Author's Note: Jason's part of this chapter is a nod to "Red Hood – Lost Days" #2 and especially #3. Though it doesn't say where the events take place, I just assumed it was Germany because many of the characters spoke German. I like having ties back to the comics ^^ Also some inspiration for things from Tim's pov are from the novel "The Batman Murders". It takes place only a few weeks after Jason's murder and gives great insight into what was going on in Bruce and Dick's heads during that time. Enjoy!

Almost as soon as the train stopped in the small town east of Berlin, Jason got a bad feeling about it. It was just as remote as the one they left behind, but something about it unsettled him. The people were too quiet, regarding them with suspicion as they entered the local inn. He'd honed his survival instincts enough – both alone on the streets of Gotham and as Robin – that Jason decided they would leave as soon as possible. Sadly that would have to be in the morning. It was already past ten at night, so there was little change they'd get a ride to the capitol now.

After several days of riding in the cargo train though, he wasn't about to complain about an actual bed or hot meal and ordered two bowls of stew for himself and Damian. He wanted to get beer – how could he be in Germany and not get beer? - but figured even that was not worth the trouble of an argument if the boy if he asked to try it. Tea would suffice. They got a table in the corner and sat, waiting for the meal, and Jason idly looked around, instinctively taking note of all the exits and personages around.

Damian glanced about as well, a little more alert than before. "They're talking about us."

"You speak German?"

Jason himself knew the basics, but now he wished he knew more. He shouldn't have been surprised though, considering Damian was fluent in Arabic and English. He suspected Talia had made her son learn just as Bruce had insisted he did. The boy wrinkled his nose.

"I understand a little. Those two over there," he nodded at two men who were talking over some beer, "are wondering who we are. They know you're American, but they're wondering about me, about... if we're related, I think."

That sent a cold sweat down Jason's spine. He felt like he'd just unknowingly stepped into a nest of vipers. Grown men should not be wondering about little boys. There was a good bet they weren't nearly as altruistic as Bruce Wayne. He looked away, knowing he couldn't afford to pick a fight he couldn't win, and grasped Damian's wrist under the table.

"You stay by my side at all times," he said in a low voice. "All times, Damian. Understand?"

That just made the child frown. "Why?"

"Because I said so," Jason hissed. "Because sometimes you need to trust that I'm more than a decade older and might know better than you. Don't ask questions. Just do as I say."

It wasn't lost on him just how much he sounded like Bruce at that moment, and judging by the scowl on the boy's face, Damian wasn't about to take the direction any better than he had. Which, quite honestly, terrified him considering the last time he didn't listen to Bruce, he'd ended up dead. He had to make the boy pay attention, but Jason had no idea how to do that.

"I'm trying to keep you safe," he said more gently, and thankfully Damian's face softened a little at that, though he didn't look completely satisfied.

He continued to listen, catching bits and pieces of information, and even a few names. Egon, Jan.... An idea suddenly came to him, and Jason quickly pulled out the pen he'd snatched off the front desk and began jotting down as much as he could on a napkin, all the while trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. Nothing they said was explicitly incriminating – Jason didn't really think every person in the inn was a low-life – but he'd learned to read between the lines. They could have been talking about simple supplies when they mentioned 'the cargo.'

Or it could have been guns.

Or drugs.

Or more likely – from the way they'd regarded Damian – something much worse.

Bruce had taught him to asses everything from every angle, analyze his choices, and follow them as far as possible to see what kind of outcomes might occur. It wasn't about being psychic: it was about being in control of a situation. He remembered asking what if neither of the choices were good.

"Then find a third choice," Batman had said. "Either way, you act by not acting."

So now his choices were: ignore the whole thing, leave 'the cargo' to their fates – not an option – or go after the child slavers, possibly get killed again because he had no idea how many there were, and leave Damian to their mercy. Definitely not an option.

If I were Bruce, what would I do?

Not have an eight-year-old sidekick?

Right, well, Damian was here now. He couldn't just temporarily wish him away, couldn't take him into the field. Jason blew out a breath. He needed help, but trying to contact the manor has proven pointless, and it was likely the Justice League or even Teen Titans would be just as difficult to get a hold of. That part didn't bother him so much; he wanted to see Bruce before having to explain everything to the rest of hero community, but that didn't change the fact that he needed help.

Okay, time to resort to more ordinary methods.

Local authorities in such a small town were not likely to be able to handle something this big, but there were other resources. Motioning for Damian to come with him but be quiet, Jason got up and walked over to the front desk. He rang the bell and waited before a middle-aged woman appeared. From their check-in he knew she spoke English fairly well, but he started in German.

