A/N: Bruce is canon divergent a better version of himself. Good dad Bruce if you'd like. Or rather… Good dad Bruce Wannabe. I wrote him the way it felt right to ME. Kind of getting him to a mindset of wanting to try.

This is set after Jay's return from the dead and the League, after the reveal of his identity to Bruce and Dick (I arbitrarily think that this happened within the first two weeks of his return) and before any sort of reconciliation between any of them.

Dick is also taking an interesting turn in terms of his canon depiction. It's not too explored in this fic, but I might get more into it if muse strikes with another part in this series. So, yeah… To be safe I'd say canon-divergent Dick as well. To me it's not even non-canon but if I get to analyzing my perception of Dick's character this note will end up at least 1k words and "ain't nobody got time for dat"

I'd love some feedback, guys, as this is entirely new territory for me. So yeah… Lemme know what you think and how this felt as you read it.

WARNINGS: DRUG USE, VIOLENCE, ALLUDED SUICIDAL THOUGHTS

Huge thanks to Pagestealer and Maryshellyswife for their invaluable insight and help as betas!

Enjoy!

The rundown house he'd claimed as his, hidden in one of the most secluded outskirts of Gotham, smelled of cheap whiskey and disappointment. Not that Jason cared. He liked whiskey—cheap or not. And disappointment was his personal brand of cologne. Everything, everyone, himself included, reeked of it. He was used to it by now, liked it. Expecting disappointment at all times meant no hope. No hope meant no surprises.

And he was done with those.

He walked inside, closing the door behind him, flakes of chipped old paint falling to the floor as it slammed against the frame. Jason deposited the small briefcase he had confiscated from one of Gotham's most well-known drug lords —rest in pieces, motherfucker—on the floor near the battered couch. Taking off his red helmet, he threw it next to it. Hastening out of his armor, combat gloves, and boots, he eyed the bloodstains. He'd get to that tomorrow. He glanced at his half-naked reflection in the window across the room. Neck and hands were smeared with blood and grime. A few superficial cuts on his arms and torso. He'd get to that tomorrow as well.

He got into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that he grabbed from a heap of clothes on the floor near the bathroom door. Moving to the briefcase, he opened it and took out one of the numerous clear plastic baggies filled with an off-white crystalline powder. PCP, also known as Angel Dust. He had sampled it a few nights before while conducting reconnaissance. When he was pleased with the effects and quality, he proceeded to end the piece of shit producing and selling it—along with his army of minions—saving the youth of Gotham from yet another dangerous temptation.

Teens shouldn't do drugs. That shit was for adults to play.

Reaching for the switch above the couch, he flipped it, and the room was showered in a dim yellowish glow. Closing the briefcase and tossing it on the couch again, his eyes then fixed on the clear plastic bag in his palm. His heart raced in anticipation. He was holding what he craved most of all: not feeling. Sweet oblivion. His face contorted into a grimace that could be mistaken for a smile.

Moving to the small kitchen his eyes lingered on the cluttered table. He considered eating, but there was no way in hell he'd bother to prepare anything at that moment. His gaze zeroed in on a plastic container on the table, and he nodded approvingly.

Peanuts are food. Protein and shit.

He sat in the single chair of the room in front of the old wooden table, baggie still clutched in his left hand—a lifeline. Jason grabbed the half-empty whiskey bottle and filled the shot glass he had left there from last night to the brim. The thud of the bottle as he set it back down on the table caused the amber liquid to ripple and swell over the rim of the glass. Jason eyed his drink and decided to play it safe—no drinking on an empty stomach! He snorted at his own thoughts. Grabbing a handful of peanuts, he popped them in his mouth, munching them hastily before downing the shot, welcoming the burning in his throat.

Water was overrated anyway.

Opening the clear plastic bag in his palm, he poured the contents on the table carefully. Using a card he'd left there from the previous night's session, he gathered the powder into a straight thin line near the edge of the table. Inhaling the line in two strong whiffs, he winced at the caustic pain that shot through his nasal passages. Refilling his shot glass while he still had control over his body, he downed a second one. He wouldn't risk a third. Not tonight at least. As the seconds ticked by, his eyes fluttered closed, and he welcomed the onset of the glorious detachment.

