A/N: Since it's been awhile since angst (ahaha, so so long), I've written this up for you loves :D I hope you guys enjoy it! I blame Into the Spider Verse for this fic, by the way! Watched it recently, and HOOO BOY I LOVED IT! So recommend it for those of you who haven't seen it yet!

NO JAYTIM, DICKTIM, OR ANY OF THAT, CHRIST, NO.

Anyways. Enjoy!

He hadn't meant for this to happen. He hadn't meant for any of it to happen. This wasn't how tonight was supposed to go down. No, no, no, no, everything went wrong, and this wasn't supposed to happen, and—

"Put your hands up!"

Jason whirled, replacing the helmet, jerking to his feet from his crouched position above… above his body, eyes wide at the voice—the voice he recognized too well—and please, no, not him.

But, of course, just like the rest of tonight, it went wrong.

"J—Hood? What… What're…"

No, please don't… Don't look down.

He was frozen as he watched Dick's eyes lower to the corpse behind him, and the expression on his face flip from confused and worried, to empty yet pained, like someone flicking a switch. Jason could only tremble in his spot, hands shaking, mind silent as he tried to process what happened in the building three blocks down.

. . .

"Nice one, Red." Jason turned, hands sliding his pistols into their holsters on his thighs with practiced ease, a smile slowly touching the corners of his lips.

Tim huffed a laugh, leaning a little on his bo-staff and flicking his head to move the hair from his lenses as he answered Jason's sad excuse of a smile with one Dick would be proud of.

"Right back at you, Red."

. . .

Dick's eyes slowly—so, painfully slowly—rose from the body to find the lenses of Jason's helmet. The glint in them was not the friendly, brotherly, loving one that he'd come—over the course of two years and a helluva lot of effort on Dick's behalf—to find himself craving after a hard patrol returning to the Manor or desperately needing in times like these. No, the look in those eyes were predatory. It swore a beg for death.

And it was for Jason.

Something—someone?—in him screamed and died an agonizing death at the look, and he wanted to break down and start sobbing, or screaming, at the feeling. It made him want to stab himself in the neck with the knife no further than a little stretch down to the ankle it was strapped to.

"You killed him, Jason?"

Oh, God, that tone was so wrong coming from Dick's throat. Just the sound of it had Jason's hand widening a little to prep for the hilt of the blade he was now craving.

NO! Jason's mind screamed in answer to his brother's question. NO! God, no! No, no, no, no, no—he was my brother! I loved him! I wouldn't—I tried to before but I wasn't—that was different—he was there for me every time I needed him! I wouldn't kill him! I wouldn't! I DIDN'T!

But the words never realized themselves. He was still frozen, and while his mind was catching up a little, his body was still at 0.3% and buffering the commands his brain tried to send to it.

It wasn't me, he wanted to cry.

I didn't do it, I swear, he wanted to scream.

Why would you even ask, he wanted to sob.

Dick took his silence wrong—so, so wrong—and raised a hand to the two-way radio clipped to his police uniform while the second darted for the gun holstered at his waist and drew the weapon.

"This is Officer Grayson, calling in a 10-67. I've got the murderer dead to rights." His voice wavered all but once as he spoke, otherwise having a steel-like quality to it that made the hairs on the back of Jason's neck rise.

That his body reacted to, a hand jerking to the grappling gun at his waist and firing off a line in seconds. He heard three gunshots—Dick's shooting at… at me—but didn't bother looking back as he felt one, two, three bullets strike him in different spots. One grazed straight through the vulnerable spot of the armor on Jason's neck, the second bit into the Kevlar of his shoulder, and the third lodged itself in the thick armor around his calf.

He bit his lip hard to keep from crying out at the burn of the graze as he landed, tripped, and collapsed, before staggering to his feet and shooting out another line.

As he fled, leaving the body behind, Jason realized how his cowardice made him look after the scene.

It made him look like he'd actually done it.

But I didn't! It wasn't me!

Jason wanted to scream his pain and frustration and grief. He wanted to start sobbing, wanted to kill someone, wanted to be comforted.

. . .

He stretched, yawning as he did, ignoring the low moans coming scattered from the floor around him.

When Tim heard Jason's yawn it prompted one of his own and he raised a fist to his mouth.

Jason looked down at the thugs writhing on the ground, clutching at their wounds.

"So, who're we calling for clean up?"

Tim snorted.

"GCPD, duh," he answered, crouching to pick up a discarded phone from the ground. He swiped on the screen and dialed the emergency number as Jason started to pick his way around the thugs.

