Author's Note: I promised that I would not abandon this series, and I didn't. What I did instead was write myself into a trap. I outlined this series years ago, knew where I wanted it to go, but while writing it, fell in love with the family I was writing about and knew that I would lose them if I stuck to my outline. While I outline very loosely, even that loose version called for some things that I could no longer put my heart into. So, I was stuck. I kept circling around this story, writing chapters and deleting them, trying to force myself to follow the path in the outline but could not, so... I broke free. We are now moving in a different direction, though, it might not seem that way right now. Expect dark things to come, but... Hey, no spoilers. If you're still with me, thank you! And I hope you like where I've chosen to go when we reach the end of the story, because I am finishing this! :D. I'm going to go through and respond to any comments that I missed over the years. I appreciate receiving them, and usually try to wait to respond for when I'm about to update, but... you see how that worked out, lol. Thank you for your comments and kudos, and here we go!

Chapter 3

"…got you."

Touch. Scorching pain. Hands on my face. Deep blue eyes, watery and bright. The hands tremble as their fingers burn my skin. Hurts.

"…be okay…"

Urgent voices. The rusty stink of too much blood.

Can't feel my body.

Floating.

Those eyes again. The fiery touch.

A whoosh of nothingness.

Nothing.

No pain. No burning. Just nothing.

But I think… think I was supposed to do something. Think I was supposed…

Was supposed to call.

I didn't call.

Couldn't call.

Don't know why it's important now. The blanket of nothing is heavy and cold. It swaddles me, covers me. Buries me.

Until nothing is me.

And right before I fade, I remember.

Was supposed to call Dickie-bird at six.

The glowing red numbers on the timer say 'nine-oh-eight' as the numbers beneath it run down. Racing to 0.

Sorry, D-bird.

"…something in the way… Something in the way…"

That voice.

"Underneath the bridge…"

Low, tuneless, gravelly.

"Tarp has sprung a leak…"

Weird lyrics. But it's one of his favorite songs. It's…

"B-B-Bru…" The walls of my throat rub against each other. Can't—explosions rattle through my body. Coughing. Hard. Can't—

"Jason." Sounds like Bruce. Hands on my face, on my back. Touches that don't burn or hurt. Moving me. "Breathe. Just breathe. You're okay."

More voices clamor around me. I know them. See flashes of familiar faces. Black hair, deep blue eyes, smiling, always smiling. Black hair, paler blue eyes, almost gray, nervous ticks, hesitant grins. Gentle, accented words, graying hair, stiff posture, kind eyes.

Dick. Tim. Alfred.

"Open…Jason. Open…"

Bruce's voice breaks. He sounds like a much younger man. One I never met.

Enclosed. Strong arms, warm torso. Fingers brush over my scalp, stroking my hair. I feel the words of the song reverberate through my back as it rumbles from Bruce's chest, his hoarse voice singing, "Something in the way…"

The embrace tightens. Bruce croaks through the song. My body's rocked from side to side, gently, swaying with Bruce.

He wants me to wake up.

But I am awake, right? I hear him. Feel him. Sense Dick, Tim and Alfred nearby.

"…please, Jay."

His voice. It's like somebody died.

"Mmm…" The vibration tickles my throat, but I don't cough again.

"Tell us what you need." Bruce.

Blood. Blood in the warehouse. Blood on a crowbar.

Blood in her blond hair. Streaked down her face. Blood mats a strand of hair across her forehead and into unseeing green eyes.

Green like mine.

Her name.

Sheila. Sheila Hayward.

The second woman on the list.

The one who is...was…

Mom.

Laughter echoes in my skull, loud, merciless, demented. A sick, sing-song voice screeches about finding a lost birdie.

Birdie. Falcon.

