Thank you all for your support of this story. It really means a lot to me to see people enjoy my work. I'm so sorry it has taken me so long to update this fic, but in between school, end of year examinations, working on my art folio, two of my dogs dying and spending a fortnight in Egypt - I just haven't had time to write! But I'm back in my homeland now, it's the summer holidays, and I'm quite likely to get bored. Some here comes the antidote, in the form of a long awaited second chapter of Underground.

I kind of changed where I was going with this from the original plan a bit, so now I'm thinking I'm going to need to use multiple narrators to tell this story, and so this chapter will be one of many Jason chapters.

Thank you very much for your patience. I hope it pays off.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Chapter II - Jason

Night terrors were neither unexpected nor uncommon for me. Even before the incident in Ethiopia, some nights I'd still wake up howling and shaking, drenched in cold sweat and trying my damnedest not to cry. (I was never very good at that whole not-crying thing, by the way). It's pretty common knowledge that I'd been through more than one nightmare-inducing incident in my life, such as coming home after a hard night of pick-pocketing wallets to find my mom (Catherine, not Sheila) cold and dead on the floor and a puddle of her own excrement. Not to mention, given my line of work, I was quite commonly subject to a few doses of Fear Gas, just to add chemical stimulants into the mix. So, I wasn't all that surprised to find myself bolt upright in bed at 5 AM shaking and whimpering like a crack baby. At first the tired blue eyes staring at me scared the shit out of me, until I remembered the bizarre events of that night. Damian was standing at my bedside, looking more annoyed than concerned.

"Are you okay?" He asks. I take a few deep breaths and wipe the sweat off my brow before I answer.

"Yeah yeah. I'm fine. Go back to sleep." I near-enough whisper. Damian needs no further telling. With a grumble that sounds like "Good" the kid switches off the light again and flops back onto the mattress, falling back asleep instantly. Or at least – I think he does. It's hard to tell with Bat-trained people, I guess, considering the fact that we can fake it perfectly and all that. I figure Damian has no reason to fake sleep, so I let the idea slide. My brain was whirring at a mile-a-minute, and I knew I needed to calm down. Wringing my still aching hands all the way I stumbled to the bathroom and locked myself in. I soaked my face in cold water, then examined myself in the mirror a while. I realised my teeth looked different – clean and white but not the perfectly straight, blindingly white fake ones Bruce had paid for. I figure it had something to do with my shattered teeth – they'd grown in weird after the Joker had his go at rattling a crowbar in my mouth.

My hair looked different too. Yeah, it was still curly and about the same length as it always is, but I swear to god, in the lighting of the bathroom, I could see grey hairs. Grey hairs! Even if I were as old as I should be, I'd STILL be too young to have grey hairs. Fuck that. It mostly gathered in a clump right at the hairline above my right eye, but there were a few kicking around at the side of my head too. So not fair.

I wonder why my teeth and hair had grown back at all. You don't grow when you're dead, right? I know there's that myth about hair and nails growing, but that's really just your skin shrinking as you decompose, I think. And judging by the smell of those clothes I was wearing, I had definitely been doing plenty of that. Honestly, I've smelt some pretty awful things, but that really took first prize.

So as I'm sitting on the toilet lid in my underwear shaking like a leaf and rubbing at my eyes to try and remove the Joker's face from where it's burned into the retinas, I try to regulate my breathing. Before that I'd been panting as though my lungs were still collapsed, my heart still fluttering like a hummingbird in my chest. It makes me feel a bit light headed, and I think for a moment I might be sick. But I force the notion down and struggle back into the room, the rough blue carpet like sandpaper under my bare feet. I press on, silent as I can be, and reach for the pack of smokes stashed in the bedside drawer. I take the pack into my hand, try to feel something other than shooting pain up my knuckles and numbness in my fingertips as I tighten my grip, turn on my heel, and go back to the bathroom from whence I came.

I lay down in the empty bath and smoke three in quick succession, and probably would have started a fourth had Damian not knocked on the door. He was coughing, as though enough smoke had managed to slip under the door and catch in his tiny boy lungs.

"Todd!" He splutters. "Hurry up in there!"

"Sorry!" I shout back, wafting my hand through the smoke and opening the window to let it escape. I had calmed down significantly by then, though I was still a bit shaky on my feet when I clambered out of the dry tub and unlocked the door.

Smoke leached out of the room right into the kid's disgusted face. His nose wrinkled and he turned his face away from me.

