Warnings: Explicit sexual content; somewhat dubious consent; inappropriate humor; canon-typical violence; arguing; light humiliation kink; mention of drugs and gun violence; violent interrogation scene; aged-up character

Pairings: Jason Todd/Tim Drake

Credits: This is non-profit, fanmade work. All characters are owned by DC. The fanfiction was created by me, please do not repost without my permission.

A/N: This story was originally posted on AO3 in July 2016. I am sharing it here.

Some notes: the timeline for this is vague, but it's set sometime after Infinite Crisis/Under the Hood. Also, canonically, Tim might still be in his teens… but considering my timeline for this story is somewhat vague (definitely sometime after Infinite Crisis and Under the Hood, but before the one year jump-Tim is still in his Robin years, pre-Red Robin), and an underage element is a theme that I really didn't want to explore in this story (especially since Tim and Jason are relatively in the same age range), just assume that Tim is aged up to eighteen. His age is never specifically mentioned in this story anyhow.

I also refer to the area Jason grew up in as the East End, as a way to generalize the entire district (containing Park Row/Crime Alley). I feel like people tend to identify with the district they're from when describing where they originate, versus giving a specific neighborhood/street-and so I use "East End" and "Park Row" interchangeably.

To date, this is the only JayTim story I've written. I hope to write more JayTim one day. And I think, out of all the fanfics I've written, this piece is the strongest I've ever written. It's a long one but I hope it's worth your time. Thank you.

Gotham always smelled like shit.

The summer heat brought up the smells of the sewers underneath the roads. If that wasn't awful enough, trash collection was late, and everyone up and down Park Row had their trash sitting and rotting on the curb.

Jason dodged a stray cat in the alley, heading for his apartment. A group of teenagers sat on the stoop listening to their music. They cursed at Jason as he walked between them to get to the door—but they quickly shut up after he shot them a look. He got his keys in but had to tug hard to get the door to spring open, where he was instantly greeted by the screaming cries of babies and children.

He ignored the arguing couple standing near the staircase, brushing past them and climbing up, each step creaking beneath his heavy boots. When he reached the top, he was forced to a stop by a girl who was taking up a whole step.

He readjusted the bag on his shoulder, waiting for the girl to move, but she was in her own little world—typing furiously on her phone. He sighed a little.

"Do I haveta beg?" he said, exasperated. She glanced up at him, surprised, before drawing up her legs. He took the step without saying a word.

"You got a cigarette?" she asked, standing up. Jason glanced back at her. The faint acne around her cheeks and the gawkish body revealed her age, along with the heavy makeup, giant earrings and short skirt that stood as a tell-tale sign that she felt like she had something to prove.

"Not since I was probably your age. It'll stunt your growth, you know."

She crossed her arms, her face souring. "You don't look short to me."

"Yeah—because I stopped."

"You coulda just told me no."

He could have. But he didn't argue the point, he started to head towards his apartment. He heard footsteps trailing behind him.

"What's your name?" she asked him.

Great, Jason thought to himself. He unwittingly found himself a follower. He looked back at her, ready to say something scalding, but there was something oddly innocent about her wide-eyed, curious gaze. In a building like this, in a neighborhood like this, kids were used to getting screamed at by anyone who was older than them. Jason didn't want to be one of those guys.

"Chris," he said. It was the alias he used when he rented the place. He couldn't exactly use his real identity on the lease, considering he was thought to be dead. "Why do you want to know?"

"You a drug dealer?"

Jason snorted in disbelief, more than a little amused. This kid.

"You really think it's a good idea to ask a stranger if they're a drug dealer?"

She shrugged, leaning against the wall, playing it cool even though Jason had pretty much just laughed in her face. She nodded towards the bag. "What are you carrying then? I've seen you around before. You're always carrying somethin'. And you got all these cuts on you. I know some people that got mixed up in that shit—"

"Again, you think it's a good idea to start asking people if they're drug dealers?" Jason said, looking at her pointedly, and she shut her mouth. Jason stuffed his hand in his pockets, looking around a bit uncomfortably. He was no good at talking to kids. "It's not drugs. It's a gym bag. You don't believe me?"

He started to shrug off the bag, even started to unzip it, but she raised her hands up.

"Fine, fine. I believe you," she said, rolling her eyes. "God."

Jason tugged the straps back up, about to continue about his business, but the girl kept talking.

"Whaddya do then?" she asked, cocking her head to the side.

"Freelance artist," Jason said. Another part of his alias—he couldn't tell the difference from a Sherman to a Lange to save his life. She chortled in response, but still, she seemed interested by this.

"Could you draw me?"

"You got money?"

"No."

"Then no. Besides, I take photos."

She stepped in a little bit closer, the strap from her shirt slipping down. She looked up and down at him and asked, "Just one picture?"

Jason hadn't lived in the East End since he was just a snot-nosed teenager stealing wheels off of cars—but he understood East End girls this much. Age wasn't an issue for young girls who wanted to grow up too fast. He laughed it off, apparently wounding her pride by the way she glared up at him in response, but secretly he couldn't help but feel a little sad for her. Too fast.

"What, you need a picture for your modelling portfolio for Gotham Tween magazine?"

"I'm seventeen," she insisted, glaring.

"Sure you are," he said, laughing over his shoulder as he finally started to move back towards his apartment. She didn't argue, cursing him under her breath, and went back to her place on the steps.

Jason locked his door behind him. He immediately tossed the bag on his coffee table. Taking a seat on the couch, he unzipped the bag, the gleam of metal immediately greeting him. He pulled out one of the handguns, turning it over once, before tossing it back in. He wasn't sure if the bag had everything he needed—he had grabbed everything as quickly as he could. He supposed he had better use for it than the ex-con whose apartment he had snuck into.

"God bless America," he muttered under his breath, and he took the bag with him into his bedroom, opening up the armoire that had a safe hidden behind one of the panels. He opened it up, revealing the rest of his arsenal: assault rifles, melee weapons, grenades and all. Sitting in the foreground of it all, a red mask gleamed in the light. "And God save Gotham."

Ever since that girl mentioned the cigarette, it was all Jason could think about.

He could hardly say he was addicted. Back when he was a teenager, it's not like he could just buy them whenever he wanted—he never could afford them anyways, even though they were cheap as dirt back in those days. He had to sneak them off of his mom or other people or share them with his friends. But once in awhile, the idea of picking it back up was appealing. The smoke cycling through him, calming him, warming him...

He stepped on the burning bud that had been abandoned on the ground, immediately stuffing it out, as he walked slowly across the room. Each step was heavy, creaking with every stride on the darkwood floors. He followed the blood splatter trail around the leather couch, through the highly ornamented archway, into a kitchen which was probably bigger than his entire apartment. The kitchen floors were polished, not a speck of dust on any surface or lining any of the counters.

Jason heard the sound of something falling—nothing fragile, maybe plastic dishware. He did not run. He simply followed the trail of blood to the end, where he found the lone survivor shuffling through the nearest cabinet. When Jason's shadow loomed over him, the man immediately stopped.

Jason quirked his head to the side,finding some small, admittedly sadistic, amusement in the scene. The corner of Jason's mouth lifted up into a smile, unbidden. He laughed without meaning to, the sound only slightly muffled by the mask.

"Where do you think you're going?" Jason asked. He leaned against the counter, casually. The answer was that this guy wasn't going anywhere, at least not with the bulletwound in his side. It amused Jason that he was even trying.

The man didn't say anything. Even seemed to hang his head in resignation, his bloody hand sliding to the floor, leaving a red trail along the door of the cabinet. He was surrounded in a combination of blood, mixing bowls and strainers.

Jason stepped over him, started shuffling through the top drawers. He finds the kitchen knives, grabs the biggest one, and slid it over to the man. The man weakly lifted up his hand, catching it in time, and stared at it as he turned it over in his hand. He looked like he wasn't even sure what to do with it.

"That's what you wanted, right?" Jason said. He ran his hand along the surface of his gun. The man stared up at him, his sweaty, matted hair in his face. He's shaking but Jason didn't pay any mind. He kept talking, "You rich people don't make any sense. You spent all of this money on this house, this kitchen, but you don't even know where the damned knives are. What were you hoping to find in there? Were you going to hit me with some tupperware? Cheese-grate me to death?"

The man's face twisted up. He's crying but Jason ignored it.

"It's because you always have someone do your cooking for you, because you just have so many other important things to do in your spare time," Jason said. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out some photographs. In a way, maybe Jason actually was a photographer—but the prints were nothing pretty. He tossed them down, one by one. "Like your meetings with drug cartels. Or paying off your ex-girlfriends to dodge those domestic abuse charges. Or your questionable week-long yacht trip where one of your friends didn't make it back. What was it that happened exactly? Drunk diving? Eaten by sharks?"

The man barely even looked at the photos. He just cried harder. Jason shook his head to himself, nearly rolling his eyes, but he supposed it made no difference. This was for him, not for the guy laying on the floor.

"You got a safe?" Jason asked quietly.

The man immediately stopped sniffling. Quickly he said, "Yes. In the bedroom."

"You got cash in there?"

"Yes," the man said. "You can have it. It's all yours. Take it."

"What's the code?"

"3962," he said. He looked as though he had been saved. "It's yours. Jesus Christ, it's all yours."

"Thanks," Jason said and he shot him.

"Do you even live here or do you just sit on these stairs all day?" Jason snapped, his patience thin. "Fucking move."

The girl looked up at him with a sneer. Huffing to herself, she moved her legs so he could pass through. Jason rolled his eyes and stomped past her. For the past week, this girl had been blocking the staircase. When he made it to the top of the staircase, he paused. There was a whisper in the back of his conscience—however faint it was—telling him that there was something wrong with this. He tried to ignore it but eventually he sighed a little to himself, turning back.

"Who do you live with?" he asked. It took her a second to register that he was talking to her. She looked back at him, looking a little cautious.

"My dad. Why do you wanna know? I'm not doin' nothin' wrong," she said. "It's a free country. I can sit here if I want."

"Yeah, sure. But why do you sit out here?"

"He's not home from work yet and I got summer school. Can't leave the door unlocked—the whole place will get robbed in like, five minutes."

"So? You don't have your own key?"

"Lost it," she said, shrugging. "Dad doesn't get paid til next week." After a moment of reconsideration, she added, "And I sort of lost the last one."

Jason's face scrunched up—the whole situation was ridiculous. Who gets stingy over a goddamned key copy? "When does he get home?"

"Five."

"So you just sit out here until five?" Jason glanced at the clock on his phone.

Her patience had worn out. "What is this, an interrogation? I didn't do nothin' wrong. Leave me alone."

Jason shook his head to himself. He repeated to himself, over and over in his head, that he should just mind his own business. Convincing himself that this was more for his benefit than hers, he fished out his wallet from his pocket. He guessed the price of a key copy, probably no more than two bucks, and handed it to her. She looked at it once and then up at him.

"Just fucking take it, get a key, and stop hogging up the whole staircase."

She took it. But then she rose her eyebrows at him, smirking a little. "You got all that money in that wallet and you're only going to give me two dollars? What gives?"

Part of Jason was annoyed. But that cocky arrogance reminded him way too much of his younger self and he couldn't help but feel a little amused. This fucking brat. He pulled out a five and flicked it in her direction. She caught it before it flew in her face.

He headed back towards his apartment but now she was following him again. "I'm not giving you any more," he said without looking back.

"You never asked me for my name," she said.

"Because I don't care."

"I mean… you must care a little," she said. When he looked over his shoulder, she waved the bills a little for emphasis, a bit of a smug smile on her face. "I'm Nikki."

"Every Nikki I've ever met has been a total bitch."

Her jaw dropped. "You're an asshole."

He shrugged exaggeratedly. She laughed anyways.

"You remind me of my brother," she said.

"That's weird, considering you asked me for some creepy photoshoot the other day," he said, though he said it lightheartedly enough. She just shrugged, not even looking embarrassed or denying her past intentions.

"I just meant you have his sense of humor—and that even though you act like an asshole, you still do nice things," she said. When he gave her a dry look, she waved the bills again tauntingly. "He was mean and a total idiot but he always stuck by me and Dad."

Was.

"What happened to him?" he asked, despite himself. He was getting too involved. There was a flicker in her eyes, as if she herself didn't realize what she had revealed.

"He was killed," she said, her voice a touch quieter. She shoved her hands in the pockets of her shorts, shrugging a little. "But he was hanging around the wrong people anyways. He was on heroin and must have pissed someone off. Got shot in the streets." She forced a smile. "His name was Chris too. He was killed a few years ago, probably would have been around your age."

Jason paused. Suddenly something turned in his head.

"Where's your mom?"

"The Narrows," she said. "I used to live with her but the house foreclosed. So I came here instead while she stays at Grandma's."

Jason frowned to himself. Her name was Nikki. She was blonde, had a brother named Chris, lived in the East End with her dad but used to live with her mom in the Narrows.

"What's your last name?" he asked.

At that, she tilted her head a little to the side, looking suspicious. "Pascal," she answered anyways. She forced a smile. "You got any brothers?"

"No," Jason murmured.

Christopher Pascal.

Now that was a name that Jason hadn't heard in a long time. Although, back in those days, everyone just called him Pascal.

Jason sat on the bench right alongside Tall Oaks park. It wasn't much of a park as it was a small plot of land in the middle of Park Row, and there wasn't a single goddamned oak tree anywhere. Grass hadn't grown on the land for years, resulting in a sad plot of dirt with a single wiry tree, a couple benches and a drinking fountain used by the homeless to bathe. The tiny playground had been tagged with graffiti and the paths had been broken, weeds growing between the cracks.

The area brought back memories. Just a few blocks and up the hill from Crime Alley, this was where Jason and Pascal played as kids. Jason wasn't sure if he could call Pascal a friend. In areas like this, kids just sort of clung to each other in a means of survival. Sure, there were some good memories and more than a few laughs, but Jason didn't have a lot in common with Pascal and the other neighborhood boys that they hung out with. If Jason hadn't taken those tires off the Batmobile all those years ago... if he had stayed in East End… could they have become real friends? Would they have hung out, had drinks, gotten into even more trouble, died together?

When he thought about Pascal, there was one thing that Jason remembered above all else. Back in those days, they didn't have much in the ways of entertainment. Didn't have the money to go out or buy things. So they had developed this strange obsession with pulling stunts—maybe it had to do with an obsession with extreme sports, or they were closet masochists, or maybe all young boys do stupid shit when they're bored, but regardless, every summer became some type of contest to see who could do the next big thing.

Jason did just about everything. He had his share of scrapes and bruises, even some scars that stayed with him up until his death when the Lazarus Pit washed it away. Even broke his leg jumping off a roof (Robin, in a way, may have been his redemption for those days—Jason rarely fell after his training). But there had been one time where he chickened out and it happened right there, in that park.

The park was on an odd elevation. There was a hill off to the side where even the roads could not go up because it was too steep. Apparently during the winter, some kid tried sledding down it and broke his back. There were also a few other stories that bordered on the edge of tall-tales—rumors of kids dying and whatnot. Someone in Jason's circle of friends suggested riding a bike down it, but once they were at the very top of that hill, Jason decided it wasn't worth ruining his bike or breaking another bone.

Anytime Jason decided not to do something, the rest of his friends would follow his decision. But not that time. Pascal was the only one who braved it—and paid for it when he made it down a grand total of five feet before flipping off his bike, busting the tires on it, flying forward and landing headfirst into the ground, and getting scraped and bruised the whole way down and nearly rolling into the road below.

Pascal lost both of his front teeth and was a red, bleeding mess. Anytime Pascal was sent home because he had gotten hurt or in trouble, his dad would hit him over the head—which was actually a pretty mild form of punishment compared to some of their friends. But that time, Pascal's dad was terrified, though he still had enough anger to shoot more than a few curses in the direction of his son's friends. The Pascals didn't have health insurance, much less dental, so Pascal had missing teeth up until freshman year when he could finally get them replaced. He looked like a hick. Still, no one gave him shit for it, because no one had the balls to do what he did.

Jason stared at where the park met the edge of that hill. It was fenced up now. Jason didn't realize he was zoning out until a voice interrupted his thoughts.

"What's wrong with your face?"

Jason looked over at a kid who was probably no older than eight. He had a bicycle by his side.

Jason knew the kid was referring to a bruise on his cheek that he had recently earned but he had no idea how to explain that he got it from hunting down a criminal, so he just gave him an annoyed look.

"Do your parents know that you talk to strangers?" Jason said, scowling.

When the boy didn't answer, Jason's thoughts were confirmed. Of course they didn't. It was East End. Most kids didn't even have two parents. Mothers and fathers were, at best, spending their days working two shitty jobs or, at worst, spending their days too high to pay attention to where their kids were.

"Nevermind," he said. He had wasted enough time walking on memory lane—the few parents that were actually around kept glaring at him with suspicion. He got up and took off. It was time to focus on business.

It was nights like this that brought back old memories—memories from a previous life, when Jason was angry but not as angry. Back when he still remembered to laugh, as seldom as it happened. Back when he was just a teenager, just a kid.

Just Robin.

It was a night just like this—him, perched on a landing with clear skies over his head. Although instead of overlooking a drug dealer in a dirty East End street, it was overlooking a dirty warehouse as he watched crates of drugs being passed around. He had been angry that night as well. Drug cases always pissed him off—it hit too close to home. Reminded him too much of his upbringing. But that night he had been especially annoyed, because it was a big case and Batman had brought back-up.

Dick Grayson, the shining Boy Wonder, who hadn't shut his stupid mouth that whole night—there was always some smug smile on his face or annoying quip. Jason had been irritated beyond belief, especially when Dick started poking some of that humor at him.

When Jason complained to Bruce, Bruce had immediately dismissed him.

Watch him, he had said. Learn from him.

Jason was annoyed by the request but he did, genuinely, want to better himself. So he tried to listen, tried to follow orders. And that night he had succeeded, but perhaps not in the way he or Bruce had expected.

Because Jason had only ever caught glimpses of Dick's fighting skills up until that night. Had only known what moves Bruce had tried to teach him. And that night, when Jason kept surveillance while Bruce and Dick moved to take out every armed guard, he learned that Dick didn't fight at all.

He danced.

Every move Bruce had tried to teach him, every training regimen that Jason had sweat and bled through, had been a mimicry of Dick's style—but without any of the grace, the elegance, the efficiency, the perfection. For a moment, Jason had been suspended in disbelief, mesmerized as the acrobat spun around the room, light and quick on his feet, but wonderfully successful in taking each enemy down. He made fighting into an artform.

