Most of the time, Jason remembered it in flashes: the smell of musty fabric, the feeling of dirt under his nails, the acrid taste of embalming fluids in his mouth. The scenes were disjointed and inscrutable, they played like a poorly shot art film on his eyelids.

He has getting better, though. Aside from the nightmares and occasional lapses in memory, he'd learned to deal with the implausibility of his situation, or at the very least, to ignore it.

He'd slowly come to accept the numbing solace of routine. Even when Jason's day consisted solely of something as devastatingly mundane as finally forcing himself to the grocery store, it was okay because it was normal. Despite everything, he had become part of the living world. It was easy to separate himself from his resurrection when he was preoccupied. If he even thought about it at all, he'd tell himself it was just a story he read when he was a kid or a metaphor that resonated so deeply that it became indistinguishable from his own existence.

Those were the good days, when he didn't have to ask questions of his life, when he didn't have to believe in his death.

Today wasn't a good day.

Jason woke up screaming. He'd been having a nightmare, the same one he always had. Even as wakefulness fully returned, the smell of soil was still thick in his nostrils and his nails stung with unseen splinters. Jason pushed it away, unwilling to contain the unwanted memories. 'Not today,' he told himself, 'not any day.'

He curled into his side and covered his face with his hands, sucking in air until his lungs stretched to capacity. He wasn't in a coffin. His apartment was a total shithole: it was cramped and dark and smelled like mildew when it rained, but it wasn't six feet underground, and he could breathe here.

Jason exhaled and reached blindly for his phone on the nearby coffee table. He pushed himself up against the back of his threadbare couch and checked for messages, wincing at the sudden illumination. No one had contacted him. It wasn't surprising, he hadn't exactly set out to make friends since he was unwittingly thrust back into the world of the living. Still, he had a disturbing impulse to talk on days like today: days when his death loomed like a threat in the periphery of his senses. So, despite himself, he was disappointed.

It was raining. Jason could hear the insistent patters against the perpetually fogged over kitchen window. He combed his hand through his hair and bent his head back to stare at the water-stained ceiling. He waited for it to cave under the weight of the deluge. It had been raining that night, too.

The smell of soil flared again and he scratched absentmindedly at his arms. His skin felt too new, too tight. His long-faded scars blistered under his fingertips, the grooves of a hundred untold stories swelled into angry red welts. Jason forced his hands from his arms and shoved them between his knees, bracing them there with his thighs.

"It's too early for this shit," he moaned to no one, bowing over his knees in desperation.

His ears were starting to ring. He rocked back and forth, back and forth, as the thin, metallic frequency morphed into a shrill cry—a child's voice, vaguely familiar, but distorted, unearthly. The distant scream swelled at an alarming rate, ascending in a maddening crescendo that darkened the corners of the room. He shot up from the couch when the noise had reached an intolerable din and scrambled around the apartment, turning on every lamp he owned until all traces of blue morning light were unearthed from the shadowy recesses of his home.

The noise dissipated quickly. His head throbbed in its absence and his mouth tasted like copper, but compared to the fits he'd had in the first few years following his rebirth, this episode was minor.

Jason swallowed thickly and picked up his phone again. He rubbed his thumb against the glass, tracing circles into the oily surface until finally relenting and hitting the home button. He reopened his texts, found that there were no new messages, and tossed the phone on the couch in utter disgust.

He picked up the remote from the coffee table and flicked on the TV. He'd found it at a thrift shop a couple weeks ago: it was small and ancient, but with rabbit ears, it could pick up a couple channels with semi-decent regularity. He considered it a luxury. He turned the volume to max capacity, blocking out the sound of rain and distant sirens. There was an old Frankenstein movie playing, he could hear screams of, "it's alive, it's alive," as he padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Jason stepped over the side of the tub and leaned his head into the cascading water. The temperature never really got as hot as he'd like, but that was probably a blessing in disguise. Some days, he thought he might boil off his skin if left to his own devices. Not as a form of self-harm, just to feel the pain that assured his flesh was his own. He was still having trouble trusting this new body and the promise of existence it signified. He couldn't remember what it was like to be dead, so how could he be certain that this was living?

On the really bad days, he wondered if he had been lied to; maybe he hadn't died at all. Maybe he had been poisoned or kidnapped or abducted by aliens. Then he would waste days or even weeks obsessively following trails that lead to nowhere. The truth was, Jason didn't know why he was alive. He didn't know how to find the answers, and it tortured him in ways that damnable crowbar could never touch.

Jason turned off the tap and shook his wet hair out of his face. He grabbed the towel from the rack and sniffed it before wrapping it around his waist and trudging back into the tiny living room. He fell gracelessly into the dented cushions, not caring that his body was still drenched. He was too tired to towel off, the "episodes" always left him drained.

"You have created a monster and it will destroy you." A voice from the television warned. Jason sighed and reached for the remote, changing the station to some cheery jingle about thankful families and artificially engorged turkeys. It was almost Thanksgiving. He hadn't even thought about it. The realization left him cold.

He wasn't sure which was worse: the stupid monster movie or the horror that was this TV family's over-the-top acting, so he hit the power button and slumped back into the couch, trying to avoid his reflection in the blank screen.

His eyes drooped as he sat there in silence. He considered allowing sleep to take him—he was so damn tired—but his unconscious mind was too quick to dig up unwanted thoughts, and the screams from earlier still echoed distantly in his ears.

Jason yawned and rubbed his hands over his face. He pulled himself up from the couch and padded to the kitchen. He considered making a pot of coffee or some breakfast, but after pulling open the fridge and rummaging through all the cabinets, he found he had the ingredients for neither.

"Great, time for another fucking grocery run," Jason said to himself as he walked to the bedroom to change. In therapy, he'd adapted to inhabiting public spaces again in a relatively short amount of time. He still preferred to run errands at night—when the streets were less crowded and the people were less exuberant— but overall, he could assimilate with the best of them.

Still, visits to the grocery store were particularly challenging. He wasn't exactly sure why. He figured it might be due to some subconscious memory of the stress it caused him as a child. He remembered trips there with his Mom, being coerced into hiding things in his pockets, or returning items to the shelves because they couldn't afford them. It was embarrassing.

It had been on a trip to the grocery store when Jason first saw his Mom from an outside perspective. She had dragged him there while drunk off her ass, which wasn't unusual at the time. They'd had some stupid argument over something trivial like what type of bread to get and she'd smacked him across the face. Jason hadn't cared—he was no stranger to her violence—but to his surprise, a random woman ran over and grabbed him by his shoulders. She asked if he was okay and lost her shit at his Mom. She'd yelled, "you call yourself a mother?"

'Oh,' Jason remembered thinking at the time. 'Parents aren't supposed to hit their kids.' He'd known that, of course, but somehow he'd never realized it applied to him.

