Jason didn't want to be here, surrounded by gray walls and too-familiar uniforms, the shapes and sounds of the Cave that he had known inside and out for several years, the first home he had known in over a decade. It irritated him, sunk under his skin and grated on his nerves, stirring up things he would rather not think about. Ever.

He growled and shifted his shoulders, wanting to get out, get away, only to be stopped by a firm grip on his arm. "Sit still, Master Jason." His discomfort wilted under the disapproving glare of Alfred - the man could even humble the Bat, for goodness' sakes - and Jason settled for frowning instead as Alfred continued to stitch the long cut on his arm.

This... was weird. He had gotten used to flying solo for several years now, but being in the Cave again was giving him a sense of deja vu - he just needed to close his eyes, and he would be thirteen again, cut up after a rash, spur-of-the-moment decision, just like the one that had eventually gotten him killed... Jason sat quietly listening to the familiar rhythm of Alfred's breathing, feeling the bare coolness of the stone floor underneath his socked toes, his ears tickling with the small rustles of the bats nesting in the darker corners of the rafters.

Then Alfred stuck the needle in again, and the prickle yanked him out of his reverie, placing him back in reality - bloody arm, unchanged Cave and Alfred, and an uneasy maybe-kind-of truce between him and the Bats. Along with a safehouse burnt down in the same blaze that had toppled several apartment complexes. Which was mostly the reason why he was here, being treated by Alfred, when for all intents and purposes, he should be holed up in aforementioned safehouse, stitching the wounds himself and chasing away any hints of pain with a good smoke or two - if this had been a normal night. But it wasn't. And Alfred didn't let him smoke.

This night was a damned scene out of the Twilight Zone, one of many in the last two weeks. There had been Arkham escapees, higher-than-normal amounts of criminal activity, suspiciously courageous drug dealers, along with a whole truckload of irritating B&Es. He would have dealt with his little corner of Gotham himself, but the chaos had spread - one moment he was working alone, and the next the damned Dark Knight was haunting his rooftop, closely followed by the others that had grown up under his cape, stiffly offering a temporary cease-fire to deal with the streets. A enemy of an enemy, and all that crap. Well, enemy of an estranged acquaintance, but whatever.

Faced with no other option, he had grudgingly tagged along, spending the following nights (and sometimes days) in a state of hyper-awareness, as he tried to work with the Replacement and the Demon Brat without getting his ass kicked (not that he could blame them; he had tried to kill them on multiple occasions) or without kicking their asses (they were two of the most annoying brats he had ever known, and that was saying something), at least for the time being. Simultaneously, he was avoiding being alone with either the Golden Boy or the old man himself like the age-old plague, and Dickiebird had spent the last few days with that glint in his eyes that promised a through cuddle attack, or worse, a talk - which Jason wasn't going to be a part of. Nope, not him. So he had made sure to always have someplace to be.

But he had eventually been knocked down by a weird mixture of Poison Ivy's toxins and one of Scarecrow's gases, getting caught on several of Ivy's thorns - pointy, sharp thorns, ow - on the way down. He'd been benched (and how ironic was that), put on firm bed-rest by the butler himself until the toxins and the gases had cleared out of his system. Well, Cave-rest, anyway.

And he should have been 'resting' at his own place, away from places that could lead to potential encounters with the Bat or Goldie, but Alfred's word was law, and hello? Burnt-down safehouse? He didn't have anywhere to escape to if he could.

"There you are, young sir," Alfred said at last, turning away to set the needle in a waiting bowl of disinfectant. "I believe you are still aware of the rules regarding stitches?"

"Don't use the limb unless absolutely necessary, no vigorous physical activity, blah blah," Jason muttered, slowly rotating his shoulder. "I know, Al." The nickname slipped out without much effort, and Jason froze, before affecting nonchalance and reaching for his shirt - don't think too much about it - only to remember that he'd been wearing his armor, and that was torn and blood-stained, currently flaking red dust onto his fingers and his pants.

He sighed and turned to Alfred. "Do you have any spare shirts or something? At least until I can wear this again."

