Author's Note: Could this chapter be any more delayed? How many years since a update? Sigh...

I don't own any characters mentioned in this story. The rights belong to DC comics, Bob Kane, etc.

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Darkness Cannot Drive

Part 5/?

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"[T]his thing of darkness, I
Acknowledge mine."
- Shakespeare, The Tempest

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"Ah!" Terry grimaces and instinctively tries to pull his arm away. "That hurts!"

"It's either this or a cast," Bruce Wayne growls, tightening the exosuit arm bridge across Terry's bicep. "At least this you can probably manage to hide from your mother."

"Yeah. She's been pretty busy with work, so she probably won't notice if I'm wearing a baggier jacket for awhile. A cast, though— man, she'd kill me. Well, you first, then me." Terry bites his lip and winces again as the metal clasp tightens around his broken arm.

"That should hold," Bruce mutters, glaring skeptically at Terry's arm, as if it is going to attack at any moment. Bruce looks like that often— constantly braced for a fight. "You don't need to keep it entirely out of water, but don't drench it. And be careful how you move it; your arm needs to heal."

"No problem." Terry wiggles his fingers experimentally. His arm feels sore, but not unbearably so. "So... I'm assuming I met Jason. That's his name, right?"

Bruce puts away the spare exosuit parts with a scowl and doesn't respond. Terry frowns, but he knows how to deal with moods like this—charge ahead and annoy the old Bat until he gets some answers.

"Moves pretty fast for a guy who has to be, what, in his—what, fifties? Sixties? At the youngest? Pretty limber." Terry shifts his weight, wincing in pain as the movement bothers his shoulder. "Vicious too." Terry glares at the back of Bruce's neck, waiting. Nothing. Just silence. "Seriously? You're not giving me anything?"

"You're arm should be healed in a few weeks. By then, Jason will be out of Gotham."

"How can you be so sure?"

The look Bruce gives is pure Batman, cold and cruel, telling him loud and clear not to ask any more questions. Terry curses to himself silently—he still hasn't mastered that look.

"I just am," the old man finally growls. "Now go home and rest up. You can use this time off to catch up with your girlfriend."

Terry raises an eyebrow, half-laughing. "You really don't listen to anything I say on the comm, do you?" Bruce remains silent, but his posture is open, slightly curious. "Dana and I broke up last month. Remember? I ranted about it for days! Max stopped cutting into the feed because she was so sick of it."

"I listen when you talk about something relevant." Bruce shrugs, looking for a moment like the elderly playboy that most of Gotham thinks of him as. "And it's not that difficult. Use this time to make up with her. Buy her flowers, take her out to dinner. Given how often you two seem to break up, she should be used to this by now."

"No, this time it's... well, it's different," Terry sighs, his face flushed. "I majorly screwed up."

"Oh?" Bruce's voice is flat as he picks his cane up from beside the Bat-computer.

"Yeah. I stood her up... on her birthday. It was right after The Royal Flush Gang went on their all-night spree and I'd been up for 48 hours. I totally spaced and forgot about Dana. Slept right through dinner. Slag... she waited at Don Sinclare's for something like five hours." Terry sighs, even the memory of it all making his chest ache worse than his arm. "Any advice, Mr. Playboy?"

There is only silence in the cave. Terry looks up to see an unreadable look on Wayne's face. "You forgot her birthday?"

"Basically. Yeah. So... any advice?"

"No."

"What? Seriously?"

Wayne shakes his head. "I memorize the security files of any woman I ever go on a date with. Trust me, the last thing I'd ever do is forget a birthday. Even if I wanted to." Bruce's grin is bitter and he is looking at Terry as if he is something foreign and strange. "Not your finest moment, McGuiness. But probably better in the long-run. You don't need any more distractions than you already have."

"Yeah, yeah..." Terry waves the comment off with his good arm. "She's dating some guy who goes to Gotham U right now. Science major or something. Nice guy— I met him at the Juice Bar once."

"Hmm." Wayne has clearly stopped listening now and is cleaning up the excess exosuit parts. "Make sure you rest while your arm is healing. I need you in top form when you put the suit back on." Bruce shuffles toward the stairs, his face hidden by shadows again.

"So that's it then? We're still not going to talk about..."

"Goodnight, Terry," Bruce growls before shutting the clock-covered door. Terry sits on the med-table, his chest still bare. He shivers.

"Slag it..." Terry carefully changes into a loose pair of slacks and pulls on a spare shirt, all the while listening for Wayne's soft footsteps or cane scrapes announcing his return to the cave. Nothing.

"Guess I've got nothing to lose," he sighs, walking over to Wayne's chair. "Computer—search for files on 'The Red Hood.'"

[CONFIRMED.]

Terry watches as information spills out in front of him— information about old mob bosses and chemical plants. Information spanning over decades, most of it seemingly irrelevant.

"Uh... okay. Computer, search in file for the name Jason."

