Author's Note: Okay, so the slash-fairy came a TAD early this story. I doubt many reviewers will complain?

A few notes on DC canon: I'm doing my best to make Red Hood and the Outlaws and the Batman Beyond: Unlimited comic series, which are currently running, canon. Thus the reference to Jason's awesome teacher of ancient assassin arts, Ducra, from RhatO #2. (By the way, even if you read nothing else of that series, Jason Todd lovers should read issues 2 and 3 for sheer adorableness/badass-ness).

However, this upcoming month includes the Death of the Family series, the return of the Joker, and something which DC is saying "will change the life of Jason Todd forever." *facepalm* I'm looking forward to reading it, but I may or may not make reference to it (or to any future mentions of JT in the Batman Beyond comic if they ever DO mention him...) if it conflicts with what I've written thus far. Also, since I started writing this fanfiction before the new-52 was released, it is (and will probably continue to be) an odd mix of pre-52, new-52, and Timm-DCAU universe. I'll do my best to signal what happened and what didn't. Please feel free to leave questions if it's confusing or unclear!

Thanks all for reading and reviewing. I'm already part of the way done with Part 10 (Chapter 9) and am excited about what's coming up! Enjoy—

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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 9/? (Chapter 8)

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Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light. - Helen Keller

...

Sweat drips from his brow and spills—tear-like—across his nose. His breath is heavy and mingles with the man's above him. "Just a little more..." the voice is breathy and deep. Terry bites the side of his mouth, tries to keep composure—and finally caves. "Slag it." Terry groans as Jason presses in.

Jason laughs. "Oh, give me a break, junior. I've seen you kick—you can stretch your leg more than that."

"Not after a four hour training, you asshole." Jason just grins and pushes Terry's leg further against his ear. "Argh! You know what? I hate you. Loath you, actually. I'm going to write a manifesto. A thousand ways that Jason Todd fucking sucks and is a slagging sadist."

"Sure, sure. But you know what? You'll fucking thank me when your kicks are twice as fast."

Terry snorts and tries not to gasp in relief as Jason lets go of his leg and steps back. "My shins hurt like hell, you know."

Jason shrugs and tosses Terry a water-bottle from half-across the room. "As they should. You're breaking down and remodeling your bone tissue. The Chinese herbs on the counter will sooth that somewhat." Terry tries not to wrinkle his nose. Both Jason and his new trainer, Master Chen, keep swearing by these herbs. Terry wonders if it's possible to overdose given how much both of them keep pushing them. He sighs and grabs the bottle from the counter. May as well get it over with…

"And just keep building up your leg muscles," Jason continues. "Running and roof-jumping will help. The firmer muscle surrounding your bone-tissue should help prevent future pain. You're built, kid, but not Batman-level built." Jason pauses slightly and takes a quick glance at Terry's torso. "…though, I could practically cut something on those ab muscles. You're on your way. We just need to actually train and apply the strength and muscle you have correctly."

"Hmm." Terry finishes rubbing the pungent green liquid on his aching shins and tries not to dwell on what could (maybe?) have been a compliment. He wraps his legs in athletic tape as Jason starts absently humming an old rock song. "I'm back on patrol full time on Friday, by the way."

"Yeah? Your arm healed up a while ago, didn't it? What was the old man's delay?"

Terry shrugs. "He wanted me to start training with Master Chen. I think he was nervous about letting me back out after getting my ass handed to me by both you and Mad Stan."

Jason chuckles. "I think 'ass handed' is a bit strong. How's the training?"

"Almost worse than yours, actually. My forearms hurt almost as bad as my shins—and his Chinese herbs smell only slightly less foul than yours, by the way—and he seems to think I need to relearn how to throw a punch. A punch! I've been fighting since I was thirteen. I know how to sock someone on the jaw."

Jason passes Terry a towel as he chuckles. "Wing Chun is all about precision. If your punch isn't perfect, it needs to be relearned. Once you perfect that, though, you should be able to seriously tackle some pretty amazing feats of defensive-offense. I'm a little jealous, actually—I've studied a lot of ancient and not-so-ancient arts, but that's one I've always admired and never learned myself. Who knows? You get good enough, and maybe you'll be able to pin me."

Terry smirks, not able to stop himself from taking the bait. "Oh yeah? I keep practicing and you think I'll have you begging for mercy, Todd?"

