The Gotham air is cold, and it stings at Jason’s arms as he roams the building tops. Through his helmet he keeps an eye on his surroundings, even going so far as to look behind him in a slightly paranoid manner.

As much as he refuses to admit it, Jason is on edge tonight. Earlier that night he could’ve sworn he saw Batman. His father’s usual brooding glare had nearly made him jump out of his skin and pull a gun out at the man. But he wasn’t attacked, scolded, or even degraded. He’d just been stared at.

The conversation that had followed was almost just as unnerving. Jason had questioned if Bruce had been angry with him for using a bullet, for killing. But the vigilante in question didn’t even look upset, he even said he was proud.

That wasn’t right.

“He’d be furious,” Jason muttered, his eyebrows knitting together. “That I used a bullet. He wouldn’t be proud of me, he’d tear me a new one.”

“You’re not my dad.”

The gun Jason already had in hand was raised, pointed in the direction Batman was in. But the masked hero was already gone; reduced to just a breath in the wind. Jason’s hand started to shake a little bit, but he was quick to lower it and put his gun away before that became obvious to himself. He turned on his heal and quickly made his way back to his apartment, slipping into the living room window through the fire exit and removing his helmet to toss it on to the couch.

“I’m home,” he half-heartedly called out to the interior of his apartment, not caring much if you responded. You were his rock, the first person he went to when he was resurrected. But he never burdened you about these hallucinations he’d been having lately. He had enough problems as it is. You didn’t need to worry about this, too.