"Can I use your phone for a minute? My brother... umm how do I say this?" He switched to English. "My brother can't find his passport, so I need to call the embassy to issue him a new one. Never let kids carry their own documents, right?" he added an embarrassed smile for good measure.

Jason said 'my brother' in German and loud enough that the men would hear. At least if they thought Damian was there with family supervision, there was a better chance they'd leave him alone. Human traffickers preferred to keep a low profile. The rest was in English and slightly lower volume. Because he really was planning to call the embassy... just not about any passports.

Mid-day the next day, riding in a quite comfortable passenger train to Berlin, Jason spotted a man reading a news paper. The page had a photo of the men he'd seen the night before as well as several others being ushered into police vehicles parked next to a large unmarked truck. The caption declared that forty-two kids, all under the age of ten, had been found drugged in the backs of the truck.

Forty-two. That was how many live he'd saved with one phone call.

Jason smiled to himself and shifted his focus on a complementary nature magazine Damian was flipping through. Absently he touched the child's hair, the physical contact an extra reassurance that nothing had happened to him. He was rewarded only with a raised brow.

"What's wrong?" the boy asked warily.

"Nothing. We're going home."

If he'd continued to study the paper as the man flipped to the main page, he might have seen a different kind of headline:

"Batman returns Joker to police custody."

He wasn't sure if he should have gone to the manor at all that day, but Tim braved it anyway. Alfred greeted him in the doorway, and he immediately noticed that the butler too looked sad. When he went down to the cave, he realized that he really shouldn't have been there.

Bruce was dressed fully in the Batman suit, but his cowl was pushed back, eyes closed. One gloved hand reseted against the glass case where the suit of the second Robin was proudly displayed. Tim wanted to run, feeling like he was disturbing something profoundly private and sacred, but he was frozen in place. In the end it was Bruce who moved first, pulling on the cowl without turning.

"I'm patrolling alone tonight."

There was no arguing with that.

Later in the night he met Dick in the cemetery. It was strange standing in there, looking at the second Robin's gravestone. The man had told him it was alright to come, but still Tim felt like he was the intruder. What right did he have to be here? He stared at the dirt, at Jason's name carved at the foot of the angel that rested on the gravestone. A bouquet of fresh flowers lay at the base.

"The real memorial is the one in the cave," Dick said soberly, head bowed. "Bruce comes once a year, leaves some flowers, cleans up the weeds – he won't even let Alfred do that – but he morns him every day in the cave and out in the field."

Tim nodded. His entire career at Batman's side he'd felt the ghost of his predecessor. Someone else might have been resentful, angry at the second Robin for the mistakes that Batman now watched for so scrutinizingly, but Tim felt nothing but sorrow and even a measure of guilt.

He loved being Robin, but he was only there because Jason was dead.

"What was he like?" the teen asked.

"Jason? He was... he had a great heart, real sense of justice. I don't think I've ever seen anyone else put so much into the job except Bruce. I think they identified with each other, in a way that Bruce and I didn't. They felt the pain more acutely, knew the city better. But..." He paused, as if he didn't want to speak ill of the dead but wanted to be honest at the same time. "Jason was born in all this and grew up way too fast. By the time Bruce got to him, he was so... damaged. And I don't think Bruce knew how to deal with all of that."

Tim looked up at him. "He tried."

"He tried," Dick agreed. "But he never dealt with his own pain. Not really. So it was hard for him to know how to help him. Jason didn't need to be Robin - at least not so soon - but he did need a father."

You blame him, Tim realized with a sudden shock. He knew that Batman and Nightwing did not always agree, but he thought that maybe they would come together over the tragedy. Bruce might not have been interested in sharing his feelings, but Dick had always been willing to talk. He never realized the reason the two hadn't spoken about it was because the young man held him responsible in some way.

As if reading his mind, Dick smiled sadly. "I blame myself, too. Yeah, there's a lot of things Bruce could've done better, but I was barely there at all. He and I were kind of in the middle of a major pissing contest, and Jason was the fallout."

The teen bit his lip. "The Joker killed him."

Dick nodded, as if only now remembering that. It was a sobering reminder of where the blame really lay, and Tim hoped Dick would hear it. Some of what he said was true – even if it was hard for Tim to assign blame to either of his mentors – but in the end it was the Joker who was ultimately responsible.

They lapsed into silence again, and Tim refocused his attention on the ground, unconsciously studying the small flowers that sporadically grew all around the cemetery. There was nothing really special about them, just tiny yellow things that seemed to almost glow in the moonlight.

Absently he wondered why the ones around Jason's grave were red.