Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He was only a couple yards away from the foot of the staircase now. The Manor loomed in front of him in the dark, a giant flashing teeth of polished marble. Teeth waiting to fucking eat him alive.

He winced at the thought.

Maybe not the analogy I want to think of here.

His foot had barely landed on the bottom step when the door opened, smoothly swinging on silent hinges.

"Young Mister Harper," Alfred called out to him—at an appropriately moderate volume, of course—as Roy made his way up the steps.

"Hey," Roy panted as he pushed back the hoodie on the thick blue jacket, still a little out of breath from the run that had done almost nothing to help drain any of the anxiety leaving a tingle in his limbs and his heart beating nearly as fast as a regular human's.

It'd done precious little for either. Just made him look more a mess than usual, probably. He tugged at his sleeve, flashing a nervous grin with probably too many teeth, but at least no fangs.

He'd long since learned his lesson about retracting properly.

"I take it you are here to see Master Jason?"

Roy had to hide a small frown at that.

"I am afraid—"

"I'm here for Br—Mr. Wayne, actually," he said, wincing a moment later—both at the almost slip-up with the name and the total slip-up of interrupting the most mannerly person he'd ever fucking met. Great job. Cool. You're not even gonna make it to the office now, you fucking—

"Ahh. I see. Well, we won't see him standing there, will we? Do come inside."

"Thanks for getting the, uh"—he jerked a thumb over his shoulder—"gate thing. Intercom." He had to stop himself from facepalming then and there. Wonder if Al can show me his shotgun if I ask nice enough.

"Of course. I would call myself a poor host indeed if I simply left you to scramble your way up the fences—notwithstanding your and my grandchildren's apparent fondness for doing so."

Roy flushed, wishing he'd left the hood on as he toed off his beat-up pair of running shoes and then followed Alfred on socked feet through the entryway and up the staircase that led to the main office Bruce reserved for guest meetings. Not the one in the family wing.

"So, uh, Br—Mr. Wayne didn't tell you I was coming?" He was nowhere near feeling bold enough to actually want to pry like this, but his desperation was outvoting his hesitation at this point. He needed to know what the hell he was walking into here. He knew better than to expect anything pretty, but he still needed a ballpark on how ugly.

"It would seem not, Mr. Harper. Of course, Master Bruce has been greatly distracted in recent days, as you can no doubt imagine." Alfred paused, a white-gloved hand lightly resting on the polished wood of the railing as it reflected light from the ornate chandeliers. "I am afraid we all have."

Shoulders hunching instinctively, Roy shoved his hands in his pockets, gaze turned to stare out over the gleaning floors of the grand entryway now sprawled out below them. "Right. Can't blame ya." He licked his lips as Alfred continued through the house at his typical brisk clip. "And believe me, I wouldn't be bothering you all if it wasn't important," he piped up. "It's about what happened to Jay." About what I did.

"I presumed as much," Alfred simply said in response, his tone frustratingly devoid of any indicators. "Ah, here we are."

Roy found his pace slowing involuntarily as he approached. It was always difficult to pick out scent proximity in a house so filled with familiar ones, but hearing was another matter, and he could pick up on the steady but almost inhumanly slow resting heartbeat he'd come to associate with Bruce over time.

Either Roy was late, or Bruce was early.

By a lot.

Fuck.

"Master Bruce. It appears your guest has arrived."

And this time Roy could hear an undertone—chiding, and clearly directed at Bruce rather than himself.

Not that he expected his luck to hold.

And it was gonna be a whole hell of a lot worse than chiding when it finally gave way.

He reached the door to find Bruce sitting behind his desk already, a scattering of papers and pens on its surface alongside one of the upgraded laptops that the Bats all used. You could throw a grenade at that fucker and it'd barely get a scratch if the case was closed.

Dick had promised to let Roy have a look at (as in take apart) a spare one—which, How the hell do you have spares of something like that?—but he figured that whole idea was dead in the water now. Even if Dick wasn't mad at him, Bruce.…

Roy lingered in the doorway as Alfred closed the curtains, shifting slightly on his feet as he waited. And ignored Bruce's appraising stare as long as he could. "Am, I uh, late?"

Gee, a whole five seconds of immunity now. Cool, I guess.

"Not at all," Bruce rumbled easily. "I had some work to finish up, and I wanted to be sure I was here when you arrived."

"Right," Roy said quickly, probably trying too damned hard for casual now. You know already, don't you? That's why you don't want me in the family wing right now. Hell, you don't even want me over here unsupervised.

He wanted to be bitter, but the guilt heavy enough to sink through his damned guts stopped it easily. How the hell was he gonna be mad when they both knew he deserved this shit?

And of course, there was another option, one that'd been burning in the back of his mind since he'd stupidly interrupted Alfred. You're afraid Master Jason what? Isn't up to visitors? Has asked not to be disturbed? Would prefer I come back another time?

It all would've been code for the same damned thing.

"Might I interest either of you gentlemen in refreshments?" Alfred inquired as he finished shutting out the sunlight and ushered Roy to finally step inside.

