand. His little ghost deserved it after everything that’d happened, everything he’d done and sacrificed for Jason. Besides, a lot of it would still be visiting grannies and kids and gathering Alley gossip. Nadi was good for that.

“Five minutes!” she sang before slamming the window shut and leaving them to wait on the street.

He set a still squirming ghost down back on his feet and slung an arm over his shoulders instead. He could feel the pout even from under the mask the other wore and chuckled at the petulance. Adorable.

“C’mon,” he said, “I know you could have gone intangible that entire time, so don’t give me that look.”

Fetcher crossed his arms, head slowly turning to look in Jason’s direction and pausing for emphasis. Before Jason could do anything- realizing a moment too late what the other was about to do- he found himself tilting over. The shoulder he’d been putting weight on disappeared as Fetch went intangible and he slipped through them.

“Fucker,” he cursed under his breath. And it was stupid, but it was worth seeing the mischievous glint in the other’s eyes, the crinkle at the edges meaning he was grinning wide. He only wished he could see that smile fully.

And then the full force of a six foot Latina woman was slamming into them both and nearly toppling them to the ground. Why he was caught up in the overzealous hug, he didn’t know, but he just let it happen. He’d been on Nadi’s bad side enough as it was, might as well let her do as she pleased. None of his gang would think him lesser for it either. They’d all met her.

She released them both, stepping back but reaching up to cup Fetcher’s face through his mask and tilting it side to side. Like a fussy grandmother making sure her grandchild was being fed to her standards.

“Oh, cujo, baby,” she said with a tsk, “why are you hiding your pretty face again? And why aren’t you showing off that haircut I gave you? Do you not like it? Mi vida, you can tell me. It won’t hurt my feelings. Mostly. Have you eaten? Has Red been feeding you properly? You still seem like skin and bones, you need to eat more!”

He almost felt bad watching Fetch flail in response to all of Nadi’s rapid-fire questions. Almost. It would do him good to be mother-henned by someone else for once.

“You’re gonna make him combust,” he said, deciding to give him a bit of a break.

They needed to move on if they were going to hit every spot on his planned “check-in” patrol route. Especially since, with Nadi tagging along, they were going to walk it instead of grapple and fly. He didn’t think Nadi would appreciate what the wind would do to her hair if they swung through the Alley. They could get a better look at the state of the streets this way anyway; talk to people more and make sure everyone was doing alright on their level instead of just looming over them (like a certain Overdramatic Bat-shaped Gargoyle).

She shot him a glare that made him take a step back and raise his hands in surrender. She raised a nose to the air to show her disdain and wrapped Fetcher up in another hug, nearly suffocating the guy where she crushed him against her chest. He saw the ghost just go limp in her grip, like prey succumbing to a predator. He tried really hard not to laugh at the sight, lest he be the next of her victims.

“Ah, c’mon, bonita” he said, trying to placate her wrath, “it was a compliment.”

She loosened her grip, letting Fetcher come up for air. And Jason did not repress a laugh at the over-exaggerated way he seemed to catch his breath. He knew for a fact spooks didn’t even need to breathe, dramatic little shit.

“You been taking good care of my boy, Hood?” she asked and it sounded more like a threat. “You both had me worried sick with the way you vanished off the streets.”

“Aw,” he cooed, making sure to stay out of kicking range as he teased. “You were worried about me too?”

She scoffed, “What other idiot is supposed to run the place if you bail? You may be stupid but you’re the best thing that’s happened to the Alley in a long while.”

Oh. And, well, fuck. He hadn’t expected that at all. He knew his goal. What he was working toward. What he wanted to accomplish. But he… didn’t think his work had even remotely started to pay off yet. Not in any noticeable way. But apparently, if what Nadi was saying was true, it was. He was- he was doing good. Tangible good.

“If you say so,” he replied weakly, trying for flippancy and not quite managing. Fuck, but he needed to get a hold of himself.

Nadi gave him a searching look, as if examining him from an entirely new angle and evaluating what she found. It was a bit unnerving and it made him want to shuffle where he stood, but he held firm, crossing his arms and looking at the tiny bit of skyline visible in the distance.

He didn’t know what she found, but she seemed to come to some decision as she turned Fetch around by his shoulders and started pushing him to walk down the sidewalk.

“Alright,” she called back to him, “vamos. The night ain’t getting any younger.”

She was- technically going the wrong way. But he wasn’t about to say anything; he could adjust his plans. And she was right, anyway, they needed to get going.

They meandered around the Alley, talking to anyone and everyone. Asking how they were doing, if they needed anything, if Hood needed to look into anything shady they’d seen, catching up on whatever gossip they were willing to share (and, honestly, there was so much gossip, especially when Nadi was doing the asking). He should probably invite her along for check-in patrols more often, she was a pro at getting people to speak honestly, able to lend a sympathetic shoulder that his Red Hood persona was too intimidating to achieve.

She was handy when it came to getting his gang in line too. She was willing to hear them out, but she was also no-nonsense when she sensed bullshit. And she was really good at sniffing out bullshitters. He asked, once they’d moved on and were ambling down the mildly busy streets (despite the late hour, if Gotham was anything- it was nocturnal). She’d just shrugged and said it was the only way to survive. She hated thinking the worst of people, but she’d come across plenty of scum in her time and knew how to spot trouble from a mile away. He thought it was pretty impressive that, despite it all, despite all the horrible, awful assholes and the terrible things they’d done to her, she still believed in people. Still thought the world had a chance at being better.

It was a worldview he wanted to believe in. But he’d seen the worst of humanity too. He didn’t know how much faith he actually had, that things could get better. But damn if he wasn’t gonna try.

People were surprised to see him.

He’d been MIA for so long and the People were so used to changing bosses from territory disputes (before Black Mask took everything over at least), that they’d assumed someone had taken him down. He’d expected that. Been prepared to take back any territory by force. What he hadn’t expected was the warm welcome, the relief his People expressed when they saw him. It was surreal.

Unease had grown in the streets, Black Mask’s men had been encroaching on the territory, testing to see how much trouble they could cause with the Big Bad Hood missing. The previous Crime Lord had been making strange moves. Drug running and extreme violence were worrying but expected. What Mask was up to now was worrying but unexpected. His goons would sweep the edges of the Alley, weapons glowing an eerie green. They never shot anyone but that didn’t stop the dread slowly starting to build within the community.

Jason wanted to know what dear old Maskie was doing with that huge shipment of kryptonite he’d failed to intercept. And it was far too coincidental that Maskie had that and was suddenly using green glowing weapons.

