Chapter Text
"I always thought birds should have nests," he murmured, as if talking to himself. "But sometimes, a bird flies too far—so far it can never find its way back."
"Some birds aren’t meant to land. They’re born in storms, and they return to the long night."
---
1.
Death is a long, drawn-out process.
Jason Todd slept in the dark for so long that he nearly forgot who he was—forgot the searing heat of flames, the taste of blood and fury in his throat, the sound of that shrill, maddening laughter—
But even in death, he could hear something. An echo, pounding against his consciousness like a broken record.
"Jason—"
"I was too late..."
—A voice.
—The last voice he’d ever heard.
---
He woke in pain.
A burning, all-consuming agony, as if his soul were igniting his rotting corpse, forging something new.
Then, the world shattered.
Glass exploded. Cold liquid spilled out. His body hit the ground, wet, trembling, naked—weak as a newborn.
"Vengeance will set you right," Talia al Ghul whispered. "Bruce couldn’t save you. But we can."
Jason didn’t remember the name. He didn’t even remember his own name. His mind was blank, and strangely, he didn’t care.
"It's a side effect of the Lazarus Pit," Talia said. Whatever. Jason couldn't bring himself to care—not when Talia claimed his name was Jason Todd, not when his own mind felt like a hollowed-out shell.
He followed Talia across the world.
He mastered tactical combat in Russia, learned to modify and conceal weapons from Eastern Europe's black-market arms dealers. In Brazil's favelas, he took out drug lords. The battlefields of Africa taught him how to survive—and how to kill.
In Nepal, he met an old man with snow-white hair—the kind of true master who only exists in legends.
He stayed with him for three months and came out a damn good cook. Talia loved his flatbread and grilled fish.
For five years, fragments of memory flickered at the edges of his mind—a black cape, laughter, cold metal, and the name Talia had mentioned.
Bruce.
The memory fragment that haunted him most was a pair of warm, heavy hands resting on his shoulders—hands that stirred a strange, aching longing in his chest.
Yet whenever Jason tried to focus on that face, the dream would shatter into crimson blood and flames.
"...What’s Bruce’s full name?" Jason asked one day, after putting a bullet in a minor Italian crime lord’s skull.
Talia's face betrayed nothing, as was her way.
"Remembering something?"
Jason frowned. "...Dunno. Can’t tell."
"Bruce Thomas Wayne," Talia said, vaulting over a wall. "He’s in Gotham. Go find him, if you want."
Jason scoffed. "Pass."
But after that, Bruce’s shadow followed him everywhere.
Not literally—Jason still couldn’t picture his face. Just a dark silhouette, watching from the corners of his vision.
In Tanzania, during an underground fight, Jason faced a mountain of a man. The brute’s fists hit like sledgehammers. Jason dodged, but the cramped space left him no room—he took a few hits.
Fuck, that hurt.
"You’re hesitating." Talia observed from the sidelines.
A deeper voice cut through the noise: "Never hesitate in battle, Jason."
Bruce. Standing in the shadows, stern as ever.
Jason’s next punch cracked the man’s temple, knocking him out cold.
He collapsed, gasping.
"Thanks, old man." he muttered without thinking.
After that, the hallucinations worsened.
Once, while driving, Bruce appeared in the passenger seat.
"You shouldn’t act on impulse."
"Analyze the situation."
"One day, this recklessness will get you killed."
A hand ruffled his hair.
Jason slammed the brakes.
Talia stared at him. "You should return to Gotham."
"...Not interested."
The Lazarus Pit's grip on him was fading. Jason stomped on the accelerator—yet for reasons he couldn't name, a wave of panic seized his chest.
Then, on a rainy night in Eastern Europe—mid-mission, hiding in a crumbling apartment, bloodied knife in hand—Jason remembered everything.
A flash of memory:
"Jason, STOP!"
The man grabbing his fist mid-swing, grip unshakable.