Or maybe it had nothing to do with any of that at all. Maybe it was just the environment of the place. People were never so oblivious to the inevitability of their death than when facing down the Nutrition Facts on a box of organic graham crackers.

Jason pulled a t-shirt over his head, ignoring the way it gaped around his biceps and neck. He'd gotten skinny in the psych ward. They allowed him to work out sometimes, but never as much as he wanted. They claimed it was for his health, but he knew better. They were afraid, afraid of potentially having to restrain a strong and agile crazy person.

Jason fastened his jeans around his waist and shrugged on a jacket. He couldn't really blame his size on them anymore. He'd been out for a little over a year; he could be bigger if he wanted. The working out came easily enough—he enjoyed pushing himself to the breaking point, striving till his muscles protested from the abuse—but eating was still an issue. He could cook just fine—he'd learned from an early age—but there was just something about food that still bothered him.

He wasn't an idiot, though. He knew he needed to eat to live. So he put his wallet in his pocket, stuffed his feet into his shoes, and exited his apartment into the dimly lit hallway. He walked quickly with his head down, taking the steps two at a time when he reached the stairwell. He hated running into his neighbors and having to engage in small talk. Pretending that life was full of sunshine and rainbows was something Dick excelled at, but it made Jason's skin crawl.

'Why am I thinking about him?' Jason wondered as he passed through his complex's lobby and into the street. It was colder outside than he'd realized. He zipped up his jacket and stuffed his hands into his pockets. It looked like it might snow. He considered running upstairs and grabbing a hat and maybe some gloves, but the store was only a few blocks away and he'd already made it this far, so he pressed onward.

There had been much colder nights than this while patrolling in Gotham. Of course, back then he was much better outfitted for it, and he always had the promise of a cup of cocoa and a warm spot in front of the fireplace when he got home. Jason shuddered and picked up his pace. It almost embarrassed him to think about how pampered he'd allowed himself to become.

"Out in this cold with wet hair? Have I taught you nothing, Jason?" A scolding female voice sounded behind him.

Jason froze and his heart jumped into his throat. "Talia?" He asked as he turned around, "what the hell are you doing here?"

The woman crossed her arms across her chest and shrugged, "I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd say 'hi.'"

"In the neighborhood?" Jason asked incredulously. "What for?"

Talia didn't answer. Jason didn't expect her to. Instead, she closed the distance between them and pushed his damp hair out of his face. "You're not properly dressed for this weather, do you want to get sick?"

"You don't get sick from being cold, Tal. Trust me, I'd know."

Talia hummed to herself. "Still, I'd feel better if you got in the car and warmed up a little."

"Thanks for the offer, but considering the relationship you have with my ex-foster Dad, I think that'd be a little weird."

"That's not what I'm suggesting," Talia swatted playfully at his arm. "We can go get breakfast, you look like you could use a good meal."

Jason tried to think of a reason to say no, but the truth was, he could use the company, if only to get out of his own head for a few minutes. "Sure," he relented, allowing Talia to slip a hand on his shoulder and guide him to the car. He didn't mind letting her lead him around, it was a holdover habit from when he'd lacked the ability to make any decisions for himself. "But I choose the place."

Jason was impressed that Talia didn't immediately wrinkle her nose in disgust when they stepped into the diner. The place was old and decrepit, the food was too greasy and none of the waitresses were hot, but it was close to his apartment and it was one of the few public places in which Jason felt mostly comfortable.

"Two coffees," Jason shouted towards the woman behind the counter as he led Talia to a booth in the far corner of the restaurant.

"I know you don't want to tell me why you're in Gotham and that's—fine, I guess, but don't I at least deserve to know why you wanted to talk with me before you left?" Jason asked as they slid into their seats.

Talia waited to answer as two steaming cups of coffee and a couple of sticky, laminated menus were plopped down on their table.

"We spent a year together, Jason, can't I just want to visit with you?"

"You can, but sentimentality isn't really your style."

"I think you're confusing me for my Father."

"Well, you two are more alike than you'd like to admit."

Talia unfolded the napkin wrapped around the cutlery and examined her fork. "Do you really think that?"

"Sometimes," Jason said, turning his face to the dirty window to stare at the dead flies littering the sill.

"Everyone's out to get you, aren't they, Jason?"

"Look, I'm not going to sit here and get scolded—"

"That's not what I meant to say," Talia corrected. "It's just that—"

Jason sighed, "what?"

"I'm no longer certain that what I'm doing is helping you."

"And what is it that you're doing exactly?"

"Allowing you this—this freedom. I don't know if you're ready for it."

"Freedom?"

"To live alone, to not visit with your doctor, to—"

"I do fine on my own." Jason said simply.

"This is what you call doing 'fine?'" Talia demanded, gesturing to his rumpled clothes, his damp, matted hair, his sunken eyes.

Jason rolled his eyes under the scrutiny. "What's with this sudden guilt, Tal? You help me, alright? You're the only one that actually listens."

"Yes, but perhaps I shouldn't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not easily fooled, Jason. I can see how tired you are. You're having nightmares again."

"So?"

"So you're not getting better. Clearly, whatever it is that you're doing, it's not working."

"I'm fine, I'm—I'm coping."

Talia only sighed.

Jason rubbed a hand over his face and leaned an elbow on the table. "What do you want from me?"

"You know the answer to that."

"I'm not going back to the loony bin. I'm not crazy."

"That's not what I'm suggesting." Talia said, sipping her coffee and glancing at Jason's pale, drawn face. "Although it wouldn't exactly be out of line. You look like you haven't slept in weeks."

"I've slept."

"You don't even own a bed."

"I have a couch, and I thought I asked you to stop having your cronies trace me."

Talia shrugged and sipped her coffee, "you asked..."

"Well now I'm telling. I don't need you checking up on me."

"History begs to differ." Talia said simply.

"Right." Jason said, flicking the saltshaker and watching it glide near the edge of the table. "So sorry to burden you."

"You're not a burden." Talia said, picking up the salt and placing it back in front of the napkin dispenser. "But I retain my right to keep tabs. I worry about you being alone."

"Dr. Shelley said it was fine."

"She said a lot of things and I find her trust in you endearing, but unlike her, I know you."

"I'm not like Bruce, I don't keep things bottled up until I explode."

"I'm not so convinced."

"I'm not," Jason insisted, desperate to make himself believe it. "I'm not like him."

Talia nodded sympathetically and placed a hand on Jason's fist. "I know you're not."

"Because I'm not."

"I know."

The two sat in silence for a while, looking everywhere but at each other as the sounds of clinking silverware and low chattering voices filled the space between them.

"Maybe you're right, maybe I shouldn't keep tracking you." Talia relented.

