Chapter Text
It began one fine day (for Gotham) in late February. On a stakeout together, Tim made some snippy joking comment in Jason’s general direction and got nothing. Jason just snorted and went, uh-huh, sure, and that was all. Tim spent the rest of the night waiting for a retort or some sort of mild revenge.
Nothing. He’d call it radio-silence if Jason wasn’t right next to him. But he didn't seem irritated, didn't seem bothered. He was far-off.
(Tim would look back on it later and realize it was the first sign.)
The same week, Dick patrolled with him and something was just off- he was distracted, looking off into the distance, fixated on one particular building, Dick thought in retrospect. But it was Jason, and they’d been playing nice, and it was such substantial progress to have him here, with them, that he didn’t say anything. Jason was his own vigilante and his business was his own, even if he wore the symbol, the same way Dick was. So he called his name and Jason seemed to shake himself, and they continued. Jason said nothing about the lapse.
(Dick should have asked, he'd say to himself, bothered at his own inaction. He had not.)
Damian’s brother had been acting strangely. When he dropped by one of Jason’s safehouses- being in the Manor around all of those people when it was packed was a lot, still, and he wasn’t fully used to it yet- Jason let him in exhausted. He harangued him about whether or not he’d eaten and cooked for him, and they watched a movie like they were normal people. Jason fell asleep first. Damian could count on one hand the amount of times he’d seen Jason asleep. He stayed asleep even as Damian wormed his way out from under his arm to head home.
(He threw a blanket over him before leaving. Jason didn’t like being cold.)
The issue was that it wasn’t getting better. They had mutually assumed that this was because of some distraction, and that was normal- they all got preoccupied now and then. They had their own lives, and being a vigilante made things even more complicated. Except they were on the third week of this, and Jason was still looking tired and distant whenever any of them saw him, and…
And. Well, Dick shouldn’t be following him, but he was anyway. But what if he was in danger? What if something was happening that he wouldn’t tell them about? (What if he was the danger?)
So he followed. He staked out, perched on a rooftop for three straight hours, watching the warehouse Jason disappeared into. And when he left without the place blown sky-high, Dick went in.
It doesn’t make sense, he thought as he swung down. Jason’s territory, the places he stuck to, were Crime Alley, the Narrows, Gotham’s seedier districts. But he came here in broad daylight and left hours after the sun went down, and this was a fairly calm part of the city- as calm as Gotham could be. He hadn’t asked to work outside of Crime Alley. Did he want to? Should they ask? He’d never shown any interest before…
The warehouse was mostly empty and almost entirely pitch-black, but that didn’t help the strong metallic scent of blood. Dick’s heart almost stopped in his chest.
No.
The back corner on the left. The smell was stronger. When he shined his light at the floor, he found a sigil, massive, splattered with blood. So much of it, at least three liters-
No body. He clung to that. No body. He hadn’t seen Jason take anything with him, and he didn’t want to believe that his brother was participating in some sort of blood-fueled ritual-
He fumbled for his phone, breathing in air reeking of copper, and took a photo. And then, finding it hard to stay a second longer, he turned on his heel.
Constantine’s reply was not reassuring.
Yikes, came the succinct response. You found that in Gotham?
Yes.
The three bubbles danced for a minute or so.
It’s a protection spell. Not evil, necessarily, but it takes a blood sacrifice, as I’m sure you can guess. Do you know who’s doing them?
We have an idea.
Yeah. I’d keep an eye on them. I didn’t know there were magicians in Gotham.
There are some. They usually don’t like being here.
Yeah, I imagine it feels pretty nasty. Cursed city and all. Good luck.
Dick put his head in his hands at the Batcomputer desk. Everything had been going so well. Now it was crumbling all over again.
Jason groaned into cold concrete, eyelids unsticking as he opened them. The sigil he laid on was glowing faintly. It had worked. Number twenty-nine. One more to go, and then each of Gotham’s districts would be protected.
It was a good thing their newfound demon problem had started in Crime Alley. He’d been first to realize what was happening. He’d put down that first sigil the first night after using the All-Blades to chase them off. Using them was tiring, though, so he’d been devoting most of his time to figuring out where they’d be popping up next. It was hard, but he’d been Robin. He was a detective, like they all were. So he’s tracked them down, pushed them back, and spent the last three weeks carving sigils into floors.
