Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason’s ears are still ringing from the bullet he put in the fucker’s skull. 

In the end, it was a tame matter: no explosion, no bartering with the bat (the scar on his neck reminded him not to try again), and positively no crowbars. 

Nonetheless, Jason was content. He handled it with grace. A simple bullet through the temple was all it took— no banter, no small talk, just Jason crouching down and staring into the Joker's eyes as he splattered his brains on the wall. 

Very tame. 

He got away clean, of course. Unharmed too. It wouldn’t have gotten this far if he didn’t, no, he wouldn’t allow the clown to lay one single fucking finger on him. Jason wiped away the evidence hours ago, chopped the body up into little pieces, and is currently heaving them around in a black plastic bag. 

Very inconspicuous. 

His hands tremble as he rips his helmet off and ghosts his fingers over his domino, making sure it’s in place before dropping the bag to the floor. He sticks a gloved hand in, only faintly disgusted as he grabs a handful of… clown confetti, and stares.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here.

The harbor is gorgeous at night, the water sloshes only slightly, and Jason takes a breath before heaving the handful of gore into the depths below. A sigh leaves him as he rifles through the bag and a deeper, weary breath leaves him when he begins skipping pieces individually across the harbor.

 It’s strange, but the plunk! plunk! plunk! as he heaves bits of the Joker's leg in the near-stagnant water reminds him of a summer with Bruce years ago.

He recalls it clearly, the sun was beating down on his tense face as he showcased his terrible stone-skipping skills. Bruce had smiled. Even more so when Jason succeeded.

This time isn’t very different, Jason still feels the same frustration when the chunks refuse to skip just as the rocks did. The moonlight shines down on him as the sun did all the same and his smile mirrors the same one Bruce had— only a bit more crazed, sharp, not very happy, and, if he's being honest with himself, this is nothing like that summer day years ago.

Jason is alone. It's winter, he's shaking with adrenaline (and something else), and the chunks are far too squishy to skid across the water. 

It’s okay though, he prefers this, really. The stars smile down on him, and he imagines they're proud as he hurls globs of Joker meat into the harbor. 

What a sentence.

But he stands by the thought— where the night looks at him fondly, the others (the bats) would probably be horrified, and rightly so. In spite of that, a sliver of anger still worms its way through his veins. Jason takes a deep breath, waiting for the rage to bubble up and explode through him as it usually does. He’s gotten better at controlling it, the detonation of green in his body is all the same but now Jason staggers back instead of swinging with a Lazurus-laced fist.

He feels the simmer as it moves up through his body— pure heat roiling from his core to behind his eyes but the eruption never happens. There are no whispers, no thundering in his head, no trace of the usual symptoms other than the initial flush that leaves as quickly as it came. 

Huh.

Jason looks to the sky and back down at the shrinking pile in the bag. A piece of flesh so white it glows catches his eye.

Maybe if the arc is big enough, and the moon catches the chalk-white skin just right, it can replicate a shooting star. Maybe the Joker can be of use to him for once.

His hands tremble but Jason doesn’t attempt to calm himself as he throws the flesh in large arcs across the harbor in quite possibly one of the most depraved moments of his life. He can feel the slightest bit of lightheadedness as the moment catches up to him. 

Jason is quick to shove it back into the recesses of his mind.

He's too immersed in replicating a shooting star, as delusional as it is. He tries and fails, growing more irate as the pile dwindles and the soft wind begins to jostle the increasingly empty bag.

Jason knows that it's less about aesthetics and more about wishing it all away— he’s spent too much time reading to not analyze the actions of everyday life deeper, especially his own. He knows it’s less about how the light catches pale skin and more about carving out his dreams and desperately hoping to create his own personal miracle. 

He wishes he didn't have to take the Joker’s death into his own hands. He wishes he didn’t have to ever see his face again after the initial gasp of breath after the Lazurus all those years ago.  

Jason wishes that he was fifteen again and stargazing with his back on the hard docks instead of standing alone with his fist clenched around rubbery tissue. 

He doesn’t want to be here anymore, to be an outsider, to have his own back. He wants to wish it all away.

Then again, he remembers wishing to see Sheila. He got his wish granted in full with Ethiopia. 

He goes back to skipping. Maybe wishing isn’t a good idea after all. His movements are fuzzy around the edges and his eyes feel like someone’s pulled a sheet over them, but he can’t stop. 

After all, Jason's focused on getting rid of the clown completely, nearly dislocating his shoulder with how far he throws sometimes. The pile grows smaller and smaller, eventually reaching the last piece. 

Soon all that is left is a piece of the cadaver’s palm. It's not planned, not by a long shot, so Jason believes it’s fate. 

Forehand or backhand?

“What about sink or swim?” he mutters under his breath and hurls it into the sky. He ignores the quiet splash of it returning to Earth and closes his eyes. He imagines he managed to break the barrier— forcing the man thousands of miles away and putting a planet between them. He avoids thinking about how the man who took everything is still near him, sinking into the depths below his feet. 

He takes one last look and leaves. He can hear the swishing of plastic as the bag flies away. His mind is racing but he feels himself go on autopilot, and he doesn’t stop himself.

—

Jason blinks. 

It only takes a second to realize he doesn’t remember getting here. It takes another second to realize he suddenly has his helmet on and somehow trekked through Gotham without his bike— which he now realizes is still at the harbor. Jason blinks, again, again, and again, finding himself ‘teleported’ several times as he wanders.

He checks the time on his phone before shoving it back. Dissociation. He faintly realizes that he should go home, well, to his safe house. He doesn’t remember the path he took here. But before he can worry he feels the empty state overtake him again, and he can’t help but sink back into the floaty feeling.

Another dissociative awakening in a seedy area snaps him out of it in an instant and he turns to leave. Jason fails to realize where exactly he is.

A meaty fist slams into his jaw. The pain is minimal but the impact caused by the swerve of his helmet disorients him even more than he is already. 

He stumbles back and whips his gun out with practiced ease, firing off a couple of shots while he attempts to regain his bearings. 

He wandered into enemy territory. Because of course, he did.

It should be a simple takedown, really. He’s strapped, and has already taken out two of the— one, two, three, five, shit, eight (?) men, their moaning on the ground is evidence enough. 

But something nags at the back of his mind, he's not feeling his usual self as he pulls the trigger and as bodies hit the floor. He wants to feel something— wants to draw out the fight. A yell alerts him, there’s more, and he smiles.

He sees a glint but doesn't move in time. His movements are too slow for his years in training; dazed or not he knows he is capable of better. He knows, yet when the glint becomes impossibly close, he doesn’t dodge. A blade swipes at his arm— a surface-level wound that hurts so good— and he relishes in the feeling. Through the oncoming swipes and punches, he sees the familiar shape of a gun. 

Adrenaline surges through him, the slice was fine but a bullet will make this dangerous. 

Jason pistol-whips a man unconscious and shoots another in the chest, his movements are sloppier than normal— he trips over the unconscious man’s legs and accidentally shoots one of them in the bicep instead of the abdomen. 

It was supposed to be a simple matter, a good fight, he broods as he uses one of the men as a shield against oncoming bullets. He hears more footsteps and his movements stutter.

Something cold settles in the pit of his stomach, it’s not a simple matter. There are more voices, more people, more brandishing of weapons, and attempts to hurt him that make him anxious. He hasn't killed anyone in months— but as he already broke the streak with the clown, he might as well take advantage. He hates feeling like a cornered dog (or mutt in his case). 

Jason reloads and fires four headshots. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. 

As the bodies fall around him in a macabre song of bullets and blood, he feels… off. A strange pain builds at the base of his throat and burns behind his eyes. There are so many bodies— moving and unmoving— that he’s starting to lose track. 

He doesn't have long to worry about it though. Jason grunts as a blade slides through his armor, settling neatly between his ribs before forcing itself deeper and twisting. 

The pain burns and aches; yet, Jason relishes in it for a second because, finally, he’s feeling something familiar. He'd take anything other than the vacuum that’s been in him since the minute he began separating the clown’s head from his body— anything other than the strange nauseating feeling of watching bodies hit the floor. 

He shoots the man wielding the knife still buried deep in Jason’s abdomen between the eyes. The blade is pulled down with his body and Jason lurches back at the feeling of being torn from the inside.

Another headshot. A pipe into someone's spine. He cracks some necks and plunges a knife into someone’s temple. 

The fight only takes a couple of minutes, the last takedown only a couple of seconds, but Jason is still stuck with that deeply unsettled feeling rather than the usual relief of victory. 

It’s not until he's standing over the litter of bodies— some left in open-mouthed screams, others gasping for breath— that he realizes what’s been nagging him so badly.

The pit is quiet. Deathly so.

Blood flushes from his throbbing wound, reminding him of its presence.

Jason. Well, Jason doesn't care about the cut right now. He loosely applies pressure, but his mind is anywhere other than the flowing blood down his gut. He should patch himself up, call for help, and maybe stop by Leslie's because this is definitely not looking good. But the pit is quiet , and for the first time, Jason stands over bodies he’s killed without the help of Lazarus whispering into his ears.

Well.

He takes one look at wide, dead eyes and staggers. 

He’s never realized how quiet death is.

It’s always been a stormy thing, thunderous green rushing through him, mind blaring with whispers and thoughts that were only barely his. Lightning strikes of bullet crackles and screams would back the thunder in staccatos.

But now, it’s silent. He can hear everything but in a different way— not in the ear-piercing thrums of green and pitches of gunshots and shrieks— instead he hears everything in the details, in the way blood trickles down from the cooling bodies, in the last whistles of breaths, the sound of fluttering of eyelids as they shut.

He doesn’t feel sorry— he doesn’t— but something in his stomach curls. 

He hears a squelch under his boot and almost hurls. 

Jason runs. 

Each step he takes is heavy, pain shoots up through him with every crunch of gravel but Jason lets his feet carry him anywhere. He knows he's limping more than running, that he’s leaving a trail but he's too focused on getting away from the army of cadavers to care. 

Jason bumps into a wall and frowns, only barely recognizing his surroundings as a small alley, a daze flushing over him. He flutters his gloved hand over the wall and runs his hand over the bricks as he lurches deeper into the alley. 

Once he deems himself too tired to continue he slumps against the wall, cringing slightly with the wear and tear of his wound. He feels a rush of warmth on his hand as blood gushes over his trembling fingers. He pauses for a moment, reconsidering, but slides down anyways— he still has time. Maybe.

He looks down.

He can’t see the exact state of his wound with the mess of blood and the deep red stain spreading on his suit. The blood flows slowly with the pressure he’s applied. He picks at the edge of his suit, attempting to get a better look, and winces when the gash throbs with the slightest movement— yeah, no.

He leans back and breathes, thumping the back of his head against the jagged wall. The helmet cushions the impact and he takes it off for the second time tonight. He takes a deep breath and centers himself, what’s wrong with him?

He focuses on figuring out what’s going on with his body first. Lightheadedness, dizziness— Jason presses two fingers against his pulse point, eh, normal enough. He’s safe for now. He presses firmly against the laceration, just ten more minutes to stop the bleeding and he’ll get up. 

He closes his eyes and takes as deep a breath as he can without straining his body. He's applied pressure but has yet to… do anything really. The green is leaving him. The rage, the anger, Jason's mind is more clear than ever. 

Here are the facts: he came back to life, was thrown in Lazurus stew, found out he was replaced, found out the Joker was alive , and reacted accordingly.

Here is the other, probably more true fact: he may have not reacted so accordingly.

He had hurt Robins— children. Right now as the Lazurus recedes from his mind, his senses are flooded with metallic smells and phantom screams. He sees bruised, mottled skin and blood on the Robins that succeeded him. Small limbs with their hands curled into loose fists and arms bared to him in defense.

They’re cordial now, more than he deserves, he thinks.

When he blinks he sees red-rimmed eyes and entrails. He doesn't regret killing the scum he did, but he can't stop their corpses from haunting his mind no matter how much he tries. He's never felt this way before. Despite the constant pressure, blood is soaking into his thigh now and it fills him with nausea. He can't stand the smell of it.  

He steals another breath from the world. Then several. Then he feels blood thundering in his veins as he begins to hyperventilate. 

Gaped mouths and the smell of death. 

A deep breath, in and out. 

The feeling of brain matter under his boots.

A pang goes through him as he accidentally clenches the skin around his stab wound. Every attempt to calm himself is fruitless. These feelings of nausea and guilt are too far from the anger he’s been accustomed to. With every shut of his eyelids, he sees another scene taken from the most destructive moments of his life. He sees bubbling blood from mouths and blood-matted jet-black hair.

Please. Please, please, please, let him think of anything else. He heaves and claws at his thigh and rocks back and forth to no avail. He attempts to physically knock himself out, thudding his head against the wall but he’s too weak with blood loss to control his head properly. It mostly just flops back, giving him a sweet, dull pain that doesn’t last long enough.

It takes him some minutes to gain some semblance of control of his mind again. 

He looks down at the small puddle forming near his leg.

The red reminds him of the satin lining of his coffin. He steels himself— not much better than the earlier thoughts but, this, he can take this. He will take it over the gray-spotted skin of decay, over wide blue eyes behind domino masks and fresh blood. 

He’s had years to mull over his death, he can take a couple more minutes. Maybe he’ll brainstorm— next time he’s definitely getting one of those coffins that have a bell.

Next time, huh? 

He had always thought of how he would die. Again.

Most likely in combat— a wayward bullet straight through the head; maybe a dozen targeted at him directly. Most of all, he’d always thought he would die at the hands of the Joker again.

He actually… hadn't thought far into the future— life after the Joker. He really didn’t think he would pull it off alive. He thought of dying and the present, but never what happened after he finished what he set out to do. Of course, he planned to keep Crime Alley clean and be a general pain in the Bat clan's ass after killing the Joker, but he can't think of anything specific. 

The thought strikes him— he doesn't know what to do from here. He looks down to where his hand cups his wound, towards the blood dripping down to the concrete.

 Maybe… maybe the Joker was enough. 

He digs out his phone with his other hand. The cracked screen reads fifty-five percent, and a quick glance at the time lets him know his ten minutes have passed. 

When he looks down, it’s as if the pressure hadn’t existed at all, the steady stream of red continues pouring through the cracks between his fingers. Alarm bells ring in his head— it’s deeper than he thought. He should get up. But he’s tired.

Jason removes the pressure and lets his hand fall limply next to his side; he shoves it back into his pocket but his movements stutter… he might not need it. He scrutinizes it for a moment, vaguely thinking about sending it flying towards a wall, before going through with putting it in his pocket.

He can't quite get himself to move— to get up towards safety. He knows time is limited and he should be calling someone; Babs is just a click away, so he should call. He blinks. 

Jason looks up at the night sky.

Usually, Gotham’s smog and fumes made for gorgeous sunsets but at night they blocked out the stars. Tonight they glowed. He can feel his heart beating faster—his head feels light—dazed as he stares at the glittering night sky. 

Effervescent. 

He allows himself to smile; the reader in him had never left, and he's now realizing there are so many words he won't be able to make his own. It's okay, he tells himself, this was a good run, and he watches the stars intently. 

He feels sick, even as for the first time in forever, he has the time to stargaze— Gotham gave him the chance to see them. He smiles even as nausea crawls up his throat.

The sea of smog parts for Jason and bares him a sight so beautiful, he can die just like this. Even with chills running down his spine and nausea sitting at the base of his stomach, he’s happy. Content. 

Maybe.

Maybe he can die like this.

It's not like he hasn't had these thoughts before— in the dead of night when his safe houses were too quiet. When the green seemed to take a rest from pervading his mind. He’d thought of how he’d die thousands of times. But these specific thoughts were a different breed.

How he would die on a normal day? Easy— he thought of it any passing moment, joked about it constantly. The scenarios came naturally.

But the thoughts that came at night, after rough days that left him aching inside and out were different, also natural, but left him shaken and sick. Jason had thought of taking his own life those nights. Because how he wanted to die and how he thought he would die were two different things.

Jason prioritizes control, and always has, and he wants to be the one to put the final nail in his coffin. It’s just a matter of time.

He’d imagine blowing his brains out, not dodging a fatal shot in the middle of a fight, or flying off the tallest building and turning into Todd mush. Sometimes, if they lingered well into the next day, he let them influence his fights. 

Despite the surging adrenaline and Lazarus' wrath, sickly sweet whispers of how it could all just go away if he let his guard down— if he dived instead of dodged or ignored the outline of a gun- he never put his life completely at risk. He listened, to an extent. He’d let whoever he was fighting slice and bruise him in a way he’d know would hurt for as long as Jason needed, but never committed to anything lethal- until now.

It all led back to the Joker. He couldn’t, no, wouldn’t let the clown outlive him. He pushed through any number of bullets and batarangs to the neck to outlive him, even if by seconds. He survived and survived— never lived. But now the Joker is several feet under and Jason has no reason to keep on going. His goal was accomplished, not in the way he imagined, but accomplished nonetheless.

If anything, he has more of a reason to let himself bleed out here. Once news of the Joker’s death comes out, there’s no way it won’t lead back to him. Then he’ll be fighting a war on several fronts— his followers, villains fighting to take his place, bounties, the bats. 

His heart drops at the thought, and Jason drags his hands over his face. His skin feels cold, clammy, and now sticky because he forgot how much blood he had on his hands before accidentally smearing it on his face. 

He snorts, a little right on the nose, isn’t he?

A sad smile forms on his face, blood runs down the crevice of his upturned lips and he can taste the bitterness.

He’ll have so much work to do, so many emotions he’ll feel the full extent of now that the pit is nothing more than a whisper. 

Jason is scared. He’s gotten so used to the always-there anger, the burning under his skin that he doesn’t know how to be normal again. He doesn’t know how to repent for what he’s done, he doesn’t know how to feel. His emotions were a complex maze, always have been, but the pit shot through the walls and kept him from figuring the maze out himself. It gave him an easy exit even if it wasn’t the right one, the rage kept him from falling into the deep sadness that he’s kept at bay. Until now.

