Jason retreated to a safe house in Gotham. The place was a hole in the wall, subsumed within an old apartment building with thick walls of scarred stone and gouged wooden floors. Decrepit, the same as a hundred other such buildings in Gotham. Perfectly invisible.

It was more of a weapons cache than anything, a tiny room in back that was supposed to be a bedroom instead filled with boxes of guns, ammo and explosives. Weird, how dangerous they were and how comforting they felt. He stood at the door, holding the doorknob, staring inside. It was still dark-he'd fled Dick's place during the night. But he'd flicked on a lamp in the living room as he passed it, and now the warm, dim light fell in through the door and shadowed the stacks of boxes.

His arm began to ache. He pulled his hand from around the doorknob with an effort and realized he'd been standing there for hours. The room was beginning to lighten. Dawn was coming.

His stomach growled. He ignored it, shoved through boxes piled one atop another to the middle of the room, shoved more boxes aside and lay down in the floor in the middle of them. He blinked in the dimness.

He wasn't angry with Dick. He had no right; it was the other way around.

What had Dick said to him-that what he'd done was unforgivable? Yeah. Sounded about right. Jason's plot had blown up in his face.

He hadn't thought about how Dick might affect him. Hadn't allowed himself to think of anything so insubstantial as feelings. Except anger. Anger was what Jason relied on. It was his tried and true go-to default. Should have known that wouldn't hold for Dick. Jason's feeling for him could never be less than complicated.

The boxes rose all around, plain cardboard with a comforting, musty smell. He reached out for one, patted it affectionately. Weapons didn't talk, didn't complicate. They performed, given that the trust between them and the operator had been maintained-guns needed cleaning, knives sharpening, basic stuff. Easy.

He slept.

And woke with the feel of the Joker's hands, bony but powerful, pinching claws over his thighs. He scrabbled to get away, yelled out, but his mouth was bone-dry. The words didn't make much sense. Sounded like leefaloe.

He sat up, his heart trying to bounce out of his chest, and curled his body over his knees.

Leefaloe.

He laughed and couldn't stop, high and hysterical and full-bodied just like the Joker, and that made his throat close up tighter than Fort Knox.

Jason jumped up and stood, looking around the room. No Joker for fuck's sake, he said to himself, and Can we get a grip now, please? He brushed a hand through his hair, and it was stiff, standing upright, kind of like, oh, the Joker's hair, if shorter. He looked at his hands, holding them out.

It was confusing-could they have held the thighs of a unwilling boy apart? A boy who fought, cursed and spit, then sobbed, and then did nothing, absolutely nothing but wait through interminable pain?

Jason stumbled into the living room, legs refusing to cooperate, like someone else controlled them.

There by the lamp on the end table was a slip of paper. He turned his head, birdlike, too quick. Not the way he moved.

Who am I?

He was fucking losing his mind.

Jason spotted a pen on top of the narrow room divider between the living room and tiny kitchen. He grabbed the paper and stumbled to the divider, leaning against it. His hand trembled, reaching for the pen. He cursed himself for it. The pen gouged the paper. After that he made himself be careful.

He felt better when he was done. Purposeful.

He had to piss.

The apartment's bathroom was laughably small. He flushed the toilet, accidentally jamming an elbow into the wall. Electric shock ran through the knob of bone. Jason cursed. He jammed his elbow into the wall again on purpose this time, then banged the same spot with a fist. It hurt. Distracted him.

He had no plans for this night. He had no plot, no anger, really, except for the usual carried for the Joker.

Shame, yeah. He hadn't wanted to walk out on Dick, but he had no defense to counter Dick's words. They were true.

The situation with Batman had been different. Jason had a plan, hell, had one for years. And then he had backup plans.

Now nothing. His brain was white noise. It figured that Dick Grayson would disarm him so easily.

"I know you're the Red Hood, Jase. I don't like it, but you being here just gives me time to prove to you that your way is wrong, and mine is right."

Jason rolled his eyes. Smug bastard.

But somehow after remembering that, he began to feel better.

He moved aimlessly through the city. He felt useless. Whenever that happened, work was the answer.

Jason started with small-time robberies, which was funny in a way, because sure, he'd kill other killers, but even he couldn't justify killing these small-time dickheads. Which meant that, at least for the moment, he was doing what Bruce and Dick (speaking of dicks) wanted of him. And he had to take them in to the cops, which was not something a guy like him ever wanted to do, or explain. He started tying them up with a note in front of the police station, which amused him for awhile.

