Chapter Text
Sometimes, Jason wondered why the fuck he ever returned to Gotham. It was a piling cesspool of trauma, corruption, and adoptive fathers who couldn’t comprehend the concept of minding their own goddamn business. And yet, after adventures and trips across the planet, across fucking space, even, he still returned to the fucking city like a dog to a bone. It was his city, born and raised, buried and resurrected. Sometimes he wondered if the only reason the fucked-up notions of the universe decided to revive him was ‘cause he didn’t die in Gotham.
Death stuck to him like a bad habit. He was supposed to be dead, and it didn’t let him forget. He hadn’t noticed it at first. The League of Assassins hadn’t offered much time for distractions. Then he dreamt of a dead girl on his first night back in Gotham and woke up to seeing her standing over him. She had lived in the same shitty apartment Jason had when his mother was still alive. She was the first dead body he ever saw. Her choppy blonde hair was stained unevenly from the blood. Jason never forgot it. Never forgot her. Her eyes were empty, and she twisted her head in a way that people shouldn’t.
Avenge me, she had whispered without opening her mouth. Find him. Find the man with the scar over his left eye. Let me rest.
Before Jason could blink, she had disappeared into thin air, a cold chill whipping through the room. He had found the man two days later. Shot him in the lungs and watched as he drowned in his own blood. The girl appeared next to him as the piece of shit took his last struggling gulps of air, blood pouring from his mouth. She smiled.
Thank you, her soft voice echoed in the air as she faded away.
Jason had burned the building after leaving.
It wasn’t the last time, only the first. Apparitions came to him, or he sought them out. No one ever asked how he knew so much, how he got his information on every murder, every rapist, how every sick fuck that had caused nothing but misery ended up dead. He wasn’t the only one. There had been an Outlaw mission that had ended up more magical than practical. John Constantine had appeared in record time before he, Roy, and Kory had gotten completely fucked. In the dark corner, he stared at a grotesque, disfigured phantom, and from the corner of his eye, he could see the warlock staring at it too with perfect clarity. They never talked about it.
Most dead didn’t stick around. Most fucked off wherever people went in the afterlife the minute they passed, changing depending on the religion. Some stayed. Some to be avenged. Some to take revenge. Some who couldn’t bear to leave their loved ones just yet. Death reaped the souls of those who well deserved a good rest and chased those who earned an eternity of torture. The restless remained, waiting.
⁜⁜⁜
Patrol had been quiet. Of course, quiet by Red Hood’s standards was not the same as a normal quiet night in Gotham. If Gotham ever had normal, quiet nights. He hadn’t run into any of the Bats, which was fine because he knew B was still mad about his latest murder—some sick police fuck who liked to touch his own kids. What was justice if the perpetrator was supposed to be on its side? It had been a year since he had last killed someone, which he figured was the big reason Bruce had blown up on him the last time they’d seen each other, but that hadn’t mattered. Two traumatized kids were sleeping without fear of something happening in the middle of the night, and that made it reason enough. Batman didn’t deal with the same shit Jason did, not the dirty, fucked up crimes that happened behind closed doors. He was too busy with the big leagues nowadays. He hadn’t seen the shit Jason did growing up or now as Red Hood.
His current apartment sat on the edge of Crime Alley and the Entertainment District, a seven-story brick building with a rusty fire escape in the back that had become his best friend. It was far more visible than any of his numerous safehouses, but Jason liked having a place where he could keep all his books, cooking supplies, and occasionally host a guest. His list of people he’d actually want to have over was quite minuscule, but he liked that just fine. Here was where he could pretend to be a normal person with a normal job, meaning no one ever saw Red Hood come and go. He had access to all the nearby cameras and only ever entered his apartment in gear through the back fire escape.
He used to tease Dick about keeping up with his neighbors in Bludhaven, but it felt more human knowing that Mrs. Zhao from two doors down had just become a grandmother, or that Millie White from downstairs started kindergarten in two weeks, and her mother Sarah worked the night shift at Gotham General Hospital. He didn’t have to be the tall, brooding guy with anger issues, but someone people didn’t mind asking to babysit or invite over for dinner. He’d even joined the building’s book club, hosted and mostly attended by middle-aged women. Not that he’d ever tell a soul about that. It wasn’t perfect—his landlord didn’t seem to believe in the concept of fixing things immediately or reducing the rent if the utilities broke again. The Pit had whispered in his head more than once to take care of him permanently, and Jason was almost tempted. Almost.
Disabling his security with relative ease, Jason climbed through the window of his dark apartment and shut it after him. He undid the clamps of his helmet, leaving it and his gloves on the table. Flipping on the switch for his floor lamp, he waltzed into the kitchen for a glass of water, the digital numbers 04:17 glaring from his microwave. Fuck, he was tired. Yawning, he stripped out of his armor and gear, carefully putting everything where it belonged. He still shuddered thinking about the time he watched Dick strip to his underwear (a fucking jockstrap of all things) after a patrol and leave everything around his living room before passing out on his couch. Standing in a pair of boxers, he walked into his bedroom, picked up his phone from his nightstand, and turned it on, planning to check if any pressing emails or texts were sent to him while he was on patrol before he crashed for the night.
Jason winced at the brightness as his phone turned back on, blinding him with white light. There were only two notifications, both from the phone app.
One Missed Call From Dickhead, 2:03 am
One Voice Message From Dickhead, 2:07 am
He frowned. Dick had been on a mission for the League for the past month, some top-secret thing he couldn’t tell anyone about. Or that was what he said when Jason had pressed it two days before he left. Red Robin had temporarily taken over Nightwing’s watch in ‘Haven while Babs petsat Haley. He had heard muffled barking from Oracle’s comm three days ago and tried not to laugh. Rubbing his eyes, he touched the missed call notification and held his phone to his ear, hoping Dick was too tired to pick up so he could call later because he needed sleep. It went to voicemail almost immediately. Either his phone was dead or turned off. Jason sat on his bed and nearly put his phone down, planning to just crash for the night and deal with it when he woke up, but his curiosity got the best of him. Dick never left singular voicemails.
He typed in his password and tapped the voicemail icon, staring at the one and only message.
Dickhead 08/07/2015
mobile 04:00
Why the fuck did he leave a four-minute voicemail? Jason was pretty sure that was the max time limit allowed for voicemails, so what the fuck did Dick have to say that was so pressing? He tapped on the play icon and turned up the volume, setting the phone on his lap before cracking his knuckles. It was probably just a drunk call. A recent habit where he thought that calling Jason while wasted was some genius idea that even Einstein couldn’t come up with. He always apologized when he sobered, but it seemed lately that he had been drinking more. Jason was tempted to ask Tim if he was also a victim of the drunk calls, but that could bring a conversation he wasn’t sure if he wanted to have. Besides, what could Jason say about his own drinking habits?
