#jaytimweek2019

Stop it. This isn’t about you. It’s about putting Jason at ease.

They return to the containment unit to find Barbara facing down Eros—an impressive feat considering she’s in a wheelchair and he’s the one looking down on her. Her face is drawn in irritation, and he’s gratified to see that Eros seems put-out about something.

“Took you long enough. Cherry here says she’s got a bonafide prophecy from the Oracle of Delphi and wouldn’t share it until you got back.” He eyes their entwined hands and leers. “I take it the domestics are going well?”

“Get bent,” Tim snaps in irritation as Jason tugs his hand back so fast he might as well have been burned.

“Only if you do the honors, pretty boy.”

Jason growls and makes a move for his gun, but Tim reaches out to stop him.

“Can you not tease him?” he demands of Eros. “Especially when the only reason he’s like this is because of you.”

“Oh, if only you knew…”

Before Tim can comment on that, Jason interrupts.

“What’s the feathered freak talkin’ about?” he snaps, radiating tension. “What prophecy?”

“The one Signal was able to recover from the girl that was killed,” Barbara says coolly. “He transcribed it and sent it along. Do you want to hear it, or do you want to keep acting like a child?”

This she directs at Eros, who actually does look chastised a beat, before gracing her with a cool smile.

“I guess it is apropos if you do the honors, darlin’,” Eros says with a cool smile. “Is it ironic or coincidental if someone who stole the title of oracle interprets a prophecy from the actual Oracle of Delphi?”

“Who cares? This whole situation is making me hate both irony and coincidence,” Tim says.

“It’s making me wonder if there are any coincidences,” Jason mutters, eyes fixed on Eros in intense dislike.

Barbara offers him an identical look, before thumbing the screen of her phone and opening her incoming messages.

Then she begins to read:

“The Unseen darkness cannot keep its captive thrice for mortal masks the divine that seeks its reward in the city where dark nights conceal the greatest of secrets.

“Crossed beneath the stars when the Rager’s Moon is full, eternal freedom is neigh upon the eleventh moment of the small hour.The sacrifice of the virgin gifts triumph to the prisoner and that which drowned in Lethe’s tears is reborn.

“But take heed, for the winged scion of Cythera, willingly blinded by the veil of vengeance revealed by Discord’s most cursed boon, awakens the warrior guided by the Physicians heir.

“Fury dooms the fair, heralding the return of magnificent Alexandros and one whose name is painted in blood and stone.

“Greatest of loves, damned by the gleam of a golden barb, torn asunder by jealousy and parted by cruel death, they will stand against Strife.

“Titans will rise and one who Death names hero, betrayed yet shielded by love, will sunder the chains of Aidoneus and avenge the victim of grievance. One will be born anew, the other bound eternally to Stygian Darkness.”

There is silence as she puts the phone down, eyebrows drawn together in thought.  

“What?” Tim says.

“I see your ‘what’ and raise you a ‘the fuck’,” Jason adds. “Does any of that make sense to anyone else? Because it don't make sense to me.”

“Blame my uncle,” Eros says, apparently annoyed.

“What? Why?” Tim wants to know. “Which one’s he?”

“Apollo,” Barbara says, still considering the puzzling words on the screen. “Aside from being a sun god, he was also the god of prophecy.”

“Talking in riddles is his favorite pastime,” Eros agrees. “It’s a pain in the ass.”

“I’ll bet,” Tim agrees. “We’ve got someone like that here in Gotham.”

“Yeah, and he’s a frequent guest of Arkham, so what’s that tell you?” Jason grumbles.

“That people who come up with riddles have too much time on their hands.”

“There’s a reason the Oracles of Delphi didn’t put their predictions into simple words,” Barbara points out. ”If you give people information about what’s coming, how do you know you’re not ensuring it will or won’t come to pass? It was important for them to be seen as the medium of the message and not an agent.

“By keeping information vague, it would seem like they were allowing a querant the chance to defy fate, while at the same time allowing fate to take its natural course, whatever that might be,” Eros agrees. “Ans it was good insurance. Even Oracles needed to cover their asses. You were less likely to get your head lopped off by a visiting king that received news he didn’t want to hear. And whatever the outcome, they could still say, ‘we told you so’.” He considers Barbara. “You know, I don’t usually find brainy sexy, but you might just turn me.”

“I’m thrilled,” she deadpans.

“So what’s all this supposed to mean, anyway?” Tim asks, trying to bring the discussion back to the matter at hand.

“It could mean anything. Though to start with, that bit about ‘unseen darkness’, that’s an epithet for the Underworld in old Hellenic documents.”

“We called it that in the old days,” Eros confirms.

“And then there’s the part about someone captive in Hades.”

“I thought Hades was a person?” Tim says.

“It is. But it’s also a place.” Jason tells him.

“It depends on what story and what source you’re drawing from,” Barbara elaborates. “And what translation.”

“What about the next bit? About mortal maskin' the divine?”

“Could that mean whoever’s possessing Carrie Cutter?” Tim suggests. “We’ve already established she’s got help from a god, and if they’re inhabiting her body even for short amounts of time, it’s a pretty effective mask.”

“No doubt,” Eros agrees. “Not so sure about that part with dark nights, but I guess it’s referring to this cesspool you people call a city.”

Tim, Jason and Barbara exchange glances, knowing exactly how dark nights and secrets relate to their city.

Maybe Duke misheard. It might not be dark ‘nights’ so much as dark ‘knights’. Which makes sense, considering Bruce and Dick both have that title depending on the day.

“Safe to say it’s Gotham,” Tim confirms. “So all that begs the question, do you have any idea who’s locked in the Underworld trying to get out?”

Eros snorts. “The better question is who isn’t locked in the Underworld.”

Jason is glaring furiously at Eros, clearly growing tired of his evasive and snarky answers. The way his fists clench, Tim suspects he’s close to throwing a punch at the glass in frustration. Not something Tim wants to see, especially given Jason’s injuries from their altercation with Carrie Cutter and Dick haven’t even been seen to yet.

God, it feels like it was days ago but it was only hours. He probably came right here to confront Eros without even looking after himself.

He has to put that out of his mind for now. Deciphering any clues in the prophecy takes momentary precedence.

“…. A lot of myths end with someone displeasing a god and getting sent to Tartarus, so he has a point,” Barbara is saying, her thumbs busily texting something on her phone.

“So that’s not going to tell us anything,” Tim decides. “What about the ‘crossed beneath the stars’ part?”

“More of the same in terms of pinpointing when everything is supposed to happen,” Eros says.

“Which is when?”

“November twenty-third,” Barbara says, frowning at the small screen in her hand.

Jason looks askance. “How d’you know?”

“'Moon’ equates to month, and another name for Zeus was the Rager,” she replies. “So, Zeus’s month. According to the Athenian calendars we still have access to, Zeus’s month was Maimakterion—which in modern times would fall somewhere between November and December. And the next full moon—” She holds up her phone, showing a lunar calendar for the month, “—falls on November twenty-third. It’s the only full moon that falls during Maimakterion.”

Eros nods along in approval. “What she said.”

“And the small hour?”

“Midnight.”

“So, whatever’s supposed to happen is going to happen eleven minutes after midnight…assuming that’s what moment means,” Tim muses, glancing at his own phone calendar. “That’s this Friday.”

“Five days from now,” Jason agrees, and side-eyes Tim. “We’ve all had shorter deadlines.”

“That’s not necessarily referring to your deadline, sweet cheeks,” Eros reminds him. “I figure you have about half that.”

“No thanks to you.”

“You know, the last Jason I knew wasn’t this whiny.”

“Children,” Barbara says sharply. “Let’s stay focused, shall we? I’m concerned about this virgin sacrifice part—specifically the part where it ensures success for someone we probably don’t want to succeed.”

“Cutter did kill that girl,” Tim reminds them. “Maybe it was some kind of offering, so she’d be successful at whatever she’s trying to do.”

“It’s a good an explanation as anything else,” Eros agrees, examining his nails. “We always did love our human sacrifices. And a virgin does increase the likelihood of something working out to your advantage.”

“You’re a piece of shit,” Jason growls. “That’s a kid you’re talking about!”

“And as an Oracle of Delphi she’s entitled to an eternity of bliss once she enters the Underworld,” Eros dismisses. “It’s a better end than some people are entitled to.”

Jason’s eyes blaze as if that’s a personal insult. Tim can certainly empathize.

“What about the second part?” he prompts. “What’s Lethe?”

“The Lethe was the river the souls drank from to forget their previous lives before being reincarnated,” Barbara explains.

 “The Ancient Greeks believed in reincarnation? But I thought that was something from the Far East?”

“Many ancient cultures had a concept of reincarnation beyond the Hindu and Buddhist mythos,” Barbara explains. “Just look at the belief systems of the indigenous peoples of North America and you’ll see countless examples. And they didn’t have any contact with the civilizations of Asia during the time when those faiths were evolving.”

Beside Tim, Jason is as stiff as a board and appears to be having trouble breathing. Automatically, Tim edges closer to him, and though he doesn’t outright take his hand—he leans into him, nudging him with his shoulder.

Jason’s eyes dart to him for a moment, and he relaxes incrementally.

“How does that relate here though?” Barbara wants to know.

“Maybe the prisoner forgot something,” Eros suggests, not sounding very interested.

“Or maybe whoever’s tryin' to escape Hades as made to forget something,” Jason counters darkly.

“Only mortals can be made to forget by drinking from the Lethe,” Barbara says. “The prisoner could have been human. Salmoneus or Tantalus or one of the Dainads.”

Tim doesn’t even get a chance to question who they are before Eros interrupts. “Actually, it’s a little broader than just mortals. More like mortals, demigods that haven’t consumed ambrosia, giants, hybrids—”

“So again, we’re back to a broad spectrum of people it could be talkin' about,” Jason complains. “Great. Is there anyone or anything in this stupid prophecy that isn’t doublespeak?”

“Well, the next verse is pretty self-explanatory. Obviously, we’re talking about yours truly,” Eros says, pointing at himself. “What other 'winged son' do you know from mythology?”

“A case could be made for Pegasus.”

“No, it’s Eros,” Tim says. “Cythera’s another name for Aphrodite.” Everyone looks at him in surprise.

“How do you know that?” Jason asks, but where the emphasis ought to suggest incredulity, he sounds impressed.

Tim tries not to bask in that.

“My parents used to visit the island of Cythera a lot when they weren’t on business trips, especially before I was born. It was their favorite vacation destination. Full of history, not touristy—they didn’t like having to socialize with people when they were on vacation.”

Tim falls silent then, remembering sitting in his living room with his parents, pouring over their vacation photos of the Mediterranean island while they told stories. They’d always promised to take him one day…

He glances up and notices the others are watching him now—Eros with a sharp, calculating gaze while Jason appears concerned. As for Barbara, she seems to sense his discomfort, because she navigates them past the lull. “Okay, so if it’s Eros, what are you wanting revenge for? It’s not exactly your M-O.”

“I can think of a few people who have it coming,” Eros answers. “Starting with my mother.”

“What’d she do?” Tim asks.

“Do you have a few centuries worth of couch time?”

“Isn’t she the reason your wife died?” Barbara wants to know. “In the myth, she survived, but Tim told me that's not what happened in reality.”

Eros expression goes cold.

“That’s right,” Tim remembers; he and Eros had this conversation a few days ago, didn’t they? “Aphrodite is the one who sent Psyche to the underworld.”

Eros bares his teeth. “One of her many sins, but not the only one.”

“Then couldn’t the prophecy maybe be referring to her? Psyche, I mean? Maybe she’s the prisoner.”

“Are you implying my wife is the one behind your Cupid’s actions?” Eros growls. “Because that’s impossible.”

“How would you know? It could be—”

“Because she died a mortal! Her soul is mortal and wouldn’t have the power to escape the Underworld in any capacity! Furthermore, Psyche would never kill or arrange the death of anyone! She was good and pure of soul and that’s why I fell in love with her.”

“That’s not what I read,” Barbra says. “Didn’t you prick yourself on one of your golden arrows while watching her?”

“I pricked myself because I fell in love with her,” he snaps. “I’ve already told Jason here that the arrows only work to magnify emotions that are already there.”

“That makes no sense. You liked her before you made yourself fall in love with her?”

“Look, you know the story: Psyche was beautiful. So much so, that the idiots in her kingdom started treating her like a living goddess, bringing the gifts meant for my mother to this human princess. You can guess how well that went over.”

“Right. She sent you to make her fall in love with a horrible beast.”

“Yeah, one of Diomedes mares. Gorgeous animals—people would stop and stare at them for hours. Also, vicious, flesh-eating beasts. Just getting to close to one of those and it would have ripped her to shreds—and she would have stood there and let it.” Eros’ expression becomes soft, eyes faraway at the memory. “If she had been some arrogant, selfish royal I would have let it happen. But I watched her for days while I tried to put her in the path of that thing. And everything she did was just good and kind. I had never seen as pure a soul like hers.” He shakes his head. “The idea of a girl like that being sent to her death just because a bunch of idiot humans had the audacity to praise her alongside my mother didn’t seem fair.”

“And you’re all about fair, aren’t you?” Jason sneers.

Tim has to agree; if Eros cared about fair, he would have been a lot more helpful about curing Jason and wouldn’t have demanded they find his diviners beforehand.

“I was young and stupid, and I didn’t realize the world didn’t work that way,” Eros dismisses. “Even for gods. I thought my mother would never want to harm me—and so if I put Psyche under my protection, she couldn’t hurt her. And if I could show my mother what a good wife Psyche was, even if she was unable to see me, it would prove the point.” He snorts. “It didn’t exactly go my way.”

“And there’s no way her soul could have somehow been corrupted when she died?”

“The Underworld is stagnant. There’s no such thing as change or time there. Everything occurs both in one moment and in all moments there.”

“So you’re saying a soul going in would remain in the same state as it was when it died,” Barbara posits.

“Exactly. How else do you expect the judges to judge souls if they kept changing after death? It’d be a headache.

“Then if it’s not Psyche, who else can you think of that it might be?”

“It might be more than one person,” Tim suggests. “That line about 'greatest of loves'—what if that’s why Carrie’s been targeting couples? She hears the prophecy—or whoever’s riding along inside her hears the prophecy—and thinks there’s a couple out there that’s going to stand against her. She could be trying to eliminate potential threats to her end goal.”

“If so, we need to decipher her criteria for choosing her victims. You already said it didn’t seem like they had anything in common.”

“We’ll have to check again. Maybe now that we’ve got this prophecy, something new will jump out.”

“We skipped a whole verse,” Jason points out. “The ‘warrior guided by the physician’s heir’. Any ideas?”

Eros shrugs. “Since the rest of the prophecy involves me, I’d say it’s me.”

“How do you figure?”

“The Physician is another name for Apollo.”

“So?”

“So, who do you think taught me archery? Next to him, I’m the greatest archer among the Olympians.”

“Or it could be Jason,” Tim ponders.

Jason seems to go pale, almost panicked. “What?”

“I mean, assuming you’re interpreting ‘awaken’ by activating the way you do with a sleeper agent. You infected him with your blood however accidentally and then pressed him into doing your dirty work.”

“I resent your tone, boy,” Eros grumbles, but Jason interjects, “And the other bit?”

“The other bit is just really literal,” Barbara catches on. “Jason, you were trained by Batman. Who was the heir to an actual physician. The M.D. kind.”

Thomas Wayne.

Jason looks like he doesn’t know what to do with that information. “Shit.”

Eros watches Jason, inscrutable eyes considering; Jason glares back at him as if waiting for him to make a comment.

“But if it’s Jason, the next bit wouldn’t make sense,” Barbara says after a moment. “‘Magnificent Alexandros’. The only Alexandros I can think of off the top of my head if Alexander of Macedon. But that doesn’t really track with the rest of the verse. He was a historical figure, not mythological.”

“That’s offensive, you know,” Eros drawls. “All those stories you call mythology actually happened.”

“Then why don’t we have an archaeological record for them?”

“Because screw you, that’s why.”

“If it is talking about Alexander the Great, Robin will be happy,” Tim says with a rueful smirk.

Jason is perplexed. “Why?”

“Apparently he was on the list of the kid’s League-approved childhood heroes. Mother-son bonding time seems to have included traveling in his footsteps as preparation for world domination.”

Jason looks surprised and amused. “Really?”

“Is it that surprising?”

“No, it’s just…” Jason shakes his head. “Never mind.” He clears his throat. “So, back to the prophecy. It talks about the Titans—are we talkin' the creatures the Olympian gods overthrew?”

“Well, whenever one of us mention the Titans, it is usually those bottom feeders rotting in Tartarus, yes,” Eros says dryly, inscrutable focussed on Jason. “Them going free is never a good thing. Don’t believe me, read the Titanomachy. Hesiod got it pretty close to right.”

“Could be the goal, could be the result,” Tim suggests.

“Which brings us back to possibly being on the lookout for more than one prisoner escaping Hades,” Barbara says.

“And all of that leads us to the typical ‘one shall live and one shall die’ device,” Eros concludes.

“Only we don’t know who either of those is.”

“I can tell you now if it’s a prophecy involving me, I have no intention of dying."

“If it’s even about you. It’s not really an exact science, interpreting this sort of thing,” Barbara warns. “Even an Olympian like you can misunderstand—there’s evidence of that in the myths. In fact, I’m sure we’re missing more than is good for us. It will take some time to decipher it and we need more information.”

“At least we have something,” Tim maintains. “The exact date when it’s going to happen and where. We can begin preparing for that.”

“It’s a whole hell of a lot to think about,” Jason agrees.

“Which you can do back at the Cave. We only came here to see if Eros could shed some light on the prophecy or see the arrows.”

“What arrows?”

“Wonder Girl told us that to reverse what’s been done to Nightwing is to remove the arrow that Carrie stabbed him with.”

“Uh, there is no arrow,” Jason says. “Cupid took it with her, remember?”

“I guess that answers that question,” Barbara sighs. “You can’t see them.”

“Of course he can’t,” Eros says. “I’m the only one that can see the wounds caused by my arrows. Even this pseudo-Cupid wouldn’t be able to see them.”

“After she stabbed Jason she seemed to be looking for something, so I’m not sure about that,” Tim argues.

“She can’t see them. Though it may be possible her divine passenger might. I don't know. Never had another god take my diviners before."

“Speaking of being stabbed,” Tim goes on, nodding at the bruises coming out on his face. There are likely more hidden by the leather jacket and gear. “You should get those looked at.”

“I didn’t physically get stabbed, you know. Magic wounds don’t need to be looked at.”

“You went toe-to-toe with an enhanced fighter and Batman. You could have internal bleeding for all we know.”

“If you think a little tussle with that dick is going to do lastin' damage—”

Tim cuts off his indignation. “I don’t, but you haven’t been eating or sleeping properly, and your system is already compromised, so how do you know what damage was or wasn’t done? You didn’t stay to get treated at the Cave.”

Their eyes meet, remembering exactly why that is, and Tim’s cheeks darken. Jason is the first to look away, though.

“It’s nothin'. I can patch myself up whenever.”

“I can help—”

“I’m good.”

“Jason—”

“I’m an adult and I’ve been treatin' myself without help for years now,” Jason interrupts tensely. When Tim can’t stop himself from flinching, Jason’s eyes flash with dismay. “I mean…” He flounders like he’s trying to take it back, and instead changes the subject. “Didn’t you say somethin' about a list? Maybe get started on that and I’ll do an injury check myself.”

It’s a clear cop-out, and if they were alone, Tim would be calling him on it.

“I’ll ask for help if I need any,” he adds, awkwardly, like it’s been a long time since anyone actually cared about his injuries being treated. 

Barbara glances between the two of them, obviously sensing the undertone, but not commenting on it. Instead, she says, “I don’t mind helping Jason. Besides, Red Robin needs to contact the Family and let them know what we know.”

“And I need food,” Eros says. “I haven’t eaten since before you went on your little reconnaissance mission. Can’t you see? I’m wasting away.”

 “If only,” Jason mutters.

Tim is torn, wanting to argue that he can help Jason, but at the same time trying to respect the other man’s obvious need for distance.

At last, he nods.