Chemistry is a gift to humanity. And so underrated.

As the high—or maybe low?—started to kick in, he sighed in relief at the floating sensation that engulfed him. While he still had some semblance of consciousness, he got up and attempted to walk towards the tiny adjacent bedroom. He didn't make it there. It was like he could watch himself falling to the floor in slow motion from somewhere above. No pain, no sound registered as his heavy body connected with the tiled floor. His head rolled to the side, and his eyes peeled open, lips parting as the breathtaking release blanked his mind. No thoughts clawing at him. No Lazarus Pit. No Joker. No Bruce. No Dick. No Drake. No pain or fear or guilt. No envy or missing. No craving. No hate.

Only a glorious dark, still, and silent void.

Was this how it felt when he was dead? It felt nice.

Bruce felt his stomach churn at the scene around him. And Bruce's stomach didn't easily churn. It wasn't that he hadn't seen severed limbs before. It wasn't that he hadn't seen pools of blood or crimson-splattered walls. It wasn't that he wasn't accustomed to numerous gruesomely battered dead bodies. It was that the hand behind this macabre canvas wasn't some villain he was after but his own son.

Robin, standing near the door, took everything in, eyes shifting from the slaughter to Batman's imposing figure. The metallic tang of blood hung heavily in the air, mixing with the stench of death, assaulting his senses. His mind was racing, several hypotheses clogging his thoughts in his effort to refuse to face who was behind this. Who was behind the mask of Red Hood. His gut feeling was being confirmed over and over. No matter how stubbornly Bruce and Dick avoided his questions and didn't give anything away, deep inside, he knew.

Nightwing glanced at Robin's rigid form, then his gaze turned into a glare focusing on Batman. He patted the kid's shoulder encouragingly, mistaking the reason behind his tension. Moving past Robin, he went to stand next to Batman, grim eyes hidden behind his mask.

"Fuck," Nightwing muttered under his breath at the blood-drenched basement they were standing in. "This needs to stop. Do you understand now, why…"

"Don't. Now is not the time," Batman cut him off. "Call Gordon. And stay in the area until they clean the scene up. Don't mention Red Hood."

"Why? Where are you going?" Nightwing asked, his tone coming out clipped.

Bruce shot him a look. "To take care of this." He turned to leave, but Dick's hand circling around his arm stopped him.

"You shouldn't go alone," Nightwing said tensely.

"I'll be fine," Batman reassured him, and Nightwing scoffed.

"Yeah, it's not you I'm worried about," Nightwing said quietly. Pointedly.

"Not the time, Dick," Bruce growled.

"It's never the time," Nightwing answered exasperatedly.

Bruce refused to get into it then and there. Dick was incessant on figuring out a way to get Jason back to them. He had more than once proposed they should help Jason kill Joker and get his revenge, help him get over it once and for all, and redeem themselves in Jay's eyes. Stop his rage-fueled killing sprees. But that talk always led to fights, threats, words they both regretted, slamming doors, and dressing-downs from Alfred.

"You have your orders," Bruce intoned and moved towards the door.

Robin followed Batman's movements with a bewildered gaze. "Where are you going?" He repeated Nightwing's question, Bruce's earlier answer not in the slightest appeasing him, eyes unable to hide his worry even behind his mask.

"Stay with Nightwing. He's in charge," Batman tossed over his shoulder, stalking out of the building, fists clenched.

Making it to street level, Bruce mounted the Batcycle parked in the dark alley next to the building. The powerful roar cut through the stillness of the night as he sped down the street. The cold air did little to ease his anger—an anger directed mostly at himself. His failure with Jason, and not just once. The unfairness of his son coming back to life but being in this unrecognizable state. His son turned into a murderer. The price of Jason's precious life being all the lives he kept taking. The League's catastrophic effects on him. The knowledge that Jason needed to be stopped. But how the hell would he stop him? How the hell could he help him? Dick's words echoed in his mind, but he refused to go down that road.

