#Batfam is not sure if they want to investigate the hot dogs

[nelkcats]

Not a Dog!

A competition was set up to award the best dog between Gotham and Amity Park, probably because the judges were quite aware that the two cities were a little crazy and decided to unite their competitions.

Damian bragged that he shouldn't be participating since obviously Titus would beat everyone. Jason snorted and commented that Dog was much better than Titus and would win the competition easily, the rest of the siblings walked away from the discussion, but Dick felt left out and called his friend.

Beast Boy, better known as "Gar" wasn't too happy about Dick using his favor to make him pretend to be a dog in a pet contest, but he agreed. Dick signed him up as his own pet while Jason and Damian complained about how silly the idea was.

When Gotham competitors list was released on Amity, Danny noticed that one contestant had a green dog and smiled. He could compete with Cujo! His father told him something about wanting to compete too but the halfa denied and said that he needed a dog for that.

On the day of the competition the judges tried not to flinch at the two obviously green dogs and a contestant who had decided to enter with a peculiar type of dog, they decided to judge them as best as possible. A rivalry ensued between all the contestants while Danny tried to avoid looking at his father's eyes, why was he participating with a fridge?

To everyone's surprise, none of the dogs won. The winner was Jack Fenton, with his very alive and aggressive sausages. The judges couldn't disqualify him because "hot dog" was technically a type of "dog" even if they didn't know how it was possible, and Jack taught the hot dogs a few tricks.

[violetsmoak]

Appetence [11/?]

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: #haunting #paranormal investigator

First Chapter

Beta Reader: I’ll get back to you on that.

Author’s Note: I decided to upload this today instead of tomorrow as I have a final paper due Friday and if I'm gonna concentrate on finishing it and not writing fanfic, I need to put this up now :P Enjoy the BatFam feels.

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 A day later and Jason is still stewing in anger—and, if he’s being honest—a bit of hurt. Even after reuniting, even after listening to what Jason had to say, and trying to get him to come home—Bruce still can’t be convinced to deal with the Joker.

Or at the very least stand aside and let Jason do it.

It’s like he’s trying to protect my non-existent virtue or some kind of innocence I never really had.

Does Bruce even actually remember him anymore? Or has he built up some false memory in his head that’s turned the boy Jason was into some clone of Dick?

The obvious, adult way of finding out would be to drive over to the manor and go for Round Two in confronting Bruce, but that’s a journey he’s not ready to take yet. Especially since the emotionally stunted man child that is the Dark Knight might take that as Jason coming to grovel for forgiveness, which just…no.

It’s decided. Jason will sit and sulk in his office and pretend Bruce and all of his Bat-drama doesn’t exist. He has work to do, anyhow.

The phone rings and Jason smirks.

“Like I said,” he tells himself smugly and picks it up, leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk. “Beyond Investigations, Victor Shelley speaking.”

“First of all, you have a really warped sense of humor choosing that as your civilian identity,” a familiar voice tells him, and Jason’s stomach flips a little as he nearly slides off his chair.

“Well, if it isn’t my esteemed former stalker,” he drawls, then winces because it’s not exactly his best line. “You can’t tell me it’s not funny, in the gallows kind of way.”

“If you wanted gallows, I’m surprised you didn’t go with Vlad Stoker,” Tim Drake remarks.

“That would be cliché. And Stoker’s overrated. Also, he once demanded all the gay writers be imprisoned, which ain’t cool,” Jason replies with an easy enjoyment. “But I doubt you’re calling to talk early horror literature with me. Gotta say, it’s the first time I’ve ever waited more than two days for someone to call me when I give them my number.”

Shit. That was a little more flirting than he intended.

“That leads to second of all,” Tim says, either missing the innuendo or ignoring it completely. “Care to explain why, after you asked me not to say anything to B about you being here, you ratted me out to him?”

That’s…not what he was expecting. Jason sits up, suddenly serious. “Ratted you out? What are you talking about?”

“He came back home after that thing downtown with Freeze yesterday completely shaken because he ran into you, and apparently you let it slip that I knew you were back and didn’t tell anyone.”

There’s more than a little irritation in Tim’s voice there, and Jason’s heart picks up a bit in worry. He thinks back to the encounter the night before, trying to figure out when he would have outed Tim. He can’t think of anything.