Roy, who probably wouldn't have dared asking for a thimble's worth of piss if he had been about to die of thirst in that fucking office. The blood he'd accepted from Dick was already roiling in his stomach anyways. He hadn't wanted to drink at all, but there was no way in fuck he was going to take the risk of showing up at Wayne Manor hungry. Whatever razor-thin margin of error he'd have left here with Wayne, with the others, he couldn't afford to blow. He had to show that he could control himself. Prove that he could.

And Bruce had never been an easy man to convince. Except when it came to danger. Danger, he could've spotted if it were 20,000 leagues under a fucking tar pit.

"Mr. Harper?" Now both Bruce and Alfred were watching him.

Fuck. "Ah. No, uh—no, thank you, Mr. Pennyworth."

An elegant eyebrow climbed up the crags of Alfred's face. "I believe that would be Alfred, my boy. As it has been for quite some time now," he added, a slight lilt of amusement coloring his voice. "As you wish, however," he continued with a nod, already back to his typical brisk politeness. "And you, Master Bruce?"

"No, nothing for me, Alfred. Thank you. And please"—an easy wave of the hand—"close the door on your way out."

A deferential tilt of the head and a bow that was little more than a subtle lean forward before Alfred smoothly glided from the room, closing the door with nothing more than the tiny clicking of a latch.

It still seemed to echo like the fracturing of concrete, a gunshot by his ear.

Roy swallowed, gaze still locked on the door, pulse beating in his throat as a steady heat crept up from his stomach and spread out until it had filled his head, drowning out his senses. No, no, no. Fucking don't. When he had wrested enough control back to force himself to turn away and actually pay attention to his damned host, Bruce had his head tilted ever so slightly in question, though he still hadn't moved from his seat.

"We can always leave the door open for this, if you'd prefer. I had assumed you might want some privacy, but I understand you've already spent a fair bit of time trapped recently."

Chapter Text

Cass is all but wrapped around him, a chimaeric channeling of ferret and boa, as he finishes the call. Hangs up before it can be done to him.

The bravado lasts only for the moment it's needed. And then Jason sits in the silence, lets it almost deafen him, waits in vain for it block out the sound of his own pulse beating faster, his breaths coming slower like he's dry-drowning.

He wants to move. He should move. But he can't, somehow. Paralysis, like the Daughter of the Demon was a serpent by more than reputation alone.

And still he's nothing but her prey.

He tries to calm himself, ground himself in the knowledge that it's different this time. That he's not alone, not alone, not alone—

But then Cass pulls away, and panic rises inside him with a new viciousness as he wonders if she overhead the convo, if she's as disgusted with him as Dick will be when he finds out, if she—

He barely has enough time to make it to the bathroom before his gorge comes racing up his throat, splattering into the stark white porcelain of the sink. It comes and it comes and he doesn't even think he's eaten that much, can't remember the last time he did eat in all of this—

Burgers turn to ash and grease in his mouth, like creosote

And it feels like it won't stop and then it does and he's spent and empty, the same way he always felt when people got through with him. It never changed.

He only ever thought it did. He had been dumb enough to believe it, in spite of everything, and so completely he still hadn't fully escaped.

The thought causes a burst of shame and misery to explode in his chest, re-searing his throat. Bleary eyes meet the mirror and he sees Cass watching him, a soft look in bright eyes. She shoulders in beside him and he steps back uncertainly, watching as she calmly wets a towel to press it against his forehead. She grabs his hand firmly but gently and presses it in place over the towel before grabbing another and gesturing towards his mouth. He takes it from her silently, but hopes she can read the gratitude in his eyes as he wipes himself off. He finally realizes through the fog that she let go because she knew this would happen before he did. Not because she's angry with him.

Is she, though? Angry with him? She could be still. He watches her warily.

She watches him back.

"Todd, I warned you those carts deserved to be cited by the Health Department. Perhaps next time you'll listen."

Cass turns around and proceeds to flick Damian soundly on the nose. He screeches angrily but she sharply raises a palm, voice sterner than Jason can ever remember hearing (not that he's heard her voice all that often, even in the time they've been increasingly spending together). "Take own advice. Listen."

"To what?" he demands, brusquely enough but with a voice more subdued than before. Even he knows better than that.

She reaches out and firmly places a hand on his shoulder to draw him forward, broadcasting her movements lest he take fright. She pulls him into the crowded little bathroom and points at Jason before pointing two fingers at Damian, index and middle finger splayed into a V. "With eyes. Listen," she repeats, emphatic.

Damian sweeps his gaze over Jason, once, twice, the scorn falling from his face like acid-sprayed paint, melting into confusion with an undertone of something resembling worry. "You are unwell."

Fucking duh, Jason is tempted to say, but even in his addled state he senses something more to the words. He watches Damian work through it.

"It is not the food that has left you in this state." He arches a brow and sniffs ever so slightly. "Not alone, at least." His brows furrow sharply as something else seems to take center stage to his attention. "Your lip was not injured like that when you left. You've been in a fight again."

