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Gotham,
A cycle of rot that never stops spinning. In this city, safety is a fairy tale and trust is a death sentence. You keep your head down and your shoes laced, ready to run the moment the Rogues finish their latest “vacation” at Arkham. It’s a revolving door, and the hinges are well-oiled.
But it’s home for Jason Todd—street rat, Robin, corpse, and now the Red Hood. Some say the city is alive, and he agrees. You can run to the edge of the world, but Gotham has a way of hooking into your skin and pulling a cold stone lady with a twisted sense of love. Once Lady Gotham claims you, you stay claimed. You might wander, but she always finds a way to drag you back, kicking and screaming, into her dark embrace.
Yet, Jason sits on a rooftop, clutching his right rib with a ginger, light touch as he watches the neon pulse of the city’s nightlife, feeling like a ghost haunting his own life. He wonders why he bothers coming back to a place that refuses to say welcome home.
No, no, of course, the problem isn’t Lady Gotham. She’s ecstatic at the fact he’s returned, bloody and broken as he is. The problem is them—the ones he arguably wishes were his family.
He knows the labels they’ve pinned on him: reckless, ballistic, a mistake that should’ve stayed in the dirt (not that they were brave enough to say the last one to his face). He was the one who pulled the triggers that the Bat himself refuses to touch after all. But he traded his lead for the Bat’s “Golden Rule,” even as the restraint tastes like ash in his mouth. He broke his own soul, all over again, just to fit back into the family portrait.
So why does the air still turn cold and silent when he walks into the room? Why do they still look at him like he’s a ticking bomb, waiting for a reason to go off?
Foolish boy.
He thought it, and he meant it. It was obvious why they kept their distance. He hadn’t exactly made it easy for them, had he? He’d spent most of his life after the revival of his death swatting away his eldest brother’s hands every time Dick tried to tether him back to the light. He’d ignore the silent pleas from his other siblings—invitations to the kind of “normal” events he knew, deep down, he still craved.
Foolish boy, he once again insulted himself.
He wanted in. He wanted it so badly it ached, but he could see the truth written in their eyes. They weren’t looking for him; they were looking through him. They’re desperately searching for a ghost—scaveging for a piece of his childhood self that they could grab and pull to the surface. They wanted the man standing in front of them to disappear. They wanted to believe that everything that had happened was merely a nightmare, and that once they woke up, the blood would be gone and everything would be “all good.”
Patrol had been going well—at least, in his books. The comms were filled with the usual chatter, the Rogues were actually staying in their cells for once, and they were busy cleaning up standard-issue street crime. That was until the bust went sideways. The organization they were hitting had hidden reinforcements, and the ambush turned the night into a meat grinder.
Everything went uncoordinated. Fast.
In the blur of the brawl, Red Hood’s eyes locked onto Robin. The youngest of the flock was occupied, unaware of a thug swinging a heavy metal rod toward his spine. Panic flared—sharp and hot—in Jason's chest. He didn't think; he just moved. He lunged, yanking the kid out of the trajectory and taking the blow himself.
The rod connected with his right ribs with a sickening crack. Just his fucking luck.
Gritting his teeth against the white-hot flare of pain, Jason pulled his piece. He took out the thug’s leg with a precision shot and followed up by slamming the barrel of his gun into the man's skull. Hard. The guy went down like a sack of bricks.
When the dust finally settled and the zip-ties were out, Jason figured that was his cue. He just wanted to disappear into a safehouse, check the damage to his ribs, and breathe. But life had never been that kind to him.
Batman was on him before he could even holster his weapon.
“What were you thinking, Hood?” The Bat’s voice was a low, dangerous growl. “We do not beat them mindlessly. What if that man died because of your recklessness?”
Jason stared at him, the pain in his side throbbing in time with his heartbeat. It was funny, really. Since when did "beating someone" and "violence" become two different things in Bruce's world?
No one bothered to stand up for him, of course.
In this particular side of the family, the Bat’s word was law—gospel handed down from a stone god. The others stood like statues, faces hidden behind masks, watching the scene play out. They kept their mouths shut, a silent wall of judgment. Maybe they agreed with Batman or maybe they were smart enough to stay quiet, lest they find themselves standing at the same court as the black sheep of the family.
Better let the Red Hood take the heat. He was already burned, anyway.
Before he could even attempt to defend himself, the comms buzzed to life. “GCPD is closing in fast,” Oracle’s voice cut through the tension. “Move. Now.”
Bless the mighty Oracle. She had saved him the breath of defending himself—not that the Bat would have bothered to listen to a word of it anyway. Justice was blind, but in this court, it was also stone-deaf.
Jason didn’t wait for a dismissal. He fired his grapple and swung into the smog before others could react. Every movement was a mistake; his ribs screamed in protest, a sharp jagged reminder of the price he’d paid for a ‘thank you’ he’d never receive. As he crested the rooftop, his vision swam, flickering with a toxic, familiar shade of green. It was bleeding into his sight, more aggressive than usual, staining the edge of his territory as he fled. He had no intention of heading back to the Cave—he knew only more scorn waited for him there from his ̶f̶a̶t̶h̶e̶r̶ mentor. He’d rather take his chances with the shadows and the silence of a city that, at the very least, didn’t pretend to be on his side.