"You’re not a killer."
Jason’s eyes snapped open.
His heart pounded—not from the fight, but from the flood of returning memories.
Bruce Thomas Wayne.
Batman.
He was going home.
When Talia arrived, she found an empty room and a discarded knife.
---
2.
Jason returned to Gotham with questions.
Had Bruce avenged him? Mourned him? Been disappointed in him?
Most of all—after five years of bloodshed, could he ever be Robin again?
But the moment his boots hit Gotham’s streets, he knew:
This wasn’t home anymore.
Wayne Manor had become a museum.
Tourists swarmed the halls, snapping photos of Batarangs in glass cases. A guide cheerfully recounted Batman’s "death" like it was a blockbuster plot twist:
"...to stop the rampaging Batman, the government called in Superman. The final battle ended atop Wayne Tower—where the mask was torn away, revealing the unthinkable truth: the legendary Dark Knight was none other than Bruce Wayne himself."
"His body was taken by his eldest son, Dick Grayson, who refused to disclose the burial site..."
"Most scholars concur that the tragedy of Crime Alley fundamentally reshaped Bruce Wayne—"
Jason’s fists clenched.
Every word was bullshit.
Jason stood apart from the crowd, watching them dissect Bruce's life with casual detachment—shaking their heads in performative pity before tossing out a hollow "what a shame."
His fists clenched hard enough to bleach his knuckles white.
Every word was bullshit.
The "rogue Batman" narrative. The "government had no choice" excuse. The "Superman killed him at Wayne Tower" fairytale.
None of it was true.
Anyone who'd truly known Bruce—known Batman—would see through this charade.
Bruce Wayne didn't die like some common lunatic. The Dark Knight wouldn't fall to his own ally over fabricated crimes.
That stubborn bastard was somewhere, pulling strings in the shadows. This whole circus? Just another one of his goddamn contingency plays.
Jason turned on his heel—this place was no longer home. Three names burned in his mind like targets on a hit list:
Dick Grayson. Superman. Alfred.
---
3.
Jason stood before a grave, silent as stone.
Wind whipped through the cemetery, scattering dead leaves.
The tombstone read:
ALFRED PENNYWORTH
Loyal butler
Beloved father
"...Who did this?" Jason’s voice was barely audible.
"Time, Little Wing. Just time."
Dick’s voice—older, rougher, but still infuriatingly gentle.
Jason didn’t turn. Couldn’t bear to see the wrinkles, the wheelchair.
"Bullshit."
"Language," Dick chided, wheeling closer. "Show some respect for your elders."
"Fuck you, Grayson."
"That’s Uncle Grayson to you."
Dick smirked.
"On good days when I ditch the wheelchair, you’ll be the one hauling me across streets and giving up subway seats, kid."
Jason’s jaw tightened. "...I was only gone five years."
Dick's gaze lingered on Alfred's headstone. The silence between them thickened, settling over the graveyard like fog.
"Know what my first thought was when you rolled up in that wheelchair?"
"Hm?"
"That it was some stupid prank you and the old man cooked up."Jason's voice carried a manufactured sneer. "Kept waiting for you to leap out from behind it, laughing about how I fell for Bruce playing dress-up as you."
For the first time, Dick genuinely laughed—a sound thick with nostalgia.
"Damn, I would've pulled that shit in my prime. Too bad my punching days are over—and trust me, kid, when you called bullshit earlier? I ached to deck you."
"Try it."
"Help me stand first."
Jason didn't laugh. His hands balled into fists inside his jacket pockets, nails biting deep enough to draw blood. The coppery taste of rust filled his throat—and for one fractured moment, death seemed kinder than standing here, breathing.
"Just tell me what happened."
"Ah, what can I say? Those glory days are long gone."Dick sighed, the words tinged with wistful resignation.
"Cut the crap. I need answers."Jason's voice was razor-sharp.
Dick didn't reply immediately. Jason stood rooted in place, tension coiling tighter with each passing second.