Reaching the deserted outskirts of town where he knew Jason was staying, Bruce rode the bike to the barely-standing house. He'd been there once before when he'd followed Jason unnoticed to find out where he lived. Batman parked the Batcycle and dismounted. Eyeing the illuminated windows of the weathered building, he stood there for a few seconds, trying to figure out how to go about this. What could he say? What could he do? How would he look into Jay's eyes and what would he find there? He invoked his training, trying to pull it together—to steady and distance himself from the situation. But how could he? How could he distance himself from Jay? He was not prepared for this. Nothing had ever prepared him to face his son as a villain.

Jaw clenching, he walked to the window and glanced inside, hidden in the shadows. His trained eyes immediately noticed Jason's body lying on the floor. He smashed the glass with a powerful punch, sharp shards raining over him, and leaped inside. Rushing to Jason's still figure, he felt his heart stop and his breath catch in his throat. Bruce grabbed Jason's jaw and turned his head left and right, his panicked eyes taking in the pale face and glassy gaze. Flashbacks of finding Jay's broken dead body five years ago intruded into his mind.

"Jay! Jay!" Bruce rasped, his fogged brain finally managing to order his trembling fingers to check for a pulse. The room swirled around him as the faint thumping sensation against his fingers registered.

"God, Jay," Bruce exhaled in a hoarse voice he barely recognized. Forcing himself to clear his mind, to focus, to analyze and take action, he got to his feet and scanned the space around him. He noticed the cluttered kitchen table. Stepping closer, he glanced at the empty shot glass, the whiskey bottle, the random blue credit card. He swiped two fingers on the wooden surface and brought them close to his eyes for inspection, noticing the white particles that contrasted against the black of his gloves. His eyes swept the rest of the room, his gaze landing on the briefcase. Moving to it, he opened it and took in what was inside. Closing it again, he inspected the blood-stained leather exterior. His eyes traveled back to Jason's still figure, his ghostly face, his haunted expression.

Bruce moved closer to Jason, sinking to the floor beside him. Gently, he lifted Jason's head, cradling it on his thigh. His eyes lingered on the pale face, taking in his son's eyes. The blue was almost vanished, replaced by the total black of his dilated pupils, making his gaze look even more hollow and lost. One trembling hand caressed the black strands of hair before combing back the white strands in the front. Realizing this was the first time he was holding him, or touching him in a way that didn't include exchanging punches and kicks, since he had been back, his throat constricted. The last time he had this body in his arms, Jason was smaller. So much smaller. A fifteen-year-old kid. Light and lifeless.

Closing his eyes, Bruce drew in a steadying breath before calling out, "Nightwing, respond," activating his comm.

"Here. Go ahead."

"Has Gordon arrived?"

"Yes. They're securing the perimeter and collecting evidence as we speak," came the laconic response.

"Good. Take Tim home. Call Leslie and ask her to get to the Cave as fast as possible. Inform Alfred and have him ensure Tim stays away from the Cave. Then bring the Batmobile to the coordinates I'll send you."

"Is it…"

"Jay needs help. Hurry. End call."

When the beep in his ear signaled the end of the call, Bruce quickly removed his gloves before running his hands softly through Jason's hair again, fingers trailing over his forehead and the side of his face.

"I'm here, Jay. I'm right here."

Jason struggled to peel open his bloodshot eyes. They did for a second before closing again. An intense throbbing spread from his nape to his forehead, the pain obliterating any attempt at thinking. Sensing took over. He hated this part. His whole body ached—a deep, almost unbearable heaviness on every single muscle, stiffness that made it hard to even ponder movement. His mouth was parched dry, tongue practically glued to his palate, throat scratching with each intake of air. And then it registered. The smell. It wasn't the familiar stale stench of his house. It smelled crisp—lemongrass detergent and disinfectant.

Fuck.

He heard the beeping sound of a monitor. The slow, steady sound gradually gained speed.

Fuck!

Fighting against the pain and sluggishness, he forced his eyes open. They objected when light attacked them, and he squinted, stifling a groan. He blinked several times, with each blink familiar details intruding into his vision. The walls of the cave. The monitor hooked up to him. The med bay. He attempted to sit up, but his body gave him the equivalent of a flip-off, refusing to cooperate. He heard steps approaching, and his pulse quickened, the erratic beeping echoing in the space around him. A white-adorned figure approached.

Leslie. Fucking. Thompkins.