Jason waits for him to ask, but he turns to Cass now. "Why would a fight leave him like this?"

Maybe he suspects he won't get a straight answer—or an answer at all, actually—from Jason.

He'd probably be right. Maybe. Maybe fucking definitely.

"It is…hidden," Cass answers slowly, frowning as she says the words, but it seems directed more at the situation than at the question.

Damian lifts his eyebrows. "Hidden?" he repeats, naked disbelief in his voice. "Surely not from you."

Cass shakes her head. "Not hidden. Secret?" She huffs in evident frustration and Jason wishes he could help, but doesn't try just yet, knowing she prefers working things out herself when she can.

"See…Secret, for one? Pry…look…private! Private," she repeats emphatically, her face lighting up in triumph and eyes dancing.

Jason finds himself smiling back at her, in spite of everything.

"Yes. Well done, Cai—Cassandra," Damian says, and surprisingly the mockery Jason might have anticipated is utterly absent.

He knows it's probably due to the sheer respect he has for her status in the League of Shadows as the One Who Is All, but Jason can't help hoping that maybe all that time spent together, the bits and pieces and snatches of time where he and Damian would talk in between training, is paying off, too.

Damian interrupts the tiny note of comfort by saying, "But surely if the fight has left Todd so distressed, we ought to have further details to help…remedy the situation. This person could be a threat to the public at large if he or she still lives."

And Jason almost wants to laugh because no, it isn't the fight at all. Maybe it would've been an hour ago, a few minutes ago, even, but not now. Not since that phone call from Talia blew it out of the fucking water and about a mile inland. He's right as a rainstorm about the other part, though. The Bat Bitch is definitely a fucking threat to the public at large.

Too bad Jason's real problem herself is enough of a threat for a national goddamned warning.

"Not time to ask. Time to wait." Cass gives a small shake of her head.

"I am not a child. I know you and Todd plan to discuss things, and I will not be excluded from this."

"You will wait, or we will leave. Me and you."

"N-no," Jason says, hating that his voice comes out shaky. He clears his throat, ignoring how it feels like gravel on his torn-up throat. "It's—that's not a good idea. "

Cass tilts her head to the side as she looks at him. Something flashes in her eyes and she nods slightly. She must get it.

And he's grateful she doesn't say aloud what she realizes. Jason knows Bruce isn't a threat, not to Cass, and not to Damian if Cass is there.

But Jason doesn't feel safe alone right now. The part of him that thinks it's irrational—as in fucking stupid—is drowned the hell out by the part that knows his situational awareness is shit, which is how he didn't notice Damian there until way too fucking late (he gets a pass for Cass, obviously. Everyone gets a pass for Cass).

And Jason can only juggle so much of this shit at once.

"Tv," Cass declares, apropos of whatever the fuck, before grabbing them both and leading from the crowded space. She pauses and turns around to release Jason, laying her hand on his chest instead before bending down to pick up the cell phone he'd dropped. Had forgotten.

More proof he isn't thinking well enough to deal with fucking Bruce if he shows up now. So much for keeping his dignity, huh?

"Find help," she says simply, pressing the small device into his palm. "Remember friends."

Maybe she heard—and understood—more of that conversation than he'd realized.

"She wants to hurt you again. We will not let her. Ever."

She'd definitely understood.

With that, Cass lifted up on her toes and after a moment Jason assembled his brain cells enough to bow his head, letting his sister place a kiss against his cheek.

With that, she pushed against his shoulder and gently steered him towards his bedroom before shepherding Damian over towards the television.

Jason watched for a moment, Damian still casting glances of puzzled disapproval and suspicion over his shoulder while Cass completely ignored Jason's very existence (just as he would want. Sometimes it was scary how well she knew him, and sometimes it was just almost scary. This was one of those almost times).

He finally leaves off watching them long enough to shuffle into the privacy of his bedroom and shut the door. He turns the lights on briefly before flicking them back off. His fucking headache doesn't like the light, apparently. And it's never been the darkness itself that scared Jason. Just the monsters hiding in it. And these days, he's pretty good at spotting them, dark or light.

Bruce's face flashes before his mind's eye and he admits to himself with a scowl maybe he hasn't done so well at it these days.

He flicks on a small lamp. Compromise.

He takes a seat on his bed with a huff, phone clenched in his hand as he leans forward to think.

Now what?

Talia has him by the balls with that threat.

So what can he do to end it?

The threat is via the blackmail, but the true danger is the woman—loosely speaking—herself.

But considering things from that end is more an exercise than anything else. He knows he's not ending that threat.

Say he kills Talia. Somehow gathers the allies and plays every card right and manages to outfox the centenarian who played him like her favorite prized fiddle until he could barely tell up from down.

What he's left with are an orphaned Damian who will never forgive him—or anyone else involved, and Jason isn't foolish enough to doubt that Damian would be capable of identifying every single co-conspirator and responding accordingly—and a Ra's who will have full control of the League AND be one of even fewer relatives left for a boy who's spent most of his life obsessing over blood ties.

