Once Was Lost, Now Is Found
Jason pulled off his Red Hood helmet and hid it beneath his jacket, which he'd shed despite the rain. His handguns were holstered, the sheaths concealed beneath his jeans. He looked like a normal young adult out in the early evening. Or would have, but for the blood spreading across his abdomen.
He staggered against the wall. He really should have been able to avoid the knife, but he'd been distracted by a siren at the wrong moment. There were some slight difficulties with being wanted for vigilantism and murder. So now, he needed shelter.
There was a church just round the corner. It was early enough that the preacher might be there, and though he didn't want to have to explain his condition, the door would be open. Anything to get out of the rain. Any port in a storm.
The door was unlocked. Jason pushed it open and slipped through. He dropped the helmet behind a table in the foyer covered in notice sheets and leaflets, pulled the jacket back on and went through to the main hall. He sat down on a pew and bowed his head, trying his best to look like one of the faithful at prayer.
Time passed slowly. The wound bled sluggishly, making him light-headed before it ceased. He hadn't eaten properly in a week, and his hunger started to bother him. He just stayed put, grateful for somewhere warmer than his safehouse.
Footsteps. The preacher? Damn. He'd have to wrap up his 'prayer' and leave. He looked up, and saw the older man seated opposite, looking at him curiously. "Can I help you son?" he asked.
Jason shrugged. "No, I'm good. Thanks." He forced himself to be polite, even though every instinct screamed to be left alone.
"Are you sure?" Too late, Jason realized the preacher could see the blood all over his shirt. "I think you need a doctor."
"I'm fine," Jason replied defensively. "It's…I'm fine."
The preacher, eyes full of compassion, looked past the falsehood to the real reason he was eluding the doctors. "At least let me patch you up," he said. "I won't tell anyone if you don't want me too."
Abashed and in pain, Jason reluctantly nodded. He sat down, slipped his jacket off again and tugged up his t-shirt. It caught on the dried blood, making him hiss at the discomfort. The wound was an inch long, maybe three deep. It hadn't hit anything vital, fortunately.
The preacher gasped at the sight, not immune to injuries like the vicious vigilante. He reached out, then withdrew. "Let me get the first aid kit," he said.
Jason waited until he returned, but as he swabbed the cut, couldn't meet his eyes. He hated seeming vulnerable. As the preacher started stitching the gash, his hands shook, and Jason gently seized them, placed the other man's fingertips against the sides of the tear in his flesh and took over sewing. When he finished, he flicked a look up at the older, but still somewhat naïve man in front of him.
"You want to tell me how you got that?" the preacher asked, pulling out a gauze pad and a roll of bandages.
"Not really." Jason let him gently wrap the wound, wondering. "Why are you doing this?"
"You needed it," he said simply. "How could I deny you want you need?"
"Most people would find it easy."
"Maybe." He finished tending the injury and rose. "Come. There's coffee and biscuits in the kitchen. You look like you could do with it."
Jason rose and followed him, automatically falling back into the graceful prowl he'd adopted so many years ago when he first took to the night streets. He found himself wondering when his job consumed his life so much he didn't even walk normally. How long had it taken…the others in the cave?
His mind was wondering. He must have lost more blood than he thought.
The preacher pulled out a tin of biscuits and set the kettle to boil. Jason once again caught his automatic responses glancing round for weapons, securing the exits in his mind's eye. The inexplicability of the situation struck him once more. He was a killer; surely the man knew that he was, at least, not safe to be around. So why was he being so nice to him? He voiced the question once more.
"Son, I believe all things happen for a reason," he said. Jason raised an eyebrow, nonplussed. "For whatever reason, you decided to step into my church. What were you looking for? Spiritual comfort? Shelter from the rain? Someplace to hide? A friend?" He paused, gauging Jason's reaction. "I rather think you need all of them, and more. We're called to aid the needy, to feed the hungry, heal the sick, comfort the grieving. Somehow, for some reason, God sent you to me. So it's right for me to do this."