Jason isn’t scared, he realizes. No, he’s terrified. 

Because he hasn’t talked to Bruce in months. Because he shot Dami- a child- in front of Dick. Because Tim ( another child) still flinches around him. Because he doesn't know how to be better. Because he got his second chance at life and fucked it all up. 

The thing is— he feels guilty. He feels shame curling in his gut and a clench in his chest as he thinks of all he’s done. But he still feels angry; Jason woke up with Lazurus green eyes and learned his killer was still alive with no outlet other than his finger curled around the cool metal of a trigger.

There are too many emotions swirling around inside of him, and he can barely keep himself from having a panic attack, it’s too much to have them all hit him at full force when they had been shoved to the back for so long. 

He can feel the traces of green still lingering within him. A part of him wants to reach and pull that fury, to feel the one thing he could rely on since he was resurrected. They replaced you, killed you again, everything you’ve done and will do— they deserve it (do they?). He winces; it's clawing and scraping to reach the surface— to help him feel anything — trying to keep itself from dying with him like the parasite it is. But he thinks back to small limbs and looming over a Robin just as the Joker did once, and he pushes it back down.

This can end with him. 

Maybe the universe is being restored this way,  the least he can do is go along with the balance. 

With another pulse of pain, he looks up. He can feel his eyes start to ache from the strain of holding his tears back. He swallows and it hurts. He feels cold, feels something wet slide down his cheek, and can’t tell if it’s a cold sweat because of the blood loss or a tear. With a ragged breath, he strains his neck to look even harder— to find something, anything in the stars.

Because Jason loved looking at constellations when he was young, not that he would remember any of them now. In the cold of winter when he was on the streets, he hoped Catherine was looking down on him— wished she turned into a star. He hoped to become one someday too. Jason smiles bitterly as he stares at the inky sky littered with glimmering spots of white.

He could never be one, he muses, he’d be much too dim. He would probably manage to find a way to fuck up being a flaming ball of gas. 

No, Jason's more like space litter— scraps of broken and useless debris strewn around the galaxy— the large and heavy kind that people didn't want coming too close to Earth's orbit lest they get pulled in and destroy everything. 

Yeah, space litter. 

That’s… kind of a bummer.

It makes sense though. He couldn’t even live as a human right— had to become a monster. He couldn’t be Bruce’s son right, Dick’s brother, everything was handed to him on a platter at fifteen and he had to run to Ethiopia. He fucked up being a Robin and a son so badly that Bruce replaced him on both fronts.

A lightning bolt of acid shoots through him. Ah, there it is. The last of the pit rage that had been pushed down for so long finally pushes through.

His heart begins to beat faster, an unnerving thrum under his skin he’s only slightly gotten used to. He taps his foot restlessly, wanting to fight it as it simmers but being too tired to do so. 

Now he won’t even be able to die properly. Again. He wanted it to be peaceful, he thought the pit was far too weak to break through. Another fuck up by Jason, what a surprise.

He guesses they were right, in the end. He was crazy, permanently altered by the pit, by the resurrection, by that stupid fucking clown. It’s by luck that they hadn’t thrown him into Arkham with a custom straight-jacket. He can imagine it wrapped tightly around himself ‘Jason Todd- positively do not enrage’ printed in bold black across his back.

The final nail in his coffin.

The green surges straight through his body one last time, bursting through him like a bullet. 

Because he fucking tried, god damn it. He could be better, he knows, oh how Jason fucking knows he could be better. He won't ever be Dick or his replacement or Damian or even himself from all those years ago (being Robin gives me magic!), but he’s tired of this. He hasn’t killed in months and no one has noticed. 

He tried to get on their good side— stopped shooting heads and went for limbs and knockdowns rather than lethal strikes. Even used rubber bullets here and there. And yet, he will never be good enough, no matter how much he fights against the painful electricity that near constantly buzzes under his skin. There will always be those wary stares, the constant reminders to not fuck up like he always does.

 Jason grabs a piece of crumbled brick next to his lap and throws it against the wall in front of him. Adrenaline pumps through him and erases the pain for a moment, the weakness in his limbs is still there but he relishes in the floaty feeling.

When he wasn’t thinking about killing himself he always thought he would go out with a bang. Well, another one. Maybe take everyone with him, sucking them in like a black hole. Jason's rage was all-consuming like one, wanting to take more, and more, and more, until he was content. He never was.

He’s tired of playing the boy scout, begging for his father’s love in the most unconventional ways. He’s tired of being cordial to those that replaced him before his body got the chance to rot. He’s tired of the arguments and fighting- of the pure rage that fills him when Bruce, even so, glances at him with that stupid fucking look in his eyes. Jason will never be able to win the approval of Bruce, no, not when he lives in the shadow of his fifteen-year-old self. 

He rips his comm out of his ear and hurtles it as far out the alley as he can. 

He braces himself and can feel the desperate push of the Lazurus coursing through his veins as he forces himself up to stand, shaking slightly. Maybe he should take them with him. Fight. That’s all he’ll ever be good for, anyways. He couldn’t drag it out with the Joker, maybe this was the pit’s last push— his last chance at being a star— a supernova, no, to become a black hole and go out just the way they all expected him to.

Because they don’t expect any more from him, right? He can feel it in their eyes, in their tense body language when he’s in the vicinity, the quips, and snipes, the constant reminders about lethal force. Well fuck them, he’ll be just exactly who they think he is. Blood trickling down his body and limbs jerking with exertion, Jason laughs until his throat aches. 

A full-body laugh, hunched over and squeezing the blood out of his body like a lime slice. He stumbles a bit with the force of his laugh, beginning to feel more like a scream than anything. He catches the glint of his helmet and kicks it, nearly falling back with the discoordination of his limbs.

He’ll fucking show them in their cushy mansion, maybe he’ll set it on fire, throw a bat of chemicals and light it aflame. He’ll demolish the place— destroy that stupid fucking memorial he knows is still there because their Jason never came back. His laugh dies, a choked noise coming out of him.

 Their Jason never came back, he realizes, just a stranger wearing his face.

He takes a step and stumbles slightly, holding himself up with the wall. He’s beginning to feel the numbing feeling subsiding, it feels like he’s being ripped from the inside out but the pit doesn’t care, it only supplies him with more anger, more rage, and more blood rushing through his veins and out of his wound. 

His heart beats incessantly and he vaguely realized that maybe a pit-induced frenzy was not the best for his health. Another step, two, three, five, where was he— backward or forwards he can’t even tell anymore, and he trips.

And Jason— Jason. The last thing Jason sees is the deep red of his eyelids.

—

A cold shiver racks through him when he opens his eyes. Where is he again?

He looks around as best as he can without lifting his temple from the ground. The cool ground feels too good. Deep red puddles of blood surround him, he can feel faint wisps of wind hitting his bare face not covered by the domino. He feels sticky all over and his gut hurts and—

Oh.

Just as quickly and strongly as it came, the fight left, leaving Jason cold and empty on the floor like a bullet casing. Jason struggles to get up from where he’s lying on the ground.

He barely manages to sit up— realizing he somehow got deeper into the alley, tucked next to a dumpster, and fumbles for his phone again. The screen nearly blinds him when he checks the time. Fifteen minutes. He passed out for fifteen minutes. 

With a shaky breath, he pulls himself up and leans against the brick again. He’s nearing dangerous levels of blood loss. But he just shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. He takes one last look at his phone before sliding it away. It skids across the rugged pavement and he prides himself on only slightly wincing with the movement of his arm. He can suddenly feel every injury, the bruises earned from his fight, the gash on his arm, a dull headache from when he banged it against the wall.

When he looks up at the sky again, at the stars as they twinkle like a certain butler’s eyes, he wonders what Alfred would think.

He regrets not talking to him more.

Maybe it’s for the best, Alfred would hate to see what he's become. Even worse, Jason would hate to find out Alfred feels the same, because Alfred was strict but kind. He was caring in the way he’d let Jason keep food in his room when he first moved in, in pasting his school essays on the fridge, in letting him “help” by tasting the food as it was being cooked (as if it would ever be off), in patching him up whenever he got into fights. 

He wishes he were at the manor, Alfred chiding him while wrapping a bandage around his wound.

‘Now Master Jason, what took you so long?’ he would say, maybe— hopefully. Jason would smile and say something stupid, probably throwing a wink in for good measure. Alfred would stare at him blankly but once Jason’s injuries were accounted for and he parted, he would look at him with a fond look and say ‘ you haven’t changed, my boy’ and Jason… well Jason knows that would never happen.

He laughs— he seems to be doing that a bit tonight.

He’s glad the fight left him when it did. He couldn’t imagine hurting them all again, but especially Alfred.

  Jason imagines what color his eyes are now.

They’ve been more of a teal or green with the constant presence of the pit. When he first got out they were an acidic green, but he’s prided himself in tamping it down.

Not that the others would notice.

There's no flicker of rage behind that thought, and he bites back a whimper. It can’t really be gone, can it? But he doesn’t feel anything other than exhaustion.

He limply raises his arm and attempts to shove his hair out of his face— when did he take off his helmet?— and grimaces at the damp feeling of his hair. He takes off a bloody sticky glove and presses the back of his hand against his face. It’s warm and clammy, but somehow colder than his face and he leans into the chill.

A pang surges through his chest as he realizes he’s cradling himself. He knows he’s moving into dangerous territory, it’s his last chance to get help before he breathes his last breath in some rotten alley. He’s sweaty, his heart rate is through the roof despite just sitting here, and he’s fighting off sleep with every blink.

He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. He can shut his eyes and drift off forever, but he makes an effort to keep himself awake. He can feel his breath leaving him and fights to catch up, panting in his effort to breathe.

He wants to leave and doesn’t want to be a problem anymore, but his body is fighting to keep him alive. A small part of him knows it’s not just his body that wants to stay alive. But he’s done too much, he doesn’t want to see pitying or annoyed stares anymore. He doesn’t want to be anymore no matter how much he has left to do.

Jason is dying. There’s not much to do from here but regret.

He regrets not stopping by for one last meal with Alfie. He regrets not letting himself be tangled in one of Dick’s octopus hugs. He regrets hurting the kids that didn’t deserve it. Most of all, he regrets not being good enough to avoid dying in the first place all those years ago.

He takes off his domino. He doesn’t want to die as Red Hood and wants to see the stars properly before he dies.

This time he won’t die in a fury of flames as Robin, he will die gazing at the stars as Jason Todd.

It’s hard, but he takes one long, last look at the glimmer of stars above him and shuts his eyes.

“...has to be… here… the bodies… fresh…tire marks— …on foot.”

Jason’s ears twitch.

Through the haze of his stupor, he recognizes that voice. His head lolls as he tries to tilt it to hear better, and he gives up immediately. Right now he’s tired, they’re too out of ear range,  and if it were important he would remember anyways.

“He’s… long gone…B… not the type…one place… too long.”

Jason groans under his breath, their voices growing louder, and he can’t place their positions. It feels like they’re coming from all sides, close yet far.

He hears a thud above him and footsteps around the corner. He could barely decipher their words earlier and now it’s almost impossible for him to tune them out with their rising voices and agitated tones.

“Todd has to know we’re searching for him, especially after that crude… display he left.” 

“Names—”

“That’s what I don’t understand! He hasn’t done any of that stuff in a while! Something’s wrong here which is why we’re looking for him, Rob. Babs— Oracle— said he wasn’t picking up.”

Is it too much to ask for one peaceful death?

His head throbs with each noise and years of training make him extra sensitive to the movements: stomps all around him, the restless tapping of a foot, tuts and sneers are thrown back and forth. It’s hard for him to decipher how many people there are, let alone why he should care that they’re here, but he’s tired and they’re impeding on his death.

Jason squeezes his eyes tighter, not bothering to look around. He is just so tired, a type of bone-deep exhaustion he’s only felt once before. He knows the end is coming and wants to be alone. 

A familiar growl makes a jolt of something shoot through him; he feels a flurry of emotions— fear, wariness, homesickness, and has to keep himself from throwing up. What is Batman doing here? It’s too much for Jason, whose eyes shoot open as he fumbles with his utility belt as best as he can with the little coordination he has. He’s sure he has a switch in there that does something, anything to keep the Bat away. 

With a clammy hand, he runs his thumb over a small red button. After fumbling to activate it, he can barely see it with the darkness that surrounds him and the deep red of his blood smearing over the device. If he remembers right this was for some empty warehouse in fuck knows where. He takes a breath.

Click!

A cacophony of reds, oranges, and yellows explodes near him. It’s blinding, it’s beautiful. Maybe he’s going out with an explosion after all. The blast leaves a residue of bright, white light in his eyes, and he smiles a little to himself, dazed. Like an exploding star.

“What the fuck was that?!”

The small bite of shrapnel hits him seconds later, and he’s less happy about that. Bits of red metal stick out of his uniform, and his hands. When he frowns he can feel the sting of some on his face. More pain. He’s not as happy about the explosion anymore, his ears are ringing too loud and everything is starting to hurt again. He’s too hot and too cold all over; he can feel a mixture of clammy sweat and sticky blood all over and most of all he’s tired.

“Down the alley! Hood? I don’t know what we did to piss you off this time but we don’t need to do this again.”

The ringing in his ears dies down, but the voices have gotten nearer much to Jason’s displeasure. Too close for comfort. 

“B… B! This is Jason's—”

“Names, Nightwing”

“You don't understand, it's Ja— a piece of Red Hood's helmet! Fuck, where is he? Hood? Hood?" 

“So Todd broke his precious helmet— what of it? He's probably brooding wherever he goes to hide.”

“It’s bulletproof. Hood’s helmet doesn’t ‘break’ Robin,” a voice sneers, “It’s lined with explosives, that’s the only way…”

Huh. So that’s what happened. Jason smiles, it’s kind of funny. Nothing he does ever goes right. 

“He wouldn’t— nonono— Hood? Where are you? Jay?”

“Names Night —”

“Fuck off right now, B!”

 The panicked voices and footsteps grow closer, probably following the trail of shrapnel from his helmet. Jason should be worried, he should get up and move. 

“There’s blood!”

But his body feels much too heavy and to be honest he can’t remember why he should be so scared of Batman and his new crew right now. He wants nothing more than to sleep. In the puddle of his blood, he lets himself go boneless.

He hears a silent landing near him, the padding of feet, and then a sharp intake of breath right above him. He opens his eyes, and it’s not an easy feat. His whatever-colored eyes look into sharp, blue eyes. He can feel the man’s shaky breaths as he stares from his position squatted in front of Jason.

“Little wing?" 

For what feels like the millionth, but final time, Jason closes his eyes.

The last thing he feels is a cool glove brushing his cheek, and he leans into it, ignoring the pained whimper that comes from the man above him. 

The last thing he hears is an eruption of voices, rivaling the noise of the blast from earlier. 

The last thing he thinks is that he always knew he would go out with a bang.

Chapter Text

“ ...I have a hard time imagining any life could survive near a neutron star, Mr. Huerta, it's one of the most hostile objects in the Universe!... ”

In a fraction of a second, Jason becomes again. A torrent of sensations floods his system but his body remains still and his mind foggy. He’s in a limbo of sorts, unable to comprehend his growing consciousness. One minute, he was nothing, and now he is not his mind but everything around him: bright lights, the stiffness of his body, murmuring in the background, the sound of his breathing. 

There is no awareness as his body is overstimulated, just a warm floating feeling. Right now, he’s not Jason, he just is. 

Then incessant beeping combined with the static echo of a TV rips Jason from the depths of his mind. His body has grown used to the chaos of the land of the living, and now it’s his mind’s turn. He’s forced out of the solace that is existence as oneself— no identity, no name, no past or future— and is thrust back into the body of Jason Todd.

In other words, it wakes Jason.

It wakes Jason. 

He is alive, and he couldn’t be more distraught at the thought of taking another breath. Despite the jerk of his heart and suffocating feeling building in his throat, he keeps impossibly still. He thinks he feels eyes on him and hopes to god it's paranoia.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

“Tt. Tell me why you have that dreadful thing on, Richard. It's not as if he’s awake to see it.”

No.

“Don’t be so mean little D, he’ll wake up eventually… I just don’t want him to get bored if we’re not here.”

Jason wants nothing more than to scream but he keeps his mouth shut tightly and eyes closed. Why, why is he here? Why is he alive? He wishes he let the assailants get an extra stab or two in. The events of that night rush back to him and he swallows back a sob. Why is he here ? He was supposed to be in one of the several circles of hell fighting in a swamp or boiling in blood or turned into a fucking tree— anything but alive and here, with the bats of all places.

“.. I mean, look at the conditions! A neutron star is born hot with a temperature of a million degrees- I mean I deal with hotheads all day! I couldn't imagine living on one. ..”

Jason makes an effort to keep his breathing steady, keeping his eyes shut, and desperately attempts to make sure his heartbeat is stable. He’s not ready to face anyone, he just woke up. He woke up. 

Jason never wanted to wake up. He never wanted to take another fucking breath. But here he is, weak, nauseous, with an aching feeling in the hollow of his chest, unable to scream or grieve his loss of death. It takes everything to keep his breath from stuttering. He didn’t ask for this, he never wanted to wake up. 

“Tt. And you think some-” the boy pauses to seemingly fiddle with the TV from what Jason could hear, “some broadcast from decades ago will keep him entertained? You're better off putting one of that Alien’s ‘informative’ videos about drugs or bullying.”

“ …Haha… thank you for your opinions, Sharon, but I believe that the story of neutron stars is much more than that- they're not just empty, dangerous remnants of past stars... ”

“He likes space! Or- I mean he did . I don't know now… But he went through a huge sci-fi faze- Brave New World, The Left Hand of Darkness, Dawn - he was obsessed. He has to- I mean he doesn’t have to like it anymore, but maybe he won't mind it…” Dick takes a deep, audible breath, “I just didn't know what else to put. I don't want him to wake up alone and feel like we didn't care enough to put something on.” 