And then, of course, he made a sacrifice.
Turns out the Pit made it hard to die, and probably also something else- he still didn’t know why he’d come back the first time. Maybe his life switch had been permanently flipped to ON and he was just like this, now. He didn’t know, and didn't think it really mattered. The sun rose and set, there were demons in Gotham, and Jason Todd couldn’t die.
He peeled himself off the sigil, wincing at the way his blood had crusted on his clothes and stuck to the floor, then unlatched his helmet. His throat was sore where he’d cut it, but that was fine. Only one more, and then it would be done.
He could go back to the Manor after it was done. Some of Alfred’s tea would be excellent right now. Lately, his mouth always tasted of his own blood.
Bruce’s second son was killing again.
Maybe, he reminded himself against the wave of despair. Maybe. An investigation would be needed. He couldn’t jump to conclusions- Jason might be- it could be something else, something he hadn’t thought of.
“We have to do something,” his eldest was saying. “I know he’s trying to protect Gotham, but- but this isn’t the right way, we can talk to him, we don’t have to-”
His son was sacrificing people. (Maybe. Probably.) This was beyond Bruce’s capacity. Tim fidgeted in his chair. “Didn’t you guys talk to him about this?” He asked, beginning to type on his wrist computer.
“We did. It seemed like he was listening.”
Tim hummed, eyes narrowing. “I’m staying out of this one,” he warned. “I’ll track him for you, though.”
“I understand.” Bruce rubbed his temples. “Thank you, Tim. And thank you for investigating, Dick, I know it must have been… difficult.”
Damian, returning from the showers, raised an eyebrow. “What is happening?”
“Nothing, Dami.” Dick forced a smile on his face, standing. “Still up for a movie night?”
He hustled Damian upstairs
The scrape of metal against stone made Dick’s hair stand on end. Hood was carving into the floor, making one of those sigils again. They had to find whoever was going to be sacrificed- whoever he was going to sacrifice.
How had things gone down the drain so fast? Bruce shadowed him, letting him lead. Maybe they could talk Jason down, get him to come with them- Dick didn’t want to have him held in containment, but if they had to-
He was crouched, carving at the floor with one of his knives. He didn’t resheathe it when he stood, finished, and glanced over at them, and- was that confusion? His body language was hard to read with his face covered. He was so much bigger than he used to be. Dick was still getting used to it.
“What are you doing here?”
It was confusion. Dick held up his hands placatingly. “Hood.”
That was definitely confusion. “Uh, yeah? What’s up?”
“You can’t do this,” came Bruce’s rumbling voice from the shadows. Dick couldn’t see it, but he got the idea Jason was raising an eyebrow.
“Sorry?”
Dick cut in before Bruce could fumble this situation beyond fixing. “Listen, protecting the city- I mean, magic is sort of out of our domain and I’m curious about how you even-”
Jason looked, somehow, even more confused.
“-but- this is too far, okay? The cost isn’t worth it.”
He was looking at Dick oddly, shoulders relaxing. “Oh,” he said. “Listen, uh, Nightwing, that’s- I don’t mind doing it. It's not as big a deal as you think.”
“It’s wrong,” Bruce- Batman- said, stepping forward. “You might not mind, but-”
“I can do what I want. Why do you care so much now?” It wasn't said with anger. "I get why it would matter more to you, but it's my choice."
“I always- how could you ask that?” Bruce looked flabbergasted even under the cowl. "It's not only you-"
Jason threw his hands up, exasperated. “It’s not like you haven’t done it! No one’s actually getting hurt!”
“What?”
“What do-” Dick looked between Bruce and Jason- “What does that mean?”
Jason turned on his heel, seemingly trying to keep his temper in check. “It doesn’t even matter! This is the last one- if you actually wanted to stop me, you’re late as fuck, it’s been three weeks-” He raised a hand as if to pinch the bridge of his nose, but let it drop. He still held the knife.
“Listen, H- Jay, just- just put the knife down. You’ve done enough, okay?”
“It’s almost done.” Jason shrugged. “Sunk-cost fallacy and all that. What’s one more time?”