“Okay,” he says, feeling a little defeated. “Let’s take a break. I’ll make a food run…you get yourself fixed up.”

“Whatever you say, babybird.”

⁂

Once Tim vanishes, Barbie indicates with a jerk of her head that Jason should follow her upstairs to the Nest medbay. He knows better than to think it’s just her wanting to take a look at his injuries—like him, she’s probably looking for some privacy.

They take the elevator up in silence, and Jason wonders vaguely when the last time was, he was this close to Barbara Gordon.

I don’t think I have been, actually. We both avoid the manor unless there’s no choice. And we both have good reasons for it. And when we are there together, there’s usually about six to ten feet of distance between us.

They were never what he would call close before she was paralyzed and he died. Barbie was Dick’s girl and Jason’s occasional babysitter until the Joker ruined her life. And then she wasn’t around at all. Jason wasn’t alive to watch her painstakingly drag herself up and pull it together again, so he never got the chance to interact with the Barbara Gordon that became Oracle.

Since returning to Gotham he’s kept her at a distance as much as he did the rest of the Family, so it’s somewhat surprising to him that she’s here now and working to help him.

Probably it’s on account of Tim.

Still silent, they enter the surgically pristine room of the Nest’s medical wing—and Jason is a little jealous of the supplies here. It makes the kits he has in his safehouses about as sophisticated as a needle and threat.

Barbie watches him, framed in the doorway.

“Well? Spit it out,” he grunts, deciding to get whatever reprimands are forthcoming out of the way.

Her look turns sharp before she reaches into her jacket pocket for something; Jason can’t help tensing up, even though she knows the likelihood of her pulling a weapon on him are slim to none.

That suspicion is confirmed when she instead draws out a device and turns it on; there’s a high-pitched background whir that Jason recognizes as a listening device scrambler.

Clearly we’re both aware of what a paranoid freak Timbers can be.

“Okay, Jason, what’s going on?” she asks without preamble. “You know Tim only wants to help you.”

“Yeah, at his own expense,” he retorts sourly.

Barbies raises an eyebrow as if waiting for him to continue, and when he doesn’t, she presses, “You’re being cagey. And it’s more than just worrying about losing control around Tim, I can tell.”

“Oh you can, can you?” he challenges.

“I’ve known you since you were still desperately trying to live up to Dick while pretending like you didn’t care. I know when you’re hiding something,” she folds her arms. “Believe it or not, Jason, you’re a terrible liar when it comes to things that matter.”

It’s reflex to want to say something caustic to that, but he stops himself in time. He needs Barbara’s help and pissing her off isn’t going to make his life any easier.

“I need a favor,” he admits after a beat.

“Another one?” she repeats, sounding like she doesn’t believe him. “You’re going to owe me a lot.”

“Yeah, well, now would be the time to collect on those debts while I still can.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means everyone else is tiptoein' around the subject, but at some point, I’m gonna need to be put under,” he says, erring on the side of just enough truth to keep her from questioning him further. “We both know what I’m talkin' about here.”

As expected, Barbara only just keeps herself from visibly recoiling; she’s already ready with an argument. “You don’t know we won’t find something before that happens.”

“I’m already feelin' like I’m livin' in someone else’s skin—” Literally, in a way. “—I’m not gonna get any better than I am right now. We’ve already seen what it looks like when I dip toward worse. So while I’m still lucid, let me make my decisions. And my decision is, I’d rather go under while I’m still me instead of violent, mindless…reaver.”

Barbara does a minor double-take. “Did you just make a Firefly reference?”

“It’s the last series I was watching before I died,” Jason says, a little defensive.

“I’m not judging, just surprised. Dick and Tim are usually the ones making pop-culture references to deflect. I’m not used to it from you.”

“And I’m not used to you stallin',” he counters. “You’re different from the other Bats, O. You know how to cut your losses, and you know how to make decisions when no one else wants to think about it. You get makin' the hard calls. So, I’m gonna ask you: when it comes down to a choice between me and Tim—and I mean when, not if—who do you save?”

Something like pain passes over her face, and then resolve hardens her face. “Tim.”

“Exactly,” he approves. “Because unlike me, he’s good. And smart.”

“You’re both of those things, even if you pretend like you’re not,” she protests.

“And he hasn’t committed multiple murders,” Jason continues, acting like he didn’t hear her. “Not that what I’ve done wasn’t justified. It wasn’t good, but I don’t regret it because I will go to my grave believin' sometimes that line needs to be crossed. Again. But it’s still a line Tim’s been lucky enough not to have to cross.”

She doesn’t argue with him, instead inclines her head.

“More people will miss him if he were gone then they would me,” Jason concludes. “I’m not supposed to be here anyway.”

There’s a long beat of measuring silence. Then, Barbara sighs. “What is it you need, Jason?”

He tilts his chin in gratitude.

“I didn’t just come here to yell at Eros,” he admits. “If Wonder Woman doesn’t show up, he’s the only one I know who has access to the stuff I need.”

“The Stygian Sleep.”

“Yeah. But it’s probably in GCPD lock-up.” He gives her a quick run-down of events, minus anything about Eros’ intentional plan to infect him. Babs listens, jaw set and eyes narrowed; given what she just said about him, she likely knows he’s not being completely truthful, but his explanation clearly holds enough water that she doesn’t call him on it.

“I’ll get someone to look into it,” she decides at last.

Which, even though he’s relieved about, he’s also suspicious.

“And by ‘look into’ you mean grab hold of and perform a million tests on it before handin' it over,” he posits.

“Just because you’re hellbent on using something that’s effectively going to kill you doesn’t mean I don’t want to know everything about it first,” she says, unapologetic. “Like the prophecy, it might have clues about how to circumvent it.”

“Yeah, because we’re having so much luck with that.”

“Also, when Bruce comes to me later in a righteous fury for letting his son die a second time, I’ll be able to assure him we knew everything we did about it before making an informed decision.”

Jason doesn’t pretend to believe that’s the end of it. Barbara might be willing to humor Jason a little more than Bruce, or even Dick when he’s not compromised—she might even be a little more objective in considering things, but she’s not going to trust Jason’s plan to be the only plan. She’ll have her own contingencies, the same as any Bat.

The only difference with Babs is that once it’s over and done with, and it becomes clear there’s no saving him, she’ll have an easier time getting over it than Bruce will. And she won’t let it compromise her work.

Tim’s told Jason what Bruce and Dick were like after he died the first time, and if it happens again, Gotham needs someone competent in keeping things in check.

And Tim…

Jason’s heart thuds with guilt.

This time, Tim won’t just be sweeping in to pick up the broken pieces of Batman and Nightwing as he did as a kid. He won’t be watching it from the sidelines.

The memory hits him then. To his surprise, it’s not from Achilleus or Alexandros.

Jason hates Wayne Charity galas.

People are always staring at him, murmuring through pasted-on smiles that even if he couldn’t read lips, he would be able to hear the judgment dripping from their words. These people are so achingly dry and genteel, their teeth don’t even unclench around their vowels.

Bruce doesn’t make him come to all that many of these shindigs, thankfully; only the ones involving children’s advocacy and the like. Jason doesn’t mind those too much, considering their purpose. He just hates that even at those—like the one tonight—he’s the only kid that has to parade around in the straitjacket Alfred calls a tux.

He gets it, of course; he’s the poster-boy, the success story, a means of showing the rich snobs how well a dirty Crime Alley orphan can clean up so that they’ll open their checkbooks.

It doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Except for tonight, for the first time, he noticed another kid that’s been dragged along. A tiny boy whose meticulously fitted tux still manages to look too big for him.

A man and woman who must be his parents are chatting with another couple, seemingly oblivious to the way their son is staring into the distance, a neutrally polite expression fixed on his face. He might as well be sleeping standing up, and Jason has the odd suspicion that’s by design.

That makes his mouth twitch; maybe rich kids get bored with this kind of thing too.

Jason keeps staring across the manor ballroom until the strange kid senses his gaze and looks up. He grins when the boy’s eyes widen—their color is startling, even from across the room, and they take up practically his whole face—and wonders at the sudden flood of color in his cheeks.

He’s about to motion the boy over to the edge of the reception area—hanging out with another kid, even a little one, will definitely break up the monotony of the evening—when Bruce’s hand falls hard on his shoulder.

“Time to make an exit, son,” he says, voice quiet and intense and incongruent with the false smile he’s still beaming at everyone within a ten-foot radius. From the distracted note in his words, Jason doesn’t even need to look out the window to see the signal lighting up the sky. 

They meet Felipe Garzonas that night, and he doesn’t think of the boy again.

Jason shudders as the technicolor recollection fades out, his stomach twisting angrily.

He’s never made the connection between Tim and the boy at the fundraiser before. It occurs to him how stupid that was—at the same time it occurs to him that if not for that case that night, he might not have been on the outs with Bruce. He might have endured more Wayne event galas instead of limiting whatever time he was with Bruce to being Robin by night. He might have gotten to know Tim in this life, instead of dying.

He might not be in this damned predicament right now.

“Jason?”

He looks up, realizes that Barbie is watching him with concern. He is quick to revisit their conversation and mutters, “Yeah, fine. Just make sure the stuff actually makes it to me before my brain dribbles out of my head, okay?”

“Stop being so dramatic,” she replies, reaching out to turn off the scrambler device, though she continues to exude suspicion.

“All Bats are dramatic, or have you forgotten?” he quips back, offering an irreverent smirk to cover up.

“Hard to forget something you live with every day,” she returns dryly. “Now get over here and let me check you over.”

“You don’t need to,” he points out. “I’ve had worse than this, you know.”

“Yes, yes, we’re all aware you’ve died and come back, who hasn’t these days?” she returns. “Now, shirt off, or I’m telling Tim you didn’t do what you said you would.”

Jason glares. “This is going to become a thing, isn’t it? You people using Tim to make me do things.”

“Things that are for your own good, yes. Now strip, Todd.”

“Yes, mother…”

“You wish your mother was as cool as me.”

Which Jason can’t argue with, because she’s right; he’s had a total of three mother figures in his life (two of which he’s not sure even qualify because of how messed up they were), and none of them have been as capable or decent as Barbara Gordon.

Once he’s shrugged his top half out of the body armor and leather, she reaches for him.

Jason experiences a nauseous swoop in his stomach at the idea of anyone but Tim putting hands on him. Instantly, his hand snaps up and knocks hers back.

“Don’t touch me!” he snarls.

Barbara pulls away, watching him with a raised eyebrow and instantly Jason is overwhelmed with shame.

“Sorry,” he bites out. “I didn’t mean…”

“We can wait for Tim to get back,” she suggests, instantly understanding.

Alarms blare in his head at the thought; he shakes his head. “No. No, I’m…I’m good. Now that I’m expectin' it.”

She considers him several beats longer and then makes the next attempt to check his injuries. This time he concentrates on forcing the sick feeling away and tries to ignore how it feels like someone is rubbing sandpaper across his skin.

That’s a new symptom. Great. Because it wasn’t enough that I’ve been trying to claw my skin of myself, now other people get to do it too…

Barbara checks him over with quiet efficiency, evaluating the shallow slash between his arm and shoulder which his armor didn’t cover, as well the bruising along his hips, elbows and lower back.

“It could be worse,” she decides eventually, considering the mottled purpling across his chest. “Ribs are bruised, not broken.”

“I could've told you that…”

“And were you going to tell me about that?” she points at his shoulder and the spiderweb of gold leeching out around the long-healed-over bullet wound. From the way he’s been itching at it this past day, he doesn’t need a mirror to know it’s beginning to creep up his neck as well. “How long has it been growing like that?”

“Pretty much since I got it,” he replies.

She reaches up, brow furrowed and reaches toward one of the raised lines winding toward his chest. Again, he braces himself for the pain of the touch his body doesn’t want.

Thankfully, she barely grazes that. “You haven’t been keeping better track, have you? It might give us a more specific idea of how much time you have.”

“How so?”

“The same as any poison, I would guess. The closer it gets to your heart, the less time you have.”

He frowns. “At this point, I don’t think it even matters.”

Movement outside of the med bay window draws his attention, and he across the floor to see Tim climbing the stairs from the ground floor.

Jason is quick to grab his shirt and tug it on; it’s not something he wants to discuss with Tim just yet.

Barbara watches him, lips pursed in worry and disapproval, but he could care less about the latter. She knows his thoughts on this, and she’ll respect them.

Tim strides in and then slows like he’s wondering if he’s supposed to knock or not.  

“How are you doing?” he asks, hesitant like he’s afraid expressing concern will set Jason off like a bomb.

Guilt hits him at that, but he forces himself to remain calm and blank-faced. “Fine.”

“I have to go,” Barbie announces, maneuvering her chair toward the door. “I need to go back to the Cave and check on Dick’s condition. I don’t know how long it will be before he tries to escape or pull something to keep from going nuts.”

“Also, it’d be nice if this month was one of the ones where Alfred doesn’t get knocked out,” Tim suggests with false levity.

“Or lose a hand,” Jason mutters darkly.

“Exactly. And whether he knows it or not, Feathers downstairs gave me some ideas about how to remove the arrow,” Barbie says as they leave the med bay.

“I should come with you.”

“No.” Both Barbara and Tim speak at the same time, but she’s the one that keeps talking. “You should stay here.”

“Not sure that’s the best idea.”

“I think it is,” Tim counters. “It will keep us out of everyone’s hair and they’ll know where we are.” His tone is reasonable—too reasonable; clearly Timmy has some ulterior motives.

Whether those motives are to circumvent Bruce or Jason’s plans, he doesn’t care. But one thing is for sure. “They can know where we are if we’re at the manor.”

And isn’t that a reversal—Jason being the one to insist on that?

I need to have people around because I don’t trust myself right now.

The mutinous expression is back on Tim’s face, before he visibly switches tactics.

“Okay, how about this,” he suggests, tone only a shade off exasperated. “Why don’t you go lie down somewhere and try to catch a few hours' sleep? If you’re sleeping, you’re not doing anything else, right? And then we’ll either go back to the Cave or see if anyone can be spared to chaperone here.”

“There’s no need for that,” a voice says, and they all look up to see Damian stride in still in full Robin-gear.

Tim scowls. “How did you get in here?”

“It was fairly simple,” the kid snorts. “A fish tank, Drake? Really?”

Tim looks like he wants to protest, but Jason chuckles. “It was kind of obvious, babybird.”

“You can barely take care of yourself, and you expect someone with a brain to believe you have the patience to care for fish?” the boy continues. “Exactly who do you think has been feeding them when you forget?”

Tim gapes. “You…break into my apartment…to feed my fish?”

Jason can’t help the loud guffaw that escapes at that, earning two equally unimpressed glares in return. He doesn’t care—that might be the funniest thing he’s heard in days.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Barbara says and wheels out of the room. “Try not to kill each other, boys. Alfred would be unhappy about it.”

“Luckily, we are standing in a well-stocked room with several methods for resuscitating a dead body,” Damian replies easily.

“Don’t you have school?” Tim grumbles.

“It’s Sunday, Drake.”

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“I have been sent to babysit you two and put Todd down with extreme prejudice should he try anything.

Which Tim gapes and, while Jason is…kind of relieved about.

“Aw, Dami, I knew you cared,” he teases.

“Don’t address me with that infantile drivel!”

Tim sighs.

“Just don’t set anything on fire while you’re here…”

  ⁂⁂⁂

I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn’t something you’re comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!

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While his words remain locked in his throat, his lack of reaction must still speak volumes. Or maybe it’s just Jason’s own wits returning to him. Either way, he jerks back from Tim, expression morphing through several iterations—horror, confusion, and guilt.

“Shit,” he says, voice hoarse. He takes a step back, eyes wide with panic. “Shit. You don’t…you don’t want this.”

His wild gaze darts around, everywhere but Tim’s face, before settling on something behind him that makes the color drain from his face. He takes another stumbling step backward.

Tim whips around, hoping to hell it’s not Bruce behind them, and only feels a modicum less dismay to find Steph there instead. She’s frozen in mid-step, arm in a sling and mouth gaping at what she’s just walked in on.

“What the…?”

“Steph,” Tim warns, trying to ignore the way his own cheeks become warm and his voice mimics a croak.

There’s a muffled clatter behind him as Jason drops his helmet and practically trips over his boots backing away.

“I have to go,” he chokes, still refusing to look at Tim.

He’s already taken off by the time Tim manages to form the syllables of his name.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Steph calls after him as Jason vanishes into the garage. “You can’t leave!”

The only answer is a bike engine roaring to life, and the squeal of tires as Jason peels out of the Cave.

“Jason, no—!” Tim tries, knows it’s a bad idea for some reason, but he’s having trouble getting his thoughts to really connect. He can’t make himself move, legs seemingly bolted to the stone floor. 

Jason kissed him.

Jason kissed him.

It’s s something he’s only ever allowed himself to image in the farthest recesses of his mind, the place his thoughts wander just before he falls asleep and can’t control their destination.

If this had happened three weeks ago, Tim would have been elated. Surprised and flustered, no doubt, but cautiously thrilled at the idea of Jason returning any kind of interest in him.

The hard truth is that he doesn’t.

The kiss wasn’t the result of Jason liking him, or even wanting to kiss him at all. It’s the result of a poison swimming through his bloodstream, stealing his will and his judgment and forcing some pale imitation desire for Tim.

And Tim—

Tim is still revisiting the moment in his brain, committing to memory the sensation of Jason’s mouth on his. His heart is still racing, the way it always does after a first kiss. He’s had enough of them to recognize the feeling, but that’s normally followed by warmth and relief and happiness.

Right now, all he feels are the competing urges to either sob or vomit. It’s strong enough that he stumbles toward the stairs, past Steph’s shocked and questioning gaze, and Bruce who stands at the head of the stairs.

“What’s going on?” he demands.

Tim meets his gaze, wondering how he’s supposed to answer that. On the one hand, they need to know Jason’s condition may have progressed, but on the other, some part of him wants to keep what just happened as private as possible.

He shoots Steph a pleading look, and though she seems confused for a moment, it’s barely noticeable.

“Jason left,” she says.

“After all that, you allowed Todd to leave?” Damian demands, marching down to lurk behind Bruce.

“He didn’t like being benched,” Steph supplies. “Probably needed to go sulk.”

“If his condition is as serious as you all seem to think, he should not be driving,” Bruce warns. “I’m going after him, before he—”

“Oh, just let him go,” a voice interrupts, voice exaggerating boredom. They all turn to the containment unit, where Dick is standing in his underwear, arms crossed. “He probably won’t get himself killed. And hey, if he does, chances are he’ll come back again. Evil doesn’t stay dead.”

Bruce’s brows furrow. “Dick.”

“Bruce. Are you going to let me out, or am I supposed to freeze my ass here in my underwear the rest of the night?”

“Do you still have the sudden urge to kill us all?” Damian challenges, trying for bravado but unable to completely hide his real unease.

“’' 'Sudden’?” Dick replies. “You talk like it’s something I haven’t dreamed about since Bruce stuck some new brat in my family’s colors.”

Damian clenches his fists, and Bruce says, “There’s your answer.”

“Oh, come on,” the first Robin groans. “Like you haven’t thought about it once or twice. How much easier your life would be if it was just like old times. Me and you and Babs.”

The words hurt, but it’s dulled somehow, both by the fact Tim knows this isn’t Dick—not really—and by his own overwhelmed exhaustion. This whole situation is hitting him all over again and he’s just…

Done.

He doesn’t bother with explanations or excuses as he strides toward the rarely used elevator. He needs time. And space. To think.

Or not think, as it were.

Somehow, his thoughts remain blissfully empty and blank as he heads upstairs, tossing his gear on the ground once he’s in his room. He gets in the shower, turns it on as hot as it can go and just stands in the spray for a while.

As the aches ease from his body, he carefully allows his thoughts to trickle back in, and to look at the situation objectively.

Jason kissed him, true.

But he didn’t do it to hurt him, either intentionally—by doing so without his consent—or unintentionally—because he has no idea about Tim’s feelings. Probably, he’s out there somewhere panicking. Most likely there will be some time period spent self-flagellating before he tries to do something about the situation.

Hopefully, Bruce or Damian or someone has gone after him by now. If not, Tim will have to do it.

