Jason rode his motorbike furiously around Gotham. The sharp twists and turns in closed curves making him balance his weight so the vehicle wouldn't crash against the concrete.

He hadn't been having the greatest of times lately. Trying to control his piece of Gotham's underworld and coming up with ways to infiltrate Black Mask's organization to bring it down from within was proving to be a difficult task.

And his family just kept getting in the way.

Jason grasped the handles tighter. He felt the muscles on his thighs tensing at the memory of his safe house. It had been completely wiped out. All his favorite machineguns and C4, all his ammo and his throwing knives.

It wasn't every day that Jason pondered the thought of trying to kill a member of his family (again), but that day had not been the best moment to start imposing their authoritative kind of love on him.

That past week, Jason had been putting up a mask to fool the other rogues. He had been hanging out with every person he loathed and swore to stop. It really had felt like the Lord was testing him when, that very night, Harley Quinn had decided to walk into the bar.

And Jason wouldn't have cared, he was genuinely happy that she got away and moved to New Jersey, but the makeup and crazy demeanor had brought unwanted memories to mind. For a moment there, he had feared he would freak out in front of everyone else.

He had managed to get out through the back door and proceeded to have a panic attack in the darkened alley.

So when he arrived at his favorite safe house, the one with all his weapons (the one where he felt the safest in) and saw all of it gone…

Sitting on his tattered sofa and trying to calm down wasn't even an option. He always felt safer in action, the adrenaline pushing aside whatever insecurity and fear. Jason knew he should be concerned about those coping mechanisms but, to be honest, he was doing fine compared to every other person in the family.

Well, maybe not the girls. But they had always been superior in every way, Jason wasn't even unconsciously comparing himself to them.

So, having had that nice conversation with Bruce just days before, when he explicitly told Jason not to kill people, he knew where he was headed.

Wayne Manor was majestic even from miles away, its greatness looking at the city from above. It was fitting, he thought, that even his house looked down on people.

The jerk.

He took the shortcut to the cave, having been granted access (finally) months ago. He was clever enough not to let that thought linger and fuel his rage. He couldn't blame them. He had tried to kill them at a certain point. Didn't mean it didn't sting, whenever they looked at him like he was a walking grenade (reference not intended).

It left a sour taste in his mouth, it haunted him at night when he wished he could pick up the phone and talk to one of them. Not like he had much to share. Having no real identity left him with far too many hours to spend by himself.

The automatic door opened for him, probably reading his helmet's signal or some other stupidly complicated way Bruce came up with to confirm it was him. For some reason, he couldn't picture Bruce watching the security cameras and buzzing a button to let him in.

He would have laughed at the thought any other day, made sure to mention it in front of Bruce just to see him try to hide that little smirk he only gave to Jason.

But not today.

Oh, no. Today was going to be nasty. Jason had some lines to draw. He had to make them listen, maybe appeal to Alfred's common sense so they would keep their heroic claws away from the only thing that gave Jason some sense of control over any aspect of his miserable life.

It wasn't just a statement, it wasn't just a way to make Bruce cringe. He had a reputation. He had an image to maintain in order to command respect. It was easy for them to forget that Jason actually lived in the part of the city he guarded. He didn't get to retreat to an over-compensatingly big manor from where he could examine every other human being to judge their actions and decisions.

He needed that respect at the end of the day, because if no one took him seriously, he would be looking over his shoulder every five seconds.

His motorcycle roared through the tunnel, the echo making the entrance even more dramatic. Let them hear him come. They knew what they had done.

The wheels screeched against the floor when Jason drew a circle and finally turned off the engine. Not even a second after he got off, he had his 9 mm. on his hand, ready to shoot at someone. Rubber bullets still hurt like a bitch. And Jason knew where to aim.

The sound of the safety travelled through the cave, Jason carefully holding the gun at his side. The voice modulator in the helmet was still working when he yelled.

"Where the fuck are my weapons?" He knew they heard him. The batcomputer was working and he had seen a glimpse of the cape while delivering his most dramatic entrance to date. "I swear to god, if you got rid of them, I'm ending you."