As Tim spoke with the operator, Jason's brow wrinkled at a weird twinge he got in his gut and he looked up. Frowning, he scanned the crates and the rafters above, shifting as he leaned back to look behind his little brother, who was giving him a confused look.

Too late did Jason see the flash of a sniper's muzzle, the shot echoing as Jason's eyes widened and he started to duck, only for Tim to throw himself in the bullet's path. Tim fell, but Jason had to make sure that sniper wouldn't fire any more shots at them before he could check on the teen.

He raised a pistol, with quick and practiced movements attaching a scope to the sights, aimed at the sniper's nest, and fired off two shots in rapid succession.

Only when he'd counted off fifteen seconds in his head did Jason holster his gun and drop to his knees beside Tim, who was sprawled on his side on the ground, hands twitching, lenses of his domino wide, mouth open as he gasped for breath.

Jason's hands hovered over his little brother as he watched Tim's chest rise and fall irregularly, breaths coming rasped and labored.

"Where?" he barked. Jason internally winced at his tone, but the fear impaling his chest was agonizing and forcing him to tense in defense against the emotion.

Tim's hand moved and Jason followed them as they came to hover over his liver.

Jason's hands went to one of Tim's pouches and he retrieved a pressure bandage and some duct tape, eyes locked on the dark spot of Tim's uniform that was growing steadily.

"Through and through?"

Tim nodded, but it was more of a jerk of his head.

Jason bit his lip, moving Tim's hands to firmly press a wad of the pressure bandage to the gaping wound, and wincing at the cry that came from his little brother, then securing it as best he could with the duct tape. He repeated the process with the other side of the wound, but by the time he finished there Tim's breaths were softer and the blood was soaking through the first bandage.

He made a strangled noise of distress and frustration, gathering Tim in his arms and cursing the damaged comm unit in his helmet as he fled the scene, police sirens following their exit.

"Tim," Jason murmured as he ran, "you still with me? C'mon, little bird, you gotta stay with me just a little longer, okay?"

He received a weak noise in response and clutched the teen tighter.

"Talk to me, here. How was the party your friends threw you?"

For a few seconds there was no answer and the fear in Jason's gut curled painfully. Then, thankfully, Tim's voice came in a rasped whisper.

"Bart ate almost all the food. Kon and Cassie saved some for me. Tried to make it a surprise party."

Jason snorted. A surprise party on a Bat? No way it worked.

"Wasn' surprised."

They dropped into an alley where Jason set Tim down and crouched beside him.

"Alright, Timmers, I'm going to need to borrow your comm unit. Mine was trashed back in the building."

Jason tilted Tim's head, trying to find the small device, but he froze when Tim gave a long sigh. Immediately he pulled back, grabbing the sides of Tim's face in both hands.

"Tim?" His heart pounded inside his chest and his fear started to choke him. "Tim? Are you still with me? Stay with me, little bro, come on, please, just a little longer, I swear."

He sighed in relief when the lenses of the domino showed again, narrowed.

"Jas'n?"

"Yeah, Tim." He reached up to pull the helmet off. "It's Jason."

Tim nodded a little, groaning. "M'a die, hm?"

Jason jerked at the question, but answered it after his brain could find his words. "No. I'm not letting you die for me, Red, I won't."

"Can' c'ntrol it, Jay. S'much s'ya might wanna, y'can't." Again Tim nodded to himself. "M'a die."

"No, you're not!" Jason renewed his effort to locate Tim's comm, but the teen weakly pushed at his hands and moved his head.

"No, Jas'n. Stop."

"Tim, you're an idiot if you think I'm just going to let you die."

"Can' c'ntol it."

"I can damn well try!" Jason hit the emergency beacon on Tim's suit—the golden symbol on his chest—in a last-ditch effort.

"Jas'n."

Tim's hands pushed at Jason's again, and he peeled the domino off from his face with a grunt of effort.

Jason's lensed eyes were met with Tim's soft baby blue ones, and he gritted his teeth at the resigned glint in them.

"You can't just give up, Tim."

Tim shook his head in the slightest, blood slowly running from the corner of his mouth. "M'not. S'nothin' you can do. M'a die."

Jason opened his mouth to argue but Tim spoke a bit louder.

"No, Jas'n, stop. List'n t'me. List'n."

He shut his mouth, any hope in his chest shriveling up as the fear swallowed it whole. Tim's eyes searched the lenses of Jason's red domino as he spoke again, blood staining his teeth.

"Love you." The words felt like a punch to the gut, winding him as Tim continued. "Dick, Dami'n, Duke, Cass, Br'ce, Alfr'd, Babs, Steph… Love all o'you. Y're m'family. M'sorry."