The recording began with a wheezing cough, and Jason froze, eyes wide. There was a ragged breath, then two. “…Hey Little Wing,” a rough voice muttered. “I know you’re probably on patrol, and you won’t hear this until later, but… I was thinking of you. I… I uh messed up. Fucked up. You’d call me an idiot, careless, and you’re right.” A wet cough interrupted his words, hacking his lungs out for a moment before the wheezing breath returned. “Got blood on my phone. Shit. …You guys used to get so mad when I brought my phone on patrol, didn’t matter that I kept it off. But I can talk to you now. Now that…” He wavered off, his breathing growing more rapid. “I’m scared, Jay. I-I can’t feel my legs. Everything hurts. I can’t see in my left eye. It’s so c-cold. I’m cold. I-I didn’t tell them anything. I-I couldn’t. They’re gone now. I’m alone. I don’t know where I am, Little Wing.”
Jason’s throat closed up, and he clenched his teeth.
“I get it,” Dick’s broken voice admitted, and he sounded near tears. “You were fifteen. Alone in that warehouse. Was this how you felt when you saw the timer? I’m terrified. I can feel it. My b-body’s… I don’t think I’m gonna get out of this one.” He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper, as if he was confessing a secret. “Not like this. I didn’t want to go like this. I failed. I wasn’t good enough, and I failed.” His voice grew back in volume, only slightly. “I-I didn’t tell them anything. Even when they—” he paused, taking shuddering breaths. “I never thought I’d live to my thirtieth birthday. I’ve never told anyone that. Guess I was right. Seven months out, and I’m not getting there. Jay, I…”
Jason’s hand gripped the phone tightly.
“I’m selfish. You were alone that night, and I’m talking to you because I can’t be. I’m sorry. I-I know you won’t forgive me. I’m okay with that. I wanna say so much, but I don’t know where to begin. It’s… it’s getting harder to breathe,” he gasped—five seconds of rasping breaths. “It hurts. I-I c-can’t see anything. I-I… I can’t feel anything.” He sounded terrified. That quiet, wrecked voice didn’t sound like him. “Jaybird,” he whimpered. “I have to… I have to say this. I can’t—I won’t… I’m sorry. I’m s-so sorry.” Dick gagged loudly, as if he was clawing for air. “I can’t breathe. I-I c-can’t, I can’t—Jason,” he gasped, barely above a whisper.
Wheezing breaths echoed through the phone speaker. There was a longer pause between each breath. It sounded like empty tin cans rattling in a box. At three minutes and twenty-three seconds, there was a choked gasp and nothing.
“You have thirty seconds remaining to finish your voicemail,” an automated voice interrupted.
Silence.
More silence.
The buzzing of the empty audio.
Nothing. Deafening, bleeding, loud silence. Twenty seconds. Fifteen seconds. Ten seconds. Five seconds. Four seconds. Three seconds. Two seconds. One second.
Jason swallowed, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. His heart roared like a runaway train, and everything was perfectly still: the phone in his lap, and the thunderous silence filled the room like a flood. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. He was shaking, staring at the phone in his lap.
Anger curled into his lungs like cigarette smoke, and before he knew it, he was calling Dick back, pacing the room as the call went to voicemail as it had earlier.
“Hey, this is Dick. Sorry I can’t get to the phone right now. Shoot me a text, or if you’re desperate enough, a voicemail after the beep!” Dick’s recorded voice cheerfully greeted.
“That wasn’t fucking funny, you asshole!” Jason shouted into his phone the second the beep went off, his vision tinted green. “Is that your idea of a goddamn fucking joke? Fuck you, Dickhead,” he seethed, voice breaking. “Call me back,” he whispered after another second, softer. “Call me back. Dick, you can’t… you can’t fucking do that. Grayson. Richard. Please. Don’t, don’t fucking—” he broke off, a sob escaping from his mouth, and he fell to his knees.
He couldn’t be dead. It was some stupid prank. He had seen the things Nightwing had managed to survive. But he knew Dick, knew him through Robin, through his exes, through his friends and teammates, through their relationship as adults, where both had put so much effort to make up for the past. He wouldn’t send a voicemail like this unless it were serious.
Tears slipped down his face, the green fading away from his sight. Jason dropped his phone and sat on the floor with such agony in his body that he couldn’t help but wonder if anyone had felt that way for him. He was dead. Dick had died with Jason’s name as his last word.
⁜⁜⁜
He picked up and threw his phone in frustration, minutes or hours later, as the sun began to rise. He broke down sobbing when it had really hit him, the sunrays bleeding through cheap blinds. He played the voicemail two more times, listening to Dick’s broken voice and body. He could’ve called anyone, anyone that might have answered or known how to get help, but he had called Jason Todd. Dick had lain there dying, and the person he wanted to talk to was Jason. How… how the fuck was he supposed to keep going with that knowledge?
He found a mostly full bottle of vodka. He drank the rest of it. It was a nightmare. It was just a nightmare. He had dreamt it all up, and it was a horrible dream. When he woke up, he’d see a text from Dick with a stupid meme and a corny pun to go with it.
Hangover pounded through his head when he painfully opened his eyes to the wood floor and the back of the sofa. The light from the windows was blinding, and the minute Jason pushed himself off the floor, nausea ran through his body, and he gagged, blindly half-crawling, half-limping to the bathroom. The lid of the toilet was already open, and he nearly dove face-first into the bowl, puking his guts out. The stench filled his nose, and he choked on his own bile, trying to breathe as he emptied his stomach.
Jason groaned, leaning against the bathtub and throwing an arm over his face. His head hurt, His throat was raw, and he felt like the world had been yanked out from under his feet. He was in his underwear and nothing else. He smelled like puke and hollowed desperation. Using the sink, Jason pulled himself up, opened the mirror cabinet, and popped four ibuprofen dry. He stared at his bloodshot and puffy eyes and purple eye bags. He had been crying, crying for…
Nearly tripping over his own body, Jason slammed the bathroom door open and stumbled to his bedroom, finding his phone near his closet. His hand shook as he typed in his password, ignoring the other notifications or the fact that the time said it was past four in the afternoon. He opened the phone app and stared at the voicemail section. It was still there. Still four minutes long. Still sent at two in the morning.
He didn’t break down sobbing like he had hours before. He just stared at it, tears pooling in his eyes. An emptiness settled in his gut. Any bit of happiness had been drained, and he was a shell. Dick Grayson was dead. Nightwing had died in a secret mission for the fucking Justice League, and no one fucking knew but him. How did they not know? That pain from Dick’s voice… he had suffered. He had died like Jason had nine years ago. Alone, tortured, and terrified. The fucking Justice League…
He didn’t know if it was anger or despair fueling his stamina. Exactly fifty-seven minutes later, he found himself storming through the Batcave, in full Red Hood gear and hair still damp from the five-minute shower he had forced himself to take. He gripped his helmet tightly, walking straight to the sound of distant voices. Bruce was standing in front of the Bat Computer, suited up but cowl down. On the computer, on the fucking computer, were nine other members of the League—Wonder Woman, Superman, Green Arrow, Martian Manhunter, three Lanterns (Jordan, Stewart, and Gardner), Aquaman, and Vixen. Jason wanted to fucking laugh.