“No.” Bruce stepped forward. “No more.”
“Listen,” Jason said, ignoring him, “I get the idea that you’d rather not watch, and that’s fine, but this might take a while, so if you wanna wait outside or something-”
Something rattled in the back of the room. Jason’s head snapped around, and Dick heard him curse. He moved towards Bruce, glancing back. “You need to go.”
“What’s going on?" They've missed something. This was so personal to them they hadn't done this right, they'd blundered in and something was wrong. "What were you putting those sigils down for?”
Jason’s hands flexed. “Please, just go. You’re out of your depth here-”
Stone screeched. Something pried itself out of the concrete floor.
“Dammit,” Jason said, putting his back to them. Two flaming swords appeared in his hands.
Bruce’s son was dying again. He breathed raspily, uneven, blood flecking his lips as Bruce held him up, tried to apply pressure on a wound he knew was going to be fatal.
Jason twitched. His eyes- eyes that had gone from blue to teal- flared weakly, the remnants of the Lazarus water in his system trying to re-knit ruptured organs and shredded skin. It faded, burned, faded again. Jason drew in another harsh breath.
Bruce’s eldest lingered on his other side, his hands soft on his brother’s face as he whispered all the words Bruce could not say, would never get to say, now.
It shouldn’t have been like this. Jason was better than he used to be, and Bruce knew he was better, but then he was looking up from a felled demon and Jason was taking a claw to the stomach. It had torn him open as he dragged himself the agonizing two feet to the sigil he’d cut into the floor, his own blood spilling over it, rivulets flowing into the jagged scars in the concrete. It had burned green as the swords he’d carried faded in the chest of the last demon. Whatever he had planned was complete.
Complete at the cost of his son’s life, again.
Confused and grieving, Bruce cradled his son until his breathing slowed. Until it stopped.
They brought him home. The Manor would always be his home, though perhaps he hadn’t known it. He did not let go of his son. He sat in the backseat and let Dick drive and mumbled all the words he hadn’t said into Jason’s curls.
Jason’s eyelids fluttered. There was blood crusted over his face, sticking them together. He got the distinct feeling of deja-vu.
Consciousness came back to him slowly, but someone- someone had a hand on his head. Someone was touching him? Petting his hair? He had a faded memory, something lost- a cold, his head leaned on his father’s shoulder, a hand brushing his forehead- the last time he could recall being touched gently, dashing into his birth mother’s arms for the only time-
He opened his eyes. He wasn’t laying on the sigil or over it, but held in someone’s arms, face pressed against Kevlar body armor, being carried toward something.
Jason forced himself the rest of the way awake. Bruce was- was-
Holding him? Jason heard him suck in a breath, fumbling to keep his hold on Jason- not tight or restraining, but supportive, gentle- he remembered being held like that, once, as everything faded, lungs aching as he wheezed and gasped for air-
“Jason?” Bruce sounded wrecked, voice cracking. Where was he?
His throat ached and his mouth tasted like blood again, metallic and disgusting, twisting in Bruce’s arms.
“Jay, Jaylad, don’t move-” Bruce’s hand was cupping the back of his neck as he lowered him, letting him rest against the floor. Jason tipped his head back, breathing in through the nose, out through the mouth. Dying was still disorienting, even after all this time.
“B? What are you still… why are you still here?”
“Jason, you died,” he said, still holding Jason up a little, leaning him against his chest. “What was that? Why did you… we thought you were…”
"Woke up,” Jason said, slurring his words a little bit. Losing blood was exhausting. “Like the first time. Dunno. Keep coming back.”
“Okay, son." It was a testament to how shaken up Bruce had to be that he wasn't questioning further. "Okay. We’re in the Cave, alright? Can we look you over?”
“‘M fine.”
“Let us check anyway?”
Jason blinked, slow, tired. “‘Kay,” he muttered, letting his eyes slide shut. “Wanted to go home anyway. See everyone.”
“You are home.” Was there a tightness he was hearing in Bruce’s voice? “You can always come home, Jaylad.” Bruce hauled him on to a cot. Jason couldn't decide if he loved or hated that his father could carry him like he was still a child.
“No. Can’t. Not allowed,” he slurred, eyelids flickering, and Bruce’s heart broke in his chest. He wasn’t fully conscious yet, muddled, like coming out of anesthesia.