Jason snorted. "Why should this God of yours care for me? He hasn't done much for me so far. And what makes you think he did send me, anyway?"
"The Lord moves in mysterious ways. I don't know what you've gone through, but I can tell you're tired of fighting, whatever, whoever you're fighting. And why wouldn't he care for you?"
"I've…done bad things. I'm not a God person."
"We've all done bad things. None of us are 'God people' when we start out in life. We have to choose to be his people, and he never turns away those who call to him."
Jason snorted again. "No way does it work like that."
The kettle clicked, and the preacher turned away, pouring water into a cafeteria and getting mugs out of a cupboard. "Let me tell you a story," he said. "There was a man called Paul. Now, he hated hearing about Jesus. He thought Jesus was just some conman, and his followers evil and delusional. So, when his friends killed one of Jesus' followers, he looked on and approved. Then, he went out and had other followers arrested. The followers scattered. And Paul decided to follow them. He got a commission to go to another town and capture all the followers there. So God decided to step in."
Jason took the coffee cup, thinking back to stories he'd heard back in kindergarten. But he'd never listened, not really. "Let me guess. God struck down the bad guy, and all the followers rejoiced and returned home."
The preacher smiled. "No. God spoke to him. He told Paul who he was. And Paul, the man who tried to wipe out God's faithful, became one of the key movers of the Early Church, and was later killed for his faith, after many near-misses and long years of imprisonment. God chose him, and when he embraced God's plan, he never regretted it."
"So God decided to use that one guy. What would he want with me? He hasn't spoken out of the air to me."
"Paul once wrote to his friend, and said this: "Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners- of whom I am the worst." (AN: 1 Timothy 1:15, NIV) Whatever you've done, however bad you've sinned, Jesus still came for you."
Jason didn't say anything, staring into the depths of his cup. Maybe there was something in all this. Maybe. "I dunno. Say you're right. Say there is a God out there, and he isn't just playing with my life. Say he actually cares. Say he wants to save me from eternal torment, or whatever it is. What does he want from me?"
"Faith, and love, and repentance. Turn from your sin, ask his forgiveness, and ask him to be first in your life. There's more, but that's a good place to start."
"Can I think about it?" It was too much, at least while he was still woozy from the pain and blood loss.
"Of course. God loves you, always will. But don't leave it too long," The preacher smiled, clearly fond in some way of the wounded young man. "We have spare Bibles, if you want one. And our Sunday services are open to all." Jason nodded mechanically, and drained his cup. As he set it on the counter and reached for a biscuit, the preacher spoke again. "Do you have somewhere to stay?"
Jason thought of his safehouse, an apartment in a condemned block, safe only because no-one knew it was there. "Yeah, I guess. Not much, but it's a roof over my head."
"Family?"
Flashes of Bruce, Dick, even the Replacement and the new little demon. "We don't get on. At all."
"Why not?"
"I…made some bad choices. You could say I pushed them away."
"What about friends?"
"No."
"You could make up with your family."
Jason looked at him. Why did he care? "Bit far gone."
"You never know. And be realistic. From the look of you, you're practically living on the streets. You just said you have no friends. With a wound like that, you probably should take it easy for a bit." The preacher hit him with a piercing stare. "You need help. And if you don't want to get anyone official involved…"
"You don't get it," Jason said softly. "I really, really screwed up. I mean, maybe it wasn't all the way I would have wanted it," could he really blame Bruce for replacing him when he was dead? "but they wouldn't take me back now."
"Not even for a few days?"
"I-" Would they? Bruce had his golden boy, and the Replacement, and even that demon kid who really was his. And he'd broken the Rule. He'd killed. It was all too late-
Jason felt weariness flood over him. The preacher had been right. He was tired, so tired of fighting. So tired of blood and violence and loneliness. Would Bruce let him crash at the manor for a few days, until he healed, if he promised to be out of his hair forever after that? He could do that. A few days at the manor, and then start a new life somewhere else.