"...The Joker."
Dick's voice was quiet, but the name hit Jason like a shotgun blast. His head whipped around, eyes locking onto Dick's face with razor focus.
"He planted a chip in my skull—packed with his DNA, his consciousness. A failsafe."Dick's fingers tapped absently at his temple. "The second he died, it would've woken up... used me as his goddamn backup body."
Jason's breath came out in a sharp hiss.
"How the hell— He was still alive? After me? After everything??"Jason's voice cracked like a whip. "That bastard got another shot at you?!"
A weary sigh escaped Dick as he rubbed at his eyes—suddenly looking every bit his age. "It's... complicated, Little Wing."
"No, he's dead now—none of us were ready... Point is, that chip in my head was his contingency plan. Bruce found it, removed it—and frankly, radiation-induced rapid aging beats turning into the Joker any day."
"...What do you mean, 'none of you were ready'?"*Jason's voice sharpened like a blade.
"It's... a long story. Maybe over tea—"
"Cut the crap, Grayson." Jason stepped into Dick's space. "I don't want your nostalgia. Skip the fluff. What. Happened."
Dick met his gaze from the wheelchair, his salt-and-pepper temples and weathered face suddenly seeming like a poorly crafted disguise—some grotesque parody of aging.
The wind howled through the cemetery, plucking dead leaves from the ground and sending them swirling like a snowfall of rust.
"After you died, Bruce lost himself.He threw the Joker back in Arkham—but the Batman grew more reckless, more violent... until the day the Joker escaped."Dick's fingers tightened on the wheelchair arms. "Bruce chased him into an amusement park tunnel.No one knows what truly happened in there. "
"When the cops finally arrived, all they found was a corpse with a snapped neck—the Joker's."
"Then all hell broke loose—the media declared Batman had gone rogue, the government ordered Superman to put him down. Bruce manipulated me into leaving Gotham... by the time I fought my way back?"Dick's throat worked. "All that remained was a body to bury."
"The last time I saw Bruce, he was removing that damn chip from my skull. Then he sent me to Blüdhaven on a wild goose chase—some phantom suspect that never existed."
"Alfred left us six months ago. Right at the kitchen table—"Dick's voice hitched. "I was drinking his damn coffee. He smiled at me, didn't say a word... just collapsed. Time took him gently, in the end."
Jason stood frozen, nailed to the earth. His lips parted—no words came.
What should he feel?
Shock? Grief? Rage? Or that old, festering bitterness?
This was beyond absurd. Five years. Not fifty. How could the world fracture so completely in just—
Five years.
He remembered his death-night in perfect clarity—the firestorm, the concussive blast, copper-rich blood filling his mouth, that goddamn laughter ringing in his ears until the final boom silenced everything.
That should've been the end.
Yet here he stood.
Only to wake in what feels like a goddamn alternate timeline.
"You've all gone batshit insane."Jason's laugh was razor-wire taut. "What kind of fucked-up fanfic timeline is this? The old man's dead. Alfred's dead. The Joker's playing fucking resurrection roulette. And since when does the Big Blue Boy Scout take government orders to put down Batman?"
He jabbed a finger at Dick's wheelchair.
"And you—christ, I can't even call you 'Old Man Grayson' anymore. You look like my goddamn grandfather."
Dick’s gaze softened—the look of an aging eldest brother staring down at the family’s still-rebellious youngest.
“We thought you were gone, too,” he admitted, smiling faintly. “Really gone. The permanent kind. The ‘lying quietly in a coffin like most dead people’ kind.”
Jason barked a hollow laugh. “Surprise.”
Dick closed his eyes, his voice rough but warm: “Yeah. Hell of a surprise.”
A heavy silence settled over the graveyard—just the wind now, rustling dead leaves across stone.