Why did I…

I packed it. The suit. I packed it. I thought…just in case Batman was needed. Needed me. We always pack our suits. Even retired suits. Dick let me stuff my suit in with his. It got past Bruce and Alfred. And though Batman hadn't needed Falcon, Sheila had. She was in trouble. She didn't know who she was working with…

No. She did. She…

Laughter. LAUGHTER. He won't stop fucking laughing. Even after she falls. Hole in her forehead, above her left eyebrow. Blood trickles in a straight line. Brains splatter crooked. All over the floor, on the overturned chair. On a stray shoe. A sandal.

She wears sandals. A flower dress. No lab coat. She's off, leaving her facility.

I sit on a rooftop, heat of the night stifling. Sweat collects under my suit collar, on my temples, as I watch. Ready to swoop down. Tell her she's working for a criminal, because she can't possibly know she's accepting a truckload of Joker venom instead of a virus vaccine.

Not my mom. Not this mom. This mom is supposed to be better than a drug addict. Better than a criminal. But she had been with Willis Todd, right? Would a good person be interested in Willis?

Fuck.

No.

Humming pulls me back. Strong arms and a warm torso pull me back. Away from that place, but…

Flashes of pain. Ribs. Flesh. Something punctures. Knees. Fingers. Jaw. Arm. Foot. Shattering. It doesn't stop. Pain blurs and blends. Momentary breaks of blackness.

And laughter. Insane, cackling, fucking laughter. Louder, near my ear. Wetness on my lobe. A sick, wheezing voice, "Wonder if Daddy would have come faster for his little red bird. Shame on Batsy for picking favorites amongst the kiddies, hm?" A hand in my hair, almost gentle until it yanks. My head strikes the ground. Blackness. The sound of a door closing.

The tick, tick, tick of a clock.

The red numbers on a bomb.

"…son…" Strong arms, vibrations from a warm torso. Here, not there. Here is Bruce. And Dick? The little red bird…

Deep blue eyes. Burning fingers. Other voices. Scared, urgent.

Bright colors. Costumes. Heroes.

Being moved and…

Deep blue eyes. Robin's not wearing his mask. Burning fingers.

Spots of black.

And being nothing.

"Jas…"

Strong arms.

"…son."

Warm torso.

"Open…"

Here, not there.

"…your eyes."

I'm here.

"Jason?"

Not there.

Light invades. Too bright. A squeak—from me? Had that been me?

"That's it," Bruce says, my body rocks in time with his. He's rocking me. "That's it, baby, come on."

Baby? Haven't heard that since I was…eleven? Eleven and so sick with the flu I needed an IV. The fever dreams made me scream until Bruce held me.

Held me. Rocked me.

I open my eyes and let the light in the rest of the way.

Everything's fuzzy. Two people, one larger than the other, black haired, sit in front of me, side-by-side. Staring. Deep blue eyes are wet. Blue-gray eyes are solemn.

"Di..ckie?" I get it out. Because he had been there. In the warehouse.

Robin without a mask, and the other voices, other heroes in bright colors.

"Did you…" did he come for me before the bomb went off, "get me…out?"

A choked giggle. He reaches out, cool hand on my cheek. "You didn't call."

Glad I didn't. So fucking glad I forgot until I couldn't call.

Oh. My. God.

"Oh…my…" my voice shakes as my body tremors. Fear floods me. "Oh…my…" The Joker. Sheila Hayward. The Joker venom warfare. The bomb. The Joker kept…he kept… and I… "Did I…die? Did I die? Oh god. Oh—"

"Shhh." Strong arms. Warm torso. Rocking me.

Shhh.

Strong arms.

Shhh.

Warm torso.

Shhh. A shallow calm flows through my bloodstream as I sway from side to side. Bruce chasing away the nightmare. The nightmare where the Joker blew Sheila Hayward's brains across the floor. Where he…

Shhh.

"Sleep again, Jason. We'll talk more later." Bruce sings again. The weird song about fish and feelings.

I shut my eyes.

"Something in the way…"

The laughter quiets.

Comments and kudos are appreciated. Tell me how I did and it's good to be back! Take care!