Author'sNote: This story is drawing to a close, but there are still a few chapters left, a few questions to answer and loose ends to tie up. After this story is over, I plan to play a little in the 'Young Justice' sandbox and try my hand at a young Jason Todd in the YJ-verse. There's so much potential there ^_^ I know this is a very important chapter, so I hope I did it justice. Please enjoy and review!

He was back in the car and just contemplating returning to Arkham again when a call from Gordon came in. Taking a few seconds to calm himself enough so that as little emotion as possible showed through his voice, he opened the line.

"Yes?"

"I don't know if this is anything," Gordon said on the other end. "But two outside guards at Arkham reported seeing a 'strange silhouette skulking about.' Their words, not mine. I asked if they wanted me to send a car over to check it out, but they said that whoever it was hung around but then left. They just thought I should know. Does that sound like your boy?"

He thought about that. Left. Jason had been there, but he left. Was that possible? The timeline fit. He should have been able to reach the asylum by now. Was there a chance it was someone else? Batman ran through a mental checklist of all the inmates and those still at large. There was no one he knew out there at the moment who might want to break into the asylum.

"It may be," he replied noncommittally. "Please keep me informed if anything else happens. Thank you, Jim."

"'Please' and 'thank you'? This kid must really be important. I hope you find him."

"I hope so, too." Then he broke the connection and dialed the manor again.

This time Dick picked up. "Did you find him? Is he with you?"

"Not yet. I think he might have been to Arkham but left."

"Well, that's good isn't it?" He could hear Dick frowning. "At least he must have calmed down enough to realize there was no way to get to the clown. Maybe he's coming home."

If only. Jason's fury didn't tend to cool into rationality. Instead it often turned to simmering resentment. As much as he wished it, Bruce knew he wouldn't be going to the manor. But something in what his eldest said did strike a chord. When Jason ran away after overhearing that he'd been planning to take him off active duty, he'd returned to his old neighborhood.

A part of him – the Bruce part – rebelled at the idea. The East End? That wasn't Jason's home. He belonged in the manor with them. But the ever-rational part that was Batman demanded he think clearly. Jason wouldn't act the way he wanted him to act. He'd act the way his emotions drove him. He always had.

"He's not heading back to the manor," he said to Dick. "But I know where he is going. Hopefully we can be back by the end of the night. I don't know what kind of shape he'll be in, so check to make sure we have clean bandages, antiseptics, iodine..." On the other end, Dick chuckled. "What?"

"Nothing. It's just that, we always have all that stuff. You never ask. Don't worry; I'll double check anyway. Anything else?"

"Yes. Call Barbara." He'd meant to say 'Oracle' but the worlds of Batman and Bruce Wayne had become hopelessly entangled tonight. He wasn't sure they would ever be separate again. Not completely. He went on. "Ask if her birds can patrol tonight and tomorrow at least. I don't want you or Tim going out there. We should all be together right now."

"Yeah, sure," Dick hesitated. "Mind if I... not tell her that Jay's back? At least not until we're sure he's okay."

He knew that Dick must have been exhausted from all the emotional backlash every time he revealed the story. For Barbara, who Dick loved and who had suffered so much at the Joker's hands, Jason's return might very well feel particularly personal.

"Of course. I'll talk to you later."

Ending the call, he stepped on the accelerator. The East End was just a ten minute drive away, and he had to get there as soon as possible. Something told him that this was potentially so much worse than Arkham. There, Jason's target was under lock and key. He might have been apprehended, yes, but out in the city the person he was most likely to hurt was himself.

It was like being brain-damaged again or being back at the mansion when he'd lost all hope of escape. Slowly he let the numbness take over his body and mind. It wasn't hard; just let the cold flow from his fingertips and think of nothing. The blood-loss made it easier. If he sat there long enough, eventually it would end, if not from blood-loss, then dehydration, or someone coming by to put another hole in him. If there was one thing guaranteed in the East End it was trouble.

Or maybe just have it all end now...

He absently tapped the cold edge of the barrel against his temple. If he wasn't such a coward, he would have done this a long time ago instead of simply waiting for the inevitable end. He didn't belong in this world, couldn't even do it the favor of ridding it of that monster, so what was the point?