Courtesy of both Talia and Ra's.

Yeah, none of that is sounding worth it. He already has one clusterfuck to deal with; he doesn't need a Goddamned chain reaction of them.

Which means he needs to deal with the blackmail instead. If he can find a way to…neutralize it somehow, defang it, she loses her leverage and he can tell her to, in however many words he wants, Fuck the hell off.

Problem is, there aren't a lot of ways to deal with this.

The shit she's threatening to say…it's true. All of it.

And that's his Goddamned fault and he can kick himself some more later for being stupid enough to fall for it all (so stupid he still feels something twinging inside him every time he thinks of her…or hears her voice), but it is what it is. He can't disprove what she says.

Granted, there's always the option of pretending to—discrediting her claims—but Talia's too damned smart not to have collected proof, and—

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. His stomach lurches for an encore as he realizes that Talia probably has pictures of what happened. What he'd done for her. She's never been one to let Ra's's distaste for technology interfere with her plans to any real extent, she's both too smart and too opportunistic to have turned down that sort of opportunity when it was right fucking in front of her. Literally.

Jason presses his free hand against his mouth, doubling over as he fights back the nausea. He is not bursting back out of there to go puke his guts out in front of Damian a second time in one day. Probably one hour.

He clenches his jaw and breathes through it until he feels safe to move his hand again. Shit.

He tells the panic to shut the hell up and forces his brain back on task. Assume the worst. Assume she has photos and videos and whatever the hell else to parade out if he tries to deny it all.

So what else can he do?

If he can't deny it, maybe he can talk her down. Despite what she had said, Jason very much can get in contact with her if he really wants.

He has the contacts. He sure as shit has the money. And he's about as motivated as he's ever been.

But then what? Say he manages to talk to her. Plead his case, try to get her to listen—negotiate. He'll have to do it in person, because he already knows she'll hang up on him in a heartbeat if he does ever get her to pick up in the first place (hence the contacts, though).

Trouble is, he's already tried this. He tried it when she called in the first place, and it got him a net result of less than nothing. All that happened was that he'd agreed to kill a probably-mostly-innocent person, all to keep her from making good on her threat immediately.

And she'd be watching now. If he did get any brilliant ideas—about defying her, or maybe even just about negotiating, even—he could expect all his worst nightmares plus probably a little extra just for spice. Jason wasn't the only one with a bent for revenge. Or for being fucking Goddamned petty, to boot.

And it had the added perk of being a very effective deterrent, so pettiness really was a useful trait.

Sometimes, at least.

Right now it sure didn't feel like it.

So negotiating was out. Maybe. Maybe he could still think of something he could offer her—something better than the kill she wanted, though honestly she'd no doubt just send someone else to do it in his stead if Jason refused himself.

But then it was more the principle of the thing anyways. If he gave in this time, he'd just mark himself as her slave for the future. And Talia was absolutely a brutal enough bitch to hang that over his head indefinitely.

Not to mention still out him in the end if she ever wanted the revenge—or maybe even just a handy distraction—enough to finally let her blackmail see the light of day and outlive its usefulness.

And come to think of it, even after that, if she had collected the kind of evidence the sick feeling in his gut warned him she had, then…there were still things she could threaten him with. Maybe not as badly as before, but still well enough.

Having his family know was enough. Was the worst part.

But letting them see…any faint hopes Jason had of coming out of this with any of his dignity left intact would be shot then. And what good would it be to have his family around if he knew that every time they looked at him, that was what they saw?

Vividly.

That…he couldn't let that happen.

But that was a separate thing, some part of him distantly realized.

He wanted the blackmail materials destroyed, yeah, but he realized how incredibly unlikely it was that it would happen. Even the best hackers in the world couldn't get into physical devices that weren't connected to a network. And Talia would know as much.

Which meant he had to destroy the blackmail itself, as a concept, another way.

And the only way left, the only real way to take care of it for good…was to take it for himself. To disclose it on his own terms.

As much as it could be when the timeline and the very act itself were determined by Talia's threats to him.

The thought made him sick, which just seemed like a running theme for the day at this point. But he knew it was right.

He hated it. He fucking hated it like he hated crowbars and the smell of piss in an alley and watching politicians make the Alley more promises they wouldn't have kept even if they could have.

And he didn't have a choice. Not a good one, at least. He had real ones but not good ones.

Funny how even a phone encounter with Talia still ended with him in this position.

So now he had to do it. Had to tell Dick, tell Bruce that…actually he wasn't telling Bruce shit.

Talia could tell him if he wanted. Jason wasn't standing in front of that bastard and baring his soul. Not after everything that had happened. Not after the past few months especially.

But it couldn't stay a secret, either. He still had to tell Dick. Hell, at least then he'd have the fun of being able to rub in Bruce's face, in the inevitable confrontation, that he had confided in a member of the family—it just wasn't Bruce he had chosen.