His furious steps brought him pretty fast to the spot where his father figure was seated, staring blankly at him. That just made him more furious.

"You stuck-up righteous prick—"

He had been clenching his hands into fists, almost forgetting he was still holding a gun, finger still on the trigger. But then he paused, processing what he saw behind Bruce.

"What the fuck is that?" The awe and horror in his voice made the man in front of him tense.

Behind him, there was a new batsuit. A new model, maybe? Jason could just see it from the waist up from his position. The dark red bat on the chest making something twist in his gut. He could have sworn he growled at the sight. The cowl was hidden by the shadows, but he could discern glowing red lenses and were those… shoulder spikes?

He heard the noise the gun made when it fell on the concrete. He saw Bruce swallow. He felt the little control he had going through the window.

"You don't wear that color," he spat. It wasn't and observation, it was an order. "You don't deserve to wear that color."

He could have sworn Bruce was frowning under the cowl.

"That's my color." He knew he wasn't making any sense. He probably sounded like a twelve-year-old.

He hoped he could say he didn't know why it bothered him, but he did. It was such a stupid reason, but it still mattered to him. Green and red and yellow dancing in front of his eyes, like the ghost of the past.

When he died and came back, he couldn't even look at the color green. It still nauseated him sometimes, which was why he avoided patrol with Robin. Yellow had always been Batman's color, the canvas that held their symbol. And then… Jason only had red left. And he was happy, he knew it represented him. The rage, the emotion, the blood.

He had held on to it for dear life, the only scrap of the past he could now claim as his. The only part of his that had been left unscathed. He was not giving that up.

He would rather give up every weapon.

"You won't wear that," his voice broke. He prayed to every possible god that Bruce couldn't hear that through the modulator.

Bruce seemed to get out of his trance, cocking his head and staring again.

"Kate wears red," he commented.

"Kate knows what's like to kill," Jason said, without even thinking.

He guessed it was true. Kate had been in the army. She and Alfred were the only ones that knew what it was like to be lethal. They were also the only ones that respected Jason's ethic.

Not that they talked about it with the rest. Not with Bruce having a say in it. But Jason would catch their little nods and looks, the understanding in their eyes when Jason explained himself.

Bruce clenched his teeth. Jason knew he was about to spit something, and he was more than happy to go down. Bruce just inhaled sharply and exhaled through his mouth.

"So this is the son you talked about?" A third voice said.

Jason reached for a gun that wasn't there. On the floor, he remembered, but he was staring at the batsuit behind his father. The person wearing it. Leaning over the table between him and Bruce.

Bruce didn't even acknowledge it. He kept staring at Jason, as if trying to solve a puzzle.

"Who the fuck is that?"

Bruce didn't even protest at the swearing, or the tone. He just swallowed and glanced at the figure behind him before turning back around. The voice he used, soft and broken, was unlike anything Jason had ever heard.

"This," he said, looking back at Jason, "is Thomas Wayne."

Bruce breathed in deeply before continuing.

"My father."

ᴥ

The fireplace kept making that crackling sound, the warm light of the fire illuminating the den as Jason stared at the two men. Father and son. Two Batmans.

Batmen?

Jason was sure he would get a headache.

"How?" Jason asked Bruce.

Now that the both were wearing workout clothes that were stored in the cave for sparring and training, he could definitely see how much they resembled each other. It was like being able to watch how Bruce would be in… twenty-five years? Thirty?

"I was assisting the Flash and we stumbled upon a dying world where I had died but my parents survived," Bruce said, stoic as ever.

The fucking hypocrite.

"You gave me shit for travelling the multiverse," Jason said, barely restraining the rage. "And now you bring a person to our universe?"

"Not any person, son." Thomas Wayne told him. His voice was way deeper than Bruce's.

"Okay, I know Bruce's tragic past." Jason turned to Thomas. "But how did you become Batman? For all I know you were the best surgeon in all Gotham."