And the way that he and Bruce, despite their differences, despite the fact that they argued more than they got along in those days, seemed to work so beautifully in tandem—it reminded Jason of his own shortcomings. It jabbed him in his pride. It made him doubt his connection with Bruce, wavered his faith in their partnership. But back in those days, he had been more careful to bite his tongue, because he didn't want to ruin it. Didn't want to say or do anything that would make him become undesirable, unwanted. Didn't want to be abandoned and thrown in the streets for not being able to keep up.

In those days, he tried. So he did what Bruce told him: he watched and learned.

He learned that he would never be as good as Dick Grayson.

Jason didn't let the tainted memories bother him. He couldn't dance. No. But that didn't mean he couldn't put up a damned good fight.

He patted the spot on his jacket where his gun sat, waiting on his position on a firescape. He waited impatiently as his target—some balding middle-aged man—blabbed to a group of people. Whether they were friends or associates, Jason wasn't sure. But Jason caught baldy doing business earlier in the week and that was enough to make Jason wait through the whole exchange. The crowd eventually dispersed. The dealer moved to go back into his apartment, taking the side entrance in the lonely alley, and that's when Jason made his move.

He didn't land with any of the grace of his predecessor—but he got the job done. The man didn't even have a chance to respond before he was pushed up against a brick wall.

"Who are you working for?" Jason said.

"Let go of me!"

Jason pushed him into the wall again, the back of the guy's head smacking against the brick. Jason ignored the groan, waiting for him to regain his senses long enough for Jason to ask again.

"I asked who you work for. I want names, every name you can think of, or your brains are going to be a bloodied scramble."

"What are you? A junkie? One of those vigilante freaks?" the dealer asked, wincing. Jason was improvising on how he was going to proceed with this interrogation—trying to decide if he should continue making use of the brick wall or just pull out the gun now—when the guy said, "Look, if its crank you want, you can have it—just back off!"

"Crank?" Jason repeated under his breath, confused. He let go of the man's collar. "What about heroin?"

The man rubbed the back of his head, face scrunched up. "What year are you living in? Ain't hardly anybody on that shit no more—not here, at least. No one wants to float, they want to speed up."

Jason shook his head to himself. He should have known it wouldn't have been this easy. The plain truth was that he had been gone for too long. A few weeks of living in a crappy apartment didn't make him street savvy anymore.

Jason took out his gun. At the sight of the metal, the man immediately backed up, his hands in the air.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Look, I don't have it! But I might know some people who do."

"I know. And you're going to tell me. But first, we're going to clean house. So let's go to your apartment and you're going to show me what you do have, and then we're going to test how good your building's plumbing is."

"And then what? You're going to shoot me?"

"Not if you're compliant."

The man glowered. "I thought you Batman types didn't use guns."

Despite himself, Jason found himself smirking behind the mask. "I'm not Batman, much less your Mom and Pop's Batman. Now let's go."

Jason felt good.

He didn't want to let the dealer go—but he could possibly need him later, and making him flush down a bunch of methamphetamines was fun enough. Now he was on a new lead, and even though Gotham's lights blocked out the night sky, Jason was certain that he had some lucky stars shining down on him.

He didn't get just a name out of the guy—a couple threats and punches later, and he unveiled a deeper plot. Apparently there were some dealers meeting with a supplier that night. If he could get ahold of the supplier, maybe he could figure out who was dealing to Pascal before his murder.

He became a little disappointed when he found the location. It's not as if he was expecting to be taking out a whole drug operation in the same night, but he was hoping for something a little more substantial than some residential street.

He waited for a long time at the address, the streets quiet. A couple cars passed by, and Jason stayed equally alert for each one, but it wasn't until much later when one of them finally parked instead of driving by. A group of men got out of the car—Jason narrowed his eyes, trying to get a good look at them. When they passed by a streetlight, he noticed a spider tattoo on one of the guys—a description that matched what the crank dealer had told him.

Jason readied himself on the edge of the roof, ready to leap down when they got close, when a noise in a nearby alley alerted all of them.

Jason looked over curiously, trying to spot what caused the noise without leaving his position. The dealers seemed to freeze in place as well. One of them even dared to venture into the alley. Jason frowned, thinking that he noticed something move in the shadows, but it was so dark he couldn't be sure, until—

The man who had gotten close was suddenly pulled forward. Jason didn't even have a chance to blink in surprise—his other targets suddenly pulled out guns. Jason could barely believe they were armed but he decided he didn't have time to worry about that—he needed to nail these guys as soon as possible.

He scaled down the building as fast as he could, eventually landing behind the remaining three. He knocked the gun out of one of their hands before dodging the bullet barrage from another. He caught something in the corner of his eye—a flicker of a shadow, but he didn't get a good look at what it was. He heard bullets go off and knew that he needed to get some distance unless he wanted to get shot. He ducked behind the nearest hard object he could find—a bus shelter.

As he turned around the bus shelter, the guns continued going off. Jason pulled out his gun just as someone ducked behind the shelter with him. Jason prepared himself to fire—saw the guy reach for something, possibly a weapon, from his belt—but then he realized who it was.

Robin. The new one.

They both stopped, coming face to face.

And judging by his expression, it seemed the kid wasn't too happy to see him either.

"You—"he started, gritting his teeth, but a gunshot fired and they both ducked down to be safe. Robin continued, "Why are you here? I swear, if you're running with these guys—"

Jason flared at the accusation. "I'm not even going to let you finish that sentence, you fucking idiot. Shut up and go hide in a birdhouse or some shit and let me take care of this."

Jason spun around the corner of the shelter, taking aim.

"What are you doing?" Tim said, pulling him back. Jason was surprised by his strength and was successfully pulled back, staggering to his knees. He managed to fire off a single shot but Tim had messed up his aim, and from the sounds of it, the bullet didn't land anywhere. "You could have killed someone."

"In case you haven't noticed, they're trying to kill us."

After Jason's voice had died out, he noticed that it was strangely silent. The bullet barrage had stopped. He looked at Tim, who seemed to notice it as well—the younger's face falling slightly as a flicker of recognition crossed his face. Unable to see through the glass due to a huge advertisement, the two had to peek around the corner of the bus shelter, where Jason then noticed their targets disappearing down an alleyway, along with their friend who Tim had taken down.

Jason glanced back at Tim, where they locked gazes for a moment. A look of understanding passed between them.

Jason took off first. He only made it a few strides before he felt his jacket being pulled over his head, momentarily blinding him. He growled to himself, shrugging the garment back, and he caught the flitting of a cape going down the alley.

Jason's first instinct was to chase after them but an idea crossed his mind when he realized that he recognized the alleyway. He took a different route, running further down the block.

The alley only led in one direction. Further down the block and around the corner was a place where Jason had a chance of cutting them off. When Jason turned the corner, he was momentarily shocked by a newly built fence, but he didn't hesitate. He quickly hopped the fence blocking his path by jumping on the top of a dumpster for leverage. When he landed on the other side, he caught movement in the corner of his eyes. He sprinted towards them but in the darkness, he noticed something in his peripherals just a moment too late.

He crashed into Robin. It was far from an easy crash—Jason went stumbling forward, almost tripping facefirst into the ground, and Tim had been bowled down completely. Jason regained his balance and looked down the alley but the men had gotten away.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Jason muttered under his breath. He looked over at Tim accusingly. The young detective had gotten back on his feet and was rubbing the back of his head, shaking it to himself all the while. Jason felt a cruel impulse to push Tim back to the ground but he resisted. The men were gone, and even though he was absolutely livid, he could only blame himself for not being quick enough. He was too disappointed to stay mad. So much for lucky stars.

"You had no business being here," Tim said, wiping the dirt off his vest. Jason exhaled slowly, trying to control his frustration. The impulse was back—only this time, instead of wanting to push Tim to the ground, he wanted to slam the kid's face repeatedly into the nearest brick wall.

"You ruined my entire mission," Jason snapped. "How am I supposed to talk to their supplier now?"

"Supplier?"

"Yes. They were meeting with their supplier. I could be taking down a whole drug operation but instead I'm stuck with you."

"Get your facts straight," Tim argued. "There was no supplier. You nearly stepped into the middle of a gang war."

"Excuse me?"

"Why do you think those guys were armed? They weren't doing a pick-up. They were there to kill some guy. I got the tip-off a week ago. I was going to arrest them but I needed proof that they were committing a crime so I waited." Tim put his hands in the air, adding sarcastically, "But no. I suppose I ruined your mission."

"Son of a bitch," Jason muttered under his breath. He was going to have to go back to that bald dealer's house and have a few more words with him. "Sorry Pascal."

"Who?" Tim said.

Jason frowned deeply. He was genuinely sorry. He remembered his mission. Remembered why he was there. Remembered that justice still needed to be served.

"His name was Christopher Pascal. He was a teenager when he was killed in East End. I'm not just chasing after traders, I'm chasing after a murderer—and those guys are the only heroin dealers that I know of. And now they're gone and I'm back to step one." Jason didn't know why he was bothering to say this—didn't even know why he was bothering to stick around, talking. He hated this guy. He hated him and his dumb haircut and the stupid red and green uniform.

He could tell from the look on the kid's face that he wasn't too happy to see him either. Jason couldn't blame him. He believed the last time they had met, Jason had torn apart his hideout and tormented his little Titans teammates, And that was just the last time they had met—they had plenty of nasty encounters before then, and it didn't stop between them. Jason had treated a lot of Robin's friends and comrades poorly—including the most important person of all.

"So what are you going to do about this? Cry to Batman?" Jason said bitingly. Tim's eyebrows furrowed.

"No. Batman doesn't want you harmed. He wants you back home, if he can help it. In jail, if he can't. I've been instructed to leave you alone and that's what I suppose I have to do. But don't get in my way again," Tim said, voice low.

"You don't scare me, pipsqueak. I could toss you around like a sack of birdseed."

"God, enough with the bird jokes. It's tacky and embarrassing," Tim said, grumbling. He aimed his grappling gun at the nearest roof, taking off with it. Jason glared in his direction, his gaze following the shadow until it disappeared between two buildings.

Jason gripped the bus handle a little tighter, the entire crowd swaying as the bus turned a corner. Jason ignored the person who brushed against him—he was certain it was an accident, although the last time he had ridden on a crowded bus, he was sure that someone was trying to steal his wallet. Or get handsy.

Jason normally kept his eyes to himself. But the bus turned again, and his head was jerked up, and he found himself staring curiously at someone who was sitting in the seats in next to him. There was a form huddled up. Underneath the drawn hoodie, Jason caught a hint of a face—a boy's, probably in his early teens. His clothes looked unwashed. He had a worn-out backpack and some plastic bags tucked between him and the seat. He was asleep but he still seemed to have dark circles underneath his eyes.

It wasn't difficult to figure it out. The kid was either homeless or a runaway—likely, both. Jason was ready to divert his gaze—it was a matter that didn't concern him—but then he noticed the person who was sharing the seat with the kid had started moving. Jason narrowed his eyes—the person, a man, looked like he was trying to grab one of the kid's bags. Jason grew irritated.

Throwing tact aside, he kicked the man in the shin—not at full force, just enough to hurt and get him to knock it off. A few people nearby looked at Jason oddly but none of them said anything—either because they had seen what the man was trying to do or, more than likely, they just didn't give a shit. The man immediately looked in his direction, glaring, but Jason just stood his ground and returned the look. Seeing the obvious size and power difference, the man clenched his mouth shut and kept his hands to himself until he got off the bus a few stops later.

When the man left, Jason glanced down at the kid, who was still fast asleep. Jason watched him for a moment until the bus suddenly jerked forward, forcing the kid awake. There was a dazed look in the kid's eyes, like he wasn't sure where he was, like he had been woken from a dream. Jason realized it was his stop so he got off, his mouth clenched shut. On the sidewalk, he had to weave in and out of a crowd of kids who were throwing around a football. Passing his stoop, the same usual group of teenagers listening to their music, glaring at him as he walked by. In his apartment building, the still arguing couple with their crying baby.

It was the same old routine. Jason dodged them all. Although this time, there wasn't anyone sitting at the top of the stairs. Nikki must have listened and got a key after all.

Jason moved toward his apartment without skipping a beat. He grabbed his keys and unlocked the door, but when he was about to open it up, he noticed something was off.

There was a light on underneath the door.

He narrowed his eyes, his heartrate picking up a little. He tried to act casual, pushing his way in and setting his grocery bag on the floor. He shut the door behind him and immediately stuck his hand inside his jacket, moving deeper into his apartment.

Jason immediately drew his gun, turning around the corner ready to shoot. He stopped, blinking when he saw who stood there, but never lowered his weapon.

"How the fuck did you find my house?" he said at once, his voice demanding a response.

Robin shrugged, unflinching even as he was faced with the weapon.

"It wasn't that hard. You mentioned a Christopher Pascal. I looked into his records, found he had family living here, and that this apartment also rented out to a certain Chris Schneider—who got an Australian work visa years ago. If you're going to use an alias, you should really find one that's harder to dig up."

Jason watched carefully as Tim reached into his belt, pulling out a flashdrive. Tim held it up into the light for Jason to see.

"Everything else I picked up on Christopher and his killer is on here. To make it quick for you, the guy you're chasing has already been incarcerated."

Jason was torn between laughing and firing the gun right then and there out of irritation. It hadn't even been a few days since they crossed paths.

"You honestly expect me to believe that you solved it?"

Tim clenched his jaw, looking slightly annoyed, but continued, "Look at the evidence for yourself. I laid it out simply enough for you to understand. It won't change that Christopher's murderer is already in jail, but with the evidence I compiled, you can at least give his family the peace of mind knowing who did it."

Jason couldn't believe the nerve of this kid. "Is that what you think this is about? A murder mystery?"

For the first time, Tim seemed dumbfounded. "Pardon?"

"What happened to Pascal has already been done. He's dead, buried, gone. My mission is to make sure this doesn't happen again. I'm not satisfied with some low-beat thug who's already stuck in Blackgate. I'm going to the source. I'm going to the top."

Tim let out a little noise, almost like a scoff, in disbelief. He shook his head to himself, pacing a few steps, the weak floorboards creaking beneath him. Jason's gun followed him the whole time, his concentration unbreaking.

"And what do you plan on doing when you find him?"

"The same thing I'm going to do to you if you don't get the fuck out of my house."

"You're not going to shoot me," Tim said, staring down the gun defiantly. "It goes against your code. You do have some ethics—however deep they may be buried. Look, I'm leaving this here for you." He placed the flashdrive on the table, tearing his gaze away from the gun, and Jason contemplated making his move in that moment. But he didn't. "You can decide what you want to do with it."

"Are we done?" Jason asked as Tim turned to climb back out the window. Tim paused, one leg on the sill, before turning back.

"No," he said, scowling. "Not even close. Batman might have ordered me to stay away from you, and I'll respect that, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let you kill a bunch of people—even if they are criminals. If you want your revenge, you'll have to do it fast, because I've got five leads already and they're all going to be tossed in Blackgate before you can proceed with your brand of 'justice'."

Jason glared at him as he turned to leave, but just as Tim stepped outside onto the balcony, he paused and stuck his head back in.

"Oh, and by the way, I cracked the code to your safe. I'm not sure where you got your hands on half of those firearms but I went ahead and dismantled them for you."

Before Jason could blink, Robin disappeared. Jason hurried to the window but the vigilante was already swinging away and Jason was too tired to chase, especially when he couldn't change what was already done. To double check, he hurried to the armoire in his bedroom and went to the safe, found that the door was still hanging open, and that all of his heavier, expensive firearms had missing firing pins.

Jason gritted his teeth, a steady anger boiling inside of him. Ethics be damned. He should have taken the shot.

First thing in the morning, Jason made a cup of coffee and sat with the files that Robin had compiled. He went over the evidence multiple times, and in the end, he had to admit that the argument was compelling. More than compelling, it was damning. Pascal's murderer had definitely been discovered.

The killer was named Matthew Lynch. After searching more into the killer, he had been arrested on fifth street for drug dealing before the rest of his crime charges came up, all of which had been in roughly the same area as the numbered streets.

If Jason's time reliving in Park Row had taught him anything, it's that Gotham gang territory was constantly changing. However, in the East End, all of the gangs were heavily segregated by race. If this guy's name was an indicator of anything, it was that he was likely working with an Irish gang. Once he pinned the name to the area, it made sense. Those early numbered streets had always been run by Irish, likely all the same nameless gang. Jason knew nothing else about them—it's not that the gang wasn't worth noting, it was just that heroin dealers seemed like smallfry in comparison to the wild gangs that ran Crime Alley and the other dangerous streets of the East End.

As much as Jason hated to admit it, the kid was right, and he had managed to compile all of this evidence in a startling amount of time. Which only meant he was that much more of a threat.

Tim couldn't arrest him without upsetting the Bat. However, if Jason's plan involved taking out this gang and getting to the one person in charge of it all, he needed to get to them before Tim showed up and arrested them all.

Jason didn't have the tools Tim had. He couldn't get access to police records to see who else was causing trouble in this neighborhood. But knowing the area Lynch was operating in was enough of a start. He was going to have to scare some people—maybe wreak some havoc and get into a few fights—but he had a lead. Nothing else was going to stop him.

Growing up, people tried not to talk about drugs around Jason. It was pretty common knowledge that Catherine was a junkie, even though Jason had been especially proud those days and tried his best to keep it swept under the rug. If it was ever brought up, Jason would fight tooth and nail against the accusations, and it had gotten him into more than a few fights in school. Jason, looking back on it, wasn't sure what he had been so embarrassed of. Most of his classmates knew and lived with people who were addicts—and just as easily as Jason could spot a kid who had an addict in their family, they were just as sure to notice it in him.

But Jason had made it clear that the subject was taboo and so, no one talked about it around him unless they wanted to face his wrath. One day, however, they had a school assembly. Some nobody player from the Gotham Raiders had been visiting all of the inner-city schools. The guy talked about his addiction and how he turned his life around. It was the type of sappy, overly-sentimental bullshit that had all of the kids rolling their eyes—until the guy started to get into the real heavy shit, and then it became too relatable, and every kid in the assembly was hushed by his story.