Instead, he screamed and hurled his helmet as hard as he could toward the screen. Bruce dodged the helmet and turned his head in surprise as everyone on the call jumped. The bulletproof screen was unaffected, but he was aiming for a reaction anyway, not a broken toy. The helmet rolled off the keyboard and onto the floor with a thud.
Bruce looked incredulous, about to open his mouth and say something, but Jason beat him to it.
“Did you know? Did you fucking know?” He looked at the screen, and they all stared back at him. “DID ANY OF YOU FUCKING KNOW?!”
“What are you talking about, Hood? What are you doing here?”
He scoffed, ignoring the question. “Not even wearing the fuckin’ helmet, Bruce, and I think everyone on the screen knows who I am. No need to keep up with secret identities.” He paused, the anger disappearing into something else. His breathing grew faster, and gone was Red Hood, the rage, and snark. “…He’s dead,” he finally uttered, looking B directly in the eye, quiet enough so the voyeurs on the computer couldn’t hear it. “He-he fucking called me, and he’s dead,” he whispered, the urge to cry crawling up his throat once again.
Bruce paused, and he looked years older. He looked at Jason not like he was the vigilante with anger issues who’d killed a cop two months ago, but the way he had when he was twelve, wearing that red, green, and yellow costume, flying next to Batman. The same kid who had happily declared that being Robin gave him magic.
The older man turned back to the computer. “I’m sorry, but I have more pressing matters to attend to,” he said matter-of-factly, ending the call with the click of a button, and the screen went dark. He turned back around, approaching Jason as one would approach an injured dog. “Who’s dead? Who’s dead, Jason?”
It’d been a long time since Jason had seen Bruce give him that face, and it made everything so much worse. Tears pooled in his eyes, and somewhere between rapid breaths, he found himself leaning against a concrete beam, the gun on his left leg clanking against it. He wanted to scream. He wanted to hurt something. Someone. He bit the pointer finger of his right leather glove to pull it off, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and opened it to the same fucking app, to the same fucking section he had touched more in the last few hours than he ever had in his life. He held the phone like a half-assed offering, not bothering to look at the man standing next to him. He kept his eyes on the ground and watched the grey floor turn blurry.
Bruce took the phone. Seconds passed, and the sickeningly familiar wheezing cough began. He tuned it out, clenching his fist, feeling his blunted nails dig into his bare palm. Distantly, the audio fell to silence. B said absolutely nothing for a very long time. He stood near, clutching the phone tightly. Jason didn’t—couldn’t look up. The cellphone dropped to the floor with a clatter, and a large hand gripped his shoulder. Tightly. He flinched. The grip loosened, and suddenly it was gentle, the tips of gloved fingers stroking his shoulder. Bruce didn’t touch him like this—hadn’t touched him like this in a decade. There was a shaky breath, and Jason finally glanced up to see Bruce staring at him. He looked exhausted. He looked… he looked like a dead man on his feet. His mouth twisted into a grimace, and that’s when Jason noticed the tears in his eyes. The ever-so-stoic Batman had fucking tears in his eyes, and a part of Jason couldn’t help but snark. Had he cried when he held his dead teenage son’s corpse in that goddamn warehouse?
But this was for Dick. Goldie. The golden son. And as much as he wanted to yell and scream and fight, he couldn’t. He let Bruce step closer, let him pull his arm until they were directly facing each other, eye to eye. His back sat against the concrete column, and he stared at the older man’s blue eyes with more emotion than he had ever seen in them. He hated it, he fucking hated it. He felt like he was twelve again.
Jason didn’t know why he did it, but he pulled Bruce into a hug. He buried his face between his neck and shoulder, so he didn’t have to look at his face. So he could pretend that he didn’t feel broad hands wrap around his back after seconds of shock. So he could pretend he couldn’t hear the quiet sobs and feel the shaking body. He clenched his fists, smelling the cologne Bruce had worn since he had known him.
He didn’t move. He couldn’t move. There was one fucking Bat he had put real effort into their relationship, and he was fucking dead. There he fucking was, the Red fucking Hood, hugging and crying with the Batman. It felt surreal. It felt like nothing had passed, and somewhere, Jason was still Robin, and nothing had ever happened between them, like there wasn’t a chasm the size of an ocean between them and only a fraying rope bridge to connect them. Like he didn’t cut the rope on purpose.
“What the fuck?” Tim Drake’s equally bewildered and surprised voice announced.
Jason jumped back right into the beam with a dull thud. Standing with him was Alfred and the little demon shit known as Damian Wayne. Drake and the Prince of Darkness were suited up as Red Robin and Robin, respectively, and all three of them had varying degrees of confusion on their faces. Jason turned away, unable to look at any of them.
“Father, what is going on?” The thirteen-year-old demanded. “Why is Todd here? Are you… crying?” He sounded horrified by his father’s display of emotion. “What is happening?”
Bruce was silent, and from the corner of Jason’s eye, he could see him wiping the tears on his face with a gloved hand. He swallowed loudly and sighed, and two minutes of silence passed before he spoke.
“…Jason received a voicemail last night,” a rough, broken voice that sounded nothing like Bruce Wayne started.
⁜⁜⁜
Five days passed before the Justice League found and recovered the body. Superman and Martian Manhunter were the ones who did, near the ruins of a medieval castle and a hidden compound five miles from Mount Kazbek in northeastern Georgia. He had been dead for almost a week. Next to him was his long-dead phone, splattered in dried blood and covered in dirt and dust. He had been dead for almost a week. The compound was empty, scrubbed clean of whatever evil thing they had done. Save for the blood. Blood that trailed out to where Dick had collapsed. They wouldn’t let him see the body. They wouldn’t let anyone see the body, save for Bruce. Jason had watched Clark stumble out of the Watchtower’s morgue, still dressed in his costume, dropping onto the nearest chair and sobbing violently.
He heard whispers from the League’s doctor, from a partially eavesdropped conversation between Bruce and Clark. Bloody. Mutilated. Battered. Decomposing faster from outdoor exposure. Sustained injuries over a longer period. Almost unrecognizable. He had begged, dropping his dignity because he had to see Dick one more fucking time. B had refused. No one else would see the body. He said it with the conviction of Batman and the face of a devastated father.
Jason had raged. The same anger that had controlled him years ago, that green-tinted rage, threatened to crawl out of the hole he had thrown it into, that he had buried deep because he refused to be controlled by the fucking Pit. The one fucking person other than Alfred whom Jason had tried to have something with was fucking dead. None of it mattered. None of it fucking mattered.
He needed to feel something, something other than the hallowed anguish entrenched in his fucking soul. He let his anger move to the forefront, let the raging Pit come out. He needed to hurt something. Someone. He wanted to find every sick fuck who was the fucking reason he’d never hear stupid puns, watch Nightwing fly across buildings, and kill them slowly so they would know exactly how Jason fucking felt.