Thomas squared his jaw, letting out a grunt before eyeing his son carefully.

"I beat Joe Chill to death."

Silence fell in the den. Bruce stared into the fire, doing breathing exercises most likely. The bruises in his face were a deep purple. Jason let out a soft gasp and stood up, walking up to Thomas. The old man stared him down while Jason searched his face for the lie.

"You," Jason said, almost breathless. "You killed your son's murderer."

"Jason." Bruce turned to look at them.

"Yes," Thomas said, nodding tersely.

Jason let out a humorless laugh. He felt ready to pass out, like that time he drank five energy drinks, and everything felt like a dream. He couldn't decide if life was laughing in his face or this was simply just his luck, being adopted by the wrong Wayne.

Thomas frowned at him, but Jason turned to Bruce. He looked pale as a ghost, even under the orange light of the fire.

"You should learn from him, Bruce," Jason said. His head was swimming.

"Jason," Bruce whispered, searching Jason's eyes.

A sudden flash of the past stabbed him, Batman's white lenses staring at him when Jason had a gun to Joker's head, yelling, a slit throat, a bomb.

"Your son died?" Thomas asked, eyes searching their faces.

Bruce remained silent, looking at Jason like he was a ghost. Maybe he was.

Jason frowned, words registering.

"Wait. Son?" He asked Thomas. "He told you he had a son? Singular?"

"Yes."

Thomas and Jason turned in sync to stare at Bruce.

"Oh, wait till I tell the others," Jason huffed. He gestured to Thomas. "Wait till I tell him how many of us died."

Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Should I start with me?" Jason raised his voice, rage anchoring him. "Beaten to death by the Joker, then blown up."

He felt Thomas shifting to look at him.

"Or maybe Steph?" He took a step towards Bruce. "Tortured to death by Black Mask. Cass? Damian at age ten?"

He was yelling now, Bruce's face as white and devoid of feeling as a bust made of granite.

"Remember that time you made Dick's heart stop?" He didn't even register Thomas holding him back. "How you slit my throat when I asked you to kill the Joker?"

Big hands landed on his shoulders, squeezing for a second as if to bring comfort. Jason was panting. For the first time he felt the dampness rolling down his cheeks. Jason felt Thomas' presence at his back. Bruce looking at them with unreadable eyes.

"Waynes never stay down…" Thomas said at his back.

An image of Bruce, saying something to him the fist time Jason lost a fight as Robin and had to withstand the blows until Batman came to the rescue.

We never stay down, Bruce had said, scooping Jason up in his strong arms.

"We rise," Bruce and Jason said in unison.

ᴥ

"Oh, dear," Alfred said in the den's entrance.

Jason wasn't sure how long they had stayed like that, the three of them in silence. So many unsaid things hanging in the air.

"I do hope you're planning to stay for dinner, Master Jason."

"Wouldn't miss it," Jason threw a distracted smile, turning to greet the butler. He already missed the warmth of Thomas' sure grip on his shoulders.

"Coincidentally, I've cooked one of your favorite dishes," Alfred said, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Coincidentally," Jason laughed. He nodded at the men at his back. "So what would you call them: Batmans or Batmen?"

"How about their birth names?" Alfred raised an eyebrow, just like he always did when he knew Jason stole chocolate cookies from the jar but wasn't about to comment on it.

Jason felt the rest of the nerves leave his body. He could always trust Alfred to never change.

"They lost that right when they put on a fursuit," Jason mock-whispered.

Alfred, god bless his sanctified soul, covered his mouth with a hand in hopes of hiding the growing smile on his face. Jason didn't know what was funnier: Alfred's reaction or the fact that one of the others had educated Alfred in the concept of furries.

"So, how did you know to expect me?" Jason asked, remembering the reason he'd barged into the cave like war personified.

Strange, how that rage seemed distant now after yelling his heart out. Maybe Dick was right after all and talking did some good. Huh.

"It is not everyday that I see Miss Cassandra storing an obscene amount of explosives and machineguns in the safe," Alfred said, rising his eyebrows.