Jason couldn't find any words as Tim winced and dug around in a pouch, pulling a flash drive from it and handing it to Jason, who grabbed it after a second of hesitation.

"P'ssw'rd is p'ssw'rd."

Jason couldn't help but snort at the simplicity and the corners of Tim's mouth lifted into a smile.

"Bye, Jay."

All amusement vanished at the words, and Jason startled. "No, Tim, they're coming—don't do that! Stay with me!"

But he was gone. The baby blues had dimmed, and Tim's chest stilled, his body going limp against the brick wall Jason had rested him against.

"NO!"

He hadn't meant for this to happen. He hadn't meant for any of it to happen. This wasn't how tonight was supposed to go down. No, no, no, no, everything went wrong, and it this wasn't supposed to happen, and—

"Put your hands up!"

. . .

Jason tripped landing on the next rooftop and tried to catch his footing, only to fall onto the gravel-topped roof hard. Despite not wanting to be there in the first place, Jason couldn't force himself to get back up on his feet. If anything, what he really wanted to do was curl up into a tight ball.

It was so, utterly, ridiculously, stupid and juvenile. Jason Peter Todd, aka the first Robin who died, aka the second and current Red Hood who killed the worst of the every-day scum and instilled fear in the heart of Gotham. He was a ruthless, cold-hearted killer. He'd gunned for each member of the Bat Clan at least once. He'd buried a batarang in Tim's chest. He'd shot Damian.

But that had been another time. That had been before. He hadn't cared for them—hadn't let himself admit it, at the very least.

Jason felt like the very scum he killed, and his hand drew closer to the sheathed blade inch by painstaking inch. His eyes were squeezed shut, teeth gritted, pulse racing, as he forced his hand to stop moving and instead balled both into fists and pressed them to the helmet.

A scream fought its way past the clenched teeth and Jason curled into himself from the force of it.

Tim's death had been his fault, however unintended it had been. When his little brother had shown up to provide unrequested back-up, Jason had expected it on some level and greeted him tersely, without objection. He should have sent the teen away. He shouldn't have let him stick around.

There's no way you could have known, a voice—that sounded horrifyingly like Tim—sternly piped up in his head. It was not your fault.

"Yes it was!" he growled back. Briefly Jason considered the fact that answering the voice in his head probably officially made him clinically insane, but he didn't care in the moment. "I had it handled," he hissed, "and Tim's help was unnecessary!"

No, it wasn't. You were outnumbered sixty-eight to one, and you thought you'd taken care of the snipers beforehand. What would have happened if I hadn't been there? can't-be-Tim immediately snarked back.

The answer went unsaid. Either Jason would have been overpowered or shot by the unaccounted-for sniper. Both ended in possible death, but neither were definite. In the first case, Jason either got kidnapped for a ransom or torture—both of which he could have probably escaped—or, maybe, worse-case-scenario, they just killed him. The second situation had higher probability of death, but there was still the chance that the sniper missed anything that would doom Jason to instant or death within a minute, maybe two.

Okay, now think about the odds including my help. The first case scenario wouldn't have even been a probability. The second less so. What happened was just bad luck, Jason, and in no way your fault. You couldn't have known, seriously-can't-be-Tim interjected. It's not your fault.

And, damn. How was he supposed to argue that? Tim always had this way of pointing things out for what they were that made you feel like an idiot with the simplicity of it, and now was no different. Jason was finding it hard to come up with a good argument for that.

"It's my fault," he tried again in a whisper, still curled into himself.

Do you believe that? seriously-really-can't-be-Tim asked softly.

Jason was caught completely off-guard by the answer to the question—it felt like someone pulled a rug right out from under his feet.

No, he didn't. Not really anyways.

There was a choked noise, and it took Jason a minute to realize the sound had come from him.

"Damn you, Tim." Despite the meaning of the words, there was no heat to them, and Jason didn't really mean it. He couldn't even if he wanted to. God, he hoped Tim wasn't damned in hell. What little Jason remembered was just an endless ocean of darkness, but he wasn't sure if that's what he actually remembered, or just his mind trying to fill the hole in his subconscious timeline. Point of the matter was that Jason didn't know if heaven and hell existed or not but, if they did, Tim deserved to be with the best of them.

I know. I'm the best, fuck-it-really-is-Tim's-voice chirped.

"I've lost my fucking mind."

That said, Jason moved to his feet, sending a wary glance over his shoulder before resuming his sprint for a safehouse. Not one anywhere nearby—no, the Bats would be gunning for those the hardest—but one about in between as far as he could possibly get from the scene and one as close as it could be. Middle ground. Fingers crossed they were safe.