Patrol turned into a rampage. No Bats were out to stop him because they mourned the dead like normal fucking people, or at least they ignored him if they were out too. Jason beat a would-be rapist close to death while his would-be victim watched in equal horror and amazement. He broke the leg of a carjacker and the arm of a pickpocket. It wasn’t enough. He needed the violence, he needed to let the anger and the madness run him over like a train, so he didn’t feel—couldn’t feel anything else. He let the green of the Pit consume him, let all the anger he harbored, the insanity.
It was funny how things fell into place. Fell exactly where they needed to be, completely by accident. He chased a crony wearing a certain bright purple and green into a seemingly abandoned apartment building, running down the rickety stairs until they were in the basement, illuminated by dingy light bulbs. His fist smashed against the man’s nose, and the snapping of bone almost felt cathartic as he fell to the ground. Red Hood looked up and caught the muffled sounds of people talking. He cracked his knuckles, happy to have more people to beat up.
The man on the ground groaned, holding his nose as blood gushed out. He started to sit up, but Jason pulled out one of his guns and hit him in the back of the head with the butt. He watched the man crumble, relishing that there were no Bats to tell him what he could and what he couldn’t fucking do. Getting a better look at the basement, he realized that it was a base of some sort, and his heart faltered. Who else in Gotham liked green and purple? Then he heard clapping. Slow, drawn-out clapping coming from the dark.
“My, my, someone’s upset,” a sickeningly familiar voice jeered. Red Hood flinched, turning to see the clown slinking out of the shadows, a slow-growing grin spreading onto his face. “It’s rude to come in unannounced, you know, didn’t Daddy teach you those manners? Or did he never get around to it? Meant to teach you, and oh! Too late, little Robin all blown up now.”
Jason clenched his teeth. Everything was turning green. Green hair, green wall, green eyes, green blood pouring from the green broken nose on the green floor. Memories of the warehouse taunted him whenever he faced the Joker, but for once, it seemed like a distant memory. “Shut up,” he snarled, cocking his gun, voice distorted by his modulator.
“Tsk, tsk.” Narrow, crazed eyes looked him up and down, eyeing the blood-covered gloves and armor. “You’ve been busy tonight, no Batsy out to stop you.” He giggled, stepping forward. “You know, between you and me, Jason—”
“Shut up!” He snapped. He hated, hated the fucking fact that the Joker knew his name. And Bruce’s. And probably all the rest of the Bats.
“I heard a rumor about a bluebird,” he said in a sing-song voice. “Is it true? Is Daddy’s favorite all dead now? Nightwing’s as dead as you were when the bomb in the warehouse went off? Boy Blunder’s really got the name now—”
Jason didn’t hear the rest of it. He screamed, vision turning green, as he rushed forward, started punching, and didn’t stop.
⁜⁜⁜
He slunk into the Batcave, green still in the edges of his vision. His helmet felt heavy, his armor wet, and the thing in his hand felt like the weight of the sun. He trailed blood across the floor, across the same floor where a week prior he had screamed and cried about Dick Grayson to Bruce fucking Wayne, who’d held him. Who’d fucking held him. Would he now? After seeing the blood and dried remains of whatever on his body?
Bruce sat alone at his computer, wearing a cashmere robe the same color as his cowl, a deep navy blue that looked black in dim lighting. He had heard Jason come in, had seen the alert on his computer, but he didn’t look up, staring at the empty screen blankly. Red Hood walked over to where Bruce was and dropped the thing in his hand with a thud. It made a sickening splat, the bloody stump hitting the smooth countertop.
B jumped back at the sound, and his face paled at the sight. Jason pulled off his dirty gloves and set them next to the head. He didn’t take off his helmet, staring at the older man, silently begging him to do something, say something about the sight—the bloody head of Batman’s archnemesis sitting next to the Bat Computer. The Joker’s dead, beaten-in eyes and twisted smile with broken teeth, still amused by the scene.
“I left the body outside the GCPD’s headquarters.” He froze, clenching his fists. “He said his name. …He said Dick’s name. I… I couldn’t…”
Without a second word, Jason turned around and started stalking back to his motorcycle standing outside the cave. Bruce did not tell him to stop. He did not yell at him for violating the sanctity of the great Batman’s no-kill rule. He did not ask why or how he beheaded him. He let Jason walk out of the cave without a word.
⁜⁜⁜
The finding of a will led to Jason’s return to the manor two days later. Why the fuck did a twenty-nine-year-old have a will? Why did Dick “Fly By the Seat of His Pants” Grayson have a will? He had avoided the Bats. He had ignored the dozens of notifications that had flooded his phone and instead holed up in his apartment, staring at the news on the TV. Every single local and state news channel had been nothing but the discovery of the Joker’s body, dropped on the steps of the Gotham City Police Department. Jim Gordon had stood behind the building with a stern face and told the reporter they were looking into the case and hoped to locate the head soon. Jason wondered if anyone else caught the sense of relief in the commissioner’s eyes.
He stood outside the Manor’s doors, smoking a cigarette. He didn’t want to go in. He didn’t want to face the crowd. He didn’t want to hear the will reading. Instead of knocking or ringing the doorbell, he smoked another cigarette. The humid summer air blazed around, sweat building up on the back of his neck, threatening to drip down his back. It was August 16th, his twenty-fifth birthday. No one had texted him a happy birthday message. Why would they? Jason could count on his fingers who he considered a friend, and they were all Dick’s friends first. The Justice League hadn’t publicly announced the death of Nightwing, but rumors were circulating. It had been almost two months since Nightwing was last seen, and people in Bludhaven especially were asking all the right questions. What a fucking joke.
The door opened, and Jason nearly stumbled, tossing the cigarette out of his mouth and stomping on it. Alfred hated smoking in the manor. Instead of him, a lanky woman with dark, short hair stepped outside, wearing a black blouse and pants. Selina Kyle cocked her head and gave him a look.
“Are you going to stand outside the whole time?”
“When did you get Alfred’s job?”
She smiled enigmatically. “Are you really so scared you’re going to stand outside here and wait to get the courage to ring the doorbell?”
He swallowed. “I doubt I’m a popular choice in the manor right now.”
“Dumping off the head of the Joker is a bit on the dramatic side, Jason, but I certainly don’t blame you.” Selina gestured for him to come inside. “They may say harsh things now, but we both know everyone is happy that he’s dead.”
He followed her inside. “Nice to know that the ex-con is on my side.”
She smirked. “We criminals need to stick together, after all. Especially in a house full of Bats.”
Jason bit back a chuckle, shutting the heavy door behind him. Selina and Bruce had rekindled their relationship (again) over two years ago, and it had gotten serious enough that they had gone public to Gotham society. He liked her, even when he was young. Bruce became much more tolerable, even giving the occasional smile. Their tragic off-and-on love affair spanning twenty-one years was exhausting, and as much as Jason liked to gripe about the old man, seeing him in a stable relationship was refreshing. Silena was a cut above the rest of his exes—he prayed that neither B nor Damian would ever learn about him and Talia.
