Chapter Text
Jason Todd’s world blurred into a smear of shadows and crimson. His gloved hands clutched at his throat, slick with blood, the pain like fire spreading through his veins. The sound of the batarang slicing through the air replayed in his mind, a horrifying echo of betrayal. Bruce’s face had been cold, resolute, as if Jason had never been his son - never been Robin. It hurts. More than the dire wound that was almost succumbing him to unconsciousness.
He staggered forward, collapsing against the crumbled remains of a stone wall. Each ragged breath tore through his chest like broken glass. He could still see Bruce’s silhouette retreating into the darkness with Joker in his arms, leaving him to bleed out on the damp ground. There had been no hesitation, no regret. Just finality. (At least from his point of view). He can't help but find it funny, the way his da- no. Batman. Batman chose a villain over who was once his Robin.
Did he ever care? A lifetime ago the answer would have been obvious to his thirteen year old self. What a joke.
Jason didn’t want to die. Not like this. Not after everything he’d endured - the Joker’s crowbar, the agony of resurrection, the years of clawing his way back to some semblance of himself. And yet, as his vision darkened, he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe he deserved this. Maybe he had pushed Bruce too far, crossed one line too many. To think that he's dying once again, but this time because of who he once thought the world of.
But then there was another voice, faint and distant, cutting through the haze. It wasn’t Bruce. It wasn’t anyone he recognized. He felt hands on him, firm and purposeful, lifting him from the ground. He tried to resist, to fight, but his strength was gone. His body went limp as the world around him dissolved into black.
When Jason awoke, it was to a blinding white light and the sterile scent of antiseptic. Panic surged through him. His hands shot up to his neck, where he found layers of bandages covering what should have been a fatal wound. The pain was still there, dull but constant, a reminder of how close he had come to the edge.
“You’re lucky to be alive.” The voice was cool, measured, and unmistakably Talia al Ghul. Jason turned his head, grimacing as the movement pulled at his stitches. She stood at the foot of the bed, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
“Talia,” he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. It hurt to speak, but the words forced their way out. “Why?”
“Why save you?” Her gaze was piercing, as if she could see straight through him. “Because despite your penchant for self-destruction, you still have potential. And because I am not your father.”
The mention of Bruce sent a fresh wave of bitterness coursing through Jason. He looked away, his jaw tightening. “He left me to die.” And his voice cracked as the implication of what went down settled in. He felt cold.
“He made a choice,” Talia said, stepping closer. “One that wounded you more deeply than any blade ever could. But you’re alive, Jason. You have another chance.”
Chance?
“Another chance to what?” Jason snapped, his voice breaking. “Be his failure again? Prove him right? He didn’t even flinch, Talia. He didn’t care.” His throat burned and he felt that it if he kept going then his neck would burst - once again he'd be laying there, bleeding out, as his father walked away with his murderer.
For a moment, Talia said nothing. Then she reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re angry. That’s good. Anger is a fire that can forge you into something stronger. But if you let it consume you, you’ll become no better than the man you claim to despise.”
Jason’s throat ached too much to argue. He slumped back against the pillows, his fists clenched at his sides. The anger was all he had left. Anger at Bruce, at himself, at the world that had chewed him up and spat him out time and time again. But beneath the anger was something else, something he couldn’t bring himself to name. Grief. Loss. A yearning for the family he had never truly belonged to. For the spot which was already taken by a much cleaner - much more capable Robin than he ever was. He saw the news - the papers. Even Dick seemed to prefer the new boy over him.
The days that followed were a blur of pain and recovery. The League’s doctors worked tirelessly to patch him up, their skill as unnerving as it was impressive. Talia remained a constant presence, her sharp words cutting through his self-pity like a blade. She pushed him to get up, to move, to fight. And fight he did, if only to silence the voices in his head that told him he was better off dead.
But the nights were the hardest. Alone in the darkness, the memories came rushing back. The look in Bruce’s eyes as he threw the batarang. The cold indifference that had replaced the man Jason once called father. He dreamed of the Joker’s laughter, of the explosion that had stolen his life, of clawing his way out of his own grave. He woke up drenched in sweat, his heart pounding, the phantom pain of the batarang’s edge still lingering on his throat.
One night, as he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the moonlit mountains beyond the League’s compound, Talia entered the room. She didn’t say anything at first, simply standing beside him, her presence both a comfort and a challenge.
“You’re stronger than you think, Jason,” she said finally. “But strength means nothing if you don’t know what to do with it.”
Jason didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The words caught in his throat, tangled with the pain and anger and confusion that had become his constant companions. But as the silence stretched between them, he realized something. He was still here. Still breathing. Still fighting, even if he didn’t know why.
