Work Text:
His ammunitions teacher has clearly been briefed on Talia's undead pet project. The Italian teaches him as one might describe a recipe they're making to their dog. He does not slow down if Jason isn't following fast enough, and he ignores him entirely when focus is needed. He does not tolerate errors, and it does not take long for Jason to stop making them when the burns from the man's solder iron start to overlap on his arm.
His daughter is different. Closer in age to Jason and talks to him like he's some kind of person. She sits in the workshop, spinning empty casings waiting to be filled with incendiaries, pointing out his mistakes before her father can reprimand him.
Tomorrow is his final test. The bomb he's making is delicate and has a complex ignition timer designed to avoid easy disarming. Any error in setting it will trigger an explosion than will turn the user into pink mist. He will plant it tomorrow.
It's almost dawn by the time he is satisfied in it's construction. He lays it gently on the worktop and looks up for the first time in hours to see her next him.
Words are still hard to come by for him, and harder still for his mind to hail them at this hour. He frowns at her.
She takes a moment to consider him, then demands of him, "Do not die."
In another lifetime he would have a witty reply. But his mind is broken and his humour is buried 6 feet deep. So instead he blinks at her.
She leans towards him, and for a moment he thinks she's going to attack him but instead her eyes close and she's pressing her mouth to his.
Her lips taste like gunpowder and apology, and his brain barely kicks in long enough to kiss her back before she's pulling away.
"You may have defied her once, ragazzo morto, but do not be so quick as to attempt it again."
She leaves him in the workshop. He stares at the door through which she left. Then he falls asleep under the desk.
He has a team now. They are a strange trio, unwanted and unusual and he is the happiest with them than he's been since his rebirth.
But this week has been hard. Artemis had learned of a kidnapping, a child taken, and the Outlaws had been the ones to answer the parent's pleas after the police had given up.
Their search had led them to a facility, underground, filled with rows and rows of metal tubes, each filled with a missing person. Bizzaro had been understandably upset. The scientist running the facility had triggered a termination sequence before pushing Jason into a tube.
The lock had clicked and all Jason could see was darkness. He'd heard the fight outside. His friends had reached him before the sequence had reached his cage. They'd saved the kid. That had felt like enough, at the time.
Back at their safehouse that night, Jason wakes screaming.
He throws his blanket off, needing the weight away from him, it's suffocating, it's trapping him again, he can't breathe, oh god he can't breathe-
He drags himself to sit on the edge of his bed. Tries desperately to remember how his lungs work. It's like he's forgotten. Like he's brand new again, throat rough and burning like he's never tasted air before. Time passes and he doesn't suffocate, and maybe he's not drowning on dry land - dry earth, falling into his face, his mouth - and slowly the burning fades.
His spine curls in on itself under the weight of his shoulders. He can feel his nails digging into the muscle of his thighs and realises he must have done that to try and stop his hands from shaking.
Something moves into the dim light from his open doorway. A moment later, Artemis speaks, a gentleness in her tone he has only heard from her a few times. "You fought well today."
He does not reply. Can't look up.
A weight sinks into the mattress next to him. His body tilts towards it.
"I don't like to see you hurting."
He manages to look at her, sees her, hair sleep-crumpled but eyes alert, face soft in the glow of the hallway light seeping into the dark bedroom.
He swallows. "I'm not interested in pity." He's proud of himself for the fact his voice doesn't wobble.
She rests her hand on his knee, locks eyes with him, and says "I don't offer pity. I offer touch."
He can't help the way her words pull at him, a yearning he refuses to acknowledge but knows runs like a fault line through his insides, deeper than he dares look. Her hand warms him, and he discovers why the ancient wolves were drawn to the campfire.
She says, "This doesn't change things."
He says, "I know."
She says, "We're teammates, I care about you, but we both know this isn't forever."
He says, "I know."
She says, "This is probably a bad idea."
He says, "I know. Touch me anyway."