But- was he making weapons with it? He’d been so sure Mask was going to use it all as a bargaining chip- like a guaranteed type of currency in the underground. But why make weapons ? Why parade them around civilians? Why give them to your regular old goons? Was he expecting to draw the attention of a Super sometime soon? Unfortunately, without anyone getting shot they didn’t have a way to nab any bullets to study.

He just hoped it didn’t turn into yet another shitshow among all the other shitshows. The last thing he needed was Mask taunting a fucking Super in his territory.

When he was prepared to call it a day- they’d hit all the stops he’d wanted to cover and did everything they could to smooth things over that night- Nadi had just grinned and said they needed to visit one more place. Just for a little bit, she promised. It was vital for both of them. But they also needed to dress down a bit.

“You,” he said in disbelief, “want me to take off my helmet.”

“You can wear a domino,” she shot back, and he did not like the knowing glint in her eye, what the fuck. “But the helmet has to go. It’s part of the dress code,” she said firmly, tone brooking no arguments, before she turned and cooed at Fetcher. “You too, baby, I need to see that pretty face of yours again, c’mon.”

And he watched Fetcher fidget, uncertain and nervous. He knew the ghost refused to look at his own reflection, knew he hated the thought of others seeing him- because he thought they would be afraid. That they would think he was a monster. Fetcher hadn’t outright admitted it, but Jason saw it. Saw it in the way his jellyfish still flinched when Jason touched his bare face, making him acknowledge that he wasn’t hiding behind his gear anymore.

Fetcher probably thought everyone would run and scream and hide at the sight of him- despite the fact that he wasn’t all that scary if he didn’t want to be- didn’t look it, didn’t act it. And, well, the people of Gotham- and the People of the Alley in particular- had seen worse, far far worse, and always stood their ground. He’d have to show Fetcher that he could trust others to look at him and not see something evil, to see him for what he was instead of what he believed himself to be.

He hated being so vulnerable, himself. It was an unbelievably stupid idea. But, he did have a domino on under the helmet. And he’d done much dumber things.

So, with a sigh, he disengaged all the mechanisms in his helmet and pulled it off, tucking it under his arm and cocking a grin at a triumphant Nadi and frozen Fetcher.

“Dress code is dress code, Jellyfish,” he taunted as he leaned down, closer to his ghost, and murmured in his ear, “so strip.”

And Fetcher promptly turned invisible.

“Aw,” Nadi said with a pout before a sharp grin grew on her own face, “c’mon, mi vida! Give us a show! Strip!”

If Jason listened closely he could almost hear the affronted noises Fetcher must be wanting to make. Like he could feel the indignation and embarrassment. Betrayal, he heard, horrible people! Why do I put up with this!

“Ah ah,” he sing-songed, “cause you love us, Jellyfish. Now don’t leave me all naked here on my own.”

Nadi gave him an odd look but he elected to ignore it. He’d long since gotten used to the fact he could communicate via vibes alone with Fetcher. Something to do with them both being undead, probably.

Fetcher reappeared, sans mask and the top half of his suit tied off around his waist and arms crossed as he glared Jason down. He grinned and just gave the other a low whistle in appreciation. The vibrant green blush that spread across his ghost’s pretty cheeks was absolutely worth it. Even when he sent an irritated, icy punch through Jason’s stomach. Fuck but that always felt weird.

After recovering from the cold, cold feeling he straightened and gave a thoughtful hum as he watched Fetcher shift uncomfortably from side to side… He had an extra domino in his pocket. It wasn’t like it could actually hide his identity given that he- well glowed, but it might help him feel a little more secure without the main mask. Jason knew it helped him feel safer, so why not.

He stepped close again, one gloved hand slipping under his ghost’s chin and lifting it up while the other dug into one of the many pockets of his cargo pants, searching for his extra domino. Fetcher allowed the touch, merely tilting his head to the side in question. It made something stutter within his chest at the show of trust, the allowance of such casual intimacy. He ignored it, just keeping that sweet face within his grasp until he finally found the domino. He lifted it, asking without words if Fetcher wanted it.

Jellyfish smiled, small and grateful as he nodded. Jason pulled the protective film off the back that allowed for easy application, the skin-safe glue already applied underneath. With careful hands he placed the strip of fabric around crystalline green eyes. Fetch leaned into the touch and his eyes fell closed as Jason smoothed the mask over the ridge of his cheekbones, pretty white eyelashes fluttering just shy of his fingers.

He pulled away reluctantly, dropping back and looking away. He didn’t dare to see what emotion was swimming in those bright eyes.

Nadi broke the moment and bounced between them, heels clicking on the pavement as she grabbed both their hands, an excited grin stretching across her face. “To the Underbelly!”

The what?!

Nadi seemed to skip the entire way, smile never waning as she led them down hidden back-alley paths and through dozens of unexpected turns. Asphalt turned to cobblestone under their feet and Jason had an inkling of where they were going but he hadn’t been to this area of the Gotham slums in a good long while. Since before he got picked up by Bruce kind of long while.

It was the smell of street food and the chatter of many voices overlapping each other that clued him in. Right. Nadi was taking them into the hidden heart of the Alley and the Bowery and the Narrows. The Underbelly of the underbelly of Gotham. A place that, most importantly, couldn’t be reached by the cops. Not easily at least. Vehicles couldn’t reach it- the old roads made for foot traffic and nothing bigger. The railway tracks immediately above it were in disrepair, sheltering it from sight of The Blimp. All the buildings in the area were crumbling around it, making it seem abandoned and empty.

It was anything but.

They turned a final corner and he felt Fetch stop short behind him, taking in the sight. Jason should have realized earlier, but it was a Market night, and despite it being three in the morning, everything was still in full swing.

Stands and carts were everywhere, people yelling in a variety of languages for food, or haggling over the price of the meager produce being sold by the locals that could afford to grow it in their small city gardens. Paper lanterns were strung between the crumbling remains of buildings around them. There was a group standing on the broken fountain that took up the center of the abandoned square, singing and playing different time-worn instruments. Other groups were dancing around them to the beat, a jaunty latin thing. Children were laughing and chasing each other, popping up from behind the crumbling stone to scare each other through the empty windows.

God, but he remembered being one of those kids. Remembered Market Night being one of the only times he could fill his belly- taking offerings from various vendors that never said no to a hungry child. Remembered learning to dance here. To find joy here. Remembered not being able to find it again once Catherine passed and he had no one to show him the way.