Just as soon as he eases a little more exhaustion from his bones and muscles.

When was the last time I slept? It might be going on two days now.

No wonder he was taken by surprise. Maybe if he had been well-rested, if his body wasn’t a giant bruise from their ill-fated encounter with Cupid, his reaction time would have been better. He could have cut Jason off before he did anything, and he’d still be here.

He needs to go find him. Needs to venture back down to the Batcave, might even have to have another argument with Bruce about his fitness to be involved in the case.

Finding the confidence for that—to even fake for that—takes longer than he’d like.

By the time he finally gets out of the shower and into some civilian clothes, a half-hour has passed.

He’s unsurprised to find Steph loitering against his bedroom door when he opens it, expression of determined concern on her face. He half-expected it to be Bruce—wonders how she convinced him to stay downstairs.

“I’m fine,” he tells her automatically, hating how it sounds like it’s being dragged from the depths of his throat.

“You’re not fine. This whole situation is the definition of ‘not fine’.”

“We’re all doing the best we can.”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t be hiding up here. He’s really messing you up, isn’t he?”

“It’s not Dick’s fault.”

“I’m not talking about Dick.” Steph pushes off the walls, arms crossed. “I know it’s been weird for all of us seeing the big bad Red Hood’s recent personality change, but it’s obviously different with him being so fixated on you. And now that it’s getting physical—”

“It’s not getting physical, that was just…”

He can’t find the words to explain.

“You weren’t expecting it,” she suggests. “It’s okay. Honestly, I don’t think he was expecting to do that either, considering how fast he ran out of there. But if that’s happening now, he’s only going to get worse.”

“It’s not Jason’s fault either.”

“I know that. But clearly things are escalating. I’m not always Batman’s biggest fan, but I think he’s right about this one.”

“Steph…”

“Or, at least sit down as a group and figure out what to do, instead of you two butting heads the whole time.”

“This is happening to Jason and it’s happening to me. We’re the ones who should get the final say on how to handle it, and it’s been working so far.”

“Yeah? Then why do you look like someone just kicked you in the guts repeatedly? I know you want to help him, but you don’t have to force yourself to be okay with everything. No one would blame you if you needed to take a step back.”

“I don’t need to take a step back.”

“Are you sure about that? From what I heard, this whole thing has been a gamble from the start. I’m still shocked Bruce let it go on as long as it has. It’s not fair to either of you.”

“Bruce isn’t letting anything happen,” Tim snaps with unexpected venom, irritation washing over him. “This is my choice and as much of Jason’s choice as it can be right now. What you saw was just a…a momentary lapse. I’ll—we’ll adjust.”

But there’s a painful lump in his throat as he says that, and his thoughts flicker through images of Jason at his worst, at his most hateful—and contrast them with the easy-going, open and semi-flirtatious man he’s gotten to see in the past few days.

The stark difference between the violent, brutal ways they’ve fought one another in the past, and the gentle slide of Jason’s fingers against his cheek when he kissed him.

How do I adjust after that?

“I’ve haven’t seen this much denial from you since Bruce’s not-death,” Steph says, narrowing her eyes at him. “Is there something else going on here that you’re not telling us?”

“No,” Tim says shortly and starts down the hall. “I’ve got stuff to do, so—”

“Oh, no you don’t, I’m not buying the whole stoic-wannabe-Batman routine for a second!” she trails him down the hallway. “You only get like this when you’re trying to keep people from noticing you’re hurting. And I get the situation is confusing and all—”

“Leave it alone, Steph!”

“—but why the hell would Jason kissing you hurt? It’d be weird, sure, but it shouldn’t bother you at all.”

“Steph—”

“You’re the one insisting it’s not his fault, that he doesn’t…really…feel…” Tim tries to keep walking, but then he’s being spun around by the shoulder, and forced to look into wide, shocked blue eyes. “Are you hurting because it’s not real?”

Tim clenches his jaw shut and does his best to meet her gaze—avoidance would just be a confirmation—but Steph’s always been intuitive about things like this.

“Tim, you’re not…you don’t actually have feelings for Jason, do you?” she practically whispers, like she’s afraid to say it too loud. As if that makes it real.

Story of my life there.

It would be so easy to deny it, to brush it off and tell Steph that she’s reading too much into things. To pretend like it’s just the situation that has him off his game. But today, he’s exhausted, and mustering up the energy required to sell the story seems like too much.

Against his will, his eyes lower, and Steph releases him with a gasp.

He closes his eyes, waiting for judgment.

Instead, he feels her move closer, linking her fingers through his and tugging them until he looks up at her. The only thing on her face is concern.

“Tim,” she begins, careful, “I know this is a bit of a head-trip, Jason being nice to everyone and all. Even I’m starting to like the guy a bit. But…”

“It’s not like that.”

“Okay then. What’s it like?”

Still no judgment, just Stephanie expecting Tim to explain it to her in a way she can understand. They used to have so many arguments that he withheld information from her, and in the end of them, he was doing his best to get in the habit of walking her through his thought process—even if he failed most of the time.

Just as he’s failing now in the oppressive silence between them.

He opens his mouth, tries to come up with the words, then closes it again because—honestly—he can’t even explain it to himself sometimes.

There’s a sharp intake of breath.

“Jesus.” Steph presses her fingers to her lips in agitation. “I don’t…I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“Don’t say anything,” Tim suggests, tired. “I’m well aware of the status quo and hoping for things to be different is a waste of time.”

“But, Tim—”

“No,” he cuts her off, and ducks away from her, suddenly needing to be away from the boxed-in feeling of her closeness. “It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is saving Jason. Not just for me. This is—we have to save him, Steph. I can’t—we can’t lose him in his head again. Bruce can’t.”

And now Steph’s expression is no longer telegraphing shock, but also pain and pity. Obviously, she knows that everything Tim just said is true.

“Tim…”

“Let’s save the comments for after this mess is figured out, okay?” he suggests, trying for mild. He halfway manages it.

Steph looks like she’d like to protest, but instead nods. “Okay. I’m just worried.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“Bull. Whatever our issues, you’ve always been in my corner. I’ll never stop worrying about you.”

And that’s actually comforting.

He shoots her a tight smile of gratitude. “Come on. Enough moping, we’ve got two Bats that need to be helped now.”

“My thoughts exactly,” a gruff voice says behind them, and Tim winces, because he really should have expected Bruce to show up eventually.

Looks like Steph only managed to delay him a bit. God, did he hear any of that?

He starts to feel sick again.

“Lurk much?” Steph snaps.

“Stephanie, could you give us a few minutes?”

She makes a face and then shrugs. “You’ve got three before I go get Alfred.”

She disappears.

Tim and Bruce regard each other for a few seconds, both tense.

“How long have you been standing there?” Tim asks, trying not to sound as nervous as he feels.

“About thirty seconds,” Bruce replies, and Tim mentally revisits his conversation with Steph. He doesn’t think he said anything too incriminating. His stomach unclenches a bit. “Your concentration isn’t up to your usual standards.”

Tim’s mouth thins.

So, it’s time for the not so constructive criticism, is it?

But to his surprise, Bruce suddenly looks apologetic.

“Sorry. Given your concern for Jason…for me, I can understand it. I know you’re only trying to help as best you can. And I…” he hesitates, clearly chewing on something that’s difficult for him, “…could have handled my earlier reaction better.”

“You think?” Tim can’t help needling.

Bruce simply nods, doesn’t elaborate.

Of course, that’s as far as he’ll go. Still, for Batman, that’s a lot.

“Thanks,” Tim says after a beat. “And if you heard what I said—I meant it. I won’t let us lose Jason again. Or Dick.”

Bruce nods again and then squares his shoulders. “Barbara is on her way here.”

Awesome segue, Bruce…

Outwardly, he simply remarks, “That’s rare.”

“I contacted her. Since she wasn’t there when Dick was hit by Cupid’s arrow, he should have no problem with her. Chances are she can work with him to try to figure out a solution while we focus on Jason.”

“I bet she loved being relegated to babysitting her ex.”

“I would do it, but I need to keep Damian occupied,” Bruce says. “He’s taking Dick’s...current attitude…harder than he’d like to pretend.”

I get that. It’s not a great feeling when the mentor you’ve been low-key hero-worshipping looks at you like you’re dirt. 

“She wouldn’t have agreed, but she has some information for Jason and can’t get in contact with him.”

Tim frowns. “His comms are off, then?”

“Yes. And he seems to have found and destroyed all my trackers. Do you have any on him?”

“No. It…felt like another breach of privacy, given the circumstances,” Tim murmurs, trying not to see the exasperation Bruce tries to hide.

“Trackers or no, Jason’s always had a tendency—or rather a talent—for avoiding Batman when he wants to,” he says after a moment. “Given his condition, he may not actively try to hide from you.”

It’s a reversal from what he was saying before, but Tim gets the sense that Bruce is trying here. Trying to trust him, despite his earlier misgivings.

What’s going on with Dick must be getting to him. He’s used to Jason being the one he has to worry about, but not anyone else.

Tim considers this. “Then I’ll find him.”

“In the meantime, we can hear what Barbara has to say.”

Tim doesn’t point out that the information was for Jason because on the off chance it helps Jason, it’s better to learn sooner than later.

Another thought occurs to him.

“Did Diana ever get back to you? When you were on your way back you said she hadn’t yet, but…?”

“No.” Bruce’s expression becomes shadowed. “I’m starting to think there’s a reason for it.”

“You think that’s tied in?”

“We’re dealing one Olympian god—possibly two. Of course, it has something to do with it.”

“Are Clark or any of the other League members dealing with wayward gods?”

“Nothing from what I’ve found out. The Titans?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did you get in contact with Wonder Girl?”

“No. Not yet. I can do that now. Maybe she’s got some ideas about helping Dick, too.”

“Hm.” Bruce nods, and heads back downstairs. He pauses, then turns to Tim with an indecipherable expression. “I realize we haven’t been the closest in the past few months. But I…am available to you if you ever need to talk. About anything.”

“Uh. Okay?”

Bruce watches him another five seconds and then descends the stairs.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Tim really doesn’t want to think too closely about that right now, he has enough anxiety-inducing thoughts beating around his skull. Instead, he reaches for his phone and speed-dials her, flipping the phone around to face him.  

“Hey, stranger,” she says as she picks up on the fourth ring. The screen wavers as she seemingly props it up on something, allowing her to keep eating; apparently he caught her in the middle of supper.

Breakfast? What time is it even?

 “I thought you’d dropped off the face of the planet. Did you finally finish up that issue with Eros?”

“Not even close,” Tim sighs, scraping his hand down his face. He’s going to need to shave soon.

“Uh-oh. Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this?”

“You probably won’t. Please hold all well-deserved scolding until the end.”

“What happened.”

“So, we tried to get the bow and arrows back…”

“And it didn’t go as planned?”

“Worse. Nightwing kind of…got tagged.”

“You’re kidding,” Cassie groans. “Which arrow? Though either one has the potential to be horrible.”

Tim snorts. “As uncomfortable as it would have been, I think we’d all rather deal with overly amorous Dick Grayson than the asshole that’s down in the containment unit.”

“That’s the trouble when it’s someone you care about,” she agrees. “They always know exactly where to twist the knife. Or arrow, in this case. Speaking of, that’s what this is.”

“Huh?”

“The arrow he got stuck with? It has to be removed.”

“There is no arrow.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be able to see it. It exists on a different plane. Only Eros, or the person wielding his bow and arrow, would be able to see or touch it. It’s why even the gods could never stop him from making them fall in or out of love with someone unless they convinced him to do it.”

“That’s not encouraging. Only Eros…” Tim trails off, thinking of the winged terror in his base, and of the trouble he’s caused.

Of Jason moving into his personal space, pressing his mouth against his—

“What about someone infected with Eros blood?” he blurts out, shaking his face in an attempt to get his cheeks to cool off.

“I mean, maybe, no one’s ever tried, but—” Cassie cuts off and narrows her eyes at Tim. “What do you mean someone infected by Eros blood? Are you going to bring some civilian in and try to get them to fix Nightwing? Because that will only get someone hurt.”

Tim shifts, uncomfortable. “Okay, so…remember how I didn’t really tell you who it was?”

“Yes…”

“It…might have been Red Hood.”

Cassie lets out a string of curse words, some of which may actually be Kryptonian.

Looks like Kon’s rubbing off on her…

“Just because Batman doesn’t tell his team all the details until he’s ready, doesn’t mean you get to do the same thing!” she hisses. “This is serious!”

“I realize that.”

“No, you don’t!” That guy’s crazy!”

“It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?! I’ve seen the footage, Tim! When he came back and did his rounds messing with everyone in your family, he almost killed you! He injured and incapacitated our friends!”

“I’m not disputing that.”

“He doesn’t show restraint, just throws himself into things without caring about the consequences—”

“Debatable.”

“—and has already shown obsessive tendencies. I don’t even want to imagine what he’s like now that he’s been infected with…with erotic obsession for someone!”

“I don’t have to imagine, and it’s fine, we’re handling it.”

“You mean protecting some poor civilian from their brand new murderous stalker?”

“There aren’t any civilians involved, so you can relax.”

“No civi—you mean it’s a cape he’s obsessed with?” Her voice becomes suspicion. “Is it one of you?” When he still doesn’t reply, the suspicion turns to something dangerous. “Tim…Tim, please tell me that it’s not you that he’s focused on.”

“It’s not his fault—” he begins.

“That’s it!” Cassie throws up her hands. “I’m rounding everyone up and we’re coming to you.”

“No, you’re not!” Tim protests, panicking a little because he’s already got Steph who’s going to be watching him like something about to break. The Titans known him just as well, they’re going to figure out the truth just as fast, and he doesn’t want them preemptively crippling Jason.

Unless he can stop her, he’s going to have a lot of explaining to do—and not just to her.

⁂

Jason isn’t entirely sure how he gets out of the Cave, let alone without being tailed by anyone. His normally stellar senses are clogged instead by overwhelming guilt and shame, thoughts seesawing back and away from the fact he just kissed Tim Drake.

He had tasted like coffee and blood from a split lip, and damn it, Jason shouldn’t have done that when he was hurt—

I shouldn’t have done it at all!

The bike beneath him wobbles in a way it shouldn’t as he speeds down the deserted road without an actual destination in mind, just the persistent need to be somewhere that’s elsewhere.

The world around him flickers, substituting the damp and gritty pavement with a dark room then sand-swept stone walls and then an angry, roiling ocean and then a sunlit field. His head pounds with the high-pitched cackle of his nightmares, which morphs into the cheering of hundreds of voices and then screaming.

He feels the strain of his muscles as he swings a sword, the press of his armored back against that belonging to the man who is an extension of himself, tastes blood and dirt in his mouth and the furious joy of a good fight.

Bristol’s gloomy darkness flashes back and forth to a battlefield, bodies, and steel colliding, to the inside of a canvas tent and his hand is on Tim’s cheek, the same as it was in the Batcave.

“Noble son of Menoetius, man after my own heart,” he says, and Tim wraps his own fingers around his hand, brings Jason’s palm to his lips.

No, not Tim. That wasn’t his name, it was—

Jason only just comes back to himself in time to pull over on the shoulder of the road instead of plowing into an oncoming red pickup truck. He staggers from the bike, ignoring the thunk as it falls to the ground, has to put his head between his legs.

“Hey, buddy—you okay? You just came out of nowhere—”

“’m fine!” Jason gasps, backing away from whoever is trying to talk to him. His vision continues to blur and double, juxtaposing night with the day, present with the dream he can’t escape.

Moonlight over the city, the colorless adobe buildings illuminated in its path. Sounds of raucous laughter and music from the inside palace, but outside on the balcony, it is calm and he is at peace.

“I conquer everything, and it would mean nothing without you. In this world, you alone are the one I trust.”

“And you are everything I care for,” the dark-eyed man beside him replies.

“No, his eyes are blue,” Jason murmurs.

“What was that? Hey man, did you hit your head?”

He stares across the manor ballroom until it catches the strange kid’s attention, grinning when the boy’s eyes widen at him. Their color is startling, and they take up practically his whole face.

Jason’s about to motion for him to the edge of the reception area—hanging out with another kid, even a little one, would break up the monotony of the evening—when Bruce’s hand falls hard on his shoulder.

“Time to make an exit, son,” he says, and from the distracted way he’s talking, Jason doesn’t even need to look out the window to see the sky.

Jason gasps, clutching at his head as it throbs like it’s been trapped in a vice. There’s burning pain, not unlike being emerged in a Lazarus pit like something is being forced into him. Only this time, it’s not life, but—

A green dale, unnaturally green and clean, with flowers more vibrant than anything he has ever seen. Birds sing in harmonious tones, fly against the sky that is impossibly blue, perfect wispy clouds gathered around alpine mountains in the distance.

Sitting against a tree, familiar form cradled against his chest. He feels a wistful sigh.  “I would spend eternity with you if I could.”

 “I’m going to call for an ambulance,” the stranger says, and somehow that cuts through the whirlwind of emotion and image crowding Jason’s head right then.

“No,” he says, straightens up. “No…I’m okay…”

This time he manages to push back the influx of thoughts, seizing on every bit of training he’s ever had in clearing his mind. The images are still coming, but Jason can think around them now.

Not sure how long for, though.

He squints at the man, trying to assess how much trouble it will be if he has to knock him out and run.

Athletic build, blond hair in a brush cut, red tattoos all up his arms of sun and flames, which Jason can see because he’s standing there in nothing but a wife-beater in mid-November. In fact, he kind of looks like someone waiting around for the next Burning Man.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine,” Jason snaps and starts for his bike.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing?” the guy demands. “You can’t just get back up on that thing, not if you’ve got a head injury or something.”

“No…”

“You’re in a bad way, man, take the help.”

“Listen, pal, if you don’t back off—”

Jason hears a motor revving up in the distance and tenses, visions of being followed by the other Bats. He destroyed the tracker on the bike before he took it, but that’s never a guarantee.

“Never mind,” he switches tacks. “You’re right. I need to go.”

He intends to go on foot, to disappear into the shadows and tree line, but the guy is pointing at his truck.

“I can drive you to the hospital if you don’t want to wait for an ambulance.”

“No hospital,” Jason replies, then forces himself to think past the blurring visions in his mind. “But…there’s somewhere I can get help.”

It’s the last place he wants to go, but he also knows it’s the only place he stands a chance of getting some answers. Even if there will be a lot of smug posturing beforehand.

“I need to get to the East End.”

“Hop in,” the guy says.

“Fine. But you try anything—”

“Relax, dude, you’re not my type.”

“Still. Full disclosure: if you try anything on me, I’ll stab you in the neck,” Jason says—or thinks he says. Everything has a decidedly dreamlike quality right now.

“Fair,” the stranger laughs. His sunny disposition should be raising flags right now, but Jason gets the feeling that’s genuine. “So, were you on your way to a costume party or something?”

Jason blinks, looks down at himself, and realizes he’s still in his gear, minus the helmet he left on the floor of the cave. The red bat seems larger, more menacing than it should be.

Instantly recognizable to the average Gothamite.

He pauses, one foot in the truck, narrows his eyes. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Nope,” is the cheerful reply. “Drove up from Florida to visit some family.”

 “Right.”

“No offense, but so far I’m not impressed,” he goes on as Jason slowly eases into the passenger seat. “The sun doesn’t really show up here much, does it?”

“You want sun, go to Metropolis,” Jason mutters, as always a bit defensive about his city.

“Oh, I’ve been there. Big Superman fan.”

“Of course you are…”

“I’m Paul, by the way.”

“Good for you. Can we get going?”

“Point the way.”

As it turns out, he doesn’t actually do much pointing. Paul apparently has an uncanny sense of direction, because Jason doesn’t recall giving him any directions. Although to be fair, he doesn’t recall very much of the drive because the minute he’s sitting down and the scenery is flying past, his mind goes back to assaulting him with images and sounds and feelings he can’t explain.

Before, the dreams were like the distant recollection of feeling and sensation, but now they images won’t leave his mind.

“In life, I sought your heart and won—I followed you into battle, and into death—I follow wherever you will go here in this place that is no place. Do you truly believe that in any life, I would not find you? That I would not be drawn to you? That I would not love you?”

