So the amazing person who gave me the prompt list for this (*points to the first chapter, at the dedication*) was watching the very beginning of B:TAS, Batman: The Animated Series, when she started putting it together. We all remember that very first episode, right? With the Joker breaking out of Arkham on a Christmas Tree Rocket?

I present chapter 2, based off the prompt 'Dick/Jokester/Jason, Christmas Tree Rocket'.

This is a really obvious, established, Dick/Jason 'relationship', and I admit this turned out less silly and more dark than I was expecting it to. Though, that's not to say it isn't silly. XD Enjoy!

I should really just stop expecting any of my attacks to hit Dick. Ever. I should just assume that they're all going to miss and start planning for that, put together some kind of other strategy. I don't know how the hell I would plan how to beat somebody by not hitting them, but I should probably give it at least a little bit of consideration because this whole, 'miss him with everything until he cracks me in the head with enough force to stun me' thing is really just not working. At all. Never has and you'd think I would have learned that by now.

But instead it's these little moments, these fucking once in a blue moon events, that convince me to keep going with the stupid way of doing things. Because there is almost nothing more satisfying than watching my fist — and the steel sewn into the sap gloves, laid over my knuckles — crash into Dick's jaw and send him reeling. Maybe I don't hit him that often, but when I do it's hard. Every time it happens it convinces me that this kind of a fight is totally worth it.

His head snaps to the side, taking the hit with all my weight and power behind it, and his grip on my other wrist lets go. I take the advantage without hesitation, stepping in to get my footing and following my momentum to spin and slam my foot into his gut. He folds, the breath leaving him in a rush of air and spit, and I backhand him across the face as I turn fully back around and my leg settles on the ground.

He crashes to his knees, one hand flying out to brace so he doesn't hit the ground, and I reach forward and grab him by the shoulder. I brace my feet on the ground and wrench, dragging him up and flinging him back against the wall of the rooftop's stairwell exit, on top of our own personal skyscraper. He gives a grunt of pain as he hits it and I'm just a step behind, pressing up against him and catching his wrists, pinning them down next to his hips and kneeing my way in between his legs to keep him there. It's not a really effective way to do it — Dick's still got teeth and his legs really aren't contained like this — and it would be better with his chest to it and not his back, but if I really wanted to pin him I would have trapped him on the ground, or I'd be holding a knife to his throat.

This isn't about pinning him.

He swallows, getting some air back and smirking up at me, chest drawing up in a rapid pattern that's probably pretty close to mine. I'll totally admit it, I'm a little out of breath. He's bleeding, and I follow the trickle of blood with my gaze as it swells from the cut on his left upper lip, where I punched him, and sinks into the seam of his mouth, the last bit of extra starting a slow slide down his chin. My gloves are designed to hurt, so he's also bleeding from a small slice high on his cheekbone on the same side, from the backhand. He doesn't look like he's even noticed, and I know he doesn't care.

He pulls just a little bit against my hold on his wrists, testing, and without even thinking about it I lean further into him and down. I press my lips to his, and he makes a pleased little sound and meets me, opening under the push of my tongue and not even biting down like I half expect him to. It tastes like copper, the metallic tang of Dick's blood dominating the rest of the tastes, and I know I'm getting his blood smeared on my lips and chin but I so don't care. Dick is always worth a little blood, his or mine. Usually it's mine.

I let go of his wrists, which might be dumb but I'm reasonably sure he's not going to do anything particularly nasty to me, and grip his hip with my right hand, my left sliding up to rest in the middle of his back and drag him closer to me. I can feel him grin against my mouth, and I take a sharp breath in expecting nails, or something really, really sharp against my skin — and I don't pull away, because I am a fucking moron — but he only reaches up and slips his gloved hands around the back of my neck, his right along my skin and his left tangling in my hair. Still dangerous, but less painful than I was expecting.

I give a low groan when his right leg picks up off the ground, bending and sliding up to my waist, hooking around my low back and using some of that glorious thigh strength to force me harder up against him. I've got my jacket, armored padding, thick pants, but I can still feel the heat of him through it, muscle hard and perfect in all the places where we line up right. The air is cold, but his suit is insulated to stand it and I… well, the heat of his body helps, and I'm weathering the rest.