0o0o0
Talia found him in the training room, his movements sluggish yet precise as he worked through a sequence of strikes against a wooden dummy. His body moved on instinct, but his mind was somewhere else, trapped in the chaos of memories that refused to fade. She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, and watched him for a moment before speaking.
“Jason,” she said, her voice cutting through the rhythmic thuds of his fists. “What do you want?”
He stopped mid-strike, his breathing heavy, sweat dripping down his brow. Turning to face her, he wiped his face with the back of his hand and frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve spent weeks recovering, throwing yourself into training, letting your anger fuel you. But that fire will burn out eventually. What do you want for yourself? Not for vengeance, not to prove anyone wrong. For you.”
Jason opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. He turned away from her, resting his hands on the edge of the dummy as his chest heaved with unsteady breaths. The question echoed in his mind, pulling at a thread he hadn’t dared to touch in years.
And then the memories came.
A cold Gotham alley. He was crouched in a corner, clutching a stolen loaf of bread like it was a treasure. His stomach growled, but his hands shook too much to eat. Every sound made him flinch - footsteps, sirens, the distant roar of a motorcycle. He was ten, small for his age, and painfully aware of how easy it would be for someone to snatch what little he had.
But in those rare moments of quiet, when his stomach wasn’t tying itself into knots, he dreamed. He’d seen kids his age walking to school with backpacks and books, laughing as they talked about their classes. He wanted that. He wanted to sit in a classroom, learn things that mattered, and someday escape the streets. He wanted to go to college, to have a future that didn’t involve running or stealing or sleeping in alleys. He wanted that and so much more. He wants to be so much more.
Jason blinked back to the present, his grip tightening on the wooden dummy. He could still feel the cold of that alley, the hunger gnawing at him, the desperation he thought he’d buried long ago.
“I wanted out,” he muttered, more to himself than to Talia.
She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. “Out of what?”
“Out of the life I was stuck in. Before Bruce, before Robin, before all of this.” He gestured vaguely around him, encompassing the League, the endless fighting, the shadow of Gotham. “All I ever wanted was to be normal. Go to school, get into college, and... I don’t know. Just live.”
Talia studied him, her expression unreadable. “And what’s stopping you now?”
Jason’s laugh was bitter, his shoulders slumping. “What isn’t? Gotham, Bruce, the Joker, the Red Hood... Hell, I don’t even know who I am anymore. How do I start over when I’ve burned every bridge I ever had?”
“By building something new,” she said simply. “You’re alive, Jason. That’s more than most people in your position can say. You have the chance to walk away from all of it—Gotham, crime-fighting, the past. If that’s what you want, then take it.”
Jason stared at her, his mind reeling. The idea felt impossible, ridiculous even. But the longer he thought about it, the more it felt like the only thing that made sense. He was tired of fighting, tired of the weight of Gotham and the shadows of the Bat. He wanted out. He wanted what that kid in the alley had dreamed of.
“I want to go to college,” he said finally, the words feeling foreign but right as they left his mouth. “I want to move on. From all of it. The Bats, Gotham, everything.”
Talia nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Then do it. I can make the arrangements, help you get started. But the rest is up to you.”
Jason felt a strange mixture of fear and hope settle in his chest. It wouldn’t be easy, cutting ties with the life he’d known, with the people who had shaped him. But for the first time in years, he could see a future that didn’t involve darkness and violence. And maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to be whole again.
0o0o0
The morning sun bathed the Metropolis skyline in golden light, casting long shadows across the sprawling campus of Metropolis University. Jason Todd adjusted the strap of his messenger bag and took a deep breath as he stepped onto the main quad. The air smelled cleaner here than in Gotham which was filled with smog and desperation. Here it smelt like freshly mowed grass and optimism (which, wow, didn't know optimism had a smell). It felt foreign, almost unnerving, but that was why he was here. To start over. To be someone else.
His first day of college had begun.
The lecture hall buzzed with energy as students shuffled to their seats, chatting about everything from summer vacations to their excitement over upcoming classes. Jason slid into a seat near the middle, pulling out his well-worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye. It was one of the few possessions he’d kept from his past, and now, it felt like a talisman, a reminder of why he was here.
“English Literature major, huh?” A voice to his left broke through his thoughts. Jason turned to see a guy about his age grinning at him. He had messy brown hair, a friendly face, and a Metropolis Meteors hoodie. “I’m Charlie. You too?”
Jason nodded, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. Jason.”
“Nice to meet you, Jason. First year?”
“Yeah,” Jason replied, keeping it short.
Charlie leaned back in his chair, still grinning. “Cool. Lit majors stick together, man. You’ll love Professor Reiner - she's intense, but she knows her stuff.”