A lounging figure melted from the shadows of one of the walls and Jason tensed as they approached, only to relax once he caught sight of who it was. One of the other girls, Alara, that Mama had appointed trustworthy enough to be manager, was the one to slink toward them, her grin matching Nadi’s as she looked them up and down. She was willowy and sweet, her face soft and her dark eyes hidden under glittery eye-lids at half-mast. She looked meek but her spine was steel. Her heart didn’t bleed near as much as Nadi’s did.

“Holy shit,” she said slowly, savoring the words as she gave Jason a thorough once over, “he has a face!”

“I take offense to that,” he replied flatly, trying not to shift in place at the glimmer in her eye. “What would you have done if I didn’t? You don’t know, there’s enough weird shit in Gotham I might not have. Could ‘a lost my face in a tragic bazooka accident.”

Jellyfish waved to get his attention.

He arched his arm like he was holding something on his shoulder and then mimed being pushed back by a blast, mouthing “bazooka” as he did. Then he waved his hands flippantly and mouthed “accident”. Would it really be an accident if it involved a bazooka?

“Hey,” he shot back, indignant, “ yes. Maybe I fired the bazooka but there was fishing wire attached and the hook accidentally got my face. Ripped it clean off, Loony-Tunes style.”

Fetch just scrunched his nose. Gross.

“I lose my face in an incredibly tragic, incredibly accidental bazooka accident, and all you can say is- gross?”

Their, frankly stupid, argument was broken up by stifled laughter.

Both Nadi and Alara were laughing at them. Great. His reputation had already tanked when Nadi got a hold of him and threatened the after-life out of him, but now it would never recover. It was going to take a whole other bag of severed heads to even remotely fix.

“Alright,” Alara said, soft voice still choked with laughter, “c’mon, bebek. Time to stop lurking in the shadows.”

Nadi threw her arms up as they entered the main space and shouted, “Welcome to the Underbelly Market!”

She whistled loudly into the night, catching everyone’s attention as everything fell quiet- the music and the shouting tapering off. “I brought the guests of honor!” she yelled triumphantly.

Curious eyes raked them over, noticing for the first time that he and Fetch were both just standing there- sans full masks- and looking like idiots. Someone had the audacity to wolf-whistle.

People swarmed- slowly at first, but curiosity seemed to overtake all of them eventually. Many of the faces he noticed were familiar, all People of the Alley that he regularly saw around and took care of but some of them were new, likely from the Narrows or the Bowery- timid and shy but ducking around the shield of others to take a look at the Big Bad Crime Lord and his Loyal Mutt. Both looking casual and out of place. Fetcher soon had several kids climbing all over him, silent laughter making him shake as he tried to juggle them. He looked radiant like that, happy and basking in the positive attention of others around him.

He could think himself a monster all he liked, but despite being a ghost- he was just as human as the rest of them.

The makeshift fountain band; a man with an old and tarnished trumpet, a young teenager with a well-loved fiddle on their shoulder, several people with hand drums and tambourines and several more with plucky old guitars, and hell- someone even had a washboard and another had spoons- started to play and a cheer went up throughout the crowd. Half the improvised band started singing, a lively chant in Spanish that wove through the beat and lifted up into the night. (He was pretty that most of them didn’t know what the words meant, but they were singing their hearts out anyway.)

People around them started breaking up, going back to their abandoned stands or picking their food back up. Some started forming pairs and started swaying, heels clicking on the cobblestone beneath them.

The bass kicked in and Jason watched in awe as the dancing pairs all took to moving in different steps. One couple was dancing close in an aggressive and even professional looking paso doble. One kid was dancing with family, standing on their feet as the adult swung them around in a peppy little box-step. Three people were trading off partners in a tango. One guy was break-dancing over cardboard laid out near the center of the square and another was off in the corner doing the fucking worm. It was a free-for-all. It was insane.

Jason loved it.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fetch swaying back and forth to the beat, a small sad smile on his face as he watched. Oh no, now that wouldn’t do. Jason knew an unfortunate amount of dance styles- some for the galas he’d gone to while with Bruce and some just because he had the chance to learn.

He stepped in front of his little ghost and held out a hand, tilting his head to the side and asking without words.

Wanna dance?

Jellyfish squinted up at him, like he couldn’t tell if Jason’s offer was a trick or not. The last time he’d accepted Jason’s hand- in a situation like this- had ended in disaster. The last time had been the dojo. But he wasn’t about to let it all end like that again. He wanted to prove to Fetcher, really prove, that things could go right sometimes. That Fetcher deserved happiness. Deserved to have fun. Deserved to join in one of the greatest and purest expressions of humanity. He could only hope his sincerity shone through.

Tentatively, skeptically, he took Jason’s hand.

He grinned and pulled the other close, freshly healed hands gripping at cold hips and moving them in figure-eights to the beat, earning a blush and flailing arms for it. He moved forward, leading Fetch in a simple step, before moving back again and drawing the other man with him, swaying his hips the entire time and getting Fetch to settle his arms against Jason’s chest.

“Bachata,” he murmured, leaning down to whisper into Fetcher’s little pointed ear, “is all about the hips. Relax and move with me.”

And if he pulled his ghost a little closer than necessary, if he relished in the intimate proximity- the shared body heat and the smell of a lightning storm under his nose, if he burned every second of this moment into his memory to hold close in his heart forever? Well, he’d take that to his second grave.

It was intoxicating. The music. The lights. The laughter. The people.

This is what he wanted to protect. This is why he fought so hard to overturn the system that failed these people. That failed him. This is why all the blood on his hands was worth it. The world could be so hateful, so cold and unwelcoming. Jason had definitely seen the worst humanity had to offer. Had seen sickening and unspeakable acts of cruelty. He’d been kicked and beaten by the world a fair few times, himself. He knew how bad it all could get. How bad people could be.

But here, in this time and this place, the people were good. The only things that mattered here were being fed, being happy, and being loved. Singing, laughing, feeling. Being human. This was part of the best that humanity could offer. Community. Joy. Life.

It didn’t matter that Jason was dead. Didn’t matter that Fetcher was dead. That they both thought themselves monsters. Here, they were alive. They were welcome. They were nothing but another couple dancing under the smog-covered stars.

Eventually they took a break, Fetcher still grinning wider than he’d ever seen before, a light sparking in his pale green eyes. Jason knew the other was hungry, though. Hell, he was hungry too. It’d already been a bit of a long night before Nadi brought them here. Gently, he guided his ghost towards one of the carts still serving hot, fresh food.