"It was Cassandra who stole my C4?"

Now, Jason just couldn't be mad at her, she could wipe the floor with his ass any time of the week.

"C4?" Bruce sounded dazed behind them. "Why do you have C4, Jason?"

"I live in Crime Alley, you stupid fuck."

"Language," Alfred admonished.

"Why does your son live in Crime Alley?" Thomas asked.

"Indeed," Alfred agreed. "Whyever, Master Bruce?"

"He doesn't want to live here," Bruce said, clearly confused.

"Not that you asked," Jason spat.

"What do you…" Bruce looked dumbfounded. "Jason, this is your home, you don't need permission to live here."

Jason saw how Thomas Wayne's eyebrows raised almost to his hairline, looking at Alfred from behind his son. Alfred shook his head with a barely audible sigh.

"Well," Jason drawled, drawing attention back to him. "Now that there's a Batman I can get behind, maybe I will."

ᴥ

"How old are you, anyway?" Jason asked as Thomas Wayne stitched his bullet wound. "Bruce is old enough already, but did you ever think about retirement?"

Jason hissed when Thomas pulled gently to tie a knot.

"Martha would have liked you," Thomas said.

He sounded terribly sad, even for Batman standards. Jason wondered what had happened to make him sound like that.

Thomas hadn't donned the cape since he came back, happy to let Bruce do his work, but he never took his eyes from the surveillance footage streaming from the cowl. The first time Bruce disabled it when he came across Catwoman Jason had to explain some very unpleasant things.

Thomas had laughed at how uncomfortable Jason looked. It was the first time Jason heard that sound leave that man. There was something comforting in his deep tone and presence.

"A Wayne through and through," Thomas added, now more cheerful. "She loved making fun of me."

"You're avoiding the question, old man."

Thomas huffed.

"I'm sixty-seven," Thomas said. "And I still can kick your ass."

"Oh, I'd love to see that."

And that's how they ended up on the mats, circling and measuring each other.

It had been almost a month since Thomas arrived, two weeks since Jason had finally caved into his curiosity and moved in. Bruce still stared at them we he saw them together. Maybe he thought they were plotting a murder.

The other adjusted well enough to the newcomer. Cassandra and Tim were cautious around Thomas, but they were curious too. Damian took to calling him "grandfather" as soon as he saw him, and Dick was just his usual self. Stephanie, Duke and Barbara never came to the Manor these days. Jason couldn't blame them.

But out of all of them, Jason found himself spending with Thomas Wayne the most time.

For the longest time, Jason had roamed the empty hallways as a kid, seeing portraits and photographs of the Waynes when turning every corner. He'd almost believed their ghosts haunted the desolate left wing of the house for some time. With time they turned into something more akin to legend and less like specters.

He always left flowers in their tombstones whenever he visited his own grave.

And now one of the people he had looked up to, with a reverence reserved mostly for the gods, was here. He was flesh and bone. And he had done just what Jason always wished for Bruce to do.

Thomas called him son regularly, and he gave Jason comforting pats on the back every time he walked past him. He stitched up his wounds methodically as the surgeon he had once been, and Jason didn't feel uncomfortable or constrained under his care. Because he knew. Jason knew this man was the kind of father Jason always wished for. The kind that would avenge his son.

Thomas hummed Frank Sinatra songs when he roamed around the cave, and smoked cigars from time to time. He ruffled a startled Damian's hair and gently admonished Tim when he hadn't slept enough. He did all the thing a father, a grandfather, should do. Alfred and him having secret conversations while they stared at them causing a ruckus in the den.

And Jason found himself whishing that this Wayne had been the one to raise him.

Neither of them pulled their punches while sparring, both bulky and tall. Their strength almost on par. Jason still had a bullet wound, and he pretended not to notice how Thomas avoided exploiting that weak point.

"You're in shape for a grandpa," Jason observed with a smirk.