Then he remembers his parting words.

The blood rushes to his face.

If Bruce figured out he was talking about Tim with such a throwaway comment, he worries what else he might have inferred.

Don’t think about it too closely. Worry about putting Tim in his crosshairs.  

He groans. “Sorry, my bad.”

“Apparently I should have been the one asking for a week’s grace,” Tim goes on dryly.

“Honestly, I wasn’t thinking,” Jason tells him. “Talkin’ to B always gets my blood pressure up, and then my mouth just starts to run.”

“No kidding.”

“He didn’t give you too much trouble, did he?”

There’s a pause, and then, “No more than normal. A couple of years ago that sort of thing would have really messed with my head, but these days I can deal.”

“What happened a couple of years ago?”

Tim pauses again, and even though Jason can’t sense auras or ghosts through telephone lines, he’s pretty sure that the dark aura constantly surrounding the younger man is behind that.

“Let’s just say I learned that Brue can be myopic about certain things,” Tim says at last. “Either he’s entirely focused on what’s right in front of him, or some arbitrary future end game. He doesn’t really…absorb the things that happen between those two points.”

Jason blinks. “That’s a scary kind of accurate.”

“That’s what I do. I think and I know things.”

Jason can’t hold back a scoff.

“Did you…did you just misquote Game of Thrones?”

Tim lets out a somewhat startled laugh. “I guess I did. Totally unintentional, I promise. Although, you get points for catching it.”

“Points for what? Is there a prize?”

 “Even if there was, I’d be keeping it. I’m still ticked off at you for telling on me to B.”

“And I still feel bad about that. I owe you a drink.”

No, no you don’t. No drinks, no nothing. Off-limits, remember?

“Still not old enough to drink, Jason,” Tim replies, voice sounding less irritated and weary and more…amused? Fond even?

Then he hangs up, leaving Jason staring at the receiver of his phone in puzzled frustration.

“This isn’t going to end well for me, is it?”

“No,” Sheila tells him from where she’s lingering across the room, “it’s not.”

Jason lets his head fall onto his desk.

With the ice now broken with Tim and Bruce (or at least as broken as it can get given the latter’s inability to process anything resembling emotions), Jason pretty knows his days of privacy are likely at an end.

He completely expects the requisite visitations of various Family members who will no doubt have been told he’s alive.

Both the ones I knew and the one I didn’t…

If he weren’t pretending indifference, he would have expected Dick to be the first to show up, all passion and anger. He doesn’t have many memories of his predecessor-slash-older-brother-figure where he wasn’t furious about something—almost always Bruce related. To Jason, he only seemed to have two settings: coddling and wanting to pick a fight.

Jason’s not sure which of those he wants to encounter just now.

Turns out his intuition about Dick being his first visit is completely off.  

Instead, he wakes one night from a dead sleep by a sense of presence, both physical and spectral.

There’s a kid standing at the edge of his futon, swathed in Robin’s colors but with the aura of a predator lying in wait. He can’t be more than twelve, and there’s just something about the set of his shoulders and clench of his jaw that screams Bruce.

He’s also not alone.

Outside the open window that the kid obviously used to break in, a ghostly figure in a voluminous green robe looms, hissing imprecations at Jason’s wards from the decapitated head it holds in its hands.

Jason blinks, intrigue cutting through his sleep-dulled senses. Considering the kid is Talia’s, he obviously has some League of Assassins training. Given that, Jason would have expected there to be a lot more ghosts following the kid around. Either he hasn’t killed very many people beyond the one by the window, or the ones he has didn’t leave anything unfinished.

Either way, this brat’s dangerous.

“You know who I am?” Robin challenges although it’s more a statement of fact.

“Chip off the old block is what you are,” Jason grumbles, sitting up—slowly, in case the hard-looking kid thinks he’s about to try something. He’d rather not get into another Wayne beatdown so soon after his encounter with Bruce. “Did he actually teach you the menacing-people-in-the-dark thing, or is it genetic?”

“What is your purpose for returning to Gotham?” the boy demands, ignoring the question.