“How’s Helena?” He mumbled, following her to what he figured would probably be the main living room—he hated the fact that the manor had multiple living rooms.
She smiled. “Down for a nap. She can tell that everyone’s upset here, and it’s making her upset. Cried all night, but I let Bruce deal with that.”
Jason blew air out of his nose and smirked. The nine-month-old baby was the other reason why Bruce had gone public with Selina. She had her father’s black hair and her mother’s brown eyes, and Jason adored her. Honestly, Helena was a big part of the reason why he had decided to unofficially be part of the Bats again, even if he spent half of the time antagonizing Bruce and ignoring most of them.
His eyes wandered to a distinctive silver and diamond ring standing out against her warm brown skin, and he paused. “That’s an engagement ring.”
Silena paused and held her left hand up to her face. “Yes it is.”
“He proposed.”
“He did.”
“Shit. He actually fucking did it.”
She nodded. “About a month ago.” Silena frowned and looked away. “We were waiting for Dick to come back to announce the news.”
Oh. Jason’s face twisted. “…No point in hiding it now, then?”
“Exactly.”
Everyone was in the main living room, sitting and standing, while Bruce stood with Rachel Green, his personal lawyer, and the unofficial lawyer for the rest of the Bats. Like Stephanie, her blonde hair, green blazer, and matching skirt stood out against a sea of dark hair and varying shades of black clothes. She hadn’t always known that Bruce was Batman, but by the time Jason had entered the picture as Red Hood, she had been more than aware who everyone was. Alfred poured tea as Silena opened the door further. The slight creak of the hinges turned up everyone’s heads, varying degrees of frowns and displeasure sliding onto everyone’s face when they saw who Silena was with.
Steph, who had been sitting with Cass and Tim, looked at Jason like he was an alien. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you? Who the fuck shows up to drop off a fucking head like a pizza delivery?”
Jason chose not to reply, walking over to the large windows and sitting on the sill. Steph glared daggers at him.
Green gave Bruce a side glance and sighed. “I think I’ll take my leave. Call me if there’s anything else I can do.” She smiled sadly at the group before she walked out the door and closed it behind her.
The minute the door shut, the room seemed to blow up.
“You used Grayson’s death to justify murder.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Dude, what the fuck? I mean, I get that it’s the Joker, but…”
“Dumping the Joker’s body on the steps of the GCPD’s headquarters isn’t the help you think it is.”
Their overlapping voices blurred, and green began to creep into the edges of his vision. “I GET IT!” He screeched over all the noise, and the room fell to silence. “I get it. I’m fucking insane. There’s something wrong with me, but none of you understand, none of you fucking get it. Don’t tell me you’re not sad or angry that the fuckin’ clown’s dead. He… he said his fucking name like it was a joke, and sue me if I let the Pit Madness take over for a while, because at least with that, I can only feel rage and nothing else.”
“We all lost him,” Barbara said gently, stroking Haley in her lap. “We all loved him.”
Jason huffed and let out a deep sigh before he did or said something he’d regret. “He called me. Not any of you, not anyone who actually knew a fucking thing about the fucking mission. Me. None of you heard the voicemail. You only know what B told you. …He fucking died on the phone.” He swallowed, feeling his lungs tighten and eyes grow damp. “He died with my fucking name on his mouth. His last word was my name. My fucking name. How the fuck am I supposed to… how am I supposed to fucking live with that?”
The first person he made eye contact with was Alfred, who looked at Jason with sorrow. Not pity. He’d been a victim of pitiful looks his whole life—he knew the difference. The room was silent, all staring at Jason. He looked away, staring at the hardwood floor, covered by a rug probably worth more than his monthly rent.
“…Let’s just get the will read and over with,” he mumbled, stalking over to where Duke and Silena sat, sitting in between and crossing his arms. “I doubt any of you want to hear this more than I do.”
At that, Duke nodded, gently patting Jason’s forearm. “He’s right. We’ve all been a mess. We have different ways of reacting. Tim said that half of the training dummies are missing heads via swords.”
It didn’t take a detective to figure out the culprit. The attention turned to Damian, who sat at the fireplace’s edge, stroking Titus’ ears. The kid had enough decorum to blush, but he cocked his head. “They weren’t real heads.”
Bruce sat down in the leather armchair near his youngest son, opening the envelope that contained the final will and testament of Dick Grayson. “Please sit down, Alfred. This… may take some time.” To get through was not said, but the room could feel the sentiment.
The elder man nodded curtly, sitting next to Damian.
He opened the document and skimmed over the words before he cleared his throat. “This document is the final will and testament of I, Richard John Grayson, last updated June 26th, 2015.”
Jason’s eyes narrowed. That was recent. Right before he had left for his mission. Why the fuck was it updated so recently? When he glanced around the room, the same curious feeling mirrored everyone else’s faces.
B continued, his voice surprisingly clear and monotone. “In the case that I die as Nightwing and my identity is known, the top of the second page has further instructions. If I die as Dick Grayson and not as Nightwing, the halfway point on page three has additional instructions. If I die as Nightwing and my identity is not known, continue reading here.” He paused, further skimming the page. “If Nightwing dies on a mission or during patrol, I want it publicly announced either through the Justice League or… Batman himself, depending on the nature of my death.” He swallowed. “My public and personal identity will no longer exist, and if Nightwing is dead, then Dick Grayson is dead as well. My death will be announced publicly, months after Nightwing’s, to prevent suspicion, by Wayne Industries, either from an accident, or something similar that will not cause a police investigation.”
He had planned for his death. Planned for it well. Jason wondered what the other parts said in case he died with his identity known or not as Nightwing at all, but the thought made his stomach turn, thinking back to what Dick had said on the voicemail, about not wanting to die like this. What had he meant by that?
“Nightwing will end in the result of my death. I have no protéges, and I do not plan to have one. I do not want anyone else to become Nightwing. If I am dead, then Nightwing is dead and vice versa. Burn and get rid of any remaining Nightwing suits.”
Jason wondered if that specific tidbit referred to when he had paraded around New York City dressed as Nightwing when he was still mostly insane from the Lazarus Pit.
“As for the arrangements for my funeral, I would like a private service at Gotham Cathedral. No capes or masks. My body will be cremated after the service, and the ashes buried in the Wayne family cemetery.” Bruce stopped reading and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He probably hadn’t.
Cremated. He licked his lower lip and pretended that everyone wasn’t looking at him specifically. Jason had once read that the Roma buried their dead, but it wasn’t hard to guess why Dick stipulated that he be cremated. No more Lazarus Pit fuck-ups, a la Jason Todd. He’d bet his Red Hood helmet that Bruce’s will said the same.