And she does. Fingertips brush against his cheek and she's kissing him, soft and hot, and heat spreads through her to him, and he feels, just for a moment, alive again.
The gentleness fades as he grips her hips. Nails scrape against the skin over his ribs. Their breaths mix, their bodies shudder, and their teeth marks fade before the next one can be made.
She is right. She usually is. It doesn't change things, and soon she is called away to duties befitting an Amazon. But just for a while, he carries that warmth with him.
There are times when escaping means running into a crowd. Somewhere filled with bodies, loud music, and dark corners. He would have kept fighting but he was in his civilian clothes and they were suspicious about his fighting style. Only so many people moved like The Bat. Fewer still moved like Red Hood.
He slips through a fire exit, propped open for nicotine-addicted bar staff. Only the thumping bass could be heard from the alleyway but inside it's an assault of synth and drops. Neon lasers light up the packed warehouse, flashes creating polaroids of the crowd, still-life in motion.
He breathes out.
Might as well get a drink. He's being handed his beer when a figure slides into his periphery. He doesn't turn straight away, sliding a tip across the bar and taking a swig. Surely he deserves a least one sip before his knuckles get bruised again?
He's prepared for anger. Disdain. A fist flying towards him. He's surprised when he gets a smirk. Sandy hair, shirt unbuttoned to the navel, biceps to rival his own. The man says something he doesn't catch but follows it with a wink.
And Jason considers.
It's been a long time since Artemis. His pulse is still racing from the fight outside. And hell, it would be nice to redirect his adrenaline to something pleasurable for a change.
He leaves the beer. He takes the man.
Jason has a best friend.
They fight alongside each other, arrows and bullets flying in sync. They share sundaes at 3am, their bloody knuckles and lips dripping to stain the diner tabletop. Jason crashes at Roy's apartment, doesn't mind when Lian crawls into the bed between them after a nightmare. They argue over which pizza joint does the best toppings until they order from both, and share the slices.
They fuck.
Jason doesn't really remember how it happened. Thinks it was after a fight that had ended too quickly, still full of energy and nowhere to put it. It's not all the time. But after the second or third time Jason started to tell when Roy would get that look in his eye, smirking at him as they bickered, or staring at the water droplets moving down his chest after a shower.
Roy, sweaty and sated, lays on the bed next to him. "You know, one of these days I'm gonna put handles on that helmet of yours."
Jason raises an eyebrow.
Roy continues. "It's multi-purpose, see? I can be on your shoulders and direct you in a fight if your visor breaks."
"I wear a domino underneath, I'd just take it off?"
Roy ignores him. "And then when we're in bed I can direct you in other ways."
"And what, exactly, am I going to be doing with you with a full face helmet on?"
At that Roy pauses. "I can see there may be some flaws in my plan."
Jason laughs, and sits up, starts pulling his clothes back on. "It's sweet that you think you could direct me to do anything. Who's to say I'd not just throw you off my shoulder's if I can't see anything, it's not like I'd be able to recognise you?"
A smirk makes it's way shamelessly onto Roy's face. "Aw come on, these thighs are pretty memorable. And you wouldn't do that to your boyfriend, would you?"
Jason freezes, one arm raised as he's getting his t-shirt over his head. He slowly pulls it down. "Uh..."
Roy pushes himself up, resting his weight on his elbows. "What's wrong?"
Jason looks over at him. "Are we boyfriends?"
Roy starts to laugh, then seeing Jason's face the laughter dies in his mouth. "We go on dates all the time and sleep together? I kinda assumed that's what this was."
"Oh."
"Oh?" Roy sits up properly now. "What the fuck is 'oh'?"
Jason feels like the bottom of his stomach has sunk to his knees. Roy stares at him, clearly waiting for an answer.
"Those were... dates?"
Something flickers over Roy's face. Jason knows his friend. He's seen him hurting before. And seen him try to immediately hide it. Jason feels sick. "I didn't realise. I thought... You're my best friend Roy."