He dodged the punch coming to his face, snickering. Thomas grunted. Jason left his side open for a second and Thomas threw a well-aimed kick. The air left Jason's lungs in a pained gasp, but when he looked at Thomas' direction, the man was on the floor holding his side.

"Fuck," Thomas said. And that was the first time Jason had ever heard him swear.

"Shit, you okay?" Jason approached, arm still holding his side.

"It's my back," Thomas said through gritted teeth.

Jason felt terribly bad for teasing him now. Ugh.

"Hold on, I'll help you to the med bay."

One second he was taking Thomas' hand, his other hand rubbing circles on the man's back, and the other he was on the floor with an arm circling his neck and two inhumanly strong thighs applying pressure to his mid-section.

Jason tapped Thomas' forearm, giving him the victory, and collapsed against the other's chest when he was finally released.

"Shit."

"How was that for your grandpa, huh?"

Jason couldn't see it from his position, but it sounded like Thomas was smirking. He had the same tone that Bruce had when he smirked.

"I bet I'm a better shooter than you," Jason challenged, remembering the thigh holsters he had glimpsed briefly on the Batman suit Thomas wore on their first encounter.

ᴥ

About three days after their sparring session, Jason was reminded of why he preferred living alone.

The screams tore through his throat into the total darkness. He could see flashes of green and red against his eyelids, a crowbar hitting his face. He could hear the timer and the laughs and his quiet sobs calling his dad. His skin burned and his lungs hurt and he was sure he was dying.

Something was tangled in his legs and he couldn't shake it off. He was back in the coffin. Foul air and rot and dirt making their way inside his mouth. He could taste it, something sour and acrid like the smell of decay.

He screamed. He screamed until he tasted blood. Punching and turning and trying to get out. To get help. But there was only darkness. He was going to die there this time.

A pair of hands pushing him down startled him, his elbow connecting with something in between his broken sobs.

"Jason," a deep voice said in the dark. "Son."

Jason whimpered, the fight leaving his body.

"Dad?"

There was a silence, then arms gathering him up and a hand carding fingers through his hair. Shushing noises whispered in his ear. He just knew the cologne was smelling wasn't Bruce's, but the comfort was way too anchoring for him to just let go.

ᴥ

"You didn't see him. He was torn apart."

"I heard the screams… I… heard you go in."

"And you didn't come in?"

"He doesn't… you've always been better at this."

"Bruce, he was asking for his dad. He was asking for you."

"Was he alright?"

"No. Of course he wasn't. He's a kid. And he was reliving his murder."

"… Dad?"

"He's just a boy, Bruce. How old is he? Twenty?"

"Nineteen."

"God."

"What are you thinking?"

"About what your mother would have done."

ᴥ

Jason watched the news in a daze. It was 4PM when they found the body. He could hear Bruce talking intently through the phone to Dick and Alfred from Wayne Enterprise. Cassandra was saying something to Jason, but he couldn't take his eyes off the screen.

Joker Beaten to Death.

Anonymous Call Tips the Cops Off.

Body Found Near the Docks.

He felt like somebody had ripped the ground from under his feet and he was waiting to fall. All those years of pain and horror, those deaths. His victims could finally rest. Jason could finally rest.

That thought alone seemed to tear something right out of his chest.

He heaved. He clutched at the gape in his chest and just breathed, as if something head had been dislodged from behind his ribs and the amount of air that came in left him dizzy and dazed. He breathed in and out, tasting the air in a world that didn't have that clown roaming and killing and torturing.

There were hands in his shoulders and faces in front of his, but he didn't see them. Not really. He was busy seeing the possibilities, the lost years looking over his shoulder and wondering when he was going to show up again.

Wondering when—not if—he was going to finish Jason off.

Again.

He was free. He was free and alive and so many things at once. He was a child and an adult. He was a victim and a fighter. He was a killer and a son. But ultimately, he was Jason. And he was free to be anything else.

He was free to be just a kid. He was free to be just a son. To be normal and not a ghost. To be whole again. And loved. Because the reason he came back was gone. His murderer, his nightmare. All gone.