Jason remembered it so clearly because it was the first time he had heard someone describe heroin. He knew what heroin looked like. He knew what heroin was worth. He knew how heroin was injected into the skin. He had spent years watching his mom in their apartment, watching her sink into couch cushions or her mattress, her pupils constricted and her gaze somewhere far off in the distance. Gone. A real, walking zombie. But he never knew what was going on behind those lifeless eyes of hers, even when she seemed to murmur in confusion, never knew what haze she was living in day-to-day—in a place so far away that Jason couldn't reach her.

The guy had, in a not very PG way, explained that it felt like floating and climaxing all at once. The dreamy, light euphoria, the warmth rushing from underneath the skin. The joy of being alive. And as much as Jason hated to admit it, he understood why Catherine had turned to it.

He stared down the truck as it docked itself near a convenience store. It was disguised as some soda truck—convincing, considering the storefront, except it was some brand that didn't even exist.

It was delivering drugs that had been smuggled over the border. After its long journey from the south, it had finally made its way to Gotham. Jason had to break a lot of teeth, fingers and toes from a supplier to figure out where the drugs were getting dropped off. Jason felt a low anger beginning to rise to the surface—his patience was short and this drug business was pissing him off.

It just had to be fucking heroin.

A group of guys came out of the truck first. Big guys. They were handling some of the most profitable merchandise in the world, after all, and it wasn't going to be easy to infiltrate the group. Jason watched carefully, trying to figure out the best angle to get in and make his move, when suddenly he noticed some movement on an adjacent rooftop.

"No," Jason murmured underneath his breath, nearly rising to his feet in shock. He couldn't believe it.

Suddenly there were grey clouds on the ground. A smoke bomb.

"You motherfucker," Jason growled. He immediately got to his feet. He couldn't believe the guy was stealing his leads. He rushed along the edge of the rooftops but hesitated to jump in. His mask wasn't equipped with anything aside from basic head protection. Unlike his Robin days, he wasn't going to be able to just hop in and see through the smoke. He had to wait for it to dissipate.

When the clouds began to clear, a few of the men were already on the ground. Jason rushed down, joining the conflict. Taking down a few more guys.

"Why the hell are you chasing my guys?" Jason shouted, knocking the gun out of one man's hand before tossing him into another guy.

"They're not your guys," Tim spat back, voice dripping in contempt. Jason glanced over in time to see Tim dodge a rushing man, tripping him with his bo. "I've been tracking that truck for nights now."

Suddenly there was a sound of loud, heavy garage doors opening up—and suddenly there were guys coming out of the building. Lots of them.

"Shit," Jason muttered under his breath. He turned around the truck, Tim following suit. The guns went off, a wild barrage bombarding Jason's ears as each one fired off, one after one after one. It was like a ton of firecrackers had just gone off at once.

"We need to get out of here," Tim decided, raising his voice so he could be heard over the flying bullets. "There's no way either of us can fight that."

"And where are we supposed to go?" Jason said.

"I could throw a flash bomb—"

"And blind me and leave me behind? Isn't that against your code?"

Tim reached into his belt, pulling out a batarang. It looked different than what Jason was used to—but he realized what it was when it started blinking.

"Isn't that against your code too?" Jason said dryly.

"It's low grade—and it's just to get them to stop firing long enough for us to get around that building over there."

Tim tossed it, letting it spin around the corner of the truck. Jason heard it detonate and took the explosion as a start signal. He bolted for it, hearing footsteps behind him but never once looked back. They made it around the building and kept running for it—Jason then saw something in the reflection of a passing window.

Jason quickly turned around, just in time to see a man chasing them. Jason raised his gun and Tim stopped in his tracks, startled as the barrel was suddenly pointed in his direction.

Jason fired, shooting past Tim and killing the man behind him. Tim looked back, realized what had happened.

"You shot him," Tim said, disheartened.

"Come on," Jason said with a growl. He didn't have time for some kid's semantics. "We have to go!"

Jason took off, not bothering to see if Tim was following. He had already done what he could. A shadow trailed after his own and eventually they disappeared, taking off into the city. Once they had run a far enough distance, far enough where both of them had to slow down and catch their breaths, Jason found himself getting knocked back into a wall.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Tim demanded. Jason, not one to back down, immediately shoved him back.

"Is that some type of joke? You'd be in the fucking ground right now if it wasn't for me," Jason spat back. Tim held his ground, glaring back stubbornly. "I guess I should have let him shoot you. It would have been better if I let him waste that bullet instead of me—God knows I need what I can get considering you dismantled all of my other shit."

"I'm not sorry about taking apart your stolen firearms."

"You should be, considering one of these stolen firearms just saved you from getting your brains splattered across the ground."

"You expect me to be grateful for you killing some guy?"

"Would you rather be fucking dead?"

"Yes!" Tim said, exasperated.

Jason shook his head in disbelief at what he was hearing. This was all so fucked up—mostly because Jason could tell that Tim was being serious. He knew this because, once upon a time, Jason would have felt the same way. That it would be better to die than to let someone die at his hands. Jason waved his hand dismissively.

"He's fucking brainwashed you," Jason said. He felt like he was ready to walk away, right then and there, because no argument was ever going to change how this kid felt, until maybe it was too late, and it was a conversation that Jason didn't want to bother getting involved in. Yet, a dull rage began to rise inside of him, fuelled by the thoughts of that person, and all he wanted to do was cuss and rant and scream. "He's filled your head with all these stupid ideas—like taking bullets for enemies. Have you ever stopped and thought about how fucked up that is? For some kid that seems to be ahead of the game, you're super fucking gullible. Open your eyes."

"Open my eyes to what? That killing people is okay?"

"I didn't shoot that guy for fun. This city, this fucking crazy world we live in, is about survival. You seriously think that guy probably hasn't killed someone before? That he hasn't probably destroyed one life, but dozens? You think that he learned to not hesitate to point a gun at a teenager by being a good person? I had an opportunity to save a life and I did it, and I did it by choosing you over some fucking asshole who the world isn't going to miss. I'm not going to apologize for not kung-fuing him into the ground or whatever the hell you expected me to do. I made a decision and you're still breathing, so you're fucking welcome." Tim was silent but Jason wasn't through. He continued, "If you had to make the choice, you'd do the fucking same. And if you couldn't, if you let a good person die just so you wouldn't forsake these fucked-up ethics that some old rich guy in a bat costume instilled in you, then you're too passive."

"Your way isn't the right way."

"And your way doesn't work."

Jason tore away his gaze to glance at their surroundings. An alleyway really wasn't the best place for them to stick around and argue in the middle of the night. He exhaled a little, his anger beginning to cool off. He knew he made the best decision, whether Tim agreed or not, and he didn't need the younger vigilante's approval anyways. The conversation was over.

He began to walk off. Tim's footsteps followed his, hurriedly to keep up.

"Hey, wait a minute. What are you going to do about that drug operation?"

"Nothing. Not tonight, anyways."

"And what about tomorrow night?"

"What do you think?" Jason said, not bothering to look over his shoulder. He had driven his motorcycle there but it was too risky to go back for it. He decided to take the rooftops back to his place and come back for his motorcycle the next day and maybe start over on his mission. He started to climb a firescape. Tim continued to follow him.

"Look, I know you don't want to hear this, but you can't kill those guys."

"You're still going on about that?" Jason said with a growl. He was tempted to kick Tim right off of the firescape then and there.

"I know you don't want to kill those people," Tim said, his voice a tad bit lower. Jason couldn't help but laugh.

"You sure you're a detective?" he said mockingly. Tim ignored the jab, his voice maintaining its composure.

"You don't kill indiscriminately. Like you said, you don't shoot for fun. I'm not saying what happened to Christopher was a good thing. I'm not saying these guys should be continuing their operations on the streets. All I'm saying is that we can just as easily arrest them and turn them in. This gang is smallfry. While some of them have clearly done some fucked up things, for the most part, they're just drug dealers. It's not worthy enough of a death sentence. Their gang also isn't profitable enough to bail out anyone—all these drug dealers are just low commodities. If they get sent to jail, they'll stay behind bars."

They made it to the rooftop, where Jason finally slowed to a stop. As much as he hated to admit it, Tim was right. These guys were certainly awful—but not low enough to where they needed Jason's remaining bullets. Besides, his eyes were set on a different target.

"You might have a point—but you're forgetting one thing: the drug lord. The guy behind this all. The guy whose strings were attached to that truck full of drugs and is responsible for the deaths of people like Pascal. He's a criminal—awful enough to where I won't be satisfied until he's put away for good by my hands."

Tim was quiet for a moment, as if taking it all in. "I have my idea of what needs to be done. You have yours. I can't convince you to change your mind—but I do know that when it comes to these small gangs, our goals may just align."

Jason couldn't believe what he was hearing. He stepped back a little. "Are you telling me you want to work together?"

"Not permanently," Tim said, bristling in place. The walls were back up. "I'm not going to let you execute anyone. But we don't have to chase down this guy in order to work together and clean up Gotham streets. We're both on the brink of breaking down a drug operation—but we keep getting in each other's way. I think we can both agree that the East End would be better off if these drug dealers were in jail and the drugs were off the streets. So instead of competing with each other, why not create an alliance? We'd get things done faster."

"That won't work. At some point, we're going to find our lead to the man in charge. Then I'll have to do things my way."

"Then we'll parts ways when that happens," Tim said simply.

Jason looked away, unable to find anything to argue against that. As much as he hated to admit it, the kid was smart, and seemed to always be a step ahead of him when it came to finding these leads. It'd be wise if Jason took advantage of that. He knew that by the time they reached the end of their rope, by the time Jason would have to get out his guns and hunt down the man responsible for Gotham's drug gangs, Tim wouldn't be able to stop him anyways.

"Fine," Jason said. "But I'm not shaking on it."

There was a loud pounding on Jason's door. At first, Jason thought it was a dream, but it grew louder and louder. He rolled over in his bed, checking the alarm clock. He blinked at it sleepily before sighing to himself. Someone was going to pay for this. He grabbed the nearest shirt laying on the floor and threw it on so he was at least partly decent and made his way to the entrance.

He unlocked every single bolt and finally swung open the door.

"You gotta be kidding me," Jason said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Tim held up a folder that was in his hands. "I have some leads."

"How are you even awake? I didn't get home until—"

"Ten hours ago?" Tim said as if guessing, looking at the clock on his phone. "Seems like enough sleep to me."

Jason's eyes were practically rolling into the back of his head.

"I mean, I could have just snuck in, but considering how you reacted last time…" Tim purposefully trailed off. Jason grimaced a little. Tim's point was made.

"Wait here," Jason said. Tim looked a little uncomfortable—which was understandable, considering the shouting that was coming from the other apartments. There was also a very distinct smell coming from one of the apartments on the same floor, which Jason could only assume was smoke. Jason just gave him an annoyed look. "This wouldn't be a problem if you had, you know, warned me or something."

"Can't you at least invite me in?" Tim said, eyes widening a little. Jason reluctantly swung the door open and Tim immediately shuffled in.

"Sit on that couch and don't move," Jason said, pointing. "If I catch you sneaking through any of my shit, I swear to God that I'll toss you out the window."

"Right," Tim said stiffly and he did as ordered. Even while sitting in the plush couch he looked uncomfortable. This guy needed some serious relaxation methods—just looking at how anxious he was made Jason equally anxious. But Jason didn't comment on it, he just rolled his eyes and hurried to get ready.

He started his coffee machine, showered and got dressed.

"Your apartment is, uh, clean," Tim said awkwardly as Jason waited for the machine to finish up. Jason stopped and gave him a dry look.

"You already broke through my safes. It's a little too late to make small talk."

"I mean, it surprised me back then too."

"Were you expecting something more chaotic?" Jason said. Maybe it might have been like that—Jason wasn't organized as a kid, although maybe he was just disorganized in the way that all children were, and even to this day his room was never a hundred percent clean. Maybe the bad habits would have carried on if he had lived under different circumstances—he had to break any untidy behavior when Catherine's addiction had gotten worse and he had to start taking care of her. "I just moved in. There's not much to clean. And I hardly spend enough time here to make a mess. But of course, you know all of that already, which makes small talk kind of useless."

Jason waited in the kitchen until his coffee was done. He came back in and Tim glanced at the cup.

"I'm not offering you anything. Unless you want to fix the first things you took from my apartment," Jason said, grumbling.

"I wasn't going to ask," Tim said. "And I don't drink coffee. The smell makes me kind of sick, to be honest."

"I'll keep that in mind," Jason said darkly, glaring above his cup. Tim flashed him an equally annoyed look but didn't dwell on it. He opened up the folder and started laying out some files on the coffee table. Jason took a seat in a nearby chair, pulling it up close enough to take a look. A picture was placed last on the table.

"Who is that?" he asked.

"A suspect. We can't go back to that storefront unless we want to get slaughtered—but if we can tackle down some of the suppliers one by one, maybe we can put together the info that they gave us. I tried to put some names to some of the faces that I saw down at the drop-off. This was the only one I could put together."

Jason's eyes narrowed a little. "How do you know this?"

"I had set up some cameras earlier in the week," Tim explained. Tim tapped the picture, drawing attention to the man and the long scar across his cheek. "His face picked up in the cameras. It's not hard to find someone in a criminal database who has a distinct feature like that. He got busted for possession of illegal substances years ago. Served his time in Blackgate, didn't cause trouble, and was released early on parole. Now, it seems, he's back in the game."

Tim moved around some of the papers, turning them in Jason's direction so he could look at them.

"I got ahold of his bank and credit card statements. He spends a lot of time in the area and even shops at that storefront. He deposits all of his money in cash and hasn't had an actual job in years—and yet, somehow, he still manages to afford his rent. He also shares an apartment building with other ex-cons—I'm still trying to match their faces to the ones caught on my cameras. Either way, I have his address. I figure it's worth paying his place a visit."

Jason was slowly beginning to realize how wrong he had been when he had assumed that Tim had stolen his leads. Tim didn't need his leads, he found them on his own—days before Jason had, when he was still punching around Irish gang members. Even though Jason had grown up in the East End, it seemed that Tim had already versed himself in everything that was happening and had a better picture of the district than he did.

Still, Tim had known this and hadn't done much about it. There was still a caution there, a hesitance.

"Does Bruce know about this?" Jason asked. He gestured to the table and around the room. "All of this?"

Tim seemed tense. "No," he admitted. "But I've been keeping logs of everything and told some of my friends, just in case—"

"In case I kill you?" Jason raised an eyebrow.

"In case anything happens," Tim corrected but he flashed Jason a look. Jason rubbed the back of his neck. Tim continued, "Anyways, I want to be sure that this is the guy we're after before we do anything potentially dangerous. I want to sneak into his apartment and do a little digging up. The only downside is that I'm not entirely sure when he leaves. We'll have to stake it out."

"Or we could just interrogate him."

"I don't even want to talk to him unless I can be certain that he's doing something fishy," Tim said sternly. Tim may have been speaking in personal pronouns but it wasn't difficult to understand that Tim was actually talking about Jason. He didn't want Jason barging into anyone's apartments with his guns out. "We investigate his place. Then interrogate him, if need be."

"So when do we start?" Jason said.

"As soon as you're ready. And leave the guns here—or I'm not giving you the address."

"Seriously?" Jason said, deadpanned.

"I still don't trust you." Tim leaned back in the couch, crossing his arms. "You won't need them anyways, if we do this right. It's just a stakeout and then an investigation. Hopefully we won't need to interrogate him."

"And if we do?"

"Then we won't need a gun to do it."

"Fine. But just so you know, people are a lot more willing to spill secrets with a gun in their face. But hey, we'll do it your way—we'll break some bones, cut some limbs... kindly methods," Jason said with more than a touch of sarcasm. Tim ignored the jab.

"We're going to go in street clothes but bring your stuff—mask and gloves especially—just in case."

"This isn't my first stakeout, Mom," Jason said, getting up. "So what kind of car do you drive? You come from money, right? So you gotta have something nice. Or maybe Bats hooked you up with something cool—I bet it's a sleeper car."

"I thought your interest in cars was limited to the price of their wheels."

Jason used to love cars but he wasn't going to admit that out loud. Tim's comment made him realize that he was getting too personal. Suddenly, the topic was making him think about the batmobile and the cool vintage cars that Alfred used to drive him around in. He felt a weird ache, almost like a longing, and he quickly buried the thoughts.

When he was done and ready, they started to head out the door but Tim stopped, standing still in Jason's apartment.

"What?" Jason said, his hand already on the doorknob. Tim held out his palm.

"It's strapped underneath your shirt."

"What?" Jason said, feigning ignorance.

"The gun. It's underneath your shirt. Your jacket covers up the straps of the holster."

Jason patted his body. "Do you hear anything? Besides the little voice telling you that you're wrong?"

Tim narrowed his eyes for a moment. Finally, after a moment of thought, he said, "It's strapped to your leg, isn't it?"

Jason stared long and hard. "You're going to regret this. You never know what could happen in Gotham—dude could have like, velociraptors or some shit instead of guard dogs."

"That's not part of the agreement. Get rid of it," Tim said. Jason sighed before pulling up his pants leg, unstrapping the gun attached to his calf. He held it up for Tim to look at it before setting it down. Tim nodded, satisfied. As they headed out, Tim said, "I don't have a car. We're going to do the stakeout on a roof."

This kid was equal parts exciting news and disappointments. "In the middle of the day? In July? We're going to boil, if we don't get caught first."

"Says the one wearing a leather jacket," Tim said, snorting a little. He added, "Across from his apartment is a café that serves on a rooftop. It'll be inconspicuous, we'll have a good angle of his apartment, and we won't die of heat."

"This ain't Burnside—East End cafés are shitholes. Besides, I thought coffee made you sick."

"I'll manage."

Jason locked up his apartment. They started to head down the stairs when Jason found a familiar face heading in their direction. Nikki was climbing slowly, her eyes too glued to her phone.

"I get you a key and you're still hogging up the staircase?" he teased.

"Bite me, fuckface," she said muttering. She put away her phone and looked up, like she was ready to say a few more things, but her eyes flickered in Tim's direction and she suddenly went silent. The action didn't go unnoticed—Jason smirked a little.

"What, got nothing to say? Or do you need help picking your jaw up off the floor?"

"Shut up," she said, blushing a little, and she passed him on the staircase—her shoulder brushing up against him too roughly to be an accident. Jason wasn't bothered, he was too amused that he had pissed her off.