Jason gave a polite nod, his eyes flicking to the front of the room as the professor entered. As the lecture began, Jason focused on taking notes, letting himself get lost in the discussion about literary analysis and symbolism. It wasn’t crime or vengeance or survival. It was something new, something normal. And that was exactly what he needed.
Jason’s day was a whirlwind of classes and introductions. His Introduction to Literary Theory class challenged him to think in ways he hadn’t before, while a Creative Writing seminar had him scribbling notes furiously, trying to keep up with the professor’s enthusiasm. Between classes, he grabbed lunch at the student cafeteria, marveling at the sheer variety of options - something he’d never had growing up. He even joined a small group of students discussing their favorite books, though he didn’t share much about himself.
The hardest part was learning to let his guard down. In Gotham, every glance, every conversation could mean trouble. Here, people were open, friendly, even naive by comparison. Jason wasn’t used to it, but he was trying.
That evening, Jason returned to his dorm room, a modest space with twin beds, two desks, and a window overlooking the quad. His roommate, a lanky guy named Benji, was already there, sprawled across his bed with a laptop. Benji had introduced himself earlier that morning as an art major from Coast City, and he hadn’t stopped talking since. (Little did he know, that the other boy was at first intimidated but the second Jason stammered out his own introduction, he was officially adopted as his new victim in arms)
“So,” Benji began, spinning his chair to face Jason as he dropped his bag on the bed. “How’s the literary life treating you so far? You meet any tortured poets yet?”
Jason smirked faintly, shaking his head. “Not yet. Just a lot of people who really love Jane Austen.”
Benji laughed. “Hey, don’t knock Austen. Pride and Prejudice is a masterpiece. Plus, it makes for a great conversation starter at parties.”
Jason rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him. Benji had an infectious energy that made it hard to stay closed off.
“You’re gonna love Met U,” Benji continued. “We're just a bunch of nerds trying to make it through midterms.”
Jason nodded, but he didn’t reply. The idea of leaving Gotham’s shadows behind still felt surreal, like he was pretending to be someone else. But wasn’t that the point? To reinvent himself?
The next day, Jason found himself sitting in a seminar room for a class on Modern American Literature. The professor, a sharp-eyed woman in her sixties, handed out a syllabus and launched into a discussion about the works of Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston. Jason listened intently, even joining the conversation when the professor posed a question about identity in literature.
He was hesitant at first, his voice quieter than usual, but the other students nodded and responded thoughtfully to his points. It felt strange, being part of something so ordinary and unremarkable. But it also felt... good.
Later, as he walked back to his dorm, Jason stopped at a campus coffee shop. The barista smiled brightly as she handed him his drink, and Jason muttered a quiet “thanks.” He took a sip and stared out the window, watching students laugh and chat as they passed by.
For the first time in years, Jason felt a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t happiness, not yet, but it was close. Hope, maybe. The kind of hope that came from realizing he could be someone else, someone better.
He still had a long way to go, but he was here. He was alive. And for the first time, that felt like enough.
0o0o0
Jason sat at the outdoor café, stirring his coffee absentmindedly as his eyes scanned the open notebook in front of him. The pages were filled with notes for an upcoming essay on The Great Gatsby, but his thoughts kept drifting. The warmth of the Metropolis sun, the soft hum of students walking by—it all felt so strange, so unlike the suffocating shadows of Gotham. He was still adjusting, still trying to figure out how to exist in this kind of world.
A shadow fell over his table, and Jason’s instincts kicked in before he even looked up. His muscles tensed slightly, his eyes narrowing. When he finally glanced upward, his stomach sank. Clark Kent stood there, a paper coffee cup in hand, his expression a mix of surprise and concern. Though, he isn't sure whether the surprise is faked or not. Jason is sure that Clark has been aware of his presence in his city for a while now, and he can only wonder why the bats hadn't already paid a visit. After all, Clark must have already tattled to Bruce, right?
“Jason,” Clark said, his voice friendly but cautious. “Didn’t expect to run into you here.”
Jason’s jaw tightened, and he looked back down at his notebook. “Small world, I guess.”
Clark hesitated for a moment before gesturing to the empty chair across from him. “Mind if I sit?”
Jason considered saying no, but the look on Clark’s face - the earnest, annoying mix of concern and kindness - made him sigh and shrug. “Whatever.” Damn these boy scouts. The Super's as a whole seems to all share that same trait.
Clark sat down, setting his coffee on the table. For a moment, he just watched Jason, his sharp reporter instincts taking in the younger man’s guarded posture, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his hand hovered near the notebook like he was ready to shut it at a moment’s notice. It made Clark pause in his previous thoughts on the man - or really, boy - in front of him. Last he heard, the former Robin somehow returned from the dead and revealed himself as a crime lord. Bruce told him to focus on his own city and not get involved in their workings. And Clark respected that! He did.