Wow thanks, Dickie, if only I wanted to wake up in the first place. Jason feels a bit melodramatic but he believes he deserves to be a little upset, he has no reason to continue living. He didn’t ask them to save him— they had their chance years ago. 

It takes a lot of restraint to keep the calm definitely-in-a-coma facade the more consciousness he regains. Every little thing makes him want to scream (and cry). He feels like a child again in a way; all he wants to do is kick his legs and bang on the floor screaming I don’t wanna be here! over and over again. He may not feel the thrum of the Lazurus pit under his skin, but he feels a different anger emanating from his chest— purely Jason, vitriolic, exhausted.

He focuses on the conversation being held in the room with him when he can feel his jaw clench slightly. If he thinks too much he’ll let himself get caught, and he’s not ready for the lecture coming his way. He doesn’t need them telling him how much of an idiot he is, and he’d rather die again than tell them it was intentional.

He’d rather die again than do a lot of things but he digresses.

“Todd hasn’t gotten the chance to be alone. I understand that he isn’t in the best of conditions but Father says you haven’t eaten, Alfred says you’re beginning to show signs of dehydration, and I know you haven’t slept properly-”

“Aww! Are you worried? Don’t worry Dami, they’re just makin’ a fuss I’m fine. And I have slept.” 

Jason hears the familiar huff and incessant tapping of Damian’s foot indicative of the young Robin’s anxiety. The kid had been surprisingly good at masking, he can only imagine what brought Damian to the point where he doesn’t hide his tells.

“Then why do you look like you should be the one hooked up to an IV? I swear! I am surrounded by insufferable idiots ! All these so-called adults yet Alfred and I are the only ones that seem to have a developed cerebral cortex!”

A snort nearly escapes Jason.

“... So, as with so many other things, we all need to get past our prejudices and accept what the Universe is telling us- and it's saying, hey, don't be so narrow-minded! I believe life can survive, and if you allow me to get philosophical, I believe there is a lot that we as humans can learn from these stars…”

Dick’s tone is almost as exhausted as Jason feels, and he’s hushed when he reprimands the younger, “I’m fine, Damian, and lower your voice, you don’t want to disturb your brother.”

Damian’s irritated tapping stops— the room quiets. Jason doesn’t know why but it feels as if Dick stepped on a landmine. Damian takes a deep breath.

“You mean the vegetable? ”

Ouch. There it is.

“ Damian Wayne!”

A chair clatters with the force of a vigilante pumped with righteous anger.

Jason has to keep himself from laughing at Dick’s horrified outburst— the comment hurt a little but he has to hand it to the kid: he’s good at pushing Dick’s buttons and Jason appreciates it. He hears heavy breathing coming from Dick and the stomp of small footsteps across the room. His mind reels for a moment, wishing to peek through his eyelids before focusing once more on passing as asleep.

“ Everyone functions differently, Shanon. Where some struggle, others flourish. I think it’s an important thing to remember: we’re all different, with distinct needs and desires. That’s why we should hold discussions with those around us and work to understand rather than force conformity.”

The heavy silence following the footsteps only lasts a moment before Damian speaks again, “Grayson, eat. I will supervise Todd. And turn off that agonizing noise. You’ll be more emotionally prepared for his awakening once you have proper circulation and a functioning brain. You are not in your right mind right now.”

Jason can hear Dick’s gulp from here. “Harsh— you’re not wrong, I’m not being a functioning person, huh? I’m sorry for yelling, Dami, but you can’t say things like that- but you’re right I’m not… doing the best right now. I’ll be back in a few.” 

“I believe life can survive and potentially thrive on neutron stars! It won’t be anything like ours, and they’re vastly different, but I trust that with these conditions-”

The click of the TV shutting down and a pair of heavy feet dragging themselves out of the room are Jason’s only indications of Dick’s exit. 

Now he just has to wait for the little demon to leave.

“I know you’re awake, you wretched excuse for Darwinian evolution.”

Or not. 

Jason cracks an eye open. Then the other. The light blinds him for a second before he gets used to it. In the few seconds he takes to adapt his vision, Damian marches over to him and looms. He opens his mouth as if to reprimand him— to continue his barrage of insults but stops short. Jason takes the opportunity to take a breath and attempt to ground himself before Damian gets started again.

He shifts his eyes over the younger first. The current Robin looks… different to say the least. Jason isn't used to seeing them out of costume often, much less Damian. The youngest of their clan is clad in a simple black t-shirt and cargo pants. Jason’s once-over lasts only a second before he feels as if he’s somehow intruding and turns to look around the room.

No matter how much he attempts to orient himself to his surroundings, he looks but can’t see — he can’t find it in himself to process anything. He knows he’s in the manor, he recognizes the room from years ago. It’s a simple upgrade from the cave’s med bay, made homier but keeping all of the essentials. He’s stripped out of his uniform and put into something more lightweight.  But despite this, it doesn’t feel real. His vision is clear but his perception is blurry around the edges.

He casts a glance over the tell-tale sign of Bruce’s luxurious splurges and steals a breath from the world around him. Jason’s grateful, in a small way. If he woke in a hospital bed he could never forgive himself for taking up the space someone actually needed. He’s already wasting oxygen as it is. Though he still loathes being here— they could have saved someone who deserved it while they wasted their time with him. 

He fists the sheets on top of him in an attempt to quell his reeling mind; they’re paper-thin, smooth, and cool to the touch despite how much body heat he must be emanating, but they keep him comfortable enough. 

He has half a mind to pinch himself, still in disbelief at the fact that he’s alive.

It’s a strange silence as Jason regains his bearings. The longer he takes to acknowledge Damian’s presence the more he expects threats, insults, rants, questions, a fight to the death— all of the above. But when he finally turns to look at the younger for more than a second, he finds that Damian is staring back at him, eyes wide and expression in uncharacteristic unfiltered shock. He looks his age for once.

“Your eyes…”

“Hm?”

“They’re blue.”

Oh.

It makes sense to Jason, he felt the pit leave, felt the last thrust of acidic anger. He didn’t exactly believe it, though. He didn’t want to. One last sick joke, that he could have been rid of the caustic feeling years ago if he had just killed the Joker himself. He looks into Robin’s— Damian’s face and sees a young child with baby fat around his cheeks. 

He imagines how he looked when Jason shot 9mm into his chest and feels the tell-tale burn of bile rising in his throat.

Had Jason just thought for a moment after the first burning breath when he surfaced from the pit, he could have avoided all of this. He still feels angry, still loathes that he had to kill the Joker himself— still loathes the stupid reminder on his neck. But he looks at Damian and sees a child that Jason hurt on his warpath.

Had he thought for a moment, he wouldn’t have severed their relationship so much. He wouldn’t have hurt children, wouldn’t have caught a Batarang to the jugular, and wouldn’t have become the son Bruce loved once in a faraway time. He would be treated like a lab rat for the first few days until they verified it was him because of course they would. But Jason wouldn’t mind it. Now it’s too late, his only answer is in the barrel of a gun or tip of a blade or compressed into a handful of pills.

Damian continues to stare, no longer gawking but with a peculiar pinched expression on his face.

Jason realizes all too late that he hasn’t responded to the baby bat. He doesn’t know how to reply— just now learning about it himself and shrugs, actively avoiding eye contact by turning his head non-discreetly.

In his periphery he sees Damian shake his head quickly in a small movement as if snapping himself out of a daze. The earlier tension and anger seem to have sapped out of the boy.

“I… apologize… for my insult earlier- the vegetable comment. I simply said it to get Richard out of the room, I believed you would keep playing up the farce if he continued to stay. And… everything I said was true, it was necessary he left to take care of himself.”

“Thanks,” Jason rasps, carefully keeping his expression neutral at the younger’s apology. Since when did he care about what he said to Jason? 

Damian scurries to hand him a glass of water.

“How’d you know I was awake?” Jason rubs his neck self-consciously.

“I had an inkling when I saw your heart rate spike for a moment, and I was sure when I insulted Richard and you smiled a little. However, I only truly knew once he turned off the television and I could listen to your breathing properly. Now drink.”   

The glass is slotted into his hands and he chugs it greedily despite the ache of his throat. It’s cool, slick, and a comfort to his dry mouth. 

“Most of your injuries are healed. You went into hypovolemic shock and fell into a coma from blood loss. It’s been two weeks. You’re lucky-” Jason groans.

Damian looks at him again— blinking a bit— and takes a moment to clear his throat, reemphasizing, “-you're lucky Father had the connections to get you a blood transfusion. You may feel lightheaded and the effects of the medication may be wearing off so you’ll feel slight pain.” Damian continues to stare down at him, a strange expression on his face.

An awkward silence passes over them; Damian towers over Jason as if trying to solve a complex puzzle and Jason stares up in confusion as to why the boy has such a sudden interest in him. He doesn’t deserve this,  doesn’t deserve to be watched over and cared for— even if it’s just a glass of water. Even if it’s the opposite— more about keeping Jason contained and under watchful eyes, the kid should be fifty feet away from him at all times minimum. 

He shouldn’t be here in the first place— he doesn’t know what they want with him. The set-up is cozy and safe, but Jason still feels anxiety pinching his stomach. Arkham? Blackgate? They have to have found out what he did to Joker and the men in the alley but Damian shows no signs of disgust or indication of that knowledge. Even worse, could it be some attempt to comfort him? His mind whirls, each thought making him uneasy for different reasons.

They should have let him rot in the alley where they found him like the street rat he is.

A small hand clamps over his and Jason whirls his focus back to Damian. The young boy keeps his face carefully blank as he peels off Jason's fingers where they’re tensing dangerously around the now-empty glass cup. 

They don’t say a word to each other as Damian pries the cup away from Jason. The silence is not unbearable but Jason doesn't want to be alone with his thoughts right now.

As if noticing Jason's discomfort, Damian opens his mouth before closing it again, mouthing words as if rehearsing before finally asking: “How… are you feeling, Todd?”

Jason nods and lets a breath escape him, he can do this. He decides on answering the kid, but lightly— he’ll be the same old annoying Jason who brushes things off and they’ll let him go (to prison or the streets he doesn’t care) and be none the wiser. Frankly, now that he’s awake all he wants to do is leave and try again. The last thing he wants to do is face the rest of the bats. 

“I’m just a bit banged up… I don’t feel too bad actually— how long do you think it’ll take for me to get released if the rest of them find out? Or is it an ‘escape while you have the chance’ sitch?”

It only takes a second to realize he stepped over the unsaid fine line Damian had established with him.

The younger stares at him incredulously before a pinch of anger works its way between his brows: “You will not be going anywhere. Either you will stay in this bed willingly or I will force you to do so. You will get properly looked over by the rest of this insufferable family and then they will decide when you can leave.”

Jason’s brows rise with a slight shock, and the silence is soon filled by Damian sniffing condescendingly at him, “I didn’t think I would have to remind you but you nearly died, Todd.”

He says his name like a curse, and honestly, probably meant it as one.

Jason’s not proud that he argues back, even if he tries to keep his tone light, “I don’t see the big fuckin’ deal I mean it’s not the first time. They’ll get over it like they did last time. I didn’t even actually die this time.” 

He knows this isn’t a conversation he should be having with the kid, but he can’t stop as irritation and anger work their way up his chest and out of his mouth.

“No, Todd, this is not something you can disregard. When I said ‘nearly’ I didn’t mean that you escaped death completely. I meant it didn’t happen permanently- you died, Todd. It’s a miracle that they got your heart to beat again. You cannot leave.”

…

…

…

Fuck.

Fuck.

Jason chokes out a broken, hopeless, whisper. 

“They brought me back?”

He was so close. He was so close.

He doesn’t know what the kid expected. Joy, shock, fear for what could have happened— Jason doesn’t know. All he knows is that the hollow, empty feeling grows and he feels sick. An aching, sunken feeling rests in his chest, pushing against his ribcage and attempting to swallow him from the inside. He doesn’t attempt to hide his disappointment when it hurts so bad he’s barely able to contain his screams from the phantom pain. 

“Of course they would,” Damian shoots him a bewildered expression.

Jason wants to laugh and cry all the same. Of course, they would— of course, they would! Because Jason can’t die regretting all he did, all he failed to do. No, they made sure to keep him alive, to make sure he lives with the knowledge of what he’s done. This time there’s no pit whispering sickly sweet assurances, no green-tinted glasses, just Jason with the full sobriety of how much of a stupid piece of shit he is.

“Yeah…” Jason finally responds, clenching his fists and relishing in the feeling of the crescent moon pain forming on his palms,  “Yeah- I guess that puts a wrench in how long it’ll take for me to leave. What’s that, a week minimum? A couple of extra lectures?” 

His mouth feels too dry, and his hands start to shake, “Yeah- no sorry kid, move out of the way I have to go. This was fun. Let’s not do it again.”

Jason moves to sit up and in a flash, Damian pushes him back and zip-ties one of his wrists to the railing of the cot. He must have lost weight in the time he’s been here because he flops back with ease. When he flexes his arm against the restraint, it barely budges. He stares incredulously at the agitated Robin, where the hell did he even pull those from?

“You cannot leave. You will get properly looked over and they will decide when you can depart.”

“But I’m fine! Look at me, kid- peak form! No major damage, most of my shit is healed, there’s no reason to do all this. I doubt they care all that much.” 

Jason’s desperate; he was so close, and now they’re holding him here for who knows what reason. His mind is a tangled mess of emotions he doesn’t want to unravel in the manor of all places— and most of all he doesn’t want to be here in the first place. 

The second Robin couldn’t even kill himself properly and now he’s reaping the consequences.

“Did you not hear my conversation with Grayson? Or are you that dense- they don’t care?  You insufferable, self-regarding, blubbering-”

“Woah, woah, c’mon kid, you don’t get it, we’re a strange bunch. They’ll be fine in no time, once they learn I'm awake they’ll go back to chasing me on rooftops for things I didn’t do-” or put him straight in Arkham if they already figured out what he did do,“- and soon I’ll be back to being ‘the dangerous one’ Brucie tells you to avoid. They can take care of themselves.”

He’s sputtering at this point, a mix of throwing out whatever can stick and letting truth leak into his words. He fails to notice the clench of Damian’s fists and the red flush building at the tip of his nose and the rims of his eyes.

“No, Todd, you don’t understand. They’ve been inconsolable, they need this, they need you- you ignorant bastard! They can’t take care of themselves. You don’t know anything! But I do! I know because I’ve- I've had to deal with this- with them on my own!” 

Damian's voice cracks and Jason’s heart breaks.

He finally sees the boy in front of him for who he is: a child begging for his estranged brother to stay for the sake of not being alone again. Jason may consider himself a piece of shit, but Damian was asking for him to stay anyway. 

Maybe, just maybe, Jason didn’t realize how affected the others would be. Damian’s attempt to stifle himself fails, his breathing short and erratic as he paces around the room.

“Father- Father won’t even look at me. I’ve had to take it upon myself to make sure these absolute imbeciles don’t kill themselves in their attempts to keep you alive. When they’re not working themselves to death they’re sitting here staring at you like- like that damned monument in the cave!”

His little shoulders tremble with an intensity that worries Jason but still, no tears fall from the young Robin’s eyes. He chokes on his breaths and wheezes, clenching his palms in the same manner Jason did earlier all in vain.

“Hey, hey, Dami calm down. Why don’t you take some  deep breaths, it seems you have a lot on your mind.”

“I will not ‘calm down’ Todd,” he sneers, face growing red (embarrassment, anger, from stifling his tears, all of the above?), “Of course, I’ve had a lot on my mind- I’ve had to take care of your mess of a family because you went and almost got yourself killed in vain! Even Drake has been afflicted by this ordeal!”

“Tim too?” Jason blinks in confusion, “Who was taking care of you? Damian, are you telling me that you’ve been dealing with this on your own?”

Damian sniffs and avoids looking Jason in the eyes, “Alfred has but I make a point of staying out of his way, and the others- Father-” he opens his mouth and closes it again. Jason can see the way his small shoulders tense, the way his bottom lip quivers, and the older man instinctually opens his arm that isn’t zip-tied to the cot and motions for a hug as best as he can.

Damian glances at him and looks away pointedly, attempting to repress his emotions rather than attempt any semblance of calm. He can’t seem to stop himself from shaking.

Jason feels like such an asshole.

What the fuck happened? He knows Alfred would never purposely ignore Damian— and the boy seemed to confirm this. But for the others, there’s no way they would prioritize Jason over the youngest— the blood son. Maybe it’s more about the deaths, maybe tensions are high as they wait to interrogate Jason. The confusion only builds as his mind runs over the different scenarios but he can’t find it in himself to start detangling the ever-increasing knot once his gaze falls on Damian again. 

His breathing is heavy and he’s holding onto his chest, still pacing. Jason’s chest tightens.

“C’mon kid, I won't bite. Hell, I’ll even look away. It’s okay to let it out- you’re surrounded by dickheads.”

“You won't? You don’t think I’m weak?” Damian bites out.

It’s funny, really, how much Jason clings to being an older brother at this moment. In his own way, Damian is testing him— searching for assurance in his mini-Bruce emotionally constipated way. Right now, Jason isn’t a stupid piece of worthless crap. He’s someone Damian is seeking comfort in— he’s someone whose mind is occupied with making sure his little brother is alright. 

“I wouldn’t think you were weak if you had snot leaking from your brains, kid.”

“Stop patronizing me, you don’t have to treat me like a child.”

Jason sighs, “You are one, and if you think being an adult means not showing any emotion ever you have more things to worry about than being treated like a kid, now c’mere.”