"She must like you. I don't think I've ever seen her shut her mouth like that before," Jason said, laughing. Tim just shook his head a little, looking uncomfortable from Jason's teasing. "Hey, one of your teammates is a blonde too, isn't she?"

"Another rule: we're not going to discuss my friends. Not now, not ever," Tim said, shooting a glare in his direction. There was a warning in there, almost like a serious threat. Jason just looked at him. "Especially after what you did."

"Fine. But you're the one who wanted to work together," Jason said. Tim kept his gaze forward. Jason broke the silence, "So why don't you have a car?"

"We need to talk."

Jason delivered the blow anyways, punching their dealer in the face. Jason glanced at Tim, whose expression was hard as ever, but there was a tension in his body. He felt uncomfortable. Jason was beginning to feel angry—as perfectly as Tim had managed to find this guy, Jason still wished he was doing this on his own.

It was hard to interrogate this man when Tim was backing away with every punch Jason delivered. It made them look weak and this guy was keeping his mouth shut, even though he was tied to a chair and had blood streaming from his broken nose.

And now Tim wanted to talk—and Jason had a feeling why.

The man suddenly spat—blood splattering on Tim's boot. "I thought fuckers like you were the good guys."

Tim shot him a look.

"Mind your mouth. I don't need a criminal who sells poison on the streets giving me lessons on morality," he said bitingly. He glanced in Jason's direction. "We need to talk. Now."

"It's okay. I get it. Mom and Dad never wanted to argue in front of me either," the man said, laughing through his broken teeth.

"Shut the fuck up," Jason said, clapping him over the head.

"Now," Tim said, raising his voice. Jason bristled in annoyance—he knew where this was heading but he listened anyways. He followed Tim, shutting the door behind him. When they were alone, Tim said, his voice low. "He's not going to talk."

"No shit," Jason said, an edge to his voice. "It's because you keep fucking cradling him. The good cop, bad cop shit you see on TV only works when both guys are on the same page. You keep fucking contradicting everything I do. You heard the guy—he knows we're not on the same team. He's using it against us. He knows the minute I threaten him, you're just going to poke your head in and stop me."

Tim shook his head to himself. Jason can sense the doubt there—Tim wanted to believe he was doing the right thing but knew it wasn't getting the results he wanted.

"We've been doing this for over an hour now. I can't just keep watching you torture him," Tim said.

Jason's first instinct was to argue but he had to rein himself in. In truth, Jason's methods that night had been tame—only because Tim kept stopping him from doing what he deemed was too far. It was clear, in that moment, in the weariness in Tim's expression, that he couldn't stomach it. Jason could admit now that the kid was a damned good detective—but when it came to getting dirty and being mean, he wasn't quite there. Tim's hesitance was based on not enough experience and too much heart—and Jason knew that he was enough of the opposite to get this man to spill.

"Then don't watch. Stay out here. I'll take care of it."

"I can't let you go too far."

Jason sighed heavily. "Look, you don't get it. Perps spill because they're afraid. Batman doesn't have to push them far to get them to talk because they're already terrified of him. But you and I? We're nobodies. You're just a kid in some dumb spandex and I'm just a stranger they never heard of. If we want them to talk, we need to make them afraid—and we need to do it by delivering on our threats."

Tim considered the words. Sounding more than a little defeated, he finally said, "Fine."

Tim moved a step forward even though there was a look of complete unwillingness in his expression. Jason held out his hand, stopping him.

"I'll take care of it," Jason said.

"I can handle it," Tim said, sounding guarded. "I want to solve this mission, I'll do what it takes."

"That's not it," Jason said in a low voice. Tim stopped and looked at him.

Jason turned back around, going back into the room. Tim didn't follow him. Jason shut the door behind him.

"Where's your friend?" the man asked. Jason responded by striking him hard across the face, as hard as he could, so hard Jason felt a shock go through his arm. The man's face was already beginning to swell up. He was cursing Jason, blood splattering from his mouth as he spoke, but Jason ignored him.

Jason grabbed one of the legs of the chair, yanking. The chair fell on its back, the man yelling out as he landed on his tied hands.

"You motherfucker," he said with a low growl. But he glared up at Jason, even though his head was tilted back and his blood was beginning to stream towards his eyes. He looked deranged. "You think I'm fucking afraid of you? You think this is the first time I've been interrogated, huh? You think my ear is missing because of masked freaks like you? I've been captured by gangsters and bad cops alike—you don't fucking scare me."

Jason believed him. He stepped down on the man's chest, applying pressure. The man sucked in his breath, his eyes clenched shut as he tried to restrain his voice. Jason continued to press down, crushing the man's hands against the ground, pressing the man's back against the chair.

"If you're not going to talk, then you shouldn't care if I crush your lungs," Jason said.

"You won't," he said. Jason could hear the effort it took for him to argue, could hear the exerted breath. "You don't got it in you."

"My partner doesn't. But I do—and he's not in here, is he?" Jason said. Mimicking the man's voice from earlier, "You think I haven't killed men before?"

Jason pressed harder, bringing most of his weight down. The man opened his mouth, yelling but the sound was constricted under his chest being crushed. Jason counted the seconds in his head before stopping. He lifted himself off, the man took a breath, and Jason pulled the chair back up.

He took a look at the man's tied hands. The skin was a bright scarlet, almost purple in areas, from brunting his weight. Jason grabbed one of the hands, felt the man tense underneath him, and went ahead and broke one of his fingers.

"Fuck!"

Jason let him yell and scream for a few seconds. He proceeded to break the second one. The yells resumed and Jason was worried for a moment that Tim would step back into the room—but he didn't. He went onto the third, fourth. Ignored the shouting, the cursing, the pleading.

"Just give me a name," Jason muttered. He started on the other hand, spoke over the man's yelp, "Just give me a name."

The hands looked twisted and distorted. Jason was unsatisfied—he ran out of fingers. He turned to the man, who was catching his breath from having his chest stepped on and his shouting and yelling. His nose is still busted and bleeding. Jason stared him down for a moment, the hood on his face expressionless. Jason wrapped his hand around the back of the man's head, the other planting over the man's mouth and pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He tilted the man's head back and held tight.

Jason had to exert a lot of force to keep the man still as he struggled. The blood began to stream back, draining from the man's nose to his throat—Jason could tell, could tell by the strange gurgling noises as he struggled to breathe, as he swallowed nothing but blood.

Jason was thankful for the hood. The sounds of the man drinking his own blood and struggling to breathe was disgusting, he was certain he looked revulsed. But the man couldn't tell that Jason was squeamish—he could only look up, his face swollen and bloodstained, as Jason held him in place.

Jason forced himself to wait it out, even as the man kicked and struggled and his arms got tired. Finally, when the fight seemed to escape him simply because of exhaustion, Jason let go.

The man immediately tilted his head forward, spitting out blood. It dripped thick from his mouth. Jason looked at the sight—equal parts horrific and disgusting, and decided he had made the right choice.

No one else should have to see that.

"Let's do it again," Jason said and he grabbed the chair, tilting it back, and that's when the man caved.

"I don't know his real name," he said, finally. Quickly. "Everyone just calls him the Man in White. That's all I know."

Jason didn't question it. He had the answer he was looking for and he was certain that it was true. He let the chair drop back to the floor on all legs. He opened the door and Tim's gaze flickered in his direction. Jason simply nodded.

Tim contacted Gordon and then they made their way into the city. Jason felt a weary, heavy feeling in his chest. He just wanted to go home but he knew that their work wasn't quite done.

"He's the fourth one," Tim said, breaking the silence as they crossed the rooftops. "He wasn't even part of the same gangs as the other guys we interrogated. This Man in White has several gangs in his pockets, supplying them with heroin."

"Good," Jason said. "Then we take him out and let the gangs crumble."

"But we have to find him. No one even knows his real name."

Jason glanced down at the bloodstains on his gloves and clothing, flitting images of the interrogation still fresh in his mind—as well as all of the others. He felt the nausea crawl its way back but he stuffed the feeling back down, reminding himself of Pascal. He quickly tore his gaze away. "Then we keep doing it. We keep interrogating, we keep prying, we keep researching."

"At the very least, we'll get some of them arrested," Tim murmured.

"No. We're not going to settle for anything less—we're going to catch this guy," Jason said, determined.

They slowed to a stop, catching their breaths. The night was still early. They could still get one more guy off their list. Jason looked over at Tim, who had stopped to snap off a thread that was hanging loose off of his sleeve. As Jason watched him, he took in the uniform. A mixture of feelings seeped in, mostly negative ones, as he remembered his own red and green uniform. The R emblazoned on the red vest, in particular, made Jason irritated to the point of disgust. He wanted to rip that symbol right off.

"I don't understand why you wear that," he said bitingly, practically blurting it out.

Tim regarded him with a bit of confusion. "The uniform?"

"Trust me, you'll never replace Robin. I tried when I was your age. It didn't work out for me."

"I'm not trying to replace anyone," Tim said. His voice was a tad bit soft, almost as if he was upset by the insinuation. Jason found it odd, especially since Tim was usually so guarded.

"That's right. I forgot you wanted to become Batman's sidekick. Still, you could have picked a different identity. Chose a different uniform."

Tim shrugged a little, glancing down at his vest. "It might not mean anything to you—but it means something to me."

That's where Tim was wrong. To Jason, it did mean something, and that was why he couldn't stand looking at it.

Still, Jason shook his head to himself. "How is the whiney prick these days? I thought he got blown up in Blüdhaven."

Tim visibly tensed. He was getting angry. Jason had Bruce in his clutches while all of that went down. Bruce had been terrified, wanted to leave to check on Dick, to make sure he didn't have another partner's blood on his hands—but Jason wouldn't let him leave or make a call. If Tim knew any of that, it made sense why he was pissed. Jason latched onto the anger. He was unhappy too. He wanted to take it out on someone. He knew it was wrong but he didn't stop himself, the words all just spilling out.

"That's the real reason why you did it, isn't it? You worship the guy. God knows why—the prick's a total fucking asshole."

"You're wrong," Tim said adamantly. "He's a good person."

But as soon as he said it, a flicker of thought crossed his features, as if he had remembered something. He closed his mouth, turning his head away slightly. Whatever it was that he had thought, it was causing him to have uncertainties. Jason noticed it.

"Did he give you a good welcoming treatment? Did he go back and forth between giving you the cold shoulder and acting like your best friend, all because of his petty feud with Bats?"

"Is that any different than how you treat me?"

"Sure it is. My feud with Batman isn't petty and you know I'm not your friend."

"If you insist on knowing, he's been great to me. Like a brother," Tim said stiffly.

"Then why do you seem so unsure?"

Tim seemed hesitant, as if realizing that maybe he was saying too much. "He's been going through a rough time—even before Blüdhaven. He's had a lot on his plate and hasn't been the most pleasant person to be around lately. It's like he's not even himself, sometimes." Tim frowned a little, the memories coming back to him. "And it's true, we didn't get off on the right foot. I mean, not when I tried to become Robin, at least. He told me Robin died with you."

"Funny he cared about that," Jason said dryly. "Considering from what I understand, he never went to my funeral."

"I don't think Batman told him," Tim said quietly.

"Yeah. They're both real great guys," Jason said darkly.

What Jason failed to mention were the other moments. Like when Dick saved him from falling into the dirtiest part of the Gotham river when he got hit by a thug and nearly tripped over the bridge. Or when Dick showed him how to make better jumps, which Jason still practiced even in present day. Or even the nights where Dick had done nothing at all, just went on patrol and listened while Jason complained for hours about Bruce because Dick was the only one who seemed to understand or care.

"Look, I don't know anything about that," Tim said, shrugging. "All of that happened way before my time. The arguments, the fighting, the tragedies—I wasn't there for that."

"So, what, I should just get over it?"

"That's not what I'm saying," Tim said, frowning. But not in a way that he appeared upset, but in a way that he wasn't sure how to communicate what he wanted to say. "I can't tell you how to feel. I can't tell you if how you were treated was right or wrong. All I can do is speak for myself—and I don't hate you, Jason. I don't even dislike you. We just don't agree on things."

Tim left it at that. Jason felt a brief tinge of regret for his harsh words, as well as the rest of the other things he had done to torment Tim. He didn't even consider Tim to be his enemy—he never did, if he was to be honest. He didn't even resent Dick. It all led back to Bruce. Always Bruce.

The case was starting to look dismal.

No one seemed to know anything about the Man in White aside from the pseudonym. Night after night after night, they searched, captured and interrogated criminals. Jason barely slept anymore—he was too stressed with all the work. He wanted answers and he wanted them immediately. But Tim was doing his best, figuring out all the leads he could, and there had been nights where Tim looked equally exhausted.

Jason was beginning to lose his patience.

They were on a rooftop. They had a dealer hanging from his wrists on a scaffold His face, red and bloodied.

"I don't know anything else," he said.

"Well you better think harder," Jason said, smushing his cheeks. "Because I'm really sick and tired of hearing the same old song. You've got to know something else—a name, an associate, what he sounds like, something."

"I told you—"

Jason hit him across the face. Tim, who had been standing by and stomaching the scene, called him by his moniker. But Jason ignored him—he hit the man again. And again. And again.

"Enough!" Tim said, grabbing him by the arm. "He doesn't know anything else." Quietly, he repeated, "He doesn't know."

Jason backed away, the anger and the adrenaline rising inside of him. The thing that pissed him off the most was that he knew Tim was right.

"Goddamnit!" Jason said, growling to himself. He kicked a nearby pole, knocking down a clothing line. He restrained himself from doing anything else—even though his blood was boiling. "Fucking piece of shit. I should kill him. I should fucking kill him right now."

"Knock it off. You're talking crazy."

Jason couldn't help it. He reached into his jacket, pulling out his dagger. Tim immediately sparked into action upon seeing the knife, grabbing him by the wrist. He immediately tried to twist it out of Jason's hand but Jason easily resisted.

"This isn't what we agreed on! We need to throw him in jail. He's not worth killing."

"Like hell he is!" Jason charged forward but Tim tried to push him back.

"You're not punishing him," Tim said, gritting his teeth. "You're punishing yourself."

Jason finally took a step back. The nerve of this fucking kid. "Do you have any idea what these types of people do to this city? Do you have any idea how many people suffer because of these pieces of shit?"

Tim looked at Jason. "I know. I'm not saying it's right. But he's just trying to survive. He'd steal wheels off of cars too, if the price was right."

Anger flared in Jason at the personal jab. "I wouldn't have had to do that if my mom wasn't shooting up because of the drugs guys like him put on the street."

"I'm not denying that—"

"Don't talk to me like that!" Jason snapped, cutting him off. In his anger, his deep offense, there was a trace of another feeling. Something Jason didn't expect. It felt like betrayal. "Don't talk to me like I'm just some—some fucking stereotype. Don't talk to me like you've figured me out."

"Figured you out?" Tim repeated, sounding astounded. Tim let out a small breath, smiling almost like he wanted to laugh but he stopped himself in time. He shook his head to himself. "No, Jason," he said. "I haven't figured you out at all."

Jason tossed the knife to the ground. He needed to cool down. Tim was right—this wasn't what they had agreed upon. And as much as Jason wanted to see that man suffer, he was less keen to break his promises. He convinced himself that it wasn't worth his energy or time and retreated to the corner of the roof to allow Tim to handle the rest. The whole time he stood there, allowing the cool breeze to touch his skin, he tried to steady his breathing.

By the time he was able to contain himself, he heard light footsteps behind him.

"GCPD is on their way. We should go."

We. That word pissed him off. They weren't a team. How did things get to this point?

"You don't understand what it's like to be poor," Jason said, the words slipping out. The words didn't come out angry—perhaps he had successfully calmed himself down. Or perhaps some other emotion had taken control of them. "You don't understand what it's like to walk home and not know if the electricity has been cut or not. Or running out of the house because you spilled the milk or broke something and your dad is going to beat you for it because he can't afford to replace it and he needs to take it out on someone. You don't understand that feeling when all of your stuff is thrown out on the curb because you've been evicted. Or when things go missing because your mom needed to pawn it off, and you let her have it instead of hiding it because you know she needs it more than you."

Tim is quiet for a moment. Maybe he wanted to argue but for once, he let it go. "You're right. I don't know. What I said was a low blow."

"I never dealt drugs. It could have been easy, it could have got food on the table and paid our bills, but I never did it. Because I had standards—fucked up standards, yes, but standards. My mom was dying and I still wouldn't do it."

"I'm sorry," Tim said finally.

"But you're not," Jason said, looking at him. "Sorry enough to take back your words, maybe. Sorry enough to admit your mistakes. But you still defend them, despite knowing what they're capable of."

"I grew up in the suburbs. My parents were middle-upper class business owners. I don't know what drives people to do what they do," Tim said. "What I do know is that when my mom died, I saw what it did to my dad—for better or for worse. And I'm still trying to get over the fact that he and my best friend were both killed in the past year. Sure, you can kill perps, but what happens afterwards? What happens to the people that get left behind?"

"Maybe no one will miss them. Maybe the world is better off without them."

Tim slowly shook his head to himself. "I refuse to believe that."

Jason maintained his position behind the thick, concrete pillar. He waited in the shadows, his eyes fixated on the ledge where Tim was crouching and keeping watch, and waited for the signal. Jason could hear the footsteps echoing in the parking garage, growing louder as their target approached. Tim put his hand in the air and Jason readied himself. Then came the signal and Jason came out from his hiding spot, cutting off a man's path. The man dropped his keys and stepped back, but Tim already moved, standing behind him and leaving him with no place to run.

"Wait," the man suddenly said, holding up his hands in surrender. He even knelt a bit, making himself smaller. "I know what you're here for. I heard about the other guys. I think I have some information that you might want—information about the Man in White."

Jason's eyes narrowed in suspicion. This was new. "Your buddies seemed awfully stubborn in giving away names—and in the end, they knew nothing. What's so different about you?"

"Look, I'm not a coward. I'm just being realistic. I'm twice your guys' age and I've got the body of a guy who's four times your age, and there's no way I can fight you two," he said, calmly. "More than that, I've got a wife. I got kids. I can't go to jail."

"That's not an option," Tim said.

"It could be an option," Jason said. "Blackgate or a bullet in your head. Your choice."

"No," Tim said, glaring at Jason. He turned back to the man, who was beginning to look nervous. "I'm sorry, but we don't make bargains with criminals."