"If you want to see Bru—"
"Save it." Jason cut him off sharp as a batarang's edge. "I don't need to inspect some staged corpse. Alfred's death? I'll take your word. The rest?" A mirthless smirk. "Still smells like bullshit."
Dick didn’t argue. Just watched him, silent and steady.
“Don’t blame you,” Jason growled. “If the old man ordered me to play along with some death charade, I’d have to obey too. But listen—”
He leaned in, close enough to count the new scars around Dick’s eyes. “I’ll dig him out. Whatever game you’re running? I’ll burn it to the ground.”
"...If this is some fucked-up plan," Jason finally said. "I’ll drag Bruce out of hiding myself. And when I do?"
A sharp grin. "I’m kicking both your asses—Batman and his Golden Boy."
Dick chuckled. "Missed that nickname."
"Don't think sweet-talking me now means I'll go easy on you later."
Dick huffed a tired laugh—all warmth, no bite. "Knew you wouldn't believe me. Go dig up the truth yourself. Wayne Manor's empty now, even the Cave... but the old safe houses still stand."
"Welcome home, Jason."
Jason swiped at his nose, deliberately turning away as if he could physically shake off the sentiment clinging to him.
"Fuck you,Dickie-Bird."
The words lacked their usual edge.
Dick's answering chuckle was low, soothing as lamplight at midnight: "That's more like it, you little shit."
In the end, Jason crouched before the headstone, nudging the flowers aside with a gentleness that betrayed his calloused hands.
"Night, Alfie," he murmured, the words rough but tender. "I'll bring him home."
---
4.
Jason didn’t bother with Wayne Manor. If Dick let it become a tourist trap, there’d be no clues left.
Instead, he claimed a burnt-out apartment—a former drug den, half-collapsed, Jason had broken in during a downpour, the damp inside clinging to his skin like grave soil.
Those safe houses Dick mentioned? Not a fucking chance.You accept favors, you owe favors—and Jason Todd didn't leave paper trails.
Not anymore.
He slept on a thin mat, listening to police scanners. It was like being eight again—dodging through Crime Alley's shadows, surviving on stolen wallets, snatched purses, and whatever the garbage bins wouldn't fight him over.
But he wasn’t hiding. He was waiting.
For a god to come to him.
Between stakeouts, Jason had pieced together a damn fine tactical suit—not that Dickbird hadn't roasted him for the "overdesigned armor."
Like the original disco-wing had room to talk. That first Nightwing spandex might as well have been painted on.
While waiting, he crafted a new identity:
The Red Hood.
The name started as borrowed identity—one of the Joker's discarded aliases, repurposed for his crusade. Jason was no mindless avenger, but Gotham needed a symbol: something fearsome, jarring, unwelcome.
He painted the helmet crimson. Let it gleam under streetlights as he moved through the night—a blade slipped between Gotham's ribs.
By the end of his first night as the Red Hood, one truth became undeniable: Gotham hadn't changed. Not really.
The wail of police sirens. Screams echoing through alleyways. Neon-lit drug deals on street corners. The metallic tang of blood cutting through the ever-present rain.
This was the city that raised him. The city that killed him.
Jason spent his days buried in case files, slipping into GCPD's restricted evidence rooms. His nights belonged to the streets—not to save Gotham like the Bat, but to keep its rot from consuming what little remained.
"You owe this city more than you'll ever repay." Jason wiped down his pistol at the drug den's entrance. "Good news? I only collect in blood."
By dawn, every gang member inside was crawling to the ER. Cops found the warehouse wall defaced with a glaring red bat symbol.
Gotham's forums buzzed by noon—"Red Batman" trending as some new urban myth. Jason nearly shattered his phone screen staring at the idiotic nickname. Somewhere, he knew Dick was laughing his ass off.
So that night, when some punk mugged an old lady near Robinson Park? Jason strung him up from the Clocktower's spire.
The note pinned to the thug's jacket said it all:
"From your friendly neighborhood—Red Hood. No thanks necessary."