Mr. Betanco smiled as they stepped closer, flipping the güirila wrapped in banana leaves on the hot plate to brown the other side. It smelled heavenly and he could see Fetcher agreed with how he leaned over and breathed in the smell with a deep inhale. Mr. Betanco laughed at their antics and plated the fresh güirila with some cream and handed it over to the ghost.

Fetcher hesitated and Jason took the plate instead with a careful thanks and shoved it into his hands. He pouted but took the plate all the same, eyeing the sweet tortilla before digging in. It did look pretty damn good and Jason was eager to wait for his own. He also knew damn well Mr. Betanco would refuse payment. He’d have to find a favor to do for the man.

He was handed a steaming fresh plate and gave a grateful grin before he was shooed away. But before he could dig in he was being attacked by Nadi, getting dragged away from an amused ghost. Alara stood beside Fetch, giving Jason a cheeky smile as she waved and Nadi pulled him along with no remorse.

Nadi stood in front of him, hands on her hips, and her gaze was intense when she said, “You can’t hurt him like that again.”

“I-,” Jason started. Stopped. He wanted to say that he wouldn't. Wanted to say that he would never hurt his ghost like that ever again. That he’d rather die than repeat that mistake. But that was the thing of it. He’d rather die for a lot of reasons. He planned to die, maybe, for a lot of reasons.

(Bruce, it was always about Bruce. What would he do? What would he choose? Jason was putting his life in Bruce’s hands again and what did it say about his faith in B that he was already planning on going back to his empty grave?)

“I can’t promise anything,” he ended up saying, voice soft and filled with preemptive guilt. God but he hated how complicated everything had become. How things could so easily fall apart now. Hated how much his plan was starting to burn everything around him. But he still had to light the match.

He didn’t know what expression was on his face but it made Nadi’s crumple.

“What are you thinking, Hood?” she asked. “Why would you say that when you care so much about him? What’s going on?”

He snarled, her words putting him on the defensive. “You assume too much,” he shot back. He hated that he was so obvious. Hated that such a weak spot was so visible to others. Hated that he was trying so hard to lie to himself about it existing at all.

He hated a lot of things.

Nadi leaned away from him, a dark look on her face, before she nodded and left. “Say what you want,” she said, turning just before fully leaving the corner she’d bullied him into. “But just know that if you do hurt him again- nothing in heaven or hell will stop me hunting you down.”

He had no doubt she would. He’d deserve it too.

Despite the conflicting guilt that settled in his stomach like a stone, he wanted to get back to Fetcher’s side. Wanted nothing more than to reestablish that easy connection they had and keep hold of it for as long as possible. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he’d been before his ghost came along. Starved. For casual touch, for easy conversations, for some semblance of goddamn peace and quiet. And like a stubborn child clutching onto a fraying security blanket, he was going to be selfish and weak and hold on until the last possible moment. Until there was nothing left but unraveling thread and irreparable tears.

He weaved through the flush of people idling about the Market, finding Fetch being accosted by Ms. Quispe who was loading up a plate with a concerning amount of tequeños and insisting on giving him a large styrofoam cup filled with what was likely aji. The older ladies of the Alley seemed determined to fatten him at any and all opportunity. He wanted to laugh as he saw Fetcher struggling to turn them down, to insist on giving them back. He stood back and watched a bit as she pretended not to understand what he was gesturing about, but Jason could see from the glint in her eyes that she knew what she was doing.

“Gonna have ta give up the ghost on this one,” he murmured as he sidled up behind the shorter man, earning an exaggerated eye-roll for the comment. Fetch just grimaced and shoved one of the cheese sticks in his direction.

“Boss.”

And then the easy atmosphere of the night shattered with the sound of a quiet voice, wary and tight with fear as one of his lieutenants approached him.

Kalev was not a man that spooked easy. He was on the more cautious side, sure, which likely fed into his reluctance to get closer and interrupt the peace the Market brought, but it wasn’t often that Jason heard the notes of fear in the deep timbre of his accent. He was large and self-assured from the muscle he packed and knew how to use proficiently. He was one of the few Jason trusted to keep the others in line. One of the few he trusted with guarding and monitoring the Alley in his absence. His sudden presence could spell nothing good.

“It’s Mask,” Kalev stated when he was close, voice low enough not to cause a stir in the crowd but quick and firm enough to clue Jason in on just how much of an immediate issue this was.

He tsked in annoyance. He’d been wondering when Ole Maskie was going to make himself known again, what plan he’d put together to be an extra sharp thorn in Jason’s side. Black Mask was still pissed at Jason’s hostile take-over and Jason’d be stupid to think the other would take that laying down.

“I think someone snitched,” Sticks said as he ran up to their group, out of breath as he settled next to Kalev’s bulk. He was a slip of a man, thin and short and altogether forgettable in appearance. It was something he used to his advantage, running around as a scout in Kalev’s shadow. “Someone told him youse was back on the streets, boss,” he paused with a grim frown, “an’ it feels like he’s out for blood.”

He sighed deeply, sticking the tequeño Fetcher had shoved at him earlier in his mouth to get his arms free and reach for the pack he’d stored his helmet in earlier. The movement apparently brought attention to his face- sans aforementioned helmet, and suddenly Sticks was in his space with a wild grin.

“You gotta face!” the man crowed, unafraid of the glare Jason leveled at him as he had the audacity to reach up and ruffle Jason’s hair. “And it’s so young!”

He rolled his eyes and gently shoved Sticks back towards a subtly amused Kalev. His lieutenant just raised an eyebrow in his direction, making no comment but his judgment was felt anyway. Whatever. He was an adult. He was. And a perfectly acceptable age to be a Crime Lord, thank ya very much.

Fetcher came up behind him, unloading his own gear from the pack with one hand and shoving the precarious plate of deep fried goodies toward Kalev’s patient hand. Sticks was now gasping and bouncing toward the ghost, face delighted as he got up close and circled the other.

“Youse ain’t no guard dog!” he exclaimed while reaching up to pinch an unamused cheek. “Youse a fuckin’ puppy!”

Fetch playfully snapped his teeth, fangs snapping on air in warning to get Sticks’ hand away from his face so he could pull his gear back on. He watched as the two went back and forth. Sticks was one of the few people who could have a half-way decent conversation with Fetch, catching what the ghost was trying to say through pantomime more often than not. Probably from experience with working with Kalev’s stoic ass. Man didn’t like to talk if he didn’t have to. Sticks more than made up for it.