"I can ask," he said, smiling shyly at the preacher. "Might not be successful, but I can ask."
As he walked out, retrieving his helmet as he went, he tried to work out what he'd say.
Bruce, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I fought you, I'm sorry I killed, I'm sorry I asked you to kill for me. Can I please stay, just for a few days, then I'll go and you'll never see me again. It will be as if I'm not even here.
There were proximity motion sensors on Wayne Manor's front gates. There was also a small screen in the Batcave dedicated to watching the entrance. Bruce liked to know if someone was coming to visit. He wasn't expecting anyone, but always kept a lookout.
The sensor beeped, and he turned to the screen. And there, the sight he'd longed for secretly for years. A stocky, dark-haired young man in jeans and a black leather jacket. He had a bright red helmet slung over his shoulder, and traces of blood on the zipped-up jacket.
His lost son. Jason.
He rose, running out of the cave, running to the front door. He wanted to greet his son, the lost son coming home, the lost son looking so, so, so worn down on the screen. He opened the door and strode down the drive, to the young man coming towards him.
"Bruce," Jason said as he drew near. He carefully tilted the helmet, so Bruce could see he'd put his handguns in it, and tossed it aside. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I fought you-"
He didn't get any further, as Bruce wrapped his arms around him, holding close the son he'd lost so many years ago, and never truly regained after the Lazarus Pit resurrected him. "Jay, I've missed you so much. Come on, come in, come home."
Jason let Bruce pull him inside. "Alfred!" Bruce called, and the butler appeared, as though he'd been coming anyway. "Set some extra places at dinner, and see if we have any clothes in Jay's size, he needs them. I'll call the others, I want everyone here."
He pulled Jay close again. "I'm so glad you're home."
Tim was tired, and a little confused. He'd got home after a long day in the office, and was preparing to go out as Red Robin when he got a call from Bruce, sounding unnaturally happy, asking him to come home immediately.
All the noise in the manor was coming from the dining room. Tim pushed open the door and started to go through. Then he stopped.
Jason was the centre of attention. Alfred had whipped up all the family favourites, and as well as Bruce and Damian, there were Dick, Cass, Babs and even Steph. But Jason-
He turned around and walked out. Jason had tried to kill him! Several times! What could Bruce be thinking?
He heard his mentor and second father's footsteps behind him. "Tim, please come join us," Bruce said.
Tim turned. "He tried to kill me, Bruce! He's a murderer. And you expect me to play happy families with him? After all my years at your side, the months I spent searching when everyone thought you were dead, I thought you'd respect me more than that."
Bruce reached out, pulling his third son closer. "Tim, you were always there when I needed you, and you are my true heir, my young detective. But Jason was lost to us, even more when he returned, and now he's found his home again. Can't you see why we have to celebrate?"
Tim looked deep into Bruce's eyes, reading the pleading within them. "Alright. I'll give him a chance." He was taken off-guard as Bruce hugged him.
They went back into the dining room. Jason looked at him "Tim. I'm sorry. I had no right to hate you. I shouldn't have tried to kill you."
Tim smiled tentatively. "I guess I would have been a bit…out of it, if I'd died and been resurrected."
Jason smiled back. "It was still wrong. I get it if you don't trust me yet."
Tim just nodded. Maybe he would trust Jason, eventually. But Bruce was right. Jason had been so lost, and now was found.
AN: Normally, Jason-reunion fics are pretty brutal. If you read my Wayne's Boys, I'll probably do something more vicious for that. But this story just had to be told. Characters may be a little OOC. Feedback appreciated, and feel free to drop me a PM if you have questions. Also, this was un-beta'd, so there may be typos, and for the benefit of Americans, while I've tried to use your vocabulary, I probably haven't got your spelling right. Sorry if this bothers you.
Katara