---
5.
Gotham PD headquarters was never a welcoming place—least of all for a man with "legally deceased" still stamped across his records.
The precinct reeked of stale coffee and decaying bureaucracy. Peeling paint. Flickering fluorescents. That particular brand of institutional rot that seeped into your bones.
He'd stood in these halls before—in cuffs, under interrogation lights, labeled a "violent offender." Now? Just another ghost digging for truths he knew cops buried deeper than bodies.
Jason kept his stolen patrol jacket’s collar high, face shadowed as he cut through the bullpen like a specter. Straight to Records.
“Pull the case file on the Joker’s death. Three years back.” He leaned against the clerk’s desk—some fresh-faced rookie who hadn’t yet learned Gotham’s first rule: survive first, ask questions never.
“Sir, do you have—”
“Clearance?” Jason’s Glock tapped the counter between them. “Here’s your clearance: either you fetch that file now, or the coroner IDs your body by lunch.”
The kid’s fingers flew across the keyboard, coffee sloshing from his trembling cup.
“Smart kid. Minimum wage ain’t worth dying over.”
Jason tore through the documents—
reports, photos, timelines—
"Tunnel incident."
"Broken neck."
"Batman at large."
Vague descriptions. Too vague. His fingers moved faster.
Then—buried in red tape:
"CLASSIFIED: Transferred to federal custody."
Jason stared straight through the page like it might combust under his glare.
Outside, night had swallowed Gotham whole. The wind carried the wet-dog stench of rain-soaked pavement... and beneath it, the iron whisper of fresh blood. Jason yanked his hood up, lips twisting into something too sharp to call a smile.
"'Federal Custody'? Since when does the feds have a damn Batman task force?"
Three days. That's how long it took to peel back the layers of bureaucratic bullshit labeled "Federal Custody."
Dark web archives. Anonymous Arkham staffers. Loose-lipped DOD analysts drunk off their government pay. The trail led to one inescapable conclusion:
A high-security black site. Military-operated. Need-to-know only.
Every path forward hit the same wall: "CLEARANCE DENIED." Like someone had scrubbed the system raw.
But Jason knew better. The old man had taught him that much—No Cleanup Is Ever Perfect.
For every burned document, there's a clerk who made copies. For every silenced witness, a janitor who heard too much.
He'd start with the human weak points:
- Disgruntled vets drummed out of black ops.
- Contract cleaners who mopped up the aftermath.
- Logistics grunts who drove the trucks.
Everyone leaves traces. Even ghosts.
Jason followed the medical trail of one ex-operative, burning through hours in the Old Gotham records office until hunger gnawed at his resolve.
Around the corner, a dimly lit fast-food joint oozed the stench of old grease and worn linoleum. Behind the counter, a server methodically wiped down surfaces—lean frame, crisp uniform, unruly curls that defied regulation. Every movement deliberate, almost reverent, as if polishing sacred relics rather than a sticky condiment station.
Jason pushed inside, resigned to stomach whatever passed for edible.
"Welcome, what can I get you?"
The voice was light—like a breeze after rain.
Jason glanced up, half-hearted, until—
It hit him like a gut punch.
Behind the counter stood a server in cheap red-and-white polyester, cap pulled low over unruly hair. Early twenties, maybe. Some college kid grinding through a night shift. When he looked up with that awkward smile—
That face.
Not Bruce. But so close it stole his breath.
Younger. Softer at the edges. Carrying a gentleness Bruce Wayne had buried with his parents in Crime Alley. This was a Bruce who might’ve grown up different—one who inherited Wayne Enterprises without first inheriting its ghosts.
Jason flashed to a stolen memory: that photo of teen Bruce in the manor’s album. Nineteen, maybe. Standing stiff beside Alfred in a suit that didn’t yet fit right. A smile not yet weaponized into Brucie’s glittering armor.
Alive in a way Batman never allowed.