Jason took stock of his weapons; just the base amount he usually had on his person, plus two of his favorite girls. Jane and Lizzie were both fully loaded and ready to go. He also had smoke bombs, actual bombs, knives, throwing blades, a modified taser that could deal double the damage the average market one could, and extra ammunition. Probably other little gadgets he’d packed away in his pockets that he was forgetting at the moment as well. Just the usual.

Soon enough they were both geared up and ready to go.

He turned to Fetcher, mourning the sight of his face as he looked for the bright pin-pricks of green that marked his eyes under the mask. He’d seen the other hesitating, fingers unsure and halting as they pulled his suit up and pulled the layers back on.

“You don’t have to go,” Jason said, trying to push as much sincerity into his voice as he could through the modulator in his helmet. “You can stay and enjoy the rest of the Market. Keep watch over everyone here.”

Fetcher glared and punched his shoulder in response. He pointed to himself then jabbed a finger into Jason’s chest. The ferocity of his response was softened when he imitated puppy ears above his head, the motion ridiculous but plain in understanding. I’m your guard dog. The clenched jaw and deliberate look towards Jason’s hands also told him that Fetcher wasn’t about to budge about it.

“Alright, alright,” he replied, giving in. “Let’s head out then.”

He turned to follow Sticks as the man began to slip back through the crowd. Weaving through dancers and food stands and leading them from the comfort of community and back into the thick of the war that Jason felt would never end.

“Maskie wants blood-,” he growled, “then we’ll give it to ‘im.”

Chapter Text

Madeline Fenton, nee Walker, was a woman of conviction.

When Maddie thought to describe herself, she’d use words like: passionate, strong, resilient. Before she’d met Jack, she’d have called herself a dedicated scientist- a woman sworn to using measure and method to explore the unknown. After she married Jack, she’d have called herself a doting wife and a dedicated scientist. After she’d had her children she’d have called herself a loving mother then a doting wife and then a dedicated scientist.

Those were the things that defined her. Her love for her family and her devotion to her craft.

And then her world had come crashing down around her. Her son. Her son. Taken from her- so, so achingly young. And she hadn’t known for years. Not the truth of it all. And she was being mocked, mocked by some greater power she didn’t even believe in. The last dying echoes of her son, a monster that dogged her every step. That taunted her with its very existence, preventing her sweet boy from truly moving on. From resting in peace.

And the destruction it wrought. Other people, other families, losing their sons and daughters at just as young an age. All because of that thing parading around as some sick, twisted facsimile of her son.

And then she’d lost her daughter. Maybe not so swiftly. So concretely. But Jazzy had drifted. And then she’d packed up and left. And Maddie hadn’t realized at the time that seeing her off to college would be the last time they ever spoke. And maybe she should have, should have seen the writing on the wall for what it was. But what mother could ever predict their child turning their back on them?

But she’d be damned if she lost her daughter completely. All she needed to do was get rid of that thing that plagued her family, plagued her entire town, and then they could begin to reconcile. Maybe then the whole family could begin to heal.

Jazzy just didn’t understand. Jack didn’t understand either, but her lovable hunk of a husband was unfailingly supportive regardless. It was just that, neither of them understood that Phantom was the key. That thing was what was keeping her boy’s soul hostage. And she didn’t know for sure what would happen once she Ended the monster, but she knew it would be a far sight better for her boy than things were now.

She had two theories.

She Ended Phantom and her son could finally rest in peace. Phantom would leave what she was certain was her son’s body and they’d have it back so they could bury him and get the closure they all needed as a family.

Or- Or- She Ended Phantom and they discovered that he’d never died in the first place. That her boy had just been trapped for all these years. Puppeted by some parasitic entity that had latched on during his accident and slowly drained him until it could take over. She theorized that Vlad had gone through something similar. That it had eventually taken over completely. That that was why Vlad had just up and disappeared one day and that- Wisconsin Ghost thing- had appeared in his place. The parasite had eaten the host.

And didn’t they see? This is why she was so dogged in her pursuit. So determined to take that thing down.

She wasn’t one for hope. But maybe-

Maddie was a woman of conviction.

Often, especially in the beginning, Jack and Vlad had asked her- how was she so certain? How did she know, with such clarity, that ghosts existed? That they couldn’t be anything but shadows of the living? That they were more often malevolent than not? How did she know with such certainty? Such conviction?

She didn’t often answer. Or if she did, she didn’t offer the truth.

But she knew.

When Maddie was very, very small she met her great-great grandpa Walker. It didn’t matter that the man had been dead for many, many years. To her, when she’d first been confronted with his pale white face in the middle of the dark hallway of her childhood home, he’d been very, very real.

It started with glimpses. There one second, gone the next. But growing up, looking back on her memories now that she was free of that wretched house, she couldn’t remember a time where she hadn’t felt his malicious gaze on her. Day, night, she could always, always, always feel the weight of his glowing red eyes just staring.

The first time, she’d run to her mother- crying about the strange man that had invaded the house. Duly terrified, her parents had searched the house looking for an intruder, Maddie clinging to her older sister the entire time. The first time, they’d found nothing and been relieved- patted her head and told her it was just a nightmare. The first time, even Alicia had been sympathetic and had tucked her back into bed despite the petty fight they’d had earlier that day.

The second time was much the same. Even the third and fourth and fifth. The sixth and seventh time, all nights in a row, their patience had waned. The eighth and ninth times had them snapping and yelling.

By the tenth time, they’d stopped reacting to her cries.

She’d sit alone, in her room, in the dark. Empty red eyes staring at her from the shadows. A glimpse of the pale white face of a man she didn’t know, unmoving in the reflection of her window.

She learned to cope. She also learned to never speak of what she saw.

Her parents, displeased, would tell her stop telling lies. Her sister would call her a stupid baby for still playing make-believe. Her friends at school had laughed.

But Maddie knew she hadn’t been making him up. Not in the way his eyes never left her the minute she stepped into that house, his face always in the periphery of her vision- even when she closed her eyes.

The first thing she’d learned about him- before she’d known his name or that they were related- was that he’d been obsessed with rules.

If her hand so much as approached the cookie jar when she wasn’t allowed, she’d be met with stinging scratches. If she stole one of Alicia’s toys it would be forcibly yanked out of her hands and sent careening down the hallway. If she stayed up past her bedtime, her lights would flicker and her doorknob rattle and she’d be filled with a foreboding sense of terror no five year old should feel.