"Daddy finally catch wind of your unhealthy obsession?"

"It has nothing to do with my Father."

"Finally realized you can't use me to get to Batman, then?

Talia shifted in her seat. "Look, I readily admit that, initially, that was my reason for taking you into my keeping."

"Mmhmm," Jason hummed, taking a sip of his coffee.

"But despite what you might think. I'm not heartless, Jason. Even I can't spend a year tending to someone without growing some kind of attachment."

"Wow, Tal, you're breaking my heart."

"God knows why I care, you certainly don't make it easy."

"Yeah, that's what my Pops always said, minus the first part."

"There's no end to your parent issues, are there?"

"You're one to talk."

Talia smiled and brushed her hair behind her ear. "At least my father knows I'm alive."

Jason rolled his eyes. "That would hurt if my real dad wasn't dead or if I considered Bruce to be one."

"Jason—" Talia started, but she stopped herself, deciding to take one fight at a time. "I don't think you should be living alone."

Jason's face fell immediately as he prepared to retread what felt like an age-old argument. "Where do you propose I go? Ol' Pops al Ghul kicked me out, if you remember."

"There are other options."

"Is that so?"

"Bruce—"

"You're not serious—" Jason cut her off, curling a fist on the table.

"Don't you think it's time he knew you were alive? You've been in Gotham for two years now."

"I don't think you can count that first year." Jason said and Talia's face twitched with an almost imperceptible wince.

"Regardless," she shook her head, gathering herself, "he can offer you the help that you deny you need."

"And what kind of help is that exactly? Emotionally repressed conversations? Looks of disappointment? Oh, oh, I know: reminders of what a failure I am!"

"Bruce still cares about you." Talia replied, pausing when Jason scoffed. She knew the boy would bristle at Batman's mention, but his hunched shoulders belied a lingering insecurity concerning his surrogate father that assured her conclusion had been correct: Jason wanted Bruce's acceptance, even if he was completely loathe to admit it.

"I'm not going back there, Talia. I've had enough tough love for a lifetime."

Both Talia and Jason leaned back when the waitress—'Mary' her yellowed nametag indicated—came by and refilled their mugs. They affirmed that, no, they weren't ready to order, and then they sat in silence for a moment, watching the swirling, diaphanous fumes while they waited for Mary to get back out of earshot.

"He would help you if you asked." Talia said finally, breaking the silence.

"I know."

"You know, and—?"

"And I don't want his help." Jason concluded simply, picking up his steaming coffee cup and blowing on it.

"I don't believe you," Talia insisted, eyes hard and impenetrable.

"Oh no?"

"You do want his help, but what you need is something he can't give, so you'd rather run away like a dog with its tail between its legs than face up to the truth."

"That's not fair."

"Life's not fair," Talia spat before she could stop herself. She paused, cringed, and placed her hand on Jason's arm in apology. "Your death wasn't fair," she amended, "for anyone."

Jason rolled his eyes, "I didn't see anyone else in that grave with me." He took a sip of his coffee. It burned his tongue. "Of course, I couldn't see much of anything when I was digging my way out."

"So you blame Bruce for everything?"

Jason rubbed his burnt tongue against the roof of his mouth. "No, I don't blame him for—for that. It wasn't his fault."

"It wasn't yours either, Jason."

"Sure," Jason said, voice uncertain. "I know that."

Talia leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. "Well if not him, then what about your brother?

"Dick? He's not my brother."

"I know your relationship with him is strained—"

"More like nonexistent," Jason muttered under his breath. He was acting like a child, he could feel it, but he couldn't stop. Talk of the Bat family always brought out the worst in him. "Where's this coming from, anyway? Sick of playing babysitter?"

"I told you, I'm worried."

"Worried about what? That I'm backtracking? That my progress has bottomed out? They didn't even think I'd be able to speak again, cut me some fucking slack."

"Whether you admit it or not, something is going on with you. You don't seem like yourself, and I don't think following your current routine is going to change anything."

"Don't seem like myself?" Jason asked. His brain was stuck on the phrase. Talia continued to speak, but he didn't hear it. His mind was whirling, and he couldn't control it.

'Not like himself.' Who was he exactly? He didn't know— that was one of the questions he tried to avoid answering. He didn't trust his memories, they were too malleable, he didn't even trust reality half the time. There were no answers to be found here, everyone was as clueless as he was, but they pretended not to be. He remembered being like that, not having to question who he was, or why he was—just simply being. Now it wasn't so easy, now his existence needed answers, but there were none to be found. They were still in his grave, waiting for him, taunting him to come back and retrieve them.

His heart thundered against his chest and a distant, high-pitched scream sounded in his ear. He couldn't get enough air, the smell of greasy food and cigarette smoke was too dense, it was suffocating him. He was sure Talia was saying his name, but he couldn't make his mouth move to tell her he was okay. He thought he might vomit, he thought he might die.

He felt pressure around his wrist and then he was being wrenched to the edge of the booth. "And you question why I worry," a voice echoed in his ear before his head was pushed between his knees.

"What's wrong with him?" A muffled voice sounded from his left, cutting through the shrieking siren in his brain.

"Nothing. He's fine, can you bring us some water and a cloth?"

He didn't hear a response, just the squeaking of rubber soles on linoleum. The fog was starting to clear from his brain. He was nauseous and his face felt hot, but soon the scuffed tile floor came into clearer focus and the buzzing diner chatter forced it's way back into his consciousness. "Sorry," he managed. His mouth was dry and his tongue got stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Talia didn't reply, she just pressed a cold, wet cloth onto his forehead, wiping it across both cheeks before moving it to the nape of his neck. It felt comforting, like something his Mom used to do before the drugs took her completely.

"Can you sit up?" Talia asked after a while. Jason wasn't sure how long they'd stayed like that, his mind was having trouble keeping up and he thought he might have dozed off.

He nodded and straightened. His vision darkened for a moment, but quickly righted itself again.

"You're bone white," Talia said and pushed a glass of water towards him. There was orange juice on the table, and Jason couldn't stop fixating on it. He didn't know when it had gotten there and the inconsistency bothered him.

"Jason," Talia said, pulling him from his thoughts. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Uh…"

"I want you to drink the water and then some of the orange juice, your blood sugar is too low."

"It has nothing to do with my blood sugar." Jason said, but he took a sip of the water, anyway. He was so unbelievably thirsty.

Talia watched as he gulped down the water, and then placed the orange juice in front of him. "Finish this and then we can order you a meal."

"If you're expecting me to put up a fight, I'm not going to," Jason said, picking up the orange juice and swallowing a mouthful.

"Is that supposed to reassure me that you're capable of living alone? You just had a fucking panic attack, Jason. What happens when no one's there to help you?"

"It hardly ever happens."