Here he was—back on a rooftop overlooking Crime Alley. His "beloved," in all its rotting glory. He sat there for a moment, still clutching his side, before finally deciding to move toward his closest safehouse. He couldn't stay in the open forever. With a grunt of pain, he fired his grapple again, moving with a practiced, agonizing care this time—making sure he didn’t strain those bruised ribs more than he already had.
The safehouse was a cramped, fourth-floor walk-up that smelled of cigarettes and old gun oil, one of his least used safehouses. It’s a good thing he always fully stocked all of his safehouses with the medical or tactical needs of his. Jason carefully stripped off his upper suit and slowly walked into his kitchen to take an ice pack for his bruise. His breath caught his throat as he finally saw the blooming purple-and-black mess across his ribs. As he was about to reach for the medical kit below his sink, a soft thud on the fire escape made him still.
He didn't need to look. He knew that rhythm. It was too light, too graceful—the sound of someone who had been born to walk on air while Jason was still learning how to crawl out of the mud.
“Go away, Dickface.” Jason rasped, not turning around as he gingerly iced his bruise, the ‘green’ in his vision started to flare again at the intrusion.
“Oracle said you took a hard hit for Robin,” Dick said, perched on the sill of the already unlocked window. He hovered in that space between a ‘big brother’ and ‘Nightwing’ the perfect vigilante looking for a report. It was an unnecessary ritual in Jason’s opinion, considering Dick had been right there at the scene, too. But, then again it wouldn’t be Dick Grayson if he didn’t try to play the mediator after the bomb had already been fused. He stepped through the window, his suit scuffed and hair messy from the night’s patrol. “C’mon Jay, you know Bruce… he was just worried, Little Wing. In his own way.”
Jason let out a short, hollow scoff that sent a flair of pain through his chest. "Worried? Is that what we’re calling it now?” He hissed. “I didn’t realize his way of showing ‘worry’ was lecturing someone who just saved his damn blood son from a head injury."
He finally turned, his knuckles white and numb as he gripped the ice pack. "Funny how that works. I take the hit, the kid stays in one piece, and I’m still the one who gets the lecture of being ‘violent’ and ‘reckless.’”
Jason stepped closer to Dick, his movement jagged and predatory. He was snarling now. “So, tell me—what are you actually fucking here for, Dick? To add more lectures to the pile? Because if you are, you can fuck off. I've had enough of being Batman’s favorite punching bag for the day."
Dick held up his hands, palms open and empty, as if he were trying to soothe a rabid animal before it lunged. “I’m not here to lecture you, Little Wing. I’m here because I’m worried. You took a heavy hit, and you didn't come to the Cave to let Alfred check the damage.”
“And have Bruce spit more venom at me? Yeah, no fucking thanks. I’d rather patch myself up,” Jason scowled. The idea of needing help tasted like ash now. He had survived the gutters of Crime Alley as a kid with nothing but his wits; he could sure as hell survive a few broken ribs now. He didn't need their charity, and he definitely didn't need their pity.
“Alfred isn’t Bruce,” Dick said softly, taking a cautious half-step forward. “He just wants to make sure you aren't bleeding internally. We all do.”
“‘We’?” Jason’s voice was a low, dangerous rasp. “Where was the ‘we’ when the Bat decided to treat me like a criminal for keeping his kid alive?”
Jason reached for the holster on the table and leveled his gun at Dick’s chest. His hands were trembling, a faint tremor he’d die before admitting was caused by the white-hot agony in his side. “You want to help, Dick? Then fucking leave. Go back to your tower, or the Manor, or whatever ivory throne you’re perched on tonight. I’m done.”
Dick stared down the barrel, his expression shifting from concern to a weary, heavy sort of grief. He knew Jason wouldn’t pull the trigger—no matter how prickly his Little Wing was—but he also knew that if he took one more step, the room would explode into a fight he didn't have the heart for tonight. He was tired of bruising his knuckles on his little brother over petty fights that always left them both bleeding.
Dick pursed his lips and gave a slow, somber nod. He moved back toward the open window, pausing with one hand on the frame. He looked back at the shadow Jason had become, his voice low. “Okay. I’ll leave if that’s what you want. But you know we’re always here if you need us, right?”
Jason didn't answer. He just watched as Dick slipped out into the smog, the sound of the grapple line hissing through the air like a final sigh. Once the room was empty, Jason finally let the gun hand drop. It hit the table with a heavy thud, and he slumped into his chair, the silence of the safehouse closing in around him like a shroud.
“How the fuck should I know if you’re always there, when you all act like none of you wants to get close?” Jason mumbled softly to the empty room. He moved with a heavy slowness, locking the window and resetting the security trips until he was sure the world was shut out. He sank onto the worn-out couch, his breath hitching as his ribs protested the movement. He didn’t even bother reaching for the medical kit again. He just let his head fall back and closed his eyes, drifting into the gray space between pain and sleep. He was too tired to bleed, too tired to heal—just a ghost finally letting go of the haunting for one night.