#Sheila Haywood (mentioned and also dead)

[scaryscarecrows]

Before You Put My Body in the Cold Ground (Take Some Time to Warm It With Your Hands)

AN: ‘Roots and Leaves’ related. Title from Brand New’s ‘Sowing Season’.

* * *

Bruce does not allow himself to speculate on the nature of the Light. Gordon turns it on for anything from ‘take this piece of evidence’ to ‘we have a new serial killer’ to ‘there’s been an Arkham breakout. Again’.

It isn’t, at least, an automatic warning sign of mayhem.

Gordon, as per usual, is standing near it, soaking up the warmth, when Bruce lands silently on the rooftop behind him. Contrary to popular opinion, he doesn’t come in from the back to be dramatic. He comes in from the back to avoid taking blinding, agonizing light to the eyes.

“Commissioner.”

Gordon jumps and swears.

“Every time…Dove Marquis wants to see you. Says she’s got temporary custody of one of your-and I’m quoting, here-‘fifty thousand children’, and would like you to come and get him.”

Well. This is unexpected.

Dick and Tim are accounted for on the way, Dick covering the night shift for a friend and Tim…interviewing…some of Harley Quinn’s on-again-off-again henchmen. Which leaves Jason.

Jim had not implied it was anything imminently fatal. And Jason, the last anybody knew, hadn’t actively picked a fight with anybody overly dangerous. It’s likely that he’s got some sort of mild, but unpleasant, injury that’s preventing him from getting home. 

That sounds weak to Bruce’s own ears. With Marquis calling Gordon about this, it’s because it’s serious or because Jason asked, and if it’s the latter…

Marquis is on her balcony with a cigarette when he arrives. There’s no sign of Jason, but surely that’s not a bad thing. Surely. It’s pouring rain, it’s late…

She looks rattled, and she keeps twisting around to glance through her doors. The feeling of unease grows, and he scans the building. The only figure in the apartment is curled up on the couch, asleep. He deems it safe to land on the balcony railing.

“Jesus-!” Her cigarette lands in a puddle with a hiss! “Good God, that’s creepy…are you socially awkward, or just an asshole?”

“Why did you tell Gordon to contact me.”

Marquis rolls her eyes.

“Asshole it is...because he asked for you. So you have to take him.” As though he wouldn’t. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t wanna know. I found him wandering around a few blocks away. He was throwing up dirt a-and fucking worms, and I spent a good forty minutes pulling shards of wood out of his hands.”

Sounds like someone thought it would be a good idea to bury him alive. Bruce will disabuse them of that notion as soon as he gets Jason home and under Alfred’s care.

“Hn.”

They go in. Jason’s scrunched up on the couch with an electric blanket over him, face smushed into a pillow. His hands are wrapped from fingertip to wrist, and he’s shivering, just a little. Bruce is more concerned about the fact that he’s not waking. He’s a light sleeper, always has been, and for him to be uncaring, unknowing, that he’s not alone…

What happened to you tonight?

He whimpers and scrunches up under the blanket, hands jerking, and Marquis says softly, “Want me to try and wake him up, or do you want to risk it?”

Neither, preferably.

The whimpers stop and he goes still, sniffling softly. Bruce sighs, calls for the car-it’ll be here by the time he gets downstairs-and pulls Jason into a fireman’s carry.

“Thank you,” he manages to say. “For. For watching him.”

“Take it up with Harley,” she says shortly, fishing out her cigarettes and heading for her porch. “Tell him I hope he feels better soon, huh?”

Jason stirs, a little, when he settles him into the Batmobile, but when Bruce tries to talk to him, his face scrunches up and he closes his eyes again. He’s tempted, he really is, to go after Harley now; Jason’s clearly all right, not even a hint of a low-grade fever, but…

But. He could have inhaled something, he could have been drugged. Bruce needs to take him home and have Alfred look at him. Harley can wait.

And this way, he’ll be more likely to keep his temper when he tracks her down.

He tousles Jason’s hair, covers him with the cape-he’s shivering now that he’s away from the electric blanket-and makes sure he’s secure before hopping into the driver’s seat and calling Alfred.

