Chapter Text
Gotham was always loud at night, but tonight was even worse than usual. It was pressing against him. He was annoyed by all the sounds around him- cars, factories, a couple of drunk guys fighting. He was just tired and really wanted to sleep.
He’d barely slept but well sleep was never an excuse, was it? Duty didn’t care about how tired was he. And so he worked and pushed himself through everything, did the ugly parts no one else wanted to touch… and then as always the bats swept in at the end to wrap it up in a nice and clean way.
It shouldn’t have bothered him. But it did.
The argument started before the cuffs even clicked shut. Tim’s voice sliced through the thick air, sharp and self-righteous.
“Batman’s not going to be impressed with your ‘interrogation’ tonight, And of course he won't be happy, Hood.”
He’d been going on for ten minutes already — another lecture about restraint, about morality, about how they were “supposed” to do things.
“You literally shattered his eye socket. He’s going to need reconstructive surgery.”
And there it was, A Judgment, Dressed up like concern.
Jason didn’t even turn around. He stayed crouched, calmly wiping blood off his combat boots — blood that wasn’t his.
“He was selling teenagers, Tim,” Jason said flatly. “A shattered eye socket is mercy. And be realistic. What’s Bruce gonna do? Ground me? I’ve already been to the grave. There’s not much left to threaten me with.”
“Drop the martyr act,” Tim snapped, stepping closer, his voice losing that usual calm edge. “It’s not noble. It’s pathetic. We’re supposed to be better than the people we fight — that’s the point. But there’s a killer in this family, and it’s not B. It’s you, Hood. You keep acting like you’re carrying some tragic burden, but really? You’re just looking for an excuse to pull the trigger. Because it’s easier than doing the hard part — the patient, ugly, complicated work of actual justice.”
That did it.
The words didn’t explode. They didn’t echo.
They just landed.
Jason felt something in his chest snap tight, like a wire pulled too far. The exhaustion finally outweighed his patience. He’d spent the last year trying to earn his way back into the Manor — showing up to those painfully awkward Sunday brunches where Dick laughed too loudly like nothing had ever happened, sitting through the silence, through Bruce’s heavy stares every time Jason so much as reached for a weapon.
Every room felt like a test he was already failing.
It was like everyone else had the script to this big family redemption story.
And he didn’t.
He was just guessing his lines.
The “bad son”.
The one they let come back.
But never really trusted to stay.
“Watch your words” Jason warned Tim.
“I usually watch them , However I've just seen you almost gut that guy thirty minutes ago,and you expect me to watch them really?" Tim snapped, refusing to back down. "If spoiler and I hadn't stepped in, you’d have left him to bleed out. Just admit it—you wanted him dead. It’s not even about justice anymore, is it? It’s just your default setting.”
Tim stepped closer, his eyes cold and analytical. “B is trying trying to recalibrate you Jason. He thinks that if he gives you time and space, you'll somehow change. But no you don't even want to fix that. You're acting like a weapon that knows no other use. It's th blood hood, You've tasted blood, and now you’re just waiting for the next excuse to spill more.”
Jason locked himself in. It wasn't just the insult itself; it was Tim's manner of saying it—cold and detached, as if he were reading something dull from a textbook. It was as if he was explaining Jason's problems instead of talking to him. Jason isn't the problem; he doesn't need to change. Tim doesn't understand that, so why are they talking about him as if he's the problem?
It made Jason think of Bruce. Of all those times Bruce looked at him like he was just some soldier who messed up. Not a son. Not someone who survived hell. Just a mistake.
And before Jason could even think about it — before he could stop himself — his fist was already swinging.
It hit Tim straight in the face.
“What the hell, Hood?!” Steph shouted, running straight to Tim.
But then she just… stopped.
She didn’t scream again. She didn’t try to punch Jason. She just looked at him.
And that look hurt way worse.
It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t shocked. It was tired. It was as if she'd seen this happen a hundred times before, and she was completely fed up with it. It was as if she'd watched the same nightmare over and over again until she'd lost all ability to react.
She helped Tim to stand on his feet, placing a hand on his shoulder, and then they walked to the edge of the roof.
Tim wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, not just from the blow, but from everything. He didn't look like a handsome hero standing on a rooftop.
And Tim he just looked like a kid who’d had enough.
When he reached the ledge, he stopped and looked back at Jason.
His eyes weren’t angry.
And somehow, that was worse.
“I actually thought you were trying this time,” Tim said, his voice quiet and dangerously level. “I really did. But you don't want a family, Jason. You want an audience for your own self-destruction.”
He let out a short, bitter breath that was sharper than any insult.
“B keeps waiting for you to come home, but you’re already gone, aren't you? You’re just a ghost we’re all pretending is still alive. We keep trying to pull you into the light, but it’s pretty clear you’re only comfortable in the dirt. Don't worry, I'll stop bothering you.”
Without saying anything else.They disappeared into the fog.
The silence they left behind felt heavier than the punch Jason had thrown.
They quickly disappeared completely, and Jason was left alone on the edge, they left him alone again. He sat down slowly, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the building.
For a second, he just stared at nothing.
He felt wrong. Like a glitch in a game that wasn’t supposed to exist.