Gradually, over a couple of days, somehow (he insisted it was coincidence to himself, because sure he knew better but it still made it easier) he made his way into Bludhaven. And saw Dick.

Yeah, well maybe Jason looked for him.

Dick was still perfect, what a surprise. Jason resented him, but mostly, if he were to be honest, wanted him.

Dick walked toward his apartment, fluidity and effortless power disguised in ordinary civilian garb. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt, and he carried a bag of groceries from some fancy little organics store. His hair hung a little over his forehead, thick and sleek, black as night. He was growing it out. His blue eyes were bright, alive even through the solemn, eternal smudge and smog the citizens of Bludhaven dared to call air.

Jason followed him on the sidewalk, silent. When Dick turned Jason made sure his face was perfectly expressionless.

"Stalking a new hobby of yours?" Dick waited and when Jason didn't answer, sighed and said, "So when are you gonna quit following me?"

Jason shrugged. "I have no plans either way."

Dick grinned, amused. "You, really? Just flying with the wind?"

"That's you, Grayson. Free as a bird." Jason swallowed, feeling he'd somehow given away more than he intended.

"But not you." Dick shook his head. "Your whole life is a plan-at least as far as you can make it."

"Hey, I can improvise," Jason protested, but then he smiled back, surprising himself. Or maybe it was relief. "Yeah, I guess that's right." he shrugged again. "At least that's the comfort zone."

Dick turned back to the door, Jason following him inside. They took the stairs to the apartment. Dick unlocked the door quickly and disappeared for a minute or two in the kitchen, presumably unpacking groceries. He emerged into the living room and shed his shoes, leaving them beside the couch. "C'mon, sit."

"Slob." Jason sat down beside him. His skin felt wired, electric and jumpy. He tried not to let it show, though it probably made him look hostile.

"Did you come here to comment on my housekeeping abilities?" Dick sat forward on the couch, angled toward Jason, elbows on his knees.

"I-" Jason huffed, irritated. "No."

"That's right, you came to talk," Dick said. "Something we have to get out of the way first, okay?"

Jason waited.

"What were your plans for me? When you came to me and lied, told me the Red Hood had been holding you?"

Jason stood, didn't realize he'd done it until Dick grabbed his hand, looking up at him. He slid a hand over Dick's, covered it with his own. Anchoring them both. "To-to take you from Bruce."

"Because-"

"Stop prompting me. Revenge. Vengeance. To show him. Damn but I'd almost rather die than do this."

Dick ignored the comment. He shook his head, amazed. "You wanted to teach Bruce vengeance?"

"I know how it sounds. It was fucked up. But why didn't he kill the Joker? After what he did to me?"

Dick's hand tightened on his.

Jason couldn't stand it. "If you think for one damned second that you can pity me, we'll both be sorry."

"Not pitying you. That's not something you need."

"So don't look at me like that or I swear to God-" Jason yanked his hand away and stepped back. He took a deep breath.

"I missed you," Dick said softly.

"I wanted to separate you from the man you call your father, Dick. Understand that."

Dick nodded. "You did pretty well, then. So far. But if you know me, you know it won't last. What will you do when I talk to Bruce?"

"Nothing." Jason shrugged again. "I tried manipulating the situation before and we know how well that worked. I'm-I wish I hadn't."

"No him or me shit," Dick stated. "That won't fly. Ever."

Jason glanced at him, irritated. "I get the message." He sat down again.

Dick changed the subject. "So how are the dreams?"

Jason felt his face freeze, knew he was scowling.

Dick sighed.

Jason raised his hand, pushed aside the collar of Dick's shirt.

"What?" Dick asked, softer.

"No more bruises. That's good. At least I can't hurt you now."

"You sure about that?"

Jason jerked his head up, staring. "I don't know if it's safe being with me, so yeah. Without me is better."

Dick relaxed into the couch. He crossed his arms. "You think you're a danger to me?" he scoffed. His long legs sprawled open.

Jason tried not to stare, was pretty sure he failed when he glanced up for an instant and saw Dick's nostrils flare, his hand curve loosely over the bulge in his jeans.

Jason looked away again, busily not staring, and Dick's mouth covered his while he was doing it. Jason moaned embarrassingly at the contact, sank back into the couch.

Dick's lips curved against his in a smile.

The smug, smug son-

"Dammit!" Dick swore. He pulled back, blood on his lip from where Jason bit him.

Jason smiled. He tried not to make it look victorious.

Dick swore one more time and was on Jason again in a heartbeat.