The butler nodded. "Indeed, Master Jason. I'll be back shortly - stay put." He went off to hunt down the aforementioned shirt, and Jason was left alone, quiet rustling echoing off the walls. His nerves were still feeling a little high-strung, so he sat and breathed in the sounds and scents of the Cave, gaze wandering and sweeping over the Batcomputer, the worn stone where the Batmobile was usually parked, the tall, glass case that held his uniform -

Jason didn't linger on the case, on his old suit, because he was tired, and he didn't want to think about it, about the pain and the anger, about the dark months and years after his confrontation with Batman - hell, the days were still dark. No, he had agreed to a cease-fire, a shaky truce, and he didn't feel like breaking it in favor of a bout of a rage - an angry rampage didn't really appeal to him right about now. Which was a nice change, if slightly disconcerting. Man, what had been in those painkillers? His head felt like it was stuffed with balls of heavy, soothing cotton, and his thoughts were scarily rational and calm. Weird. In a good way.

Bored and fill to the brim with misplaced energy, Jason slid off the cot he had been sitting on - the one he'd be camping out on for the next few days - and listlessly walked around, fingers trailing over the training equipment, the lockers, and even resting on cool glass for a brief moment. He wandered around, and came across a worn, familiar pillar that bore a scattering of thin, colorful lines. Batman's dark mark stayed faded and unmoving over time as the ones below slowly grew closer and closer, the newest blue mark half a head or so below the unspoken goal, the implied finish line that loomed above. Jason's marks were there, in yellow, up to the point where he'd gotten disillusioned and angry. Still, he absently noted that, at his current height, he was closer to Batman's mark than Dickiebird was. Ha.

The Replacement's marks were there, too, in small, almost invisible lines of green, faded against the bright slashes of red that marked the Demon Brat's progress, and Jason snorted, imagining a scowling Damian complaining as Dickiebird held him still to mark his growth spurts. It was almost scary how well Dickiebird got along with the brat. Scarier still how Goldie was the only one the brat let come near within spitting distance. Which was just another reason Jason had never managed to be good enough. Who could, when the only one able to deal with the sour, precocious, patronizing bundle of laughs that was Batman's son - when even a saint would get pissed - was the Golden Bird, perfect in every way?

Suddenly gloomy at the never-ending cycle of his thoughts, Jason turned away and plopped down on the nearest available spot - which happened to be the chair in front of the Batcomputer - and rubbed his tired eyes, half-glaring at the innocent pillar that had somehow morphed into another mocking display of his many, many failings. Damn it. Jason tilted his head back and stared at the darkness above, curling up comfortably in the chair - because it had been made for Batman, after all, and Jason was still kind of small, compared to him. He hadn't curled up here for over six - seven? He'd lost count - years, and the comfortable familiarity of the seat and his surroundings sent drowsiness through him, and Jason was drifting away, eyes closing as the room faded into black.

"...Jason."

"Mhm." He frowned, and turned away from Bruce, eyes still closed. "Five m're minutes," he muttered, trying to find his way back into the warm hollow of sleep, because it was the first full nap he'd had in weeks, and hadn't they just come in from patrol?
Bruce was closer now, a warm hand on his shoulder. "Jason," he said again, a little louder. "You fell asleep in the chair again." The man sounded equal parts exasperated and amused, so he wasn't mad. Which was good. Jason didn't like to make Bruce mad.

"Hmm?" Right. There was a crick in his neck, and his back ached a bit, but he was so tired... "'m up," he said, half-heartedly untangling himself from the blanket that someone - probably Alfred - had wrapped around him. "You don't have to carry me up again. Hate being carried." Ugh, the blanket was impossible to remove, so Jason gave up, resting an arm over his eyes to block out the light. "I'll be up in a minute, jus'... r'lly tired..." The warmth was lapping at his mind again, sinking him back into a doze.

