He had always known he had never really been a part of what was ignorantly called the Bat Family. He had come to accept this with time.
There had been so many others after him... and Bruce had treated them all so much better... there was still resentment in his heart for having been replaced so seamlessly. But there was much more hurt over the fact that he knew that no matter how well he acted or how much good he did, he would always be The Fuck Up.
Both Bruce Wayne and Batman's dirty little secret. Jason Todd was still legally dead and nothing had been done to change that status. And Red Hood was volatile, untrustworthy, and only allowed nearby to keep an eye on. Red Hood may have been allowed to wear the Bat insignia on his chest, but Jason wasn't naïve enough to delude himself into thinking that control had nothing to do with it.
As long as Red Hood wore the Bat's symbol, he would have to answer to the Bat. Hell, as long as he operated in Gotham, he would have to deal with the overbearing asshole to some degree or another. Working with him rather than against him was the smartest move, he knew, but it was just... so tiring.
Well, at least he had the freedom to pursue the ultimate downfall of the gangs currently flying under the Bat's radar due to a mix of noticeably much more discreet means of production and distribution and a rather worrying ability to keep their operations quiet and clean.
It wasn't that farfetched, unfortunately, for this to eventually happen. When the Bat spent his nights running after certifiable lunatics with aspirations of absolute destruction, he didn't really have much time to deal with the smaller, nitty-gritty nuisances of the city. It was a war he was losing because he wasn't doing enough- couldn't do more. While he was constantly tangled up with the biggest dangers, the smaller ones were slipping through the cracks and getting away with their crimes.
If those bigger dangers were put down permanently, then the Bat would have enough time to deal with the guppies. But he was a fool. And Jason knew better than to so much as think about bringing this obvious fact to the jackass. His oxygen was valuable when it had to be expended on him.
Well, at least the Bat allowed him to operate with relative freedom. The only rule he could not break was one that had been modified from Batman's code of ethics to just be able to strike peace between the two of them: don't kill on purpose.
Working with such lowlifes, casualties were common because he pulled no punches and they were mostly regular human beings. Sometimes, those casualties were deadly. As long as he wasn't shooting to kill, the Bat would turn a blind eye on someone that died because of complications borne from an injury he had dished out.
Some might say that the Bat had given a piece of himself away to make this peace with him. Jason knew that the Bat had only shown his true colors. He was capable of understanding mortality and how it was such a natural and quick thing for monsters like these. He was just so enamored by the view up on his moral high horse that he wasn't willing to get down and tussle in the mud- the only way that he would make an impacting change.
He was still bothered by Bruce's inability to be productive. But he had always known the guy was stubborn to a fault. As long as there was someone like him out there, constantly putting strategic pressure on asses like Bruce, then the world stood a marginally better chance to change for the better. So he couldn't give up. No matter how much easier it would have been to disappear and start all over again... like that'd be all that easy either, thanks to the Bat's obsessive need to keep a constrictive grip around those he thought he cared about.
With a sigh, Jason took one final look at his helmet. It was banged up here and there- had clearly seen better days-, but it was well taken care of and clean. Just like the rest of his gear; just like himself.
He was ready for another night of detailed investigations, tense fights, and the most dreaded avoidance of any call that came from any of the blinded fools in Batman's army.
Except if Alfred called. No one, not even the Big Bag Red Hood, was ever too busy to answer his call. And unlike the Bat, Alfred never abused of that kind of power. He only ever truly called if there was an emergency that needed immediate attention. For anything else, for updates or unimportant conversation, he would just send a text requesting a call.
Some nights, it felt like Al was the only person that actually kept him from disappearing. Because even if the Bat tracked him down, it's not like he would be assed to keep the rest in the loop. And as unfortunate as it was, Alfred cared about him enough to be hurt by his absence.
He couldn't do that to Al.
Not on purpose, at least.
His stomach lurched and he felt bile rising up his throat. He was able to stamp down on it, but it was still a very specific and unusual feeling- it left him breathing in and out deeply to be able to properly fight back.
Through the thick material of his gloves he could feel a smooth type of tile- this was the second thing that alerted him about something being wrong. The first, of course, being how fucking shitty his stomach felt even though all he had eaten before going on patrol had been a run of the mill sandwich he had made. All of the products were safe and none were near their expiration date. Whatever was happening wasn't a simple case of indigestion.
He was on his hands and knees. His head was bent towards the ground. His helmet had been lost hours ago, when things had first started going tits up on a relatively normal Gotham night. His hair was drenched in the sweat that slowly dripped onto the ground below him.
There was darkness surrounding his vision. The boisterous volume at which he could hear his own heartbeat was the final thing he was able to notice that pointed directly towards something being very wrong.