"That doesn't answer my question," Talia said, slamming her fist on the table.

"What the fuck do you want from me? I cope. I take hot showers, I work out, I lie on the floor, I do whatever the fuck I have to but I get through it." Jason replied, anger mounting. "What I don't do is go crawling back to the guy that let my killer go and then replaced me. I never do that. I'd never want to do it."

Talia straightened in understanding. "So you know about that."

"How could I not know? I have a television. Despite what people think, I read the newspaper. It wasn't exactly hard to figure out."

"I know it's difficult—"

"And I still don't understand why you're so hell-bent on me going back to him. I know you have an ulterior motive, Talia. My brain might've been scrambled, but I'm not stupid. There's a reason you're here and there's a reason you came to see me."

Talia said nothing, just folded her arms on the table, face unreadable.

"And you still don't want to tell me. Fine, that's fine." Jason said, pulling himself from the table. His knees wobbled but he managed to stay upright and force his way out of the diner into the cold outside air. He slumped on the curb, ignoring the jingling of bells indicating someone following him out.

Talia didn't say a word as she lowered herself next to him. It was a nostalgic feeling to have her sitting by his side, the wind whipping their hair.

"I'm angry," Jason said, eyes pointed forward, watching strangers scurry by, holding their loved ones close to ward off the cold.

"I can see that." Talia agreed.

"I mean, I've been dealt some shitty cards," Jason clarified, "and I'm angry about that."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

Jason sighed and rolled his shoulders, "Forget."

"Does that work?"

"Hell no, but it's all I've got."

"Maybe not." Talia replied. It was cryptic, but she didn't offer an explanation, and Jason didn't ask for one.

A black car rolled up and Talia stood up, brushing debris from her coat. "That's my ride."

"Leaving so soon?" Jason asked, pushing himself up from the curb. "Why don't we go out and get something harder than coffee?"

Talia watched the boy. He was putting forth great effort to appear normal, but her well-trained eye could still spot the tremors in his arms and the sweat on his brow. "You're underage."

"Aw, c'mon, Tal. You're a lousy villain, you know that?"

Talia's mouth quirked into a smile and she cupped Jason's face with her hand. "You know how to contact me." She said before leaning in and gently kissing his cheek.

"Yeah, yeah," Jason said, quirking a half smile as Talia made her way to the car.

She rolled down the window once she'd closed the door. "I mean it, Jason!" She called. "Think about what we discussed."

"Not on your life," Jason mumbled to himself, throwing up a halfhearted wave as the car rolled away.

He felt drained from the encounter. He still needed to go to the grocery store, but he decided to go in the evening, when the streets were less busy. 'Of course, that means I'll have to be extra watchful to avoid any pesky caped crusaders.' He thought, frowning.

The walk back to his apartment was blessedly short. He stopped by the mail room on his way, picking up his newspaper and a few bills. He tucked the newspaper under his arm and sifted through the letters as he bound up the steps. Floor 3, Room F: he knew the way by memory. He pulled the key from his pocket when he neared the door, pushing it into the lock and turning it with a pause.

It was already unlocked. He swore he'd locked it, he could forget a lot of things, but never that. Locking the door was as base an instinct as breathing. He knew he wouldn't have neglected to do it.

Jason looked up and down the hallways, mildly satisfied that he hadn't been followed, before placing a gentle grip on the handle and turning it slowly. His whole body tensed as he pushed the door open. He threw his back into the wall, fists raised as he moved through the apartment, turning into each room, searching each corner. After checking the closets and the bathtub, he let his posture relax a little. Whomever it was, they were gone by now.

He was still uneasy. He couldn't stop thinking about the possibility of a hidden bomb, as unlikely as it may be. Jason knew it was probably just maintenance replacing a light bulb or something equally as mundane, but he found himself ripping the cushions off the couch, anyway, pulling every item out of the cabinets and drawers, and pushing all the furniture to the middle of the room.

Soon he collapsed on a discarded couch cushion, sweating more from anxiety than exertion. 'This is not my day,' Jason thought as he concentrated on taking deep breaths in an attempt to gather himself.

Jason pulled himself up and made his way back to the hallway closet. He dug through all his coat pockets before turning his attention to the mound of journals and self-help books stacked on the floor beneath an extra blanket. There was a time when he would've scoffed at people obsessed with "self discovery." It was indulgent and representative of upper-class malaise: you don't worry about the purpose of your life when you're too busy jacking tires to sustain it. But here he was with these shameful titles shoved in the back of his closet like a porn stash.

He bit his bottom lip, yanked the blanket away, and instantly froze. "The fuck, Talia," he moaned to no one and slumped to his knees. There was a handgun, just sitting there atop a book about "Man's Search for Meaning."

He knew it was Talia's doing, this was just like her. She would trick him with kind words—con him into believing in her humanity—and then she would pull a stunt like this: something so incredibly selfish and disconcerting that he felt his heart immediately harden against her. To give a mentally unstable person a weapon—he didn't know if she intended him to use it on himself or others.

His knee-jerk reaction was to throw it out the window, but the idea of some kid picking it up and shooting himself or his friend made his stomach turn, so he pulled the stack of books forward—letting them pool around his knees—and wrapped the gun in the discarded blanket. Once it was securely bound, he placed it in the corner of the closet and re-stacked the books around it. It was sloppy, but it would suffice until he found a way to get it back to Talia, destroy it, or both.

Jason slammed the closet door shut and leaned against the opposite wall, combing his hair back with his hand as he exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Tell Talia she can go fuck herself!" He yelled into his empty apartment.

He sat there for a while, purveying the upheaval in his home, swallowing back his embarrassment. Something this small would never have bothered him before. He missed his old cavalier attitude—the feeling that death couldn't touch him.

He gripped the wall and pulled himself to his feet, toeing off his shoes and leaving them in the middle of the hallway as he made his way back to the living room. He flicked on the overhead and pushed the couch back to the wall, stopping in his task of replacing cushions to turn on the television. This time it was the old Peanuts Thanksgiving movie playing. Jason smiled despite himself as Charlie Brown lamented, "Holidays always depress me."

He stood there for a while in the middle of the room, overloaded mind spacing as he stared at the TV screen. 'Mail,' his brain supplied randomly, and then he was traipsing around his upturned apartment, trying to figure out where he'd tossed it. When he found the letters at the front door, he halfway expected there to be an unmarked envelope with a cryptic message. Of course, there was none. Instead, his eye caught the front page of the newspaper. "Batman and Robin Stop Death Cult Scheme," the headline read in black, bold letters.

He ignored the bills and scooped up the paper, eyes glued to the page as he marched to the brightly lit living room. 'I don't care,' he told himself as he unfolded the newspaper with trembling fingers. 'I don't fucking care.'

