Author's Note: Buckle up people, this story is going places. Not sure exactly what places these are, but am having tremendous fun writing this and seeing where I am taken. Enjoy.

Forge 2

Jason

Waking up confirms to me I did not just have the most tripped-out dream in my life. I did get my ass handed to me by meta-human scumbags. Bruce did single-handedly defeat them and save me. He did take me back to the house and get Al to glue me back together. I am in a bed I haven't seen in almost seven years…Jesus Christ…I'm home. As much as I want to kid myself of all the facts, this is the closest thing I've had to a home in my life. Even my parents' apartment didn't feel like a home to this extent. It's crazy, I know; this is a mausoleum to the wealthiest family in Gotham, a creepy monument to their memory inhabited by what's left of their prodigal son, but this is my home. Deep down, maybe I knew that all along. I definitely felt it when I returned to the cave for the first time since I wore the costume, back when everybody was stupid enough to believe Bruce could be killed by a god. Of course, at that time, I shook the feeling off. Without Bruce, this isn't anything but a tomb. Even golden boy knew that; that's why he left. Psycho ninja brat never liked the place anyway so it was easy for him to walk away too. And Timmy boy? Without Bruce, his whole world would cave-in. He was damn lucky he was right about the big guy being alive; people don't come back from the dead very often.

I wait a while in silence until the door opens. Who should stroll in but the real patriarch of this family…Al the Great, true king of the Bat Family and all that entails. He's holding that familiar tray, the one covered in pills and tumblers of water. As Robin I must've seen this sight over a hundred times, especially from my current angle. It never gets old.

"Morning, Al." I say to break the tension when he sets the tray down on my bedside table. When he looks at me contemptuously, I think I won't get any conversation out of the old guy. But this is Al, the professional of the outfit. He inclines his head and speaks in his most hospitable voice.

"Good morning, Master Jason. How are you faring?"

"Pleased as punch now I've seen your face round here. Still rocking the 'Master' handle, eh? Appreciate it." I reach out for the pill cluster, feeling a hell of a burn in my side. He hands them over without another word, followed by the water. I may be wrong, but I think Al is the only person in this family I haven't tried to kill on at least one occasion. No, never touched Al, not once. He was always on my side, always the good guy. I missed him. "How many rounds can I expect today?"

"Three rounds of further medication. They will arrive at the usual intervals. Do you require breakfast, Sir?" I shrug wishing I hadn't; ribs are on fire now.

"Are you really offering or just being polite?" I ask him seriously. He frowns at me.

"Your past actions have been irreprehensible, your conduct entirely unbecoming. Regardless of these facts you are still part of this family and my patient. If you want food or drink, I will not deprive you of it based on what has come before." I'm kinda stunned right now. This old man is not a fool, nor does he suffer them, but he just said he considers me a part of this family, still. Even after everything I've done to the people he loves, he's still on my side. I think I must have been staring for a while because he repeats his question again.

"Breakfast smoothie, Al?"

"Of the blueberry variety, Sir?" I smile at him.

"You remembered."

"I never forget a common favourite. I shall return shortly." He bows in a display of humble decency I can never replicate and prepares to leave. I call after him.

"Hey Al." He turns to face me.

"Yes, Master Jason?"

"Thanks for saving my life." He says nothing, merely nods his head in appreciation of my thanks and leaves. What a guy. What a pro.

I'm flicking through one of my old Playboy's that I found still hidden under the mattress sheet when I hear footsteps approaching. I can't believe this stuff used to get me off…there's no action going on downstairs. "Hey Al, when's the big man going to start bitching at me to reform? Has he scheduled an appointment yet?" I call out.

"Aren't you a little old for that sort of material?" The familiar dark, empty voice responds as Bruce's heavy footsteps cross the wood floor. I glance up to see him dressed for casual Fridays with his sweater and slacks combo.

"Isn't it a weekday? You should be at work." I say closing the magazine and placing it neatly beside me.

"I took the day off."