“Best chili dogs in the world,” Jason shoots back, reaching for the small table beside his fold-out bed and the carton of cigarettes there.

“Stow your flippant remarks, Todd, I will have my answer whether you give it voluntarily or after I’ve loosened a few of your teeth.”

“Big words for someone probably still losing their own baby teeth. What are you, six?”

“I won’t tolerate any attempts to shove your way back into Father’s life,” the boy insists. “We already have one failure lingering about where he shouldn’t be, no need for a second.” He pauses, tilts his head to one side, and his mouth pulls into a cold smirk. “Or rather, you were the first, weren’t you?”

Jason narrows his eyes. “You know there’s a headless guy in a green curtain following you around, right? I’d think really hard about what B considers a failure before throwing that word at other people.”

The kid’s mouth goes white around the edges—touchy subject, apparently—and moves into a crouch like he’s about to dive across the room. He pauses though, fingers touching his hear, and then scowls.

“That Daddy calling you out for missing curfew?” Jason prods.

“This isn’t over!” the kid snaps, and then like he’s making a point, whips a Batarang at Jason’s face.

By the time Jason’s reached up to catch it, the brat and his ghost have vanished.

“Well, that was fun,” Jason mutters, bemused and confident he won’t be getting back to sleep any time soon.

He spends the rest of the night and early morning first checking emails and then researching. John sent him a bunch of information on kodoku, the technique Jason couldn’t remember in conjunction with the thing attracting negative energy to Tim.

It’s not exactly what he was thinking of, but even if it doesn’t help him figure out that conundrum, it might offer an inkling or two of how to deal with the ever-present Joker problem.

Need to read up on it more before I can know for sure.

His stomach growls and he decides to table it for now. There’s a 24-hour breakfast place down the street actually does bangers and mash, which he’s been craving since leaving London.

Instead, there’s a knock at the door.

Guess I’m putting off breakfast for a bit longer. Oh well. Potential client.

Jason forces himself to put on a normal, welcoming face and goes to open the door.  

What he doesn’t expect to find is a certain English butler standing in the shitty hallway just outside his office, with a bulky canvas bag in his arms and a disapproving look on his face that only just falters as their eyes meet.

It’s as if the air has been punched out of Jason’s lungs because if there’s anyone he has missed than anyone else since he’s been away, it’s Alfred.

“Master Jason,” the older man says, somehow managing to keep his voice from wavering, and god, he sounds the same. “I am sure in instilled at least a rudimentary etiquette into you as a boy. Therefore, you can imagine my disappointment upon learning you have been in Gotham for several weeks now and did not come to call at the manor.”

Jason can’t hold back the slightly hysterical chuckle at that, because trust Alfred to act like he’s been on some kind of extended vacation, instead of six feet under and insane. Yet, it doesn’t feel as dismissive or repressing as it would from Bruce.

“You know me, Alf,” he says through a suddenly dry mouth. “That stuff never took.”

“So it would seem.”

They exchange looks, both sizing up the other and then Alfred raises an eyebrow. Jason shakes his head like a sleepwalker and indicates the older man should come in.

Alfred moves smoothly across the threshold of the tiny office, frowning at the disarray (and mostly at the futon).

“Given the fact you’ve only recently, er, moved in, I thought it best to arrive with provisions.”

He sets the paper bag down on Jason’s desk and removes a box containing a hot plate, a kettle and what appears to be a package of tea. Though his back is turned, there’s a tension in his shoulders and a minor tremor that, when Jason cranes his head, he realizes are from shaking hands.

When Alfred turns around, Jason can’t hold back from reaching over and enveloping him in a hug.

It’s so different from the awkward thing with Bruce, and even though Alfred has never been the hugging type, he holds Jason just as tightly.

They stay like that for several moments, before Alfred speaks again, his voice tense like he’s speaking around a lump in his throat. “You have certainly grown into your various limbs, my boy.”

“Yeah…yeah, I guess I did…”

Jason tells Alfred everything.

He doesn’t skip any of the details the way he did with Tim and, to an extent, with Bruce. Because the fact is, he doesn’t know Tim, not really, and he knows Bruce too well. Alfred won’t look at him with pity or as something damaged; there’s pain in the way he watches Jason, but also an overwhelming and unquestionable relief.