"Supplying is most of my income, I'll admit that. But it's not worth the trouble. I just don't want to leave my family—not now. I get it. I did terrible things. Awful things. I paid for it with trips in and out of hospitals by messing around with the wrong people. I'm ready to give it up. I'll give you what you want—just give me a second chance."

"Like hell," Jason said, scoffing. "Did you not hear anything we just said? No bargains."

"Wait," Tim, holding up his hand. Jason looked at him but Tim's attention was directed towards the man. "If you give us all of the information you have, we might be able to work out a deal."

Jason stared, incredulously. "Are you fucking serious? After everything you told me about throwing dudes in Blackgate?"

"Yes. I told you I wanted prison over murder," Tim said, looking at him pointedly. He looked back at the man. "But redemption is preferable to prison. Tell us everything you know and I won't tell GCPD. However, I'm going to expect you to hold up on these promises of yours, and I expect that none of this information will be false. I'll have my eye on you. If you slip up, if you try to run away, if you start supplying again, you're not going to get another chance. And trust me—you will not get away with anything."

Jason was too shocked to focus on his anger—though he was plenty angry. He was in complete disbelief that Tim was trusting this guy.

If Tim noticed, he didn't let it faze him. "Go ahead. Tell us."

"The reason why you haven't found the Man in White is because the suppliers have never seen him."

"You're off to a shitty start," Jason interrupted. The man looked at him, annoyed, but continued.

"The suppliers pick up the drugs directly from the truck. The truck comes directly from over the border. The only person who ever sees the Man in White are the guys who work directly for him—the ones that handle the money between him and the suppliers that they recruit."

"And who would that be?"

"Well, you're looking at one of them," the man said. Jason frowned, his suspicions rising. "It was years ago, anyways. I just supply now. I don't have a real name but I remember where he lives—I'll give you the address. You can see the place for yourself. Then please, just leave me alone."

After finishing their talk, Jason and Tim headed back to Jason's place, where Tim had been keeping his files. The whole exchange kept replaying over and over again in Jason's head. He had a bad taste in his mouth—he couldn't believe they were just letting him go.

"It's got to be a fucking trap."

"We're not going to go in there blind. I'll look up the place he gave us to make sure the information checks out. If not, I already know the guy's address. I'll find him and make sure he goes to Blackgate."

"I thought that was what you were going to do with all of them. I didn't agree to this bullshit," Jason said. Saying it out loud only made him angrier.

"Look, I know he could be lying. That's why I'm going to keep an eye on him. Since I know where to find him, I'll keep tabs on him. I even can trace his credit cards and bank accounts to make sure he's not trying to skip town."

"And how long do you plan on doing this?"

"Everyday. I'll give it a year."

This kid was crazy. "You're really going to commit all of that time? For a criminal?"

"He has a family. I don't want to create a repeat cycle. I'm doing this for them."

They reached Jason's apartment. They snuck in through the window to avoid being noticed by Jason's neighbors. Jason immediately tugged off the hood, running a hand through his hair to fix it. Stupid hood hair. Tim went to picking up his files.

"Man, you're really serious about this shit, aren't you?" Jason said, looking at him. He slowly shook his head to himself, eventually plopping down on his couch. Tim ignored him, continued to pack his things away. "Even Dick wouldn't commit that much time so one guy could walk free. You take this Robin stuff way too hard."

"I don't base my work on everything Dick does."

"Why? I thought he was your crimefighting muse. You sure as hell didn't get that influence from me."

Tim shrugged a little to himself, his gaze downcast. "Dick inspired me to become Robin. That is true. But you're the reason I am Robin."

Tim must have known that such words would only anger Jason, as it did anytime he and the Robin persona were mentioned in the same sentence. But Jason didn't feel any type of rage. He looked at Tim long and hard. Tim had said it before—that the uniform meant something to him. Jason had just assumed that it would mean just about the same as it meant to any other kid—a chance to play hero, a chance to run around in rooftops and ride batmobiles.

This kid wanted to be Robin—even knowing that Jason had died doing it. Even though he lived a comfy life and came from money and, at the time, had living parents. Even though he was a total fucking nerd and could get squashed like a bug. And even though Jason knew all of that, and all of that information had only served to royally piss him off, he now realized he didn't feel resentment anymore.

Because this guy was serious. He was the real deal. Because this kid was the most unlikely person for the job but he was smart and resilient and he was braving through it. He loved being Robin, the same way Jason had loved being Robin, and Jason couldn't hate him for that anymore.

He wasn't angry.

Tim finished packing up, tying up the folder.

"Why did you become Robin?" Jason asked him before he could head out. Tim almost looked cautious, probably because Jason never asked him personal questions—mostly since Jason didn't care and would only ask if he wanted to set Tim up for a chance to say something biting or degrading.

"Well, when you were gone, Batman—"

"No," Jason said, cutting him off. "I want to know why you became Robin. Anyone could have done it, anyone could have stuck on a red vest and some dumb green spandex. So why you? Why did you want it?"

"Purpose," Tim said at once, the word slipping out. He frowned a little, quickly said in a more casual voice, "I mean, there were a couple reasons. Part of me felt like I was the best for the job. I might not be that strong, but I learn fast and I'm healthy, so I figured the training part wouldn't be too bad. Brains can't be replicated though—and without sounding arrogant, I know I can think faster than most people my age. I can even figure out some things faster than Batman—though it doesn't happen often. Maybe, another reason, a more selfish reason, is that I just wanted to prove myself. To my parents. To Batman. To my peers. To everyone."

There was something else there. Tim was just listing off the most sound, logical reasons. There was something hiding beneath his well-crafted guard. Jason found himself wanting to know.

"And purpose?" he said, repeating that word. Tim faltered—as if trying to figure out Jason's angle. Trying to spot the trick.

"First and foremost, I do this to help people. But sometimes, it's more selfish than that," Tim said, shrugging a little, speaking quietly. He relaxed, the confession coming out. "There's this satisfaction I get as Robin. Sometimes it's saving people—seeing the relief in their eyes when they know help has arrived. Sometimes it's helping the team, like working with Batman and Nightwing, and watching their backs. Sometimes we're not even successful—sometimes we arrive on the scene too late, but when we can at least solve those cases and give resolution and answers to the victim's families… it's satisfying."

Jason didn't say anything. He just listened. Tim went on.

"I didn't have that before I was Robin. It's not just because being Robin is challenging—although that's another reason why I like it—it's because before I put on the uniform, everything felt so pointless. I had this routine set up for myself, where I would just get up, go to school, go home, study some more. I did it everyday for my entire life, but there was no endgame to it all. My parents were self-absorbed, too focused on their own lives, and me doing well in school was just something that was expected of me. I didn't do it for my own self-satisfaction, I did it because it was expected. I didn't have any ambitions, I just figured I'd go to a university, go into business, maybe start a family and force my kids to do the same things I did, retire and die."

Jason wasn't sure what to say to that. He couldn't relate. He spent his entire life kicking and screaming against what people expected of him. He couldn't imagine just… resigning himself. He glanced over at Tim—the more he spoke, the more his mind seemed to drift off somewhere else, his gaze looking a bit distant.

"After doing that for so long, day in and day out, I just coped by ignoring all these questions in my head—the questions that wanted to know what life had in store for me, if there was anything out there that would make me feel something, but I didn't want to do anything about it. I just accepted it. I decided that death was just this inevitable void that we were all victims to, that nothing we did in life would ever matter because the world keeps turning, and over time I just drowned in these thoughts of nihilism. And I believed it was true—that I could just disappear and nothing I ever did, not a single bit of it, would ever matter."

"So why bother, if it's so pointless?" Jason asked. Tim glanced at him.

"Well, it's not. Not anymore," he said.

Jason's gaze lowered. He understood now. Purpose.

Jason felt something inside his chest twist. A stab of something sad, almost empathetic—and with that, he suddenly remembered the other reason why he didn't ask Tim questions.

There was a siren down the block. Jason turned on his side, staring out his bedroom window as the red lights passed the blinds. They disappeared, the wailing fading off into the distance.

He just wanted to sleep. But there was all this commotion keeping him awake—voices, sounds, winds.

Jason pulled his pillow over his head, muffling the sounds. He breathed slowly in and out. Blocking it all out. Until there was nothing but him and his breath. In and out. And he listened to his breathing until it was all he could hear, all that existed.

It felt like it didn't belong.

He was too consciously aware of his own breath. The rise and fall of his chest. The swell of his lungs. The air exhaling from his body. It kept him awake. It kept him tethered to his bed, to the Earth.

Sometimes when he slept, he dreamt in memories. Memories of past lives. So far lost in them that he mistakenly believed them to be real—up until that moment when he would wake up, confused, wondering where he was supposed to be.

He closed his eyes anyways, trying to sleep. Trying to find a different time when he didn't find it so disturbing to simply breathe.

A strong gust passed by. Jason kept himself planted to the ground, ignoring the way his jacket rippled around him. Tim held his arm up, blocking his cape from blowing in the way of his vision.

"This is it," Tim said, after a long period of silence. He clicked the edge of his mask, fixing the lenses to remove the zoom, before standing up. "He's in there. Let's go get our guy."

"Good. We can get this over with," Jason said, perhaps a bit too sharply. Tim glanced over at him, noticing the tone. He looked a bit uncomfortable, shifting in place.

"I know you said you didn't want me to ask. But are you sure you're okay with this?" he asked, frowning.

"Are you saying you don't trust my word?" Jason said sharply. Tim shook his head.

"That's not it," he said. He shifted in place. "If you want, I could just go in there. I'll do it."

Jason didn't say anything. He took off first.

They snuck onto the property, hopping a large fence into a garden. The estate didn't compare to Wayne Manor in the slightest but it was still impressive, located in one of the richest suburbs of Gotham. It made Jason's blood boil that this guy had just sat on his ass in a nice house—complete with a goddamned pool—for all of these years.

Maybe he wasn't ready for this. It was hard to keep himself contained.

Tim had already disabled the security cameras and alarms. They easily broke the lock into the house. The lights were out. If Tim's research was correct, the Man in White lived alone—it didn't mention the cat, however, and they were both startled when the animal suddenly ran past them, cutting off their path.

Tim and Jason made their way upstairs to the bedroom, where they caught their guy sleeping. They turned on the lights.

The Man in White stirred, face scrunching up at the harsh light. He opened his eyes, saw Jason and Tim, and immediately reached for his bedroom drawer. Jason reacted faster, slamming the drawer shut and holding it in place. He had a feeling what was in there. Part of him wanted to open it up, take the pistol for himself, and shoot the guy right then and there.

But he didn't.

And he wasn't going to.

"Warren Ryder, we have a few questions for you. Don't bother trying to escape, the GCPD has already been informed of your crimes."

"Is that so?" he murmured. "And what crimes have I committed?"

"It's a little late to play dumb, Warren," Jason cut in. "Save it for court."

"We just have some questions about the identities of your suppliers—particularly whoever worked with Matthew Lynch."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Jason was losing his patience. "Look, you old fuck, we've got some time to kill. So unless you want to go to jail with a split lip, just give us our names. Who supplied Matthew Lynch four years ago?"

"Four years ago," Warren repeated, laughing. Jason stirred in place. This guy was asking for it—but he tried to restrain himself. He wasn't going to do it anymore. "I'm afraid that's a question for someone else."

"What?" Jason said, staring.

"I believe the guy you're actually looking for has already been arrested and paid his bail."

"Then who the fuck are you?" Jason snapped.

"The Man in White," Tim said. There was some thought in his eyes. "But he must have taken over the business after this other person, after he was imprisoned. What's his name?"

"So we've been chasing the wrong fucking guy?" Jason erupted. He didn't understand how Tim could still be so calm.

Tim frowned. "This isn't the end. We can still find him. This guy is still guilty. We'll wait for the police and then—"

"And then what? This guy bails himself out like everyone else? He just—just buys his way out?"

Jason's hand wrapped around the drawer handle. The Man in White eyed it wearily. Tim noticed.

"The police are going to be here soon, you can't do anything crazy. Please, go outside." Jason didn't budge. He eyed down Warren, who was beginning to look nervous. He saw Tim in the corner of his eye, looking hopeless. "We'll find him. I swear I will."

"Yes. You are going to find him. You're going to find him and then I'm going to fucking kill him," Jason snapped. He knocked off the lamp on Warren's table, because he needed to smash something, and he headed out the door. He didn't need any more trouble from the police—not yet, anyways, not when he still had at least one more thing to do.

Jason couldn't sleep.

He got dressed in his gear—even took a gun with him, which he hadn't done in so long. He took to the roofs, just wanting to run for awhile. Just wanting to clear his mind.

He rarely slept well those days—but lately, it had been worse. The case was eating him up inside. His target was out there, somewhere. And he had escaped prison. The law had failed.

Jason knew he was going to find him. He would find him, no matter what it took, no matter how long. But it was deciding what to do afterwards that he began to feel worried.

He had escaped prison. Someone died because of it.

Jason knew his answer. He knew what he had to do with someone like that. He knew he was capable of doing it. He knew the world would be better for it.

Words echoed in his mind:

What happens afterwards? What happens to the people that get left behind?

Truth be told, Jason didn't care if the guy had a family. Didn't care if he had friends. Didn't care if he had a goddamned hamster, for that matter. But there were other risks that had to be considered, other casualties.

If Jason had done this alone, there would be no hesitation. But he hadn't done it alone. Couldn't have done it alone. There was Tim—every step of the way, there was Tim. Figuring out the leads. Following up on the interrogations. Doing the research.

And Jason now had to imagine just blowing all of that hard work away with a single bullet.

They were just working a case. That's all it was. And yet, despite all of Jason's pessimism, it had worked out okay. They worked together, despite all of the arguing and conflicting ideals. They had talked, listened. And Jason eventually decided Tim wasn't the source of his problems—even decided that he was smarter than he gave him credit for, and not as naive as he had assumed. And it was different, having been alone for so long, to have someone to talk to. More than that, someone who knew what it was like—to fight crime, to wear a red vest, and even the simpler things like just being human.

Jason had missed that.

His thoughts were cut off by the sound of a police siren. Jason jerked his head in the direction of the sound, watching the car go, followed by a second vehicle. He watched them disappear around the corner, heading downtown. He found himself curious. In his jacket, he kept a police scanner. He listened in, catching wind of a break-in. It's small-fry stuff, better left with the GCPD. He was ready to turn it back off but then he heard part of the call where it described a Batman-like figure and his curiosity was piqued.

As much as Batman made the news, Jason would be honestly shocked if anyone in Gotham knew what the vigilante actually looked like. Civilians automatically assumed any loser in a cape or a mask was automatically Batman. While the city had plenty of copycats or amateur vigilantes, the rest of the call raised some flags for him. Jason decided to make a quick stop to grab his motorcycle and take a trip.

He recognized the location the radio call described—on the edge of the East End district, hugging downtown, were some high rise lofts. He knew the streets so well that he got there before the two police vehicles—but he knew that it was only a matter of moments before they arrived. He counted the windows, guessing the floor that the radio reported seeing the break-in, and found a balcony. He quickly scaled the side of the building, from balcony to balcony, until he reached his destination. There are no fingerprints on the sliding doors and not a spec of dirt on the ground—but Jason looked at the top of the doorway. Hiding in the corner was a small, thumb sized device, with the barest gleam of light reflecting off the plastic. Jason plucked it off, taking a look at it, and the batshape was the only confirmation he needed. It was an alarm. If the door opened, it would send a signal to the commlinks. Jason tossed the cheap device carelessly over his shoulder, sliding the door open as quietly as he could and sneaking inside.

It was pitch black in the room—but he was well-adjusted to moving in the dark. He moved around the spacious loft, going through an archway when he saw a flicker of blue light—like a TV or monitor—coming from another room. He followed the light, careful not to bump into any furniture. Finally he saw him, illuminated by a computer monitor.

Jason turned on the ceiling light, causing Tim to jump in place. Tim whipped around in Jason's direction, looking like he was ready to grab something from his belt, but he stopped when he saw Jason.

"What are you doing here?" Tim accused.

"I could ask the same," Jason said, stepping into the room, which appeared to be an office. "Tut-tut. Does Bruce know that you're breaking curfew?"

Tim seemed tense—moreso than his usual self. "You shouldn't be here."

"What is it? Top secret Batman mission? Titans business?"

Tim didn't say anything—and with that, Jason's other suspicions were confirmed.

"So, what, you're just sneaking off without me now?"

"Unbelievable," Tim muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

"I see. So after having me pound a bunch of guys' heads in, you finally decide to run off on your own," Jason said, an edge to his voice.

"What do you expect from me?" Tim said, suddenly snapping. "He's been in jail before. After hearing that, what else could I do? You'll kill him. You even said it yourself."

Jason didn't have anything to say to that. Tim had figured him out after all.

"I thought we decided we'd split ways after we found the guy," Jason said. Tim faltered to come up with an immediate response. Jason immediately saw through it. "Holy shit, you did find him." He gestured around the room. "Is this it? Is this where he eats and sleeps and shits?"

"No, I didn't," Tim said. He sighed a little bit. He easily confessed the rest of his information, "But I found out someone who might have worked with him. But I don't have proof—which is why I need to stay concealed."

"Even from me?" Jason said. He meant the words to come out condescending, like a challenge, but it just came out sounding sad. Tim's shoulders slumped.

"We both knew it was going to come to this point. But I guess you're right—I should have waited." Jason didn't trust those words. Tim was too smart to think that way—anyone would have double-crossed Jason long ago, especially since Tim had carried so much of the case. It didn't make sense for Jason to even be around. Tim didn't push it—he continued carrying out his mission, moving to the computer. He plugged in a flashdrive.

Jason considered leaving Tim to it. He had almost been betrayed—and it was only a matter of time before they were enemies again. Instead, he sighed.

"The police are on their way. Someone caught you breaking in," Jason said. Tim stopped and looked at him.

"Seriously?" Tim said. Jason gestured to himself, using his presence as proof. Tim's head leaned forward, hitting the monitor. He huffed. "Goddamnit. Just let me upload this software and we can go."

We. There was nothing to correct—it was too late. They were already in this together.

As if on cue, there was a loud knocking on the door. Both Jason and Tim looked at the door before looking at each other.

"Think if I took off the mask and went to go say hello, they'd believe I own this place?" Jason asked. Tim took one look at him.

"Call me crazy but I really don't think anyone who wears a leather jacket in the middle of the summer looks trustworthy. Or anyone who wears a leather jacket period, for that matter."