It’s him, he knows that much, and that’s Tim, but at the same time, it’s not. It’s like watching from behind someone else’s eyes and yet like long-buried childhood memories suddenly making an appearance.

Paul is humming beside him, unaware of the tumult in Jason’s mind. Something about all this should be sending alarms blaring in Jason’s head, but it just doesn’t register.

“Should the time come where the gods decree we return to the land of the living, it won’t matter if we return at opposite sides of the world, as a lowly servant to the stately king, as warriors from enemy kingdoms. We will always be reunited. And we will always be ourselves. And that is enough to make me confident we would be worthy of Elysium again and again.”

“We’re about to enter the Bowery,” Paul announces. “Least that’s what the sign says. I assume that means something to you.”

“Yeah,” Jason says, looking around in confusion. “That’s a lot faster than I expected.”

“What can I say? I got some powerful horses under the hood of this thing,” the other man says, patting the dash.

Jason finds himself nodding.

He has Paul drop him off a block or two away from Tim’s apartment, waves away any attempts to go with him, and at his first opportunity disappears into the familiar alleyways without a backward glance.

He doesn’t want to risk anyone knowing where Tim lives. 

Normally he’s not bothered too much by anyone possibly recognizing him—no civilian identity means he doesn’t have to worry about his enemies tracking him down that way—but Tim’s been under public scrutiny enough in the past year or so without a known vigilante showing up at his front door.

It’s just the scoop old Vicki would kill for.

 His lips curl in disgust, and he briefly entertains the thought of tracking the reporter down and teaching her a lesson about messing with his—

“Stop it,” he orders himself.

He finds his way into Tim’s place the same way as he did before, barely notices the trip down into the depths of chrome and computer. His fingers itch, wanting to reach for someone who isn’t there, and his mouth still tastes like Tim.

Or does it?

He’s not sure if this is from now, or from the—

Memories? Is that what they are? And if so, whose?

He shakes that off. All that matters is getting to the person that can answer his question, that can tell him what’s happening to him.

Eros is sitting cross-legged in his cell, using an empty Big Belly Burger cup to play Quarters with a gold coin. He glances up when Jason appears in front of him, and his eyes widen in appreciation.

“Oh, you are handsome under that ugly red monstrosity,” he purrs, gaze roving over Jason’s features without apology.

He ignores it, instead growls out, “Something’s happening to me.”

Eros freezes.

“It’s different from before, from the…from fixating on Tim. I’m seeing—I hear whispers, it’s like I’m remembering something. Another life. Lives. But they’re not mine.”

“Fucking finally,” Eros groans in unquestionable relief. He puffs his cheeks out in irritation, “I thought you were never going to wake up.”

“Wake up? What the hell do you mean?”

“I mean, welcome back to the land of the living, your highness. You took your sweet-ass time about it.”

Jason gapes, confused for a half-second and then hit with sudden clarity.

“Peleides.”

“I have to admit, for being the work of the only sculptor the king has ever trusted with his likeness—“

“All of us who stand here are kings and the vassals of kings—"

“You know that bastard Darius is holed up across the Euphrates trying to dictate to me?”

“Peleides.”

  “—it doesn’t look a thing like him.”

“I was king,” he realizes dimly. “I was…”Achilleus. Alexandros. “…basileus.”

“Knew you’d get there eventually,” Eros nods.

It takes longer than Jason would like for him to navigate through the onslaught of memories, to parse what the winged-man is saying.

“You. You were expecting me to wake up?”

“Expecting? Darlin’, I orchestrated it,” Eros replies smugly. “You think getting tagged with my blood was an accident? That took exact planning and timing on my part.”

What.

“When my warehouse got broken into by those Russian ruffians and then you two muttonheads dropped in, I recognized your souls right away.”

“Right, because you’re a god,” Jason deadpans.

“That’s one reason,” Eros admits. “The other is that I was the one that brought you two together the first time around.”

“…What?”

“You really think the golden-haired, princeling son of a goddess would even look at some minor frontier king’s cast-off son without a push? It took preparation to put him in your path—and then, because you’re both always stubborn assholes about it, I had to bring out the arrows.”

“I thought you said people don’t need your help,” Jason says tightly.

“They don’t, normally. But with explosive chemistry like Achilleus and Patroklus, it would end up one of two ways: bitterest of rivals or greatest of lovers.”

And that…that tracks, actually. It doesn’t make it easier to process.

“And why the hell do you get to choose how that goes?” Jason demands. Somehow, it feels less like a violation being fated to be enemies with a person than to be in love with them.

“You know why. There were big things in the making. Things Achilleus had to be alive for, and if Patroklus became his greatest enemy, he wouldn’t have made it out of Phthia.”

“Bullshit.”

“Is it really?” Eros simpers. “Are you going to tell me if Patroklus—or whatever he’s called today—didn’t take it in his head to take you out, you wouldn’t be dead six ways from Sunday?”

Jason opens his mouth to tell him just that, and then pauses.

Because…

Tim was already a planner before he became Robin if everything Talia told him is true. He tangles with people like Cluemaster and fucking Ra’s al Ghul on the same level; the latter even puts his intellect and detective skills on the same level as Batman.

Hell, Damian’s been sulking for a while about some kind of hit-list for heroes and rogues alike.

If he didn’t religiously toe Bruce’s line, Tim could probably be as cold as Amanda Waller.

“Along with sending you off your head for bird boy, my blood also nixes that pesky little side-effect of you not being able to remember your previous lives,” Eros continues.

“But why?”

“I chose to wake you because of who you were. The strongest warrior of old. Determined. Reckless when it comes to the one you love. Those qualities don’t disappear when you're born into a new body, you know.”

“And obviously you want something.”

Eros’s entire demeanor shifts in an instant, going from smug pain in the ass to cold and dangerous. “I want my wife returned to me.”

Whatever Jason was expecting, it wasn’t that. There’s a beat where he repeats it again in his head, trying to make sure he heard right and momentarily thinking it’s such an easy request.

Until he remembers.

“You said she was dead.”

“In the technical sense, yes. The insecure drama queen that is my mother sent her on a quest to collect a container of beauty from the Queen of the Underworld. Someone replaced it with Stygian Sleep, which consigned her soul to the darkest, loneliest part of the Underworld.”

Jason stares, once again wondering if he heard right. “Are you shittin’ me?”

“I shit you not.”

“How the hell do you expect me to do that?”

“Funny you should mention ‘hell’,” Eros says with an unkind smile. “Obviously, you have to die first. A particular kind of dead. The kind that, under certain conditions, can be reversible.”

Conversations from the past days flicker in Jason’s memory and a particular sticking point that the Family has been very divided on.

“Stygian Sleep,” he guesses, a pit forming in his stomach.

“Exactly. And here I thought the pretty bird was the smart half of your little duo.”

Jason grits his teeth at the reference to Tim, the infection in his blood and a few millennia’s worth of latent and now remembered possessiveness boiling within him. He toys briefly with the idea of opening the damn cage and exorcising his frustrations on Eros.

The smug bastard must sense the intent because his smirk grows larger. “I’m game for a tumble if you are, sweetheart. But neither of us really has time for a quickie right now.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jason bites out, breathing through his nose until he can get his focus back on target. The idea of messing around with Eros helps, actually; the raw disgust at being with anyone other than Tim is like a bucket of ice water, dampening his fury. “So, how does me dying bring your wife back?”

“Being exposed to the Sleep will bind you to the same corner of the Underworld as her. With the right talisman in your possession, you can switch places with her.”

“I switch places with her? Or my soul switches places with her?”

Eros honest to fucking god claps his hands in delight. “Hah! You catch on quick. Yes, she’ll need a body, since hers is long gone. With your soul no longer taking up space, the swap will be easy.”

The implication hangs in the air. Jason isn’t about to just leave it.

“And I wouldn’t be coming back.”

Eros shrugs. “Nope.”

“Then I’m not doing it. There’s no benefit for anyone else but you, and I don’t just do shit for free.”

“Ah, but you see, this is why I needed you to be awake,” Eros purrs. “Because the meathead you are now might not have anything he’d be willing to sacrifice his own soul for…but the meathead you were definitely does.”

Jason’s gut pulls tight; he suddenly knows where this is going.

“If you do this favor for me, a god, I can ensure that your beloved is guaranteed an eternity of bliss once he dies. Hades owes me a favor I’ve never cashed in.”

“If he owes you a favor, why don’t you get him to get your wife back,” Jason growls.

“You don’t think I tried that? Even the god of Death is bound by the Styx.”

Jason thinks that’s awfully convenient, but he also knows it to be true. His mother—no, Achilleus’ mother—taught him the strength and unyielding nature of the River. Even the gods are unable to break oaths sworn by that flowing water and considering the power they have—considering they can influence where a soul ends up after their human death—that limits them considerably.

Jason swallows.

“And if I still say no?”

The cold, forbidding glint is back in his eyes. “Oh, the possibilities are endless. Maybe I’ll weaken the bonds between the two of you and send your love into the arms of an enemy.”

Jason is hit by a rather chilling, nauseating image of Tim sitting at the knee of Ra’s al Ghul.

“I told you all I need is a certain chemistry between two people,” Eros goes on, “and I’m sure there’s someone out there that would be happy to take and twist Patroklus or Hephaestion or whatever he’s called now until he’s so sullied he’ll be sent straight to Tartarus. And there’s no reincarnating from there. So he’ll be in Tartarus and you’ll be pining away in the Mourning Fields.” He pretends to consider it. “Of course, maybe you guys won’t find my diviners before then. In which case, things get messy. Assuming the world doesn’t descend into a frenzy of fucking, I may just use him until the flesh falls from his bones and he’s too exhausted to take another breath.”

Jason slams his fist into the glass. “You touch him, I’ll fucking rip your head off.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll be dead by this point. And he still won’t end up in the same place as you when you both die.”

“If I kill you now, it won’t really matter.”

“Killing a god…another one-way trip to Tartarus, and you still don’t save him any pain. Face it, Helmet Head, I’ve got you by the proverbial balls. At least if you cooperate, you get something out of it instead of royally shafted.”

Jason’s hands twitch toward his gun holster, rage blurring his vision for a moment at both the implicit and veiled threats.

He’s stuck, and he knows it,

Either Jason accepts this, thus guaranteeing Tim a peaceful afterlife—which, given the amount of shit he’s gone through would be a hell of a reward—or Jason can tell the entitled god of Love to fuck off.

And then die an agonizing death from going mad or taking the easy way out by shooting myself. Neither of which is a good death, if there can be such a thing.

Neither option ends with Jason’s afterlife being anything resembling peaceful.

Not that he ever expected anything like that, even the first time he died.

Or third time, I guess.

If all of this only involved him, it would be an easy decision to make. He’s never had an issue with throwing himself off the deep end of a bad situation—in any life—but it’s not just about him.

“If we’re going to be separated anyhow, it’s no different if it’s in paradise or rotting on the side of the Styx,” he says dully.

“Well, if that’s what you want to consign yourselves to,” Eros allows. “Or rather, what you want to consign your lover to. Imagine, fair Patroklus wasting away his eternity as a shade, crowding for space along the river, his only highlight when some wet-behind-the-ears comes looking for council. Lapping up blood from the dirt like a dog.”

The metaphorical knife twists and Jason has to fight down the urge to vomit.

“No.”

“Then, there you have it. Easy choice then.”

Jason swallows.

Tim is innocent in all of this, in that he doesn’t remember any other life but this one. He doesn’t know what they once were. But when his life ends, whether in the pursuit of Batman’s never-ending crusade, or eighty years old lying in bed, he’s going to wake up in the Underworld and remember everything.

If Jason doesn’t help Eros, he’s in for an eternity of misery.

Imagining the destroyed expression on his face—on Hephaestion, on Patroklus—makes Jason feel as if someone has shoved a knife into his own heart. Neither of them wanted to be separated; an eternity together was the whole point of making their pact, of trying to achieve Elysium three times.

It’s a huge decision.

Thousands of years of a pact to be together, and he’s contemplating breaking it. He can’t just decide this for both of them without Tim—without Patroklus—knowing the stakes, and without hearing his advice.

“Is there a way to wake him, too?” he asks roughly. “To get his memories back?”

“Same way as you,” Eros replies. “Mix blood—you’ve got me in your veins now, so you can even do that yourself if it’s one of your kinks.”

Jason shudders, at the implication and the information. That would just put Tim in the same boat as Jason, losing his mind and bound for a grisly death.

“Screw that. I’ll just tell him,” he decides. “He’s heard stranger things than that. I’ll explain it all to him.”

It won’t be exactly like telling Patroklus, but they’re the same person deep down.

“Sure, that’ll work,” Eros muses. “Or he might think you’re so far gone into your obsession with him that you’ve become delusional. He might even lock you up in digs like this, and then you can be useless to everyone.” He shrugs. “He’ll still be of use to me, though. So do whatever you want. Wake him up, don’t wake him up, I’ll still have someone to offer my deal to.”

Jason’s stomach sinks, because it’s true.

Patroklus—Hephaestion—Tim; he’s always been a self-sacrificing little shit, especially when it comes to him. If he thinks it will save Jason—save Achilleus or Alexandros—he’ll throw himself on the metaphorical sword.

And Tim’s been stabbed enough for one lifetime.

The men Jason was before would hate him for doing this. He thinks they would fight the gods themselves, bank on pride and anger to enact their will. They were heroes in their own mind, not fearing mortal challengers or death itself.

It’s the fundamental difference between them; Jason didn’t grow up as a king that was never given limits. He was born in the dirt and has been kicked back there repeatedly in his life. It’s taught him exactly what situations are worth it—whether the collateral damage is worth it—and when to regroup, or retreat.

He can’t see a way of winning this one. And only one scenario has a half-way acceptable outcome.

“I don’t give a shit about what Achilleus or Alexandros want, because I ain’t them,” Jason snarls. “Barring a few surround-sound memories, they’re about as real to me as the kid I was before I died. A memory, that's it.”

Eros bares his teeth. “That your final answer?”

“I’ll do it,” Jason tells him at last. “I put that kid through enough. I owe him. At least if he checks out of this life early like I did, I’ll know he’s going somewhere better.”

Even if it is without me.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, darlin’,” Eros replies, striding over to the drawer where he’s been getting his food. He opens it, tosses something inside with a clatter. “Keep this on you. It has to be on you when you succumb to the Sleep, otherwise, you and Psyche will both be trapped there and everyone’s fucked. And not in the good way.”

Warily, Jason opens the drawer on the outside and picks up the small, flat gold coin.

“What is this? Drachma for the ferryman?”

He's only being a little sarcastic; at this point, he wouldn't be surprised.

“Sort of the opposite. Too complicated for your monkey brain to understand,” Eros dismisses. “Just don’t lose it. For your boyfriend’s sake.”

Jason’s fist closes around the coin.

He tries not to wonder if Tim, or the men he was before, will forgive him for this. 

⁂⁂⁂

________________________________________________________________

I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn’t something you’re comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!

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😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER

😢 = you got me right in the feels

“There are two bedrooms in the apartment,” Tim goes on, ignoring the boy, “Alfred was by before all this happened to change the linens, so it’s all clean. You can take my bed—”

“No. No. I can’t. If you’re going to be stubborn about this, I’ll go with the guestroom.”

“Really? You’re going to pick a fight over this too?” Tim groans. “My room is the only one with blackout blinds, which are statistically proven to improve sleep quality.”

Jason shifts from side to side, like he’s wavering, and then throws Damian an almost pleading look.

The boy huffs in irritation and snaps at Tim, “Surely even you can’t be ignorant to the implications of letting a man, who’s aroused by your very presence, sleep in your bed?”

Stunned silence meets that comment, before the horror sets in.

“Damian!”

“What the hell, kid?!”

“You just…I can’t believe you…That’s not…!” Tim may be too upset for words at this moment, not least of all because the little monster has a point.

“If this is what having a normal younger brother feels like, I’m amazed any of you make it to adulthood,” Jason growls, cheeks bright red.

The boy remains unrepentant. “I’m sure Richard has said the same thing about both of you on occasion. Now, if you’re both finished with the Victorian theatrics, I haven’t eaten yet and assuming the likely event that Drake has nothing palatable in his fridge, I intend to order something. If you don’t want to starve, you may come along. And bring your credit card.”

He swans out of the medbay, leaving the older vigilantes staring after him.

“How?” Tim mutters. “How is it the little jerk always manages to walk around my property like he owns it?”

“Because you’re a pushover,” Jason answers immediately.

Tim makes a face. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me that when you’re not holding my hand like it’s a lifeline.”

Jason’s eyes snap downward in surprise like he didn’t notice he was doing it. If they were red before, the color of his cheeks appears to darken further now.

“Shut up,” he snaps.

Which makes Tim feel bad about teasing him.

It’s not like he has control over it.

Or the way he’s been looking at him since Tim showed up with Barbara.

It’s total disbelief, like he can’t understand how Tim was physically in front of him, and then something like shame or guilt.

The knot in Tim’s stomach tightens at that.

Is kissing me really something that bothers him that much?

“You, uh, you don’t have to take my bed,” Tim murmurs, avoiding the other man’s gaze. “It’s like you said. Not like you’re going to sleep anyway, so…the guestroom should be good enough.”

He leaves the medbay, Jason in tow.

“Why do you even have a guestroom?” the latter wants to know. “You don’t strike me as the type to want people staying over here.”

“Kon and Bart sometimes crash here.”

Jason scowls. “Aren’t they fast enough to just zoom back home in a blink? Why do they have to stay here?”

“Uh, because they’re my friends? And sometimes friends get together and do things like play video games, go see movies or just sit and commiserate about how irritating our parent-slash-mentors can be. They don’t have to stay, but sometimes it’s just fun to hang out.”

“Yeah, well, wouldn’t know anything about that,” Jason mutters.

Some of Tim’s attitude fades away. “Really? Bruce didn’t let you hang out with your friends?”

“To do that you need to have friends to hang out with.”

“But I thought—there was that girl, wasn’t there?” he asks as he opens the door to the apartment, and they head in.

I’m sure I saw pictures of her and Jason up in his bedroom.

Jason looks confused for a moment, like he’s trying to remember something long-buried, but eventually the recollection takes hold.

“Rena? Yeah, we hung out, but there weren’t sleepovers involved, and I couldn’t exactly complain to her about when Batman was being a douche,” he reminds him. “And I guarantee when we went to see movies, we weren’t actually watching the movie. If you know what I mean.”

He ends the last bit with a leer and now it’s Tim who’s embarrassed.  “What about the Titans? You never stayed over at the Tower?”

“Daytrips only,” Jason replies. “B wasn’t keen on me hanging out with them. I think he still blamed them for Dick leaving and thought they’d corrupt me or something. I was rarely there long enough to bond with anyone like that.”

“Sounds kind of like Damian’s situation,” Tim says, glancing over to where the younger boy is sitting at his kitchen island with his cellphone in hand, lecturing someone across the line in rapid Chinese.

“I think in his case, it isn’t so much the lack of opportunity to make friends as the lack of interest.”

“You’re not wrong.” Tim shakes his head. “I mean, he did grow up in the League. And you…” He trails off, suddenly reminded. “You were there too, right? When you came back?”

“Sort of,” Jason allows, shifting with discomfort. “Friends weren’t high on the list of priorities then.”

“I guess not.”

Tim purses his lips as he leads Jason up the stairs toward the bedroom, wondering not for the first time what kind of hell the other man had to endure upon his resurrection. That part of his life is a mystery to them all.

And I have a feeling some of it shouldn’t be.

He recalls the blades that appeared in Jason’s hand out of nowhere, and strains his memory through the disorganization of the fight to remember what Carrie Cutter said when she saw them.

“What about the All-Caste,” he recalls out loud as he leads for Jason to enter the guestroom at the end of the hall. “Was that the same thing?”

He doesn’t have to look at the other man to notice he’s tensed up. “Sort of, yeah.”

“So, it’s another secret organization? They’re the ones who gave you those swords, right?”

“Nobody gave me anything,” Jason grunts, and skirts past Tim and through the door into the room. He pauses a moment, assessing the space as if expecting something to jump out at him—there’s the Bat-paranoia—before turning back to face Tim. “I trained for that shit, and it takes a special kind of rage to be able access the All-Blades.”