He stared at the image on the page: Batman perched on the side of a building, looking proud beside a costumed young boy, backlit by the full moon. 'That's Robin,' his mind reminded him as he blinked at the picture.

Jason tossed the paper into the kitchen trashcan before he had time to fully process it. He would've brought it down to the dumpster, but he didn't think he could handle being social should the need arise. Instead, he went back to the couch and turned the television volume as high as it would go. He sat there, back stiff and nails digging into his knees as hot tears dripped down his cheeks.

"Fuck," Jason choked. He couldn't even hear himself over Peppermint Patty's bitching.

Somehow he'd managed to fall sleep. He didn't remember the exact moment it happened, just that one second he was curled on his side—fighting the urge to dig the newspaper out of the trashcan—and the next, he was waking up to "Planes, Train, and Automobiles" and feeling marginally more sane.

He lifted himself up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and checking the time on his phone. It was half past 9 and all he'd managed to do was commune with an evil lady, tear his apartment apart, and have an emotional breakdown over the surrogate Father he supposedly didn't care about. 'Dr. Shelley would be so proud.' He thought, making his way to the bedroom and tripping over his forgotten shoes.

Jason pulled his favorite red hoodie over his head before layering his jacket over it. It was later than he'd usually go out—he wasn't scared of the streets; hell, they were practically a second home to him; but the night was when the Bat and his consorts were on patrol, and Jason tried to avoid contact with them at all costs. Still, he was determined to do at least one productive thing today, even if finally going to the store and making himself eat barely qualified.

He shoved his feet back into his shoes on the way to the door and fingered the key in his pocket before peering out the peephole into the hall. Finding it empty, he reached for the doorknob, only to stand there, frozen in place. He looked back at the closet. He thought about taking the gun with him—imagined what the metal might feel like against his skin—and his breath felt cold in his chest.

Jason shook his head and pushed his way into the hallway, locking the door behind him and checking it three times. He half-jogged the three blocks to the nearest store, happy to get as much distance as possible between him and the handgun in his hallway closet.

Fat white snowflakes floated down and got stuck to his eyelashes. Jason stuffed his hands into his pockets and smiled at the sky, watching the snow glistening in the city's light. The cold in Gotham was relentless, but his head felt clear for the first time in a while. He missed this: feeling like the city belonged to him, like nothing could touch him.

The shining neon lights of the store approached all too quickly. It was mostly empty inside, though, and for that, Jason was grateful. He picked up a basket and wandered the aisles listlessly, halfway wishing he had put any sort of forethought into what he needed.

He grabbed a box of pasta off a shelf and tossed it in his basket, glancing up in time to see three guys around his age slink to the back of the store near the beer and wine coolers. Jason knew he should ignore them and finish his shopping, but old habits kicked in and he found himself drifting towards the group, pretending to read labels as he listened in on their conversation.

"Just do it, man. Don't be such a pussy." A tall boy with a neck tattoo said, barely even trying to conceal his voice.

"I'd do your Mom's pussy." A kid with a buzz cut and blue hoodie interjected from the side.

"Shut up, dude." The tall boy said, pushing his friend back by the shoulder. "That's fucking nasty."

"Yeah, have you seen his Mom?" A kid with red cheeks and curly brown hair snickered.

Jason watched as a middle-aged woman with blonde hair and yoga pants skirted around the group, mumbling, "excuse me," when she pulled open the freezer door and it bumped Buzz Cut.

The boy looked over his shoulder and eyed the woman, miming stroking his dick to his buddies before turning around and placing his palm on the open freezer door. He slammed it shut, barely missing her hand when she withdrew it with a yelp.

"What's your problem, Lady?" He asked, stepping towards her with a murderous look.

Jason's body tensed as he watched over the shelf. He thought the boys were just in here to steal some beer: a crime, sure, but relatively harmless. The way they were carrying on didn't make sense. They should be acting as quiet and nondescript as possible—not trying to assault some random woman.

Jason casually walked out from between the cereal and chips. He acted oblivious as he placed himself between the boys and the woman, feigning intense interest in the frozen meals. The woman took her chance to take off towards the front of the store, but Buzz Cut remained undeterred, brushing Jason's shoulder as he held pursuit.

Jason grabbed his forearm and pulled him back. "Hey man, back off," He warned, voice low and calm.

"Who the fuck are you?" Buzz Cut wrenched his arm from Jason's grip, obviously annoyed by his interference.

"You think it makes you tough to rough up some innocent lady?" Jason asked, ignoring the question.

"What are you, her fucking husband?"

"Look, why don't you and your friends just go back home, jerk each other off, and cry about how you're too ugly to get girlfriends."

Jason barely managed to dodge the punch Red Cheeks hurled at his head. The freezer door exploded into glass shards and someone started screaming to call the police.

"You guys need to chill the fuck out and go home!" Jason yelled, swinging his elbow into Neck Tattoo's stomach when he tried to grab him by the throat. The boy fell to his knees with a gasp, struggling to catch his breath.

"Nah, not really feeling that," Buzz Cut said, brandishing a knife and stepping around Red Cheeks who was busy wailing over his bleeding hand.

Jason fought the urge to roll his eyes, but froze when he heard the squeak of shoes on linoleum behind him. Buzz Cut used this brief distraction to lunge forward, but Jason sidestepped easily. He whirled around to see two older looking bulked up guys blocking the aisle, doing their best to look stupid and menacing.

"Of fucking course," Jason sighed, lifting his fists in defense. Batman would've never made this mistake: he'd have assumed the baddies would have back up, and then he'd devise some brilliant scheme to outwit them, rather than just take them down by brute force. Jason was rusty, though, and anyway, he was a street kid at heart. He preferred to act first, ask questions later. Decisively not like Batman.

The new guys wasted no time in attacking. Jason deflected their punches, forearms aching from the impact. 'What the fuck are these guys on?' He thought, grunting when he blocked a hit and the force sent him slamming into a shelf of juice. Big plastic bottles fell to the ground and burst, splashing the tiles with purple and red.

Another fist came rocketing by his head and Jason whipped around—successfully avoiding it—but slipping in the juice and falling flat on his back. He lay there blinking, disoriented and still just long enough for a hard kick to meet his side. Jason coughed at the impact, tasting copper in his mouth. He rolled when another foot tried to find him and kicked out his legs, sending the two guys toppling to the floor.

Jason heard a woman screaming at the front of the store as he scrambled back to his feet. He quickly took stock and realized that Buzz Cut and Neck Tattoo were missing. "Shit," he cursed and grabbed a hold of the nearest rack, pulling it down on the meat-heads for a momentary distraction. He ran off in the opposite direction, not bothering to see if he was being pursued as he skirted around a corner and grabbed a broom off the wall.