Roy has stopped looking at Jason. His face has shuttered, the open sunshine smile Jason has become so used to now barriered behind a wall of forced apathy.
Jason reaches a hand towards him, not knowing what he'll do with it when it reaches him but it doesn't matter, because Roy pulls away, suddenly standing.
He doesn't look at Jason as he starts dressing himself, speaks in a clipped tone that belies the way his shoulders begin to shake, "I've got to get to training. I think it would be best if we get some space, huh?"
He doesn't wait for an answer before grabbing his jacket from the floor and walking out.
Jason sits on the bed. He doesn't know what just happened. A hollowness creeps up at him, and he recognises the outline of his friend in the void.
He's managed to rebuild his connection with his family, painful and slow though it was. He no longer flinches when he sees a Bat-shaped shadow drop onto a rooftop behind him. His birthday this year involved candles, presents wrapped with varying degrees of ingenuity (he is still unsure how many rolls of duct tape Tim used but knows it was in the double digits), and even a rare hug from his youngest sibling.
He jokes with Dick. Drinks milkshakes with Cass after patrol. Volunteers at the animal shelter with Damian. He and Tim are working their way through the Fast and Furious movies. He's teaching Duke how to skateboard. Steph, although not his sister definitely solidifies herself under the 'family' banner in his mind when she turns up at his apartment one day with takeout and a rant about the last gala Bruce dragged her to. She paints his nails purple and they last almost a week before fully chipping away.
He has a family.
It doesn't take long for them to ask questions. It starts, as most things do with his siblings, as a joke, banter, rivalry. A comment from Dick, about how Jason is the single sibling, now that everyone but Damian has a partner. A jab from Tim about his one true love being Austen. When a gala invitation arrives for them all with 'plus-ones' Damian nobly offers Batcow as Jason's escort.
Cass doesn't comment. She watches. And when they're both escaping the noise and people and somuchsmiling at the latest Wayne fundraiser, she finds him on the balcony.
She leans against the railing next to him and the rain isn't bad tonight, for Gotham, only the lightest mist, not enough to extinguish the cigarette between his fingers.
They enjoy each other's silence for a moment, in a way that Jason only truly manages with her and Alfred.
When the red ember glow finally runs out, she speaks.
"Hurting."
He looks at her, her head tilted slightly and eyes meeting his. He knows she isn't referring to herself.
"My shoulder's healing up just fine."
"Not what I meant."
He sighs. "I know."
He pinches the cigarette butt between his fingers and shoves it into the pocket of his suit jacket, and turns to her. Runs a hand through his damp hair.
"I think... I'm built wrong. Or maybe I came back wrong. And not for the reason everyone thinks."
She waits him out, giving him the space to process.
"Everyone talks about what my... resurrection gave me. Life. Anger issues. PTSD." He takes a moment. Breathes in. "But lately all I've been feeling is a hole where something should be. I don't know if it took something or if I've always been this empty. I look at you all and I see the way you're drawn to other people. Dick and Babs. Tim and Kon. You and Steph."
She nods. Stays silent.
He presses a palm to his eye, rubbing away rainwater. Wishes he still had his cigarette.
"I don't know why I don't want that. I don't want to be broken. I..." He sniffs. Maybe he's allergic to the new flowers Alfred planted below. "I like being with people, that's not the problem. I just don't..." He trails off, words failing.
"Not broken."
He lets out a laugh that sounds wretched and wet. "Feel broken."
She steps closer to him. Presses a slender finger to the tip of his nose. "Not. Broken."
His eyes cross as he looks at her finger then he reaches up and gently pulls it down. "Well I sure ain't normal."
She smiles at him. "No. But not because of that."
That actually pulls the corners of his mouth up, slightly. Enough for her eyes to crinkle, pleased, and reach out to envelop him in a hug.