He was the one who remembered the stuff they all tried to forget — the smell of the Narrows, the way the streets felt at night, the truth that some monsters don’t get locked up in Arkham. They don’t sit in cells.
They just keep hurting people.
Until someone stops them.
Jason was tired of pretending. Tired of the “brunch” version of himself — the softer, cleaner one that was easier for everyone else to handle. Tired of acting like a bright suit and a symbol could fix something that had already been broken.
He’d died.
He’d come back.
And some things don’t just go back to normal after that.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The footsteps were heavy and deliberate. They didn't have the light, acrobatic grace of a Robin.
“Deathstroke.”
"You're getting slow kid" Slade Wilson said, emerging from the shadows. "I've been standing here for like three minutes."
Jason didn't reach for his gun. “Go away, Slade. I’m not in the mood for a recruitment pitch.”
“I’m not recruiting. I’m just impressed you finally punched the kid,” Slade said, leaning against a gargoyle. “He has a very punchable face. Very... Robin.”
“Whatever,” Jason muttered. “Why are you in Gotham?”
"A contract. But I thought I'd check on my favorite pupil first. You look exhausted. You even look older than me, how wonderful."
"I'm just tired," Jason said haltingly. The wind whipped across the rooftop, carrying with it the smell of rain and factory fumes. Slade shifted, the promethium plates in his armor making a sharp metallic clang that shattered the silence. He'd been standing there for almost five minutes, silently watching Jason's composure crumble.
"You've been staring at the same factory chimney for ten minutes, kid," Slade said. "Normally, by this time, you'd have at least tried to shoot me over the shoulder."What’s the matter? Did the 'family' finally run out of patience, or did you?"
Jason didn’t grab his gun.
He didn’t even flinch.
He just kept staring at the horizon, his jaw clenched so tight it almost hurt.
"Go away, Slade. I’m not in the mood for the pitch."
"I'm not trying to sell you anything" Slade replied. He took off his mask and leaned against one of the old stone gargoyles. In the moonlight, he looked almost like a normal grandpa .-wow- His one eye stayed on Jason’s shaking hands. "That much adrenaline with nowhere to go... it’s a waste of a good soldier."
Jason stayed silent.
“You’re shaking,” Slade said. “That’s a lot of anger with nowhere to put it.”
The air felt heavy between them.
“You want to talk,” Slade asked, “or are you just going to sit there until you blow up?”
Jason let out a short, rough breath. Not a real sigh though.
He looked down at his hands.
There was still a little bit of Tim’s blood on them.
He opened his mouth, ready to snap back with something mean.
But he stopped, Because the words didn’t come.
And for a second—
He didn’t look angry—He just looked… lost.
"You see this place,I think... I think I'm just done with the performance" Jason said. His voice was low, and he stopped halfway through the sentence, like he was testing the weight of the words and didn't quite like how they felt.
"The performance?" Slade prompted, his tone neutral, inviting the friction.
"The whole damn... thing," Jason said, his hands curling into fists, then relaxing, then curling again. He struggled to find the words, his thoughts tangling in his throat.
"I spend every night... I tell myself I’m the 'necessary' one. Right? That I’m more effective than Bruce because I’m willing to do what he won't. But then I get out there, and I... I don't know."
He stood up suddenly, moving too fast, like his body couldn’t keep up with his thoughts. His steps were uneven as he walked to the edge and kicked a loose piece of gravel off the roof, watching it disappear into the darkness below. “I hesitate, Slade,” he admitted, his voice tight and frustrated. “I pull my punches.”
He let out a shaky breath. “Because some stupid, weak part of me is still trying to make him proud. Like that’s ever gonna happen.” He gave a short, bitter laugh and shook his head.
“It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. like a joke.”
He turned away from the ledge, pacing a small, tight circle on the gravel roof. He looked like a caged animal trying to find a weak spot in the bars. "I’m a hypocrite. Or a fraud. Maybe both. I’m failing his code because I still have blood on my hands, but I’m... I'm failing my own, too. Because I’m too weak to spill enough of it to actually change anything. I see the failure of their 'justice' every single night—I see the bodies they leave behind by letting monsters walk—yet here I am."
He stopped pacing and looked at Slade, his eyes bright with a volatile mix of burnout and fury. "I'm still tethered to them. I don't even know why. I’m choosing his rules over my own convictions just to feel like I belong to a home that thinks I'm a stray dog. And that... that betrayal? Choosing him over what I know is right? It weighs more than any body count ever could. I’m disgusted, Slade. I’m goddamn disgusted that I’m still standing here, waiting for a nod from a man who sees me as a failure."
Jason looked back at the city, his shoulders dropping as the anger drained out, leaving only a hollow, grey exhaustion. "I don't know. Maybe Tim was right. Maybe I'm just a beast that doesn't know how to be like a normal average person."
"Get up kid "
"and take me to your nearest safe house," Slade ordered.
"Why?" Jason mumbled, confused.
"We're going somewhere. You'll want to wear something different. Something warmer."
“Go where? Your latest war zone?”
“I’m taking you somewhere where you aren't 'the dead Robin' for five minutes. Now move. Get to your safe house and pack something. We leave in an hour.”
Jason hesitated, looking back at the dark towers of Gotham, then nodded. He didn't have a better plan, and for the first time in months, someone was offering him a way out instead of a lecture.