"Let her go," He yelled as he approached the front of the store, broom brandished in front of him like a spear. He almost dropped it when he saw the blonde woman sitting on the checkout conveyor belt, legs crossed with a smile as Buzz Cut kissed her neck.

"Dude, she's way too old for you," Jason grimaced, glancing to his right at a handful of hunched and scared looking pedestrians. Neck Tattoo stood over them, tapping a hammer menacingly in his open palm.

Buzz Cut kissed Blonde's neck one more time, nipping at her ear before picking up his knife off the counter. He pressed it to the woman's neck, sending her into an eruption of giggles, before turning around and pointing it at Jason.

"If the knife comes with neck kisses I'll pass," Jason said, holding the broom in front of his chest.

"What, are you going to sweep the floor, princess?" Buzz Cut mocked, rushing forward.

Jason dodged him easily, jutting the end of the broom into the kid's stomach. The boy bent over with a gasp to try and catch his breath, and Jason took the opportunity to slip the broom against his neck, pushing him to the wall and pinning his wrists there with his forearms. Jason growled through gritted teeth as he pushed the broom handle against the kid's neck. He heard the knife clatter to the ground, but waited until he felt the boy's body slacken before easing the pressure.

"Sweep the floor with you, maybe," Jason smirked, stepping back and letting Buzz Cut's body crumple to the ground.

"What a fucking pansy," Neck Tattoo laughed from across the store.

Buzz Cut started groaning at his feet, and Jason stepped on his chest, "I wouldn't get up if I were you."

"Maybe you should take your own advice," a deep voice sounded behind him. Jason reacted too slowly to avoid the fist against his jaw. He knew how to take a hit; he let his body move with the impact and managed to deflect a lot of the force. Even so, he found himself stumbling backwards, just barely managing to stay upright.

'These guys hit hard,' he thought, bracing himself for a fight.

Neck Tattoo's laughing neared hysterics. "Oh shit, that is some fucking action movie shit!" He swung his hammer around, giggling in delight as the pedestrians gasped and huddled closer together.

"Hey, watch it!" Jason yelled at the kid.

"I wouldn't worry about them, if I were you," The big guy said, sending another first flying towards Jason's head.

Jason lunged out of the way and the big guy sent an energy drink display crashing to the ground. "Stand still, you little punk." The man growled, his voice deep and gravely.

"I'm good," Jason replied, ducking down an aisle for cleaning supplies. These guys were too big for him to take down with force, but he felt confident that even with his scrambled brains, he had enough street smarts to outwit them.

He grabbed a bottle of bleach off the shelf and quickly unscrewed it, stuffing the cap in his pocket and putting the open bottle back in its place.

"No use running, punk," Big Guy #2 smiled, advancing towards Jason with his fists balled at his sides.

"Gee, thanks for the insight, Tweedledum," Jason said, pulling the cap out of his pocket and throwing it down the aisle past the hulking man's body. The guy glanced over his shoulder but turned back in time to catch Jason's approaching fist in his meaty palm.

"You didn't seriously think that would work?" he laughed.

"No, not really," Jason said, grabbing the bottle of bleach off the shelf and chucking the liquid into the guy's face. The man screamed in agony and released Jason's fist, too busy rubbing at his eyes to keep track of the smaller boy.

Jason took advantage of the distraction and kicked the guy's legs out from under him, wincing slightly at the loud crack that sounded from his head meeting linoleum. 'One down," he ticked off his mental tally, feeling pleased with himself.

"Fucking idiot," Big Guy #1 emerged in the aisle, kicking his partner's body out of the way.

"Oh, hey, Tweedledee. Don't think I forgot about you." Jason said, starting to pick up another bottle of bleach.

The big guy moved fast despite his size, he charged into Jason, slamming his body into a wall of first aid supplies and making him drop the bottle of cleaner. "Don't you even think about trying that trick on me, kid."

Jason coughed and struggled to get free. He couldn't move his arms, so he kicked his leg out as hard as he could, right into the big guy's crotch. The man immediately eased up his grip and crumpled into himself. Jason took his chance and scrambled away, cheeks burning. It wasn't a proud victory, but hell, it was better than death.

"You're fucking getting it now, kid!" The big guy yelled.

Jason bounded back towards the front of the store, grabbing a pack of pens off the wall and ripping it open. He pulled a few out and let the rest fall to the floor, ignoring the heavy footsteps behind him as he made his way towards Neck Tattoo.

"Hey, hurry up you idiot," Neck Tattoo's laugh died completely when Jason emerged from an aisle and grabbed him by the collar. He raised his hammer to retaliate, but Jason caught his wrist easily and twisted it behind his back. "Let go," The boy shrieked, panic permeating his tone.

"I wouldn't struggle if I were you," Jason warned, holding an uncapped pen against his throat. "Or else you're gonna get some more ink in that pretty neck of yours."

Seconds later, Big Guy #1 found his way to the front of the store. Jason smirked at his limping gait. "Hey ugly," he called, "I wouldn't move unless you want your buddy here to get an unscheduled tracheotomy."

The man just smirked and chuckled in that low, growling voice. "Like I give a shit about that brat." He crossed the room in three quick steps and ripped Neck Tattoo from Jason's grip, slinging the kid into an array of multi-colored slushie machines.

"Geez, way to be brutal," Jason grimaced as he watched the boy's body fall limp as a ragdoll into a puddle of frozen blue slush.

Big Guy #1 ignored him, aiming a fist for Jason's exposed stomach.

"What, no moment of silence for your fallen comrade?" Jason asked, dodging the blow but slipping in the sticky blueberry flavored mess. He made a show of getting back to his feet to distract from his foot kicking the hammer from Neck Tattoo's grip towards the other side of the store. "Let's move this away from our audience, huh, Tweedledee?" Jason taunted, starting to clamber towards the discarded tool.

"Whaddya think I'm an idiot, punk?" The big guy asked, reaching to grab his prey by the shirttail.

Jason sensed his approach and dove to the floor, sliding across the linoleum till the hammer's rubber handle rested firmly in his palm. He scrambled his body over and flung the weapon into the big guy's shin. The man roared in pain and kicked out blindly. His foot glanced across Jason's shoulder, but he ignored the pain, pulling himself to his feet and nailing the man across his head.

The big guy stumbled to the side, but Jason didn't relent. He reared back and struck him again, holding the hammer in both hands and panting as the giant of a man moaned and fell to the floor with a sickening thud.

Everything was still for a moment. Jason was almost in disbelief. After years of retirement, he had managed to take down all those guys on his own. Sure, it wasn't his most graceful work ever, but he had done it. He wanted to smile—he wanted to laugh. He hadn't felt like this since that rainy night three years ago when he had conquered lacquered wood and six feet of hard-packed soil with a belt buckle and determination. He felt like a survivor. For the first time since he had emerged from his grave, forcefully reborn into a life he hadn't asked to revisit: he felt like himself.