"What if I took off the jacket?"

"This is probably the most expensive building in the area. Even if they did believe some twenty-something could afford it, they'd probably question why."

Another knock, louder this time, followed by some faint voices.

"How long is that thing going to take?" Jason asked.

Tim was clicking around on the computer. He wasn't responding, which Jason found odd. One thing that Jason knew about Tim: he never zoned out.

Even when he was thinking—and his brows were furrowed, his gaze staring hard in one direction, his expression deep in concentration—he was still perfectly aware of everything in his surroundings. It's like he was constantly observing, feeding more and more information into his brain even as it was processing his thoughts.

Finally, he said it: "Those guys at the door aren't cops."

"What?" Jason said, blinking.

"I just remembered—you can't get past the front door at this time of night. It's locked," Tim said, but his concentration on the computer never broke. "Even if the police got here right after you, they'd legally have to contact the building manager or a tenant to let them in. But the sirens could alert the other lofts on the lower floors, and if the guy who lives here has some friends on the other floors—"

There was a loud disruption from the other room. The sound of a door being kicked in. Jason saw light coming from outside the door. Tim gritted his teeth—he wasn't finished.

"Are you still sure that you don't need me on your team?" Jason said snidely, adjusting the hood. Tim looked up at him. There was a hint of amusement in his expression, something Jason rarely found directed at him.

"Prove me wrong," Tim said, with the subtlest hint of smirk.

Jason found himself staring a moment too long.

"Happily," he finally forced out, deterring his gaze. And he bolted into the other room.

His sudden appearance surprised them. The intruders, guards, whoever they were, were armed and ready to fire. Jason hopped over a couch, ducking behind it as the rounds went off. His hand landed on his inside pocket, where his gun was sitting. He should fire it—but as his hand reached in and the fingertips touched the metal, he suddenly remembered Tim was in the other room, and there was a moment of hesitation.

More shots fired. Jason crawled behind the couch, avoiding the shots. He looked around, trying to find something—he eventually grabbed the first thing he saw off of an end table. He stopped and looked at it—it was a figurine of a saint. Jason raised an eyebrow, not even bothering to wonder why the owner of the house—who was theoretically in cahoots with one of the biggest drug lords in Gotham—had religious statuettes, but he turned it in his hands, testing the weight.

"For the record," Jason said, looking down at it. The saint looked back up at him, a morose look on its face. "This is only slightly personal."

Jason waited for a pause in the barrage of bullets. He stood up, tossing the statue, taking out one of the guys. It startled the guys next to him for the briefest of moments—and Jason took advantage of that. He leapt in, grabbed the wrist of one of the guards. The guard's hand was on the trigger, and the gun went off, causing him to shoot his own foot. The man cried out, momentarily staggered as blood began to puddle the ground, and Jason tossed his body into another nearby guard.

Jason turned, ready to take out the guys behind him. One of them raised their gun and Jason was getting ready to dodge but a familiar figure had just emerged from the doorway. Tim wrapped the edge of his cape around the man's face, blinding him. He immediately reached up to grab the material but Tim was flipping him onto his back.

"Let's go!" Tim said, running back towards the door he had entered.

Jason turned to follow. As they headed out the door, Jason moved to slide the door behind him when he heard the sound of a gun go off, followed by a sharp pain in his leg. He staggered, crying out.

Tim glanced back, saw that Jason had been injured. He got behind Jason, using his cape to shield them both.

"I only have one shot and I'm not going to be able to support your weight. You're going to have to fire," Tim said hurriedly. He reached into his belt, handing Jason a grappling gun. Jason turned it once in his hands—he hadn't held one of them in a long time but holding it felt as natural as riding a bike.

He didn't think about it—wasn't able to, because there was still armed men behind them and the bulletproof cape was only going to block so much. He fired the grappling gun at the next building. He ignored the first pain that went through his leg as he positioned himself over the balcony railing, ignored the second as Tim applied more pressure to his body as he had to hold onto him, ignored the third as he retracted the line and sprung them both forward.

The fourth was a little harder to ignore, their landing was far from graceful. They smacked against the wall of the building, and Jason almost thought Tim was going to let go, but the younger quickly climbed over the ledge and helped Jason roll over. The sounds of more shots from the opposite building came through. Tim and Jason didn't move, staying ducked behind the ledge as the bullets went off.

Jason looked down at where the blood was coming from—but it was on the side of his thigh and he couldn't get a good look at it. Tim turned over, looking.

"It just grazed you," Tim said, motioning to give Jason an idea of where the direction of the cut was. Jason just nodded—it didn't feel like anything had gone in but it still hurt like a bitch, not to mention it was bleeding profusely. It must have cut deep. The back of his knee was already saturated in blood.

When the barrage seemed to have stopped, Tim tentatively got up.

"We need to get moving in case they decide to chase us," Tim said.
Jason really didn't want to pull another stunt with the grappling gun but it looked like he didn't have a choice if he wanted to create some space between him and the guys chasing them. The two of them made their way to the edge of the building, where Tim pointed out one that was a good distance away.

"I'll meet you there," he said. Jason looked at him.

"You sure about that?" he said.

"You don't need to be lugging around my weight on top of you," Tim said, shaking his head. "Besides, that last landing was a little rough. It'll be better if I just meet you there on foot. Just get to that building and wait to meet me in the alley down there."

"Alright," Jason said, shrugging it off dismissively. He ignored the voice in the back of his mind telling him to not leave Tim behind and propelled himself to the next building.

The next few minutes felt excruciatingly long. He hovered over the edge of the building, looking down in the alley for a sign. His leg was still bleeding and Tim was nowhere to be seen. After awhile, Jason was beginning to wonder if something happened, but then he caught a figure darting into the alleyway. Jason used the grappling gun to lower himself down.

"Sorry," Tim said. "I guess those cops stuck around. I had to be careful to avoid them and those guards."

Jason didn't have the energy to respond. He just nodded. He felt a sharp pain in his leg and he found himself sitting down. Tim looked at him, remembering the injury.

"Still bleeding?" Tim pulled something out of his pouches, handing it to Jason. Jason took one look at it.

"The fuck is this, the world's teeniest, tiniest package of gauze? What am I, Hospital Patient Barbie? I wouldn't use this shit for a pulled wisdom tooth."

Tim at least had the decency to look embarrassed. "I left my good medical supplies in my other belt. I wasn't expecting to get caught, much less deal with an injury of this degree, so I'm a bit underprepared."

"Of all the fucking times you decided to not be a boy scout," Jason muttered in disbelief. But he wasn't going to get into it—technically, this was all his fault anyways. He took one look at his bleeding leg and sighed. "Fuck it."

He ripped open the package of gauze, covered the bleeding surface the best he could. The cotton was already becoming saturated in red. He considered ripping the rest of the pants leg and using it to wrap around his leg to tie off the wound, but he'd have to take off his boot to do it. He looked around but just found trash.

Finally his eyes settled on Tim, who was grimacing at the gushing wound.

"How similar is your uniform compared to what mine was?" Jason asked. Tim looked at him cautiously. Jason elaborated, "Is your padding built into the vest or under the shirt?"

"The vest has a thin layer of kevlar. But there is some light bulletproof padding underneath the shirt too," Tim said. Jason nodded slowly. Same as his was, minus the kevlar—which was a nice technological improvement, he had to admit.

"And is the vest connected to the pants or no?"

"No."

Jason held out his hand, palm up. Tim frowned.

"You're kidding me, right?" he said.

"It's already red," Jason said. "And Alfred is a laundry wizard besides."

Tim sighed a little under his breath. He undid the frogs on the vest, unzipped it, and tossed it in Jason's lap. Jason quickly wrapped it around his leg, tying it off. It was a bit too heavy and would probably slip off soon but it would do for the time being.

He stood up, gritting his teeth. He was thankful for the red mask—there was no way of hiding the pain he was in. Tim noticed him struggle to get up. When Jason accidentally placed too much weight on the leg, he groaned out loud, and Tim started forward.

"I'm fine," Jason said, holding his hand up. Tim stopped but seemed unsure. "But I need stitches and you're going to have to help me get to my place, or else my death is going to be on your conscience too."

Tim shook his head to himself. "That wound isn't stopping. You're still bleeding."

"It won't stop because I keep moving," Jason said defensively. He already had a feeling where this conversation was going. "If I can get to my place though, I can stitch it up."

"You don't know how much blood you've lost," Tim said, grimacing. He looked uncertain. He looked worried. "And if moving is aggravating it, then you need to stay still. I really don't think this is the best idea. You need real medical attention."

"And what the hell am I supposed to do? Go to a hospital? I'm living off a fake identity with no health insurance."

"They won't question you," Tim said. He stopped, a look of resignation in his features. "I have to tell Batman. We can get you to the Cave where you can get patched up—"

Jason immediately pointed his finger in Tim's face. "That will be the last thing you ever fucking do."

Tim gritted his teeth and pushed Jason's hand away from his face. "Will you stop messing around already? You're bleeding out." His patience was lost. His face began to redden with anger. "Is this really what you want? To die because of this—this stupid grudge?"

"It was me dying in the first place that caused this stupid grudge," Jason said. A moment passed, Tim's anger waivering. Finally, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Fine. I'll help you get to your place. The Cave is too far anyways. But the minute you pass out on me, I don't care. You're getting professional help."

It was a pain in the ass returning home. Luckily, Jason had brought his bike, and Tim knew how to operate it—which Jason made a few comments about, considering Tim didn't even own a car. Jason felt lightheaded the entire way there and each step to his apartment inflicted pain. Tim wasn't so much helping him get to the apartment as he was practically carrying him.

They finally managed to sneak through his window. Jason was placed on his bed, wincing as he dragged his injured leg up onto the mattress. Jason began to untie the vest.

"What do you think it's going to look like?" Tim said, frowning.

"Christmas in July," Jason said sarcastically. The vest had already started coming undone on the trek home so it was easy to slip off. The gauze, however, had crusted over. Jason grimaced a little looking at it—but he removed it nonetheless.

"Eugh," they both said in unison, drawing back.

"Medical kit is in the bathroom. Under the sink," Jason said. "Also, in the kitchen I have a bottle of vodka sitting on the counter. Bring that in too."

Tim brought back the supplies. He grabbed the medical kit and looked through it, tossing Jason some new gauze. Jason reapplied it to the wound, started to tug off his boots.

"You already have alcohol in here," Tim said, pulling out the container from the med kit. Jason gave him a dry look.

"I'm about to stick a needle into my skin repeatedly," Jason said. He nodded towards the alcohol. "And it's been a long night."

Tim didn't bother arguing. He handed the bottle over to Jason. Jason took one swig and grimaced. It was cheap stuff, the farthest thing from smooth. He felt the burn through his nostrils.

Tim was still rifling through the medical kit. He handed Jason the supplies to clean and disinfect it, which he did. Tim took a close look at the wound, pushing the frayed ends of the cut fabric out of the way, and Jason scowled when he saw the intense look of concentration on Tim's face.

"Hey, hey, hey. Calm down. Don't get handsy," Jason said, swatting his hand away. Tim glared up at him, annoyed. "I can do it myself. I just need a mirror."

"And where exactly do you have a mirror?" Tim asked dryly.

"In the bathroom, attached to the medicine cabinet," Jason said—and it apparently required him saying it out loud to realize the problem in that. Tim looked up at him with a flat expression. Jason sighed. "Okay, I get it. Moving is a bad idea. Fine, just do it then. But don't mess it up—I don't exactly trust your medical credentials."

"I'm pretty sure we were both taught the same way," Tim said, rolling his eyes to himself. He sifted through the medical supply box, looking for the needle and thread.

"You ain't got the practice though," Jason said, confident in his words.

"True," Tim said. "I've never even broken a bone."

Jason looked up at him incredulously. "Never?"

"Nope," Tim muttered, threading the needle.

Jason frowned. Maybe this was a bad idea.

But not seeing any other option, he didn't tell Tim to stop. Tim angled his head so he could see better. He placed his hand near the wound, right on Jason's thigh. Jason raised an eyebrow, finding the situation more and more awkward as it went on.

"You missed. It's more to your right," Jason said. It took Tim actually glancing up to understand the joke.

"Ha-ha," Tim said sarcastically, his tone dry. But his face still turned a little red.

Jason's eyebrow furrowed as the needle went in. The beginning always hurt a little but he knew he would get used to it. He had more than enough stitches in his lifetime. He glanced over at Tim, whose brow was furrowed in concentration as he worked. As much as Jason would have preferred to have done it himself, and as much as he doubted Tim's experience, he eventually decided that the kid was too much of a perfectionist to do a botched job. It eased a bit of his tension.

"Done," Tim finally said, tying it off. He used the clean side of the gauze to wipe away the remaining blood. Jason craned his head, trying to get a good look at it. When he couldn't, he gave up. He leaned back against the headboard, his body relaxing.

Jason hadn't realized how on-edge he had been until that moment. He closed his eyes for a moment, took in a deep breath, and reopened his eyes. He felt calm now. He glanced over at Tim, who was scanning over his bloodied vest.

Jason felt his mouth go dry. He knew what he had to say. He even wanted to say it, if he was honest with himself. But his heart was beating a little quicker, the anxiety swelling up.

"Thanks," he said, forcing the word out. Tim glanced in his direction, but looked away just as quickly.

"It's fine," he said simply. He paused for a moment, staring down at the vest, before daring to look back at Jason. He said, quietly, "In that moment—when I heard the gun go off and I heard you shout, I wasn't sure what had happened."

Tim didn't say it outright. But Jason could hear it in his tone, see it in his eyes. If his words didn't prove it, his actions that night had—Tim had worried.

Tim had cared.

It freaked Jason out a little bit. He felt himself grow defensive. "Well, it wasn't the first time I've been shot at. Better than a crowbar, at least."

Tim looked back down at the vest, the fabric folding as his hands clenched around it. He wouldn't say it but the topic was making him uncomfortable. Jason wanted to start running his mouth, to perhaps start describing his death in explicit detail, but he simply didn't have the energy to be mean.

"What is it like?" Tim asked, breaking the silence.

"Dying?" Jason asked, bristling at the question.

"No," Tim said. "Afterwards."

The memories of that final day came back to Jason in a storm. The pounding in his head. The sound of his bones cracking underneath metal. The heat of his own blood. The fear, the anger, then finally the resignation.

Afterwards.

Digging his way out of his grave. Dirt underneath his nails. Unforgettable darkness. Confusion.

The burning of his skin as the Lazarus Pit bubbled around him. The rippling sensations underneath his flesh as bones and muscle reformed. The racing, insane thoughts in his mind as he emerged, taking that first, scalding breath of air.

But Jason knew that wasn't the question Tim had asked. He wanted to know about being dead, the time between the explosion and being resurrected by the pit. Those days that had felt just like a few, small moments.

Jason felt a calm wash over him.

"Quiet," he said, closing his eyes.

Tim didn't say anything. He determinedly stared down at the vest in his hands, looking almost uneasy in a way that Jason had never seen him. Jason watched him carefully, wondering why Tim had bothered to ask.

"What were you hoping for? That I'd tell you that I heard the singing of angels? That God Himself carried me on his back to Heaven?" he said, sounding almost bitter. His gaze darkened. "Or perhaps you had been expecting worse."

"Of course not," Tim said at once, looking up at him. His face twisted up a little, looking uncertain, before finally falling. "Death just freaks me out a little."

"And you don't think it freaked me out?" Jason said, annoyed. "You don't think I was terrified when I was getting my face beat in? When I saw a timer?"

"I didn't say that," Tim said, frowning. "Sorry, I just… I wanted to know."

Jason studied him for a moment. "Are you disappointed?"

Tim looked up at him. "I don't know. I honestly don't know what I was expecting."

"No, you are disappointed. You're disappointed because you were right. Because we all inevitably die and it doesn't matter," Jason said. He was saying it to be mean, to take the words that Tim had spoken to him in confidence and twist them around to hurt him. But there was no sick satisfaction in it, all it did was make Jason feel guilty. Because Tim had been nicer, more patient, than he had any business being—and those words, those deep confessions, that Tim had spoken of had affected Jason deeper than he was willing to admit.

However, Tim didn't look angry. He didn't even look hurt.

"He mourned you," he said.

Jason didn't have to ask for elaboration. He knew who Tim was speaking of.

"Life and death does matter—maybe not in the grand scheme of things, like I hoped it would… but in little moments, like being able to reminisce about my mom or saving someone on a mission or being able to understand what a friend is going through, to be able to share her pain. I know your death mattered to him. It mattered a lot." Tim slowly nodded to himself. He looked down at his hands, frowning at the red vest. His thumb traced over the bloodied sigil. His voice almost a murmur, he said, "I can't talk you out of it, can I?"

He's not talking about Bruce in that question. Jason was aware of his own breath. His chest rising and falling, the air cycling through him, but he can't calm down. He felt on edge, even started to clench the sheets in his hand ever so slightly.

"You're going to kill him," Tim said finally. There was no question in his voice.

Jason's throat felt dry. He wanted to say it. He would mean it if he said it. But the words felt too heavy to say. He wondered why it was so difficult to admit it now. It had been his intention all along.

Tim stood up, putting on the vest. He headed out without saying another word.

Nikki was sitting on the steps. This time, instead of a phone, she had a cigarette in her hand.

"You're not supposed to smoke inside. Or smoke period, for that matter," Jason managed.

"I'm not going outside just so those stupid boys can holler at me—and I'm not gonna stop smoking it either," she said, looking at him defiantly. She moved her legs out of the way. Instead of walking past her, Jason took a seat next to her. She eyed him curiously—he plucked the cigarette from her hands, taking a drag. She scoffed a little. Lowering her voice an octave and making a face, she mimicked, "It'll stunt your growth."

Jason smiled a little. His mind wandered, drifting to different times.

Him, in a shitty apartment in Park Row just like this. A mattress on the floor and a stack of tires in the opposite corner. A cigarette in his hand. And around the corner, from out of the shadows, the Bat had emerged and said:

That'll stunt your growth, kid.

Jason gazed out in the distance, bittersweet nostalgia hitting him all at once like a tsunami. He wondered how he had ever lived like that. He hadn't thought about it at the time—he just did it. But he had no parents, was stealing to make an income, and lived in a hellhole. He wondered how he survived. He wondered how he hadn't given up.

And then he realized that he might've, if he hadn't met Bruce that day.