"Really? Just for me? You shouldn't have." He is not in the mood for sarcasm. His next statement just rams that home for me.

"What are you doing back in Gotham?"

"That's it? What is it with you and not making small talk? Try starting an interrogation with a 'hello' or a 'how are you' to really get things rolling."

"Answer the question." I think he's only a few bad jokes away from smothering me with a pillow. I give him what he wants.

"I wanted to shake things up, just for the hell of it. Old habits die hard, right?" He is really not playing. He's just staring at me with the coldest eyes imaginable on a live human being. When he speaks, it sounds like he's channelling the grim reaper himself.

"And when can I expect you gone from here?"

"Well, I want my smoothie first. After that, I'll think about it." He does not seem satisfied with any of my answers least of all that gem. He turns away and looks out the window for a moment. The silence doesn't last very long; I break it.

"So where's the brat or golden boy? Figured one of them would've come to throw evils at me by now."

"Disneyland."

"Come on. I just want to know where they are; what the hell can I do with that?"

"I sent Dick, Damian and Tim to Disneyland for two weeks yesterday evening. They deserve a vacation."

"Snow White better pray Dami didn't pick his katana collection." I offer as he turns back to face me. He approaches the foot of my bed and stops.

"You changed your hair." He says like it's not the most obvious change in my appearance. To better out fox my enemies, I dyed my hair back to black and cut it back down again; from a distance, I could pass for Dick. Of course, Dick would have to seriously hit the gym to stand any chance of passing for me these days; I'm freaking huge.

"Like it? Thought I'd go for a Wayne family favourite. It's almost exactly the same as yours, right?"

"Jason, I'm tired of this conflict of ours. I thought when Dick let you slip away you might finally leave this place and find new purpose in life."

"Hey, I couldn't give a flying fuck about getting back at you or this family anymore; that part of my life is over, finito. And I was starting something new with Scarlet." I tell him firmly, wincing when the pain in my stomach hits again.

"So what happened?" The big man says, rounding the bed and sitting down on the edge of it. He sounds genuinely interested in my reply for the first time since he walked in. I shake my head, slightly unsure of why I'm laid up here now instead of fighting criminals with her somewhere far away.

"The kid inside me won't let go. Truth is, I miss Gotham. Sure, it's probably the most violent, inhuman hell-hole in North America, but it was my home for the first sixteen years of my life. Even when I'm miles away from here, I still feel the heartbeat of these streets; still smell the murder and corruption in the air. It relaxes me. It relaxes me in combat, at home, when I want to fall asleep, everything. I miss this place." I pause to look at Bruce properly instead just in his general direction, "I guess that's why you keep coming back too, huh? You miss the city." I hope he can tell I was being brutally honest just now. When he nods, I know he can.

"Is your neck still sore?" The big man's referring to the batarang he lodged in my throat when saving The Joker from buying the farm back in Crime Alley. I still have a wicked scar to mark the spot.

"I do okay. Still trying to keep score with you though. How many 'memories' you got now?" Each scar is a memory, Bruce used to tell me back in the day, every wound leaves its mark.

"I no longer keep count." He replies without humour of any kind. "They are starting to layer."

"So, am I going back to the big house or are you just going to cut me loose?" I say to change the subject to one I'm sure is his preference.

"Correctional facilities serve no purpose for you anymore. If you were capable of rehabilitation, there would have been signs by this stage. To that end, the best policy is to let you go under the condition you never return to the city limits." Nah, I don't think so, big guy. Did you just delete the speech about needing this city's filth to sleep at night? I can't give this place up; this isn't smoking you know.

"How about I stay and you try to help me." He stares at me like I've grown a second head. Pretty sure he hates the idea.

"I already employed the finest doctors and psychiatric staff available to assist…"

"Not professionals, just you. And maybe Al if he's up for it. I'll be good I promise." Okay, I could've sold that last line a little better without sniggering. The big man remains unconvinced of my repentance; I'm really not surprised.