This is nothing like what he expected. Not that he expected waking up in the first place. But he’s having a cordial conversation with Damian for once, fulfilling the big brother role he never imagined he’d hold. He has no time to think about his failed attempt, right now he’s focused on the heaving of Damian’s chest and shaking fists pinned to his sides.

Damian ignores him, stops pacing, stills in front of his bed, and stares at the floor.

“You’re… not who I thought you were.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t deserve your kindness. I failed to mention that it may be my fault. I… said regrettable things when we found you, even worse, I repeated that mistake when your heart stopped.” Damian lifts his head to look at Jason again and shifts his eyes abruptly, “I’m simply reaping what I sowed— I may have damaged my relationship with the family. I am not a good person- you don’t need to sympathize with me, Todd. I am-” he hiccups, “-undeserving of it.”

“Damian I don’t give a shit,” the boy jerks his head up to stare at Jason, eyes wide as saucers, “You’re- fuck, kid, you’re not a bad person. You’re Robin- ” Jason pauses as if expecting the familiar burn of the pit. It never comes. “You’re Robin, and if I have to tell you to come here again I’m biting through this zip tie and coming to you. I know you need a shoulder to cry on, you don’t need to- oof! ”

The child flings himself onto Jason, injuries be damned. He doesn’t sob or wail, or weep as Jason expects. Damian just heaves shaky breaths and lets hot tears fall into the juncture of Jason’s neck. 

It’s been a long time since Jason’s held someone.

He imagines it’s been a long time since Damian’s been held.

He rubs small circles on the baby bat’s back in hopes that it’s comforting. They’re all stiff limbs and awkward but it works. Damian grips him like a lifeline and it gives Jason a chance to ground himself as well, the warmth of the Robin’s trembling body and the repetitive motions draw him out of any self-hating spiral his mind prods him with.

You hurt him (I did). They should have left you there (yes they should have). You have to leave (I need to make sure Damian’s alright). 

“This is embarrassing,” he chokes out between heaving breaths. 

Jason continues to draw patterns onto the fabric of his shirt, “It’s really not, little D. You’re just a kid, it’s not fair.”

“I can take care of myself, I should handle being treated as an adult.”

“ Ay , Dami, mijo-” his breath catches at the sudden affection, “-that’s not how it works. Even if you were an old hag it wouldn’t be fair. But you don’t have the same amount of experience-” Damian lifts his head to retort and Jason presses his head softly back into his shoulder, “- years of living. Believe it or not, most of their brains are developed or at least close- you shouldn’t be treated as an adult because you’re not one.”

“But I’m Robin. ”

“So was I, Dick, and Timmy. And listen when I tell you that it’s okay to be just a kid right now, you don’t need to be a mini-Bruce. Fuck, kid, I shouldn’t have to tell you that it’s okay to cry. You should be doing this with Dick, not me.”

Damian jolts and a brief expression full of hurt flashes across his face. Jason just barely manages to keep him from scurrying off of him, “No, no that’s not what- Dami listen. You can cry on me, I don’t mind it. I just mean it shouldn’t have to come to this point.”

He nods and relaxes back into Jason's arm. 

“It’s still embarrassing, it’s unbecoming of an al Ghul-”

“Woah there, you’re a Wayne now,” Jason sighs, “This family may be made up of emotionally constipated pieces of shit but you’re not less than for having emotions Dami.”

They stay that way for a while, Jason rubbing small patterns onto the younger’s back and only slightly wincing with the pressure the small body is putting on his wound. Damian’s breath hitches and hiccups every couple of seconds but soon enough he’s breathing deeply and softly. Despite his growing calm, tears are still falling from Dami’s eyes as he clenches a handful of the elder’s shirt.

“I don’t know what happened, but don’t do it again Jason.”

It’s a soft whisper, trusting, pleading.

But Jason can’t find it in himself to respond. He knows he can’t promise that.

If Damian notices he doesn’t say anything, but he grips Jason harder.

Once the heat of the moment passes, although he’s still worrying for the boy, Jason grows tenser every minute spent like this, worried the bats will barge in looking for Damian and he’ll miss out on his chance to escape, zip-tie be damned. He can figure out a way. But Dami is still sniffling in his shoulder and it’s starting to freak him out with every passing second of regained consciousness— he doesn’t think he’s seen the ‘demon brat’ cry before. 

But as the minutes pass no one comes to check in on the boy. He purses his lips, he’s dangerous, what if he woke up and attacked the boy? He looks down at the bundle of distraught baby assassin and gives him a more detailed once-over. His black shirt has the faintest of stains, he realizes. His cargo pants are rumpled and stiff. When had Damian last changed his clothing?

The black shirt was an intentional choice to hide the wear and tear of wearing it too often— Jason employed the same color choice of wardrobe when he was on the streets.

“Was wash day pushed back a bit? What’s with the clothes baby bat?”

Ever the perceptual one, Damian catches onto his tone and goes on the defense, mumbling into his neck, “I could handle it. I didn’t want to bother Alfred.”

“You could never bother him, did he say something to-”

“No!... No, of course not. I just thought he had more things to worry about. I can wash my clothes, Todd, I’ve just been busy.”

Some of the old snark is back and Jason can’t help but feel relief. He’s never been good with kids, or well, their emotions.

Jason glances at the door again and Damian sighs, something too weathered for his age.

“No one will be coming for a while.” Once again, ever the perceptual one.

“Why do you say that?”

“Don’t misunderstand, they will stay in here for days on end, but their priority is finding out what happened. They want to prevent it from happening again.”

Jason tilts his head, choosing not to ask more despite his curiosity but Damian answers his unasked question anyways.

“I was not allowed into the room, or in many of the discussions, but I have heard enough.” Jason moves his hand from his back and begins carding his hand into the back of Damian’s head. “They said it was impossible, considering your experience and the severity- or the lack of it in your injuries, at least for your line of work.”

“They don’t believe it could have just been unlucky?”

“Was it unlucky?”

Jason doesn’t respond.

“Father believes it was magic. Drake has been going through your contacts to see if it was blackmail. Richard… he doesn’t know what to believe.”

“How are you so sure they won’t come, though?”

“I may have…” Damian lifts his head and looks sheepishly at Jason, “I may have counted on them fighting again. Richard and Father have been butting heads recently and it’s partially why I sent him out of here— to buy time… Along with getting him to eat. And Drake is patrolling Crime Alley.” 

Jason’s attention is only caught on one thing: “What are they fighting about?”

Damian sinks his head back in between the juncture of Jason’s neck and shoulder. Jason doesn’t press. Despite his intense curiosity, he’s more concerned about the resolute silence coming from the boy. 

Minutes pass and Jason’s anxiety pulses stronger. He can’t see Damian’s expression from here, he can’t get an inkling of what he’s thinking.

Damian lifts his head and stares, it should be too piercing for a child but he somehow manages to make him squirm anyways. “You- in the alley. It wasn’t magic, was it, Jason?”

Jason shakes his head.

“Richard says Father is being stubborn, says there’s more. He doesn’t know… what exactly to believe. But he thinks what happened was beyond magic and blackmail.”

“Is that what they’re fighting about?”

“Among other things.”

“Will I get to hear these other things?”

Damian shoots him an uncomfortable glance, “Father has… made himself sparse when it comes to visiting you. He wishes to find something or someone to blame. It falls on himself most of the time, among other people— which is a part of the other things.”

Talking to Damian felt like talking in circles, he knows more now but is still left with enough questions to make his head throb. He isn’t about to interrogate the sniffling child for more, though.

Jason decides to keep holding him. Damian doesn’t seem to be finished though because soon enough he’s breaking out of the hold again and staring at him.

“What was it, Jason?” He peers up at him, this time looking more like a child and less like a mini detective, “what happened in the alley?”

“Nothin’ you have to worry about lil’ Rob.” 

He sees Damian’s offended expression and is quick to correct himself, “I mean, not right now. Just. I’ll talk to…” he flounders for a second, “... Dick about what happened first, you understand, yeah?”

Dami nods understandingly and Jason only feels half bad for lying. He’s not sure he’ll be able to tell anyone. But Damian is at least somewhat content and lying a little never hurt anyone. He lays his head on Jason’s shoulder one last time— though Jason can’t possibly be that comfy— and takes a deep, unwavering breath.

Soon enough, the kid clambers off of Jason, all bones and little grace but he doesn’t hold it against him. Damian sniffles a bit and brushes himself off a bit, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

“I apologize for my outburst, it was unbecoming of me.”

“You’re allowed to cry, kid.”

Damian nods slowly as if committing the words to memory.

“Then I apologize for calling you a bastard earlier. Among other things.”

Jason snorts and reaches over to ruffle his hair. “It’s alright baby bat, I’m not upset.”

 It’s a bit of a stretch, with one of his arms locked to the bed, but he accomplishes it anyways. Damian only slightly looks as if he's going to bite him, so he considers it a win.

“I’ll make myself presentable and I’ll grab Grayson for you- so you can talk to him like you said you would. If you’re lucky they have fought and Father will be brooding in the cave for another couple of hours while Alfred attends to him. Your awakening will be kept secret for plenty of time.”

“Alright, but can you,” he motions with one arm to the zip tie, “release me first?”

“That was a part of the ‘other things’ in the apology you just accepted. Sorry, Todd, it’s best if you stay put.”

Jason sends him a half-hearted glare as Damian walks away, head high— and Jason can’t find it in himself to be annoyed.

Once Damian is halfway out of the door he turns and looks at him shyly.

“Thank you, Jason.”

The door shuts softly and Jason is left alone.

The flimsy house of cards that kept his emotions contained falls. A flood washes over him: despairing his every breath, anxiety curling at his gut for what’s to come, self-hatred heavy enough to keep him anchored at the bottom of the pit that is his suicidal ideation. Not a minute after Damian leaves, Jason shuts his eyes, and wishes to never wake up again.

Chapter Text

Jason imagines what his crisp white sheets would look like with his brains splattered over them. 

He thumbs at the creases and loosely tugs his restrained hand, the zip tie digs achingly into his skin, and he relishes in it— wishes he had the strength to take the cot apart. He wishes he could rip himself free and impale his temple with the stupid metal bar he’s tied to. But he feels too weak, it takes too much effort to move with the stiffness of his limbs and the awkward jerks they make every couple of seconds. The medication is wearing off but he still feels out of it.

It’s only been a couple of minutes since Damian left but his absence leaves a pit that Jason can’t dig himself out of. He… doesn’t want to be alone, not with his mind fogging up his psyche with wishes to see red pouring out of his body, to take his last breath, and to be anything but himself; alive and breathing. 

There’s no one specific thing that Jason can trace his deep sorrow to. It’s everything and nothing, he realizes. Where the Lazarus pit held him by the reins, driving him like a mad horse to fall to his deepest and darkest impulses, this aching feeling does something else to Jason. Its power lies in the way it creeps around the crevices of his mind, guiding him with sharp, gentle hands before plummeting him into a sea of self-hatred.

The feeling burns in his chest, makes his limbs awfully heavy, and deprives him of breath.

It drowns him.

No matter how much he kicks and thrashes in his mind it’s as if any regret, any aspect of himself to hate, any bitter memory, and all of the above get caught onto his limbs and pull him down further. He shuts his eyes and is met with memory upon memory of failure, of regrets, of reasons why he shouldn’t be breathing.

A memory comes to him in a brief, foggy flash— a welcome distraction from the clear memories of grief— and he scrambles to latch onto it, pawing at the space of his mind and holding onto it tightly when the memory grows clearer. 

Soon his desperation pays off and he remembers what it felt like to die, this time— vaguely. It was a feeling completely opposite to this desperate, cold feeling that stings under his skin now. A glimmer of memory appears in his mind— after the warm, floaty feeling, the cool pressure on his cheek. He doesn’t remember the moment his heart stopped, but now he can vaguely recall sensations he felt after he first shut his eyes.

He remembers a slight pinch of pain, thundering voices, and constant pressure on his neck. The jostle of his wounds as he was moved, a warm embrace, muttered whispers in his ear.

He remembers the warm pattering of rain on his face.

Near-silent footsteps snap him out of his trance. Dick. He tenses as they grow closer, slower. He can imagine the former Robin approaching timidly— scared to face an empty cot or still coma-induced Jason.

He gulps. In his suicidal bender, mind racing and thoughts inching every crevice of his mind, he forgot about Dick. He forgot he would have to face his older brother head-on. He hears Dick take a deep breath outside of the door and steels himself.

He hears the click of the knob turning.

Jason doesn’t know what to expect. He doesn’t want to be interrogated and doesn’t want to explain himself. He doesn’t want to talk about the heaps of bodies he left behind. The doorknob turns and his heart thuds in his chest. What if they ask about the Joker? About the bodies? The Lazarus isn’t here to give Jason that steel resolve— the biting edge that comes before an explosion. He can’t lie to Dick, not right now that his heart is stuttering and breaths are coming in too quick and shallow. He clutches his chest and stares down at the sheets.

“Woah, Jaybird, you’re okay- you’re okay.”

In his panic, he hadn’t even noticed Dick come in. There’s a pressure on his shoulder and he looks up and into watery blue eyes as they widen. 

“Your eyes...”

Dick stares at him in awe before snapping back to tending to Jason. They breathe together, Jason’s chest heaving while Dick rubs circles onto his back.

Dick… doesn’t say anything after that comment. He doesn’t ask him about the Joker, about what happened in the alley, he doesn’t say a word as Jason regains his bearings. He just stares at him, rubbing small patterns and looking way too damn happy to be there.

Soon enough, he calms down again and nods at Dick— ready to face whatever he’ll hit him with.

And in true Dick fashion, he hits him with a greeting.

“Hi, Jay,” he smiles, watery, and pulls away. He doesn’t attack him with a hug or maintain the physical contact he knows Dick loves so much. He just peels himself off and sits in a chair next to the bed, foot tapping lightly.

“I- uh. Dami told me you were awake and Bruce-” Dick flinches, pausing a bit and eyeing Jason wearily as if expecting an outburst.

It never comes.

His brows furrow a tinge before smoothing out and he continues, “Bruce is in the cave. Nobody will be coming up for a while. Dames said he gave you a rundown… To be honest I almost choked on my croissant when he told me you woke up.” He laughs lightly but it sounds forced, choked.

“Yeah he briefed me but-” Jason swallows, “Can you uh-” he gestures to the zip tie.

“Oh! Yeah- Damian ,” he sighs exasperated but fond, “he told me he convinced you to stay put but didn’t say how.” He pouts, some of that beloved Dick Grayson energy returning to him for a second, “Here I thought he was getting along with you for a second.”

Dick begins cutting Jason out of the restraint, carefully avoiding touch when he can in fear of making Jason uncomfortable now that he’s not in a panic-induced haze. Dick’s hair is oily, his shirt ratty and Jason can see a plethora of stains when Dick hunches over or shifts while cutting him out. Jason tries to not think about why his brothers had been wearing clothes in similar states of distress.

Once he’s released, he cradles his wrist in his hand and flexes it a bit. Dick goes back to the chair, his leg bouncing once he sits. He’s probably a bit more anxious knowing now that Jason had to be restrained to stay. Jason bites the inside of his cheek and readies himself to ask the same question that set the youngest of their clan off.

He sucks in a breath, “Do you know when I can leave?”

Dick takes it a lot easier than Damian did.

“Uh-” he blinks, “maybe a couple of weeks, the house has been hectic lately so be prepared. Maybe you can come to this movie night we’re having later this month since you’ll be here- if it’s not pushed back ‘cause of,” he gestures at the air, “everything. It’s my turn to choose but I’d be glad to let you have it- honorary guest and all,” Jason stares Dick continues to blabber, “Or if not- which is totally fine- Alfred’s making that bread you like- liked, do you still like it?- the seashell looking ones?” 

“Conchas, and yeah, I uh- I do,” he nods shortly.

Dick lets out a breath, a bit of tension leaving him but running out of breath as he continues to ramble, “Oh, good! Or well, not good, I mean it would be okay if you didn’t like them anymore. I don’t expect you to still have the same interests or taste.. in bread… as before-” Dick winces, “What I’m trying to say is I’m just… glad to have you back, Jay.”

Jason nods, and cringes a little when the words escape his mouth much too abruptly: “So no clear timeline as to when I can dip?”

“Yeah- no. Um- are you sure Dami told you everything? I’ll just fill you in, just in case. You’ve been in a coma. For two weeks,” Dick takes a deep breath and grips the sides of his chair, “You’ve got bruises all around, a minor head injury, some cuts from where the shrapnel of your helmet cut you. And you have a laceration- deep but not necessarily fatal. But your heart stopped- blood loss.”

“Yup knew all of that.”

Dick falters, a little edge to his voice, “Yeah, I just wanted to make sure that you realized your heart stopped. Since you seem a little eager to leave when we almost…” he takes a heavy breath, “we almost lost you.”

“Almost.” Jason replies bitterly.

“Yeah. Almost,” A strange tone permeates Dick’s voice, “Yeah, you’re lucky the injury wasn’t necessarily fatal, it was the blood loss that did you in. What was it you waited, an hour? More?”

“Dick-” 

“Y’know it's weird- it was just the one cut and we couldn’t find any sign of poisoning… nothing in your system to cloud your judgment or paralyze you…” Dick opens his mouth before closing it, contemplating a little before continuing, “We couldn’t find anything. Your comms were in perfect condition, just a little jostled from being thrown , and your panic button was in reach, I mean everything you could have used to help yourself and you seemed to do everything in your power to make it worse. I mean the helmet -”

Dick takes a deep breath and shakes his head as if to snap himself out of his frantic state, barely managing to take a softer tone once again, looking into Jason’s eyes, “what happened, Jay?”

Jason turns his head to avoid his gaze. He didn’t want this— this is the same line of questioning he nearly had a panic attack over but it seems like Dick is done beating around the bush. He can say so many things: tell Dick he didn’t feel like getting up, didn’t feel like breathing, that the Lazarus has receded and he doesn’t know how to cope with what he’s done. 