He was still angry at him. He was still angry and hurt and sad. But it hadn't all been so bad. He could have stayed that kid forever, stealing and scraping to live by. He could have been in prison or on heroin or dead in the streets. If Bruce hadn't saved him. If Bruce hadn't given him a life—a purpose.

And maybe it had all been for nothing. Maybe he would have lived longer if he had stayed on the streets. But then he thought about those nights, swinging from rooftops, in ways that people only dreamed of. Flying, perhaps too high, perhaps too close to some type of glory that he could never quite grasp. And when he thought about it, Jason wondered if he had ever been truly alive until that moment he was plucked from Park Row. Perhaps that was the real moment he had been resurrected.

For better or worse, it had been fun.

Truly.

"Hey, come on, you're burning it all," Nikki said, tapping his arm. Jason snapped out of it, glancing down at burning cigarette. He tapped off the ashes and took one long, deep drag—burning off the rest of it. "Oh, come on. Fuck you."

Jason just shrugged and snuffed it out on the step. Nikki looked at him.

"Do you believe in second chances?" she asked. Jason paused at the question, particularly the timing of it. The deep question almost seemed to reflect what was on his mind. They locked eyes.

"Why?"

"I lost my key again," she said. Jason rolled his eyes—he should have known better.

"You just want my money."

"I really did lose my key!"

Jason pulled out his wallet. He took out a twenty this time, which she immediately tried to grab but he pulled it out of her reach.

"Ugh," she said, frustrated.

Jason looked at her. "I think it all depends on who's willing to believe in you."

Her face fell. "Huh?"

"Not everyone gets a second chance. So when they come around, don't screw it up," Jason said. He held out the twenty again. She looked back and forth between him and it hesitantly. She took it, he let her have it.

The sun had just set. Jason sat on the edge of his bed, his guns cleaned and an unzipped bag sitting on the floor. He stopped when he sensed something—a faint noise from the other room. He set down his things and headed towards it.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Tim instantly demanded, slipping through his window. Jason looked at him coldly.

"What did I tell you about coming in through my window?"

"You killed him, didn't you?" Tim accused. Jason didn't say anything—he already knew what Tim was accusing him of. Honestly, he was expecting him to come sooner. "I was watching him—I told you I was going to watch him. And he was being honest—he quit working with drugs and he didn't try to run away. He had a family and I promised him nothing was going to happen—"

Tim stopped in the middle of his sentence when he realized Jason wasn't budging.

"I thought you weren't going to do that anymore—I thought you were going to spare everyone else." Tim was furious. "I should just have you arrested—"

"What difference does it make?" Jason argued. "Criminals. They're all fucking criminals."

He wasn't going to waste any more time talking, Jason decided. He had places to be. His trail of victims was leading him closer to his final target and he wasn't going to let Tim be the one to stop him. He retreated back to his bedroom to grab his stuff. He heard Tim's footsteps following him.

Tim stopped in the doorway. Jason caught a glimpse of him—he was staring at the arsenal laid out about the room. Jason didn't understand why he was so shocked—wasn't that why he was there, to get Jason to stop shooting people? But perhaps he had still hoped it was false, perhaps seeing it was the final proof he needed.

"Where did you get all of this stuff?" Tim asked quietly.

"I found it," Jason said bitingly.

"You stole it."

"No shit," Jason said. "Someone ruined all of my other stuff."

"You didn't need it!" Tim said. He shook his head to himself. "What about all those people we caught?"

"Yeah? And what about the one we haven't," Jason fought back, volume rising. Tim turned his head. "What about the one who went to prison, got away, and killed someone's brother? We tried your way and it didn't fucking work. Now get the fuck out of my house already. We're not a team. We're not partners. We're not anything."

"Oh come on. Stop acting like you're doing this for justice when that has nothing to do with it! You're doing this to act out! You're doing this because you've got a chip on your shoulder!" Tim snapped. Jason tried to ignore him, packing away his things. But every word dug deeper, every word stirring his emotions. "Just admit that you don't want to live like this anymore!"

It hits him too personally. He hits back.

"Batman must have been really fucking desperate to have settled on you," Jason said, zipping his bag. "You're just some coward who's too afraid to take a risk or think for himself."

It wasn't true, at least not entirely. But Jason knew that Tim thought it was—he could see it in the way his body tensed. Jason's mouth kept running.

"You're just a spineless pushover—but you wear a red vest, so you think it makes you special. But you're not special, are you? Your mom croaks and you spend more time playing superhero than watching your dad. Your girlfriend's pregnant and it's not even yours. Your best friend saves the world and you're not even there. And they're all dead now—and maybe that's your fault."

He shouldn't have said any of that. He knew how upset Tim was about their deaths. It was a low blow, even by his standards. He shouldn't have said it.

"You don't know anything," Tim said, shaking his head. "About me. About them. You just know how to blame people." He composed himself and said, "He still cares about you. He still wants you to come home."

"Enough with that, already," Jason growled. "Fuck you. Fuck all of you."

"You're awful," Tim said, shaking his head to himself. "I never should have tried working with you."

Jason was done listening. "Get out of my apartment."

"The worst part is that I can't even entirely blame you. I was an idiot. I knew how awful you were, you had so much evidence pitted against you—and I still second-guessed myself," he said. At the last bit of his speech, he swallowed, as though the words had been difficult to admit. And Jason knew it must have been. "I actually believed that maybe you would change."

As much as Jason mocked him, he couldn't find the courage to admit that he had believed the same.

"You couldn't have actually believed that," Jason said. He really couldn't have—the kid was too smart.

"I didn't, at first," Tim said, frowning. He opened his mouth, as if to say more, but he stopped himself. Jason looked at him hard. There was something there, something that was bothering him. More than just the mission. More than the insults.

"Say it," Jason said. Tim shook his head, frowning deeply. "Just spit it out."

"I just don't understand," Tim said, reluctant to even say that much.

"Don't understand what?" Jason said. But Tim was drawing back—he had said too much. Jason could feel his heartbeat quicken. "Say it already."

"Why does it always have to come back to him? Always?" Tim said sharply, his volume rising. "He's not even here! I am!"

He was upset. Not angry, upset. He must have realized it the same time Jason did. Tim took a step back before finally turning, ready to finally leave, but Jason quickly grabbed him by the arm before he could duck out.

"Let go," Tim snapped, immediately retracting his arm, but Jason grabbed him again, turning him so they were forced to lock eyes.

Tim's face was red.

Suddenly it all made too much sense.

Before Tim could pull away, Jason crushed his lips against Tim's. Tim froze underneath him, his lips parting in perhaps surprise, and Jason took the opportunity to slip his tongue inside. Jason's hands reached up, touching alongside Tim's face, pulling him in deeper. Harder. Tim's skin was smoother than he expected. Hot underneath the touch. His mouth warm, wet. Lips, soft.

Jason pulled back for a moment, their breaths greeting one another, Tim's mouth immediately parting aside to say, "Jason—"

Jason kissed him again. He finally felt in control. He felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. His eyes closed shut, holding onto the moment, where everything was dark and he could just hear the two of them. Hear them, breathing, alive.

And he felt other sensations. Felt Tim's tongue against his own, his warm mouth pressed against his. And Tim's hands were between them, placed between their chests like a barrier. But he wasn't pushing him away.

He wasn't leaving.

Jason's hand travelled from Tim's cheek to along his jawline. Then lower, down his neck, where the skin met the collar of his cape. His fingers pried underneath the material, then pulling, unsnapping the collar. Then unsnapped where the cape attached to the vest, until Jason could finally brush it off of Tim's shoulders. Tim pulled away for a moment, glancing out of the corner of his eye as the material fell. Jason wasn't sure if he was weary or uncertain—but he leaned down again, to the crook of Tim's neck, sucking on the exposed skin. Tim shuddered. Jason liked the reaction.

Liked it a lot.

Jason bit down and Tim groaned between his teeth. It sent a rush, like adrenaline, through Jason's blood. Jason reached down between their bodies, impatiently tugging on Tim's belt—the motion pulling him forward a step. There was a subtle hitch in Tim's breathing, but he still wasn't leaving. He wasn't leaving.

Jason unclipped the belt, old memories reminding him exactly how it came undone, yanking it off and tossing it aside. It landed with a heavy noise, expensive equipment crashing unceremoniously to the ground. He kissed Tim hard on the lips, stepping forward until the back of Tim's knees hit the bed and he landed on the bed. Jason immediately crawled on top of him, knees sinking into the cheap mattress. As his chest pressed against Tim's back, using his weight to keep Tim pinned to the bed, there was a brief flicker of realization that this was escalating too fast.

Jason was painfully aware of what the situation looked like. Him, on top of this guy, in his bed. Even Tim seemed to notice.

"Jason—"he started to say, the uncertainty crawling back, but his voice is strained underneath the pressure of Jason on top of him. His voice is too breathy besides, his face even more flushed than usual, and Jason's more than turned on right now. Too turned on to stop and think about what was best, what was rational, how long it was going to be before this all slipped out from underneath him like everything else.

He wrestled an arm around Tim's waist, Jason's weight still on top of Tim's legs, and he couldn't get out properly but he squirmed anyways. Jason's hands undid the frogs on Tim's vest. He dragged the zipper down even as Tim struggled. Tim's breaths were short, heated, but even though he was panting he still… hasn't said anything.

Jason's hand buried itself in the opening in Tim's vest, yanking up the green shirt and padding underneath. Tim cried out as he tweaked his nipple. Jason continued to rub against his chest and Tim fell forward, head against the mattress, breaths uneven—almost like gasps. Jason leaned in to kiss the back of Tim's neck again, but his shoulders were drawn up, so he sucked on the shell of his ear instead. Tim's suddenly reached up, gripping the arm that Jason has tucked underneath his shirt—as if trying to just find something to hold onto.

Jason felt himself harden at the reaction. "Do you like that?" he whispered and he took the earlobe between his teeth. Tim shuddered once, the grip tightening.

Jason's free hand ran down Tim's body, reaching between Tim's legs. Tim jerked away at the touch, but there was no place to go except deeper into Jason's hold. Jason could feel Tim, trapped against his hand, beginning to harden. Jason rubbed him through his clothing, and there was a sound almost like a sigh, and Jason wondered.

Wondered why he still wasn't leaving.

Not just there in that moment, in that bed, but after all the time that had passed. After all the comments and the arguments and the disagreements.

Why he wasn't leaving Jason behind, even though everyone else had.

Jason depressed the mask, peeling it from Tim's face. He finally looked into Tim's face. His eyes were blue, just like the rest of theirs, but they were a dark blue—with none of the vibrancy of Dick's eyes, and pure unlike the flecked colors of Jason's. They were a deep blue, so deep it was almost subtle. And Tim looked up at him, his face hot and eyes glistening with arousal, and Jason was just so hard.

Jason reached underneath Tim's waistband, felt the hot flesh against his palm. He rubbed against it, touching it, and Tim shivered in his arms. Jason repositioned himself and Tim watched him, even closed his eyes just before Jason kissed him. This time he felt Tim's tongue press against his own and it felt so nice that Jason sighed against his lips. Jason wrapped his fingers around Tim's member, stroking it.

Tim broke the kiss, his head falling into the crook of Jason's arms, eyes screwed shut. He was openly moaning now—his body shaking, his hips swaying in the direction of Jason's hand. Jason found himself pressing his body against Tim's, his clothed erection finding friction against his hip. It felt good but not enough. Jason was so hard—and each noise that escaped Tim's lips fevered his arousal.

He stroked Tim faster, even as his movements were restricted by the confines of Tim's clothing. There's a change in Tim's tone, something almost desperate, his hips rolling into Jason's hand—and Jason sensed it, but wasn't aware of how far he had gone until Tim gave one final sound, clenched between his teeth, and his body trembled.

Jason kept going anyways, jerking him until he was pushed over the edge, kept going to pull out the orgasm as long as he could. And he liked the way Tim shook underneath him, the way his eyes clenched shut as he spilled hot and thick into Jason's hand, even though it had happened quicker than Jason would have liked.

"Already?" Jason murmured, looking down. Tim was trying to catch his breath, his body sinking in the mattress. He turned his head slightly, burying his face in the bundled sheets, but Jason had already caught the blush on his face. Jason's heartbeat quickened slightly, finding it strangely endearing.

Jason cleaned his hand on the sheets. He wondered briefly, as Tim laid next to him, if he had pushed him too far. But then Tim moved, sitting up. He pulled down his ruined clothes and Jason watched, heat rising to his face, as they slid past his hips, dragged down his thighs. Tim's skin was unmarked and looked soft.

Jason found himself testing the skin and Tim jolted at the touch, apparently not expecting it, and grabbed Jason's wrist as his hand landed on his ass. Tim looked back and glared at him, and there was something funny about it—like for a small amount of time, Tim had disappeared and been replaced with this gasping boy in his bed, and now suddenly he had returned just as angry as ever—and Jason just laughed.

Tim looked at him a moment longer but returned to pulling off his boots so he could get the rest of his clothes. But he didn't stop there—and Jason's mouth felt dry as Tim shrugged off the vest, calmly, then pulled off his shirt. And then Jason wanted to touch his back—all of him, really—but he felt like he couldn't move.

Tim discarded the shirt and all the rest of his clothes in the pile on the floor. He turned around to face Jason, and Jason is surprised by the lean muscle that's there—sometimes, because of his stature, Jason would forget how strong Tim actually was.

"What are you thinking?" Jason asked, when he saw the distant look in his eye.

Tim made a small noise, almost like a scoff. "That's what I should be asking you."

He suddenly pulled Jason by his belt, forcing him to turn on his back and bringing his hips up.

Jason definitely forgot how strong Tim actually was.

Tim still had that thoughtful look, even as he pulled on Jason's belt. Murmuring to himself, "You know this doesn't fix anything."

The button comes undone. The zipper unzipped. Jason was so fucking hard.

"You know how this is going to end."

When the clothes were finally thrown aside. When they've both gotten off. When the night was over. When they had to go back to what they were before—whatever that may be.

"Then why bother?" Jason dared to ask, even though Tim's hand was so close to his erection. Even though he was just seconds away from removing the layers of clothing that separated his hand from Jason's cock. Even though Jason wanted nothing more than for Tim to keep going.

"Because I'm sick of being afraid," Tim said.

Jason's clothes were pulled past his hips. Jason watched, fixated, as Tim lowered his head between his legs—his hands gripping the sheets as Tim swallowed the head of his cock. He clenched his jaw as Tim took more of him in his mouth, inch by inch. The inside of his mouth was hot, wet, his lips wrapped tight around him. Jason could feel pleasure rushing through his body.

Tim pressed down on Jason's hips, stilling his body, as he bobbed his head on Jason's cock. Occasionally there was this wet noise as Tim went down, which only turned him on more. Jason ran a hand through Tim's hair, noticing that he still shivered whenever Jason's fingers got too close to the back of his ear. Jason couldn't get a good view of Tim going down on him but he caught glimpses of Tim's naked form and Jason was almost surprised by how attracted he was to Tim's physique, which was usually covered head to toe in the uniform.

Tim let up, his mouth focusing on the tip of Jason's cock. Jason groaned, unable to restrain the sound. Tim's mouth was so good. He wanted more. He wanted to hold his face down, grip his head, thrust up into his mouth. Couldn't make up his mind on what would be better—finishing inside his mouth or finishing on his face, and his mind raced with thoughts of both.

Each stroke brought Jason closer. His body was hot, skin crawling, heart racing. He felt Tim sink all the way down and he bit his lip hard. He realized he didn't want to come yet. He wasn't sure if the opportunity was ever going to happen again—he wasn't sure if he'd ever even see Tim again. He pulled Tim off of his cock, pushing back on his shoulder until he was on his knees. He saw the slight confusion in the younger's face but didn't comment on it. He sat up and leaned in, capturing Tim's mouth. His lips were wet and red from sucking him, Jason realized, and he groaned in the kiss.

Jason pulled off his shirt. Tim looked out of the corner of his eyes—a weird time to be modest, in Jason's opinion. He drew in close, causing Tim to look back at him. He kissed him long and slow, his hands running over Tim's body. He couldn't get over how nice Tim's skin felt—he ran his hands along the inside of his thighs, causing Tim to shudder at the touch. His hand moved upwards towards his chest. He pulled on Tim's nipple, causing Tim to flinch away. Jason just leaned in again, sucking on Tim's bottom lip, causing him to sigh even as Jason ran his thumb over the spot over and over.

Still, Tim seemed so tentative to touch him in return. Jason eventually grabbed his wrist, pulling it to his body. Jason was drawn so close that he could feel the heat rise on Tim's face but Tim touched anyways, the fingers tracing lightly down his body—his fingertips so light against his abs that it almost tickled.

Jason's hand roamed down Tim's back, tracing along the spine, before settling on Tim's ass. Tim didn't stop him this time, but his breath hitched slightly, and his lips stopped moving for a split second. But Jason kissed him hard, his hand squeezing, and Tim allowed it.

Jason felt bold. He went for it, pushing his finger inside of Tim. Tim pulled away, making a small noise that sounded almost startled, and Jason wrapped his other arm around Tim, forcefully pulling him in closer. Tim's face pressed against Jason's chest, Jason's finger curling inside of Tim. He felt Tim's fingernails digging into his skin but Jason ignored the pain—it didn't matter.

Tim was hot. Tight. Jason pushed in deeper, thrusting a bit. Jason pulled out, spat onto his fingers and dug two back in. He pushed into Tim faster now, deeper. He could hear Tim gripping him harder, a small noise between clenched teeth.

"You can be louder than that," Jason said. His mind was already wandering back a few moments ago, with Tim finishing in his hands, his voice unrestrained. Tim tensed in his arms—Jason rammed his fingers in deeper. "You were earlier."

Tim pulled back enough to shoot Jason a dark look. But there was an undeniable flush to his face, and his cock was already half hard again, trapped between their bodies. He was aroused, maybe even turned on by Jason's prattling.

Jason pushed Tim onto his back. He climbed over him to reach into his bedside drawer. Tim took one look at the bottle in his hand before glancing up at him, a knowing look in his eyes.

"Shut up," Jason said.

"I didn't say anything," Tim said, still giving him that look.

Jason watched his face as he slipped in three fingers, the lubricant guiding his way in. He watched Tim's shoulders tense up and relax, watched as his eyelids fluttered shut. Jason looked down, seeing the way Tim stretched around his fingers, his fingers sliding as he thrusted in. He was so hot inside and Jason's heart was racing with anticipation, imagining his cock in place of his fingers.