He sure as shit wasn't going to make the kids deal with this; if they found out, it'd be because Talia was every bit as ruthless as she'd threatened, not because Jason had chosen to burden them with the knowledge.

And Cass…she already knew something, evidently, though maybe what she could read from him (or overhear via the phone) was generic enough that she hadn't been able to tell anything that specific.

But then…she'd been in the League. And that relationship hadn't been a secret, either.

But if she somehow hadn't found out…Jason realized he was going to tell her anyways. Maybe would've even if Talia had never threatened. The way Cass treated him, the way she'd been today…he wasn't scared to tell her. That much.

And she was going to be around enoigh to catch things on her own, especially if he had to ask her to help him keep Damian safe, because Damian was going to be kept safe. That part of the blackmail hadn't even been a consideration this entire time, because it wasn't. Fucking. Happening.

He wasn't selling out his little brother like that.

Jason let out a low chuckle as it occurred to him he could almost thank Bruce for being such a bastard today; he'd done a nice job of shattering whatever hopes Jason might have had that Bruce could actually be a competent fucking parent again, or close enough—the way he'd been with Dick.

Actually, the problem wasn't that Bruce couldn't be a decent enough parent. It's just that was never his preferred fucking option.

Which was why Jason and Dick were now co-captaining the family and doing their best to keep it from fucking capsizing and crushing them all under its weight.

…Maybe Titanic hadn't been the best choice for last movie night, fun as it was to make fun of with the Batbrat.

Though it did drive home why he needed to tell Dick. He wasn't getting through all of this without Dick—not without sparking some kind of war between them and making the kids choose.

And it was easy enough to guess how the cards would fall and what choices would be made. But they deserved better. Better than getting one half of a team that was already limping along at best, as far as Jason was concerned. Neither of them was Bruce. And the two of them put together still didn't make Bruce.

But at least together they made for a halfway competent team, which was better than what Bruce was offering the sons and daughter he'd let twist in the wind for far too long.

Jason felt guilty he hadn't sought out Cass sooner—or at all—though he knew she was so used to being on her own that she didn't really rely on Bruce from the get-go.

Then again, couldn't that same shit be said about Tim, too?

Jason scrubbed a hand over his face. "Fuck." He scrubbed both hands over his face and didn't put the phone down because he didn't think he'd be able to make himself pick it back up.

He already knew making the decision wasn't going to be the hard part.

Hell, he'd already made the decision before he took the time to really work through all the options. He had enough experience and smarts and honed instinct by now to know that disclosure was going to be the only way out of this.

He'd already had enough time to think about it over the years he'd managed to keep it hidden. And he'd known since he tried to renew—or build anew—his relationships with the Bats that it was going to come up.

He just didn't know how to manage the next steps. He couldn't talk about this over the phone. That much he knew.

And Dick…Dick had already been pissed at him before he left. If Jason hammered him with more bad news (shotgun to the brain stem was more like it) while he was away, he was just gonna be distracted (And have enough time to stew) and come back angry. If Jason distracting him with fuckups didn't distract him so badly he didn't come back at all.

Yeah. He was so not doing that.

In-person, it is.

And the thought still filled him with an icy dread that felt like he'd fallen into Gotham Harbor and was in too deep, too far, to ever get out.

Maybe he'd never fully left it that night, and some part of him was still there—a fingernail maybe—caught in the trash and debris, at home there, and that's why he still struggled with the cold even now. Maybe it'd started well before he'd ever died.

God, he needed to stop watching dramatic fucking movies.

And start figuring out how to actually handle this shit.

He'd thought he needed backup for dealing with Talia, but right now it felt like he really needed it for dealing with Dick.

His hands froze as he reviewed the thought, stopping in their endless idle scroll of his contacts.

Jesus Christ. That was exactly what he needed. He needed Dick on his side, and Jason didn't trust himself to manage something like that alone.

And even though Cass and Dick got along great—speaking the same favorite language had to help—it didn't seem fair to put even more on Cass to deal with now. And he still wasn't sure her kind of help was really what he needed, not for dealing with Dick.

But the worst part was, he knew the people who could help him with Dick. Knew them, the same way he knew the alleys and side streets of Gotham. The same way he could look at the shelf on a corner store and point and know within a five-cent margin how much that shit cost.

Trouble was, making that phone call was almost as scary as the thought of what he needed the backup for.

His stupid hands seemed to agree, trembling with increasing violence as he he made the call anyways, because how the hell could he be brave enough to tell Dick about Talia if he wasn't brave enough for this?

The call went through at once, not even giving him time enough to strategize (like he admittedly probably should before making the damned call, but well…).

"Ça va?"

"Roy, it's me." Not that Roy likely thought anyone else would be calling from the number, but it was always safer to check. Hearing Jason's voice would help.

"Damn. Sorry man, but you missed Li. Just put her down for a nap, but maybe—"

"I need you to come to Gotham," Jason blurted, heralding a ringing silence from the other end. Jason cursed himself furiously. If ever he needed proof that he sucked at this, choosing the worst possible opener was it.