I kiss him until I can't anymore, until my head spins and the cold steals into my lungs and demands I take a real breath, and then I reluctantly pull back just enough to take in a deep breath and steady myself again. He gives a low laugh, sounding about as breathless as I feel, and I jerk a little bit in surprise when I feel the wet, hot drag of his tongue against my jaw. He makes a pleased little sound, still holding me tight against him, and then presses a kind of shockingly gentle kiss to my lips.

"Merry Christmas, Jason," he says quietly, with a wicked smirk that I can feel more than see. "Like the gift?"

I blink, staring down at him and then tilting my head a bit as the only thing that he can be talking about occurs to me. "Did you let me hit you?" I ask, a little incredulously. It's not like the gift could be the fight, or the kiss, or the leg against my hip; those are all things we do anyways, all the time. Well, not all the time. But regularly, when I'm in Gotham or Bludhaven, or he ends up wherever the fuck I happen to be staying at the time.

"That first punch, yeah," he confirms, totally at ease leaning against the wall of the stairwell roof exit. "You capitalized nicely, good follow through. You're going to make me proud of you yet, little wing."

That's… He's…

I fold over, leaning my head into his shoulder as I laugh. Dick let me hit him as a gift, that's so ridiculous it verges on insane, but damn if it isn't also really, really thoughtful. What kind of fucked up family do I live in that my older 'brother's' Christmas gift to me was that I got to punch him, and that he's proud that I followed it up with a couple more blows he wasn't intending to give me? What does it say about me that this is one of the sweetest gifts I've gotten in years, and I'm actually feeling pretty genuinely touched?

I manage to raise my head, unable to help my grin, and mimic his gentle kiss. "Thank you, Dick, it's…" I snort, shaking my head and then leaning our foreheads together, sharing air between our mouths. "Thanks," I repeat.

"Well I've noticed how much you like it," he mocks, the hand on the back of my neck squeezing just a little bit. Just enough for me to really feel it, but not hard enough to hurt. "To keep my little wing happy? A few bruises aren't much to pay."

"I think that's about the closest thing to a confession I've ever heard out of you," I comment, and he gives a smile and a soft laugh.

"Well the holiday spirit makes me sappy, don't get used to it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I answer, leaning in to kiss him again. Not with the passion of our first one, but somewhere in between that and the weirdly gentle ones we've been trading. I try and put something into it to tell him that I… To tell him that I really do appreciate it. I'd be willing to bet a whole lot that Dick has never just let someone else hit him before.

He nips at my lips, grazing his teeth across my tongue, and tugs a little bit at my hair. Enough to burn, to make me shudder with more than just cold and try and press harder up against him. As if there's any more room between us.

Dick jerks violently as a loud roar cuts into my ears, and I whip my head in the direction it came from as quickly as he does. The kiss and the press of his body gets forgotten as I try and figure out where the hell the noise came from, staring across the map of Gotham's skyscrapers and streets. Dick is tense against me, hands clenched hard onto my skin and into my hair but his body in that eerie stillness that all of us ex-Talons learned from Bruce. The ready stillness, because loud, unidentified noises are generally bad.

I watch in complete, utter, disbelief as what I swear to god is a massive Christmas tree flies across the sky in the distance, arcing with a trail of fire over quite a few buildings and with impressive speed. We happen to be at just the right angle to watch it come down right on top of Arkham, plowing through the gates and slamming into the front portion with what must be a deafening crash there, and what's still a pretty loud noise even from where we are.

"Please tell me I'm hallucinating," Dick says flatly.

"Did you see a giant Christmas tree rocket hit Arkham?" I ask, and my voice comes out nearly as flat. His head drops back against the wall behind him as he groans, letting go of my neck and hair. "Fuck," I spit, dropping my head down against his shoulder. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

I glance over at what I can see from here is starting to become flaming wreckage, gritting my teeth. That's… Yeah, that's bad. Arkham is kind of Bruce's nuclear waste dump for anything he can't kill, or doesn't quite want dead but is still seriously dangerous. Also, just a lot of people who know secrets they shouldn't or pissed Bruce off enough to get thrown in that hellhole and not just killed.

"Alright, I'm out," I announce, pulling my arms back and stepping away from Dick. "Good luck with your mess." There is no way in hell I'm sticking around for this kind of shit. There's a lot of people in there I'd like to not run into, so the rest of my family can handle this just fine.