Jason sat back, pouring some of the lubricant onto his hand. He stroked himself and it felt so good to finally focus some attention onto it that he had to slow down, afraid he'd finish too early.

As he lined up with Tim's entrance, he noticed some apprehension in the younger's face. He's staring down at Jason's naked arousal. Jason opened his mouth to say something but Tim cut him off, shaking his head.

"Just do it," he said. At that, Jason felt a bit mischievous.

"Do what?" he said darkly. Tim glared up at him.

"I'm not saying it."

Jason pushed in. Tim's lips parted, eyebrows furrowing. Jason groaned as the head of his cock entered, the rest of his cock sliding in easier. Tim's hand drew up towards his face, as if covering his mouth, as if holding back his voice. Jason allowed him that, pushing until he bottomed out. He looked down at where their bodies met, imagining every inch of his cock buried deep inside of Tim. Felt how hot and tight Tim was wrapped around him.

He thrusted once, eliciting a muffled noise from Tim. The lubricant helped him slide in. Jason felt a rush go through his body. He wanted to just fuck him, fuck him hard and fast, but he forced himself to hold on. Hold on longer.

He pulled out and pushed in all the way. Each time he sunk in, it got easier. Tim's legs were drawn up, spread to accomadate him. His cock was still half hard, even after climaxing and all of the preparation for this. Jason watched the muscles underneath his skin move as he breathed.

He reached up, grabbing Tim's wrist, pulling it from his face. Tim looked up at him, eyes half-lidded, eyelashes wet, face red. Jason pushed in harder, deeper, their bodies making a sound as they met. Tim's body relaxed in response, body sinking into the mattress. Eyes hazy.

Dreamy, light euphoria, the warmth rushing from underneath the skin. The joy of being alive.

Jason felt it too. He knows his expression must have matched, because Tim's free hand was lightly travelling up his side, fingers touching almost admiringly. Tim's eyes seemed free of any hesistation, filled with desire. His caution slipping away.

Jason pushed in faster, over and over, in steady rhythm. The noises of their sex seemed crude, especially as Jason let himself sigh and groan, the sounds filling the space of his normally lonely apartment. And Tim began to moan too, as Jason slowly began to keep note of the things that made him tremble or cry out, their voices intermingling.

A rush of pleasure ran through Jason's body. He was in ecstasy, but its touched with a bit of disbelief.

He thought about it, the realization making his blood pulse. Tim was letting him fuck him. Letting him fuck him hard, irresponsibly, without protection. And he was moaning hard, his cock now fully erect between his legs as they moved. He was letting Jason fuck him and he was getting turned on.

Just thinking about it pushed Jason further.

"Fuck," he hissed between his teeth.

And it was difficult to think past that moment, to think beyond the bedroom and their bodies meeting. All thoughts of the consequences to this—thoughts of what would happen afterwards—easily slipped away, fading into nothing.

But Jason still thought that it would be great if they could just do this forever.

He pulled out, rolled Tim over and guided him on his knees. There's a moment of tension, of thick anticipation, as Jason adjusted his position. He pushed back in, their voices moaning in unison. Jason settled his hands on Tim's hips as he sunk in all the way, their bodies closely knit, the new angle allowing Jason to go in deeper.

They're way past holding back. Jason held him in place, hands gripping his hips, fucking Tim deeper. Faster. Tim's hand gripped the sheets, head falling forward. His torso is against the bed now, his hips drawn up, and it feels impossibly better.

Tim was crying out now. They're loud, both of them. Jason saw the faint sheen of sweat near the base of Tim's neck—he leaned in to taste it. Kissed his neck, his hair, his ear—his full weight bearing down on Tim as he thrusted, their bodies close.

Jason's hand drew up to Tim's face, fingertips pressing against Tim's mouth. There's a moment of apprehension but the mouth closed down, hot and wet around Jason's fingers, stifling his sounds. Sucking gently, almost hesitantly, on the digits. Jason felt a rush of heat race through his body.

"Fuck yeah," he breathed hoarsely. "That's good. You're so good."

He pulled his fingers out. He straightened his back, a thought occurring to him as he got a good view of the length of Tim's back, seeing the area where their bodies met. His fingertips traced around Tim's entrance, the finger slipping inside, and so, Tim yelled out. His body slipped further forward, losing its already unsteady balance.

"T-too much," he said, panting. His body is trembling, shaking around Jason's cock and the digit. Jason thought about Tim's words from earlier. You know how this going to end.

"If this is going to be the last time, the only time, don't I get to take some liberties?"

Tim laughed a little, but it sounded almost breathless. "Haven't you done enough, you fucking psycho?"

Jason pushed forward anyways. Tim's hand snapped back, gripping Jason by the wrist. His legs were trembling, his body stretched beyond its limits, and Jason finally conceded. He withdrew completely, allowed Tim to reposition. Tim laid on his side, trying to catch his breath. Then he looked up at him, his face flushed, a faint sheen of sweat near his hairline, his eyes nearly glistening.

He wasn't going to say it. But Jason knew. He kissed Tim's shoulder quick before lining up his cock with Tim's entrance, holding down his hips so he could angle in. He drank in Tim's changing expression as he penetrated him all the way.

When Jason was pushed in all of the way, he paused for a moment. He savored the feeling of Tim around wrapped tight around him. Jason felt all of his senses being fulfilled at once—and it made him feel so alive, so real. And he could feel Tim too, his body moving around him with every breath he took.

He moved forward and Tim reacted. A sound. A movement. And the way their bodies connected, on multiple levels, felt almost natural.

And it was weird to Jason. Weird that they were both there, sharing a moment that felt so heart-racing, so full of excitement and life, when neither one of them thought that they should be alive at all.

Jason's thoughts were interrupted by one of Tim's moans. His head was turned, his hands clenched in the sheets. Jason thrusted into him faster, and Tim's legs were pressed together, making him impossibly tight, and Jason groaned. He slid in easier, faster. And he's fucking him hard and good and fast. Tim responded to it all, each breath and gasp and moan bringing Jason higher, closer to the edge.

Tim's hands roamed up Jason's body. Jason looked down at Tim's face. He saw the dark look in his half-lidded eyes, something deeper than lust. Jason realized that Tim was trying to pull him in closer. Jason obliged, even though the angle and height difference made it a bit awkward. But they met halfway, their mouths puzzling together.

Like it belonged.

And that was the first time in a long time that Jason had felt something like that.

It didn't last long. Jason straightened his back, pulled on Tim's hips to meet his own. Seconds later and he was moaning, emptying himself inside. Tim tensed, body shuddering. Jason waited a moment before pulling out, watching with an almost perverse interest as his seed spilled out of Tim.

He looked up at Tim, who had been hard again for awhile. He wrapped his hand around his cock, began pumping it slowly. Tim didn't react much, still trying to catch his breath, but occasionally he gave a soft sigh or moan. The entire room felt quiet after the sounds of their sex had gone. But Jason continued anyways, even though he was exhausted.

Jason stroked a little faster, closer to the tip. Tim clenched his jaw, his entire body tensing as he came a second time. He seemed to tremble longer than he had the first time, his body shaking as he climaxed, before finally relaxing.

Jason cleaned his hand in the sheets. His body is still pressed again Tim's, and he can feel the sweat on his skin. He focused on the rest of Tim and saw him breathing in and out, trying to regain his breath. Jason realized he was the same way—he felt hot, tired. His heart was beating so fast and he wondered briefly if Tim's was beating the same way.

Jason let his body fall forward, his forehead resting against Tim's temple. Closer to his face. And he can hear him—hear both of them—breathing.

Until that's all he can hear.

Jason didn't close his eyes.

Jason climbed up the siding of the house, crawling through the open window. The warm summer breeze blew the light curtains, brushing the material against him. He held his arm up, going further into the house. It was a small house, modestly decorated. He moved slowly over the wooden floorboards, not a single one of them making a noise.

He followed the rugs to the bedroom, where he gently opened the doors. He heard faint, electronic noises coming from inside. He crept in, his hand reaching in the inside of the jacket.

He flipped the switch—warm light flooding every corner of the room. He looked, gaze falling on the bed. An old, heavyset man laid in the bed—rails on each side of him, his head propped up, a breathing machine hooked up to him. He heard the beep of the machine, the deep inhale. Over and over, in monotonous motion.

Jason took a few more steps. He watched the man's face, wrinkled and spotted. He pulled the gun from his jacket.

"This house belongs to Elizabeth Ryder. She's in the bedroom across the hall. Downstairs are her two children. The man in the bed is Jack Ryder, her father. Her brother is Warren, otherwise known as the Man in White."

Jason didn't turn away. He already knew the voice. Had already heard one of his footsteps a moment ago.

Tim showed himself instead, inviting himself into the room, standing between Jason and the man in the bed. Jason didn't lower his gun, the aim leading right back up to Tim. Tim looked at Jack.

"Shortly after he got out of prison, he ended up in the hospital after a bad car accident. He breathes on a machine now. It's not cheap to keep it running, but Elizabeth pays for it anyways, as well as the care for her two children. All by herself. Meanwhile, Warren took over the criminal empire—but hasn't made a single phone call to his sister or father in years."

Tim looked back at Jason.

"You don't have to do this."

"His daughter will be better off without him. She won't have to pay another cent."

"It's not about the money, Jason. It's not about what's right and wrong. She wants him here."

"I know," Jason said. He doesn't lower the gun.

"I won't let you," Tim said, stepping directly in front him. The barrel of the gun was pushed up against Tim's chest.

Jason wanted to take the shot. He really did.

If it was anyone else, he would have done it. Whether it was some criminal, some bystander, Dick, Bruce, anyone—he would have done it. He wouldn't accept people getting in his way.

He wouldn't accept the possibility that he could be stopped.

But he couldn't. He stood there, the gun in his hand, his finger resting so easily on the trigger like it had done hundreds of times before. Yet something Jason hadn't felt in a long time began to creep near the edges of his mind. He imagined taking the shot. He imagined Tim dying by his hands.

He felt fear.

Jason didn't understand. This all should have been easy. Tim was half his size. He was smart and skilled but he was still weak, still inexperienced. Jason could easily push him aside, break him, shoot him. Tim must have known it too—he was too realistic, too intelligent, to not understand that he wouldn't stand a chance against Jason. And maybe that was what made him so terrifying, because even with a gun pressed into his chest he was unbreakable, unafraid.

But maybe that wasn't it.

Maybe it wasn't that he wasn't afraid to die. Maybe it was worse than that.

Maybe he trusted that Jason wouldn't take the shot. And in that, Jason felt powerless.

Jason's brow furrowed, his face twisting in confusion and indecision.

"This isn't justice. You know that. You can still do the right thing," Tim said. Quiet. Calm.

"You can't defend him. So many people have died because of him."

Tim looked at him. "You don't have to kill him."

The words stirred Jason's thoughts. The idea of choice. Everything up until that point hadn't felt like a choice. It felt like an obligation, a responsibility. Jason didn't want to let anyone down. He didn't anyone to suffer like he did. Wanted to make sure that people like Pascal never happened again. But maybe he didn't have to be the one to kill him. Maybe Tim had a point.

"It doesn't have to be like this," Tim said, frowning. "You don't have to be like this."

Tim spoke earnestly, his voice resonating with a small bit of emotion that Jason was unfamiliar with. Jason hadn't raised a gun in so long that now, it felt heavy. He looked down at it, sudden regret and guilt beginning to weigh in his chest. He slowly removed it, saw Tim exhale with relief. But as the barrel of the gun was lowered, Jason's brow furrowed as something was revealed.

The R.

"You planned this," Jason said, frowning. Tim blinked.

"What?"

Jason felt numb. But at the edges of his numbness, a familiar feeling began to sink in. A dull rage. As he stared at that symbol on Tim's chest, the same one that he used to carry, the same one that used to fill him with pride and joy and love, he remembered the last time he had worn that symbol. The last time. During his old life, as he laid bleeding. His own blood as red as the vest Tim wore. The pounding in his head. The sound of metal scraping against his skull. A wicked laughter echoing in his mind, growing louder and softer as his mind flitted in and out of consciousness.

The feeling of loneliness overtaking him as he fell into darkness. The questions he had that were left unanswered as he died.

"You honestly expect me to believe that you hadn't figured it out sooner? Every step of the way you had been ahead of me. Every lead we had was yours," Jason said, every word a hiss between his teeth, his glare growing darker but hidden beneath the hood. His voice doesn't sound right, uffled beneath the mask. Tim seemed at a loss of what to say. "You knew who it was. You were just waiting for me to figure it out. You were waiting for me to get here and make the 'right decision'. You wanted to convert me."

Tim's expression fell. "Jason, that's—"

"Did Batman make you do it?"

"Batman has nothing to do with this—"

"How long have you been lying?" Jason demanded.

Tim closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, he said, "I didn't know. But I had a feeling, a suspicion, that he would be here. I didn't want to solve it yet—"

Jason heard enough. He grabbed Tim by the collar, pulling him out of his way. Jason lined up the shot.

"Jason!" Tim exclaimed, struggling. But Jason kept him at arm's length, trying to steady the aim of the gun but Tim was fighting him too hard. "You'll never forgive yourself if you do this!"

"I haven't forgiven a lot of things," Jason said, eyes dulling. Tim pulled himself out of his grip but Jason already fired.

The gunshot went off, the sound reverberating in the confined space.

So loud that Jason felt his heart stop.

The police knocked on Jason's door. Jason kept his gun tucked to him closely, just in case, but they weren't there for him. They were looking for Nikki.

Jason was honest when he said he hadn't seen her. The officers were tight-lipped, refraining from voicing their skepticism. The distrust between the people of the East End and the GCPD was thick. Even if people had seen Nikki, many of them would refuse to talk to an officer. No one wanted to be a snitch—at least, not to the authorities that locked up their brothers, sisters, children, parents, cousins, friends. Jason hardly looked the part of a good-natured citizen either—but compared to the rest of the people in that building, he spoke eloquently enough that the police backed off.

Jason dared to ask them what they wanted from Nikki, but was careful not to sound too familiar. They told him to not worry about it and walked off.

Later that night, another knock came to the door. When he opened the door, he found Nikki, whose eyes were glued to the floor.

"They're looking for you," he said.

"I know," she said. She looked like a mess. Her hair looked like it hasn't been washed or combed. Her eyes were sunken. "Do you have any money?"

"I can't help you," Jason said, and he started to shut the door but she stopped it.

"I don't know who else to ask," she said desperately.

"You can't keep running. They'll find you." He felt like a hypocrite.

She nodded slowly. Her eyes were brimmed with tears. "I know. I just want to see my mom."

Jason didn't know why he didn't just shut the door right then and there. "What did you do?"

She wiped her tears away. "There was this girl at school. She wanted to get high but she didn't know how to do it. So she overdosed and I—"

Jason couldn't believe what he was hearing. He didn't need the rest, he put the pieces together himself. He shook his head, spat out angrily, "Drug dealing killed your brother."

The tears were back. Her face was red. "I know."

"That girl is dead now. What the hell were you thinking? Do you understand what you did?"

"I know," she said, hiccuping. She was crying now, her face scrunched up, her shoulders shaking. "I know. I messed up. I really messed up. I just want to see my mom."

Jason let her cry. There was nothing he could do at that point. The police already linked the drugs back to her, she would go to jail. Since the death of a minor was involved, it was unsure if juvenile prison would be enough for Nikki. Either way, she just ruined a huge part of her life.

He knew he was being a hypocrite. But he grabbed the keys and stuff off his table anyways.

"Let's go," he said, and the crying stopped at once.

She was terrified the whole time, her skinny arms wrapped around his middle. She has probably never ridden a motorcycle and Jason wasn't the safest driver besides. They weaved in and out of traffic, cars honking after them.

Fifteen minutes of driving and they were out of East End and in the richest area of Gotham. The cars turned from rusted vehicles with taped-up bumpers and saran-wrapped windows into hot rods that Jason used to hang posters of in his room as a kid. Thirty minutes and they're downtown. Taxis and limos. Drunk, laughing people were hanging outside of cocktail lounges and hotels instead of strip clubs and dives. Forty-five minutes and they're in the suburbs, where everything grew quiet, and it was the strangest of them all. An hour and they're crossing the bridge into the Narrows.

There was always a rivalry between Park Row and the Narrows. People from Park Row always had an odd sense of pride about where they came from—they thought it made them tougher. Thought it made them cooler. Indeed, when Jason was still in Bruce Wayne's circle, all of the rich socialites seemed to find his background to be exotic, exciting, dangerous. Jason used to be proud too, until he saw the way they sipped on sparkling champagne for fun instead of downing cheap liquor out of need. Saw the way that diamonds and pearls gleamed off their fingers, each one a thousand times more beautiful than the cheap engagement ring his mom had pawned off for drugs years prior.

It only took moments like that to strip away Jason's pride. Now, he realized his background was nothing to be proud of. He looked at the Narrows with open eyes—seeing the buildings with missing windows, reminders of businesses that never capitalized. He saw shops with locked fences around them and even a goddamned vending machine—of all things—unable to be left in the open without being safely bolted to the ground.

East End and the Narrows weren't any different. And now, Jason saw that the rivalry was nothing but a way to pit poor people against poor people.

He dropped Nikki off in front of her mother's house.

"I don't know for sure if she's home," she admitted.

"I'll wait," Jason said.

She turned to leave.

"Nikki," he said, stopping her. She looked at him. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a flashdrive.

"What's on it?" she asked.

"Something I should have given to you a long time ago. Give it to your mom," he said. There was confusion in her gaze but she closed her hand around it. Jason almost wanted to apologize but the words were lost in his throat. It didn't matter, she was already running up to the door.

He waited on the street while she rang the buzzer. Moments passed and Jason saw a woman open the door. The two embraced.

Jason waited until they were both inside and he left.

The low rumble of his motorcycle didn't drown out the rest of the noises of the city. He heard the distant singing of police sirens. Someone playing their music too loud. The clanging of garbage cans. The screech of a sleeper car. A street cat in heat. A drunk's belligerent singing. A vagrant's shopping cart full of aluminum recyclables. Arguing from inside of an apartment. A sound that could be either a firework or a gunshot. All of the sounds, blurring together until it all meshed into its own noise.

He listened to it, this orchestra of a city that he's listened to for so long, and he wondered if things had ever changed.