As he ran, Jason's mind went to the fact that he knew that he hadn't done it, he hadn't been the one to kill Tim, but the others had no clue. They'd be coming for his head until they realized that the angle for the shot was one Jason couldn't have made. There was probably a street light somewhere that had caught his causal interaction with Tim once everyone was down up until the sniper shot, but they wouldn't think to check the recordings anytime soon. He had the audio recording in his helmet, but they wouldn't stop to listen to him.

I have to hide from the family that's been trying to reconnect with me for four fucking years. The thought was like a stab to the gut with a jagged and rusted blade, twisting harsh enough that made Jason want to stop and empty the contents of his stomach. This time, Tim's voice in his head offered nothing, and it was so something Tim would do. Lay down the facts, observe the rest of them, and take them as they were. That Jason had to run from his recently-accepted family was as much of a fact as Tim's death not being Jason's fault was. That was it. Even the voice in his head was enough like the real Tim to know that.

Jason kept going.

Eventually he reached a safehouse that was a good distance away from the city's limits, and an equal distance from there, and Jason was so tired he could feel it in his bones. Sticking to the highest rooftops and taking every other precaution he possibly could to avoid the Bats had been like scaling a mountain that went up in a straight line; exhausting to the letter.

He keyed in the code to disable the alarms and traps, turned the doorknob, and walked inside with a sigh. Jason kicked off his shoes, locking the door behind him and re-enabling all the security measures, before he went to go make sure nothing else had been disturbed in the safe house. He checked the kitchen first, then walked back to the living room/main room once he'd reassured himself that the alarms and traps on the windows were set and armed to do the same thing he had in the kitchen. Once he was done there, Jason moved to the guest room, then the master bedroom. Then he checked the closets, looked up as he walked around the safe house to make sure he didn't have any visitors waiting above his head or in any closets, and only once he was finished combing through his arsenal in the safe house to make sure everything was as he'd left it did he let himself go to his room, remove the layers of armor he wore, peel off the rest of the clothes, put them away, grab a towel, and head to the bathroom to wash up.

As he turned the water on and waited for it to heat up, Jason stood in front of the mirror, towel around his waist, as he braced both arms on either side of the sink and looked at his reflection. The brightness of his green eyes shone back at him, laughing at him. A scar that everyone saw but no-one suspected. There had been a time when Jason's eyes were a teal blue color, a time when he'd felt safe and at home at the Manor, a time when he'd thought Bruce to be the best dad ever, a time when he'd thought that maybe he actually had a chance to do something with his life. Then he'd been killed, dug his way out of his grave, and been taken by the League of Assassins.

Throughout it all, his eyes had been the unchanged teal shade.

Until he was dumped into the Lazarus pit. The waters had claimed a bit of his soul, had taken a patch of his black hair, and had permanently stolen the color of his eyes. When once they were teal, now they were a poisonous green that glowed ever so slightly. The white streak of hair everyone noticed and pitied him for—he couldn't dye it because the pit—but his eyes? Nobody saw them for what Jason did. They were as much a scar as the others on his body were.

Now, though, as he looked at them and remembered the pit… He was struck with an idea.

What if… what if he took Tim to a Lazarus pit? He'd come back. Sure, the pit might claim a small shard of his soul, steal a tuft of hair somewhere on his head, poison the color of his eyes, and leave the trauma fresh in memory, but…

Tim would be alive, and that was more than he could say for his little brother right now.

For six, brief minutes that he hated himself for, Jason actually considered it.

Do you really want to put me through that?

Of course it was Tim's voice in his head that had Jason hesitating. Did he? The feeling of the pit's waters feeling like acid in his lungs, the burning wrong feeling that had instantly hit him like a train to the chest, the intensity of an unchecked need for blood and death… All of it was fresh in Jason's mind. He doubted he'd ever be able to forget the utterly, devastatingly wrong feeling of it all, above all else. He remembered the untamable rage that had flowed through his veins as surely as the pit waters did.

And your eyes. Your hair. You know how you feel about those—how you absolutely hate them. Do you really want me to hate the way I look like that? Not even contacts can fix the color, and you know it. Hair dye doesn't work. I'll be stuck with it. Again Jason hesitated, and Tim's voice had a final thing to say. If you were given the choice, would you have picked life?

Jason instantly loathed himself for even considering the Lazarus pit. No, he wouldn't have chosen to live again. He constantly thought that everything would be so much simpler, easier, and better for everyone if he'd stayed dead. Alfred's life would be so much less stressful since he wouldn't have to deal with the emotional baggage Jason's actions carried with them and inflicted on the family. Bruce wouldn't have to live with the pain and guilt of the choice Jason made him make when they first interacted after his death. Dick would have more time to focus on Tim and Damian—just Damian, now—Tim would still be alive and he wouldn't have been through all the pain Jason inflicted on him, and Damian… Maybe his mom would have been better to him…

No, he wouldn't wish that feeling on Tim ever.