"That is not even a realistic possibility, much less a viable solution. You are no longer welcome in this family." Whoa, whoa; what's with the harshness? Lucky Al said otherwise or I'd be a little less lively right now. Let's boogie, rich boy. Try this comeback…

"Because I killed criminals? You've worked with dozens of vigilante killers like me before. What about Azrael or Tarantula?"

"I did not expect better from them. I did expect better from you." He fires back sternly. Not bad, but I got something better.

"And I'm sorry I failed your good boy tests. But let's be honest, nobody understands me better than you, nobody alive anyway." Like the sarcasm and sincerity cocktail there, Bruce? What you got for that curveball?

"Jason, it's over." That's weak, must try harder. I got him by the throat now.

"Bullshit. You say I've got no hope left? I'm twenty-three for Christ's sake, an age I really wasn't expected to reach anyway, what with being beaten to death in Ethiopia seven years ago. There's always hope for a miracle, Bruce. Just give me one more chance. If I fuck up, throw me to the wolves." He still feels guilty about my death, I can tell just from looking at his eyes. They widened dramatically when I reminded him of Ethiopia. He probably remembers picking up my corpse from the rubble and…Jesus. He probably checked my pulse and found nothing. I wonder how dead he felt at that moment. Probably not as dead as me but still, must've been bad. And what about my…my funeral? Did he have an open casket for that? Bet he thought he'd seen the last of me when he closed that lid the final time…

"It's your birthday soon, isn't it? Two weeks or so?" He says to break my train of thought. He knows it is; the man has a photographic memory. He's trying to make small talk.

"You used to leave presents on my grave, right?" He clenches his jaw. That's a touchy subject. His biting tone in answering it says it all really.

"What does it matter now?"

"Tell me about the funeral. What did you do for the funeral? Was it nice?"

"It's irrelevant. You are no longer dead. Talking about your funeral serves no purpose."

"Did you cry?"

Bruce

Did I cry for him? In my own way, yes. Although I shed no physical tears for his passing, the grief I felt was of such a profound and deep nature, I might as well have wept. I have never felt like such a failure as when I sat in the chapel with his lifeless body cradled in my arms. I remember the way he smelled that afternoon, a thick odour of death only slightly blunted by the presence of Alfred's soap on his grey skin. I remember how I could not bring myself to have him interred in the ground beside his mother, how I had to postpone the service four times due to my own inability to let him go. I let him down. Even now, looking right at him, I still feel the grief…

It is as strong as ever.

"No. I did not cry. Dick did I believe. Alfred did as well." The boy furrows his brow in response to hearing Dick cried for him.

"Do you ever cry?" He asks of me. Yes, I am capable of crying, as is any human being. Do I force myself to control such outbursts of emotion? Yes, such public displays are detrimental to my image and my work. Performing such an act does not 'humanize' me as Tim and Dick often suggest, it only highlights I have a weakness to exploit. Therefore I hide it. I retain tight control by meditation and breathing techniques. They give me the strength to resist. Perhaps it is a cold and sterile view of what is a natural part of the human condition, but it serves my purpose.

"I try not to." Jason has shed many tears in the time I have known him. He too has a stranglehold on his emotions, but lets it slip too often to call it a proper asset. He was crying when trying to force me to choose between the Joker and himself. I remember that clearly. My resolve had literally driven him to his limit and my final decision not to kill was met with outrage from the boy. I…have caused him so much pain, in many ways I am as accountable for his actions as he is. His permanent death would have saved many lives, but it would not bring peace. At least, in the current situation, I can explain myself to him, explain my actions. Whether he will listen is debatable, but it is worth the attempt. It is always worth the attempt.

"Did you ever really love me?" I do not even hesitate to answer that query; the answer is obvious.