"Mmmm. I don't beg, junior. But keep working like you are and you might give me a run for my money before too long."

Terry wonders if he imagines the fire in Jason's eyes, or if the teasing and intensity is just part of being a former Robin. Difficult to say. "I just wish this was going faster. I'm getting tougher and, sure, more 'precise,' but is that really going to translate when Inque, or The Stalker, or some sort of Apocalypse monster is after me?"

Jason makes a humming sound as he sits down next to Terry and helps him wrap his left arm. "I had a teacher named Ducra who used to tell me a story whenever I became impatient. It was about a boy who searched the high Himalayas for the most skilled of teachers. He finally finds a man about who legends are told and he begs the man to teach him. After the boy refuses to move from the man's doorstep for days, the legendary teacher agrees. But he does not show the boy a single form or a single weapon. Instead, he has him stand out in the snow. He fills a basic with water, which soon becomes freezing cold as they stand outside. He orders the boy to chop with his hands like this—" Jason's hand creates a sharp chopping motion. Terry can feel a burst of air across his face at the speed "—until the basin is empty. The boy does this. Then the next day he is asked to do it again. And the next day again. And again. Months go by and the boy returns home to visit his aged grandparents. They ask him if he has learned what he has sought and the boy is overcome with emotion. 'No!' he exclaims, his eyes filling with tears. In frustration, he brings his hand down on the grandparents' solid wood table. Out of habit, he makes the same motion he has used day in and day out to chop the water. To everyone's shock, the table cracks perfectly in two."

There is a far-away look in his eyes as Jason tells this story. Terry wants to ask who Ducra was. Terry wants to know why there is warmness in this story, while there is bitterness whenever he mentions Bruce's lessons. But… mostly he wants to just sit here for a moment, Jason's hand on his arm, and to not interrupt this strange moment of soft peacefulness.

Jason suddenly starts, as if shaking himself out of a memory. "So, yeah, seemingly useless training often leads to not-so-useless action. Once you're out on patrol, I bet you'll find that you're better already. In fact…" Jason smirks, his eyes suddenly harder and teasing again, "…I'll make you a bet."

"Oh yeah? What kind of bet?"

Jason leans in close and taps Terry's aching shin with his fingertips. "When I watched you on patrol, it took you maybe five to seven minutes to take out a standard group of ten or twelve Jokerz. I have intel there's a group about that size making a move on the T-Gang in the historic district in two nights. I'll send you coordinates. If you can take them out in under two minutes, we'll take a break from training and..." Jason pauses and shrugs. "I don't know. What do impatient eighteen-year-olds these days do for fun?"

"Two minutes? For a group of ten to twelve? That's tight." Terry raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to the side. "If I were to make it, though, most free-for-the-night eighteen-year-olds these days go out dancing at the Icehouse or Juice Bar."

"Okay then," Jason grins. "Dancing it is. If you make it under two minutes that is... Batman."

Terry tries to ignore the lump in his throat as he nods.

.

.

Max tries not to be impatient, but Terry is late. Again. She could be practicing hacking into Brant's Security Inc. or the Gotham PD, but no—she is stuck waiting for Terry so that she can help him with his economics project. She had finished hers in record time (nothing that a set of "sample" bank records and an algorithm couldn't handle), but Terry still hasn't taken the time to start his yet. Sometimes she wonders if that boy would even have a dream of a chance of graduating if he didn't have her help.

Most of the time it doesn't bother her—she's helping Batman, for crying out loud! Fighting the good fight of making sure the not-so-caped crusader doesn't fail all of his classes. But sometimes Terry's flakiness gets a bit taxing...

"Sorry! I know I'm late!" Terry just about collapses into the chair in front of her, his forehead beaded with sweat and his breath heavy. There are damp bandages around his arms, causing Max to raise an eyebrow.

"What in the heck are those?"

"Huh?" Terry looks down at his arms. "Oh. Athletic bandages. They keep these gross Chinese herbs on my skin to help sooth damage. Both Chen and Jason say I should have them on whenever I can. I'll take them off and wash my arms before heading home—mom would freak, you know? But, then, she'd also freak if she saw how red my arms and legs are from training. Herbs should help keep that on a visual down-low."

"Geeze," Max whistles. "That sounds... painful." Terry just shrugs and grins. As Terry takes out his view screen, Max can't help but ask: "So, how's training going anyway?"