From above, there was a sigh, and then Bruce was running his fingers through his hair, gently brushing his bangs off his forehead. Jason relaxed at the touch, drinking in the warmth that radiated from the man's fingers. He'd missed this, the feeling of Bruce's fingers in his hair, the comforting way his hand combed through the strands. When had Bruce stopped doing it? He couldn't remember. It was nice, to feel it again, after all these years, years of guns and anger and fire -

Joker. Loud, insane laughter. Crowbar, explosives, Bruce-Bruce-Bruce, timer counting down, he's not coming, not ever, he doesn't care -

Jason's eyes snapped open, all traces of tiredness gone, because this was Bruce, in the Cave, after the Joker, and nothing was going to be the same again. He sprang up with a snarl, pushing Bruce - no, Batman - to the side and away, anger sparking back into his blood. The part of him that was still fifteen-year-old Robin protested, complained, because this was Bruce, and Bruce would never abandon him - but he ruthlessly squashed the cry, yelling back that Bruce had. And damn his weak, needy soul - he'd let his guard down, had gotten lulled into a sense of security and nostalgia after that damned bout of deja vu, and had thought for a gut-wrenching, thoughtless moment, that he was fifteen again, tired and dozing off in Bruce's chair as he waited for him to come home - !

The blanket tangled with his legs, and he crashed onto the floor, landing badly on his side, pain sparking momentarily as his still-bruised ribs jarred against the cold floor, but Jason ignored it, stifled the low curse, and sprang back up, taking several steps back. This was reality, where Jason was angry at Batman, at the unyielding stubbornness of the vigilante, at his refusal to deal with Joker. His anger and bitter denial mixed and roared inside his chest, demanding to be let out, to grab Batman by his shoulders and shake him, to ask why. But he didn't, and took quick, shallow breaths instead, because he'd agreed to a truce, and Red Hood always kept his word, even if it killed him. Again.

So Jason deliberately stopped, ignored the rushing of blood in his ears, and drew up the familiar armor of not giving a damn about anything or anyone. The inner turmoil shoved under a lid as he slipped back into well-known shoes, his stance confident and cocky, if on high alert. He folded his arms against his chest, drawing up an oft-used sardonic grin, and snarked, "Easy, Bats. I'm not one of your little sidekicks." And it still hurt a little, acting unaffected and cool-headed, when all he wanted to do was scream, but he managed. Barely. If his voice had wavered, or his grin had been too strained, Batman didn't call him out on it. The man just looked at Jason - almost breaking him down, but he reasserted control, and sneered back. There was a brief something flickering over the man's face, but Jason was too on edge to properly decipher it, to untangle the mess of Batman's emotions, before the face was blank again. Batman was cold, stoic, and impassive, only acknowledging Jason's statement with a sharp nod before turning and heading back up towards the Manor. His footsteps were silent as he walked away, and Jason let him go, keeping the facade in place until the clock had closed, and then he was breaking, crumbling onto the floor, breathing hard to keep the damned tears at bay.

He had come too close to yielding, to throwing away everything and coming back, and the first chance he got, Jason was going to get out, even if it meant sleeping on the streets with a half-healed injury and a knife in his belt, because he wasn't sure how long he was going to last if he stayed. The scene just now had revealed to him just how easy it would be to forget, to let go. But he couldn't. Not like this, not after all he'd done.
It was getting hard to breathe, and he bent down until his head touched the cool floor, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat. He needed to get out of here. Jason had crossed too many lines, had too much blood on his hands, to be able to live with himself if he just gave up, and came back as if nothing had happened - because it had, and nothing was going to change that. Nothing.

Agh. His headache was back, and Jason slowly peeled himself off the floor, making his way back to the small cot. Before he could smother himself under a pillow, though, his eye caught a faded splash of color, the spare shirt he had asked for clean and folded on the foot of the cot. He pulled it down over his head, and the soft, familiar hint of detergent that Alfred always used made his stomach twist. Trying to swallow past the lump in his throat, Jason tumbled into the cot, squeezing his eyes against the darkness and the smothering, suffocating silence of the Cave.

He wasn't going to get anymore sleep tonight.

AN: Hey! I'm back... after a year. Sorry 'bout that. For those who are wondering, yes, I am still working on So Not Feeling the Aster, but it'll probably go through an extreme revamp. Same for my other stories. Tim is coming, don't worry - it's just going to take some thinking.