Instead, he throws out a half-assed excuse. 

“Nothin’- just got distracted.”

It seems he not only crossed the fine line Dick established with him, but leaped bounds over it.

And Dick, for all of his hedging and wariness earlier, laughs. It's hollow, a harsher replica of the laugh from earlier, and any of the niceties from before slip away— his shoulders are as tense as ever, and it feels like it’s the first time Jason is seeing his brother through this ordeal. He can see the worry (anger, despair, sadness and so many others bubbling under the surface) lining his face, he can see the clench of his jaw, the red rim of his eyes, the slight quiver of his hands, the way his leg bounces incessantly, he can hear the strain of his voice and tremble of his breaths.

Jason vaguely realizes he may have made a mistake not taking more time to think about his answer.

Whatever composure Dick had earlier slips away.

He bolts up from his seat, pent-up energy thundering through his body, barely restrained as he paces. Had this situation been different, Jason would laugh at the way Damian seemed to inherit this side of Dick.

But he’s not really in a place to laugh, if anything he tenses as Dick releases his pent-up energy through excessive body movements— nothing violent or threatening in any way, but he carries himself with a pained anger Jason hasn’t seen in a long time. 

He doesn’t yell, but anger laces his voice all the same, “Oh, nothing… that’s– well that’s fucking great that was nothing for you, Jase. But I thought you were dead, I saw your helmet and then the blood and I thought I- that I was too late. But I’m glad it was nothing for you, glad it was just another Thursday for the Red Hood!”

Dick heaves a breath and braces himself on the windowsill, pointedly turning away from Jason. He can see that Dick is trying to get his breathing under control, trying to keep his calm after the accidental outburst.

But Jason crosses his arms and grumbles, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” 

He was always good at fanning the flames.

He knows he shouldn’t have said that— not when Dick has been wound up since the moment he woke up; the scene he woke up to between him and Damian was enough evidence. He sees as Dick’s back trembles, tension casting a heavy shadow over every muscle. He sees the moment his body seems to snap— 

Dick whirls around, voice breaking painfully as he raises his volume, and arms, in apprehension, “Then tell me! Fucking tell me what led you to die out in an alley instead of alerting anyone! I know you’d rather die again than go to Bruce— hell, maybe any of us,” Jason winces with the cracked defeat of Dick’s voice, “but Babs was just a click away, an-and your friends! You have so many people on your side Jay!”

Jason, well, if he’s completely honest he doesn’t know how to react.

“I know,” Dick’s shoulders tremble, “I know you want nothing to do with us anymore. But I also know that there are people you do let in, that you could’ve called. I know you—” his voice breaks, “you don’t see me as your brother anymore,” Jason takes a sharp intake of breath, “but you’re still mine. You’re my little brother, and you could’ve died and you wouldn’t have come back this time.”

He doesn’t deserve this— no, he definitely deserves the yelling, but there’s an undercurrent of care lining Dick’s words and Jason doesn’t deserve it. Not after everything he’s done. In spite of everything, Dick is still calling him his brother, tearing up at the thought of his death. He’s pacing around the room looking positively wrecked.

It makes Jason uncomfortable, he just wants to move on, a tangled mess of emotions tugs at his chest seeing his brother like this— his brother, despite what Dick thinks. Because seeing Dick— Nightwing, Robin, like this is something he’s never witnessed for himself. He saw the same distress when the other birds got hurt, but never expected to see it aimed at him. 

The spiteful part of Jason whispers that Dick is much too late, that he barely wanted to take on that big brother role years too late— when Jason came back a monster and less deserving of it. It’s not as spiteful as before, there’s no thunder or brimming acid behind the thought, just a sad acceptance. But here he was, a boogie man lying on a hospital bed, and Dick was in despair at the thought of losing him instead of finishing the job. Jason doesn’t deserve to be treated as a victim. 

He throws out another flimsy excuse.

“I thought I could handle it…” he shrugs, “guess I couldn’t, it was a mistake! I’ll call you guys next time.” He hopes Dick takes it.

He doesn’t.

“No, you could handle it, I don’t know a lot of things about you now, Jay, but one thing I know is that you will take anything. That’s what I can’t wrap my head around. You’re a stubborn, hard-headed, determined, strong, man. You’re a fucking powerhouse, Jason. You’ve dealt with the worst of the worst— bullet wounds, machetes, bombs, hell, you might be more of an expert on how to handle blood loss and injuries out of all of us. That’s why I’m trying to understand what happened—” Dick takes a stuttering breath and holds himself up on the edge of Jason’s bed. 

He doesn’t come closer, most likely because of Jason’s previous objections to physical contact and it hurts. It physically pains him to see his brother— because that’s what he is, and somehow Jason made him feel less than— and it hurts. After another couple of deep breaths, 

Dick manages to regain a small semblance of composure, “I… I’m sorry for raising my voice, I know this isn’t about me. Well, you were— you almost died again, and please, help me understand Little Wing, why?”

Jason nods. Usually, he’d tell Dick to fuck off and leave, but he’s tired. And Dick is wracked with nerves, the least he can do is tell him what happened. The Bats will be happy once the mystery is solved and let him go on his merry way. The strange case of the shithead son’s second snuffing: It was melodrama all along! 

“What do you already know?”

Dick sighs, catching onto what Jason is really asking, “We… found the alley filled with men. And-” he looks at Jason carefully, “We know the Joker’s been missing, and know that the unidentified remains of a man washed up on the coast a couple of days ago.”

Jason sighs, now or never.

He starts the story with a light touch, with the same old roughness and lack of tact they all know him for.

“Yeah, all me. I got rid of that sorry fuck- and I’m not sorry about it.”

“You don’t have to be.”

Jason stares at him, in slight shock. All Dick offers is a wobbly smile.

“Anyways… I chopped him up and fed him to the fishes- or because this is Gotham; I fed ‘im to the tons of oil, poison, acid, other dead bodies, general pollution, and the radioactive offspring those things caused in the harbor.”

The corner of Dick’s mouth twitches and Jason takes another breath.

“I was out of it- walked without realizin’ where I was going and ended up on the wrong side of town. Well, not that there’s a right side of town but I got jumped and snapped back to reality to see a shit ton of guys amped for a fight. And I gave them one.”

“So the bodies-”

“Let me talk, dickhead. Anyways, I was outnumbered, fucked out of my mind, fair play wasn’t working, and thought ‘well I already broke my no-kill streak’- not that you guys would notice-” Dick opens his mouth as if to argue and Jason sends him a withering glare, “and I put the rest of ‘em down. They managed to snag me a couple of times and that’s where I got the beautiful thing that led me here.”

 Jason stares down at his sheets and fiddles with the material, “As for the wait...The Lazarus-” he swallows and looks at Dick who stares at him with an intensity that makes his hands clammy, “Actually, can you get me some water?”

Jason’s not thirsty but he wants a reason to avoid Dick’s eyes as he continues. Dick practically jumps up and walks to the other side of the room to find a glass. 

“The Lazarus was gone,” he looks to see Dick pause and place the pitcher and glass cup on the counter before him. He shoots Jason a wary glance, not as shocked as he might have been had he not seen the change in Jason’s eyes. Jason shoos him and he turns back around.

“I don’t know what happened, but it was gone, not completely, but I think- I think that’s the first time I killed people without that stupid piece of shit helping me, telling me what to do and feel.” 

The pouring of water provides background noise as Jason begins to lose control of his words and they begin to flow out of him like a rapid stream, “I felt tired, nervous, I still felt the fucking pit but not enough of it it was- I was scared. I just kept thinking and seeing. I fucked my head up trying to stop.”

Dick puts the pitcher away. Jason watches his every move. He notices the way Dick’s hands shake slightly, and how tightly he holds the handle. He notices when he grasps the glass of water with both hands in a poor attempt to quell the shaking.

“The pit was gone and I started realizin’ I’m- I’m a piece of shit, Dickie. I fucked up real bad- I hurt kids. Without the pit, I’m fuckin’ nothing. Just a pathetic sack of shit that has nothing better to do than feel sorry for himself.”

Dick turns around quickly, brows furrowed, “Jason-”

Jason looks down at the white sheets again, “I just- I don’t fuckin’ know. I realized the pit was leaving and I hauled my ass to the alley and sat down. You don’t get it, Dick, I don’t think you ever will. It was leaving and I was gonna hurt you guys. It- it gave me one last push, I barely remember what happened, I just remember I was gonna hurt you guys-”

“But you didn’t-”

“Yeah because I got my ass handed to me by the floor. ‘Lost too much blood and passed out. I could’ve called, I know that, but I just thought the world would be better off without me. You guys would be better off. So I didn’t call. I... wanted to die.”

A glass shatters.

He waits for the jeers, snide comments about weakness and melodrama. 

They never come.

Dick stands frozen a few feet away from Jason, arm lifted and hand emptily grasping the air where the glass of water used to be. Jason meets his eyes self-consciously.

That springs Dick into action, he takes a step forward, glass crunching under his shoe, tears falling in waves over his cheeks, “Jay, no- ” 

This outcome just might be worse than what Jason expected— he can’t deal with guilt and tears and—

“Fuck off and clean that shit, it’s not a big deal. You don’t need to act like you care, ” he spits. That stops Dick in his tracks. Jason releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

 Jason doesn’t know why he does this, why he plucks random memories from the air and uses them against Dick like ammunition.

Maybe it’s because of the open expression of anguish Dick carries on his face. Maybe it’s because he held his arms open as if to finally breach the gap between them and hug Jason. Maybe it’s because he’s crying and Jason wants to believe what he did was right. He should have died. And Dick’s tears and pure fear on his face are making Jason doubt those thoughts. This wasn’t how he was supposed to react, he was supposed to give Jason that final push to try again, not ground him and make him regret.

Jason doesn’t want to hold onto that hope. He doesn’t want to find a reason to stay— doesn’t want to die thinking about his brothers’ watery blue eyes. Brothers’— because Damian had just sobbed into his shoulder asking him to not let it happen again, unknowing that Jason wanted it to happen in the first place, that he did all in his power to make sure it happened.

He wants Dick to stay away, he shouldn’t feel bad that Jason wants to off himself.

A fleeting thought passes through Jason’s mind— it would be easier on both of them if he gave Dick a reason to not mourn his death. 

And so he does. 

He looks into Dick’s splotchy, wet face with a practiced glare he served for criminals and practically spits, “C’mon, Dick. Drop the act- you know it would be better for everyone if I croaked. Look at everything I’ve done, everything I didn’t do- don’t act like you don’t fucking hate my guts.” Jason is all false bravado and sneers; Dick struggles to find words as he stands over the crushed glass on the floor.

There’s no Lazarus in his veins, but it’s almost muscle memory at this point: Jason plucks words from the remnants of his mind, laces them with vitriol, and shoots them like arrows toward the poor bird.

“Don’t lie to me— deep down you were glad when I died. One less fucker around to hurt your precious baby birds. Hell, I probably didn’t need to do anything when I came back for you to hate me. My first run at life was enough- I’d know since you couldn’t be bothered to come to my funeral.”

Bullseye.

Dick staggers backward, hand over his chest as if he had been shot. But he doesn’t look angry— like he’ll walk out any second and leave Jason to rot as he deserves.

If anything he looks confused— hurt, yes, but confused.

“Why are you being like this, Jay? Look at me, do I look happy? I’ve been worried sick and you’re saying that I-” he stops, “I would be glad if you died? You don’t mean that. Why are you being so mean?”

Give it to Dick to call out Jason’s bluff in seconds.

“You don’t think I missed it on purpose, do you? Bruce never- he never fucking told me. I thought you knew. Even though I didn’t know, I regret it. I could have been there- I should have been there. I never hated you, Jason. I don’t know why you said that if- if you wanted me to feel bad,” he swallows, “If it makes you feel better, I already do. Feel bad. I think I’ll always hate myself for what happened to you and I hope you know that, Jay. That I’d do anything in my power to be there for you, that I regret everything about those couple of months.”

Jason gapes— he understands the power of what he said, repeats the words in his head, but he never expected this. To hate himself— that can’t be true, because Dick is always all smiles and confidence, with no space for regrets.

He had imagined Dick spinning the blade on Jason, recounting some of his many, many fuck ups. He imagined him storming out, mumbling about ungratefulness under his breath, and leaving Jason alone. But he didn’t. And Dick registers the shock on Jason’s face.

“What do you actually want to say, Jace? ‘Cause I know you were trying to hurt me, and if you just wanted me to leave you would’ve just said so, so what is it? There’s more, I know it, so tell me Jason— ‘cause my baby brother just told me he tried to kill himself —”

Jason interrupts him before he can stop himself, anxiety twisting his stomach in knots and so, so, confused because this isn’t going at all how he expected—

“I want you to let me!” 

He fists his sheets and tries to keep tears from running down his face as the words are ripped from his throat so harshly he fears he’ll alert the others, “I want you to fucking let me die! I want you to hate me so much that I don’t have to give a fuck about what happens after I finally blow my brains out. I just- I don’t fucking understand, why are you being so nice? Why do you care? Please, Dickie, just hate me and make this easier on both of us. I don’t wanna think about you when I try again.”

“It’s hard to do that when you call me Dickie, you dumbass.”

A tense silence washes over them. Dick’s shoulders are stiff, his breathing heavy, and his fists clenched. He brings a shaking hand over his neck and clears his throat, pressing lightly as if to physically squeeze the noise out. He stomps over the shards of glass and Jason doesn’t dare to stop him this time. Jason doesn’t stop him when he sits on the edge of his bed, either.

He stares at the ceiling while Dick collects his thoughts, bracing himself for what his older brother has to say.

“Jason.”

“What, Dickwing?”

Dick’s head jerks a bit, and he fiddles with his hands.

“I need you to understand- to listen to me.”

“Okay.”

 I thought I was late again.” 

“You already said that-”

He takes a breath and ignores Jason.

“I thought I was late again. I stepped on a piece of your helmet, and then Tim said you lined it with- with fucking explosives !”

He punctuates his sentence with a fist aimed at the mattress below him, carefully avoiding Jason’s leg but with enough force to scare him a little.

“I thought you were gone, and we saw the blood and I was just hoping to find a body at that point. I kept calling you and you never answered. I thought you were gone . And I thought I was so fucking useless that I couldn’t help even when I was on the planet.”

“ I had prayed to anything out there— said I would visit the manor more often, use Bruce’s money to donate to a charity or twelve. Hell- I even said I'd finally get my shit together and stop surviving of off Eggo waffles and that diner on 47th. And then I saw you- and you were alive and I was so fuckin’ glad you were alive Jay. I picked you up and-” Dick chokes on a sob, “You were so cold- your heartbeat was going a mile a minute and there was no pressure on your wound and you closed your eyes and you were dying.”

Dick takes a second to recompose himself. 

“You were dying and all I could do was watch. There was no more bartering, no more wishing, or anything I could do to help except keep your pulse and bawl my eyes out. I was holding you through it all- I thought ‘the least I can do is be here for him this time’ and I watched you die in my arms. We lost you for a second, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget the feeling of your heartbeat stopping. I lost my voice that night.”

Jason fiddles with his fingers as Dick fists the sheets beside him, looking into Jason’s eyes imploringly, “I thought you were gone. Again. Do you get it, Little Wing?”

“Yeah- I get it,” Jason hastily replies, trying to stop the tirade that’s making him choke up and tremble.

“No, no, none of that,” Dick looks at him, eyes steely and locking Jason into place, “I need you to get it: I thought you were gone and another piece of me died. So when you say I would be glad, that you need me to hate you, that you’re going to try again- I need you to get it through your head that there’s no way in hell I’d ever be anything less than fucking destroyed if you were gone.”

Jason feels a familiar pinch behind his eyes and struggles to bat the tears away. His throat swells and his chest aches, but his heart refuses to drown Dick out no matter how much his mind fights it.

 “I’m glad you’re alive, Jay. I don’t hate you— I don’t think I can ever hate you. I’m not mad, I don’t know how to explain what I feel. But what I can say, and what I need you to understand is that,” he sucks in a wavering breath and tears spill from his eyes, “I’m so fucking happy that you’re alive, Little Wing.”

Jason can’t help the sob that rips from his throat. It’s ugly and embarrassing, and he can’t help but hide behind his hands.

And Dick, poor Dick, lifts his arms before stopping halfway. Jason's breath hitches when he sees it from between his fingers. He knows it’s his fault his brother is wary of touching him— to set him off or anger him, to make him uncomfortable. 

Jason drags his clammy hands from his face and breaches the gap.

Dick leaps onto him like a lifeline and brushes the tears from his face. 

He had always been in tune with his emotions, so the weeks of pent-up everything in Dick explode the moment Jason sobs out a hiccup and brings his hands to his face again.

Dick wails into his neck, clutching him tightly. Jason curls his arms around him, digs his face into his hair, and cries like he hasn’t in a long time. 

He smells like dry shampoo and shitty cologne.

“Fuck, Jay, I’m sorry I know-” Dick hiccups, “I know I wasn’t a good brother to you when you were a kid, Jay. I was dealin’ with my own shit but you were just a kid. And I regret it so much. I failed you- ‘m supposed to be your big brother, and to think…”

“Dick-”

“No! To think you’ve been goin’ through this- that you felt you couldn’t reach out to me. That you thought I would be glad- that the world would be better off,” Dick hiccups before continuing to sob, “I’ll try to be better, Jase, no, I’ll be better. I tried to before but I know now how that made you feel, I know it was shitty of me to wait until you came back to change, to try and be the big brother you needed. I realized that when I found you in the alley.”

Dick’s tears are hot and everflowing, he cries loud and hard, blubbering words Jason can just barely make out over his own sniffles and hiccups.