Tim leans against the doorframe, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. “All-Blades. Really. They’re seriously called that?”

Jason shoots him a look. “Problem?”

“No. I just…it’s kind of a lame name. Magic blades are usually called…Excalibur or Sword of Omens or Dagger of Time.” That earns him a disbelieving look, and Tim throws his hands up in defense. “I’m just saying.”

“You’re a goddamn nerd is what you’re saying,” Jason informs him. “And it doesn’t matter what they’re called, it’s what they do.”

“' Only show up in the presence of pure evil’. I remember. As far as powers go, at least they’re useful.”

“Not if Cupid decides to keep switching back and forth with whoever’s helping her,” Jason says. “They work against whoever that is but are useless against her when she’s human and just crazy.” Weariness radiates off him, and to Tim’s surprise, he throws himself back onto the bed seemingly without any of his prior unease, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “What I wouldn’t give right now for a superpower that was a bit less finicky.”  

“The fact that we have a power on our side at all is still an advantage.”

“Not as much as if I had the ability to blow shit up with my mind. Which would be kind of poetic.”

His mouth twists into a self-deprecating grin that makes Tim scowl. “Of course.”

Always with the death jokes.

Jason appears to notice his tone because when he lowers his hands from his eyes there’s a glimmer of apology there. It vanishes almost immediately, hidden beneath the veneer of humor.

“What about you?” he asks.

“What about me what?”

“If you could have a superpower, what would it be?”

And isn’t this surreal?

First, that Jason is here in his apartment, second that this isn’t some kind of Red Hood plan where he shows up to mess with Tim. And now they’re talking about superpowers? In the hypothetical sense, instead of their usual ‘someone-with-a-power-is-trying-to-kill-us’ sense.

Jason is still waiting for him to answer, so Tim thinks for a moment. “I don’t know. Something easy to hide, I guess.”

“Hide? Like from B?”

“No—well, yeah, that too. You know how he is. But I wouldn’t want something that would call attention to myself, or anyone else in the masked community. Especially not the Bats,” he says.

“Huh. Guess you got a point. If suddenly getting powers meant you develop lizard skin or wings or gills, it’d be kinda hard to hide even with all the fun Wayne Enterprises toys you’ve got.”

“And if someone like Vicki Vale could finally make the connection between me and everyone else? I think I’ll pass.”

Jason shakes his head. “There you go again, putting everyone’s needs and comfort above yourself. It’s a real issue with you, isn’t it?”

“It’s a hypothetical situation, you don’t need to read too much into it.”

“Okay, well hypothetically, if you weren’t a self-sacrificing moron, what power would you want?”

Tim ponders for a moment, and then says, “Being able to fly, maybe. Or super strength.”

“Wanna be able to keep up with Super Clone, huh?” Jason asks, voice a little tight.

Tim frowns because that sounds like a dig; not at him, he realizes a beat later, but Connor.

Why would that…? Oh. He’s jealous.

Still unsure how to deal with Jason’s newfound possessiveness, he gauges the other man’s body language, and then slowly enters the room proper to perch on the edge of the bed. Knowing how uneasy Jason is about physical proximity, he keeps a respectable distance between them for now.

Out loud, and in a would-be casual voice, he replies, “No, nothing like that. It’d just be nice to be able to go up against Bane or Killer Croc without having to worry too much about the day I’m too slow to dodge.”

Wrong thing to say, apparently.

Jason’s instantly sitting up and reaching for Tim—almost snatching at him. “You go one-on-one with Killer Croc? Are you nuts?”

“It’s an example,” Tim is quick to assure him even as he lets him grasp his hand. “I’ve never been that reckless. I’m not Damian.”

Although there was that one time, I tricked Killer Croc and Bane into going after each other instead of me, but I’m not telling Jason that now. Save that for when he’s cured and will find it funny instead of upsetting.

He tries to ignore the nagging doubt at the back of his mind that they’re even going to be able to cure Jason.

Or that if they do, Jason will even stick around.

“Thank the gods for small miracles,” Jason exhales; he doesn’t remove his hand, though.

“Also, aside from being useful the next time someone decides to drop a baby over a bridge, flying’s awesome,” Tim says lightly. “You can’t tell me your favorite thing about being Robin wasn’t jumping off tall buildings.”

“Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. There’s something to be said for busting collarbones.”

“You forget that I was there,” Tim points out. “I saw you taking the long way back to your rendezvous points just so you could be in the air a little longer.”

“Pics or it didn’t happen.”

“I have pictures.”

“Which you don’t show anyone.”

“Yeah, because I love reminding people of how I stalked them when I was a stupid kid,” Tim deadpans.

“Hey, you did it, own it. But I’d still like to see those pictures. I…uh…don't exactly have a lot of me from before…from when I was a kid.”

Tim purses his lips, holding back on his first instinct to babble out an agreement. This new honesty and vulnerability Jason is showing him—the increased tactility and need for proximity—it’s only Eros’ blood influencing him. Who’s to say once things are back to normal—and they will be!—Jason won’t go back to mocking and deriding Tim?

Assuming he wants to be within ten feet of me.

“Tell you what,” he says at last. “When this is over, if you still want to see them, I’ll hunt them out of storage.”

Jason beams at him in genuine excitement. “Awesome.”

They gaze at each other for several seconds, before Jason seems to remember himself. His eyes dart to their hands, and he pulls back again. “Sorry.”

“You know what I’m going to say.”

“Yeah. But it’s not just about you. I’m not…I don’t do this.” He gestures. “Even when I’m not under the influence of mind-altering drugs, not a fan of handsy guys. Especially if the handsy guy is me.”

“You know, I had noticed that pattern since you got back to Gotham,” Tim says dryly. “All that busting of collarbones you were talking about.”

Jason’s cheeks go pink for some reason at that. “Uh. Yeah. Exactly.”

Before Tim can think it over, Jason shifts until he’s lying down, and then turns his back on Tim. “Think I’m gonna try that whole sleeping thing. Just for shits and giggles.”

“Okay,” Tim replies slowly, feeling as if he’s missing something. “You want me to go?”

“No!” Jason practically whirls around, winces when he realizes how fervent that was. “I mean…you can stay. If you want.” He swallows, looking anywhere but Tim. “Might help. A bit. You don’t have to.”

I hope the King of Mixed Signals thing you’ve got going on is just the infection…

“How about this,” Tim begins, bringing out his phone. “I’ll sit over here—” A respectable six inches away from Jason, “—and get to work on that list. You try to get some sleep. When you wake up, you can look it over and tell me what you think.”

He can see how Jason’s working out if that’s alright, trying to find any way that could backfire, and then he slowly nods.

“Okay. Yeah. Let’s do that.”

“And at the top of the list,” Tim says, shooting him a meaningful glare, “‘Jason Todd is allowed to hold Tim Drake’s hand’. Should I put it in bold?”

“Don’t be such a smug shit, Replacement.”

The other man still settles back on his side of the bed. It’s completely stiff at first, and his eyes remain trained on Tim like he’s afraid he’ll either vanish or wrap himself around him.

Tim pretends not to notice the scrutiny, instead sits cross-legged in his designated spot, and makes it seem like he’s wholly engrossed in figuring out a list of behaviors that they can both consider allowable. Which is a new one for him, because he’s never really considered doing this before in a regular relationship, let alone one as situational as this.

Eventually the exhaustion of the past days catches up with Jason, and the Bat conditioning of grabbing sleep wherever and whenever one can wins out. His breath evens out and when Tim does look up, his eyelids have drifted shut.

For several minutes, he simply watches, before catching himself.

Don’t be a creeper.

He turns back to his phone.

Unsure what else to add to the list (and there’s kind of no point doing this while Jason’s asleep, Tim only said he’d work on it to keep the other man calm), Tim decides to use the time to read up a little more on Greek mythology. Jason is so well-read on this subject and Tim has only a passing knowledge, if there’s any chance of thinking up new solutions for this case, it will help if he doesn’t need Jason or Eros to take the time to explain things to him.

Especially not Eros. I trust him about as far as Kon could throw him…

He never thought this sort of thing was important to know, mostly because if there was ever case involving mythology or ancient evil, Cassie generally had that covered.

Apparently, a refresher course is in order.

Speaking of Cassie, he sends her a quick text—and then one to Bart and Kon just to cover all his bases—before diving into his research.

He doesn’t have the time or the patience to read the original works of Hesiod or Homer, although he amuses himself thinking Jason probably has.

Maybe even in the original Greek.

He spares a fond look for the sleeping man beside him.

Somehow, he never expected he could look so vulnerable. And not only because that word seems incompatible for describing Jason.

After years of training, the mantra of ‘constant vigilance’ gets so ingrained in a body that it can never really relax into slumber. Tim doesn’t think any of the Robins are able to just check-out when they go to sleep.

Not without heavy sedation, or under the care of a qualified English butler.

And unlike Dick and Tim, the other Robins all led lives that were anything but safe. Being a heavy sleeper could lead to more than just bruises.

His fingers want to drift toward Jason again, want to comb through his hair but Tim is loath to disturb his fragile slumber.

He becomes aware then, of eyes on him and Jason; looking up, he catches Damian watching from the doorway, a frown on his face.

Tim tenses up defensively then, expecting a snide comment and already planning on how he’ll fight the kid if he makes a big deal about this.

Jason already feels bad enough about the whole thing, we don’t need any more comments from the peanut gallery.

“Did you need something?” he asks coolly, voice soft so as not to disturb Jason.

“I simply came to inform you that Brown has arrived for her babysitting shift,” the boy tells him, but the usual sneer that would accompany his words is absent. He lingers a further moment in the doorway, shakes his head and then walks away.

Tim frowns, not sure he wants to ask, but also knowing that leaving Damian to his own devices rarely turns out well.

Carefully, he shifts away from Jason, moving with gentleness so as not to wake him. Once he’s satisfied that he hasn’t disturbed him, he leaves the room and gently closes the door behind him.

Damian is already across the hallway, leaning against the door of Tim’s study with his arms crossed and mouth pulled downward. It’s the same look Bruce gets when he’s puzzling out a clue that doesn’t fit.

“You care for Todd.”

“Of course I do,” Tim agrees automatically. “He’s one of us.”

“No. Not like that.” Damian pauses, like he’s trying to choose his words with care, which is…rare for him. “You care about him in a romantic way. I had assumed it was one-sided due to the circumstances, but it’s not. You return his feelings.”

Tim’s stomach swoops, a lump in his throat.

First Steph, now Damian. I’ve managed to keep this to myself for almost ten years, and in the span of two weeks two of the people I’d least like to know figure it out.

Damian continues to watch him, waiting for a confirmation or a denial.

Tim chooses to side-step. “He doesn’t have feelings for me. You know that’s Eros’ blood making him act this way.”

“Perhaps. It doesn’t change the fact that at this moment, he cares for you and you care for him.”

“The key words being ‘at this moment’,” Tim says with a scowl. “Which means it doesn’t matter. It’s not real.”

“I don’t understand. This is clearly a good thing, and yet you both persist in being miserable,” Damian says, crossing his arms. “If you act on your feelings, it could allay his distress much better than your current half-measures. And in the meantime, the rest of us can work on a long-term solution.”

Tim clenches his jaw, a myriad of responses on his tongue, some more defensive and angry than others.

He’s saved from saying anything when another voice says, “It doesn’t work like that, Dami.”

Steph has made her way up the stairs; she’s dressed in comfortable clothes and the cast on her arm has been wrapped with purple tape.

“There’s no Band-Aid solution for this,” she goes on. “When this is all over and Jason goes back to wanting nothing to do with the Family—with Tim—it’s going to be heartbreaking.”

“It will be heartbreaking anyhow,” Damian points out. “You may as well enjoy it while you can. At least then, you’ll have the memories. Especially if our efforts to save him are unsuccessful.”

Which is oddly deep, for Damian.

“Memories aren’t always a good substitute for giving up that last bit of yourself,” Steph says quietly. “Take it from someone who knows from experience.”

Her expression wavers, and Tim wonders which heartbreak she’s thinking of just then. Her father constantly letting her down, having to give up her daughter, the events that lead to her breakup with Tim—

It could be anything.

“And you don’t want another schism with Jason to affect the team dynamics,” Steph concludes.

Damian is not convinced. “Please. If that were the case, we would already have seen worse consequences from you and Drake working together.”

Steph tilts her head to one side. “Okay, you have a point there. Kinda surprised you’re the one making it, though.”

“Why?”

“I always figured romantic relationships didn’t merit your attention.”

“Not unless they affect our work. Which is what Drake and Todd’s is doing now.”

“Should have known…” Steph rolls her eyes. “Still surprising, though. Especially considering your background.”

“Meaning?”

“The, uh, culture you come from. With the League and how strict they are about everything. I figured you’d have a bigger problem with two guys, you know, having feelings for each other.”

“Alleged feelings,” Tim reminds. “Alleged feelings induced by supernatural roofie. I don’t think it counts.”

“Technicalities,” Steph dismisses with a wave of her hand. “There’s still major dude-on-dude sexual tension happening here.”

Tim chokes, and Damian looks like he stepped in something gross. “Thank you for that horrifying assessment, Brown.”

“I do what I can.”

“But for your information, League law is based on skills, not who warms one’s bed,” Damian says. “Proscriptions against homosexuality were created by populations with such a low survival rate following birth that every available person had to be governed by the need to procreate. That’s no longer an issue today.”

“Really.”

“In fact, should anyone in the League develop an attachment to one of their comrades—which isn’t forbidden, by the way, it’s just looked down on—it’s considered less of a problem among same-sex relationships because it means fewer children adding to the surplus population of the world. If no one elevates their paramour above the League’s law and purpose, it is not a problem.”

“Huh. That actually makes sense. I mean, with Ra’s’ whole ‘destroy humanity to save the world’ spiel.”

“Only certain bloodlines are continued to ensure stewardship of the world,” Damian agrees. “My aunt, once she fulfilled her duties to give birth to an heir, has taken only female lovers.”

“Wait…you have an aunt?”

Damian ignores her and turns to Tim. “Were your feelings for Todd entirely mutual, it would be a smart match for the both of you. Your bloodlines would cease, ridding us of your less desirable evolutionary qualities.”

“Gee, thanks,” Tim deadpans. “I think that was almost a compliment.”

“With you and Todd unable to provide a legacy, I would be the only one to carry on Father’s bloodline,” the boy concludes.

“You do realize that adoption and surrogacy are a thing, right?” Steph asks, bemused. “I mean, weren’t you technically a test-tube baby?”

“Blood is blood,” Damian says with a shrug.

“And how do Cass and Duke and Dick fit into your little scenario here?” Tim grumbles.

“Cain has never indicated an interest in any children and given the conditioning her biological parents subjected her to, I image they ensured it would never become an issue for her,” the boy muses. “Thomas is not part of the family—”

“Yet,” Steph pipes up.

Damian makes a dismissive gesture, as if he agrees but doesn’t consider it an issue. “And Richard is not blood.”

“He’s still Bruce’s son.”

“We’re all Bruce’s sons,” Tim growls, once again growing irritated with Damian’s black-and-white view of the world.

“You retained your father’s name, as does Thomas. Todd is legally deceased. And Richard never took Father’s name, to begin with. He will have his own children—if by some miracle he doesn’t have them already—and they will likely marry into the family since he is ghayr mahram. Thus, we’ll maintain a strong Wayne bloodline.”

He nods to himself as if pleased with the assessment.

Tim stares. “Your brain is a messed-up place. You know this, right?”

“You seriously have all of this planned out?” Steph wonders, expression caught between disturbed and impressed. She looks like she might want to hear more, and so Tim interrupts.

“In any case, you guys are way off-topic—like, parallel-universe-levels of off-topic. And if you don’t stop, I’m going to start speculating about hypothetical future relationships between the two of you.”

“Oh, ew. Why, Tim? Why?”

“As if I would ever…of all the preposterous…does your mind know no bounds of depravity?” Damian sputters.

“Consider it revenge for that comment you made about Jason in the medbay.”

Damian shudders. “Point made.

“What comment?”

“Not now, Steph.”

She sighs. “Fine. I know when I’m not wanted. I’m going to finish steal some Chinese food if you don’t mind.”

She heads downstairs, and Tim shoots a glare at Damian. “You didn’t come to get us when the food got here?”

“Do I look like Pennyworth to you? It’s not enough I had to order it for you—”

“With my money, I’m guessing.”

“—did you want me to eat it for you too?”

“Like you didn’t already.”

“Semantics.” The boy turns toward the stairs as well.

“Damian.”

“What?”

“Don’t…don't tell Bruce,” Tim says after a beat of hesitation. He doesn’t like confirming any kind of perceived weakness to the younger boy, but this one has ruinous potential if not kept secret. “Please.”

Damian doesn’t immediately take his meaning, but when he does, he gives a sharp, barely noticeably nod.

“Tch—as if Father would be bothered by such trivium. But if you insist.” Tim exhales in surprised relief. “Although…”

He tenses. Should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

“I would caution you against making your feelings about Todd very obvious around Richard,” Damian suggests. “Considering the way he has been compromised, should he discover the truth it won’t remain a secret for you to tell.”

He departs then, leaving Tim standing in the hallway, feeling bizarrely wrong-footed.

⁂

The horizon over Susa is dark but for a thin strip of pink, the last lingering trail of Apollo’s chariot. As he heads out of the feast chamber and onto the balcony, Jason—no, not Jason. He is Alexandros, scion of gods and heir to kings—breathes deep the spicy sweet-smelling air and tries to dispel his melancholy.

His mind is a million miles away from the festivities within. He can hear the raucous shouts of his men and their new wives, the music and the dance and the drink. He should be in there with them, but his mood for celebrating feels false—false like the entire charade he’s just engaged in for the sake of peace and politics.

His feet are itching to take off at a run for who knows where, and yet he remains stubbornly and painfully grounded.

There is a hand suddenly upon his—brown, callused and familiar. He looks down into dark, burning eyes and sees concern there, and so forces a smile.

“This is your wedding night, you know,” he reminds. “You should be spending it with your brides.”

“And you with yours,” Tim—no, Hephaestion—replies, trying for teasing but it sounds more brittle than anything else.

“The duty will keep. There is only one I would spend this night with.”

Alexandros leans into the other man, presses his forehead head against the smaller man’s hair.

“I’ll be sure to notify Roxana to expect you,” Hephaestion murmurs.

Alexandros reels back with a scowl. “Very funny.”

“I thought it was.”

But there’s a lack of his usual wry humor in the words.

Alexandros sighs, knowing the reason for it. “Are you still angry I insisted you wed Drypteis?”

“How can I be? The weddings were my idea.” And they were—a brilliant and necessary political maneuver meant to forge ties between the ruling houses of Perses and Makedonia.

“One you suggested without expecting you would have to endure yourself,” he points out. “Policy works better when those in power lead by example.”

“Is that what it was? Here I thought you were simply tiring of the rumormongering of your other vassals,” Hephaestion says darkly. “It’s no secret they would have me banished or dead to take my place.”

“There is no one who ever could,” Alexandros assures him, worried about the sudden insecurity. “And my wish that you wed had nothing to do with what anyone else thinks. There is a grander hope in my heart than that.”

Hephaestion raises an eyebrow; it’s the first he’s heard of this.

“Do you not see? In having you marry the sister of my own wife, you and I are now bound even more closely together than before. We are family in more than just bond now—as closely as nature will allow—and no one can argue it,” Alexandros explains fervently. “And one day when I have a son, and you a daughter, they can wed. We will share descendants, and they will cement the dynasty and our bloodline in perpetuity.” He crosses his arms. “So my other vassals can bay at the moon as much as they want, there will never be another who replaces you in my esteem.”

Hephaestion’s expression is surprised at first, then pleased. A small smile curls at the edge of his lips, cheeks darkening. But a moment later, something troubling and uncertain enters his eyes.

“What is it, philtatos? Does that future displease you?”

“It’s a pretty dream your words weave, but if someone sticks a knife in your back or poisons you before you father an heir, it’s nothing but a dream.”

“There is time enough for that yet. And in that task, I am not alone,” he teases. “Your line also has yet to be so blessed.”