“I need you to prep the med bay,” he says. Alfred does that thing where he doesn’t really sigh, but he may as well.

“What happened this time, Master Bruce.”

It isn’t always his fault. Arguing will get him nowhere, but it really isn’t always his fault.

“I’ve got Jason,” he says, narrowly avoiding a fire hydrant that really is located too close to the curb. “He’s. It appears that somebody attempted a live burial.”

Alfred is silent.

“I will be ready and waiting for you, Master Bruce,” he says at last. “Drive safely.”

He does. Mostly. He takes care, anyway, not to come screaming into the cave in a cloud of dust and burnt rubber. Jason’s still unconscious in the back, but he wakes, a little, when he’s picked up.

“B…?”

“Hn.”

“You came.” The surprise in his voice hurts. “You really came for me.”

“Yes.” He sets him on a gurney. The clothes aren’t his, and they don’t fit him well. There’s small cuts on his face and neck, and his hands are all but mummified. “Jay—”

“My fault, I should’a—”

What?

“Jason—”

“She said it was safe,” he whispers. “She said. She said.”

And then Alfred is there, shooing Bruce out of the way and humming, “Let’s see what’s happened, Master Jason…”

Jason blinks at them for a minute before his eyes roll back. Bruce has no idea what happened. He doubts Jason would have trusted Harley Quinn. Pitied, almost certainly, but trusted? No. Somebody else was involved, somebody he doesn’t know about.

Bruce doesn’t like not knowing about things.

There’s a bump on the side of the boy’s head, and when Alfred unwraps his hands...they’re not a pretty sight. There’s a few nails missing and the remaining ones are badly broken. They’re riddled with cuts and punctures and oh. Coffin. There must have been a coffin, or at least a large wooden crate.

How did this happen?

“--ce. Master Bruce.”

“Sorry, Alfred.”

“Move aside, please...thank you. It’s a miracle his fingers are still intact.”

Bruce often thinks it’s a miracle Jason’s alive at all, after...after everything. And now, under the stark light of the medical bay, that idea comes back in force. He can’t place most of these scars, even though he knows what caused them. That one’s from a crowbar; he’s got a few of those himself. They’re a cheap, easy weapon. Or that one, there, that’s from a knife. There’s more than a few gunshot wounds, far more than he ever had from his time as Robin, and…

“There we are, Master Jason,” Alfred says, forcefully cheery, even though Jason’s not awake to care anyway. “I’m sure your father will take you upstairs.”

Some father he is. This is his fault, none of this should have happened.

He wants Harley Quinn. And once Jason’s settled in bed, he’s going to find her.

* * *

Bruce decides, when he’s back in the car (he isn’t hiding from Alfred’s disapproval, he’s just…), that he’ll start his hunt for Harley after getting what he can out of Marquis. He’s hoping she’ll be more cooperative about this than she’s been about past cases, given the circumstances. Besides, Penguin’s not involved (theoretically), so she doesn’t have any reason to withhold information, not really.

She’s still outside, but no longer smoking, when he lands on the balcony.

“Why are you here.”

“What happened.”

“Get lost.”

“I need to find Harley, but I need to know what happened.”

For a minute, he thinks she’ll just go inside. But she sighs, mutters something about too many goddamn vigilantes and never thought I’d miss the weirdo with mommy issues, and gets up off the bench.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I found him wandering around a few blocks away, and he said Harley did it, and he was really, really upset about some woman named Sheila, but I don’t know who that is and at this point, I don’t care.”

Sheila, Sheila...Bruce knows of a Sheila, but...no, that’s too much of a coincidence...there’s no such thing as coincidence...and Jay’s always had near-comically bad luck. Rather like the Baudelaire Orphans.

“Where exactly did you find him.”

“Ah...over in Sunshine Plaza.”

Bruce has always wondered who, exactly, named that plaza. And why.

“Thank you.”

“Now are you gonna go?”

He can take a hint. And also there’s nothing else he needs here.

He brings up his file on Sheila Haywood on the glide over. She’s still living exactly where she was the last time she was on his radar, when he’d been desperate. He’d thought that maybe...either Jason had found out, somehow, and gone after her, or that her connections to the Joker would…

He’d been desperate.