Alfred isn’t one to cry, but his eyes gleam wetly as Jason relates how he woke in his coffin and the trial of digging himself out.

“I didn’t remember it for a while,” he admits. “Mostly it’s what comes back in nightmares. I guess it’s so clear because it’s the only thing that happened to me for another year. I was in a coma for about as long.”

“And no one knew who you were,” Alfred murmurs dully. “Everyone thought you were already dead.”

“…yeah.”

“My dear boy…if we had known…”

“Can’t change the past, Alf,” Jason shrugs, trying to play it off. “And even if you had known, I wasn’t me for a long time. Wouldn’t have wanted you to go through that.”

“And yet…somehow, you rallied,” Alfred says, determined. “You recovered.”

“I guess you could say that,” Jason says with a bitter twist of the mouth. “Not sure people would call seeing ghosts ‘recovered’.” He exhales. “I do see ‘em, Alf—all the time. I didn’t know what it was I the beginning, and…that made things harder. I was so out of it; I couldn’t tell when I was talking to someone alive or someone dead. Everyone at the hospitals thought I was insane. Bet you can guess what happened next.”

“Master Timothy…was reluctant to tell me when I asked,” the old man admits. “I’m astounded anyone in the system would have thought Arkham of all places was the appropriate place for you.” He clenches his fists together, no doubt imagining using them on whoever made that particular decision. “But Mr. Constantine, he rescued you?”

“Yeah,” Jason leans back, crossing his arms. “If he hadn’t shown up, I’d still be rotting away there. It was completely by chance, too. An old mate of his called in a favor with him, wanted to prove his sister was possessed and not bat-shit crazy.” Alfred shoots him a reprimanding look and Jason shrugs. “Sorry. Anyway, turns out she was crazy. John was keen to get out of there as soon as possible and happened to pass my room on the way out—he heard me talking to one of my many spectral roommates. He could sense the energy and when he went to look, he could see ‘em too.”

“And thus discovered that your supposed insanity was not quite so clear-cut,” Alfred determines, looking a mite triumphant.

“Not exactly. I’d been driven almost beyond the point of no return by then. If I’d been there much longer, it’d have been too late. But John could tell I was a medium. He decided I wasn’t supposed to be there and busted me out—then decided it’d be dangerous to let me wander around on my own like that. Been with him ever since. Three years of trying to heal what that asshat clown did to my brain and train myself not to lose it when I get rushed by a stampede of dead people.”

“Then I can only be grateful to him,” Alfred says. “Should you speak to Mr. Constantine in the near future, do tell him he will always have a place to stay at the manor should he need it.”

Jason laughs. “I don’t see him coming out this way any time soon. And I doubt B would be open to that arrangement.”

“You let me worry about Master Bruce. As for you—is there any point in reminding you that you also have a place to stay should you tire of this…urban setting?”

“This is my home, Alf,” Jason replies, at least halfway apologetic. “The manor might have...become that if I’d been there longer. Maybe.” He spares a moment’s thought for the little boy that wanted nothing more than to become Batman when he grew up. “But not now. I’m too—I’ve got my own mission now.”

Alfred nods, mouth turned downward. Jason tries to pretend he doesn’t notice the sad gleam in his eye.

“In the hope that your mission is not so all-consuming as Master Bruce’s, I shall still keep a guestroom at the ready. I…suspect returning to your old room would harm more than heal.”

And this is why Jason always loved Alfred. He gets it. Even when he’s hoping for the impossible.

“Guess I can live with that,” Jason says.

 “I do expect you to call for dinner at some point in the future. Perhaps not until you’re more settled. But surely you can sacrifice an hour or two for a pot roast dinner.”

Jason’s mouth immediately waters.

“Oh, that’s playing dirty, old man,” he tells him seriously.

“Having lived in Gotham this long, it’s hardly a surprise that I, too, can affect nefariousness when the occasion calls for it.” There’s a buzzing sound and Alfred digs into his pocket for his mobile phone and then heaves a sigh in a very familiar way. “Master Damian’s school. I’m afraid I must attend to this.”

“Ten o’clock and he’s already in trouble,” Jason whistles. “Beating my old record, huh?”