Most of her early childhood was tainted by fear. Her memories were void of any other emotion, just terror and fear. Days where she was away at school were the easiest, but the back of her mind had always been the creeping dread of having to return home to those eyes. To that judgment.

There was no sentience to the presence, just pure, malicious intent. No thought but to cause pain. It worked within the confines of its own obsession with rules. The ghost would not harm her if she hadn’t broken a rule. But it was always, always watching.

She started taking Taekwondo classes at a young age to wrest back some feeling of control. The discipline it took to keep up with the teachings also helped. It gave her some semblance of safety back, even knowing that the skills would be useless against the ghost that haunted her. Physical attacks could not combat the bone-shaking fear she felt the whenever she stepped back into her own home.

That fear, those scratches, and that ever-pervading sense of being watched were what told her ghosts were evil. That all they ever did was harm. That the spirits that roamed the earth were nothing but post-consciousness pools of leftover malice.

That thing that paraded around as her son, stole him away from her as a means to hurt. To cause pain. It was no longer her precious little boy. No longer her son. Danny was gone. She knew that, deep down. There was some small shred of hope that he was merely possessed, that if they just crushed the ghost that had stolen him, she’d get him back. But it was a vain hope. She was his mother, she just knew. Knew he was gone. Jack had already accepted it, and so had Jazz. Some part of her had already accepted it as well. But it felt like a betrayal to stop. To give up.

She couldn’t give up on her boy like that. Couldn’t stop until that ghost was gone and her son was able to finally rest in peace.

She would stop at nothing until she’d crushed Phantom’s core with her own hands.

And then the call had come.

They’d found evidence of Phantom having taken up a haunt in Gotham of all places. The GIW hadn’t found anything to confirm it yet, just rumors that were circling in the slums of the city. But it was enough for her.

It was an eleven hour drive to Gotham, but that was only if they obeyed traffic laws.

Either way, she would find that wretched thing and End it.

*

Danny trusted Nadi. He really did. She hadn’t once taken an opportunity to hurt him, despite all the very good reasons to do so. She hadn’t ever shied away from him or run away after seeing under his suit, despite how horrible he looked. She was kind and patient with him- and he knew from her brash attitude with others that she wasn’t sweet with just anyone. She cared about him, even when he made it hard. Even when it was inconvenient. Even when he didn’t deserve it.

So he trusted Nadi. A lot.

But walking around in so many back alleys and dark corners was setting him on edge. Especially when Hood was still technically injured. He wanted to pull the man back, keep him safe and sheltered in the apartment just for a bit longer. For as long as he could get away with. As long as he’d be allowed to. Going out into the night, going out and resuming patrols, meant that Hood could be taken from him again at any moment. If Danny wasn’t vigilant and careful, if he didn’t shadow Hood’s every step- like the good guard dog he was- then Red might end up surrounded by fire and brimstone again and Danny might not make it in time if it happened again.

Red Hood was Danny’s only tether to this world. He gave Danny a purpose. If he left- if he was forcibly taken- Danny didn’t know what he’d do. He’d already had everything taken from him once. He didn’t think he could stand to have it happen again.

And now Nadi was asking them to take off their masks?

It was dangerous.

He was tense the entire trek through the Alley.

He didn’t know a city could be so big, they walked for what felt like hours. And they were still in the slums? Everything was run down, dark and decrepit. He could feel the despair and misery that soaked the stone around them. The people and the places here had been left to rot. Thrown aside like trash and treated much the same. This was the place the GCPD refused to tread, unless it was under less scrupulous circumstances. This was the place that the Bats had forsaken. This was the place that had no protection, miles and miles below the train tracks that connected the more well off parts and people. The lower you were to the ground in Gotham, the worse your chances- and here were the basement dwellers.

It made his skin crawl, to know that these people- and they were people no matter that they were treated like the scum of the earth instead- had been left without help. Without hope. That the world- the Bats- had told them they weren’t worth saving.

Except Red Hood saw them. And Danny was starting to see them too. Hood saw them and wasn’t afraid to reach out a helping hand. No matter how brutal his methods could be, or how many times that hand was bitten by those it fed. He cared about the Alley. Cared about making sure every single low life, every single corner worker, every single street urchin, had everything they needed and more. Money, jobs, opportunities, health care, housing, and stability. He was pulling the slums up from the muck and the mire and showing the people of the Alley that they were worth it.

And all the while he was showing Danny that he was worth it too. It didn’t matter that Danny didn’t deserve it. Hood thought he did.

So Danny would repay that kindness. Would help in any way he could. And if that meant acquiescing to Hood’s request and taking off his mask- no matter how vulnerable it made him feel- and following the other man into the depths of the city- he would do it.

When they finally made it to the Underbelly he didn’t know what to think. Didn’t know how to feel. Just stood there in gobsmacked shock as he and Hood were swarmed by welcoming faces.

Hood was laughing at him, handsome face grinning as he was surrounded by Alley brats that wanted to treat him like a jungle gym. Tiny hands grasping and clutching. Baby faces laughing and smiling and unafraid.

No one was afraid.

No one flinched back when he met their gaze. No one looked at him in disgust or fear when he moved about. In fact, they were eager to clap him on the back in friendly welcome. Happy to tug and pull and pass him around the crowd with ease. Alara teased him with a grin, eyes guarded but smile warm. Nadi bounced around him, laugh full of joy directed towards him. And Hood- Hood had stepped in front of him, in front of the entire Underbelly, and asked him to dance.

He’d held out his hand, and yes, that hand had hurt him before. But it was also gentle. It was also roughened from hard work and spilled blood. It was capable of great good and great harm. Those fingers had pulled many a trigger and also held many a small and needy hand. Danny was under no illusion that Hood hadn’t killed, hadn’t maimed- Danny had also killed and maimed and hurt people. Both before his stint in Crime Alley and after, now, as Hood’s guard. And maybe their actions weren’t the best, weren’t morally sound, but they were both doing what they could to help, no matter how bloody the outcome.

Red Hood, the man he’d long since pledged to guard, was doing what he could to help. Even with his fingers broken, his hands mangled beyond anything, in pain and bleeding- he was doing what he could to help. To protect.

So Danny took his hand.

He’d never felt like this before. His core pounding like an erratic heartbeat- and if he had still been alive he’d have been concerned at how fast it fluttered. But- he’d never felt so safe before, cradled in Red’s arms with those large and gentle hands on his hips, guiding him in a sweet dance. Hood’s chest felt like an inferno where they were pressed together. He could feel a deep purr trying to escape that he could barely reign in.