And then a slow, "Come again?"

"It doesn't have to be Gotham," Jason tried quickly. "Just—I'm sor—"—he clenched his jaw in frustration before yanking in a quick breath. "I didn't call for Li this time. I called for you."

"Yeah," Roy said, the words coming out slowly, carefully, "I gathered." And then, "What's up? Actually, no—"

Jason felt his heart plummet straight down to his intestines.

"—give me a minute."

Jason nodded mutely, so overwhelmed with the mix of dread and relief flooding him that he forgot Roy wouldn't be able to see. Still holding the phone in a death grip, he pressed his fist against his forehead, taking a few more deep breaths.

"A'ight, I'm back," came the announcement a minute later. "You there, Jay?"

Jay. Not Jaybird, but not Jason either. It probably would be Jason by the end of the damn conversation. But maybe he could pretend until then.

"Yeah. I'm here."

"Okay, here's where I'm at: For you to be asking me at all, it has to be either urgent, important, or both. But also said it doesn't have to be Gotham, so I'm really hoping it's not the bleeding-out kind of urgent, right?"

"It's not. Bleeding-out, I mean. I'm fine."

Roy chuckled, but there was no humor in the sound. And even less when he added in an undertone, "Not with that voice, and not if you're calling me." Before Jason could respond, he added, "How far out are the others? In case this does become a bleeding-out kinda thing."

Jason tossed out a few quick estimates.

Roy listened and confirmed he'd heard. "So now for the million-dollar question: If you've got the others that close by, why is it you need to call me instead?" It could've been said with a note of triumph. Bitter, maybe, but vindicated. Vindictive. Instead the note ringing out to Jason, clearer and louder with each sentence, was concern. Worry.

It only made him feel worse. "It's Talia."

A short silence that still felt like ages. And then: "Fuck. Fucking Goddamned mother—shit." Roy cut the venting off with a harsh breath, but Jason could still hear the controlled fury even as he voice went almost perfectly even. "She in the city?"

"No, I don't—I don't think she is. Her people probably are, though."

"Watching you."

"Yeah."

"Okay. Well that's some thoroughly shit-tastic news. Since you know it's Talia and not Ra's, I'm gonna go out on another limb and guess she's communicated with you somehow?"

"She called me. On the phone. Like…2 hours ago? Maybe less. It's…probably less."

"You're losing time?" Roy asked softly.

"Just puking my guts out. Cass is here, though, so I'm okay."

Roy blessedly didn't argue for the many ways that wasn't the case.

"You have any idea what she wants?"

"Control, I think. She wants me to kill some politician. I think it's just to see if I will. Look, I don't mind the killing, and maybe I won't even mind killing him—I don't know about the guy yet—but—"

"You don't want to kill for her."

"No." He laughed harshly, a cutting tinge of hysteria on the edge of the sound. "And that's not even the main thing."

"What is?" The question was asked through what Jason could tell was a subtly clenched jaw.

"She wants me to give Damian back to Bruce."

"You took him?" Roy asked in disbelief, voice pitched as high as his eyebrows probably were.

"I…" Jason realized abruptly that this was one of the countless things they'd pointedly not spoken about since he'd left for Gotham. "Me and Dick did. Kinda?"

"Kinda." Roy laughed in spite of himself. "Okay, this oughta be good."

"Not much to tell." Jason shrugged, hoping the gesture came through in his tone. "We just…well Bruce was sucking."

"As always," Roy bluntly chimed in.

"Yeah. And Dick already had the kid a lot of the time anyways."

"But?"

"It wasn't like an official thing, you know?"

Roy huffed. "Usually isn't. What changed?"

"Bruce sucking extra."

A snort from the other end of the line.

"And then wanting them back. Not because he actually wants to be a fucking parent finally. Because he wants control." Jason spat the last word out like it was another glob of blood.

"Them?" Roy repeated, catching the slip-up immediately. "I'm guessing Tim's the other one in that plurality, right?"

Jason waffled. "Yeah, but it's not like we really had to take Tim. We just…gave him a place to stay. A real place."

"Hadn't he moved out already?"

Jason hummed in affirmation, a little startled Roy even kept track of something like that.

"It means a lot, that he's willing to go with you guys now."

"I know," Jason said, swallowing. "And he and Damian don't really…they're not fans of each other. But we're making it work. Think it helps he's finally figured out we have enough attention for the both of them."

"Which one?"

"Take your pick." More soberly, Jason added, "Mainly Damian, though. Damian demands attention; Tim's given up on even asking. We're still working on Tim, but I think the Batbrat is feeling pretty okay with all the time Dick spends with him, plus me training him an' all when Dick's away."

"Sounds like you're working it out," Roy said, voice quiet and thoughtful—subdued almost—but something fond shining through it. "So where does Talia come in? She wants Damian back?"

Jason cleared his throat. This was the hard part. "She wants us to give him back to Bruce."