The computer hums quietly for a few moments. [Match not found.]

"What?" That was what the guy's name was, right? Gordan had even confirmed it for him, and Bruce's silence on the issue had made it just about certain. But then... it wasn't so much a hood as a helmet. "Um, cross reference 'Jason' and 'Red Helmet'...?"

[Match not found.]

"Red Mask?"

[Match not found.]

Leather Dude? S&M Man?"

[Match not found.]

Terry groans and plops down in the old man's black leather chair. "Well, isn't that just perfect..." He leans his head back, closing his eyes for a few moments and trying to will any more information he can use into his brain. But there's nothing... Terry starts to think about his history test next week, then about his mom's birthday and what to get her, then his mind wanders to Max's talk just yesterday about re-dying her hair a different color and Terry wonders what that might be, and his head feels heavier and the chair comfier, like he could fall... asleep...

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The sound of a crash and Ace barking furiously causes Terry to jump to his feet, his whole body tense. Without a second's thought, he bolts up the stairs to the mansion, his mind full of memories of spray-painted laughter and joker gas.

The library is empty and it sounds like the barking is coming from the front hall. As Terry nears the entry way, he stops short. Hanging over the stairs—upside-down by his legs, trying desperately to stay out of the reach of a very angry Ace's jaws— is the Red Hood.

Terry's hand immediately goes for his belt, momentarily forgetting that he is in his street clothes and without a batarang in sight. He tenses, looking around the study for anything he can use as a weapon, ready to dart in guns blazing when Red Hood groans, "Jesus Christ! A little help here?"

For a moment, Terry thinks the man is talking to him, until a voice from the main entry's shadows says, "Ace. Down boy."

Ace whimpers and runs over to his master, brushing up against the old man's legs protectively. As Wayne hobbles forward, Terry slinks back into the shadows, watching silently. If things get ugly, it'd be nice to get a drop on Red Hood using the element of surprise—as far as he can tell, neither man has noticed him yet.

Red Hood unhooks his legs and back flips over the banister. "Well now, I feel pretty stupid." As the Red Hood lands, his posture is casual and comfortable, one hip slung to the side with his hands perched loosely on either side of his waist. Terry notices that his costume is missing the duster now, and it seems like his weapons arsenal is lighter as well. It seems almost like a strange kind of peace treaty...

"You know," the Red Hood's voice inside the helmet is the faint echo of a surprisingly friendly laugh. "I was fucking proud of myself, getting through all your flashy, expensive security. How the hell was I supposed to guess that you had a fucking attack dog? I mean, seems like your kind of mutt and all— seriously, real charming— but last time I checked, you hated pets. I mean, you kept that kitten Selina gave you for, what, like a week? And that thing was the cutest..."

"I thought I told you to never wear that mask in my house."

Bruce's voice is sharp and like ice. And just like that, the temperature seems to drop ten degrees in the manor's front hall. Terry sees the lines of Red Hood's body tighten and tense, and suddenly he doesn't look calm at all. He looks like a tiger ready to strike. There is no question in Terry's mind—he looks like a murderer.

Terry braces, ready to rush forward and attack if Red Hood makes a move for Bruce. But instead the man reaches with both hands behind his head and there is a loud hissing sound.

The red helmet is literally chucked, thrown full force at Bruce's feet. The result is a loud clang that echoes through the hall. "There. Are you happy now?"

Terry can't breath. Hell, can barely think.

He was expecting someone younger looking than 60—the man moved too fast to be older than Tim Drake—but even if he was immortal, like Jason Blood, or revived like the possessed (and creepy) Talia al Guhl, Terry was expecting some sign of age. Even when Bruce had been rejuvenated by the Lazarus Pit, Terry remembers that there were white streaks in his hair.

Instead, the man standing at the foot of the Wayne Manor steps looks like he's barely pushing early twenties and even that seems generous. Without the red mask, the boy is swaddled in black, the leather of his costume the same tone as his black hair, which is slicked back, all except for one stray hair cutting across his forehead. Jason's eyes are a wild greenish-blue and crackling with anger, the way Bruce's did when he first heard that Powers had been using WaynePowers tech to make nerve-gas.

"I'll be happy when you stop killing people in my city."

Jason snorts. "Not your city anymore, Bruce."

Bruce's voice is rough and deep—Batman's voice. "Gotham is always my city. I may not be young enough to be out there in person, but she'll always be mine."

Jason smiles a half-bitter smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "See, you should have taken my route. Too much time spent around ancient evil magics, mystical swords, and Lazarus Pits. Whether you want to or not, you can leap rooftops forever." The Red Hood shrugs casually, but his lips are pursed in a harsh line that betrays his anger. As he turns his head, Terry can see thin loops of silver and black wire stitched into the curve of the teen's ear—a popular style with neo-punks recently. "And, as for the guy at the warehouse, he deserved it and you know it. Look up his file. He raped three little girls, Bruce..."