It was the closest thing to happiness he’d felt in a long time.

Everyone around them- he could feel their happiness too. How, despite everything, they were singing and dancing. Even with the darkness still lurking on the edges- the ribs showing on a child, the tattered state of clothing on an elder, the dark circles lining the eyes of all the overworked adults- even with all of that, they made the decision to embrace joy. Embrace each other. However fleeting.

Danny had met many a ghostly God in his time as Phantom. Had seen extraordinary feats of magic and power. Seen the impossible. Done the impossible.

But this, the spirit of the Underbelly, this was the truest form of magic he’d ever witnessed. Didn’t matter how corny that sounded- it was true.

He knew well what hard times could do to people. How it could twist them. How it could break them so thoroughly that all they had left was to break others. He’d seen it first hand in the people he’d grown up around. How being so close to death and loss had changed the people of Amity Park. How quick they were to judge and judge harshly. How easily they turned a blind eye to the suffering of their neighbors- too concerned with problems of their own to see.

And he couldn’t really blame them. Once bitten, twice shy. The people of his hometown had been taught through experience- over and over- that trust was dangerous. That loss followed you around corners, no matter how fast you ran. That the ghosts of those you’ve hurt will always haunt you. And you will always hurt someone. They had been mind-controlled. Beaten and thrown. Injured and killed. The first time Danny had faced the ghost of an Amity Parker that had been a casualty in an earlier fight- he’d been sixteen and it broke him.

No, Danny didn’t blame the Amity Parkers for how they acted. He’d been the one to hurt them so much, to unleash hell upon the town. So he had learned to grin and bear it- no matter how much it hurt him in the end.

And it hurt him.

He was numb from the cold, hands shaking and breath coming in short sharp bursts. Fog was rolling from his mouth and pooling around his mask in a sinister cloud before it got shredded from the aggressively falling rain. His ghost sense was going crazy- constantly pouring out of him as Pariah’s skeleton army continued to shuffle around him. Surrounding him. Pressing in closer and closer in ceaseless waves.

He’d been fighting for hours and hours now, knocking one skeleton after the other down until the next one took its place. They weren’t very skilled at fighting, just rushing him and flinging their swords in erratic arcs. But it didn’t matter- there were just too many of them.

Red mixed with green- creating an acid that sizzled when the rain fell upon it. He was slogging through a river of blood. His. That of those he failed to protect. That of the ghosts only trying to protect themselves from the onslaught. That of those that had no ability to fight back. The blood of the innocent stained him as he fought.

The skeletons did not bleed.

Every ecto-blast shattered bone and sent the ensuing shrapnel flying- tearing at his hazmat suit and glancing off the visor of his mask. Every kick, every punch- only made them stagger back before lunging forward again. If he tore a limb off it merely slowed them down. He was quickly amassing a hill of discarded bones that shifted under his feet- the severed pieces still trying in vain to move at the command of their master. A disembodied hand clutched at his ankle. A snapped femur rattled beneath his boot.

The rain and the fog made it hard to see. And he shouldn’t have been looking away from the army around him regardless- but he’d stepped on something that was not bone or blood.

It was flesh.

A bystander felled by the skeletons in their bid to surround him. A casualty to Danny’s incompetence. If he’d been faster, better, stronger. If he’d been more aware of his surroundings. More aware of the needs of those he’d been pressed to protect.

He locked gazes with a vacant stare. Met eyes that could no longer see. The rain had washed away the blood of the wounds at her temple. Her bloodless lips were gray and parted in a fixed look of shock. Her suit was torn in many places and a sword jutted from her abdomen- blade up like she’d been stabbed from behind before falling backwards to the ground. One of her hands loosely gripped the blade while the other still held her blaster.

Valerie.

She’d gone down fighting.

The last of his graduating class to remain in Amity. The last of those that held the trust of the people they protected. The last of the people he’d once considered his friends before he’d become a monster.

And she’d gone down fighting.

A horrible keen broke through the rain, resonating within his bones and filling the air with a grief he didn’t think was possible. A mourning howl that resounded with the pulse of his heart; singing a dirge with his blood. He was nothing but the embodiment of rage and despair. The cry bounced against the ribs and skulls of the army bearing down around him, amplifying the rattle of the bones as they flew apart from the force of his wail. The explosive echo of his own heartbreak became distorted as it reverberated off the spines and swords of his enemies, mixing and overlapping in a terrifying cacophony.

He fell to his knees, black edging his vision at he looked upon the destruction his own sorrow had wrought. Casper High’s football field was barren- the broken bones of his enemies scattered beyond the fog and out of sight. The turf was ripped and jagged, the stands had collapsed. The only things on the field were himself and the limp body he crouched over.

He stayed like that for hours, becoming drenched from the rain and uncaring. He needed to keep fighting. Needed to push Pariah back into the Realms and keep whatever was left of Amity Park safe. But he couldn’t find it in himself to move. He’d already failed. He couldn’t win.

The fog started dissipating, pulling back to reveal even more damage. Even more bodies. Were they felled by the army or killed by his Wail? Would it matter? They were dead either way. All of them by his hand- directly or otherwise. He hadn’t been fast enough, strong enough- he’d been the one to open the damn portal in the first place.

Not for the first time- he wanted desperately to go back. To stop himself from dooming the entire town. From losing his friends and family. From becoming a monster.

Figures emerged from the fog and his exhausted body tensed- trying to ready itself to fight again. The bone deep ache in his soul weighed him down, but he grit his teeth nonetheless.

And then he saw who was approaching.

Stony-eyed civilians, wary and slow to approach- all taking in the destruction around them before locking on to the sight of him hovering over the dead body of their favored protector. Among the crowd he spotted- Mr. Grey- Maurice- Valerie’s father. He flinched away at the look of utter hatred in the man’s eyes. Danny had killed his daughter. Maybe not directly- but it was his fault she lay dead at his feet and the entire town knew it.

They stopped, forming a loose circle around him as they stared him down. They stood at a distance still- afraid of him- but still they gathered. Some looked lost- not knowing what to do with the state of the town- the utter ruin of the field and the death that hung in the air. Others looked fearful- scared for what they all knew was coming with only one battle won and the war escalating still. And the rest- the rest looked at him with fury- hatred and disgust. They knew him for the abomination he was.

“Get away from her,” Maurice’s cold voice pierced the fog, lancing his heart and causing him to flinch away again. At first his words were soft though no less biting, but then he roared with all the fury of a grieving father, “Get away from her!”

