"You were never at rest, You were always somewhere-bound. . ." -The Moon is Down by Radical Face

Dick parked his motorcycle at Wayne Enterprises and walked to Crime Alley. Alfred had returned shortly before Dick left from the farmer's market (as far as Dick knew), and was now keeping Bruce company in the cave.

Dick sighed. No one had seen this coming? Really? It was Jason after all, and how many times had he run off even before things got bad for him?

Oh wait, Dick thought. Things were always bad.

The East End of Gotham greeted him with the smell of sewage and decay and the hushed whispers of pickpockets and homeless. He was sure that if Jason was here, he didn't notice it anymore because it was so engrained in his blood. This was Jason, the mystery and the darkness and the desperation tinged everything he did. He lived in these people and they lived in him.

Except, somehow, his aversion to his family was so strong that it made Jason forget this and flee.

Running his fingers through his hair, Dick walked into a shady bar that was open for business despite it being around noon. Two patrons were inside, along with an older, overweight bartender manning the bar. They all eyes him warily as he asked quickly if they had seen anyone wandering around that didn't belong.

"What do you mean, don't belong?" one of the patrons asked sharply.

"I'm looking for my brother, he's- he's autistic and doesn't speak. Have you seen him? Around six feet tall, black hair, blue-green eyes. . ."

The man's eyes softened. "Sorry, we haven't seen him. We'll keep an eye out."

Dick thanked the men and left. Standing on the doorstep, he sighed once again. "Okay, Little Wing. I trust you."

He started his long walk back to Wayne Tower.

Jason couldn't wait for night to move because the Bat would surely be out, but moving in the day would prove difficult, too. If they were looking for him.

Were they looking for him? And, more importantly, did he want them to?

It was preposterous; when they thought he was dead, when he knew for sure he wasn't being sought after, he wanted nothing more than to be found and taken home. Now, with everything settling on a mind that barely comprehended he had a home to run back to, he wasn't so sure if he should.

It was hard to think of such abstract ideas when all his mind cared about was survival, so he kept moving. He had to find Talia, he had to leave, because that was who he was. He didn't want to hate or be hated by a family he truly loved. He didn't want to drown in blood and violence.

He wanted to go home, he wanted to look up to Dick, to watch movies with Tim, to sit in comfortable silence with Damian. He wanted Bruce to recognize his existence. Jason wanted all of these things, but he had made his choices in this life and the one that had come before, and those wants were not possible for him anymore. So move, he told his body. Move, move, move.

And Jason began to run down the city streets, going anywhere but where he wanted to go.

"Sir, Richard tells me that Timothy will be here shortly."

Bruce said nothing; all his strength was being poured into not staring at the case positioned to his left. The clicking of his computer keys was uncharacteristically loud in his ears.

"Sir," Alfred said again, more pointed and imploring than before. Bruce whisked around in his chair to look at the older man with a glare on his face. No one was safe today.

"He's gone, Alfred. Left the house through the front door."

"Yes, sir. I'm aware." Alfred stood stoically, disapproving of the glare but ignoring it for the time being. After all, he had seen this coming and kept silent about it. He had also left the money drawer in the kitchen open but that was a mystery he was sir his employer wouldn't solve.

"You knew this was going to happen," Bruce accused.

"Yes, sir. I did." Alfred stayed stiff, proper.

"Why didn't you stop him?" Bruce yelled, overwhelmed with anger.

"He was not a prisoner in this house."

"He's just a boy."

"He is twenty-one, sir, well over the age of a boy. If we're being philosophical, I don't believe that Master Jason has ever been 'just a boy.'" Alfred glared right back now; the sulking would stop before the day was up, of that he was sure. As far as he was concerned, Jason was far from gone. He had finally seen hospitality, and it would bring the young man back to them soon enough.

"You have no idea what's going on in his mind." Bruce stood up, the case calling to him, making him move ever so slightly in its direction. Jason Todd: A Good Soldier, it said. A good soldier? A good son?

No. He was neither. Not now, anyway. But, then again, Bruce reasoned. He never had been a good father.

"You don't know his motivations or his thoughts either, sir."

"I might," squeaked a small voice from the stairs, its owner looking sheepish and guilty for eavesdropping.

"Tim," Bruce said.