“I know I’m too late, Jay. Years too late, but please, let me try again. I- I don’t think I can lose you again, let’s eat conchas and watch movies and let me bribe you with books to make shit for me 'cause I can't cook for shit. I just- seeing you like that, I never want that to happen again.”

Bribe you with books.

Jason wonders how much of that is meant for the fifteen-year-old he used to be. He feels a pinch of anger, a drop of jealousy for his former self, and some resignation. Because Dick still sees him as that kid that got himself killed in Ethiopia.

“I get it,” He forces out, “it must have brought up bad memories.”

He almost forgets that Dick is a bat.

Because his older brother takes a second to scrutinize the tone in his voice, to lift his head and take in his expression before he cups his face in his hands, voice trembling, “You don’t get it, I wasn’t taken back to the day I found out you died, Jay. I- I thought I was losing you: Red Hood, my- formerly- Lazarus laced, snarky, skunk striped, gun-toting, jackass brother who keeps stupid fucking explosives in his helmet.”

Oh.

Jason looks at Dick, really looks at him, and realizes he isn’t lying.

“I’m sorry- I know I don’t know a lot about you now. I don’t care if you don’t read anymore or like the same movies or foods. As long as it’s with you I’d be happy to eat a hundred fuckin’ cucumber sandwiches with a gallon of coconut milk,” Dick can’t stop the grimace that forms on his face and Jason chokes out a laugh. His brother’s lips quirk and he lets out a small laugh himself.

It’s a welcomed break from crying.

“Let me get to know you again, Little Wing. I love you.”

…

…

Fuck.

He can’t stop the warmth that flushes over him, the thought that maybe— maybe he shouldn’t die yet.

“I believe ya’ Dickie. I- I would like that.”

Dick’s shoulders slump in relief, uncaring that Jason didn’t return his statement. He melts against Jason, boneless, and Jason lets him cry into him. He pointedly ignores the fact that he is also using Dick as a living tissue.

He does roll his eyes a little when Dick presses against his wound as Damian did earlier, for a bunch of detectives they’re bad at sensing where to place their limbs.

But his ire doesn’t last long as Dick heaves stuttering wisps of breath into him.

  I love you.

Jason’s still fucking up. His brother is sobbing against him because of him , and he doesn’t have the fucking nerve to even say ‘I love you’ back.

Dick is blubbering about how much he cares for his younger brother while laying his ear over his chest— his heartbeat— talking about everything they’re gonna do, all the ways he’ll step up from now on but Jason can’t focus. He’s still trying to build the courage to say three simple words.

He rubs patterns into Dick’s back as he did to Damian earlier. Soon the rambles turn to whispers to sniffles to deep breaths and incoherent mumbles. All the energy Dick held earlier is sapped out of him. It’s now that Jason notices the cast of dark circles under Dick’s eyes.

“Not been getting enough sleep, Dickie?”

“I got like an hour after Dami kicked me out of ‘ere…” Dick continues to mumble something incoherent and yawns into Jason.

He continues to hold Dick against him, bracing his back with one arm and carding a hand through his hair with the other. 

I love you.

Maybe he’ll never be brave enough to say it when he’s awake.

Jason waits a few moments for Dick’s breathing to steady and his face to go slack. Jason takes a peak and sees closed eyes and a relaxed face.

He steals a breath. 

“I… love ya’ too, Dickie, I’m sorry I did this to you.”

In a frantic and out-of-nowhere move that scares the fuck out of Jason, Dick jerks awake, a hazy mess of furious and panicked limbs as he argues, “You didn’t do anything to me, Jay, it’s not about me. I know what I said, and I’ll kill you if you do this again-” Jason rolls his eyes, “I know what I said earlier, and I mean it, I’ll be fuck, I don’t even wanna think about it. I’ll be a wreck.”

Dick takes a deep breath, “Jay, Little Wing, I want you to stay alive for you. We’re gonna get you help, Jaybird, so you can realize how important you are. You shouldn’t only feel bad ‘cause of me- it’s your life you almost lost. I… I want you to care about it as much as you care about me caring about it.”

Jason feels an uncomfortable shift, he’s not ready to face himself. He gets a sense of deja-vu as he shoves Dick down into his shoulder.

“Shut up,” Dick makes an offended noise and Jason corrects himself, “I mean- let’s just talk about this later. I’m fuckin’ beat, just… stay like this ‘til I kick you out.”

He doesn’t say anything when Dick moves down to rest his head against his chest again, not so coincidentally over his heartbeat. And he indulges him when he asks for his hand, just to keep fingers placed over the pulse point in his wrist.

An itching feeling crawls under Jason’s skin with the warmth he hasn’t held or been held in so long that it’s starting to make his body’s fight or flight trigger with the impossible amount of the foreign sensation. His shirt feels positively damp from Damian and Dick’s crying, it feels uncomfortable and kind of gross if he thinks too much about the amount of snot and tears staining it now but he doesn’t voice his complaints. He just cards one hand through Dick’s hair and breathes slowly and deeply as Dick traces small patterns over his wrist with his fingers.

He relishes in it because he knows, eventually, it will have to end.

Not completely in the self-hating ‘everyone leaves me’ way but in the ‘wow Dick actually kind of smells when has this dude last had a shower?’ way.

Though…

He still can’t believe someone will miss him, will be wrecked . That someone— Dick had actively argued against him taking his life. But he takes a deep breath and prides himself in only wincing a bit when the smell hits him again.

He doesn’t remain completely kind because after a couple of minutes he remembers Dick is his brother and thus has to pay the brother tax of ribbing and general lack of niceties.

“Go shower you stink.”

“I was waiting for that, you always had a sensitive nose,” Dick says as he sits up, pinching the tip of Jason’s nose annoyingly.

He pats Jason’s legs, about to get up before slouching back into the bed.

Jason quirks a brow and Dick seems to curl into himself a bit.

“Hey Jay, I– I mean did you mean all that, are we okay?”  

“I can’t seem to get rid of you that easily so I guess,” Dick sends a wobbly smile and Jason adds, shyly, “Thank you. For being there even if I wasn’t lucid enough to appreciate it. And for sticking around even though I said… what I said. You’re a good brother, Dickie.”

Dick grins toothily and leans over to press a chaste kiss against Jason’s forehead. Jason prides himself in acting disgusted and making a show of wiping it off despite the warm feeling that swells in his chest. Dick’s smile only grows wider.

They all have their regrets and fuck-ups. He can’t find it in himself to still be mean to Dick over what happened, or in their case, what didn’t happen. It seems like Dick is mean enough to himself about that. He’ll have to talk to him about that later.

Dick is peppier walking out, still carrying the weight of exhaustion that Jason carries on his own shoulders, but he’s visibly lighter. It helps Jason, seeing that.

Dick’s hand is on the knob when Jason stops him, “Hey Dick… can ya’ keep an eye on Dami- the brat for me? I don’t think he’s doing great.”

Dick smiles softly, “Sure. Y’know, I think you have the makings for a good big brother too, Jay.”

He knows he should leave this on a good note, lighter and with less anxiety swirling between them but Jason can't help himself, “And- uh- are you gonna tell anyone?”

Dick’s mouth twitches downward as if forgetting he had to face the others soon.

“You need help, Little Wing. We have to say something. If you want you can tell them and I'll be here with you.”

Jason would quite literally rather die again than repeat this with the others but he doesn’t voice it. Instead, he says, “No ah- you can do it. I don’t care.”

“Are you sure?” Dick tilts his head, brows furrowed.

“Yeah,” Jason’s voice dips to take a softer tone, “I would like it. If you told ‘em.”

“Roger that Jaybird, get some sleep.” Dick salutes with two fingers and smiles solemnly.

“Thanks, Dickiebird,” Jason shoots a tired smile back.

Anxiety nips at him the moment the door clicks closed but Jason shuts his eyes and lets himself sink into the bed. Almost dying really knows how to suck the energy out of a guy.

Chapter Text

A distinct plop! of water onto the ground snaps Dick out of his daze.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing here. 

Water drips leisurely down his face and sopping wet strands of his hair stick to his forehead uncomfortably. His shirt is a bit damp; honestly, all of him is a bit too damp at the moment. He vaguely regrets not toweling off better after his shower. And not stealing better clothes; Bruce’s jeans are too baggy on him and Tim’s shirt is impossibly tight. He’s too warm and stuffy, but he doesn’t move. 

He can’t find it in himself to move.

The open magazine in his shaking hands makes a small shiiik noise as it begins to rip from his tense grip. Dick briefly manages to snap himself out of his reverie again , blinking his eyes a bit before slowly putting the open magazine into the cart in front of him.

He still refuses to move.

No, instead he braces himself on the shopping cart and hunches over the magazine. He knows he should be a bit more careful, put his sunglasses back on, pull his cap down a bit further, and attempt to end this current breakdown he’s having so he can have some semblance of peace as a Wayne crashing a local supermarket. 

He knows that, but he continues to stare at the glossy paper before him. The magazine was one of those science types with big bold lettering over a picture of a space launch on the cover. He had rifled through it, wanting to take his mind off of, well, everything really before he had to go back and face the manor.

It was a mistake.

He vaguely wishes he chose the teen magazine to get distracted by as he stares at a kaleidoscopic scattering of space dust across two pages.

If he did, he wouldn’t be stuck. He would have skimmed over the pages, laughed at some of the fashion disaster columns, and carried on. 

Now it’s as if his shoes are being sucked into the floor, his brain whirring solemnly as he looks at the cluster of stars illuminated by dull yellow-white fluorescent lighting. He feels as if he can get sucked in— if not for the crease in the middle where the pages are separated, reminding him of his place as a twenty-something-year-old dripping wet near the entrance of all places.

The photo is gorgeous enough to not mind that this is his reality though; cosmic swirls of unbelievable color combinations smile at him and say everything is going to be alright. Well, not necessarily. His brain has to jump through a lot of hoops to make out the smile— it only appears if he squints and tilts his head to the side, but Dick could use some reassurance right now.

Once he finishes scrutinizing every pixel on the page, he looks down to one of the corners of the second page where small lettering blocks off a portion of the photograph.

Nebulae.

The spaces between stars; clouds of dust and gas– stellar nurseries.  

Dick imagines that it's one hell of a nursery, gorgeous swirls with bright breaches of light that birth stars. 

Probably much better than the chronically smog-ridden and bullet-rain-flooded city of Gotham.

After the seventh pointed look his way he puts the magazine back. He feels a little bad, with the way he tore it and all, but he can’t look at it any longer. He feels sick even touching it.

Jay had liked space once upon a time ago.

Not that Jay is in any way dead, no he’s still up and kicking… no thanks to Dick. Dick couldn’t even be useful enough of a person, let alone a brother, for Jay to reach out—

It’s just hard.

Grieving someone who is still alive.

A space-wide breadth sits between him and Jay, it feels. He’ll cross it though, he knows it. Or he’ll die trying. 

“I… love ya’ too, Dickie.”

Dick smiles a little.  He seems to have gotten into his head again. Maybe it's less of a space-wide breadth and more of a ‘being a stubborn bat’ wide breadth. He takes a deep breath and counts to five.  

He can imagine Jason calling him a dramatic dumbass.

His smile grows wider, replies back in his mind, It’s a brother’s prerogative to worry. 

Dick puts his sunglasses back on and ditches the cart, he only came here for one thing after all. He had only picked up the cart in a dazed autopilot action, similar to all of his actions the minute he left Jason to sleep in the room.

Their beloved butler had picked up on something being off (at least more off than usual) the moment Dick walked down the stairs and tried to eat yogurt with a butter knife.

Give it to Alfred to figure it out first.

Just one once-over of Dick’s anxiety-ridden and yogurt-slurping frame had the butler asking why he hadn’t been alerted of Jason’s awakening.

Dick had been wrought with tension, only for the butler to exacerbate it with a snippy comment about grandfatherly duties and reunions. 

Dick had spluttered and explained, rambles that said too much and too little all in whispered but somehow booming hushes. Dick didn’t even care that he was dripping all over Alfred’s freshly cleaned cool tiled floors, desperate to explain himself and keep everything under wraps.

But the older gentleman just raised an eyebrow and sent Dick out for cinnamon sticks. And when Dick brokenly walked out of the kitchen, Alfred called out to him with a softer tone and pretended to zip his lips as he did too many times many years ago.

And now here he is, gazing longingly at a bottle of paprika before remembering what he’s here for.

He skims over the spices until his eyes land on the familiar bag of cinnamon sticks. Jason had always put up a fuss when it came to his favorite tea.

Jason Todd, 13 (and a half!) threw his hands up in exasperation, “ The whole point is you don’t need to spend big bucks on it! You don’t need this shit coming in mason jars with— is that— are they fucking individually wrapped? I hate this side of town you guys actually found a way to fuck up cinnamon sticks,” he crinkled his nose, “Just go to La Perla on 38th- they keep them natural lookin’ and under three dollars like respectable people.”

  He remembers Jason’s excitement when they followed his orders, and his subsequent outrage when he realized they didn’t bring him with them. Dick smiles and thumbs at the clear plastic the sticks sit in. Well, he’s spent enough time in his head for this trip, he’d better—

A small body collides with him and bounces off with an exaggerated, “Oof!”

Dick, unmoved and unphased, looks down into sugar-high brown eyes and a mop of black curly hair. He waves and the boy shoots him a wide smile, a silver tooth gleaming and eyes crinkling in that unbridled joy only little ones seem to have at the banalest things. 

“Oh my God I am so sorry— Romeo what did I tell you about running around the store!”

A frazzled woman that is the spitting image of the boy (only with longer hair and plenty of tattoos) parks her shopping cart haphazardly before making a beeline toward them. Dick moves back half a step out of reflex when she attempts to pick the boy up but Romeo shoots a sharkish grin and hides behind Dick’s legs, gripping his jeans with the intense tensile strength that only children and metas seem to have.

She somehow manages to grow even more frazzled, rattling off apologies while they run circles around his legs and Dick attempts to placate her, a grin slowly spreading on his face, “Oh, no it’s fine don’t worry I have a lot of brothers I get it.”

She smiles gratefully but it soon turns to something conspiratorial the longer the boy clutches onto Dick’s jeans.

“Baby, get off of him— si no te portas bien el señor te va a llevar.”

Romeo gapes at him, eyes widening as his hands slowly unfurl from Dick’s pants. 

The woman’s grin spreads and she mouths ‘yes’ and gestures at Dick to answer.

“Uh, yeah?”

The boy snaps to his mother’s side faster than Dick has gotten Damian to do anything.

Maybe he could use that on him.

“Woah what’d you tell him?”

She snorts, “that you were gonna take him if he didn’t behave.”

Maybe not. Damian would probably slice up whoever Dick used as a scapegoat.

She must notice Dick’s flustered expression because she cackles before thrusting a hand out, “Daniela but you can call me Dani, I take it you’re not from around here?”

“No, but my brother is,” Dick replies while shaking her hand, “how’d you know?”

“The tags are still on your jeans, that’s an entire month’s rent, mister.” Dick’s eyes bug out and he quickly rips them off, cringing slightly when he notices her shock at the carelessness. 

He silently curses Bruce’s expensive tastes and wishes he had stolen clothes from anyone else.

 “So your brother?” She whistles, scrutinizing Dick’s hand holding the price tag, “If your clothes are anything to go by I’m happy for him— good to know he didn’t forget about good ol’ La Perla, though. How is he?”

Dick blinks, a strange feeling curling in his gut. He’s… glad that she doesn’t push to know more about their family tree. People in the upper crest circles of Gotham always seemed to only be placated once they admitted they were adopted siblings. It’s nice, not having to over-explain. Jason is from here, and Dick isn’t, that’s it. Jason is his brother, final.

“He’s uh,” Dick worries his lip, “... he’s sick. So I—” he waves the small bag of cinnamon sticks in his hand, “For tea. It’s his favorite.”

“Oh! In that case—” she turns and walks off, Romeo in hand as her cart magically makes its way into Dick’s hands.

He follows her as she lists off different remedies, guiding him to the produce aisle 

“You’re going to need lemons and honey for his throat— does he have a fever? Or is it a stomach bug?” She looks at Dick imploringly and he can’t find an answer.

He feels— he feels like a wreck. His hair is damp and stuffy under his cap, his shirt feels uncomfortably snug, and he’s gripping the cart with white knuckles, but the worst feeling of all is her eyes on him. He wishes this was something he could fix with herbal teas and honey. He hasn’t put any of her recommendations into her cart, and she raises a brow at him when she notices.

He’s not ashamed, he would never be. But he doesn’t know what to say, this just wasn’t anything he’s dealt with before. He hasn’t come to terms with Jason’s attempt— his attempt because that’s what it was now— how could he explain it to a stranger?

“It’s a different kind of sickness, isn’t it, mijo?”

Dick slouches on the cart, uncaring about having a breakdown in the middle of the aisle at this point. 

“It happens too often, you get used to it here. I know we’re standing next to a shit ton of lemons but do you want to talk about it? There’s a reason you’re here instead of… wherever you people shop,” She scrunches her nose.

Dick casts a glance to Romeo who is looking between the both of them much more subdued than earlier and Daniela catches on. She crouches and rubs his back, “Hey baby, you wanna go pick out some cereal?”

Romeo nods, a bit of that energy returning to him as he speeds off.

“Is he going to be alright?”

“We look out for each other here; someone messes with my baby and the whole shop will be on them in a second. Now, why don’t you tell this old lady what’s wrong.”

“You’re definitely only a couple of years older than me.”

She smiles cheekily, “I’m an old soul,” her tone draws back to something less playful, “what brings you here?”

Dick nods, breathes, and swallows, “I just— he hurt himself. On purpose. He tried to… y’know. And now I need to tell our family. I don’t know how I’m going to do it- it’s my fault this happened.”

Something flashes across her face and he diverts his eyes.

“He’s from around here, right? Crime Alley?”