“The rest of this is further funeral instructions,” Bruce stated after two minutes of silence, turning two pages. “…My entire net worth, located in a checking and savings account held by Eastern Seaboard Credit Union and a savings account held under Gotham City Bank, will be donated in its entirety to charity. My previous 401(k) has been liquidated into these three accounts as of this June 2015 update. I ask that these charities focus on underprivileged children in Gotham and Bludhaven and that Timothy Drake and Barbara Gordon take charge in distributing the money among charities of their choosing through anonymous donations.”
Jason stared at Tim and Babs, who glanced at each other.
The next part of the will, Jason mostly tuned out. It was the divide and conquer of Dick’s personal things: his car and apartment to be liquidated and sold, his motorcycle given to Duke, Steph and Cass to have his collection of knick-knacks from almost twenty years of being a vigilante, Tim his high-tech computer and other technology he used as Nightwing in his apartment, Damian his weapons collection, etc. Jason’s name was not mentioned once. Even little Helena’s name was mentioned, who was to inherit his beloved Zitka stuffed animal. It didn’t surprise him, even if deep down it bothered him, but he was the one with anger issues and loved to fight everyone. Christ, he was the fucking one who’d dumped the Joker’s head practically onto Bruce’s lap like some fucked-up psycho cat dropping the heads of birds and rats onto the lap of its owner. He wondered if one of Silena’s cats had ever done that to her.
“For the care and ownership of my dog Haley, I ask Jason Todd to take over my duties, to give her a home where she will be loved and taken care of.”
Jason froze. “What?” He turned his head to the sleeping three-legged dog in Barbara’s lap. “Is that what the fucking will says?”
Bruce nodded.
“It doesn’t say Barbara or Mr. I-Have-Twenty-Thousand-Pets-And-Counting?” He asked, gesturing toward Damian.
“Rarely, Todd and I are in agreement. He is clearly not capable of caring for a pet.”
Jason scowled. “That is not true, you little asshole.”
“Do you have a stable place to care for a dog?”
“I’ve seen you stalk my apartment, you little shit, so I think you know the answer to that.”
Bruce looked like he was about to open his mouth and interrupt, but Babs beat him to it.
“Jason, Damian,” She warned, scratching Haley’s back. “He asked you, Jason, to care for Haley, not me or Damian. It meant something to Dick that you would do that. If you think you can’t, then I certainly wouldn’t mind if—”
“No, I’ll do it,” he interrupted. “I can do it.” Even if I’m pretty sure Haley doesn’t even like me because of course Dick would fucking die on me and then give me his dog who tried to bite my finger off last year.
Jason planned to sneak out the minute it was all over because he knew it was bound to turn into a lecture about his recent actions. He carried Haley, who surprisingly was being very cooperative, because Barbara had left her leash and things at her apartment. His escape seemed to be going well until Tim ambushed him at the front door.
“Are you really trying to sneak out?”
“You want me to stay and turn this whole fucking thing into a shit show?”
“You haven’t already?”
Jason couldn’t help but smirk. “Fair.”
Tim leaned against the door and crossed his arms. “I wanted to talk about the will. And Dick.”
He swallowed. “What about it?”
“Maybe other than Barbara back when they dated, but we knew him the best. Or at least we knew things about him that the others didn’t.”
“What are you saying, Replacement?”
Tim soured. “I’m serious, Jason. …I was worried about Dick before, you know? He was acting weird. Careless. Withdrawn. Drinking. Plus the fact that he liquidated his 401(k)…”
“You got the drunk phone calls too?”
“Yeah.” The younger man swallowed. “Fuck, I was hoping you’d argue with me, but you saw it too, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “I had some concerns, but… I think I’m the last person to bring up another person’s drinking habits.”
Tim shook his head. “I don’t think the will being recently updated was a coincidence, but there’s something else. I don’t know yet.”
“Yeah.”
“…This is between you and me.”
“Who would I talk to, Drake? I have a whopping total of four friends.”
Tim snorted, shook his head, and walked away without a second word. As he walked away, Alfred appeared, greeting Red Robin.
“Do you truly insist on leaving, Master Jason?”
“I’ll start a fight if I stay. And I think Haley’s as tired as I am.”
Alfred sighed. “Even if everyone else forgot your birthday, I did not. Happy birthday, Master Jason. A package addressed to you will arrive at your apartment sometime tomorrow.”
He smiled sadly. “Thanks, Alfie.” Without another word, he opened the door and walked out of the manor, thinking about how the fuck he would fit Haley on his motorcycle, suddenly grateful the dog was smaller than her average breed.
The ride back was slow, having zipped up his motorcycle jacket to hold Haley and staying well under the speed limit to prevent any accidents. By the time he had returned to his apartment building, the sun was beginning to set, and the urge to smoke a whole pack of cigarettes with a beer or three had grown strong. There was a two-day-old rotisserie chicken in the fridge, which he planned to give Haley because he didn’t have anything needed for a dog. A normal bowl would do for a temporary water bowl, and he knew he had extra blankets in his closet.
Since climbing up the fire escape with a dog sounded like a stupid idea, Jason entered his apartment building the normal way, letting himself in and heading toward the stairs after a glance at the out-of-order sign hastily taped to the elevator doors. The door to the small gathering space was open, and he could hear voices inside. Shit. It was Sunday. After 6. Bookclub. Clutching the dog in his arms, he started to speedwalk to the door that led to the stairs, dreading the six-story climb.
“Jason!” A high-pitched voice in a thick Gothamite accent called out, and he froze.
He turned around because invoking the wrath of a forty-five-year-old elementary school teacher was almost scarier than Batman’s. “Christina.”
Christina looked surprised to see Haley, pushing up her too-big glasses. “You have a dog.”
“…Yeah. Her name’s Haley.”
She barked, deciding to introduce herself by jumping out of Jason’s arms and happily wagging over to Christina.
“Oh, she only has three legs,” the third-grade teacher mused, crouching down to pet her.
Jason nodded, unsure what else to say. “I uh, totally forgot about today, I probably should take her up to my apartment.”
“Nonsense, she can join us.”
He swallowed, the longing urge to smother himself with a pillow and way too many beers growing more and more ideal. “Um, I don’t kn—”
“We haven’t seen you in over a week, honey, sue me if I’m feeling maternal.”
“I haven’t caught up with the reading.”
“Stop giving me excuses and get inside.” She stood up and patted her thigh, looking at Haley. “C’mon, girl.”
Jason reluctantly followed her.
The five other members of the 219 Fourteenth Street Book Club moseyed around the room. He could see a table set with drinks, cups, plates, and food, along with a suspicious-looking white box. All of them were old enough to be his mother, and Mrs. Zhao and Mrs. De Campo were old enough to be his grandmother. They liked to be obnoxious about his age, always offering to set up a date with a nice girl or that one time they offered to set him up with one of their nephews, but after the shitshows that had been Catherine and Sheila, he couldn’t lie and say he didn’t enjoy the maternal attention. It was nice.