But Hephaestion does not rise to the bait. “You have already achieved so much. As great as—greater still—than your father before you.” Alexandros clenches his fist at the mention of his father; the man is dead twelve years and yet still casts a long, damned shadow. “What could you lose, hanging back for a year or so? Spend some time running the empire you’re building instead of marching constantly to war.”

“What would be the point of that?” he dismisses, putting some distance between the two of them. “You do that job better than I do, with your shrewd plans and shadowy plots. I am quite content with you keeping the works running while I conquer us a legacy that will last millennia.” 

“I have already made the point as to why that might be problematic.”

“Nonsense. Don’t you see? This is why our empire will last longer than any other—because instead of one man grasping desperately to hold the reins of power, there will be two.” He grasps the shoulders of his beloved. “For you, Hephaestion, are Alexandros as well. My second self.” He reaches to cradle his chin, brushing his thumb across the other man’s lips. “Have I not said so a thousand times?”

Hephaestion’s eyes lose some of their strain, though he looks away. “And yet you are king, not I. This was never meant to be my domain. The gods chose your line, not mine.”

“Perhaps not yet,” Alexandros allows. “But one day it will be. As I said before.”

He has no doubt about that.

There are several long moments where he waits, expectant, and then Hephaestion sighs. “As always, I will serve your will.”

Alexandros nods in approval. “Good.”

“I still worry, though, that your utter certainty in your will may someday be misplaced.”

“Nonsense. I am a god, remember?”

“In your own mind, perhaps.”

“Blasphemy,” Alexandros says with affection, curling his fingers into the hair at the name of Hephaestion’s neck and pulling him close. “You have called me god on more than one occasion.”

Whatever the response to that might be is cut off as he fits their lips together, and then he knows nothing but the taste of his beloved.

He startles awake, the ghost of lips upon his own.

His skin tingles and burns, like it’s been stretched around an ill-fitting frame, and there’s a throbbing pressure behind his eyes.

“Where…?” he murmurs, examining his surroundings in confusion for a moment. The room is a far cry from the frescoed rooms and silken furniture he is used to, and the incense-thick air now replaced with something floral and false.

Worse than the disorientation is the fact Hephaestion has vanished.

Only as he jumps out of the bed where he was laying does reality return, hitting him like a crowbar to the head.

He’s not Alexandros—not anymore. He’s Jason, and this is Tim’s guestroom, and Tim is—

“Not here,” he realizes, whatever panic might have been brewing about his previous lives blurring with his current one vanishing with the realization. It’s like a vice clamps around his lungs, and unless he finds Tim, it won’t release.

Instantly he’s stumbled from the bed and across the room, throwing open the door in a hurry. He bursts into the hallway, frantic eyes flitting wildly until he spots Tim standing at the other end. He is framed in a doorway, deep in discussion with—

Blondie is on the stairs beside him—too near, way too near!—and Jason’s already moving.

Before he’s even aware of it, he has Tim wrapped in his arms, has his face buried in his neck and breathes in the scent of him that is somehow so different and yet so similar to how it once was beneath blood and sand and time.

Tim stands stock still, bearing up under the sudden onslaught remarkably well. Jason is a full five inches taller than him and considerably bulkier; Jason can feel him bracing himself beneath him.

“Sorry,” he says immediately and pulls away.

“Don’t be,” Tim says, clearly working to keep his voice level and pretend he is unaffected. He clears his throat. “It’s on the list.”

Jason rubs the back of his head, uncomfortable. “Guess I should probably take a look at that then maybe.”

They’re both trying and failing to avoid each other’s gaze until there’s a cough beside them.

Jason suddenly recalls Steph’s presence—which comes along with a long-buried piece of information that’s never bothered him until now. Namely that she and Tim dated.

On the tails of that fact is irrational anger, because in this time, she has a prior claim on him. And she’s never made any bones about disliking him. Who’s to say she isn’t here to take Tim away from him in the name of protecting him?

Which is both exactly what he wants and also ground for him to rip her throat out.

His lip curls reflexively and he looms closer to Tim. “Problem, Blondie?”

“Yep,” she says easily, the forced calm of someone trying to negotiate a hostage release. Her mouth is pulled into a sharp smile, eyes cool. “But not the one you think I have.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you’re both being ridiculous,” Tim interrupts, a shade too loud and with a glare in Steph’s direction. That, more than his words, causes Jason to relax a little; if Tim’s annoyed with her, he’s less likely to let her drag him off somewhere. “Jason, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up. I had to speak to Damian, and then Steph showed up…” He shakes his head in apology. “Did you at least get some rest?”

“A bit,” Jason says though it’s a lie. “Speaking of the bat brat, where is he?”

“Went back to the manor.”

There’s a lot more relief in his voice than the usual that comes with Damian making an exit.

There’s a sudden blare of music from Steph’s pocket, some pop thing that Jason’s probably heard on the radio or in a movie or something. Digging it out, she barely glances at the number before her previously hard expression blooms into a smile.

“It’s Cass,” she tells Tim. “Mind if I step into the other room, or do I have to worry about wandering hands while I’m out of earshot?” she drawls.

“Very funny,” he grumbles as she does just that.

Jason’s brows draw together, wary; it almost sounds as if Steph is…joking about all this. Not getting ready to split them up or say something disapproving that might hurt Tim. Which…is not what he was expecting.

“Did I miss something while I was asleep?” he asks.

“No!”

“Yeah, that was a little too quick to be believable, baby bird.”

“We just established a few things is all. So if you’re worried about Steph, don’t be.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she won’t say anything. She’s an ally.” At Jason’s derisive snort, Tim glowers. “She covered for you—for us at the Cave. So no one else knows.”

Jason stares at him without comprehension for a moment and then remembers, and his neck and cheeks warm.

The kiss.

“Right.” He swallows. “Guess Bats wouldn’t be too comfortable with us hanging out if he knew about that, huh?”

“I don’t care if he’s comfortable or not,” Tim says with stubborn venom. “The particulars of this situation is no one’s business but ours. It’s enough B’s keeping us benched, he doesn’t get to dictate this too.”

The fierce expression is the same one he wore earlier in the Cave when he was standing up to Bruce, and Jason once again experiences that overwhelming need to pull him close and continue playing out the scene of his dream in real-time.

This time he’s able to rein it in, but it’s a tenuous thing.

“Consider this whole thing’s about us, I have no intention of staying completely out of the investigation,” Tim goes on, thankfully unaware of the direction of Jason’s thoughts. “If anyone’s going to figure all of this out, it’s going to be us.”

“Well, you’ve got me convinced,” he says around the dryness of his mouth.

“Not that that takes much lately right?” Tim quips, lightly teasing in a way that makes Jason have to fight down an embarrassing sound in his throat. “Anyway, on that note, there’s food downstairs if you want to eat. Then I want to get back to the mainframe and do some more research for the case.”

“I’m fine,” Jason says, even though his stomach feels like a bunch of razor blades scraping around inside.

He distantly recognizes the feeling from many sleepless, hungry nights on the street, but somehow it doesn’t really bother him just then. It’s the same way the lack of sleep has felt like an afterthought until Tim forced him to lie down. His interest in anything seems to have become directly proportional to what Tim thinks about it.

Which the other man seems to have figured out as well because he narrows his eyes and indicates Jason should follow him down to the kitchen and the table with several brightly colored containers of Chinese take-out.

“Eat,” he commands.

Jason bristles. “You know, just because I’m slightly obsessed with you right now doesn’t mean you get to boss me around.” Tim raises an eyebrow, and there’s that reflex almost-whimper building in his throat that he must cough to get rid of. “I’m eating because I have a girlish figure to maintain and no other reason.”

“Of course,” Tim agrees, clearly knowing different.

The food, like the nap, doesn’t satisfy the way it usually might; there’s no relief in it, even though Jason knows it will help keep his strength up and not just because Tim said so.

He’s always felt a need to keep Tim happy when he was Patroklus and Hephaestion, but it was never under the compulsion he is now. There was always the freedom to refrain from something he disagreed with or stand up to schemes he didn’t agree with.

As pissed off as he is about Eros infecting him and ensuring his over-the-top fixation with Tim, it could be a lot worse. At least Tim would only take advantage to ensure he’s taking care of himself.

Which is ironic considering how bad he is at taking care of himself.

On their way back to the Nest, Steph returns from her phone call.

“So what was your uber-secret phone call about?” Tim wants to know.

“Lots of things I’m not telling you or your overgrown puppy there,” she quips with an irreverent grin. “Also, she’s flying in as soon as possible.”

“To help us, or help you mock the situation?”

“Why can’t it be both?”

Tim groans. “As if things weren’t bad enough…”

“Oh, relax, Ex-Boyfriend, if you can’t laugh at a situation, what can you?”

Jason growls at the words, earning a startled glance from Steph. Tim catches on quick, because he says, “You might want to watch your words for a bit, Steph. I don’t think Jason’s got the capacity to interpret certain jokes just now.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” she agrees with a frown.

“Also, unless you intend to be useful, maybe go away,” Jason suggests with false cheer.

“Jason…”

“No, he’s right,” Steph interrupts, mouth thinning. “I’m just here to keep an eye out, but I didn’t sign up to be abused. If I wanted that I could’ve stayed in the Cave babysitting Dick. I thought you guys would at least be more fun.”

“Steph, it’s not his fault—”

“This week,” she accuses. “What’s his excuse for the rest of the time?”

“Lingering trauma.”

Tim groans at Jason’s retort, and Steph rolls her eyes. “And we’re back to the death jokes. Get some new material, Zombie Boy.”

“Would you both stop it!” Tim demands. “This is even less amusing than it usually is.”

Jason’s shoulders hunch; he feels instantly reprimanded and terrible for upsetting Tim. Steph doesn’t look quite as abashed, but her tense stance relaxes and she sighs.

“Fine. This is me, letting it go. For now.” They pause in front of the secret door as Tim reaches for the panel. “I’m going to commandeer your training room for a bit. See how much range of motion I still have.” She moves her injured arm gingerly. “Keep the comms open so if there’s any trouble I know to come help.” She jabs an index finger at the two of them. “And no smooching noises.” 

“Why? Jealous?” Jason jeers.

“Hardly,” she snorts. “Remember, I’ve kissed him more than you have.”

A film of green fury seems to pass across his vision and Jason lurches forward. His fist is already flying toward her, missing it’s mark only due to the fact that Steph has excellent reflexes and because Tim’s wrapped his arms around him from behind.

“Jason, no! Stop it!”

“Come on, Tim, this time she deserves it,” he whines.

“She deserves…something…” Tim grunts, trying to dig his heels into the ground. “But you…don’t hit…women…”

Something icy slides down the length of Jason’s spine in realization because…Tim’s right. He doesn’t hit women—at least, not unless he’s in a life or death situation facing off with a rogue or unscrupulous woman like Suzie Su who can take the hit. And he’s never lashed out at a woman just based on his own fury.

How could he forget something so fundamental to his principles? All because of a bit of teasing he’d probably just answer with snark on a normal day?

It’s getting worse, isn’t it?

His stomach twists, and he suddenly wants to throw up every bit of food he just ate.

Jason sags back on his heels, kept up only because Tim is still bolstering him from behind. As the inexplicable rage vanishes to be replaced by guilt and shame, he sees that Steph now looks trouble.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice subdued. “I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

“Neither did I,” Jason croaks. He wants to flee—to stalk off and get away from everything about this situation. But the warmth of Tim’s arms around him is a more convincing argument against that, countering every one of his normal coping mechanisms.

And as comforting as it is to know Tim is there to support him, Jason can’t help feeling utterly trapped.

⁂⁂⁂

I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn’t something you’re comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!

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“Besides, Batman will flip if you guys descend on the city while he’s trying to deal with everything.”

“Do I look like I care?”

“Seriously, you know how possessive he gets of Gotham, but it’s turned up to 11 whenever the Family’s involved.” Especially when that family’s Jason; their issues aside, if Jason’s in trouble, Bruce will drop everything for him. “I think piling anything else on him right now would make his brain explode.”

Cassie snorts. “Might we worth it then.”

“Cassie….I promise. We’re okay,” Tim insists. “I’m okay. And Jason’s so freaked out about this, he’s been cooperating more with us now than he has since he came back from the dead. He was the one who reached out for help from B, even. None of us could ever have seen that coming.”

Whether she’s surprised or not by Tim’s words, she continues to look doubtful.

“So where is he now?” she asks instead. “I don’t see him with you.”

Tim shifts in discomfort, glad she can’t see his body language below his head and shoulders. “I did tell you things weren’t as bad as they could be. It’s not like he has to be constantly glued to my side.”

Doesn’t mean he does well when he’s far away, though.

“I’m probably in more danger from Dick right now, and we’ve got him on lock-down. Hopefully not for long, if I can get Eros to help. Or if Jason can help.”

Wonder Girl continues to look like she’s waiting for a more convincing argument on Tim’s end, but he knows she trusts him. After doubting him when he believed Bruce was still alive and lost in time, she’s become the first one to believe even his most farfetched ideas and theories.

“Alright,” she says at last. “I’ll back off. For now. But I fully expect you to check in with me on the regular.” She jabs a finger in his direction. “If you go radio-silent on me again, we’re showing up there whether your or Batman like it or not.”

“Got it.”

“I mean it, Tim. I expect you to text me every hour or two to check in. And gods all help you if you’re downplaying any of this.”

“Acknowledged.”

She gives him one last worried look and then says, “Okay then. Take care. And I’ll talk to you in a few hours.”

“Yeah.”

“Good luck.”

The call ends and Tim lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. That was a close one.

“Does it ever bother you, how good you are at lying?” Steph’s voice asks from behind him and he winces.

Not out of the woods yet, I guess.

“Lies are a necessary evil in our line of work,” Tim dismisses, turning around to face her. She’s clearly returned to see if Bruce left him in pieces, which is both appreciated and slightly annoying. “You of all people know that.”

She snorts, acknowledging the dig, but doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she stays her course. “I’m not talking about our line of work; I’m talking about with your friends.”

“If it will protect—"

“They’re offering to help, Tim. I don’t know if we’re exactly in a position to be looking down on that.”

“We’re not at that point yet,” Tim insists.

“Oh, really? Sure you’re not avoiding accepting help because you don’t want any other people knowing about your feelings for Jason?”

His cheeks burn. He should have known she wasn’t going to just leave it. “That’s not it.”

“Really? Because honestly, if you’re ashamed of this—of him—that’s a pretty good indicator that this thing with him isn’t a good idea.”

“You think I don’t know it’s not a good idea?!” Tim snaps, his forced calm abandoning him all at once. “Like I don’t remember every reason why it can’t work? Or everything Jason’s done?”

What he could still do. Because if—when we fix him, it’s not like he’s going to stick around. Even if he’s not sick of looking at me after being forced to want me, he’s not about to settle down in Gotham and follow Bruce’s rules.

He clenches his fists, takes a breath and talks himself back down.

“I’m aware of all of this. I just don’t find it a good use of my time to fixate on something that’s not going to change.”

Steph is wary. “Sounds like you’re the one under some kind of spell.”

“Yeah, well, if I am, then it started years before we met Eros,” he mutters, earning a confused look from Steph.

“What do you mean? Like when he first came back?” She appears thoughtful and then shocked. “No way. You mean when you were following him and B around as a kid? There’s no way—!”

“It was different back then,” Tim defends, feeling something inside him loosen a little. He’s been holding this one secret back for so long, and with everything going on, something’s got to give. “It wasn’t what it is now. I was drawn to him. More than Dick. There was something about Jason that…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I felt a connection with him. I really can’t explain it. It should have gone away when he died.”

He remembers that dark time, and how it felt like a part of his insides had rotted away upon hearing the news of Jason’s death. How he hadn’t even been allowed to grieve openly about it because he technically hadn’t known the older boy.

Hell, it should have gone away when he came back.

Even now he can still feel the impact of fists beating him down, of wire cutting into his throat and the searing slice of metal ripping into his chest.

“But it didn’t. It just…got buried in everything else that was going on. And then…”

“Be my Robin.”

“Hey there, Replacement.”

“I wasn’t always the nicest guy in the world to you.”

“Timbers!”

“Sorry you got dragged into this.”

“Aw, babybird…”

“You did good.”

“And then it all came back,” Tim concludes, defeated.

Steph is still looking at him, mouth parted in surprise that flounders for a response to that. He decides not to give her the opening for it this time.

“Forget it. As I said, it doesn’t matter. The point I’m trying to make is I know it can’t go anywhere, and that I don’t expect it to. And the fewer people who know about it, the fewer people I have to put up with pitying me when everything goes back to normal.”

“And by normal, you mean back to you bottling it up and hurting yourself,” Steph reminds him with a scowl.

“I don’t know where you’ve been the past few years but that sort of comes with the territory.”

“Tim—”

“I have to update Bruce on what Cassie told me about Eros’ arrows.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, awesome subject change. Real subtle.”

“We don’t have time for subtle,” he shrugs and heads for the study. She follows him, and he can practically hear her grinding her teeth at him.

Guess I should just be glad that Cass isn’t here too, or that would have gone very different…

He knows Steph still isn’t satisfied with his answers, but he doesn’t care. At least bringing up the mission, he might be able to buy himself an hour or so before she starts again.

Taking the stairs down to the cave, he coaches himself to pretend like this is a normal case and that nothing of note happened down here. That Dick isn’t locked up on the lower levels, and that Jason didn’t kiss Tim and then run away.

He’s gratified to find Barbara is already there when he gets downstairs, just pulling herself into the wheelchair friendly area they designed for the conference table.  

“Tim,” she greets right away, a wan smile on her face. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m not the one in trouble,” he dismisses. “Jason is.”

“It’s why I’m here, kiddo. I think what he had me working on is related to everything that’s happening right now.”

“Explain,” Bruce commands.

“Shouldn’t we wait to get Jason back first?” Tim asks.

“I would, but I get the sense this is time-sensitive,” Barbara replies, jaw set as she brings out a thick metal disk that Tim recognizes as a microprojector. “Jason contacted me wanting to see what I could dig up on Carrie Cutter’s recent movements. It led us to her involvement in the murder of a girl we believe to be the actual Oracle of Delphi.”

“That’s not possible,” Damian says. “The last Oracle of Delphi disappeared before the fall of Rome.”

“More likely, moved underground,” Bruce muses.

“Exactly,” Barbara agrees. “I searched the web and official data servers and couldn’t find any information about the information besides what was in the newspapers. No surveillance, no video, audio—nothing. So I sent Duke to investigate the site.” She taps the device on the table and a holographic image appears, projecting a likeness of Signal in front of them at one-eighth the size. “He just arrived there.”

“What took so long?” Damian huffs.

“Unlike you rich kids, Greek wasn’t one of my high school electives,” Duke's voice deadpans across the comm line. “And real-time language translation software doesn’t exactly pick up the regional dialects very well.”

“Have you had time to go over the scene?” Tim asks.

“Not yet. Better to have you guys standing by instead of having to tell it all again later.”

“Even if this oracle said anything, Signal’s abilities don’t allow him to hear sounds,” Bruce points out.

“Witnessing everything firsthand will still give us a better idea of what’s going on,” Barbara answers.

“Might give you a better idea,” Duke replies. “It’s just going to give me nightmares.”

“What do you see?” Bruce asks.

There’s a sigh. “It’s not pretty…”

Right now, Tim is glad Jason isn’t around. Child deaths hit him hard.

“There’s a family sitting down for a meal,” Duke relates. “Mother, grandmother maybe—and the kid, it looks like. And she’s not just blind like Oracle’s reports said—she doesn’t have eyes at all.”

Steph swears.

“She hears something. Looks up. Mom’s heading for the door, and—and that’s Cutter. Exactly like the picture in her dossier. She’s just walking in and she—okay, that’s weird.”

“What?”

“She didn’t just burst in here with knives drawn. And she’s…kneeling?”

“That’s weird, right?” Steph asks.

“Oracles were intermediaries for the gods,” Barbara says. “It’s probably a formality. Like not turning your back on a king or something.”