Dick nods and she smiles, something soft.

“The residents here- we learn it’s not easy to live early on. I’m gonna tell you something an old lady told me a couple of years ago. You know what this store stands for?” She doesn’t wait for Dick to answer before continuing, “The pearl. And pearls are formed in a funny way- just stick with me I’m going somewhere with this.”

Dick nods, silent, and she takes it as a cue to continue, “Pearls- the pretty little things- are made when an irritant slips inside an oyster. In an act of self-defense, the oyster wraps the irritant in layers of nacre, and eventually, a pearl is made. You still with me?”

“Mhm.”

“What I’m trying to say is- these pretty little things are born out of trauma caused to the shell, they are gorgeous , but inside of all of them remains that irritant- that trauma. It hurts, and you wish it never happened, but sometimes you can turn it into something beautiful. And sometimes it can rot us from the inside out.”

Dick’s brows furrow, ready to interject, to say it’s his fault for not noticing Jason’s hurt earlier, that Jason shouldn’t carry the burden of his traumas alone. Especially if Dick took part in them.

“I’m not saying what he did is just because of what happened when he lived here- but what I am saying is that whatever he’s going through is deep inside. There may be a war inside of him, don’t make it worse for him by blaming and punishing yourself, by taking out one of his allies.”

The bag of cinnamon sticks crinkles as he observes it, “I don’t think I’ll be the best ally. I just came here to clear my head. I dunno how they’re going to react. I barely know how I feel about it.”

“But you obviously love him, or else you wouldn’t be here. You would have gone to one of those markets where people shop for you.”

“Yeah— it’s just, I’m scared.” Dick pauses for a moment, wondering how much is too much to spill to a stranger in the produce aisle before deciding fuck it, “I’m angry. He didn’t call, no note, no anything. We were just supposed to find him someday, or not know what happened to him at all. I’m his brother, and I was just going to be left wondering what happened, what I could have done better, why he didn’t call,” he can feel spite lacing his words and takes a deep breath, feeling guilty, “I know it’s not about me but—” 

“None of that,” she tuts and puts a hand on his shoulder, “You were hurt too. It’s okay to feel what you’re feeling, you just gotta be careful to understand how he’s feeling too.”

Dick sighs and Daniela bites the inside of her cheek, visibly struggling, “I can’t say I know exactly what he was thinking, but you said it yourself, he’s not… doing well. Your brother— when people do this, they have a very particular way of thinking. I’m not saying to not take it to heart, but maybe you should figure out why he didn’t call before you jump to your own conclusions.”

“We talked. A little,” he looks at her as she fiddles with the hem of her shirt, confidence from earlier sapped out with the somber conversation, “I just don’t know what was true— what he meant and what he said to get me to leave. Jay has a way of pushing people away I never… I never got to figure him out. I never tried”

Shame pulls at his vocal cords and makes his sentence break at the end.

“Ah,” she purses her lips and crosses her arms, “he tried to get you to leave, didn’t he? Probably said something fucked up? Something he knew would hurt you?”

“Yeah. I mean I deserved it. I’m not mad at him I just… I don’t know if he wants me there. I mean, we made up— he said he loves me, and Jay is a jackass that’s as emotionally constipated as the rest of my family so that means a lot . Everything felt okay when I left. I guess I’m just overthinking— these things can’t be solved with one conversation, y’know?”

Dani nods, “They can’t, but I think you should trust that he wants you there. I know it’s hard, you could have lost him. For good. All I can tell you is to be there for him. With him.”

“I don’t know what to say most of the time. I have a habit of messing things up when I open my mouth.”

“Then don’t. Just be there. Or let yourself mess up, just be with him. Help him to help himself. He loves you, you said it yourself. The past hurts, but this is your chance to get a better future, for all of you.”

“Fuck,” Dick wipes his eyes, “I’m a mess.”

Dani laughs, “I think you’re allowed to be one today, Bigshot.”

“How’d you know what to say?” Dick sniffles.

She smiles softly and takes a deep breath. Dani extends her arm, palm up, and presents it to Dick. For a moment all he sees are the swirls of ink taking the shape of three flowers with litterings of vines trailing around her arm, “they do a good job from far away, but you can still see it under the coverup.” 

Dick takes her arm and traces his eyes over the ink when he spots it. A thick line of scarred skin from elbow to wrist. He looks up into her eyes and she smiles, “It happens too often around here but no one talks about it. I think it’ll do you good. To talk about it.”

Romeo scurries from around the corner, carrying a lot more than just cereal and she snorts, retracting her arm.

“It’s not a fairytale ending, I still have my days, but he taught me to live for me. It might be a lot of work, but I think you can do the same for your brother.”

“I will,” he breathes, “your tattoo…”

“I’m not ashamed of the scar, but I thought I could put a reminder over it,” she ruffles Romeo’s hair while rolling her eyes as he dumps the pile of junk food into the cart, “they’re our birth flowers. This one is mine,” she points at a daisy.

“This one’s mine!” Romeo shouts excitedly as he tugs her arm and presses his finger deep into her skin.

Daniela snorts, “the bundle of forget-me-nots is Romeo’s, and the violet,” she smiles softly, “that’s my fiance’s, she’s a lot better at these things than I am.”

He nods and she looks him over again. A cheshire grin spreads across her face, “Maybe it’s just me being a bad influence, but you would rock a sleeve. It’ll make you less susceptible to muggings too just in case you feel like strolling in here with your tags on again.”

He rolls his eyes, muttering a complaint about her ruining the moment, and she takes the opportunity to non-discreetly slip her number in his pocket, “I would like to help you guys out if you’ll let me. Like I said, we don’t get to talk about it much here.”  

“Ooooh! I’m telling mama!” Romeo gasps.

“Yes, Romeo, please do. Maybe it’ll save us both from the talking-to she’ll give us when she finds out I let you buy all this,” she gestures towards the high-fructose corn syrup-filled cart and his expression turns into one of terror.

Dick laughs, “I would like your help too, thanks, I’ll be off now— I’ve been gone way too long.”

She smiles and waves him off. He checks out the small bag of cinnamon and shoots her a text.

And then proceeds to cackle on the ride home as soon as he receives one back cursing him out because she found a wad of cash in her bag. 

*******

“Is everyone inside?”

“Well, I would hope so. Unless you all have decided to stop respecting my word,” Alfred raises a brow, and Dick sighs. He knows his anxiety is showing but he can’t quite get himself to calm down.

After all, how is he supposed to tell them?

He thinks back to his talk with Daniela, biting the inside of his cheek. He needs to be there for Jason. He wants to help Jason and he will help him. But as he stands in front of the heavy oak door he wonders if he’ll make everything worse. He worries his lips, what if he gets things wrong, what if he misconstrues Jason’s words?

No time like the present to regret everything. He wonders if this is a good idea, telling them all at once. But knowing his family, if he takes his time telling them individually it’ll turn into an ugly game of telephone before he can get to the third person. 

If only.

If only Dick had been more present. How could he miss the signs, sure he knew Jason was reckless, but they all were. Now the excessive injuries seem less like collateral damage and more like possible attempts. Each reckless decision, each refusal of care, each bender of non-stop vigilantism build up in Dick’s head and paint a solemn portrait. 

He bites his lip. Alfred quirks a brow.

Dick had never felt more useless as a brother.

“ I would like it. If you told ‘em.”

Jason is giving him a use now, he’ll try not to fuck it up.

Dick takes a deep breath and grips the knob. He flinches at the creak it produces when he turns it, and steps inside.

The room is a sad sight, not unlike a hospital waiting room- grave faces expecting bad news. Except in their family’s case, it’s been weeks, the patient is very much alive, and the ‘bad news’ would be yet another false lead towards Jason’s circumstances.

Maybe it’s less of an anxious family in a waiting room and more of a disappointed police unit attempting and failing to avenge their brother-in-arms.

Maybe his talk with Jason has made Dick more cynical. They’re family, not coworkers. At least, he would like to think so.

Despite Alfred’s reassurances, he’s surprised they are all gathered here, he takes in their disheveled states of dress and exhausted frames. He’ll have to tell Damian to bathe and Tim to get some sleep. Duke needs to eat, Steph needs to tame her hair, Cass has a hole in her sweater, and Bruce needs all of the above.

They don’t perk up when he clears his throat, except for Duke. Duke waves at him half-heartedly and Dick nods back at him. 

Bruce paces.

He shares a look with Alfred who calls everyone’s attention, “I have gathered you all here as Master Dick has requested the floor to make a statement.”
“We’re wasting time here- I was close to making a breakthrough…” Tim mutters. Mumbles of agreement fill the room, dim enough to show their respect toward Alfred but just loud enough to make Dick uncomfortable. 

Duke and Cass attempt to give him reassuring looks.

“I assure you this is an important matter, Master Dick?” Alfred nods at him and takes a step back, closing the door behind them.

Dick takes a step forward, “It’s about Jason. He’s- he’s awake. He woke up around four hours ago.”

The room comes to life, bodies leap from their seats and pacers make a beeline toward the door. The room bursts into a cacophony of complaints and fits. The voices blend in an irritating noise of interrogations and criticisms only their family could use to convey worry.

“Four hours?”

“Why didn’t you say anything earlier, Dick?”

Alfred blocks the door. The family gets antsy but backs off. Unluckily for Dick, their anxiety turns to him. Damian is the only one to remain seated. He shares a knowing look with Dick. The elder finds that he can’t seem to tell the voices apart from each other

“We need to question him!”

“What if he’s still under the effects of a possible spell?”

We need to question him?

Something nasty bubbles in his blood. His anxiety has sapped away and turned into something darker— nastier. Dick carries the weight of Jason’s secret, the guilt of not seeing the signs, and the shame of being the older brother no one can rely on. Evidently. 

“C’mon Alf, let us through- what if he leaves?”

“Explain yourself, Dick.”

Dick tugs his earlobes and tries to breathe but the anxiety has given way to irritation, anger— spite.

“Are any of you going to ask how he’s doing?”

The room stills.

Maybe Dick is projecting. 

“Dick you know it’s not like that obviously we’re worried-”

“Do I know?” 

He does. But he’s mad- at himself, at everyone, at anything. He has so much boiling inside of him and no outlet.

He cuts off whoever tries to speak up next- his ears are ringing and the voices are still warped by the blood thumping in his ears. 

“‘Cause Jason sure didn’t fucking know. Jason, he-”

Dick chokes.

Earlier at the supermarket he couldn’t move— he was stuck, self-hatred and confusion fizzing in his stomach, despair numbing his heart and gluing his feet to the floor. 

Now he finds that he has so much to do and say— the earlier emotions quelled by Daniela have been brought up again and tripled.

He can hear them trying to call his attention but he can’t think or breathe.

How do you come to terms with something like this? How do you forgive yourself? How do you have the nerve to hold a meeting and tell the others what to do when you don’t know yourself?

Well, Dick doesn’t have the answers to his own questions so he balls up that confusing mess of emotions and pierces it with a hook. He casts a line fueled by his helplessness and lets his mouth run knowing he has no room to be this angry at everyone when he knows it’s himself he should be punishing.

Maybe this is his way of punishing himself. He throws the bait— tells them to shut the hell up and sit down. He looks up with tired eyes and sees the way Steph and Duke share confused looks. He sees the hurt expression Tim carries, and Bruce’s indignation. 

And when he turns his gaze to Cass— Cass sees right through him. 

Maybe if he gets them mad now, it will lessen the blow when the tides of his turmoil turn on himself. 

Though, Dick doesn’t think any of them can be as mean to him as he can be to himself. Maybe that’s why he wants them to hurt him so badly.

“Sit down please,” he mumbles, anger simmering and chipping away at his bones.

They don’t listen. He breathes. His throat aches, and he prepares to yell, to throw a fit.

Alfred clamps his shoulder from behind, and one look from the Butler has those standing scurrying to sit down.

“The least you could have done-” he breathes and stops himself. Can he blame them? This is how his family shows their care. He knows they care, that’s why he’s doing this. He wouldn’t be telling them about Jason’s state of mind if he didn’t trust them.

“Jason’s case wasn’t blackmailing or magic it- it was a suicide attempt. The least you could’ve done is ask if he was alright.” He spits.

But Dick is still stuck and wishes he could have asked if Jason was alright— when it mattered.  

The room comes to life once again.

But no one rushes to the door.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you sure?”

“No, that’s not right.”

Dick drags his hands over his face, “Jason admitted it- he needs help. He told me- he, God,  fuck, he tried to kill himself.”

He nearly falls to the floor with this proclamation, and Alfred catches him. As he often does. 

He can’t find it in himself to look into his grandfather’s eyes– into anyone’s eyes. He fears what he’ll see, he fears they’ll be as helpless as he feels.

The room stills.

Dick steadies himself on shaky legs and Alfred removes his grip. Dick ignores the tremor in Alfred’s hands, hoping to anything above that he imagined it.

The fight leaves Dick in an instant.

God. God. Is this how Jason felt when the Lazurus pumped righteously through his veins- did he feel the boil under his skin too? Did he feel as if his body was purging him from the inside out?

No, Dick realizes. 

Jason had it worse.

A young voice boldly speaks up, cutting through the thick tension, “But his injuries showed proof of another party- we’re sure that gang in the alley had something to do with his injuries. Why would he say that?” Tim questions, carding his hand through his hair and tugging gently.

Dick sighs, “He would say that because it’s true. He let himself bleed out. It wasn’t so much planned- at least I don’t think so. But he’s not lying, I know he’s not.”

“Should he be alone?” Steph asks carefully.

“I checked on him right before coming. He was asleep, he’s had a tough day.”

“No, somethings wrong,” Bruce braces himself before standing, “Zatanna. I’ll call Zatanna.”

“Bruce.”

He doesn’t need this.

“She’s quite busy from what I’ve heard but maybe if I tell her it’s urgent—”

“ Bruce.”

If only Bruce would listen. If only they had all listened. If only Dick hadn’t cast Jason aside when he was younger. If only he got to know Red Hood more.

“Mind-control, a spell? We already checked spells off, though…”

His chest burns. He wonders if Jason felt this powerless before his anger. In a fraction of a second, his emotions rile up to the tips of his ears, because Bruce won’t budge.  

“Bruce!” Dick shouts, “Fucking listen to me for once and sit down!”

 The room startles. Several of them look at each other uneasily but Dick pays them no mind. He stares down at his father until the elder sits back down. 

“I called you guys here ‘cause somewhere along the way, we fucked up. You know that- we were all there that night.”

Flashes of blood-stained kevlar invade his mind: blood-drained skin, wheezing breaths, hazy eyes.

He remembers a still heart under his fingertips.

Dick heaves a shaky breath, his hands tremble, and he can feel anxious sweat dripping down the nape of his neck, “I don’t- I don’t know what to do . We need to help him- I don’t want to hold my brother’s- fuck! ”

Dick lashes out, grabbing a random object and throwing it against the wall.

All he can see are Jason’s dead eyes, burst capillaries, and his cold, shaking hands.

No one moves.

Not even Alfred attempts to admonish him.

After all, they were all there that night.

“I don’t want to hold my brother’s dead body again,” he flinches back even though the words escaped his mouth, “He needs help. ”

“This is my fault- if only I hadn’t failed him. If only Ethiopia-”

“ Bruce, ” Dick sighs and catches everyone’s eyes, “Please. This is partly why. He thinks we don’t care about him. He thinks-” he side eyes Bruce, “knows we’re stuck on the Jason Todd that grew up in Crime Alley. And he’s still there, but we’ve missed out on the Jason that now protects it.”

“This is not an attempt at ‘brooding’ as you all put it, Dick. I’ve failed my son again. ” Bruce chokes on a sob.

Dick startles.

That’s right, Bruce has had to mourn the same son for a lifetime. He had not been able to witness his final breaths this time, too focused on driving to feel one last pulse, to hold his son one last time.

But he can do it again, Dick’s brain reminds him. Jason is alive, sleeping just rooms away in another part of the manor. They have another chance. He wants to tell Bruce this but is cut off before he has the chance to open his mouth.

“Todd… attempted to take his own life.” Damian tests the words on his tongue and his face scrunches as if the statement itself is rotten, “He is not weak. In the League, only the weak-”

“You can stop yourself there, Damian,” Tim interjects for Dick.

“That’s right. The first part: Jason is not weak. He’s…”

Sick? Victim to a fragmented, warped mind? Depressed? Mad?

Dick swallows. None of those seem right, at least not to explain to Damian.

“He is driven by strong beliefs; ideas that have been driven into him inadvertently and maybe even purposefully. These convictions tell him that the world is better off without him, that to take his own life is a favor to others.”

“But that’s insane- wrong and insane!”

“It is wrong, but he believes it. And something had to happen to strengthen and forge that belief.”

Damian’s face settles into one of deep thought. 

“Is that why he did it?” Duke asks.

“Honestly, I’m not completely sure.”

“Does he even want us to help?”

“He has to, he wanted me to tell you all.”

The room startles into an anxious hush. 

The uncomfortable silence doesn’t last long, Alfred dusts himself off and adjusts the coffee table, “I suggest you all get the manor and your minds in order.” The bats stare at him in incredulity as he begins to leave, taking steady calculated steps toward the entrance of the room.

Duke is the one to break the silence, eyes shifting around the room nervously, “Alf? Where are you heading?”

It’s as if the manor itself holds in a bated breath as Alfred reaches the door, gloved hand lingering on the knob before twisting.

The butler sniffs, “I have a grandson to attend to. And I recommend you speak to Ms. Gordon, seeing as none of you called her during the meeting.”

Chapter Text

Breathe in for four seconds. 

(Jason feels the crisp air of the quiet room fill his lungs, expanding inside of him. Four seconds is not enough but he limits himself anyway. The cool air fills his nostrils and worms into his chest.)

Hold in for seven. 