Tap, tap, tap...

How hard was it to pull that trigger? His first death had hurt mostly because of the separation, but this time he had nothing to lose, no one who would miss him. He was used to the cold by now, and at least that way the pain would end. Another flick of the wrist, and the metal edge connected with his temple again.

"Stop!"

The voice startled him so much that he was on his feet in a heartbeat. It was the surge of adrenaline that moved his arm to raise the weapon directly forward. The trigger was squeezed before he could even think, before he could look where exactly it was aimed. The bullet flew in almost slow motion, disturbing the dust particles as it whizzed through the air, but the intended target feigned right, and the bullet passed harmlessly through the cape.

Cape?

His fingers twisted and locked around the gun in a contorted death-grip. The figure straightened and walked forward in precise measured steps. Just before stepping out of the deepest shadows it paused and reached up to pull something away. Then the man stepped out into the minimal light, and Jason felt his throat close. He couldn't breath. Not Batman, but Bruce looked straight at him with eyes unimpeded by lenses, face no longer hidden under the cowl.

"Jason."

That voice... It wasn't his voice, not this soft, this full of emotion nearly to the point of breaking. He stepped back from the impostor never lowering the gun, but the man took another step forward. He held out his hands towards him, only furthering his certainty that this could not be him. He would have tried to disarm him first, but the man was reaching out as if he didn't even see the gun, as if he just wanted to touch him.

"Jason... Son..."

All of a sudden everything came crashing down around him; the realization of where he was – not just the East End, but Crime Alley itself! – and who he'd just shot at. Here? Of all the places, all the people, in the world he'd pulled a gun on him here? Jason's mind spun, dragging him back to another alley just a day ago, another gun aimed at Damian, then him. He fought against the tide of memories, but they weren't finished with him. What had he been thinking at that moment? That it was just like Bruce, just like when he'd been a boy staring into the barrel of a gun pointed at him and his family.

It had happened right here, and now it was Jason holding the gun.

And still he was ignoring the weapon, still walking towards him, and as the distance between them decreased, Jason was frozen in place. A step before he was close enough to touch him, Bruce paused and broke eye contact only long enough to look at his own hands. The black gloves landed almost soundlessly on the ground. The faintest sensation of bare fingertips against the skin of Jason's right hand sent a jolt through him, but his own fingers finally released their grip on the weapon.

"Dad?"

The gun landed on top of the gloves.

Jason screamed.

It was such a small sound, a little boy's cry that carried so much pain and anguish. Even from their faintest contact he could feel Jason shaking. Or was it him? Both? It's only pain, he told himself. But it wasn't. Not the kind he could fight. Screaming nerves he could ignore, push away, but not the cries of his son. Not the tears streaking clear riverlets down his dirt and blood stained face. He reached forward and whipped away one of the paths, smearing away the grime. The youth's breath hitched at the contact.

"Jason." Refusing to over-analyze, to think, Bruce just spoke. "I've missed you so much."

"I..." Jason tried, but he couldn't make anything else come out.

"It's okay." His father promised, running his fingers in a gentle caress over the side of his face, over his temple where for a few terrifying seconds that hated weapon had touched. "Your brothers told me everything."

Something seemed to snap inside him at that. He violently jerked away. "You let him live."

Even though Dick had warned him, the fact that the first words out of Jason's mouth to him were about the Joker had stung. No, he reminded himself. Those weren't Jason's first words. The first thing he'd said when he saw him was 'Dad'. Fitting. Right. What a son's first words to his father should be. Never again would he be anything less than a father to any of them.

But what could he say? How could he justify his actions? I would have killed him a thousand times over if I thought it would bring you back to me. Was that the truth? Would Jason believe that? Could he himself believe it? That madman deserves so much worse than death... But this wasn't about the Joker, couldn't be. It wasn't even about him. If Batman crossed that line, the world would suffer, but he understood now that it wouldn't be just that Batman had killed. Bruce Wayne would become a killer as well.

He stepped forward slowly, clasping the back of Jason's neck, not letting him look away. "You deserve better than to have a murderer for a father. I... I wanted to give you something – someone – great to look up to. Someone to aspire to be better than. Even when I thought you were lost to me, I wanted to make you proud."