Another attempt to sit up. Another fail. Another groan.

"PCP does that to you," the woman told him as she walked right next to him, taking a small penlight from her white robe's front pocket and moving it close to his eyes, flicking it uncomfortably close to Jason's face. Jolts of pain shot through his head as his eyes involuntarily followed the light around.

Fucking light!

"And you had to mix it with alcohol, too. You never do anything halfway, do you Jay?"

"Don't call me that," Jason attempted to growl, but his voice came out too weak and hoarse.

He watched Leslie's gaze lingering on him. He could read her effort to push through the shock of seeing him there, talking to him, having an actual visual of his heart beating hard. Jason Todd Wayne back from the dead. The doctor didn't say anything more but grabbed the remote on the table next to the medical bed and pressed one of its buttons. Jason felt the bed shifting beneath him, propping his torso to a slightly more upright position. Leslie grabbed a glass of water with a straw next and, to Jason's horror, brought it to his mouth. He glared at the woman but parted his lips and took a few sips, the cold water washing some of the dryness of his mouth away.

"Very particular dosing you managed. Just enough to knock you out entirely. Not enough to knock you out permanently. A slim thread of dust particles in between these two," Leslie said conversationally.

"What can I say, I'm a pro," Jason rasped.

Leslie hummed doubtfully, scanning the monitor. As a second set of steps echoed, the beeping intensified once fixed his bewildered eyes on the entrance of the med bay. His face contorted in an effort not to react emotionally upon spotting Alfred's figure rushing to his side. The old man's face was a mask of relief and worry, his eyes moist. Alfred didn't ask for permission; he didn't show hesitation. He simply sat next to Jason and drew him into a strong hug. Jason blinked and felt a rock settle in his throat. He didn't remember the last time he had been hugged.

"Jason," Alfred uttered, his tone so thick that it made Jason close his eyes and draw in a shaky breath. He managed to fight the urge to hide his face in the crook of Alfred's neck but inhaled the comforting scent of the man: freshly laundered clothes, a hint of cologne, and polished leather.

"My boy…"

"Hey, Alf," Jason croaked out.

Jason waited patiently for Alfred to break the embrace. When he did, their eyes locked, and Alfred brought a hand to cup Jason's face, examining it.

"You're all grown up," Alfred stated, his lips twitching between tiny smiles and pained grimaces.

"Right back at ya," Jason said, a tiny smile playing on his lips for a few seconds.

"What did you do, Jason? Why?" Alfred asked, his voice heavy with worry and sorrow.

"No need to worry about me, Alf. I'm a big boy," Jason said dismissively.

"Jason, you have to st…"

"Don't," Jason cut him off, hardness settling in his tone. "I won't. He shouldn't have brought me here. He had no right…"

"He doesn't care," Bruce's voice echoed next, silence following his words.

Jason's face tensed, jaw clenching, and nostrils flaring. His insides ignited at the sound of the man's voice and his presence in the room. Jason watched him approaching, dressed in a pair of sleek all-black sweats.

"Master Bruce," Alfred tried…

"I need a minute with Jay alone," Bruce cut him off.

"Don't call me that," Jason growled.

Bruce didn't respond.

Alfred turned and gave Jason one more hug. "Don't leave without saying goodbye. Preferably, just don't leave," Alfred told him.

Returning the hug, Jason shook his head at the man. "See you around, Alf." He tracked the butler's movements, how he got up from his bed and turned to face Bruce. Jason didn't need a visual to know exactly the type of look Alfred was sending Bruce in that moment. His lips twitched in a short-lived smile of satisfaction.

"Keep it civil, you two," Leslie spoke next. "I mean it. Jason is in no state to over-exert himself." Her eyes shifted from Jason to Bruce before turning her back to them and following Alfred. "I'll be in the other room. Holler if you need me," she said as she left.

"So what is this?" Bruce asked, his tone rumbling low. "Murder sprees for the main course and self-tranquilizing yourself for dessert?"

"More like appetizer and main course," Jason answered.

"Jason, you're many things, but stupid isn't one of them!"

Jason let out a mirthless chuckle. "Oh, do enlighten me, Wayne. Mount your high horse and let me know what I am and what I'm not. Pretend you know me."