Roy sighed. "Is this the blood shit again? Look, fucking obviously, I'm all for kids being with their bio parents, but only when those parents actually try to do their jobs worth a damn! Talia's worse than fucking Jade."

"I'm not the one you have to tell, Roy, trust me. The day I let that psycho dictate how Damian's raised.…"

"I like how that could apply to either of them."

"I know."

"So what happens if you don't comply?" Roy asked, anger subsiding in prominence a little as he focused on working through the problem.

But his anger was replaced by Jason's panic.

"She's going to tell them about…the stuff I did. Back then. They don't…they don't know." His voice was almost a whisper now, against his will. "They know I killed and shit, that I worked for the League, but they don't know worst parts. The truth about—"

"About her," Roy corrected smoothly, already guessing how the sentence would have ended and countermanding it. "They don't know how fucked up she is and that she's trying to make it your fault somehow, which is fucking richer than Ra's' himself if that's what she thinks is about to happen."

"Roy—"

"Jaybird. I know you hate talking about this shit but we've both talked it over enough. The shit that went down isn't on you. Her kidnapping a fucking catatonic kid and molding him into what she wanted isn't on you.

"I wouldn't have left. Even if she'd let me." He couldn't seem to find the words to say more.

Roy filled in. "I know. She's a world-class predator and knew how to throw in a shitload of manipulation to make you feel like you actually mattered to her and she wasn't like everyone else who'd abused you in some way before."

Jason didn't answer. Didn't think he could. He didn't know what to make of a conversation like this. Everything was so different from old times yet it was like that was exactly where they were. Finally he whispered with a raspy laugh, "What do you think they'd say if I told 'em I still miss her?"

The pause this time was longer, and he heard Roy blow out a soft breath.

"Hearing her on that phone…it was like I was back there again, after a mission. Like I'd done well and I remembered how she always used to talk things over and ask what I thought about strategy and—I know it wasn't good, Roy. Even the good parts were just another way to screw me over."

"But you miss 'em anyways," he murmured, a raw pain quietly present in his voice. "I know."

And Jason knew how true that really was.

"Listen to me. Bruce…I can't really speak to that. I can think of a lot of ways he can react and none of them are anything I want, but Bruce already lost the right to have either of us give a fuck what he thinks about this and I say in the interest of your mental health just let him fuck off and think what he wants.

"Dick, though…look, maybe we don't get along now but it sounds like the two of you do. I'm glad, by the way. But even if you weren't, even if it was me this shit happened to, he'd understand. And he wouldn't be okay with Talia but he'd be okay with me. And he's gonna be okay with you. But he needs to know. He needs to know so he can help you through this shit and watch your back, and you need to have someone who can be there for you. That's what he's supposed to be doing, right? Let him do it."

"I am. I will. Just…I can't do it just by myself."

"You want me to talk to him for you?" Roy sounded slightly puzzled, but not actually averse, and Jason nearly gave in to the temptation then and there to beg Roy to come. Come and tak care of everything so Jason could just focus on Damian and talk to Tim and not think about any of this. But he knew that wouldn't have been the right call even if he and Roy had been on better terms like they were before. Before Roy lost his temper and Jason said stupid shit he couldn't take back and then left without having the decency—or sense—to make things up to Kori and Roy first.

No, Jason couldn't ask Roy to handle everything. But he could still ask for something. "Can you come? You don't have to tell him for me. You don't even have to talk to him at all," he promised hurriedly, the words spilling out clumsily in the urgency of the moment. "I just need you"—here, with me—"there."

A long, slow breath in.

"I know you're sick of all my shit, hell maybe you hate me, and I know you hate this stupid city but—"

"Jason. You said it didn't have to be Gotham, right?"

"Yeah." Jason swallowed, pushing down the nauseating tinge of hope threatening to overwhelm him. It'd only make things hurt worse later.

It always did.

"So does that mean—"

"And I hate Gotham because of what it does to you. Fucking with somebody I love is always going to put stuff on the shit list for me. Sounds like maybe it's doing better this time, though."

Jason couldn't answer. Maybe couldn't breathe, if he thought about it.

"Also don't really like all the random war crimes and biohazards, so how about we figure out somewhere else to meet up. But if it has to be Gotham…I'll still be there."

"That's…that's good."

Roy gave a soft huff. "Now you sound like Bruce."

Jason winced. "Low blow, Harper."

"True blow," he retorted.

And he was right.

"Harper?"

"Jay?"

"Thank you. Just…fuck, thank you."

Chapter Text

The night was quiet. Still. A cold chill of humidity lay thick and heavy in the air, the streams of rain leaving glinting paths that trailed down murky panes of glass and washed them clean. Gotham clean, at least. Which was pretty damned crappy, but choosers didn't get to be beggars, and Jason had already chosen Gotham.

It didn't suck to be home, though. After the whole Disastrous Day Off with Dick, well…some engagements still couldn't be broken, but he'd done his best to wrap up what couldn't just be put off. Or handed over to…interested parties.