"Can you please vacate the bathroom? I want to just brush my teeth and leave this place. The less time I'm trapped with your cancer clouds, the better." At least the rude little fucker said please.

"No can do, half-pint. No brushes or paste. Looks like you're going without this morning."

"But I didn't get to brush my teeth last night and my mouth tastes terrible-" He begins, but I interrupt him.

"Welcome to my world, sunshine." He glowered at me, either not understanding what I was trying to say or just having no patience for it. I sigh.

"Alright, Damian. Don't you fret. We'll head back to the manor now and eat there, bathe with some actual soap and brush our teeth extra good." I'm not aware of how patronising I sound until he kicks me in the shin.

"We can hardly go back right now – you're not even wearing clothes." I look down at myself as though only just noticing I'm still in my underwear for the first time.

"Golly, you're right!" five minutes into a conversation with a Wayne and I'm already impersonating The Golden Boy. It's looking back on moments like these that can really make a guy hate himself.

He begins staring at me like I spontaneously turned into a goose or something.

"What?"

He narrows his eyes.

"What?!" I repeat.

"Aren't you going to do something about that?" He practically snarls, as though my entire existence gives him migraines

"Do something about what?" Damian takes a step back from me, expression sour, and gestures with both hands from the top of my head to my toes in one fluid motion.

"Oh right" I reply dumbly, as Damian huffs and turns away from me. I'm so scatter brained right then it's kinda scary, and this ten year old kid treating me like an idiot really couldn't have helped less.

I follow after him and collect my sorta clean-ish pants I managed to retrieve from my stashes of 'paranoid emergency stuff' I buried when I first moved in with Bruce. I quickly throw them on and then set about finding the t-shirt I wore on top. They're too small – I had an unprecedented growth spurt since I hid them, and I used to be really skinny, so that comes as no surprise. But just because I can't fasten the button on the waistband of my pants doesn't mean they're not better than what I had been wearing beforehand. At least these don't smell like death.

Once dressed, with my backpack set firmly on my shoulder and the money we obtained tucked safely in an undisclosed location on my person, I move toward the door. Damian had been sitting on his bed, watching the news while he waited on me.

He flicks the TV off and crosses the room towards me. "So, apparently…" He says. "We're not the only zombies roaming Gotham, Todd."

I open the door and let him pass through before closing it behind myself. "Really? What makes you say that?"

"Since our graves were reportedly robbed, several people have checked the gravesite of their own loved ones. According to the newscaster, there have been over 10 reported thefts of child corpses. All boys aged between eleven and seventeen."

"You're ten." I point out.

"I was almost –"He pauses. "- That's hardly relevant."

"And you think they've come back from the dead like we did?"

Damian does that little tutting thing he does. "Obviously."

"I bet more came back than they think – it'll just be that some of them couldn't get out." I add.

"Don't be morbid, Todd. I'm not in the mood for it."

There's a palpable silence between us for the next few seconds. I decide to break it.

"So where do you think they went? If they were still in the graveyards when the paranoid parents where there, you'd think they'd be found."

"Perhaps they attempted to return home. They most likely wouldn't have survived the journey at that time of night."

"Now you're being morbid." Damian rolls his eyes.

We settle into silence as we approach the reception desk to check out. The receptionist had fallen asleep at her post. I ring the bell, bringing her back to the land of the living with a jolt.

"Hi, sorry for waking you, but we'd like to check out, if that's okay." I tell her.

Damian stays silent at my side through the process, and doesn't open his mouth again until we're out the door.

"So, how long do you think it'll take for the media to figure out the missing dead kids of Gotham aren't so dead?" I ask him with a nudge.

"It all depends on how competent any remaining dead boys are at staying hidden."

"You don't think it could maybe be us that blows it?"

"Perhaps you, but certainly not me." He says with the ultimate confidence, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"What makes you say that?" I find it hard not to grin at him.

"I'm the son of Batman, you fool. Keeping secrets is in my blood." I snort when I laugh at him.

"Obviously not, or else you wouldn't have shouted that in the middle of the street."

Damian's face flushes and he bows his head. Some lady looks at me like' That was cruel, crushing his dreams like that', which makes the whole situation funnier, but I at least have the decency to stop embarrassing the poor kid by laughing at him.

"Come on, Todd. Let's hurry back to the manor before we starve ourselves back to death."

Oh my god, just the thought of eating Alfred's food made me salivate like a dog.