"I do know you. Better than anyone. Better than you know your damn self," Bruce said in a hard tone, hands gripping the metal railing at the end of the bed, knuckles whitening.

"You'll never change. Your arrogance is your blind spot," Jason spat, his eyes filling with contempt and rage, his skin tingling all over as his emotions skyrocketed. "Your fucking certainty that you know best than anyone. Your pretend morals. Weaponizing kids to join your fucked-up revenge trip. Drawing the line at killing, thinking it makes a difference…"

"Enough!"

"I'll decide when I've said enough!" Jason thundered. "Just like I decide when I've had enough! You don't hold any power over me, you sick old cripple-fuck! Not anymore! None!"

Bruce's gaze darkened and Jason smirked.

"You might be used to raising your voice and having your poster-boy and The Replacement falling right into line…"

"Don't call him that! He isn't a replacement…"

"The fuck he isn't!" Jason seethed. "He is nothing but a replacement. Your old weapon was broken, so you got yourself a new one. Until this one gets broken too, and you replace it again. That's all we've ever been… Except for your Poster-boy, of course. But maybe he is disposable too, and was lucky enough to make it out of here before you got him killed…"

"Shut up, Jason!" Bruce snarled.

"What's up, Brucie? Not liking hearing the truth? Not liking that someone sees right through your little family act?" Jason said with an icy smile. His right hand went to the IV, and he snatched the tubing, pulling it out.

"Stop! You're going to hurt yourself," Bruce growled, taking a step to stop him, but Jason had already stood up on shaky legs.

"You disgust me." Jason snarled, taking a step and groaning in rage when he felt his legs buckling. "I hate you"

Bruce rushed to his side and grabbed him before he could collapse. Jason tried to punch the man, but his movements were still severely uncoordinated.

Bruce easily dodged it before shoving the heavy body back onto the bed. "I will tie you down if I have to," he informed Jason in an ominous tone.

"I don't care," Jason seethed. "How long do you think you have? How long do you think you'll be able to keep me here against my will? In a matter of hours I'll be good as new and ready to tear out of this place. Maybe I'll even pay a visit to Tim first. Meet him formally. Tell him who I am. Who he is. Who knows, we might hit it off and end up having some fun together!"

"You won't go near Tim until you're stable…"

"Until I'm stable?" Jason repeated in amused disbelief. "You losing brain matter in your old age? You think this is temporary?" Jason laughed, a laughter that caused Bruce's jaw to tighten.

"I can help you, Jay…"

"Don't you fucking call me that again!" Jason boomed.

"I can help you work through that rage, whatever the League…"

Jason chuckled. "You think this is all League brain-fucking me, Bruce?"

Bruce stared back at Jason, shoulders squared. Jason could tell he was trying hard to maintain his controlled facade. It was amusing, really.

"No… You see, Bruce… The Pit, the League… Their effect is amplifying. It's feeding the fires that are already burning inside…"

"Killing Joker wouldn't bring you back," Bruce cut him off through clenched teeth.

"I don't give a shit! I don't give a shit what you keep telling yourself to justify any of it. You claimed I was your son! That fucker beat me into a pulp with a crowbar, broke me, blew up the fucking building he'd trapped me in, and killed me," Jason's chest was rising and falling with the intensity of his rage. "And you spared his life. He's still fucking out there! Killing people. Innocent fucking people, not criminals, like I do! And you let him live! And then replace me with another fucking kid!"

"I didn't replace you, Jason! It was two damn years before I even considered Tim becoming a Robin. And I didn't find him, I didn't look for a Robin. Never would have, not after you. Tim found me! I was spiraling without you, I was… I was close to what you've become now when he approached me and pushed and pushed and kept pushing until I got my shit together…"

"And put him in my suit," Jason cut him off with a broken smile. "And then I come back… I break my still broken body out of a fucking coffin, dig myself out of the earth, having no idea what is going on or why… I collapse only to wake up six months later to Talia having just shoved me into a fluorescent pond. And I finally make it back here, only to see a Replacement in my fucking suit. Your golden boy back around, too. I guess when I was out of the picture you made sure to bring back the son you actually cared about."