"I could not help but love you. You were so troubled, but had such a good heart despite your tragic life. In many ways, you were very much like me when I was orphaned, just far more unfortunate in your circumstances." Jason seems somewhat disturbed by this reply, as if he did not quite expect such a grandiose statement from a man of my character. He should know that if I had never loved him, I would not have kept him, regardless of what he knew of me. Looking at him now, littered with fresh scars atop of old wounds; I cannot help but recall how unsettlingly he was already marked as a boy of barely thirteen.

Jason's fourteen-month stint living rough on Gotham's streets had left him with knife wounds, cigarette burns, a collection of miscellaneous scars and scrapes and a smoking habit. His age and appearance made him a soft target for many people to take advantage of. When he met me, he had already sold his body to seven men in exchange for a warm bed, money or just food. He was willing to do anything to survive on his own, anything to avoid foster care. His lack of ethics shocked me. His instincts and willingness to sacrifice his dignity to live another day were not only impressive, but also necessary for his training as Robin. He succeeded because he was a true fighter in life, not willing to just lie down and die. The boy was truly special.

"You know I trained for years just to kill you." Jason tells me with a smile, "It never occurred to me the feat was impossible, not once. When I came back to Gotham as The Red Hood, I honestly thought I'd destroy you so easily. That first fight, you know, when I took away your toys? I figured the next time would be the last time I'd be in your shadow. I thought I had you pegged. I was thinking Father Time had finally slowed you down, taken your strength and your speed low enough for me to take you out. But all that time, you were just holding back, gauging my abilities, my weaknesses. That's the one thing I forgot to get schooled in, spontaneous planning, the ability to just understand what was needed to win and how to achieve it while fighting for your life."

"What is your point, Jason?"

"That you are the most amazing, brilliant man I have ever met, still. Forty years old, right? You look thirty and have the fitness of a man half your age. With all the shit you've been through how is that even remotely possible? I mean, how old do I look?"

Jason looks exactly as I remember him in his tenure as Robin. He is like all my boys, gifted with good genetics and is in possession of a very handsome face that never fails to attract attention when desired. Even the past few years of harsh fighting and gruesome injuries have not marred his aesthetics; he is still handsome. Should I tell him this? How has the conversation arrived at this particular juncture in the first place? Where is he leading with this avenue of thought? Should I be wary? There are so many unanswered questions I am uncomfortable leaving blank.

"You look your age, perhaps slightly older." I say to appease him. His smile develops into a grin.

"How about that chance, Boss? One last roll of the dice on your wayward son." I consider what he is asking of me again.

"What about Scarlet?"

"I was thinking she could come live here. She's a pretty good team player all things told. You could at least give her a trial run. She deserves that at least." His accomplice is quite talented, going off the intelligence reports Alfred composed on her. She possesses many attributes that translate well to this particular arena. She is not a willing killer, nor even a willing participant in murder. She has killed of course, but not without provocation or necessity. Could she function in this unit? With Batman Incorporated being to take effect, I still need proven assets for the mission in this country. I am open to a trial. Should she prove her candidacy, I would be open to the idea of her beginning a probation period under Tim or Barbara's watch. Jason however is an anomaly.

He is a killer and little better than a terrorist, even in matters of vigilantism. But sitting and talking with him in this environment, an environment free of violence and high stakes has strangely renewed my hopes for his future. His life is with us; he has no place in any other area of society, even as a criminal. He is not unreasonable, just lost. My earlier assessment of him is proving correct, but too harsh in its approach. I am tired of fighting against him, that much is true, but I am willing to work with him, if he too is willing to try. This is a risk I believe before my absence in time and space I would not have taken, for fear of failure. I have decided, incredulously, I will grant this lost boy one final chance at redemption in whatever form we can manage.

"Tell Scarlet to come here. I will trial her with your input. Consider this your last chance at this life. Should you decide to abandon your plans for redemption, the consequences will be grave. Do you understand, Jason?" The boy looks elated at my ruling. This is further evidenced by his response.

"I could fucking kiss you, Bruce."

"Please resist the urge. Do you have any further questions?"

"Yeah; where's my smoothie?"