The diner’s bell jingled behind him. Jason stood frozen in the doorway, neon and night air licking at his back—
Like the city itself was holding its breath.
Jason stood transfixed, still blocking the doorway.
"Sir?" The server's voice sharpened—polite but edged with move-the-fuck-along.
A jagged laugh escaped Jason. "...Who the hell are you?"
The kid's smile flickered. Just a tremor at the corner of his mouth. "Employee of the month."
"With that face? You should be on a billboard, not deep-frying shit."
"Are you ordering or auditioning for a stalker role?" The server's eye-roll could've powered Gotham for a week. "You're the seventh creep today. Menu's burgers and chicken. No dating sims. Not into dudes."
Jason swaggered inside. "Then how about the 'Do-I-fucking-know-you' combo? "
---
6.
The name tag read: JOE KEEN.
Jason gnawed on rubbery chicken, leaning against the neon-lit window,ate slowly,watching.
This couldn’t be Bruce.
This kid was younger than Jason himself—all sharp cheekbones and baby-faced smoothness. Some trust-fund brat playing at minimum-wage work.
But then—
That smirk. The way the corner of his mouth dipped ever so slightly, just like Bruce's patented "I'm humoring you" expression.
And those eyes. That quiet, cutting gaze that could strip a man to his bones.
Only one person ever looked at Jason like that.
If Dick could age into a grandfather overnight, why couldn't Bruce reverse into some baby-faced college kid?
Jason's stare bored into the server's profile, his ribs suddenly too tight for breathing.
He knew Bruce wasn't dead. The bastard was supposed to be lurking in some shadowy hellhole, orchestrating another world-saving gambit. Not—THIS.
Not slinging fries in a grease-stained apron. Not playing clueless when Jason walked in. Not handing out menus like the last five years never happened.
Like Jason's resurrection meant nothing.
Fuck Batman. This is a fucking insult.
"Hey, you just picking up shifts here?"Jason took a deliberate bite of his burger, feigning nonchalance.
The server—Joe—gave him a sidelong glance, clearly weighing whether to engage. Jason flashed what he knew was a disarmingly charming grin. (And yeah, he was aware of his own market value. When he bothered to turn it on.)
After a beat, the kid caved. "Architecture student. Night shifts cover tuition."
Jason looked down at his food.
Too smooth. Too fucking perfect.
He wasn't entirely sure how he ended up outside the diner.
"Joe Keen."
The name sat on his tongue like a rancid piece of meat—something he couldn't swallow, couldn't spit out.
"I'm losing my fucking mind."
Part of him clawed for proof—
The restrained vigilance in Joe's posture. The surgical precision behind those casual words. That performance of normalcy, polished to an impossible sheen. No civilian could fake that. No one but—
The rest of him begged for contradiction—
Bruce wouldn't be caught dead in a fast-food uniform. Bruce's smiles hadn't been that light since before Jason was born. This kid joked with customers like Gotham's weight didn't exist. Like Jason's death hadn't—
Like none of it ever happened.
No. Batman's death—Bruce's death—had to mean something.
There had to be a reason. A grand scheme. A war brewing in the shadows that demanded this sacrifice. Something worth abandoning Alfred, Dick... even Jason, clawed back from the grave.
He'd endured the hollow aftermath, the wreckage of his return, clinging to the belief that Bruce had no choice.
But if that really was him in there—
How could he stand behind that counter, serving fries like none of it mattered?
How could he smile at strangers like that—
Like it was real.
"Fuck me sideways." Jason muttered to the alley's shadows, watching the diner's flickering sign paint the pavement red. The wind razored under his hood. "I'm standing right here. Do I mean nothing to you?"
A garbage can rattled down the street. Somewhere, a neon tube buzzed like a dying insect.
"If you can waltz around in that stupid uniform... you could've given me one goddamn sign. If it's really you—" His gloves creaked around crumpled napkins. "You were supposed to need this reunion too, goddammit."