"Hell yeah! Race ya." A dark, cunning look comes into Damian's eyes and his smirk returns.

"You're on."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

I'm sweatier than a gym junkie's jockstrap and I can taste acid in my mouth when I finally make it to the end of our almost 8-mile long sprint. I had only stopped for a break twice, and both were remarkably brief, so as soon as my feet made contact with Wayne soil, I collapsed to my knees. I hadn't eaten in ten years, damn it! I'm allowed to be easily exhausted – and to be fair, I was running pretty hard.

Damian is twenty minutes behind me, and I wait for him at the beginning of the driveway.

"Slow and steady wins the race my ass." I brag when he approaches. The kid seems exhausted, though not nearly as disgustingly sweaty as I was.

He collapses down next to me, face flushed. He doesn't say anything, simply enjoying the relief from standing. A few raindrops land on our flushed faces, and we knew at any minute it'd be pouring down, but we make no effort to stand up for a few more minutes.

When Damian has finally steadied his breathing, I climb to my feet and offer to help him stand. He rejects my hand, instead getting up on his own and making a futile attempt at wiping some of the dirt off his pants.

"Let's get in before we're soaked, kid." Damian glares at me.

"Stop calling me kid." He says, but nevertheless he marches forward up the short stretch of road leading up to the manor gates. I follow after him, and just as we get there the rain has begun coming down full pelt.

"Best give them some warning, huh? Don't want to give Alfred a heart attack." I say as I press down on the buzzer.

"Definitely not. Who else would do my laundry?" I let out a startled laugh.

"You are terrible, Damian" I mutter, just as the gate swings open.

We progress in silence toward the front door, and I can't help but feel a little nervous. I mean, I'd been gone for so long, who knows what had changed? Will these new people Damian mentioned accept me?

I decide to take a moment to prepare myself for the onslaught of people and reactions and numerous exclamations of "You're alive!" before knocking. Apparently I took too long, because Damian got that irritated little look on his face, growled "oh for god's sake Todd get a grip" and knocked for me. I'm not sure why it was my job to knock in the first place, but apparently it really pissed the kid off that I wasn't doing it.

We don't have to wait long before the door is opened and we're met with an aging Alfred. Well, everyone is aging all the time, but nowadays he's showing it a lot more than he would have, say, fifty years ago. He has a lot less hair, and what is left of it has gone completely white – ten years ago it was still pretty dark, for the most part. The worry lines in his forehead had deepened significantly, too. I wonder how much of that was my fault.

His usual stoicism faltered as he laid eyes on us, his jaw dropping to let a small "My word!" slip out. But good ol' Alfred manages to quickly snap back, straightening his posture and letting his mouth slip into a small but welcoming smile.

"Pennyworth." Damian acknowledges with a nod.

I find myself grinning. "Hey Al'."

"Hello young masters. I must say – It has been a long time since anyone has seen you darken our doorstep."

"No kidding." I agree as Alfred steps back to allow us entry into the manor. I don't hesitate in hugging the old man – I'd missed him in the relatively short time I'd been away from him – only a week or so in my own head – and I hoped that after all this time, he'd missed me too.

"Oh my" Alfred says, but I can tell he's not surprised. He's quick to return the hug, and his grip is tight and comforting. I burrow my face into his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Alfred." I mumble. He reaches up with one hand to pet my wet hair.

"Don't be silly, young sir. You have nothing to apologise for." But I shake my head and dig my face in deeper. "I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye, Al. I should have said goodbye."

Alfred loosens his grip on me and I pull away, taking the hint. I try to manage a smile when he looks at me sadly.

"Yes, well, you're here now, aren't you? No harm done." He says, without his usual confidence, voice even cracking a little. I can tell he's lying. I can see it in his eyes – they just scream so much harm done you can't even begin to comprehend it. I feel so guilty I could just scream. But I don't, because that would be stupid.

I look over my shoulder at Damian, who hasn't said a word throughout that whole almost-teary exchange. He hasn't moved either, just stood there and watched, as though waiting patiently for something – and while I've only known the kid for less than a day, I know that is unusual. The kid's about as patient as I am classy.

I step aside to let him get closer to Alfred. The boy does, moving briskly to stand at the old man's feet.

"I trust my pets were kept in good health during my absence?" He says, tone demanding.

"Why – yes, of course." Alfred confirms. This makes Damian crack a little smile.

"Good. Thank you, Pennyworth." And with that he gives the old butler a short but firm hug. And then he steps away. Just like that.