He couldn’t move, pinned as he was by the judgment- the fear, the hatred- of the crowd around him. And then someone picked up a piece of the ripped earth and threw it in his direction. He was so shocked by the action he didn’t dodge or turn intangible. The dirt crumbled against his shoulder and he fell back away from the body he’d been mourning over.

“Leave!” someone shouted, vaulting more pieces of turf in his direction. “Monster!” another yelled, succeeding in cracking the visor of his suit with a thrown rock. “Murderer!” cried more, pelting him with debris.

And then Maurice was there, cradling Valerie’s body with his face twisted in cold contempt as he glared at Danny’s trembling, pathetic form.

And it was under this stare, with the dirt and rocks and screams raining down upon him, that he finally thought to turn intangible and melt into the earth below.

He curled himself into the bedrock, in the darkness, and stayed like that for a very long time.

But everything was different here.

Here he was surrounded by warmth and love. And, yeah, the edges were sharp around that love sometimes. And, yeah, the warmth was not always friendly. But it was a far cry from how Amity Park had felt. The circumstances there had burned away anyone’s chance at hope. Razed it to the ground and left the earth salted and barren. Here- hope bloomed from the cracks in the sidewalk like a dogged dandelion. Impossible and stubborn.

With Red by his side they explored the Underground. They ate and they danced and they wove around the people all laughing and singing.

And then Sticks and Kalev showed up. And Black Mask was back with a vengeance. And they left to face the devil himself.

Danny swallowed his fear. Guard dogs don’t cower- they lunge.

*

Roman Sionis was a man of many masks despite his distaste for them. He preferred a more candid approach to life, could appreciate someone who dispensed with the niceties and simply took the shot. Why bother hiding your intentions when you were only going to knife them in the end anyway? It was tedious. Distasteful.

It was something he had appreciated about the Red Hood, the man had been straightforward with his takeover, with his rage and generosity with explosives. Even if he had become a larger and larger thorn in Roman’s side.

He’d been planning something to take the little pest out, but his goons had failed over and over again to take out the trash like he ordered. So, imagine his surprise when the Idiot Prince of Clown Crime had approached him with a deal. Man power, money, and a shitton of explosives and the Joker offered to take out the Red Hood himself.

Now, Roman wasn’t the best businessman. He knew that. Tanking his family’s cosmetics company with his abysmal business acumen was proof of that. It didn’t mean he was stupid, though. He’d taken over a good portion of the underground after all, wresting control from the likes of Penguin and Falcone. He knew damn well that working with the Joker was a bad idea.

But it wasn’t the worst idea either.

And it had even seemed to work. The docks had been blown sky high and Red Hood went missing. His gang had still been active, but the shiny red helmet hadn’t been seen on the streets at all. And even Red's vicious little shadow was MIA. 

Until tonight.

He paced the rooftop on the street where he’d set up an ambush. Down below, a handful of his underlings were causing havoc- breaking windows on parked cars with crowbars, shooting into the windows of the run-down apartments- anything that was destructive and loud and would get Hood’s attention. The rest of his boys were hidden in the shadows of the alleyways, blades and bullets of their weapons glowing an eerie green. It was last minute and he wasn’t even sure it would work- but he had new weapons to try out. If anything, this would serve as a good test.

He ran a hand over his mask, relishing the comforting grain of the wood of his father’s casket under his fingertips. He side-eyed his unwanted… guest.

“It better work this time, or I’m shooting you and leaving your corpse as a present for Batman.”

“Oh he’d be thrilled, I’m sure,” came the idle reply from the Joker. The man, demon really, had found him and had the audacity to set up on the same rooftop with a lawn chair and a lorgnette. If he didn’t insist so much on being a clown, Roman might think he was a magician. Or maybe that was all just the power of whatever demon he’d sold his soul to- or whatever cruel divine being thought the prick was actually funny. Are you there, God? It’s me, Roman. Your sense of humor is shit.

“Relaaaax,” Joker drawled, crossing his ankles and reclining back in the rickety chair. “Everything’s gonna go according to plan, Maskie. You worry too much, you know. You’ll get wrinkles.”

“The last plan was supposed to work,” he snapped. “So why did I have to set up an entirely new ambush for an apparently not dead Red Hood, when I gave you all the stuff you needed to kill him the first time?”

Joker frowned, scoffed, and put a hand in his inner jacket pocket, making Roman tense at the implicit threat, before he pulled out a pair of sunglasses and a suntan mirror from fucking nowhere. “Not my fault he’s a little cockroach now is it?” he snipped before sliding the glasses on and laying back with the mirror propped up.

The audacity of this asshole. Thinking he was funny because he was pretending to tan at four in the morning in perpetually overcast Gotham.

Roman decided, for his own sanity, to ignore his extremely unwelcome companion and continue waiting for his trap to finally spring. His guest had other ideas. 

"What's with all the green anyway, Romey?" Joker asked, waving a dismissive hand but otherwise not even bothering to move from his 'sun-tanning'. "It's not your usual style. And definitely not your color."

Roman would probably have to see a dentist after this, Joker was going to make him grind his teeth to dust. He answered anyway, knowing that if he didn't then the deeply unfunny clown would just annoy him into speaking or stab him about it. He was getting to the point where he'd prefer being stabbed.

"One of my boys shot Hood's guard dog and actually managed to make it bleed," he said, fingers drumming on the concrete ledge he was looking over. It was probably stupid to keep his back to the Joker, but he didn't care at the moment. He was more concerned with keeping watch for said dog. "A special pack of bullets he'd gotten from a cousin that lives in Metropolis, one of Lex's minions."

"Oh, really?" was the reply, seems he actually had the Joker's attention now. "Finally have a way to put the rabid little beastie down? What is it? I swear I've tried everything under the sun. Bullets, knives, explosions. More explosions. And nothing else has stuck so far..."

"They had a coating of kryptonite. Bitch doesn't look like any Super I've ever seen before, but what do I know about aliens? Don't care what he is so long as I can kill him."

Joker cackled, his laugh like a serrated knife- shredding the air as it cut. "Now, we're talking! We might actually have a good show on our hands!" 

Roman resisted the urge to roll his eyes and was glad of it when he caught something in the distance. He grinned, a shudder of violent anticipation running up spine as he spotted a figure coming down off the backswing of a grappling hook- red helmet briefly illuminated by the beam of an orange streetlight. A glowing green shadow followed closely behind.

Finally. The prey had taken the bait. All that was left was to kill it.