“Of course you’re allowed, Jay,” he said, brushing his hair back again. Alfred was already fluttering around the Medbay, retrieving a blood pressure cuff and a pulse oximeter and IV fluids if he needed them.
“Not really. Say I’m allowed n’ then they…”
“They what?” Dick, who had done everything in his power to get Jason over whenever he was, looked stormy distinctly in Bruce’s direction.
“They jus’ stare,” Jason said, head lolling as Alfred closed the cuff around his arm, pushing the sleeve up. “Like they expect me to be covered in blood ‘r something. They don’t trust that… that I know what I’m doing, even though we ‘ll had the same training and we talked. They don’ think what ‘m doing is…” he blinked, hazy. “Dunno the word. ‘M their pet project. They want to fix me.”
“What do you mean, son?” Bruce asked, with a sinking feeling that he already knew. Jason did a weak approximation of tossing his hands in the air.
“An’ now I’m your son again! Son, when I went to fin’ C’therine because you said I wasn’t. Think I woulda been better off if I’d just starved on the street. Wouldn’t be like this. Wouldn’t be…”
Alfred was hooking him up to the IV, assisted by Dick. Ignoring both of their heavy side-eyes, heart sinking like a stone, Bruce once again brushed Jason’s hair out of his face. Was the haziness getting worse?
(Had he said Jason wasn’t his son? He didn’t remember saying that, but- but parents were like that sometimes, weren’t they? For me it was a significant event, for you it was just another Tuesday? But Jason was half-conscious and he didn’t think that he was lying. This was more honest than Jason would ever be with them.)
“Jason,” Bruce said, trying to keep his face measured, holding his face. “Of course I- you’re my son. I love you. When you died, I… something in me died too.”
Jason eyed him, foggy, with something akin to reservation. “But…?” He prompted.
“But nothing.”
Jason shook his head, pulling away. “You're a liar.” He said it gently, breathing a laugh, like none of this surprised him anymore. “There’s always a but with you.”
“No, I-“
“C’n we not do this?” Jason asked, looking pained. His eyes were half-lidded. “I really don’t want to today. I don’t want to ever.”
“Okay,” Bruce said, because his son looked small and hurt and he could never deny him anything when he looked like that. “We can stop.” And so he stroked Jason’s hair and cleaned the blood off his face, and treasured that something had made it possible for him to hold a warm, breathing Jason, and not a cold, dead one.
When Jason woke again, the haze was gone. So was the Medbay. He was staring up at a fine wood ceiling. The Manor, not the Cave. When had Jason last been in the Manor? Before he died?
Bruce was still there, a dark, sleeping lump in a plush armchair by the bed they’d put him in. Jason squinted at the sunlight coming through the window. Why was he here? Shouldn’t he be working, or something? His memories were always distant after dying, and he sifted through them, disliking what he found there. He had not meant to say as much as he had.
Staying quiet, he checked the wound he’d taken, the one that had killed him. It was gone, leaving only a thick scar down one side of his stomach. As quietly as he could manage, he slipped out of bed- what room was he in? It wasn’t his old one.
“Jason?”
Ah, damn it.
“Yeah,” Jason said, not turning to make eye contact. His stuff was piled at the end of the bed. He began to-
“Jay, where are you going?”
“Home,” he said. “Thanks for the assist. You don’t have to worry about the demon problem anymore, it’s taken care of. I’ll see you-”
A firm hand came down on Jason’s shoulder. Firm, but not forceful. Jason kept his head down.
“Stay for lunch?” Bruce asked instead of the litany of other, worse questions he probably should have. “You slept through breakfast.”
“I really shouldn’t.” He hadn’t eaten Alfred’s cooking in ages.
“He’s making the lasagna you like,” Bruce said, not trying to hide the bribery. “He was worried about you.”
Jason sighed, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. “What do you want from me?”
“Sorry?”
“Answers? A nice, long talk about my methods, again?”
“I want you to stay for lunch,” Bruce said. “I want you to know that you will always be my son, and that I love you no matter what. At least one of those things.”
“It’s going to have to be lunch, then.”
The man who used to be Jason's father nodded and said, "Okay."