Sheila’s apartment isn’t far from here, and Bruce’s unease only grows. The odds of there being another Sheila are...low...and Jason…

He lets himself in through the bedroom window. There’s a body lying in the front hall, but no other signs of life.

The body is Sheila Haywood. Bruce sighs-he doesn’t know why he expected otherwise, really-and sets up a virtual crime scene.

Sheila died from a bullet to the head, maybe...five hours ago, give or take. The shooter was waiting for her; she’s still wearing her raincoat, and her purse is sitting on the ground where it fell when she died.

There’s a gun near her hand. It hasn’t been fired-it’s not even loaded-but hers are the only prints on it.

Hm.

There was a struggle, at some point. The end table by the couch is tipped over and there’s blood on the carpet. The blood is both Jason’s and an unknown-likely a hired hench-and there’s a hint of Quinn’s perfume still lingering in the air.

So. Harley-or her goons-probably shot Sheila when she pulled the gun. That doesn’t entirely explain her involvement, but Bruce wonders if Harley wasn’t trying to get her to come back. She didn’t take Joker’s death well, and he knows she’s been grasping for any last connection to him. Sometimes he feels sorry for her.

But not today. Today, her insanity killed a woman and could have cost Jason his life, and Bruce is not happy about it.

He calls Gordon about Sheila before following the perfume outside. There’s not enough to track over a long distance, but it does lead him to the parking garage...and a set of tire tracks.

The first place the tracks go is a park, maybe two blocks away. Reasonable; Jason was either unconscious or restrained, but keeping him in a small car would have been risky. The car was parked, and…

Oh.

Oh, dear God.

He doesn’t need to track anything to see the tear in the earth, the thick wooden shards and the torn roots. The scanner says the disruption goes down six feet, to a cheap coffin.

Oh, Jay-lad, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

His ear crackles and Alfred’s voice hits him, colder than Freeze’s gun.

“Master Bruce.” Oh no. “What do you think you are doing.”

“I need to find Quinn.”

“You need to be with your son, who has asked for you twice tonight.” The uncomfortable feeling in his stomach is a response to the grave in front of him, and that’s all. “Now.”

Alfred uses-really uses-the No Argument tone very rarely. That’s probably why it’s so effective.

That said, Harley’s likely gone to ground for the time being. Big to-dos aren’t her style, not anymore. Besides, he can put feelers out from home. And maybe Tim will find something.

* * *

Jason’s asleep when Bruce nudges his door open, face buried in the pillow. Looking at him now, Bruce can almost convince himself that none of the last few years has happened, that he’s just...home from college for the weekend. But then he rolls over, bringing the brand into the low light, and the illusion’s shattered.

“Has he woken up at all?”

“Once,” Alfred says, apparently happier now that Bruce is here. “He wasn’t terribly happy with the room being so dark, hence the pineapple lamp.” Bruce can only imagine. “He wondered where you were, but then decided to go back to sleep.”

“I’ll watch him, Alfred.”

He’s sure he’s imagining the it’s about bloody time aura Alfred is radiating. It’s been a long night, that’s all.

“Very good, sir. Call me if you need me.”

Jason doesn’t stir when Bruce sits down on the edge of the bed. Good. It’s...it’s better that he get some sleep.

(Bruce doesn’t want a fight tonight.)

How did this happen, Jay? What am I missing?

He’ll find out. He’ll find Harley, he’ll make this...well, there’s no making this right, but...he’ll find her.

God, he’s tired of clowns trying to take his son.

THE END

[iloveitwhen]

Soulmates

Last Jasonette July post that I should have dealt with ages agooooo! yay me! 

@jasonette-july-2k20 

Sibling Jasonette I did first meetings here though I guess it can be read without it 

“Soulmates?”

Marinette had brought Jason and Adrien up into her room to not freak out in front of her parents and potential passerby/customers and also figure out how Jason saw through the magic. The freaking out was done and Plagg and Tikki were explaining possible reasons for the cause of it. 