He hesitates, chewing on his lip a moment. "Good, I think. Chen's a fascist during training, and Jason's a freaking sadist. But I'm definitely getting stronger. And just overall I think I'll be a better, well, you know." Terry glances around the coffee shop where they're sitting. Yeah, better not to be too blunt about Terry's night job.

He's clearly holding something back, though. His eyes look distant and distracted. "That it?" Max tries to sound cheery and not too prying, but Terry's both her friend and her main source of entertainment. Not knowing is not an option.

"Yes. Well, no. I mean..." Terry scrunches up his forehead and rubs his eyes frustratedly. "We're flirting? I think? I'm pretty sure it's flirting. It feels like flirting. And that's, well, weird. But oddly nice weird? I mean... yeah... it's weird."

Max's eyes widen as she sets down her stylus pen. "I sure hope you're talking about your sixty-year-old kung fu master, Ter. Because the only other way to take that statement is that you are flirting with a twisted, murderous vigilante who is not only over forty years older than you but who is nearly immortal and has—according to that file—tried to kill your boss. Remember that? And that would be really, really stupid Terry. I mean, you flirting with the old Chinese man would be gross, but not as absolutely and ridiculously idiotic!"

Terry winces. "Yeah, I know. Totally stupid."

"Damn right it is," Max can feel her voice getting sharper, but—damn it—this level of idiocy is a whole new low for Terry. "It's bizarre enough that you are okay with him training you and giving you tips. I mean, are you okay with folks running around cutting even notably horrible criminals' hands off?"

"No! Of course not! It's just..."

"It's just nothing. Ter, if you really think that what this Red Hood guy does is wrong when he's not on temporarily good behavior, then you might need to fight him someday. And, if push comes to shove, are you going to be able to keep your head if you've been being all friendly with him? Or, even worse, if you've been making googly eyes and kissy faces at him?"

"Slag it." Terry sighs and lets his head fall on the coffee table. "I hate it when you're right. God... it is really stupid. Okay, I'll make sure to stay shway, be distant and professional. Keep in mind Jason's history and what he's capable of." Terry pauses and frowns as he lifts up his head. "Did you say 'kissy faces'? Seriously?"

"You know I don't date. Who knows what people do when they're trying to screw each other." When Terry chuckles and opens his mouth to respond, Max holds up her hand. "And don't you dare tell me! Ignorance is bliss in this case. Now, can we please get to work now so you don't fail economics?"

Terry chuckles and nods. "Yes, ma'am."

.

.

[[You're coming up on the signal. They probably don't realize they've tripped the silent alarm, but that doesn't mean they haven't planned for trouble. Stay alert...]]

"I have done this before, you know," Terry growls into his com. Bruce has been overly 'helpful' all night, but Terry really doesn't mind that much. The hardest thing has been moving toward the old historic district without a good excuse. He was wondering how he was going to justify stumbling across the Jokerz when the silent alarm had tripped. Thanks for thinking ahead, Jason...

He only curses to himself slightly when he sees that there are not ten or twelve Jokerz, but closer to twenty.

[[Eighteen Jokerz.]] Bruce supplies. [[You can get the drop on the five to the side, but you'll have to be quiet if you don't want to draw the attention of...]]

"I got this," Terry breathes. And then he goes to work.

He thinks of the story of the man chopping the water as shin connects with the first Joker's face at nearly the identical time that he drives an elbow into the second Joker's abdomen. Upper palm-strike to the third's throat. Knee to the fourth's side, followed by a follow-up chop to the jaw. He doesn't hold back force and moves with intentional speed. No witty quips—no aerial dodges. Just make these clowns go down fast.

He drives a fist hard into a Joker's face... and realizes with an almost surreal calm that it was Joker number eighteen. He breathing is hard as he glances around the gang members groaning on the ground.

[[That was... solid work.]] There is something strange in Bruce's voice, but Terry can tell that the compliment is genuine. Terry is about to respond when he hears the click of a heat-cell charging up.

"Hey, guys!" a T-Gang member yells, cocking his gun. "We've got ourselves a trespasser."

A quick scan behind him reveals ten T-Gang members armed to the teeth. Terry can't help but grin to himself. Happy day back, Batman. Here's round two...

...

TO BE CONTINUED...