"I'm sorry, Tim."

There's nothing for you to be sorry about.

Yeah, there really was, but Jason didn't dwell on it any longer as he removed the towel from his waist and stepped under the warm running water. He sighed, leaning his head on the wall, as he closed his eyes and felt the water travel down his body. He didn't let himself think, forcing his mind to remain empty and silent throughout his time in the shower. Jason washed his hair, turned the water so hot his skin started to redden, and scrubbed at his skin hard, as if Tim's blood was as permanent as the scars marring his body.

Only when the hot water started to run cold did Jason turn it off, grab the towel, dry himself half-heartedly, and exit the bathroom, dressing himself as listlessly as he'd showered.

The shock of Tim's death was starting to wear off, and the guilt had already been taken care of, which left the road clear for his rage to spike, and oh did it ever.

Jason hissed as he stood and made his way to his helmet. Really, there wasn't anyone for him to take his fury out on since he'd killed the sniper immediately, but he could still throw himself into the gang's case, and check to make sure he really had proof that he hadn't been the one to kill his little brother.

Check the recordings first, Tim's voice suggested. The casework will take longer to look through.

Ever the voice of reason, Jason grabbed the helmet and made his way to his laptop. He connected the two devices with a cord and opened up the program he'd made with Tim for processing and transferring the data gathered in his helmet to the laptop.

A window popped up for the visual and audio recordings and Jason took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut, before clicking on it. Once he did, he'd either have to re-live watching and listening to his little brother's death and be filled with grief, or he'd be faced with the rage and higher level of misery if the helmet hadn't recorded any of it. Either way, Jason wasn't sure he was ready for it.

"It's too soon," he muttered to himself. "I… I can't. Not right now."

You have to, Tim's voice whispered back solemnly. It's okay, Jason. Just prioritize. Focus. Look at it from an objective point of view—you might even get some clues like that.

Sighing, Jason opened his eyes again with Tim's little pep-talk in mind as he clicked on the window and the recent recordings popped up for him to pick from.

18:43:21—03:12:43 Mon, 20:17:44—05:10:57 Tue, 21:02:35—04:47:03 Wed, 19:31:16—06:13:42 Thurs, 20:32:59—02:31:41 Recent.

Well, at least you know it was recorded. Jason clicked on the one labeled 'Recent' and forced himself to remember to watch it objectively. Yeah, there was the fact that it'd been recorded already going for him, and it looked like it was all recorded. From the start of patrol, to the bust, to when Jason turned the helmet off.

Thank God you have it programmed to keep recording unless it's turned off, huh? Otherwise there'd be this huge gap because you took it off to talk to me, and that would be unfortunate if you didn't save my last words. Those should go down in history, I'm telling you. How many people's last words have an audio and visual recording as proof, huh? Movies aside, because those're fake.

"Our entire family," Jason bit back. "Well, except mine. Domino broke ten minutes in with the crowbar." God, he's really going insane. This wasn't healthy. It wasn't normal.

Go and ruin my fun why don't you, Tim's voice sulked.

Jason relaxed on his bed, laptop sitting in his lap, as the audio and visuals started playing on the screen.

He fast-forwarded to the building, then watched with objective detachment as everything played out again.

Gunshot. Tim's strangled cry. His body hitting the ground.

Jason, focus, came Tim's voice, cutting through the surging emotion in Jason's head. Remember. All you had to do was make sure the audio and visuals recorded to support that you weren't the one who killed me. Focus. Move on.

So he did. Jason wasn't about to keep watching it to punish himself—he wasn't Bruce. He was quick to close the window and move the file to a USB to give the Bats, pulse racing. He then unplugged his helmet and re-opened the file on the gang he had saved, weeks of recon and investigation opening several different windows along with the main overview file—pictures, audio, and notes quickly filling the screen.

Damn, Jason. That's a lot of stuff to comb through.

Taking a deep breath, Jason calmed himself. This was simple; easy. He could do this. It was just casework.

Cracking his knuckles, he leaned forward as he started sorting everything and prepared to pull an all-nighter. Being legally deceased had its perks like that—he didn't have a job to go to in the morning. If anything, he could get some more intel in civvies and a disguise to bypass the CCTV cameras around the city.

As he organized—should have done this sooner, Jesus Christ—notes went to the center of the screen, photos to the right, and audio recordings to the left. Once that was done, he stared sorting the intel by days and importance.

It was gearing up to be a long night.