Jason's tone gained volume as he continued his tirade. "And Joker… Fucking Joker terrorizing the city like he always did. Talia had told me, but I didn't believe her. I couldn't. I was sure it was all a plot to keep me in the League. But she was fucking right. So I'm coming back to all this… And you still had the nerve to stop me from killing Joker! Not to mention the times you beat the crap out of me for killing some low-life piece of shit who was raping and murdering…"

"I didn't know it was you when that happened…"

"I don't fucking care! I don't care what you knew and what you didn't. I'm not telling you all this to give you a chance to explain. I don't give a fucking shit about your explanations! I'm only saying all this to make you realize exactly why and how you're dead to me! Dead to me," Jason snarled.

Bruce stared back at him silently, his face spasming in an effort to keep his neutral facade.

Jason was panting by now. A torrent of anger, bitterness, resentment, sadness, all coursing through him. "I don't care what you do or what you don't from now on, Bruce! Don't you get it? I don't care if you have a whole army of miserable boys playing the role of your emotional crutches and fighting your supposedly moral wars. I don't give a fuck for your no-killing rule. I don't care what you think of me. I'm not yours."

"The hell you aren't! You're my son, Jason, and that will never change!"

Jason laughed bitterly at the man's booming words. "Too little too late, Wayne. I'm not your son. You're not my father. And the ugly truth is you never were. You never really cared, and I couldn't care less about you, your puppies, and whatever the fuck you do…"

"Then why did you take the Dust?"

Bruce's question cracked in the room like thunder. The reverberating silence that followed him was only broken by Jason's panting breath.

"You keep going on and on about how much you don't care… Then why are you using freaking elephant tranquilizers, Jason? Mixing it with alcohol? Flirting with overdose? Does any of that sound to you like not caring?" Bruce continued, stepping closer to Jason.

Jay's eyes prickled, but he didn't let the tears out. His face spasmed as he tried to gather his composure.

"That has nothing…"

"The hell it doesn't! You're screaming for help, Jason. And the truth of the matter is I don't give a damn if you're done with me, because I'm not done with you. I don't give a damn if you don't see me as your father. You'll always be my son, no matter what. No matter how many murders you commit, no matter how many times you run, each and every time I'll be right behind you."

Jason broke eye contact with the man, hating the effect it still had on him.

"I held your body, Jason. Your broken dead body. I had to carry you home. To clean you up and put you in a coffin and watch you being buried six feet under," the trembling in Bruce's voice shook Jason more than he'd ever admit. Breaking something inside.

"Yeah, well, I should have been left in that fucking coffin. Nobody asked me if I wanted to come back. You ask why the Dust? Because it fucking feels like I'm dead. And there's nothing I crave more than being back in that fucking void!" Jason's voice was trembling with rage and despair.

Jason watched Bruce blinking several times after his words. He could tell the man was trying to digest them. And Jason savored the moment that Bruce's mask cracked and his eyes moistened in realization of what Jason had just admitted.

"I know I failed you," Bruce said quietly. "But I didn't fail you by not killing Joker. I failed you when I didn't get to you in time. When I couldn't save you. Even before that. I failed you if you're now standing there doubting I saw you or loved you as anything less than a son. And I failed you when I didn't try harder with you after learning you were back. But I won't fail you again. I won't be too late ever again, whether you like it or not. You can give up on me, son, but I'll never -ever- give up on you."

Jason exhaled loudly and fixed his gaze on the wall behind Bruce. He wanted to pounce and he wanted to run. He wanted to punch Bruce, to beat the shit out of him. Leave him in a heap of flesh on the floor for Leslie and Alfred to put back together. He would if he could, and he hated that he couldn't. He hated how cornered he was. He hated that the fire inside had subsided. More than that, he hated the effect this fucking man had on him, since the first time he laid eyes on him, trying to steal the damn tires of the Batmobile. And most of all, he hated how desperately he missed his touch. His arms. He almost wished he was the dead body Bruce had just described, only to be held in his arms again.

"Leslie," Jason called out, not seeing any other way out, his body still too weak to run or overpower Batman and his fucking batshits.

The rushing steps echoed after a few seconds, and the woman entered the room, trying to pretend she had no idea what had transpired between the two.