He'd enjoyed it even less than expected, the impromptu little whirlwind tour feeling nostalgic in the characteristically shitty way anything in his life could usually feel nostalgic.

This time it was the League, the sprees they'd send him on during training where it was like they'd just grabbed a dartboard from the nearest smoke-choked dive, pinned a map over over it, plotted his path from there and then turned him loose to go move mountains with almost nothing.

Not enough food, not enough sleep, not even enough fucking weapons because the bastards made it a point to make sure their operatives could and would not only deliver but overdeliver on a friggin' austerity budget first before giving them a reasonable amount of fucking anything.

Not like delivering was a matter of life and death or anything.

He tilted his head to follow the sound of sirens in the distance, marking the area as Red Robin's route. The H.U.D. funneled him the info: hostage situation at one of the smaller banks. Sounded like a few criminals had finally wised up, hit the spots with a little less security and fewer places for masked bone-breakers to hide.

Might actually get a little hairy this time.

Jason still made no move to abandon his current position. He'd help if asked—be kind of a dick move not to at this point, especially after the intel the kid had slipped him for his last job—but so far the comms had been silent.

He wasn't going to overstep; he owed the kid that modicum of respect, at least. The Bats each had their own streak of territorialism—even Mr. Sunshine and Smiles. Point of fact, especially Mr. Sunshine and Smiles; he'd fucked off and nabbed a whole city to claim, a la Daddy Bats. No reason to think the kid was that much different.

Besides…he might have trusted Hood as part of a team, but Jason was under no illusions this meant Red trusted him as part of a pair.

Speaking of.… «12 degrees northwest,» Jason noted in League dialect, arms still folded as he continued his lean against an old air-conditioning unit. «Welcome to the jungle, Little Prince.»

If the Demon was in a good mood, he would stop there, halt the exercise and demand to know what had revealed his movements.

Jason would give him his answer—the flash of his sword had glinted off a pool of rain on a building several yards ahead of them both—and send him back to run the approach again.

A shuriken came hurtling in his direction, razor-sharp blades carving through the air end-over-end.

…Apparently academics would come after application tonight.

Jason waited a half-beat before stepping towards the direction the weapon was seeking to steer him away from.

He pivoted into the move and was rewarded when he had just enough time to bring his forearm guard up to deflect the slash of a katana.

Jason was a theater kid, after all. He knew misdirection when he saw it.

"How did you know I was strafing you?" Damian hissed, a small snarl escaping his lips as he dove in for a second attack and held the pressure, seeking to push Jason off balance.

As if.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Jason teased, knowing perfectly well that his smirk would carry through the voice modulator.

Hey, if the kid was gonna be in a mood, at least one of them oughta be having some fun.

Damian whipped the katana back and around in an arc that aimed it towards Jason's wrist instead; harder to guard when the guard was the target. Or to be more exact, one of the inevitable weak spots in the guard. Not bad, as moves went.

Jason made a harder dodge then, letting his steps carry him more fully out of range. In the harsh patches of industrial and neon lights, he could make out the nicks to his forearm guard now. He raised a brow at that.

The rules on their meet-ups were perfectly clear. No one expected the kid to wield a useless blade out in the field, but that's why Damian was given both an operational load-out and a training load-out.

And this was not a training weapon.

Chapter Text

Even after all this time, the scent of decaying blood still sent nausea crawling up the back of Roy's throat. It was the scent of lost friends and empty cells, of people he'd been too late to rescue. Of being trapped in lightless buildings, surrounded by a hundred tons of construction waiting to fall to rubble. He did his best to ignore it.

He tightened his fist around another sharp piece of debris, trying, too, to ignore the dull ache in his hand as he did so. Concrete dust ground itself raw into the reopened wounds.

Click-clack, click-clack

He did his best to keep up a steady rhythm now; he'd well since learned it was one of the few ways he could keep himself calm now.

Perhaps numb or dazed or lulled was the real truth of it, but that hardly mattered now; that was a Free Roy problem. That much, he was sure of.

His skin itched, the days-old sweat matting down the fine hairs at the edge of his scalp, which had become thoroughly caked in dust and grime by now. But he didn't let himself focus too much on his skin, retreating inwards from everything but the chunk of rubble in his hand and the steady sound of chipping. He'd learned that lesson the hard way.

Each tiny fissure, each little crumble brought a thought of thanks. He couldn't spare words anymore, saving what was left of his voice for the ears of a rescuer.

He didn't let himself question the wisdom of clinging to that sort of hope. Questions weren't a fun exercise for a trapped man. He'd let other people ask them.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and he paused, looking up from his work. His vision…wasn't what it should have been, so when he could make out nothing amiss in the near-pitch dark, it was hardly a comfort. He opened his mouth slightly, head canted as he cautiously inhaled, his dried-out palate struggling to detect anything but the taste of dust and rebar and stale air and red liquid rot heavy with iron.

And then his senses spiked as a figure emerged just a few feet away, tall frame stepping forward to shrug off the darkness like a shroud.

"Well, what have we here?"