“Cutter’s asking her something. Can’t really get the right angle to see what it is though. Now the girl’s talking.” A long pause. “She seems to have a lot to say. And Cutter’s hanging on to every word.” He glances at something invisible to the rest of them. “Mom and Grandma there seem more worried about all this than she is. If this kid’s a seer, you’d think she’d know what’s about to happen and try to—oh.”

He looks away then, the image of him balling his hands into fists.

There’s no need to ask why.

“It was quick,” he says after a moment, his voice heavy with anger and something else. “For her, at least. Not so much for the others. And she’s leaving now—that’s.”

He shakes his head, coming back to the present.

“Is there any indication of what the girl said to cause Cutter or whatever god is possessing her to lash out?” Bruce wants to know.

“Not really. I mean, I’ll try watching it again but—wait.” His image goes utterly still for a few seconds and then startles. “Okay, you guys are not going to believe this.”

“Stop drawing things out and get to the point!” Damian commands.

“Robin,” Bruce reprimands, earning a scowl but compliance. “What is it, Signal?”

“She’s talking in English.”

That makes them all look at each other.

“Are you sure?” Tim asks, at the same time Steph wants to know, “How can you be sure?”

“I know I haven’t got as much lip-reading practice as you guys, but I’ve gotten good enough to recognize someone speaking English,” Duke deadpans. “And everything this girl said, she said it in English.”

“That’s not possible,” Barbara says, frowning. “No one in the area speaks English. I checked.”

“Maybe she’s been getting private lesso—whoa.” He straightens up then, posture more alert. “Missed that before. She’s not looking at Cutter while she’s talking like I thought she was.”

“That matters?”

“Little bit, I think. Since she’s looking at me.” 

Tim’s mouth parts a bit. “What?”

“She knew you were going to be there,” Barbara realizes.

“Tell us what she’s saying,” Bruce orders.

“Give me a sec. It’s not like an instant replay button, you know.”

Everyone waits with bated breath as Duke tenses again and focusses. Then he speaks, careful and halting.

“' The…unseen…darkness…cannot keep…it’s captive…for mortal masks…the divine that seeks—'” Duke stops and shakes his head. “It’s too fast after that. Going to take some time to get the whole thing.”

Barbara breathes out something that could be a curse. “It’s a prophecy. An actual prophecy from the Oracle of Delphi.”

“Duke, make sure you record every single word exactly as it’s said,” Bruce orders. “With ancient prophecies, the smallest inaccuracy can change the entire meaning.”

“You suddenly believe in prophecies, B?” Duke asks.

“No. I believe in having the most complete picture possible. And rushing you will compromise that. Take the time you need to transcribe what she said and upload it to the system.” Bruce straightens up. “We’ll figure out the meaning behind it once we have the whole thing.”

“Whatever you say, boss. Shouldn’t take more than a few viewings for me.”

His image sputters and then vanishes.

“I know you’re good and all, Bruce, but ancient prophecies were created to be beyond what humans could understand,” Barbara points out. “And even if you figure out everything, there’s still all the double and hidden meanings.”

“We have access to Eros, though,” Damian points out. “Have him decipher it.”

Bruce shakes his head. “We can’t trust that he won’t twist the meaning for his own gain.”

“Or we can just ask Jason,” Tim points out.

“What?”

“Well, apparently part of being infected by the blood of a god means being able to read the languages and word of the gods. So somehow, his brain is operating on the same plane or wiring that Olympian gods do,” Tim explains. “Stands to reason he might be able to shed light on things that way.” There’s an air of hesitation in the air, and he continues, “Besides, we have to find him anyway. Other than the fact he might be hurt right now, Cassie said there’s a possibility he could help cure Dick.”

“How?” Damian demands immediately.

“Convoluted Olympian reasons,” Tim says, not wanting to get into it. “The point is, we need to find Jason before we do anything else.”

He meets and holds Bruce’s gaze, almost challenging him to find something more important. There’s a beat where the older man considers him with the full Batman calculation, and then he nods.

“Then we’re going to need the most up to date information on his usual bolt holes. You have the most up-to-date list.”

Tim is hesitant.

There are several safe houses he knows of that he’s sure no one else in the Family is aware of, not even Barbara. He’s kept to himself what he knew because Jason values his privacy. He won’t be happy if Tim rats him out.

But then again.

It’s been almost two hours since Jason left, and the last time he was away from me for so long things didn’t go well. He could be sitting in a corner with slit wrists for all we know.

His stomach twists painfully at the mental image, and that’s what decides him.

“Okay,” he says, and slides over the computer to type the addresses and coordinates of the mental list he’s been keeping.

Twelve locations pop up on the giant map of Gotham. Bruce’s eyebrows draw together as they rove over three that he clearly didn’t know about. If anyone thinks it’s odd that Tim has such detailed knowledge of Jason’s comings and goings, no one mentions it. Instead, Bruce’s shoulders set and he turns to the others.

“We’ll cover the ground faster if we split up,” he declares. “Alfred will stay here in case he comes back to the manor on his own. Stephanie, cover these three—” He gestures to the blinking dots across the East End, “—Damian, the ones off the Financial District. I’ll take the docks and Tricorner—”

“What about me?” Tim interrupts.

“You’re still benched.”

“I know that. But shouldn’t I still come alone to calm him down?”

“No. You need to remain in one place so it’s easier to bring him to you if required.”

Tim wants to argue, but he knows Bruce has a point. Whether Jason elects to return to the manor on his own or the others find him, they need to know where to bring him.

“It’s just as well,” Barbara says. “We need to speak to Eros. We can go to Tim’s place and wait there.”

“He’s unlikely to be honest,” Bruce says.

“Maybe, but even lies can give us an idea of the truth. You see it a lot in historiography. Lots of sources are biased, the trick is to get as many as possible to form the most accurate picture possible.”

Tim pounces on the opportunity to do something.

“We can get Eros to tell us what all this means, and then we ask Jason when we find him. He’ll be able to fill in anything that might have gotten ‘lost’ in Eros’ version.”

“Assuming he’s even lucid anymore,” Steph asks. “How do we know he hasn’t devolved into a gibbering idiot already?”

“He hasn’t,” Tim says immediately.

“And you know this how?”

He recalls the mysterious blades Jason was so evasive about. “I just do.”

Stephanie’s eyes narrow, and he knows she’s likely trying to decide how much of his confidence is justified and how much is due to his feelings.

As if I’d be that unprofessional, he thinks in annoyance as he goes to copy the recording of Duke’s findings.

“Let’s go,” Bruce says and turns toward the stairs. Then he pauses. “And Tim?”

“Yeah?”

“Civvies only. I haven’t changed my mind about that.”

Tim rolls his eyes but decides to allow it—for now. “Okay, Bruce.”

“Come on, kiddo, let’s go,” Barbara says, wheeling toward the elevator. “Time to interrogate a god.”

He makes a face. “Are you sure you want to subject yourself to that? He’s kind of a jerk.”

“I spent the last ten years dealing with immature man-children. This will be a breeze.”

⁂

“Now that we’ve got the broad terms of the agreement sorted out, there is one tiny, slight hiccup,” Eros says.

“Only the one?” Jason retorts, unimpressed, rubbing at the site of the wound which started all of this.

“Only one that matters,” the Olympian says. “See, I did have a vial of Stygian Sleep on me—always do, since you never know when you need to make a quick escape from a family dinner.”

“Right…”

“But like I said, I wasn’t expecting you two to burst into my digs—just like I wasn’t expecting bird boy to lock me in this glorified hamster cage. So that vial is still hidden in one of the pieces on display at my warehouse.”

Jason groans. “Which was repossessed by the cops right after we busted it up.”

“Probably.”

“So now a deadly Olympian poison is in evidence lock-up at GCPD headquarters?”

“Possibly? Though they won’t even know what it is or where it is. It’s hidden in something that looks like a stone slab, so I doubt they’ll be cracking it open looking for drugs or anything.”

“It still leaves me with the problem of gettin' in there and grabbin' it, doesn’t it?” Jason snarls.

He paces a bit back and forth, trying to think up the best way to get inside without attracting attention. He’s got his own base of operations under the building, but he’s not keen on potentially burning that location just for the sake of finding Eros’ lost property.

Assuming it’s even there in the first place. Maybe it’s still back at the docks; they might not have confiscated everything yet. Unlikely, but possible. I’ll have to go there first. Possibly run into whatever scavengers or light security force is hanging about.

Not something he wants to do when he’s this compromised.

“Look at that, I can practically see the cogs spinning behind that sexy brow,” Eros says. “Hopefully whatever you come up with is more successful than your last plan.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, in your dramatic entrance, you seem to have forgotten to let me know how the ritual went. Since you’re here and my arrows aren’t, obviously you failed.”

“And got shot for my trouble,” Jason grumbles. “Speakin' of, any idea why your all-powerful arrows wouldn’t work on me, but they did on my br—on Nightwing?”

“The golden arrows can’t invalidate a match that they’re responsible for creating,” Eros says. “To do that, you’d have to be hit first with a leaden arrow to invalidate the feelings.”

“But we weren’t hit with any arrows this lifetime. Think we would have noticed by now.”

“Not in this life. Keep up, precious. You were joined together with Patroklus since the first time you were alive. Normally, that kind of bond vanishes with death—the whole Lethe deal, right?”

“…Normally.”

“But you died loving each other. Your last thoughts in both your lives have always been on each other. That’s powerful magic, older than me even. It seems to have given you a measure of protection your Nightwing doesn’t have, by confusing the diviners into thinking you’re still matched.”

“So I’m what, immune?” That could be a good thing.

“Maybe? I wouldn’t put money on it. You probably just got lucky. If you get hit by the lead one next time, it could sever even that. So, try not to get shot again, m’kay?”

“Great advice,” Jason seethes.

Though if he didn’t have any kind of connection to Tim, it would be that much simpler to foil the machinations of this entitled godling and whatever entity is working with Carrie Cutter.

The instant the thought enters his mind, he wants to throw up. The idea of hating Tim now—even though he can remember what that felt like—sends a visceral terror slamming into him with the same force of the Joker’s crowbar.

So much for having any kind of advantage in this whole situation.

Damn it, what am I even supposed to do about Tim?

His personal feelings (and the supernatural infection) aside, the best thing would be to avoid him. He’s not quite sure how he’ll be able to interact with or even just be around the younger man now that he knows the truth. Especially since with every passing minute he’s remembering more bits and pieces of lives long forgotten—he recalls the promises they made each other, can remember the feel of Tim’s skin beneath his fingers and the taste of his lips—

Stop it.

No, he can’t tell him.

Tim, like both of his past lives, will put what he thinks are Jason’s needs in front of his own. Worse, it will all be him humoring him, which puts a sour taste in Jason’s mouth. The idea of devaluing the bond between them that has spanned time and space and civilizations is almost as painful as the knowledge that bond is about to be severed—and by him, no less.

There’s a distant sound of a motor, the hum of the secret garage door of the Nest opening, and Jason tenses.

Shit. Tim.

He needs to get out of here before he’s noticed.

Except, he can’t seem to make his limbs move.

If he were completely himself, he could be out of here in an instant without even evidence that he was here. But—

But Tim is close. He’s nearby and—

And Jason knows that he’s not going to get anything done unless he gets a fix, something to hold him over while he figures out the next step in his plans.

Shit, now I’m comparing him to drugs. What the hell.

Somehow, the decision to not leave before Tim allows him some measure of movement.

Jason shoves the gold coin into his pocket—he can figure out what to do with it later—and forces himself to act. He has to delete whatever surveillance footage is on the Nest from the last hour before Tim arrives.

He can’t have him knowing what’s going on. Not unless Jason can think of a better explanation than, ‘hey, by the way, reincarnation is real, and we used to be in love with each other and I’m pretty much looking at a suicide mission in my near future.’

That definitely won’t go over well.

He looks up as a car pulls in, tires barely squealing to a stop before Tim is out the door.

“Jason!”

He’s in civvies now, less covered in grime and bruises than before, and instead of a mask, he’s wearing dark shades to hide his eyes.

Jason swallows the growing lump in his throat and fights down the temptation to hurry forward and wrap his arms around the smaller man. Seeing Tim now—now that he’s remembering—Jason is reliving moments long forgotten, soft laughter in his ear and fingers running through his hair and warmth and safety and—

He inhales sharply, shaking away the images.

That’s over, he tells himself as Tim comes to a stop a few paces in front of him.

“You’re here?” His surprised expression blossoms with what Jason can only describe as relief, even though he can’t understand the reason behind it. He doesn’t remember their pasts, he has no reason to care about Jason beyond the parameters of this mission.

“Yeah,” he replies cautiously, folding his arms and taking a half-step backward.

He needs to keep his distance, no matter how much his fingers are twitching to thumb Tim’s lower lip, how much he wants to wrap him in his arms, bury his face in the crook of his neck and—

“I needed a face-to-face with the source of all our problems,” he says, voice hoarse as he nods toward Eros.

“He was very rude,” the Olympian agrees. “Told me he’d kill me and everything. Isn’t that right, Jason?”

Tim barely spares a glance at Eros, face still pulled into a concerned frown as he steps forward. “I was worried. Driving in your condition, you could have gotten into another accident.”

“Someone gave me a lift.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s…” Tim trails off, perhaps seeming a little lost before his features arrange themselves into careful blankness. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

He reaches out to put his hand on Jason’s shoulder, and Jason pulls back.

“Not a good idea.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Really? Have you looked in the mirror? Your pale and sweating, your eyes are bloodshot and your knees look like they’re about to give out under you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“Well, neither are you,” he shoots back. “Why are you even here? You shouldn’t be anywhere near me after I…”

He trails off, remembering suddenly that they’re not alone.

“You just shouldn’t be here,” he finishes, a little lamely.

Eros is watching all of this with a smarmy grin on his face, and when Jason hears a noise behind him, he turns in time to see Babs just lowering herself out of the passenger seat of the car into her wheelchair. She’s also wearing dark tinted glasses to hide her identity, and he sort of wishes he had thought to do the same before staggering in here to confront the Olympian.

Tim continues to frown at Jason like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle, and then his expression softens a bit.

“Let’s talk, okay?” he offers. “Just talk. Like adults, okay?”

“Oh, this should be good,” Eros says, and the asshole actually rubs his hands together.

This time, Tim shoots him a glare. “Not here.”

“Take your time,” Barbara says, wheeling closer to the containment unit and glaring up at Eros. “Tweety Bird and I need to have a little chat anyway. There are a few things that probably make more sense from the original source.”

From the way she’s looking at the Olympian, if it were anyone else, Jason would feel sorry for him; considering what he’s holding over Jason’s head, he kind of hopes Barbara has him crying before the end of the night.

Before he can get too detailed with his inner imaginings of how to make the god of love miserable, the hair on the back of his neck and arms raises and Tim walks passed him—worryingly close to him—and heads for the entrance to his apartment. “Coming?”

And he really, really shouldn’t.

But the hunger that isn’t hunger is stronger, starving just to be in the same general radius as the younger man.

How am I supposed to sneak off to find Eros’ supply of Stygian Sleep if I can’t even think around this?

He tells himself it’s purely tactical, that he’s just getting his fix of being around Tim, enough to make getting out of here and getting what he needs to complete his deal with Eros.

“Fine,” he replies, voice strained.

He follows Tim out of the Nest, keeping a carefully calculated distance between them as long as he can. Once inside the apartment, Tim heads for the kitchen and opens the fridge.

“You hungry?” he asks, as casually as if Jason just happened by for a visit—except it’s not casual, because it’s never happened. “After everything that’s happened tonight, you need to keep your energy up.” He pauses and then looks apologetic. “I mean the fight with Carrie and your magic swords, not the, uh, other—”

“I’m sorry,” Jason blurts out. “About what happened.”

“Jason—”

“I wasn’t thinkin'—shit, obviously I wasn’t thinkin'—but I figured I had a handle on the impulses.”

“It’s not—”

“You shouldn’t even want to be around me right now.”

“Jason, it’s okay,” Tim insists, slamming the fridge door and raising his voice. “I just didn’t think you were at the point where you…I didn’t think you wanted—”

“Well, neither did I!”

Jason’s still not sure if it was the infection that prompted him to make a move on Tim, or the latent memories trying to get out. If anything, the kiss is what woke him up, so maybe it was the latter.

In which case, it’s even more important to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

“We’re not doing this…this anymore,” he decides gesturing between them. “You’ve already let me push the boundaries on this one way too far, and you shouldn’t be expected to let someone full-on grope you—"

“You didn’t grope me.”

“Whatever I did, it wasn’t okay because you don’t want me to—"

“I want you to,” Tim says, so quickly that he blushes, looking like he surprised himself.

Jason freezes, wondering if he’s hearing things. He takes an extra few seconds to review that. “What.”

“Not like that,” Tim rushes to explain, words tripping over each other; he glances away. “I mean—it’s just…it’s not as big an issue as you’re making it. Don't look at me like that, it's not a big deal. In the grand scheme of stuff you’ve done to me, kissing me doesn’t even register at the top of the Horrible Things That Could Happen List.”

“Stop tryin' to make me feel better. You suck at it.”

“I’m not just trying to make you feel better. It really could be worse.” His words continue to rush into each other, betraying his obvious discomfort. “And I know you won’t read into it beyond this being me helping you, and we’re all aware of your views on consent, so I know you didn’t mean anything by it. And it’s not like if I had to make out with Ra’s al-Ghul, right?”

Jason growls, remembering Eros’ threat. “Thanks for that scarring imagery, and the comparison with the creepiest creeper we know. That makes me feel so much more on board with this.”

“The point is if it’s something that helps you, if this grounds you…if you want to…whatever it is, I’m okay with it.”

And doesn’t that just tear into Jason?

“There’s two people involved in this, Tim!” he snaps. “And I’m not okay with it just because it’s supposed to help me. If you even knew…”

Knew what I want to do with you. To you. What we’ve already done, and you don’t even remember—!

“Look, we just can’t, okay?”

Tim lets out a frustrated puff of air. His cheeks puff in a way that has Jason swallowing hard, contemplating how suspicious it would seem if he took off back to the cave.

“Okay, let’s try a compromise here,” Tim says after a minute. “What if we made a list?”

Jason blinks and can’t help glancing back. “What?”

“Of things that we can both agree beforehand are…acceptable. If I’m telling you beforehand exactly what is and isn’t okay, then maybe you won’t feel so much like you’re taking advantage if you need to—if you need to do something to anchor yourself.”

“Tim…”

“No, listen—you were right before. Me just giving a blanket statement that everything’s okay, it isn’t me being honest with you. This way, we can both have boundaries.” Jason is already gearing up to protest until Tim adds, “It might not be a long-term solution, but it’s something, right? And anything not on the list, you can just ask or try to remember if you have the sudden compulsion to do something. And if I’m not comfortable with it we can—I don’t know, try to redirect somehow.”

“You mean if I suddenly get the urge to stick my tongue down your throat?” Jason deadpans. “Give you a warnin' so you can knock me out?”

Tim’s cheeks flare pink. “Um…not…exactly. But yeah. That’s sort of the idea.”

“Except I couldn’t stop myself before,” he points out. “What makes you think I’ll be able to now?”

Tim thinks about it, bites his lip—oh, don’t do that, please don’t do that—and then shrugs. “I trust you.”

So not a good answer, kid.

As if he can sense the direction of his thoughts, Tim narrows his eyes and juts his chin out. "I do."

“This is such a bad idea,” Jason croaks.

“Got any better ones? Whether we manage to cure you or not, we’re on limited time here. We’ve all been trained to withstand torture for days. I know you can do this.”

Just what every guy wants to hear—that the person they’re hitting on is comparing it to torture.

And that’s what it would be, too, for Jason at least.

But he’s still thinking about it—gods above, he’s thinking about it.

Because this is Patroklus and Hephaestion all over; this is Tim. Always has a plan, always has a scenario and an answer to everything. He means it as an olive branch, but Jason can’t help seeing it as a lifeline.

I should just tell him. If I tell him, we can figure this out together.

But he can’t.

Because he remembers.

Letting Patroklus plan, giving him the reigns of control, allowing him to know the full story, that’s only ever gotten him killed. In both their previous lives he planned everything in their lives around Achilleus or Alexandros’ legacy—around his glory and survival.