"Take him out of here, or I swear to God I'll smash my head through the monitor," Jason snapped, stubbornly keeping his gaze away from the man.

"Bruce, come on. He needs to rest and recover," Leslie said softly, a hand clasping Bruce's arm.

Bruce didn't resist her. He simply nodded. "I'll come see you later, Jay."

Jason watched from the corner of his eye as Bruce retreated from the room.

"Lie back down properly, please," Leslie instructed next. She looked for the IV and sighed when she realized he had ripped it out. The cannula still in place, Leslie simply replaced the IV bag with a fresh one and hooked the new tube in. "If you manage to stay down long enough for the IV to actually do its work, you'll be ready to leave by morning," Leslie informed him.

"I'll be long gone by morning."

"You won't do yourself any favors if you leave before your body is somewhat recuperated after what you did to it last night."

"My body has been through much worse," Jason responded evenly.

"Jason, you need to stop while you still can. PCP is not something to play with. You wouldn't want to die stupidly by inadvertent OD, after coming back from the dead," the woman told him, a concerned look on her face.

"So many assumptions in that last sentence, doc," Jason said with a hollow smile.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Jason never answered. Turning his head in the opposite direction, he ignored her presence completely and closed his eyes, begging the universe to help him get some sleep and escape his own mind.

The house was quiet. Jason wondered if Alfred was asleep or just pretending to make this easier for both of them. Jason didn't stop the sad smile that etched on his lips. His mind jumped to the short goodbye he shared with the man during dinner. He had woken up with a loaded bed-tray being deposited over his legs. Alfred had made all of his favorites, and Jason was touched at the gesture. The two of them ate together, talking about random things, Alfred treading carefully on various topics. Jason knew the man was afraid of saying the wrong thing and setting him off, losing the little time he'd have with him sooner. Alfred had made him promise they'd see each other again. Jason, against his better judgment, gave him his phone number but made him vow to not share it with Bruce. Ever. Alfred had promised.

He walked up from the cave and into the living room. Nothing had changed. The imposing old-fashioned furniture, the same heavy drapes, the thick carpets. Even the smell of the place was mostly the same. Mostly. Jason glanced around as he walked to the front door, forcing himself not to linger. There was no point. The moment he stepped outside, his chest felt less constricted. He walked along the garden and towards the gate. His body felt mostly back to normal. There was some lingering fatigue and heaviness, but nothing he couldn't push through. The cold night air brushed pleasantly on his face, carrying the smell of cedar trees and soon-to-fall rain.

"Leaving already?"

Jason's fists clenched at his sides as he turned to his right, seeing Dick walking briskly towards him.

"Fuck off, Dick!" Jason could swear Grayson smiled, but it was dark, so who really knew. "How come you're not trotting behind Bruce?"

"I don't do that much anymore."

"Bullshit. You're back to staying here," Jason snapped, almost accusingly. He could swear Dick flinched.

"For Tim. Not Bruce."

"Of course. The Replacement. You stick around for him…" Jason said bitterly.

"Because of you," Dick added in a somber tone. When Jason turned to glare at him, Dick shook his head. "Not because of you in that sense. I don't think you'd kill him."

Jason snorted. Dick ignored him.

"I couldn't stand it if another kid ended up dead like you. If I was here when…" Dick's voice trailed off, thick with emotion.

"Yeah, well… No point in ifs. You weren't. But you're here now… For the fucking Replacement," Jason chuckled in savage bitterness. "God, I wish I was still dead."

"Don't say that…"

"Fuck off, Grayson!"

"Did you really almost OD?"

"If I wanted to OD, I'd have ODed," Jason snapped.

"I want to help you," Dick said, sensing Jason was ready to bolt.

"Narcotics Anonymous isn't really my style, so I'll pass…"

"To kill Joker," Dick clarified.

Jason stilled. He slowly turned to look at Dick through narrowed eyes.

"You want to help me kill somebody?" Jason questioned disbelievingly. "You expect me to buy this? What's the agenda D.?"

"No agenda. Only regrets and redemption. I wish I could turn back time and fix this. I wish I was here to help, to save you. I wish I never left to begin with. Not without you, at least." Dick kicked a stone laying near his foot, an owl hooting in the distance bridging the silence between him and Jason.