He hugs back, rests his head atop hers.
"Thanks Cass."
She squeezes his midriff. Steps back. "Tell Tim."
"Wha- Why would I...?"
She starts walking back inside. "Tell Tim." With a turn she disappears through the balcony doors.
He huffs out a breath and steadies his shaking hands on the railing. Looks out over the grey skyline. Allows himself, for the minute it takes him to compose himself before going back inside, to feel that bit lighter.
It takes him a while to decide how to start this conversation. Because he will, Cass told him to, and he's not ashamed to admit that she's the one bat he'll always listen to.
He decides, in the end, that not being able to see his brother will make things less awkward. And that being out on patrol will make it easy to move the conversation topic to something else if it gets too much. And having the option to punch things afterwards is just smart planning.
He switches the comm to a private channel and says, "So Black Bat says I have to tell you that I'm not broken."
"Uh." He can hear Tim's grapple hit concrete and there's a whoosh of air as he swings, several blocks away from Jason's own perch. "Congratulations? For the record I didn't think you were."
"Liar."
He doesn't hear Tim landing but the wind has stopped. "Fine. Not any more than the rest of us anyway." When Jason doesn't say anything Tim continues, "Who said you were broken?"
Jason thinks. No one has come out and said it plainly. But he's heard the comments. Seen the way they look at him sometimes. Not one big thing but a thousand little ones. Not just his family, but his friends, his teammates. There's been no pointed finger, but the weight of dozens of pointed looks casts it's own anchor.
"No one."
"Have you turned into Signal? Because this conversation is illuminating."
"You've been spending too much time with Wing."
"He buys the good coffee. And frankly doesn't turn conversations into riddles."
Jason doesn't let out out an indignant huff. Because that would mean he's brooding next to his favourite gargoyle, and he'll be damned if he's turning into Bruce. "I don't have the urge to be with people, like romantically."
Maybe he shouldn't have done this on patrol, because he hears Red Robin stumble. It'll be just his luck that the way he actually kills Tim is by spilling his feelings so hard the damn bird slips right off a rooftop.
Tim recovers quickly. "Are you saying you're aromantic?"
"I swear to god Red, if you make one more crack about Austen-"
"No, no, no! Not 'a romantic', I mean the sexual identity of aromantic. One word."
Jason frowns. "What's that?"
"Someone who isn't romantically interested in others."
Jason's mind flatlines. He's not sure if the static is coming from his comm or his brain. Could it really be that simple? "There's... There's a word for it?"
"Yeah, Hood. It's a whole spectrum too, not just romantic attraction, but also sexual attraction and-"
"I'm not talking sex with you, you're twelve."
Tim sighs but doesn't rise to the bait. "Trust me I do not want to know anything about your sex life, if there is one. But my point is everyone is different. Some people like romantic stuff but aren't interested in the physical stuff, or vice versa. Some people hate the idea of both. Others can enjoy either but don't really want it the way non-ace people do."
Jason is quiet for a moment. "How do you know all this?"
Tim laughs. "Did a lot of research when I was discovering my own identity."
Jason should have known. Little nerd wouldn't be caught dead using a label for himself without folders of information, colour coded on his computer. "I bet you have them all organised in pride colours, huh?"
"What? My research? No but now that you mention it..."
Jason groans. "Can't believe I'm related to the biggest dork on the East coast."
"You want me to send you the folders?"
Jason stands up, pulling his grapple out. He aims it at the nearest rooftop. "Secure mail only. We're a family of snoopers."
He switches his comm off before Tim can reply and swings into the Gotham night.
There's a manila folder waiting on his coffee table a few nights later. He dumps his jacket on the couch, leaves his helmet on the countertop, and grabs himself a drink before sitting down.
He opens the folder to see see multicoloured tabs, and recognises the purple, pink, and blue one from the mug Tim started using after he came out. Jason rolls his eyes.
Then he starts to read.