“Oh good, you found the birthday boy!” Mrs. De Campo declared, brushing aside her grey hair. “And he brought a friend!”
“Her name is Haley,” Christina declared, as the dog eagerly greeted the other book club members.
Jason gulped. “Birthday?”
“Of course! I hope you don’t mind that we’ve turned today’s meeting into a little party,” Evelyn, a librarian, declared with a kind smile. As she talked, she opened the white box, revealing a circular cake with white and red frosting.
He found himself walking up to the table and staring at the cake. In thin red frosting, read “Happy Birthday Jason” in simple cursive, surrounded by red roses. They remembered his birthday. Six older women with jobs and kids and lives. They got him a fucking birthday cake. His hands trembled, and the crawling urge to sob his fucking eyes out came back like a headless cockroach. “Oh. Y-you didn’t have to…” he drifted off, covering his eyes with his right hand and squeezing them shut.
“What is it, Jason? Has something happened?” Evelyn asked carefully, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.
He felt like a child again, bursting into tears at her question. He covered his face with his hands, mortification and self-hatred paired up right alongside the constant feeling of emptiness and anguish. He had cried more in the last week than he had in his entire fucking life, before and after dying. It was childish, selfish, embarrassing, and he hated it, hated that Dick, fucking Dick Grayson, had wrecked his life so badly that all he had left were tears and murderous anger.
A collective chorus of surprised and pitiful gasps surrounded him, and a hand or two grabbed his arm and led him to a chair. He sat down with a loud thud, the cheap plastic squeaking at his weight. He could feel Haley at his feet. Hear the breathing and coos of ease from the women around him. He bit his lip and sighed, taking a deep breath the same way he did to control his anger. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Jason wiped his eyes and looked up into the ceiling, into the dim light over him, blinking away the remaining tears. When he looked around, he could see everyone seated around him, staring at him in concern.
“I’m sorry,” he wheezed. “It’s… been a difficult week.”
“Is it due to with why you didn’t come last week?” Chrisina asked gently.
He nodded. “My br—” he broke off, the word feeling sour in his mouth. It always had, concerning him. They never really had been to begin with. “Someone really close to me died. In an accident. He called me, left a voicemail. Died in the middle of the voicemail. I… I had to tell everyone that he died. Today we read his will, and everyone there but one fucking person forgot it was my birthday. And on top of that, the asshole left me his fucking dog,” he laughed weakly, voice breaking at the end.
“Oh my god,” several voices rushed out, and he found himself being squeezed into a seven-person group hug.
Any other time, any other place, he would’ve done anything to escape that kind of touchy attention, but he let them embrace him. It was the first gentle thing he’d experienced since crawling into the Batcave a week prior. The overwhelming scent of old lady perfume stunk up his nose, and the already hot room felt like a tropical rainforest with the overlapping bodies, but Jason did not complain. By the time they had separated from him, he noted that multiple of the ladies had gone upstairs and returned with bottles of wine, and the surprise birthday party quickly turned into a wine-drinking, cake-eating moping session.
By the time Jason staggered up the stairs to his apartment, glad that Haley climbed up the stairs with no problem, he was tipsy enough to feel like the world wasn’t crashing down on his shoulders at every possible fucking second. He unlocked his door on the second try, and the dog ran into the apartment, wagging her tail as she explored the space.
“Smaller than what you’re used to,” he mumbled, rubbing his face as he kicked the door closed.
He opened the tiny closet near his bedroom, pulling out a comforter and setting it next to the kitchen counter. Haley had happily snacked on cake, water, and pizza not even an hour before, so he didn’t bother to get a bowl out for water, telling himself he’d do it in the morning. He didn’t bother with the rest of the nighttime routine, stripping to his underwear and crashing into his bed face-first. Exhaustion ran through his body, and he wanted to sleep everything away.
A yip shook him from his half-asleep thoughts, and he saw Haley in the doorway. Even in the dark, he could tell she wanted attention. He yawned and sat up, patting his bed.
“You can come up here tonight.”
Haley jumped onto the bed with ease since Jason’s bed was on a box frame, lower to the ground than most mattress frames. She curled up next to his legs, and he couldn’t help but reach down to scratch her head.
“I miss him too.”
⁜⁜⁜
Gotham Cathedral was not the oldest church in the city (it was the second), but it was the biggest, emulating the cathedrals of Europe with its size and splendor. Jason and his mother had gone to mass together on her good days, and memories of staring at all the stained glass that adorned the windows and the Gothic arches throughout the building were nostalgic. The Christmas before he died, he had snuck out and gone to the Christmas Eve mass, before he found out about Sheila and everything that had happened. He and Bruce had gotten into an argument about his newly picked up smoking habit, among other things, and he stormed off like a child throwing a tantrum. Even if he was far from being a practicing Catholic, the cathedral reminded him of better memories. He had sat in the back and listened to music, preaching, and the rituals, laughing to himself that he had wanted to be a priest when he was a kid.
A person had sat next to him, and he turned to Dick Grayson in a black suit and overcoat in his lap. It had been months since he’d last been in Gotham, skipping Thanksgiving for a mission with the Titans. Or that was what Alfred had told him. Jason had almost jumped, looking for a way out that wasn’t disruptive or obvious. Then the nineteen-year-old gave him a sideways smile. “I won’t snitch.”
Jason’s heart twisted. “Why are you here?”
“It’s Christmas. It’d be pretty shitty to skip out on that.”
He scoffed. “You’ve done it before.”
Dick’s smile faltered. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been really busy with the Titans and—well, Bruce can be Bruce.”
Bruce could be fucking Bruce alright. “…Why are you here?” He asked again, more demanding.
“I went with my parents once, the year before they died, and we were touring the East Coast. Eight-year-old me was disappointed once I learned I could’ve done my first communion in a big church like this instead of a tiny wooden one in the middle of nowhere. …My parents weren’t that religious, but my mom liked visiting big churches when we were in cities.”
“I didn’t know you were Catholic.”
Dick shrugged. “Not really. Not anymore. Not for a long time.”
Jason nodded, looking away from him. “Same.”
That Christmas was the last time Jason had seen Dick out of costume, and the second-to-last time he’d seen him in any regard before he died. Standing outside the cathedral doors now, smoking a cigarette, the place seemed a lot less welcoming than it had been in his childhood.
Bruce had managed to arrange a cathedral funeral within a week of the will reading. It was impressive. The surrounding five blocks were closed off, and the businesses were paid to stay closed that day. He wondered how much cash he’d thrown at the newspapers and city to keep the funeral truly private, but Jason guessed it helped to have multiple telepaths and magic users attending the funeral. Even if it was held at a cathedral, no one from the church was involved, and Alfred and Bruce had planned the service.
The body that had lounged in the Watchtower’s morgue for two weeks was now inside the church, lying in a closed casket of mahogany. Even at the final goodbye, they wouldn’t let him see his face. Then again, if the damage was horrible enough to be unfixable by a mortician, Jason knew that Dick wouldn’t want anyone to see him like that, even dead.