At least keeping Tim in the dark will keep his mind on the case—on stopping Carrie and her unnamed god friend from unleashing whatever trouble they’re seeking on Gotham. The city needs Tim’s brains focused on that, not on Jason’s past lives’ feelings.

As it is, in the long run, it won’t matter. There might be a cure for Jason’s condition, but Eros all but told him he’s not going to be the one benefitting from it. Even if they find the diviners beforehand, Eros has made it clear what will happen.

What’s the point of bringing it all up when there’s no getting out of it?

Jason’s pretty much signed a new death warrant for himself and he won’t just be going to the green paradise of his memories when this is over. And he won’t be seeing Tim or any version of him ever again.

He studies Tim now, watching him shift uncomfortably as he waits for Jason’s response to his plan. A plan that is hopeful and sweet in the face of a life they both know is anything but. Ignorant of the entire situation, Tim is still trying to give Jason as long as he can as himself.

Which, if I’m going to be spending an eternity alone in some fresh patch of hell…why can’t I have a few days?

Being with Tim as long as possible, even if Tim doesn’t remember the truth of it all…maybe that would be okay.

He feels his misgivings ebb away—gods, I’m weak—and allows himself to relax.

“So,” he begins, tentative, “what would be a definite ‘no’ for you?”

Tim’s eyes widen incrementally, surprise flashing across his features, but he is quick to hide it. He obviously wasn’t expecting Jason to give in.

Tilting his head to one side in thought, he is silent a further few seconds, and then says, “Don’t slap my ass.”

It’s so unexpected that Jason can’t help the startled laugh. “Really?”

“I mean, I might forgive that sort of thing in private, but in front of other people definitely not. I always found it kind of tacky.” Tim pulls out one of the stools along the kitchen island and sits down in a careful attempt to be casual.

“I’m insulted you think that I’d slap someone’s ass in any situation.”

“I’ve seen you slap Roy Harper’s ass.”

“Bullshit.”

“You know how much surveillance footage we have archived of you and the Outlaws?”

“Fine. Stalker.” But the word is more affectionate than anything else. “But to be fair, it’s Roy. He does it too. It’s a…a brother’s thing.”

Mostly. Except not really. And I really hope that all that surveillance footage doesn’t extend to the interior of Kori’s ship…

“Really.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And how many times have you and Dick played ‘slap-the-ass’?” The minute the words are out, Tim turns red and makes a face like he’s just had the oxygen sucked out of his lungs; Jason himself is having a bit of trouble breathing. “I did not mean it like that,."

His face falls into his hands.

“Gods, I hope not. Way to add to the list of shit I need therapy to deal with.” Noting the younger man’s utter mortification, Jason decides it’s high time they moved this discussion along. “Okay. Fine. So, what else? No mackin' on you, obviously.”

“I told it’s fine.”

“I can tell by your tone it’s not.”

He gets a frustrated look for that, and then Tim rolls his eyes and huffs. “I’d prefer if you have to, not to do it around anyone in the Family. We’ve got enough issues to deal with beyond the commentary and worried staring. But more than that, I’m not a huge fan of PDA. It’s uncomfortable.”

Jason thinks about it and nods.

“I guess I can understand that,” he muses. “You get followed around by the paparazzi all the time. Sucks havin' people’s attention on you all the time.”

“It’s not just that. When I was a kid, my parents…well, they just were never the overly affectionate type. I’m not saying I was deprived,” he is quick to add when Jason’s brows begin to draw together, “I was just used to a more reserved kind of affection. Because in public, it all became an act. The spotlight was on us to look overly warm and loving and…it was basically the Drake version of Brucie.”

Jason gags.

“Ever since then, I try to avoid having people look at me like I’m their entertainment unless I’ve planned it out that way.”

There’s a wary, almost vulnerable edge to Tim’s words that make Jason think that this is the first time he’s ever told anyone this rather personal bit of information. He’s simultaneously grateful to have Tim’s trust, while at the same time wondering if this is just him exposing himself to make Jason feel better about his own vulnerabilities.

“What else?” he asks, hesitant but at the same time desperate for him to keep talking. To keep opening up to him.

Tim thinks again. “Uh…don’t touch my neck.”

“Huh?”

“Like, don’t rest your arms along the back of my neck, or hold it with your palm. Shoulders are okay, but my neck, that’s…I don’t like it.”

And that’s…oddly specific. Before he can fully form a question about why that is, he’s hit by another flash of memory. This one, however, isn’t of warmth or safety, but of Jason himself holding Tim up high, wire wrapped around his throat and choking the life out of him.

His heart thuds in dismay and realization.

“I’m sorry.”

“Jason—”

“What I did to you wasn’t right.”

“We’ve been over this already—”

“We’ll never be completely over it,” Jason cuts him off. “It’s always going to be there, in the background of everythin'.” He clenches his fists. “I was puttin' my anger on the wrong person, and you got hurt because of it.”

“You weren’t in your right mind back then.”

“And how many creeps have we locked away for crimes they committed when they weren’t ‘in their right mind’?” Jason counters.

“The difference is that before this situation—before what was done to you—you were a good person. You protected people—you protected kids like me. And you're still a good person where it counts.”

Jason recalls three blood-soaked lifetimes that disprove everything Tim just said. “I was never a good person.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“No, there’s no disagreein', there’s just fact. I’ve been damaged since before I was stupid enough to get caught by the Bat.” Jason takes a step back. “We need to forget about this. After everythin' I did to you, this is a bad idea—”

“Jason, for god’s sake would you—” Tim stops talking all of a sudden, touches the comm in his ear. Then he scowls. “On our way.”

“What’s going on?”

“Babs needs us back,” Tim replies in a flat, irritated tone. Clearly he's not happy to have been interrupted. “Duke’s sending along what he found in Delphi. That’s actually another reason we wanted to find you.” He levels a sharp look at Jason. “I think it’s important we continue this conversation, but not now.”

“Small miracles,” Jason mutters under his breath.

“Probably not. Based on what Duke and Babs have said, apparently there’s a prophecy involved in all this.”

“Of fuckin' course there is,” Jason groans. "Does it say I got a starrin' role in it?"

I swear, if this involved me being a Chosen anything again, I’m out. I’ve done enough of that for three lifetimes…

"I guess we're about to find out." 

Tim stands up and heads for the door to his base, and then pauses to look back at Jason. He raises an eyebrow, somehow challenging and questioning at the same time, and then holds his hand out. 

Jason stares at it for a moment, almost the same way he would assess an enemy for hidden weapons, but it's just Tim's hand and he hasn't touched him in hours...

Every argument against it has already crumbled before he's reached out to lace his fingers through Tim's.

"You fight dirty," he accuses, weary.

"You like it."

That's entirely the problem, babybird.

 ⁂⁂⁂

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I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn’t something you’re comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!

❤️️ = I love this story! 😳 = this was hot! 💐 = thank you for sharing this 🍵 = tea spilled 🍬 = so sweet and fluffy! 🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good! 😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER 😢 = you got me right in the feels 🤯mind blown 🤬god damn cliffhanger 😫 whyyyyyyy?!?!? 

Author’s Note(s): My attention span was really terrible today and I couldn't focus on either of my two other fics even though the next chapters of both are completely planned out. So I'm posting the start of the third (and final) story that I'm doing for the JayTimWeek/Month challenge. Also, I'm really excited about this one. I spent more time planning this than either of the other two and I can't wait to hear what you guys think!I've got work stuff to do tomorrow so there may not be anything updated until Friday.

Beta Reader: I’ll get back to you on that.

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The Bat-Signal cuts through the dark and hazy clouds lingering above Gotham City, and for a split-second, Jason Todd has the urge to drop everything and race for the roof of the GCPD Headquarters. It’s hard to ignore the nervous jump of excitement in his stomach, the phantom sensation of a domino mask on his face and the heavy drag of a cape at his shoulders.

Which makes no sense, since it’s been at least five years since I even wore that shit.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, the smoke mixing with the familiar summer smog, Jason turns his back on Gotham’s literal beacon of hope and steels himself against nocturnal threats of his own. The city is for the caped crew—because apparently, the Bat has a posse now, he thinks with only a hint of a bitter sneer—and Jason has been fighting in a different arena for quite some time now.

He takes a final drag of the cigarette, and then grinds it beneath his boots, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. It’s a weathered and worn thing that reminds him of one Willis Todd wore in one of the few memories Jason has of him that doesn’t involve alcohol or fists. He thinks it’s less pretentious looking than a trench coat and probably gives off fewer ‘creepy motherfucker’ vibes like the sartorial choices of certain other people. It’s also less likely to snag on things when he needs to make a quick exit while digging up graves.

Yeah, it’s a thing in his line of work.

Gotham Cemetery is a sprawling necropolis, as dark and forbidding now as it was the night he dug himself out of his own grave. Half a decade of Gotham-style tender, loving negligence has left the somber green hills overgrown and the majority of the old tombstones fallen or rotting.

You’d think in a city with the highest homicide rate in the country, the mayor would spring for better maintenance. Then again, it’s Gotham. The dead don’t pay taxes, so fuck ‘em.

Which…enough said.

Gotham and the world think Jason Todd-Wayne is dead and has been for five years now; in a way, it’s the truth. He’s no longer anything like the boy that was beaten to death by a psychotic clown, no longer the shrimp who fastidiously dyed his hair black and jumped into someone else’s cape and pixie boots just so he didn’t have to be his own screwup self anymore. He outgrew wanting to be Dick a long time ago, outgrew wanting to be Bruce, too, and embraced a whole new other set of skills to put him apart from them.

Most occultists and even homo magi need to put conscious effort and intent into calling up or even seeing a spirit. Ever since Jason died and then mysteriously got better, the dead appear to him as blatantly and a solid as the living.

John told him he was a fool to come back here.

“Someone with your gifts, they’ll drive you bloody mad,” his mentor warned him when he left London. “And I ain’t talking about the dead ones, neither.”

“You’re just saying that because Batman wouldn’t hold your hand that one time,” Jason retorted, shrugging off the concern. He is Gotham born and bred, his blood is in those streets, and he has always wanted to come home, even if it wasn’t necessarily to a stately manor or its inhabitants.

He clenches his fists.

Inhabitants that wasted no time in replacing him after he died. Jason was rotting away in fucking Arkham, and Bruce was shoving another kid into the tights.

If it didn’t involve seeing him, I would hunt him down and break his jaw.

He surveys the graveyard proper. The everyday observer considers cemeteries to be places of peace and eternal rest; quiet, if a little bit spooky. To Jason, they’re as gruesome as any major battlefield.

Spirits pack the way before him; some of them look relatively normal if dated by their clothes; many others are disfigured and bloody from whatever killed them, whether natural or unnatural. They clamor and crowd, eternally shouting to be heard, or screaming as they relive their deaths in their own personal purgatories.

In the beginning, that din almost drove Jason insane. Bruce’s teachings kept him rational as long as it could in the months after he woke up, and then John’s training helped him temper his own awareness further. By now, he can function almost normally, automatically filtering the voices out as he goes about his daily business; it’s only in places like this, where the dead outnumber the living, where it’s harder.

Jason reaches up, adjusting the noise filters in his ears—mechanical devices that need regular winding but are still more reliable than anything running on electricity of batteries. They’re like steampunk hearing aids, only instead of magnifying sound, they drown out the constant moan of the ghosts when he can’t do it himself. Just one of many methods of protection he’s learned over the years. Some are physical, like the prayer beads wrapped around his wrist or the bottle of holy water in his pocket; others—spells and symbols and mantras—are carved all over his body in tattoos and blood writing. Anything to keep the otherworld away.

“Personal space is a key to a medium’s sanity,” John told him once. “That and a good bottle of single malt scotch.”  

Jason ignores the moss-covered path that winds through the larger and more prominent mausoleums. He deliberately doesn’t search out the one in the distance bearing the Wayne crest—

(Still remembers the feel of his fingernails splitting against the wood of the coffin, choking on clumps of soil and insects.)

—and instead seeks a small structure much farther away. It’s in the furthest part of the cemetery, the shabby section almost hidden by overgrown willows. Half of the name above the doorway is obscured by vines, but it’s easy for him to make out the name etched into the stone with bold letters.

HAYWOOD.

According to the public record, Sheila Haywood’s body was returned to Gotham at the same time as Jason Todd’s. Bruce paid for her funeral and internment, which was just as well since she had no other family, and then she was promptly forgotten about.

By everyone except Jason, it seems.

It took some doing and a few weeks tracking down everyone that had worked at the same refugee camp as his mother, but he’d finally managed to collect what possessions she left behind. A colleague of hers had put them aside when there appeared to be nothing of actual monetary value in them.

A gold coin, small bone carvings of stylized animals, dainty trinkets of garnets, amber and lapis lazuli, a compact mirror, some seashells, a decorative fan, quartz paperweight, and a brightly colored feather. There was a picture of Willis in there, too, young and almost Jason’s double. No picture of Jason, though, but he hadn’t expected it.

He kept the picture but left the rest in the small wooden box, which he now removes from his messenger bag and sets down in front of the stone bearing his mother’s name. He follows that with various tools and ingredients. Black candles arranged in a star shape around the box, a chalice, a jar of detritus—teff seeds, driftwood and soil, all from the place where she died—that he sprinkles around in a circle, a handful of smooth obsidian stones to mark a pentagram joining the candles, the dagger John gave him for his last birthday, vials of oil and holy water.

Murmuring a few protection oaths, he shrugs off his jacket, leaving his arms bare, and then digs out a pack of matches to light the candles; flickering shadows dance across the mausoleum walls. He takes up the chalice to combine the water and oil, and then reaches for the dagger.

Hate this part.

Training to ignore pain doesn’t mean it goes away, and he grits his teeth a little as he draws his blade across his forearm, not deep enough to nick anything vital, but enough that the blood runs easily into the chalice. Without bothering to bandage the wound, Jason holds up the chalice in front of him and centers himself.

“Phantasma inrequietum, te voco,” he intones. “Eloguiorum mei audi: Sheila Haywood, te nominas!“ The stagnant air in the mausoleum starts to pick up. “In nominee creatricis, te impero, hic locum decede.” Hand over the top of the chalice, he swirls the liquid within, and then tips it into the open keepsake box. “Per sanguinem hominis et per sanguinem filii tui, non remane et apage! ”He strikes a match and lobs it into the box, not even flinching as the whole thing flares into flame; he intends to watch it until it burns to nothing.

“That’s not going to work, you know.”

“Jesus fuck!” Jason explodes, whirling to the right and glaring at the interrupter. “What did I say about sneaking up on me? Or just—showing up around me in general?”

The apparition in front of him doesn’t look impressed.

Sheila is still beautiful—or, at least, the side of her body that isn’t covered with third-degree burns and sections of pulverized bone—and still sharp. Cold, untouchable and self-interested.

But unlike the way she was before, she’s all-too present in Jason’s life now.

“Goddamn it,” he snarls, and against every lesson John has ever given him, lashes out and knocks the candles and detritus hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. “What the hell. I’ve done everything. You had last rites, your body was cremated, I just torched the things that had any value to you, why the hell won’t you just move on?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions,” Sheila replies, as always.

Jason scowls. “And of course, you can’t just tell me.”

She gazes at him balefully, and he runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Sheila, we’ve been over this. You can’t stay here. One, you know spirits that stick around past their time go Dark Side, and I really don’t want to have to exorcise your spectral ass. Two, it’s fucking creepy for a twenty-year-old guy to be followed around by his mother wherever he goes. What the hell is keeping you here? What more do you want from me?”

“Your forgiveness,” she tells him patiently.

“I already forgave you. Years ago.”

“You still call me Sheila.”

“That’s your name.”

“I’m your mother.”

“Who sold me out and got me murdered.”

“See? You haven’t forgiven me.”

“I have. I’m just stating a fact, Jesus…”

“Apparently the cosmic balance doesn’t agree enough to let me move on,” the ghost says dryly. “And to think, I used to be an atheist.”

“This is total bullshit,” Jason snaps, grabbing his jacket and stalking out of the mausoleum in frustration.

Three years of this mediumship crap, and neither he nor John have ever been able to figure out why the ghost of Jason’s dead mother won’t stop haunting him. Wards and sutras that keep even the nastiest spirits away from Jason don’t even phase her, and she’s inexplicably coherent.

And persistent.

As Jason stalks back through the cemetery, he can sense her in his periphery, gliding along beside him, unconcerned with his irritation.

“Can you just…stay away from me? Like you did in the beginning?” he grumbles.

“You were just learning how to communicate without going insane. I wasn’t about to disrupt that.”

“How considerate of you.”

“I try.”

“Look, I’ve had enough of the ghost-stalker thing for today. I went out of my way for this, you know. I didn’t even want to come back here. And now I’m back to the fucking drawing board.”

“It may not have been a waste of a trip,” she replies and vanishes.

“Oh, you can fuck off when it’s convenient for you,” he grumbles, though he already senses what she was speaking of.

Several yards away, a small boy, maybe eight, is clinging forlornly to an angel headstone. Translucent tears stream down his cheeks, but every now and again his face shifts, like a television caught between two channels, and his mouth widens into an unnatural smile.

Jason could have gone the rest of his life without seeing that smile again.

Still, he sighs and heads toward the kid.

“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low and maintaining a safe distance from the boy, whose head whips up to stare at Jason in sudden fear.

“Who are you?” he asks, voice thick with tears.

“I’m Jason. You okay, kid?”

“I can’t find my mom,” the boy murmurs, wiping at his face. “I keep going looking, but I forget the way home. And then…I always end up back here.”

He sounds on the verge of tears again; it’s something Jason can understand.

With the puzzling exception of Sheila, who appears to come and go as she pleases, most ghosts are stuck in certain patterns and paths when they die, frozen in an infinite loop until they break themselves out of it or until some arbitrary higher power decides they’ve suffered enough. And for some reason, Jason can break them out of it.

“You could always try again,” he suggests. “I think you’ll manage it this time.”

The boy shudders. “There’s scary people here.”

No arguing with that.

“I know. I see them, too.” Jason glances at the headstone, scanning the name and dates. “Your name’s Cole?”

“Yeah.”

“If you’re missing, there are probably people looking for you. They might have posted something online about it. I’ll check it out, but it could take a bit.” He holds up his phone, glad to see it’s at full charge and bars; that’s hit or miss around so many ghosts. “Can you hang around here until I’m done?”

The boy nods, silent, face flicking back and forth between sadness and the unnatural smile.

Fucking Joker…

Jason does a quick search of the kid’s name, pulling up obituaries in the Gotham Gazette in the past year. It doesn’t take long for an article to pop up concerning the Joker’s latest escape and a list of the dead.

He narrows his eyes, startling the kid.

“It’s fine,” he lies. “The internet is just really slow.”

“Or our phone is really bad,” Cole tells him with the blunt honesty of a kid that grew up constantly surrounded by functional technology.

“Everyone’s a critic…”

Another quick search for the parents, phone lists and social media, and he’s got an address. Crime Alley, of course. He brings it up on his map and enables a view of the street, holding the phone out to the boy. “Is this your house?”

Relief settles and settles over his face. “Yeah.”

“What if I helped you find your way home?”

Cole makes a suspicious face. “I’m not supposed to go anywhere with strangers.”

“Which is really smart. But you see, I’m not really a stranger.”

“Oh yeah? Why not?”

“Well, I’ll let you in on a secret.” Jason bends down, conspiratorial, and Cole’s eyes gleam the way any kid gets when hearing a secret. “When I was a little older than you…I was Robin.”

The boy gapes. “Like…Batman and Robin?”

“Exactly.”

“No way!”

“Way,” Jason smirks, crossing his arms. “And I’ll tell you all about it on the way to your house. Including the time that I stole the wheels off the Batmobile.”

“No way!”

Despite his scandalized disbelief, the kid is obviously hooked.

Jason’s heart clenches a bit at the open curiosity on Cole’s face, the reality hitting him that this boy will never have a chance to do anything mischievous or fun ever again.

From one dead boy to another, this sucks…

As he leads him out of the cemetery, Jason starts to tell the little ghost about his life. He edits out the less pleasant bits, like dying and returning to life half brain dead with the ability to see and hear ghosts.

He figures a good story is the least he can do for the boy.

⁂⁂⁂