"Jason, wait," Dick demands, one hand rising to scrub over his face as he looks over at Arkham. He gives a huff of breath, a second of clenched teeth, and admits, "Bruce is off-world."

Oh fuck. "You're joking," I nearly beg, and he shakes his head. "Come on, it's Christmas. Why the hell is he off the planet?"

"It's always quiet, and aliens don't celebrate our holidays, remember?" He's right, Christmas has always been quiet. Something about Gotham's heroes still having some kind of decency, and Bruce not looking to stir up trouble on one night where he's guaranteed some time to himself.

Except, apparently, when someone decides to crash a giant Christmas tree rocket into Arkham to stage a massive breakout, because that's the start of a great night.

I'd like to say that this catastrophe isn't my problem, but it so is. This is a call to arms for every damn person who works for Bruce, and even though technically that doesn't include me anymore, it really does. This is a mess on the Crime Syndicate scale, and as much as I'd like to think otherwise I know that this isn't something that Dick can handle with just Tim, and Damian, and whoever else happens to be close enough to help. He could call in some of his team, all the sidekicks — because if Bruce is off-world it's a damn good bet so is most of the rest of the Crime Syndicate — but honestly? There's no way they can handle Gotham's kind of hero, and that's kind of a point of pride for us. We never need help in Gotham.

They're probably busy anyway.

"Jason," Dick says, grudgingly and with a forced smile that bares his teeth, "whatever the hell you want when this is done, you can have it. Alright? Just stay and help. You know there's people in there that want you dead as much as us."

Yeah, there's that too. I haven't exactly been subtle since coming back, and thanks to the Jokester my identity really isn't a secret anymore. I'm easier to track down than a lot of other people, unless I'm really hiding. But that's…

I swallow, looking over at Arkham again and bracing my hands on my hips. "That has to be the Jokester," I say, and fuck it I'm proud that my voice only cracks a little bit. That's pretty damn good considering we're talking about the guy who beat me to death. I've seen him face to face since then just once, and I'd be pretty damn pleased to never see the son of a bitch again. That's a whole lot of unresolved business and a lot of fucked up memories I never want to think about again.

"I know." Dick's voice is quiet, and when I look back at him the smile is gone. "I know, Jason."

This will be a disaster without me, I know it. Even if it's just the four of us, without Bruce, this could still be… Suicidal isn't a word I've used to describe myself in a while, but there it is again. The four of us can't handle every inmate of Arkham, and even if the really nasty ones are still locked down and the guards are putting up a decent fight, that's still a lot of people to get through. But if I don't then Dick, Tim, and Damian still have to go without me, and the chances they'll all live through it are, well, dismal. Christ, family loyalty sucks sometimes.

"Fine," I agree, "but I'm not holding back." Fuck whatever reason Bruce had for keeping these people locked away, I'm not going to hesitate to put bullets in them or slit their damn throats.

"Wouldn't ask you to," Dick says with a flash of a smile. "Let's go; I'll get ahold of T, you call the team base and see if anyone's got some spare time on their hands. We could use some extra hands."

"Deal, see you there."

Dick's body is an arcing flash of blue and black as he runs and dives off the edge of our skyscraper, totally fearless of the drop, like all of us. I detour to grab my helmet — Dick hates it between us — from the corner of the roof I dropped it in and fit it over my head, before following him off the building.

This is going to be a hell of a fight, even if there's any of the team that isn't busy and can actually get to us in time. Normally I'd just call Wally, but he's got an actual family and that means Christmas is pretty much off limits barring an alien invasion or something. Then again, if Bruce is off-world than that means Quick probably is too, which might even mean that most of that speedster family is spread out to try and hold things down until the big shots get back. We might not be so incredibly fucked after all.

Still, we're going to come out of this beaten black and blue, I'm really sure of that. This is not going to be fun, and that's not even counting the mess I'm going to be after seeing the Jokester again.

"Merry Christmas, Dick," I mutter to myself, and call the team.

For anyone keeping track, this is pretty early in the line of my continuity. Things are at least partially mended between Jason and the rest of the Owl-family, but he does not yet consider himself to be part of them, or part of Dick's 'team' of super-villain sidekicks. It's also, as said, early enough that he's only run into the Jokester once since his death (I promise, that will be a story eventually, though probably not in here).

And again, I'll see you tomorrow!