"You should have let the police—"

"...and the DA had plenty of evidence to bury him alive. But the cops didn't file their reports right and so he walked, free as a bird." Jason's blue eyes shadow with anger as he grits his teeth. "You want to tell me that's justice?" The chuckle that escapes from the Red Hood's throat is mirthless. "Jesus, I can't believe we're still having the same argument, decades later. At least we're consistent, old man."

Bruce is silent and cold for a moment. "Why are you here, Jason?"

And, all of a sudden, Jason smiles. A real smile. A sky and sunshine kind of smile that briefly reminds Terry of his little brother Matt last time they had gone to the Gotham County Fair together. "Because the Joker's dead again, you idiot. How could I not come by and congratulate the kid?" The smile disappears as suddenly as it had materialized. "And because I talked to Babs and she said the kid was good. I can't stress that enough. Good—not great."

"What his skills are," Bruce growls, "is not your concern."

"Oh, fuck you! That's bullshit, and you know it! Even Babs agrees, and everyone else would too, that if it's anyone's concern, it's mine!" Jason takes a deep breath and folds his arms tightly against his chest. "I've been watching him. Babs is right—he's good. But do you have any idea how many open shots there were? Head shots even. And these were mostly thugs and low-level hacks that you and I could have taken down in five minutes max. I can only imagine what would happen if one of the big guns decides to try and pick off the Justice League one by one. Sure, the suit can protect him from a direct shot with a gun, but they may bring something else. Say..." Jason's eyes flash wickedly, "maybe a crowbar. Or a sword. Or a power-drill."

Terry sees Bruce flinch and it's an odd sight, something that doesn't belong in Batman's range of motions.

"Face it, Bruce," Jason continues, "the kid shouldn't be on the street right now, and I know that better than anybody! He. Is. Going. To. Get. Himself. Killed."

Bruce is silent for a few moments, and Terry feels his chest tighten with unease. Finally Wayne responds, "He held his own against both Mr. Freeze and the Joker. That's nothing to sneeze at, as you well know."

"Oh, gee willikers," Jason coos sarcastically. "Well, if he could fight a whopping two undead super villains, I suppose he's ready for anything then, huh?" Blue eyes tear away from Bruce's face and trail over to the study doorway. Jason smiles that sarcastic, bitter smile of his. "Why don't we ask him?"

Terry winces; apparently he isn't as quiet as he thinks he is. He steps carefully out of the shadows and gives the young man his most determined stare.

And then the worst thing Terry could imagine happens—the man who calls himself the Red Hood begins to laugh.

"No. Fucking. Way!" Jason gasps for breath between hoots, his body doubling over, his eyes tearing up, his right hand slapping his knee. "Oh my God, Bruce, it's official. You are seriously, seriously fucked up. I mean..." the black-haired man walks over to Terry and slips an arm around his shoulders. Terry stiffens nervously as the other man presses against his back, his chin resting casually on Terry's shoulder. "Dick and I could have been a coincidence. And Tim is just, well, fucking Tim. And Damien was your actual son, sure. But this kid," Jason reaches and pinches Terry's cheek as if he were a small child, "officially crosses the line between 'strangely similar' and 'freaky, narcissistic old-man kink.' I mean, seriously—slim, black hair, blue eyes... starting a harem here, pops?"

Terry growls deep in his throat. Before Red Hood can move, Terry wrenches away and spins into a sidekick, his right foot slamming into the man's jaw. Jason stumbles back, clearly stunned for a moment, before he rushes forward and grabs Terry's broken arm— hard.

"You do not want to go a round with me, junior."

"You want to bet on that?"

"Oh please. You're broken enough as it is— let's wait until you're healed before I kick your ass."

"Stop it. Both of you," Wayne snaps. His voice is rough and he's Batman again, but its clearly a tired, weary Batman. "You've made your point, Jason."

Red Hood stares at Bruce for a few moments before nodding. He lets go of Terry's arm, smirking a bit when he sees Terry wince, and walks back up the stairs to the open manor window. "I'll watch Gotham while the kid gets better. And don't worry—it'll be clean. I'll respect your rules for now. Out of respect for the name."

Wayne stares at Jason solemnly. "If its not..."

"I know." Jason fixes his eyes on Terry.

"And then you'll leave Gotham." Bruce's voice is hard, deep, and determined. Full Batman-voice.

Jason seems unaffected, his lips twitching into a half-smirk. "We'll see. Until next time, junior."

Terry raises and eyebrow and gestures at the red helmet lying on the floor. "Don't you need that?"

Jason looks at Bruce instead of Terry, his eyes sharp and bitter. "You can keep it for the trophy room..." Jason trails off, his eyes still glued to old man Wayne. For a moment, the younger looking man seems like he's going to say something. But Wayne's eyes are cold and his jaw is set.

Terry sees something that looks like pain flash in both men's eyes as the Red Hood slips out the window without another word.

To Be Continued...