And he hadn't been the one to pull the trigger. There hadn't been shouts or bombs or slit throats. And maybe that was fine. Maybe that was where he erred all along. In wanting it to be him. Or Bruce. Or some sort of selfish way of feeling like he was worth that to someone. Like he was worth avenging.

And maybe it wasn't fine after all. But there were hands on his and worried faces looking at him. And for the first time he let himself feel like this was home. Like he was home.

ᴥ

Jason met him in the hallway.

The shock and relief had settled down. Bruce had knocked on his door, asking to talk. Jason turned up the volume of Back In Black and pretended not to hear the indistinct words through the sturdy wooden door.

Jason waited for an hour after Bruce gave up and left to roam the Manor in search for Thomas Wayne.

He was standing in front of one of Jason's favorite portraits. Martha and Thomas Wayne smiling softly to the painter, holding hands and looking regal. Jason would have said they looked ethereal, like Oberon and Titania, but they felt far too real throughout his years being raised in that place.

The grandparents he'd never have, because not even Bruce seemed to know whether Jason was his son or not most of the time.

But now. Looking and Thomas Wayne's wide, muscular back, Jason felt a warm, vicious ache in his chest. Something raw and far too open to be labeled as good yet. Not until he knew.

"It was you," Jason said, looking at the portrait. Expensive clothes and laughter lines and eyes he had long ago memorized.

"Yes."

A word as short—as simple—as love.

That's what it translated into inside Jason's chest. A feeling too strong and thorny and sweet and rotten to be anything else. Turning warmer and less prickly as Thomas kept talking without Jason having to ask through the lump in his throat cutting off the newfound air.

"I killed the man that took away my son," Thomas said, calm as the deadliest storm. "And I killed the man who took my grandson."

He said it like a fact. Like law of nature. A universal truth as simple as the sun rising in the east. And Jason could do nothing but sob. And shake and let the truth run through him like a flood goes through a house, taking everything with it and leaving the bare bones and the realization that the worst was past. Now you just needed to rebuild.

Thomas clutched him in his arms, a hug so strong and fierce that threaten to crush Jason. It felt like the best thing Jason ever had.

"B-but B-Bruce," he babbled in Thomas' chest.

"Let me worry about that," Thomas shook his shoulders.

And it was the first time someone ever shared the burden. The first time someone took the pain out of his hands and load it on their shoulders.

Jason felt light and lit up from inside. The kind of light that came with leaving your schoolbag at the entrance and running wild through the house to Alfred. The kind of lit up that came when your dad hugged you and told you how proud he was of you.

For the first time since he came back, he felt like that kid with nothing to lose and all the time in the world. He felt like he could be himself and not another shadow in the halls.

"I will take care of it," Thomas said.

And Jason knew he would. Jason knew that man had gifted him a life without fear. For the first time he didn't have to face Bruce and his disappointment. He just needed to breath and live and be thankful.

"Thanks," he sobbed.

And the word was not enough. It couldn't encompass the crushing gilt of years not doing this himself, the hope that left him breathless, the burning love spreading in his chest like a forest fire. It didn't translate how much of his heart Jason gave to Thomas in that hallway in front of the portrait of the grandparents he always wished for.

"You're my grandson," Thomas said, as if he had read Jason's thoughts.

He only got a whimper in response. A fist clenching in his jacket. Tears spilled on his chest like a fucking damn inside Jason broke.

Jason felt something he could only describe as elation when his grandfather carded his fingers through his hair and held him through it all. He wondered if Thomas had done this with Bruce after he fell into the cave, when he scraped his knee. He felt himself selfishly wonder what Martha's kisses on his forehead would feel like.

Thomas guided him through the hallways, rubbing circles on his back and whispering sweet nothings. The passed Bruce's door, light seeping under it. When they reached Jason's bedroom, he walked on wobbly legs and got into the bed, prepared to say goodbye.

Thomas just dragged a chair to Jason's bedside and sat there, watching him with a fond expression, wood creaking.

"I'll keep the nightmares at bay."