"Well, that was entertaining." The blonde woman said, folding her arms over her chest.

Jason started. He had forgotten she was there. The pedestrians stood hesitantly, hugging each other and crying tears of relief.

"Don't move!" The blonde said, pointing Buzz Cut's knife at the crowd. Jason had no idea when she'd gotten up to retrieve it, and he felt stupid for not noticing it was no longer on the ground.

"What the hell is your game?" Jason asked, attempting to take a step back but meeting resistance. He glanced up just soon enough to see the dark blur of a wine bottle colliding with the side of his head. The force sent him careening into the rack next to him, a display of snack cakes crumpling under his weight.

Blood and alcohol dribbled down the side of his head. His vision wavered dangerously as he righted himself. He tried to stand but his legs weren't cooperating. His limbs felt weak and sluggish and he found himself wishing he'd had something to eat today.

"Don't turn your back on an enemy. Isn't that like rule #1?" He heard Buzz Cut say before turning to Blonde. "And they said he'd be hard to take down!" His voice sounded distant and garbled, like the bad reception on his old TV set. Jason blinked over and over, trying to clear his vision as the boy picked up the bloody hammer from the floor and sauntered over to the group of pedestrians.

"Run!" Jason yelled, but his voice wouldn't project properly. He grabbed onto the rack behind him and pulled his body up, ignoring the way the floor tilted with his movement. He could hear screams and pleads as Buzz Cut dragged a young boy out of the herd of customers. "Get the fuck out of here!" Jason tried again, stumbling forward and grabbing onto the closest shelf for support.

No one heard him, or maybe they just didn't care. Buzz Cut raised the hammer over his head and Jason felt his world spinning wildly as he lowered it with force.

A gunshot broke out, the thunderous tone of it's blast shattering the fog in Jason's skull. His world flickered into darkness for a moment and then there was blood on the floor—a big puddle of it, dark and red.

The blonde woman shrieked.

"What?" Jason mouthed. His head throbbed in tune with the woman's wailing and his vision tunnel precariously. He couldn't keep up with the course of events.

The blonde woman's body slid limply off the counter. She clamped her hands hard against her face, digging little red crescents into her cheeks and forehead. "They fucking lied to us," she gasped. "They fucking lied, those pieces of shit!" Her voice rose in volume, making her sound increasingly unhinged. She rounded on Jason and pointed a finger at him, "You—you fucking psycho! You fucking killed him!"

Jason stared at her and tried to make sense of what she was saying. He blinked slowly, watching her mouth move and her neck veins bulge. She was talking to him, though he wasn't sure why. "Chill lady, I don't even have a gun—" he started to say, but before the words could fully leave his mouth, he felt it in his hand—the cold weighted metal. His heart wrenched in his chest. It wasn't possible.

Jason lifted the weapon to examine it, and the blonde woman—taking it as a threat—lunged for him, wrapping her hands around his neck. He didn't try to fight her. His mind was too far away, desperately trying to traverse the series of events that had composed his revival. He remembered the coffin, the darkness, the pain, the fear—he remembered a lot of things, things he wished he didn't. But he didn't remember taking the gun with him. He didn't remember drawing it, and he especially didn't remember shooting it.

"Hold it right there," an older man's voice said. Jason hardly registered the words, but he did notice when the pressure left his neck. He peeked up, wincing at the red and blue lights flashing against the melted snowflakes on the storefront windows: the police had arrived.

"What in god's name happened here," another voice sounded.

Jason scooted himself up and pulled his hood over his head. Even with the incessant drumming in his temples and the flurry of questions whirling through his mind, he was astute enough to realize he needed to get out of there, and fast. It was unlikely that the police would recognize him, despite his various run-ins with the Gotham PD in the time before his resurrection; but even so, he had a gun on him and there was a kid dead on the floor with a bullet in his head. It didn't look good for him, no matter the circumstances.

Jason glanced to all sides, assessing his situation. At the moment there were only 2 cops inside, and they were thoroughly preoccupied with the panicked pedestrians, the blonde, and the passed out goons. Jason stood slowly, his head careened, but adrenaline took over and steadied his shaking knees. He pulled his hood over his head and took a step backwards. No one acknowledged him, so he took another step and another, progressively crouching down until he had slipped through the back door.

Jason breathed a sigh of relief when he stepped out the door to find the alley deserted. The police inside must have been the first to respond, but judging by the cacophony of sirens piercing the quiet night, back up would be soon to arrive.

He took a few quick seconds to breathe and collect himself, before taking off at a sprint, mapping out the back streets in his head as he ran.

"Where do you think you're going?" A voice called. The familiarity of it stopped him in his tracks. The tone was hard with an underlying softness. Dick.

Jason's heart pounded against his chest. He wasn't sure how to play this off. Should he run? Should he just turn around, put on his old shit-eating grin, and act like rising from the dead was a totally commonplace thing to do? He didn't know, how the fuck could he know?

Jason felt a hand on his shoulder and nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn't heard Dick approach over his own racing pulse. "Everything alright there, kid?"

Jason pulled himself out of Nightwing's grip and turned around to face him. He backed into the shadows of the alley, hoping the darkened side street and his hood were enough to keep his face hidden.

"What, cat got your tongue?" Dick asked, placing a hand on his hip. He looked so different from Bruce like that. The Bat would never let his body language soften in front of a potential criminal.

Jason just stood there dumbly, his mind strayed to the gun, but he pushed the thought away, thoroughly disgusted with himself.

"Look, I'm not trying to lock you away or anything, but I can't just let a suspect run off." Dick said, voice hardening again as he crossed his arms over his chest. "You're coming with me whether you like it or not, but I'd rather not use force"

"Do you realize how dirty that sounds?" Jason remarked. He couldn't help himself, he sensed his old snark momentarily superseding his fear, and it felt good. It felt normal.

"So you do have a voice," Dick softened again. "What do you say we head back so you can give your testimony?"

"Like I'm going anywhere with a dude in a bodysuit."

"Resist me too much longer and you'll get a nice bright orange one of your own."

Jason took a half step back, "I didn't kill that guy." He said, even though he still wasn't sure.

"Then you don't have anything to worry about."

"Courts don't exactly favor teenage guys that look like me, I've heard about what happened to those dudes in Arkansas."

"That was years ago, things have changed." Dick said and uncrossed his arms. "Look, you're coming with me either way, but I can tell you things definitely aren't going to go in your favor if you don't return of your own volition. You already ran, but at least if you go back, you have a reasonable defense that your ditching a crime scene was just out of fear."

Jason shook his head imperceptibly and took another step backwards, bumping into a metal trashcan and sending it clattering to the floor. He winced at the sound. "Fine. I'll go."