But now that same boy has been spotted in his city, and he couldn't help but keep tabs on him the second he saw him on that bench at the park. He certainly had to do a double take at that moment, but he decided to not do anything rash until he got all the details. And throughout the two months of watching Jason, he came to the conclusion that there's nothing suspicious going on. Which is both a relief and... unnerving?
He was never previously close with the second Robin, because of his own busy schedule and bias towards the first (which he greatly regrets), but now after much thought... he can't help but let the curiosity take over.
“It’s good to see you,” Clark said finally. “You doing okay?”
Jason smirked faintly, not looking up. “You really gonna start with that?” The smirk was fake though, plastered on more out of pity.
Clark chuckled lightly, leaning back in his chair. “What can I say? It’s my go-to.”
Jason shook his head, closing his notebook and setting his pen down. “I’m fine. I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, Clark, but I’m not in the mood for some lecture or whatever shitty things you're planning to tell me.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything bad,” Clark said gently. “I just... wanted to talk. It’s been a while.” A while is an understatement. He hasn't seen Jason since he was Robin.
Jason glanced at him, his expression wary. “Yeah, well, there’s a reason for that.”
Clark frowned slightly but didn’t press. “So... Metropolis. College. It’s a big change. How’s it going so far?” Jason doesn't seem to be surprised at his knowledge of him attending a university there.
Jason shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “It’s fine. Classes are... different. People are different. I’m still getting used to it.” That's... good?
Clark nodded, sipping his coffee. “It’s a good place for a fresh start. Less... intense than Gotham.”
Jason let out a quiet huff, almost a laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
For a moment, the conversation stalled, the noise of the café filling the silence between them. Clark seemed to be choosing his words carefully, and Jason wasn’t making it easy.
“I’m glad you’re doing something for yourself,” Clark said finally. “You deserve that.” Does he? He's still trying to make out Jason's character.
Jason’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he looked at Clark, his tone sharp. “Yeah? Since when?”
Clark blinked, startled by the edge in his voice. “What do you mean?”
“Since when does anyone care about what I deserve?” Jason leaned forward slightly, his voice low but bitter. “Bruce sure as hell didn’t.” He feels like there's a story behind the bitterness there.
Clark frowned, setting his coffee down. “Jason... you know that’s not true.” Because one thing he knew for sure was that Bruce was broken when Jason died. He never saw his best friend like that - ever. It was a moment which he could never forget, if only the former Robin could understand.
Jason’s laugh was short and humorless. “Isn’t it? Bruce cared about the mission, about Gotham. I was just... a tool. Another soldier in his war.”
Clark studied him, his brows knitting together. “That’s not how he sees it.” He says this with conviction, after all, Bruce loved his kids. He never saw them as soldiers.
“Yeah, well, it’s how it felt,” Jason said, his voice quieter now. He leaned back, crossing his arms. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m done with all that. The bats, Gotham, all of it. I’ve got nothing to do with them anymore.”
Clark tilted his head slightly, as if he were trying to piece together a puzzle. He could sense there was more Jason wasn’t saying, but he didn’t push. Instead, he shifted the conversation. “So... English Literature, huh? That’s a far cry from your old life.”
Jason relaxed slightly, grateful for the change in topic. “Yeah. Always liked reading, even when I was a kid. Figured I’d give it a shot.”
Clark smiled faintly. “I can see that. Any favorites so far?”
Jason hesitated, then shrugged. “We’ve been doing a lot of Fitzgerald. Gatsby’s good, I guess. Sad, though. All that effort, and it didn’t mean anything in the end.”
“Not meaningless,” Clark said thoughtfully. “Gatsby cared about something, even if it was flawed. Sometimes the struggle itself means more than the outcome.”
Jason raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You sound like one of my professors.”
Clark chuckled. “Maybe I missed my calling.”
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, and Jason couldn’t help but feel a flicker of... something. He didn’t trust Clark - not one bit - but there was an honesty to him, a sincerity that was hard to ignore. It was unsettling, but also strangely comforting. Even if he was Bruce's closest friend.
“Look,” Clark said after a while, his tone careful. “I’m not here to meddle in your life, Jason. I just want you to know... if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m around.”
Jason didn’t respond right away. He stared at his coffee, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. Finally, he nodded. “Thanks.”
Clark smiled softly, standing up and picking up his coffee. “Take care of yourself, Jason. And... don’t be a stranger.”
Jason watched him walk away, the knot in his chest loosening just a bit.