He blinked once and that was a mistake.
Darkness consumed him.
He awoke with a sharp, violent cry escaping from his mouth.
The scream cut off quick, leaving him breathless as his chest screamed at him to take in oxygen; his throat burned, radiating with ache all the way up from his mouth to down to his chest.
Jason didn't have to look down at himself to know that he had fallen off the bed and slammed into the cold, unforgiving wooden planks below. This had happened so many times that nothing surprised him anymore.
He forced himself to gulp in a big inhale to combat the lightheaded sensation that began to make itself known just for Greg to arrive right at his queue.
"Ain't no one gonna hurt you, son." In the darkness, all Jason could make it was the sounds coming from the man; he couldn't see a damn. He didn't have to, though. The floorboards creaked with every step, silent but present as Greg made his way closer and closer. "I'm here now."
Tears burned at his eyes; but they weren't exclusively from fear.
Whenever he was jarred awake by that nightmare where he could swear he was an adult with a life completely separate from what he knew to be true, his eyes always burned with tears of fear. He still wasn't sure if it was because he was afraid of the death that seemed only a touch away before darkness completely obliterated his sight or if it was because he was afraid of what the dreams meant.
Greg's steps were loud for a guy that had made a nighttime career of stalking criminals and Jason knew the reasoning behind it. They thudded obviously beside him, only ceasing when Greg was decidedly beside him.
This time around, Jason was able to control himself enough to stop the tears from flowing when the reassuring, kind hand came over his shoulder; gentle and careful, but determined and there.
He allowed himself to be moved even as he forced himself to focus specifically on breathing. Greg whispered soft reassurances of him being there for him; of the rest of the Soldiers still sharing the house with them; of promises of scaring away any nightmarish creatures that would dare show their ugly mugs anywhere near them.
When he had been much younger, Greg hadn't moved him. Instead, he had tried his best to hug Jason, to reassure him in the only way he had believed would work, through all of the fists that had been sent his way. Those first few years hadn't been easy... but they had both learned. Jason no longer lashed out physically; Greg no longer forced an embrace until they were both sure it was safe.
A part of himself feared that Greg had grown out of the need to hug him to reassure him because he was getting old; that was a part he was mostly able to ignore.
Little by little, Jason felt himself return to his body; began to hear less and less of his pounding heartbeat.
And then he found himself seated at the kitchen table with a mug of warm chocolate in between his hands. The lights had been kept off for his sake, but Greg had lit up his favored oil lamp at the far end of the counter to be able to work with a minimum of visibility. Jason could now hear the faint bubbling of the milk Greg was now heating up for himself.
Because Greg Saunders was the kind of guy that would make sure to prepare hot chocolate for everyone else before he prepared his own strongly spiced and secretly spiked version.
Like clockwork, Lee Travis' quiet footfalls appeared at the entrance into the kitchen; making an effort, even if difficult, to make his own steps audible.
"Your mug's at the table, Lee." Greg spoke in a hushed tone, not quiet enough to be a whisper but definitely attempting to not wake up any of the rest currently staying with them.
"Thanks, Ace." Lee did whisper because he still hadn't mastered this private lack of privacy, moving to sit down at the head of the table. In the faint glow of the lamp, Jason was able to see a frown of concern pulling at his features before the man regained control of his face; in no time, the frown had been replaced by a neutral expression of slight exasperation. "Any monsters we've gotta punch, Acey?"
Jason still had no idea why the doctor insisted on saying that he was Greg's miniature. They were nothing alike, except for maybe the green eyes and dark hair... but Greg still didn't have a hint of gray dusting his own hair, whereas Jason had a stark white streak that sprouted from his forehead, front and center for all to see.
"It was the same nightmare." he mumbled as he lowered his upper body closer to the table, then rested his chain against the rim of the mug that smelled far too delicious. "There's nothing to punch."
Except for maybe his stupid brain... if Jason could, he'd go a few rounds with it just to prove whose boss. He was getting sick and tired of these unpredictable, brutal nightmares that hurt him as much physically as mentally and emotionally.
With a hum, Lee reached across the table and waited for a beat before placing his large hand on top of Jason's head. As the warmth spread out from the soothing hand, Jason allowed his eyes to close and for his body to begin to finally relax. Far beyond his eyes, within his mind, he was able to see the faintest ghost of a helmet he knew to be a dull red color with unseeing, cold, white eyes. He could see it clasped in hands that simultaneously felt like his own and as if they were someone else's. They weren't nearly as real anymore; but the images were still in his brain.
For as long as he could remember, Jason had always had just one nightmare.