“You have no idea,” Alfred agrees seriously. He stands then, looks like he wants to hug Jason again but manages to keep control of himself this time. “Seeing you again is a gift, Master Jason. I hope you will allow me to impose on your hospitality again in the future?”

“You’re welcome here any time,” Jason says, warm and sincere. “I’m…it’s really good to see you again, Alf.”

The old man nods then continues to gaze at Jason a few beats longer, as if to make sure he really is seeing him, and then heads for the door. Jason sees him out, watches him until he vanishes around the corner, and then sags heavily against the doorpost to his office.

A bone-deep exhaustion that has nothing to do with sleep deprivation washes over him.

“'Stay under the radar’, I said,” he mutters to himself. “'Don’t let the Family know I’m here'. That was the plan. There was a reason for the plan…”

A reason that was supposed to guard against an estranged father and attractive replacement and loving butler.

(Well, to be fair, he didn’t know that ‘attractive replacement’ was on his list, but it clearly should have been.)

At least I got the really hard reunions out of the way. Except for Barbie, but I doubt she’d drag herself up a flight of stairs just to see me. Might be able to avoid that one a bit longer…

Honestly, he's kind of afraid of having to look Barbara Gordon in the eyes. There's so much pain between them, all caused by the same evil.

As it turns out, Jason’s next visitor is somehow more overwhelming. Or at least starts out that way.

He’s shuffling through the hallway to his door with a bag of take-out that evening, and suddenly the air becomes cold and suffocating. Jason winces, tries to breathe slow and measured against the cold.

“Whoever you are, can you just…stay where you are for a minute?” he grunts, fumbling with his keys to jimmy the door open. Silence is the only response, but he takes that as acquiescence.

Well, that’s rare. A creepy stalker that actually listens.

He practically falls into the office, the constricted sensation in his lungs vanishing as soon as he crosses the threshold.

Wards are still working. Good.

“Okay, you can come in now,” he says, putting his groceries on his desk and turning around.

He almost does a double-take.

The person that glides into his office is a small Asian girl, maybe an inch or two shorter than Tim, and deceptively dainty looking. Deceptive, because Jason can see the ghosts crowding the hallway behind her, clawing at the doorway and keening and cursing at her in a myriad of languages.

“How in the hell does someone that looks like you have that big a body count?” he asks, halfway between impressed and horrified.

The girl’s face remains blank, but her eyes skitter away, as if in shame. Jason immediately feels like a tool.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Didn’t mean it that way. It’s just…you’re just a kid.”

“Older than you,” she tells him in clear but accented English. She cocks her head to one side, studying him in a way that is almost as invasive as any of the mind-readers he met while working for John. And then she smiles and says, “Little brother.”

Whatever he expected, that wasn’t it. Jason blinks.

“…What.”

She points to herself. “Cassandra. Wayne.”

“Wayne,” he repeats, and then makes the connection and snorts. “Of course. Most people collect stamps. B collects orphans.” He wanders over to his desk and sits down heavily. “What’d he bring you in for? Me, it was boosting tires off the Batmobile.”

Cassandra Wayne’s eyes widen in surprise and then sparkle with amusement and delight.

“So, what brings you here? Come to stare at the clan screw-up?”

“Curious,” she tells him.

“About?”

“They said you see…differently,” she says.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“It’s…comforting,” she says, hesitating on the word like she’s not sure it’s the right one.

“Why’s that?”

“I see different too.”

Jason eyes her, then the myriad ghosts lingering beyond the words. He nods, serious. “I bet you do.”

She smiles at him.

He kind of can’t help be charmed by her, despite the vicious insults being hurled at her by her ghostly entourage.

“Tell you what,” he says. “Close that door so I can hear myself think, and you can stay for supper. I’ve got too much for just me.” He nods at the bags which contain what was supposed to be both tonight’s meal and tomorrow’s lunch. “Not sure if you eat souvlaki, but—”

“I eat anything,” she replies and sits in one of the chairs by his desk.

“Same here,” Jason agrees, handing her one of the Styrofoam containers. “Just promise me you won’t eat it with a fork and knife.”

She makes a face. “I am not Bruce.”

“Thank the gods for small miracles…”

To Be Continued

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