"Good decision." Dick relaxed, nodding.

Jason huffed and bent over to pick up the trashcan. "Sure," he said, wrapping his hands around each handle. He went to lift the metal bin, but instead of putting it back, he flung it at Nightwing with all his strength, not waiting to see if it made contact before taking off at a full sprint down the alley. It was stupid to run, his chances of escaping were slim to none, but he had to try. He wasn't one to give up without a fight.

Jason whipped around a corner and spotted a fire escape. He didn't bother to check behind him before jumping and grabbing on to the bottom rung. He pulled his body up, thankful that his arms were still strong enough to support him, and rolled onto the bottom platform. His head spun with the exertion, but he ignored it, bounding up the steps two at a time.

When he made it to the top, Jason stepped back and examined the distance to the roof. He wished he had the grapple gun, it would make this so much easier, but he figured if he stood on the railing, he'd probably be able to make it. He leaned over the side to peer at the ground. There was no sign of Nightwing. It was odd, but he had no doubt that he was being pursued.

The snow was falling thickly now. He shivered and sucked in a breath, rolling his shoulders before grabbing the frigid railing with his bare hands. He lifted one foot onto the steel bar and then the other, slowly standing and moving his hands one at a time to the building's brick façade.

'This is stupid, this is so fucking stupid,' he thought as he bent his knees. He gritted his teeth anyway and jumped with all his strength, just barely managing to grab on to the building edge with the tips of his fingers. He kicked his legs and tried to push his body up, but he didn't have a good enough grip to leverage himself. This wasn't going to work, he realized. His heart started racing. He was going to die. He was going to die again.

He felt fire burning away his throat and his lungs. 'No no no,' his mind raced as the memory of a ticking clock echoed in his ears. He didn't even feel it when hands wrapped around his forearms and hoisted him onto the roof. He stared blindly at the sky, totally unaware of the snowflakes stinging his eyes. There was solid ground beneath his back, but his mind was hundreds of miles away in a warehouse in Ethiopia.

"Geez, kid, you trying to get yourself killed?" Dick asked. Jason didn't respond, he was still too numb and disoriented. He felt hands traveling up his body, checking for injuries. He tried to protest, but his body wouldn't obey. Dick moved his hood back and Jason wanted to scream at him to stop as fingers gently probed the nasty cuts in his hairline.

Dick drew his hands back and hissed. "I can't see anything in this dark, hold on a second."

"S'okay, I don' need—" Jason slurred, feebly trying to push himself up with his elbows.

Dick eased him back down effortlessly. "I think you have a concussion, just hold on a second." He said, right before shining a light in Jason's face.

Jason tried to shield his face with his hands but it was too late, Dick had already dropped the flashlight—had already yelled and grabbed the younger boy's face between his hands. "You—you can't." The older boy gasped. His voice sounded thick, like he was on the verge of tears. It made Jason uncomfortable.

"Sorry," Jason said. It felt so lame. He didn't know what to say, but Dick didn't seem to mind. He was running his fingers lightly over his face, relearning his features, or maybe trying to convince himself he was real.

"God, you're so thin." Dick fussed, brushing Jason's blood-matted hair from his face.

Jason swatted his hands away but didn't speak. His words were caught in his throat. He didn't know how to deal with any of this.

"Aren't you going to ask what happened?" He managed finally.

"I—I don't really care about how you're back right now, Jay." Dick said, half laughing, "I just, I can't believe—you're alive."

"Not about that." Jason amended. He pushed himself up with a grunt and Dick immediately put an arm around his back to help him. "The convenience store."

"Oh," Dick sounded surprised, like he had already forgotten.

"I—that kid," Jason said, gesturing in the direction of the store. "I didn't mean—I don't know what—"

"It's okay," Dick reassured him, grabbing his forearm with one hand and his shoulder with the other. It'd been a while since Jason had been touched so affectionately, and it made him uncomfortable. "Anything you did…it was in self-defense."

"It was." Jason said, trying to convince himself.

"I know, Jay, of course." Dick said. He paused before adding, "you have to go back with me."

"To the store? But I—"

"No, not to the store. To the mansion."

"But what about giving my statement?"

"Things have changed, it's probably not a good idea to give out your identity, considering, well—"

"I'm dead."

Dick inhaled sharply. "Were," he corrected firmly. "Were dead."

Jason shook his head slowly, rolling his eyes, "Either way, I'm not going there."

"Why not?" Dick pressed.

"Because I don't fucking want to!"

"But Bruce—"

"Let me die and then replaced me."

"Jason, that's not fair."

"You're right, my life hasn't been fair. I'm not gonna let him screw up my second shot at it." Jason said, standing, fists balled at his sides.

Dick was still, Jason couldn't see his eyes in the dark, but he knew if he could they'd be distant, his mind racing to come up with a new plan. "Okay." He said, absentmindedly standing to brace Jason when his knees tried to give out from under him.

Jason winced against the throbbing in his skull and looked up at Dick through squinted eyes, "okay?"

"I won't take you to the mansion, but I'm staying with you." Dick said, tightening his grip around the younger boy's elbow when he tried to move away. "At least for tonight."

"I don't need you babysitting me, I'm fine."

"You're clearly not!" Dick said, his voice firm and loud. Jason's stomach rolled from the volume.

"Ugh," Jason moaned and covered his eyes with his cold hands, trying to ease the whirling in his brain. Dick noticed his discomfort and eased him back to a seated position, rubbing circles on his back for comfort. "Fine," he managed desperately through clenched teeth, trying desperately not to vomit. "Fine."

"Where do you live?" Dick asked immediately, not giving the younger boy the opportunity to change his mind.

"Just a few blocks east from here on Romero."

Dick nodded. "Can you walk?"

"Yeah," Jason said, even though he wasn't totally sure. Dick wrapped an arm around him anyway, pulling him close. "Don't get too comfortable, princess." Jason elbowed the older man weakly but didn't try to pull away. He'd never admit it, but it felt good to be cared for. Even when Talia had wiped his brow to ease him through a nightmare or stitched up his hands after numerous incidents with the mirror, it always felt distant. She was doing it because she had to, because he was her responsibility—her catalyst to get to Bruce. It was never because she actually cared.

The pair traveled in silence for a while, just the distant sound of sirens and the crunching of their feet in the fresh snow disturbing the still air.

"What are you going to tell the cops?"

"I'll take care of it," Dick said simply, and Jason believed him.

"God, you're alive," Dick whispered after a while, a shiver running up his spine. "You're really alive."

Jason thought of the monster movie from earlier. Frankenstein: he had read it for a book report once. "Yeah," he said, unsure if the emotion behind the sentiment was one of fear, acceptance, or both. "I guess I am."