“Yes, the true wielder of the Black Cat Miraculous should be able to see through Ladybug’s identity and vice versa. They are Soulmates, the only ones in existence, there have been a few platonic and sibling pairings but they are usually romantic, obviously this is not the case.” 

“Ok,” Jason says slowly, eyebrows scrunched together, “but he’s Chat Noir,” he pointed at Adrien then looked back at the black Kwami. “And I caught that the moment I saw him, same hair, same shade of green in his eyes, and same terrible puns. I mean I wasn’t sure at first but the puns really sold it for me.” 

“Hey!” Adrien protested while the others laughed at him. 

“From what you’re saying everybody else can’t even remember what their faces look like and they immediately get distracted by something else when thinking of the identity, but that doesn't happen to me. When I think of the others I can see their faces clearly in my mind and some of them have distinct looks that I could probably use to find their identities.” 

The other four began to ponder this when Plagg and Tikki began talking in a strange language. Adrien looked at Marinette but she just shrugged, she was the guardian but she didn’t know that language. 

After a minute or so Tikki spoke up in french again. 

“Jason, what do you know of the Pits of Life and Death?” Immediately Jason thought back to the Lazarus Pits and shuddered. 

“Green pools of nasty looking water?” Tikki’s eyes grew wide and Plagg huffed. 

“Yes,” Tikki replied. “You’ve been revived, haven’t you?” Jason paused for a moment but nodded. 

“They’re known as the Lazarus Pits now, I was dead for two years before I was thrown in.” He looked up from his spot on the floor to the standing Marinette expecting a reaction from her but she was only chewing the inside of her cheek with her arms loosely crossed. 

“You knew.” he stated, watching her. A guilty expression crossed over her face and she looked away. 

“Hey Adrien, can you leave for a moment? You can help Maman with dinner.” The boy quickly took the hint and nodded and slipped down the trap door. After he was gone Marinette sighed and started slowly pacing her room.

“A long time ago I learned from my mother that my biological mother, Sheila Haywood, had a son with another man and when he came to visit her he was killed by the Joker in an explosion. My biological father knew this because he was there and met you and Bruce Wayne briefly, but when I looked it up Robin was brutally beat and killed by the Joker and he was the only one who fit your description that was there that day. Later Bruce Wayne revealed that his adopted son, Jason Todd, had died in an accident. When I found articles of your return I grew suspicious since it was clear you died so I assumed someone else took your place and name but when Tikki told me about the pits I figured that that was how you came back. She was giving me a history lesson of her and Plagg’s wishes when the Pits of Life and Death were mentioned, I was interested and dug deeper and found that two years after your death Red Hood appeared, and not long after Jason Todd did too. Red Hood was apparently on a mission to kill the joker and cleanse the city of crime. What first made me suspect that you were Red Hood was the way you treated the Joker, the same way he treated Robin. Soon after that I made all the necessary connections and confirmed that you were alive and taking the name of Red Hood. After that all I had to do you find out where you lived.” 

Jason was honestly a little horrified that she knew so much about him, that he had done so much bad and she knew all about it. His face was slack as he looked up at his sister who was growing in anxiety watching his reaction. 

“So you knew everything,” he whispered. 

Marinette nodded her head. “I’m sorry Jay.” Jason shook his head as if to shake out the bewilderment. 

“It’s ok, you’d find out sooner or later anyways I suppose. That’s why you picked me from the bats didn’t you?”

“Yeah. That and we don’t want the news of this spreading, it would not be good to have a bunch of evil people in search of the Miraculous. 

[violetsmoak]

Appetence [1/?]

AO3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251420/chapters/47997634

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Red Robin is investigating the disappearance of a friend and stumbles into a spot of supernatural trouble. He doesn't expect to be saved by Jason Todd, miraculously alive five years after his death and now with the inexplicable ability to commune with the dead. Meanwhile, when Jason returned to Gotham he meant to maintain a low profile and not get involved with Bat business. That was before he found out how hot his Replacement is.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #cemetery #haunting #relics

Canon-Compliance: Alternate Universe; Jason still died but was not found by Talia when he was resurrected. All other events mostly follow the same chronology as New Earth continuity, with mentions made to events in New 52

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.

________________________________________________________________

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.

⁂⁂⁂

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