He watched as various League members and others who knew Dick Grayson as Nightwing entered the cathedral quietly, not even batting an eye when he saw Barbara entering with her father. Jason was pretty sure Jim Gordon had known Bruce’s identity long before he entered the picture. He lit another cigarette instead of going inside, a sense of dread filling his stomach. From the corner of his eyes, he saw three familiar figures dressed head to toe in black. Good fucking god, it was weird to see Kory in such a dark color.
“How long have you been standing out here, Jason?” She asked gently, wearing black sunglasses to cover her all-green eyes.
“Not long enough,” he muttered, putting out his cigarette. He wasn’t the kind of asshole who smoked around kids.
Lian stood slightly behind her father, who for once had forgone a ball cap and sunglasses. The twelve-year-old glanced up at Jason, smiling meekly. “Hi Uncle Jason.”
“Hi Lian.”
Roy ruffled his daughter’s hair. “Hey, I think Grandpa Ollie and Dinah are already inside if you wanna go find them.”
“You just want me to leave so you guys can talk without me,” she muttered, crossing her arms.
Her father smiled. “You know me so well.”
The tween did not put up much protest, rolling her eyes, but she left.
“She got taller,” Jason muttered.
“Don’t I know it. I feel ancient.” He frowned, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Didn’t think we’d have an Outlaw reunion like this.”
Kory sighed. “I cannot imagine how you are feeling, Jason.”
“Me?” He scoffed. “You two both dated him. You almost married him. I’m just… I’m just the asshole he died on while leaving a fucking voicemail.”
The two redheads gave him a look.
Old conversations from the trio’s time as heroes-for-hire ran through his head, old, drunken conversations he didn’t want to remember. Things Kory and Roy had told him in the throes of passion, when the three of them decided that adding sex to the equation was a great idea and that nothing bad would come out of it. …So of course it had been the main reason why they disbanded, bleeding lines between friends, lovers, and annoyed coworkers who fucked each other.
Roy’s eyes turned to the cathedral’s intricate architecture. “Dick and I were three months along when I hit my one year of sobriety. Took me out to some shitty hole in the wall, claimed that they had Brooklyn’s greatest burgers. It was the greasiest burger I’d ever had. Really fucking good. We broke up a month later, thought we’d be better off as friends. …All he talked about was you those last two months.”
Jason swallowed. “Nothing good probably.” That was the same year when he and Tim had fought on the top of Titans Tower. The same year he had tried to kill the then-teenager. Still not all right in the head. Sometimes he wondered why Tim had ever forgiven him.
Kory looked around the empty street. “It is strange how quiet it is. Dick told me he hated it when things were completely quiet.” She sniffled, and from under her sunglasses, Jason watched a tear slip down her cheek. “It does not feel correct.”
The men had the same sentiment written on their faces.
Roy crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “I… I know he and I weren’t the closest after we broke up, and then I joined up with you two, but god, the fucking fact we don’t know how or why he died, I just wanna throttle everyone in fucking Justice League and then some.” He glanced at Jason. “I don’t blame you for what you did with the Joker. The fucker had it coming for a long time, and if no one else can see that, then they’re all idiots who confuse reality with escapism.”
The younger man nodded.
“It is almost time,” Kory muttered, checking the thin gold watch on her wrist. “We can talk more later if you both wish.”
Jason watched the pair go up the steps of the cathedral and enter, and after a minute, he bit the bullet and hiked up the same stairs, slipping through the open doors.
It was as grand and encompassing as the last time he had been there, and the crowded pews in the front looked dwarfed by the size. In front of the altar, below the small steps in the very center, sat the closed mahogany casket surrounded by giant bouquets of blue flowers. On the left side sat a framed photograph on a stand, but he was too far away to see the specific photo. He sat down in the same back pew he had that Christmas Eve nearly ten years ago, clenching his fists. It was selfish, self-loathing, but he couldn’t help but think about it. He hadn’t gotten this grand a funeral. His funeral had consisted of Bruce, Alfred, and Barbara. No service, no reception, no guests or speeches. Dick was the Golden Son, even in death. Ironic—he was the one who never got adopted, after all. It was cruel to think it, but as he stared at the pews in front of him, Jason suddenly felt that he couldn’t be there. Couldn’t sit in front with the rest of the family.
“Master Jason?” A kind voice whispered, and he looked up to see Alfred.
He didn’t wait for Jason to say something, entering the pew and sitting right beside him. He said nothing for a while, but his hand drifted out, and Jason took it firmly, looking away. When he did look at Alfred, he saw a sad smile with tears in his eyes. The older man pulled a handkerchief out of his suit pocket and dabbed his eyes with his left hand, not letting go of Jason’s.
“Pallbearers need to sit up in front, Master Jason,” Alfred said gently. “If you would like, you can sit next to me at the end of the row.”
“Okay,” he whispered, nodding as he stood up and let go of his hand, wiping his face on his suit jacket sleeve.
⁜⁜⁜
The patch of freshly turned dirt was smaller than usual, and it looked odd next to the headstone and the surrounding graves. The box containing the remains was a quarter of the size of the casket, made of the same material. Fresh flowers drowned the tombstone, but Jason brushed them aside to read what it said, the moon providing some lighting. Richard “Dick” John Grayson, 1986-2015, Son, Brother, Friend, Hero. He didn’t get Jason’s A Good Soldier.
Jason’s grave sat alone, not too far from Dick’s. Just a bit further sat Thomas and Martha Wayne’s. He hated graveyards. He hated this one specifically. Sometimes he could still feel the dirt and splintered wood under his fingernails. He stood in front of Dick’s grave alone, his suit jacket and tie lying on the grass, the first three buttons of his white button-up undone. He had a flask of whiskey in his hand, one he kept in his motorcycle for emergencies. Today was emergency enough.
Jason stared at the stone letters, at the name. It was past midnight. He wasn’t drunk. Yet. He clenched his free hand. He felt like he was twelve again. Twelve and in awe of Robin. Twelve and in awe of that he now lived in a fancy manor with the Batman. Twelve and with a hopeless crush on Dick Grayson, who had spurned him for taking Robin. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Still with the idiotic crush on Nightwing, who had an alien girlfriend, tons of friends, and all the popularity. The same fucking feelings that had continued. He was the same stupid kid who had a hopeless crush on someone unattainable. Someone dead.
The wind blew loudly, rustling against the leaves of the oak tree behind him. It grew stronger, his jacket and tie tumbling away toward his own headstone. It grew louder, piercing his ears with a scream, and he shuddered. Then it stopped, and everything was silent. The air around him grew cold, and when he let out a breath, he could see it. Every hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his mouth twisted into a grimace. He knew that feeling, that unnatural cold air.
“Jason,” a voice echoed behind him. A voice he knew very well.
He turned around and swallowed, staring at the apparition in front of him, the body he could see right through. The once deep-blue eyes of Dick Grayson stared back.