"But I can't fix any of these things, Jay," Dick continued earnestly. "I can only fix now. Us. So let me help you kill the fucker and put it all behind us. If anyone deserves death, that's him. And if that's what it takes, to be back in your life, to stop your rage-killing-sprees… If that's what it takes to trust me as your brother again, then so be it."

Jason remained silent, his eyes taking in the blurred details of Dick's face in the dark, starless night. He tried to process what he was hearing. He wanted to believe Dick's words. He desperately wanted to. But he couldn't. He shouldn't. He wouldn't.

"So, you expect me to believe you'll just flip off Bruce and go Darth Vader with me?" Jason asked tauntingly.

"I don't expect you to believe anything. Not yet. I'm just asking for a chance to prove to you that you can," came Dick's measured reply.

"What is this? Some Trojan horse shit you and B. came up with? You get all cozy with me and then what? What's the grand plan? Lock me up somewhere? Arkham maybe?" Jason let out a loud laugh at that. "Now, that would be something!"

"There's no hidden agenda, Jay." Dick's voice gained a sharpness Jason had never heard before. "I walked on eggshells for too long, Jay. I forgave too much. I let him dictate what I do or don't do all my life. Not any more. And this time… This time I'm gonna make sure he either gets a hell of a wake up call, or he loses all of us."

"All of us?"

"All of us. Tim included, if it comes to it… I'm not leaving him behind," Dick said, his tone gaining back some of its usual smoothness.

"You were always a late bloomer, but it's a tad late in the game for rebellion against your daddy don't you think? We both know you'll be on your knees begging B. for forgiveness while the body's still warm." Jason crossed his arms in front of his chest, eyeing Bruce's Poster boy with doubt and contempt.

"No, you see… You're so focused on your own daddy issues that you're not listening. I'm very intentional about this," Dick said impatiently. "And it's three birds with one stone kind of situation. I redeem myself to you, you get your revenge and stop murdering every villain in the vicinity, and Bruce redeems himself to all of us. By the end of it, if anyone is begging for forgiveness, that's gonna be him."

"So there is an agenda. And what makes you think I'll stop killing?" Jason asked with sincere interest.

"Stop, don't stop, your burden to bear. I won't turn my back on you for that. Would I like you to stop? Yeah, I would. But that's your choice not mine"

Jason took in the words. Pondered them. Then promptly turned his back and walked towards the gate.

"Fuck off, Grayson."

He felt Dick's eyes on his back.

"I'm not giving up, Jay. And my offer stands. I'll be keeping in touch."

"I won't be holding my breath," Jay responded bitterly.

"Don't OD, fuckface!"

"Die, dickhead!"

A/N: Please keep in mind I haven't touched any Batman material in more than 10 years. And even back then my knowledge stemmed from a small bunch of Hollywood movies, a few scattered comic books my brother owned and I'd read occasionally, an animated series I watched as a preteen, and fanfiction. Which is why I might have gotten voices off, or details wrong. I don't know, you tell me (pretty please :D)

Regarding Bruce, to me it makes perfect sense that he'd lose his footing for a while. Entirely consumed in grief for the death of the son he knew and lost and meeting this new version of him. This unstable, vicious, murdering Jason. In a way he's losing Jason all over again, while also being relieved he gets him back, even in this state. There must be intense mental-clashing within him. Complicated, contradicting feelings. Guilt, fear, uncertainty. He doesn't face a murderous villain. This is his son, who's struggling, Craving revenge, feeling abandoned, replaced and like his death ultimately didn't mean anything to Bruce -since he refused to kill Joker to avenge him. I just can't stand seeing Bruce putting on his usual facade and tackling this as ruthlessly and effectively as he would any other person hiding behind Red Hood's mask. And the few random comic-strips I found online felt so… superficial? Just cruelly beating each other up as Batman-Redhood. Total abusive jerk-ass Bruce. Poor writing in my opinion, because Bruce's character has so much more to offer. And this ethical dilemma and contradiction is chef-kiss for a ton of storylines. So basically I'm annoyed that canonically there's no exploration of all the gray fucked-up areas in between.

Thanks for coming to my ted-talk :P