"That's backwards!"

"No, it isn't." Bruce shook his head. "I was proud of my father. He was an amazing person, a healer. If I could be even half the man he was for all of you... If you could be half as proud of me as I am of you..."

"I've given you nothing to be proud of!" Jason choked back a sob.

"That's not true. You survived against incredible odds. You stepped in front of a bullet for your brother. You brought both of you home from across the world, and you protected him every step of the way. You've always been that, Jason: a protector, not a killer, and I am fiercely proud of you for that."

Jason wavered, but still Bruce could see it wasn't enough. Everything he'd said was true, but it was so precise, so logical. Should he have said that he'd kill the Joker? It was what Jason wanted to hear, after all, but then there was a good chance he'd know it to be a lie and would hate him even more for it. There had to be something Jason would hear, some way to get through to him.

Tell him, Dick had said. Don't just assume he knows.

"I love you." He said clearly, even though inside his heart felt like it might crumble.

Jason's breath hitched, his eyes screwed shut as fresh tears wet his lashes. His hand grasped Bruce's forearm.

"I love you," Bruce repeated with more force. "There is nothing you can do to make that not true. You're my son, and I love you."

That did it. The pain that had consumed Jason for so long finally overwhelmed him. His knees buckled, but Bruce caught him, wrapping the cape around them both. He let his son cry, release all his grief and anger as he clutched at the black bat emblem on the chest of his uniform. Slowly Bruce lowered them both to the ground, cradling Jason's shaking body the way one might a small child. The last time he'd held his son it was moments after hid death, but not this time.

For the first time in Crime Alley, life would prevail.

He held him for what seemed like forever, as the tears turned to dry sobs and finally went silent. Still neither let go. He barely heard Jason breath out, "I'm so sorry."

"I got you," he whispered against the boy's hair and pressed his lips to his temple. "Everything will be alright now, son. We're going home. There's nothing to be sorry for."

When he opened his eyes, it wasn't to the darkness of a coffin or the cold of the streets.

When he opened his eyes, he was warm.

Sunlight on his face made it difficult to keep them open, though, so Jason turned his head to the side. Only then did he get a good look at the room. It took him a second to realize that it was his room, the one at the manor. He scanned it slowly from the far wall to the door. Everything – every photo frame, every book, every trinket – was exactly how he remembered it. Even the sheets were the same ones, albeit freshly washed. Underneath them his body felt on the way to being restored as well. The wounds in his shoulder and abdomen had been anesthetized judging by the slight numbness and covered in fresh bandages.

He turned his head slightly to the side and smiled. Bruce was slumped in a chair next to the bed that was clearly too small to accommodate his large frame. God, he looked terrible, so tired and so much older than he remembered. Jason wondered how much of that was because of him. Most of it, he suspected. Still, his presence was so comforting... was it selfish of him to think that? He might have been asleep, but as soon as Jason stirred he opened his eyes as well.

The youth licked his dry lips. "Hey."

"Hey." His father moved forward and took his hand between his own. "How do you feel?"

"Head hurts," Jason admitted. "But I'll live. What time is it?"

"About five." In the morning? Jason frowned. That didn't make any sense. "In the afternoon. You've been out for half the day. Your brothers wanted to see you, but I told them you had to rest. They're all here, though. All of us are here for you, Jason. Anything you need, just name it."

"I need a smoke." To his own surprise the answer had nothing to do with the Joker.

Bruce gave him a wry look. "Anything non-hazards to your health."

"Maybe some water, then."

"Okay." The man rose. "I'll be right back."

There was something else Jason wanted to say. Something important, but he was already opening the door and moving away. Suddenly it came to him.

"Dad."

He called out the first title that came to his mind, then blanched, embarrassed. He'd never actually called him that to his face. Maybe in that alley, but he could chalk that up to stress. Bruce didn't seem at all put off though. He stopped and turned back to him.

"I've missed you," Jason managed weakly.

The man released the knob and walked back to his bedside. The bed sagged under his additional weight as he sat on the edge. Jason closed his eyes as a cool calloused palm cupped the side of his face. He never thought such a simple touch could be so comforting.

"I've missed you, too." His father smiled. "More than I can say. Rest, Jason. Everything can wait till you're better."