"We're here, whatever you need."
For as long as he could remember, Greg had always come running when the nightmare threatened to steal him away. Jason didn't know why, but he had always felt as if the nightmare could snatch him back into that cold, opaque darkness... as if, if they weren't careful, there might be a day when he would wake up far away from Greg and the family they had managed to build with the rest of the Soldiers.
That was Jason most feared in life. If it it wasn't for the way that suddenly not being here always consumed him, he was sure that by his thirteenth birthday, he would have stopped fearing the nightmares and actually found them funny for how meaningless they ultimately were.
He knew he was safe; knew that no one would ever take him away from his family. But... he couldn't control the way the nightmare left him feeling.
"What's the plan for tomorrow?" Lee's hand ruffled his hair for a second longer, only to slowly pull back as Jason began to lift his head again. "Is it true Mary's gonna be joining Pat and the Brat?"
Usually, he'd get verbally scolded over insulting Sylvester. This time around, though, all he got was a cautionary hum from Lee that was cut off by the man taking a drink from his drink.
Jason could hear the tell-tale signs of Greg finally finishing up with creating his own drink, then followed by the softest scraping of his feet against the floor as he padded to sit down to Jason's right, directly across from Lee. The lamp stayed in its place, only really giving them the barest glow to be able to look at one another.
"Seems like." Lee's mug just barely managed to clink against the table before he was breathing out, "I have no idea what's in those Pemberton's brains. They wanted nothing to do with the kid when her parents died," he scoffed for a moment before his voice raised just ever so slightly. "But now that they think Sly needs some companionship they think it's a good idea to just pull her out of her home?"
The Soldiers didn't live together. Well, not legally; not permanently. But Greg's ranch was a revolving door for the whole group; it seemed like the only two proper inhabitants of the home were allowed to take care of it for a two weeks at most before one of the others was coming over and staying for a night or two or a full month.
Ollie insisted that he had never stayed a full month with them, but Jason had counted and kept track. If it wasn't for Roy's adoption and Star City's unique criminal cases, Jason was sure that the blonde millionaire would have moved in with them years ago.
"You know them kinds'a folk, Lee." Greg's cup clinked as he stirred the contents with his spoon, "It ain't a problem 'til it's their problem." he sounded more than just disappointed about the situation; he sounded sad.
Jason didn't necessarily agree with them, but he chose to keep his mouth quiet about such an opinion. Not only did he actually not care all that much about Mary Creamer's appearance in their lives, he also didn't see how it was terrible for a kid to get adopted. She had been taken out of an orphanage to be placed in the Pemberton's hands now that they thought their kid needed a friend his own age and, yeah, that wasn't a great reason but... orphanages weren't all that great, either.
Mary hadn't said as much and she seemed like a happy enough kid but... there was something about her eyes... Jason felt like there was more to the orphanage story than she let on.
"I'm not sure how having Mary around will affect the team dynamic." Lee huffed once again and in the dim light Jason could see his face hardening once more, "And Pat seems like he's lying about having everything under control. We can't have her anywhere near this case but he can't leave her alone with no one to take care of her." and then he was twisting his lips before shaking his head, "And we can't leave any of the kids alone with her- that'd just be asking for trouble."
The reason why Pat was currently sandwiched into Justin's room was precisely because of Mary's presence in the house. As the only girl in the whole ranch, she had been given the odd commodity of having a room of her own. Usually, the only people that needed to share a room in the house were Sylvester and Wing because they preferred it like that, while there were enough rooms for the rest of them to be on their own. With Mary, though, that number had been skewed and Pat had gotten the short end of the stick.
And even if Jason didn't agree with this particular take- none of them so-called kids were younger than fourteen, so they all could take great care of themselves-, he chose to keep quiet about that too.
Greg and Lee began to go back and forth over what they could do within parameters of social propriety, allowing Jason to fall into the background of the conversation- just the way he liked it.
He liked hearing all of the Soldiers talk, but Lee and Greg were his absolute favorites. Lee's voice was always just barely above a low rumble, words curt yet his tone often relaxed; in control. Greg's voice, on the other hand, was a few notes higher than Lee's, still deep for most men, and sonorous. When he'd asked about his particular accent, the guy had said it was a nice mishmash of his father's thick Wyoming born-and-raised eloquence and his mother's song-like way of speaking, courtesy of Puerto Rico.
Jason blinked as he felt his eyes become heavy, listening to the way that Greg's voice became much more melodic as he goaded Lee about something he couldn't be bothered with trying to figure out.
He was safe. The Soldiers were here. Life was changing, but life always changed and that was nothing to fear. As long as he had his family, he would be fine.
He was safe.