(He holds the air in his chest, lest he choke if he holds it in his throat. He counts slowly in his head, relishing in the pressure building in his head.)

Breathe out for eight . 

(He holds the tip of his tongue behind his teeth, pressing against the ridge of tissue. A small ‘whoosh’ sound escapes him as he exhales.)

Jason feels lightheaded— good. Maybe these deep breathing exercises are useful.

Repeat.

He steals another breath for four seconds.

(He knows he can’t magically get better in a matter of hours but this mounting pressure to change is crushing him. If he can’t change for those he loves, what is this all for?)

He holds his breath for seven seconds.

(It’s an awful cycle: feeling like shit, getting comforted, promising to be better, feeling even more like shit. He wishes the last beat of his heart stayed that way. This fucking sucks.)

He breathes out for eight seconds.

(This fucking sucks. He hates this melodramatic inner turmoil. He hates this never-ending cycle. More than everything, he hates stupid breathing exercises.) 

Repeat. 

He breathes. One, two, three, four. 

And holds.

And holds.

And holds.

Jason never was one for following directions anyway.

A scattering of stars appears behind his shut eyelids. He doesn’t breathe— instead, he revels in the floaty feeling his unmoving chest grants him. 

It would be funny if he could die like this— holding his breath. A shame he can’t.

He tilts his head back, craning his neck in a way that makes the discomfort unbearable. The ache and pain spread down to his stomach and up his throat the longer he holds his breath. 

A ragged gasp explodes from him without warning.

Just like before— his body fights for him when his mind wants the exact opposite.

His heart thrums incessantly, bringing him to awareness. His mind becomes even foggier, as a rush of something fills his head. Even as he wheezes and heaves, he keeps his eyes shut impossibly tight.

A universe of bright dots of different colors fills his mind… or maybe that isn’t the best way to describe it. The specks come together rather sadly, more like asphalt littered with scraps of multicolored gum than a galaxy, but Jason chooses to ignore that. Or maybe he doesn’t necessarily ignore it, he just knows he’ll never be able to recreate something as beautiful, even in the expanse of his imagination. No— clusters of stars and supernovas are too good for him.

Jason's never been good enough for much. 

He claims the sad display in his mind to be a galaxy anyway. It doesn’t rival Andromeda or the Milky Way, but it’s Jason’s, and that’s enough.

Once his breathing returns to normal, he daydreams. He imagines being anywhere else— on the edge of a bridge, leaning over the railing of a skyscraper, in a bathtub soaking in hues of pink and red. 

The big bad Red Hood, rendered useless by hurt feelings of all things, it’s pathetic and so Jason . He wishes he had the same drive from years ago. He misses the version of himself that built an empire, that could hear music in bullets spraying and bodies dropping. He misses the version of him that wasn’t so weak.

He misses the version of himself that managed to tamp down the ache and turn it into anger. 

Jason snorts, he’s never getting ‘better’, is he? He can make up with Dick and all the other family members all they want, but none of them can actually pull him out of the sinking depths of his mind. 

He can love them, and they can love him all they want. They can cry together and hug and make hefty promises but eventually, Jason will feel shitty again. He’ll feel that familiar ache— that pull from the other side— and wish for a quiet reprieve from the discomforting beating of his heart. He clenches his hand into a fist. He’s felt this way for such a long time, it feels impossible to think of another way. 

…It is impossible, Jason realizes.

Jason Todd cannot be saved or cured. Because this starved, aching feeling is Jason Todd. It’s his birthright. The only way to save him would be to change the fundamentals of his very being.

His arm twitches, held back by a restraint. He opens his eyes just to roll them. He assumes that Damian had more sense than Dick and came to restrain him while he was sound asleep.

He probably would have booked it once he woke up— so, good on Robin for his quick thinking. He hates this, he wants to leave. He turns his head to gaze around the room, stopping at the window. The sky has darkened. 

The curtains have been pushed lazily to the side, leaving him a shitty view but a view nonetheless. The sky is inky tonight, an intensely deep black that almost gives him a headache the more he stares. The corners of his lips twitch downward. He can barely make out any stars. 

He doesn’t bother to get up and fix anything, no matter how much he wants to shove the curtain so that the midnight sky is no more than a slit through the dull blinds. It doesn’t matter, he’s restrained anyway.

Just like that night when blood dribbled through his fingers and the Lazarus became no more than a whisper, he tries to look for something in the sky. It’s much too dim now, clouded by smog and pollution. No stars twinkle. No stars shoot by for Jason to wish on. He’s just left staring into the infinite void outside in the sky. It’s dark, bitter, nothing like the night his heart stopped and he was forced back into the land of the living again. He misses the glimmer of the stars, the shiver he felt as blood flowed from his wound, the absolute certainty of what was coming next. 

There’s nothing in the sky for him to latch onto this time. Maybe he disappointed the stars that night too, he muses. His gaze soon turns dull. He feels almost as if a thin strip of film obscures his vision and makes everything fuzzy. The edges of his sight seem to blur as he stares at the midnight sky. He’s no longer in that crisp copy of a hospital room, no longer in the manor, no longer viewing the darkness through window panes. 

His vision blurs, the only point of clarity being that plain, dark sky. It’s just… so bleak. 

It almost looks more like the dark water of the harbor in the late hours of the night. He can’t even see the moon with this view. 

Maybe if he tilts his head and squints, he’ll see bits of white flesh float to the surface. He smiles a bit to himself, of course, he knows it’s impossible. Logically, he knows he’s just staring out of some drab window in the manor.

But he still half expects to see it. Jason can almost smell the salty air and hear the lap of waves. He expects a ripple in the sky, a slosh of water, a pale palm. He doesn’t know what he’s more disturbed by: the faint expectation of seeing something so horrific… or the fact that he wants to see it.

He wants to feel the rubbery flesh between his fingers again. He wants the bits of the clown to come back to the surface just so he can spit on them, toy with them, and bury them deep down in some rotten soil. There’s a cold shiver that wracks through his body as he faintly realizes… he would do it all again in a heartbeat. He’d do it multiple times if he could. He stares out the window, wishing upon a dark sky.

In his chest, his heart beats lazily, as if it has no interest in keeping him alive. At one point, he takes his unrestrained hand and puts it over his chest, just to check if it’s still beating. A lazy thump… thump… thump… pitter patters under his palm.

He wonders what time it is. Late, midnight? All he knows is that it’s dark out, so it’s probably late. Dick must have told everyone by now. He shifts his gaze to look at the still door. He listens out for footsteps. Nothing.

Maybe not, then. Or maybe he did, and the family is too ashamed of him to face him. Jason’s stomach twists. He understands. It’s a pitiful state he is in, made even worse since he did it on purpose. It makes sense that no one would want to visit him, he’s done too much and said too much for them to turn around and throw him a pity party.

He still keeps an ear out for footsteps. Surely, Dick has told them all by now, right?

“Father has… made himself sparse when it comes to visiting you…” Damian’s voice echoes in his ears.  

Jason regrets ever asking Dick to tell everyone for him. What a fucking joke he is. He pulls at the restraint. It doesn’t budge. He shouldn’t be here, can’t be here. He’d rather fucking bite it than see Bruce’s face.

If Bruce can even be bothered to show up in the first place. 

There’s a heavy weight on his chest. He’s such a fuck up ! He grits his teeth, uselessly pulling at the restraint. He can’t fucking move, not with the weight he lost and pain meds making his movements flimsy and blurred around the edges. His arm strains, he can’t even attempt to get out of bed without feeling dizzy. The muscles he took years to hone have been made weaker and smaller with however many days or weeks he’s been malnourished and bedridden.

Jason flops back into the pillows, tugging at the restraint more for the small pinch than trying to break it now. With his other arm, he digs crescent moon marks into his chest, sliding his hand under his shirt and pinching the flesh below just to distract himself from the whirlwind of his thoughts.

What the fuck is he doing here? He thinks of Damian, of Dick, of everyone. Logically, he knows they’ll be hurt if he’s gone. He knows that now, and has proof, hell, they said it to his face individually. So, of course, he feels guilty. Of course, he feels bad for them, he doesn’t exactly want to hurt them again.

But they’re wasting their time, he thinks to himself. Because as he realized earlier, this is his birthright. Sheila left him with one gift, one part of her, and it was this sick pit inside of him, a pit overshadowed by the Lazurus until now. 

He’s had it since he was a child, he just didn’t realize it until now. This sinking feeling, this sensation of drowning in his skin, thoughts, and emotions. He knows Sheila felt the same too, he swears he saw it in her eyes in Ethiopia. Dull empty eyes, surviving rather than living. 

Maybe that’s why he fought to save her so hard.

Jason swallows. He feels so selfish, so childish. He’s wasting everybody’s time, pretending that he’s going to get better.  

He scoffs at his self-centeredness. Earth's center, Jason Todd . What the fuck is he thinking, staying here? He’s done enough damage. And now he wants a pity party? Jason can’t fucking stand himself.

He thinks back to the harbor, the bits of white flesh sinking to the depths below. He thinks back to the stars in the sky that night, his body dropping to the floor. He thinks of shooting stars, falling in arches that mimic the bend and curve of a crowbar. He thinks of his fists coming down on a young Robin. 

On Earth, gravity pulls all objects downward toward the center of the planet.

In Gotham, Jason pulls all loved ones into the depths with him.
He’ll only hurt them again. Because honestly, the pit didn’t twist his arm, didn’t pluck his strings like a puppet. Jason knew what he was doing most of the time, and most of the things he would do again. He vaguely wonders if they believe he’ll completely change, follow a redemption arc where he never kills again, and never protects Gotham the way it needs to be protected.

That night with Joker and the slaughtering of dozens… he’d do it again.

Quiet footsteps snap him out of his thoughts. They’re slow and clear. A scent follows— one that smells like home. He freezes. He tugs his restraint on instinct.

The steps pause in front of the door. Jason can see the slight shadows that peak through. Years of staying up past his bedtime as a young boy make it so he recognizes who it is immediately.

Alfred stands outside the door. Jason can tell by his even, light steps— the light click of his heeled shoes. He can tell by the proper stance of the shadows that leak through the crack under the door: perfectly parallel, still.

He knocks and comes in before Jason lets him. The former Robin smiles a little at that. It’s a habit he used to hate as a teen, but he grew to realize that honestly, no one would allow Alfred in if he didn’t strong-arm his way in. That being in his own prim, proper butler fashion.

The older man nods at Jason in acknowledgment. “Tea, for your troubles.” He extends his arms a bit, carrying a steaming cup.

White gloved hands tremble slightly as they hand a porcelain cup to Jason. Neither of them comment on the movement. Alfred looks as put together as always, living up to his status as the rock of the family. The only thing that gives him away are those wretched tremors,  

Jason averts his eyes to his lap, suddenly discomforted by the slight shake in the butler’s hands. The tea sloshes in his own stable hands, ungloved, scalded a bit by the hot cup. He’s not holding it properly, but Alfred doesn’t chastise him as he used to. It’s a bit of a lighter color than he likes now, he’s put less and less cream as he’s grown older. He doesn’t fault Alfred for not knowing, though.

It smells of cinnamon. There’s even a little stick in the cup as a garnish, and Jason smiles to himself. He used to fucking hate that— when Alfred made his tea too ‘fancy’. He finds it amusing now, imagining that it’s probably the butler’s way of showing he cares, a little flourish to make him feel special.

His stomach warms over and churns at the same time. His throat closes up a little. He clears it. “... How much did you guys pay for them this time?” He teases weakly.  

Alfred's lips curl up a bit. “Master Dick took the initiative and went to the shop you preferred as a boy. If I recall, they’re just a little over three dollars for a bundle.”

“Good,” He perks up a little, knowing exactly where Dick must have gone. He’d rather die than have his family waste money on that expensive no-good bullshit. He shudders a bit, remembering that horrid mason jar of individually wrapped sticks they got once. 

Good ol’ reliable Perla, he smiles to himself. Suddenly, he frowns. “Wait, why didn’t he take m—” He cuts himself off, glancing at the zip tie, and the scrubs. Right. He clears his throat again. “I mean, tell him I said thanks. And thank you… for y’know, making it.” He hovers a hand over the cup just to feel the steam brush against his palm.

It’s still too hot to drink.

The butler takes a step closer, then another. He rounds the corner of the bed and stops for a moment, eyeing the zip tie around Jason and doing absolutely nothing about it. He sniffs and looks at Jason— really looks at him. The silence is long and drawn out as Alfred stares into his eyes. Right, they’re blue now, apparently. The older gentleman looks as if he wants to comment on them. Then he blinks, shakes his head in a nearly imperceptible fashion, adjusts his tie, and swallows. 

Jason doesn’t say a word as Alfred carefully settles into the chair next to him, and brings out a familiar book. He clears his throat, thumbs the cover, and opens it. He doesn’t read the book's title aloud— he knows this is one Jason can recognize from the first line alone.

The older gentleman sweeps a gloved finger over the first page, “On the morning the last Lisbon daughter took her turn at suicide- it was Mary this time, and sleeping pills, like Therese, the—”

Jason clears his throat uncomfortably, “A little on the nose don't you think, Alf?”

Alfred sets the book down on his lap but doesn’t close it. The pages flutter but never turn with the firm pressure of the butler’s thumb keeping them in place.

“Would you rather speak about something else?” He asks. It’s carefully neutral, his face does not betray anything to Jason.

Goosebumps prickle under his skin anyway.

“No.”

Jason hates this book. Alfred knows that but continues to read anyway. It’s not exactly his fault when Jason digs a hand into the sheets, he doesn’t know why the younger man hates it. Jason attempts to tune him out but gets dragged back in by the visceral imagery of the novel.

“Cecilia, the youngest, only thirteen, had gone first, slitting her wrists like a Stoic while taking a bath…”

Jason’s eyes flit to his wrist. He eyes Alfred warily, not knowing what the elder is up to with his choice in literature. He grunts and turns his focus to the steadily burning tea in his palm. He releases his grip from the sheets and cups the tea with both hands. He lifts his cup carefully and sets it to his lips, closing his eyes as he finally takes his first sip. 

The combination of cinnamon and cream sends him into a deep state of nostalgia. Alfred still knows how to make it perfectly adjusted to Jason’s tastes, well, his tastes from when he was younger. He takes another sip. 

He eyes his wrist again. Alfred’s reading in the background is momentarily overrun by the loudness of Jason’s mind. He sips and dreams, sips, and dreams again. 

He fantasizes of a ruby cleanse— crimson dripping down his scarred skin. He eyes Alfred warily, who seems to pay him no attention as he turns a page.

Jason imagines what it’s like to be in full control of the blade grazing your skin. He thinks back to the alley, where steel settled between his ribs and twisted, and imagines doing it himself. 

He imagines swiping parallel notches as tally marks, taking note of every one of Jason’s fuck ups. Maybe he’ll drain himself of the toxins in his blood— not the Lazurus, but the inherent filth within Jason. He can almost taste the bitterness of blood on his tongue and takes another sip of tea.

 It's sweet. 

“...In the emergency room, Cecilia watched the attempt to save her life with an eerie detachment.”

Jason’s brow twitches. He faintly wonders how he would have reacted to them saving him had he been more lucid. Would he have kicked and screamed? Or just watched, a flat expression gracing his face as frantic hands attempted to stop the bleeding.

He remembers the sick churning in his stomach when he found out his heart stopped. He probably would have gone kicking and screaming if he knew what was happening. Jason sighs to himself. He wants this to be over with. He takes another sip of his tea and tries to think of anything else but the stupid fucking book keeps reeling him in. 

“‘Obviously, Doctor,’ she said, ‘you’ve never been a thirteen-year-old girl.’”

They were kids, Jason thinks bitterly to himself. The cup clatters sharply on the table as Jason sets it.

Kids —sexualized to all hell. He remembers the passages upon passages of the narrators lusting after them, of the descriptions that made Jason's stomach churn uncomfortably. He gets the point— he gets it . But he can't find it in himself to enjoy the book anyway, not when these girls were subjugated to queasy passages about their bodies when they were just kids.

“Fucking gross,” Jason grumbles.

Alfred pauses.

Jason takes this as a sign to continue. “I don't get how you enjoy this shit, Alf. It's fucking gross. They're kids. The narrator describes that same kid as having a ‘budding chest’ and ‘rounded buttocks’ it’s fucking weird.”

To his surprise, Alfred simply nods along, despite this obviously not being the conversation he intended on having with Jason.

Jason pauses, swallows. He narrows his eyes slightly and opens his mouth to ask what his deal was but Alfred cuts him off.

“You’ve been able to speak this whole time. I never asked for a specific topic of conversation,” Alfred states nonchalantly. 

Jason doesn’t believe him for a second but allows himself to take up Alfred’s time with his thoughts.

Minutes tick by undisturbed as Jason allows his voice to take up more space in the room than it honestly should. He rants and rambles, feeling his brows furrow and jaw clench as his words spill out without permission. It’s as if his mind is clinging to this reprieve from the topic of his own mortality, and is desperately trying to make this not-so-big issue into something larger.

Time drags on and Jason argues in circles.  “... I mean hell— they weren’t safe from the narrators, other characters, not even the fucking author. Their whole existence was just made up of exploitation and getting taken advantage of.”

Alfred finally speaks. He pauses as he thinks of how to form his words without further agitating the boy currently strapped to a cot. “Well, it’s safe to say those were most likely the author’s intentions. Is it not an exploration of the male gaze? The way those boys spoke of them was not to be admired or replicated, after all. Aren’t some things supposed to be written about, spoken about?”

“Not if it’ll go over people’s heads,” Jason replies quickly.

“Can you explain it to me in the way that it should be understood?” Alfred asks softly. “In the way you want it to be understood?”

The younger man looks at Alfred, really looks at him. Jason swallows and nods. He can’t help the disgust that bubbles up inside of him as he thinks of the words of the printed page, permanently etched into his mind. “They were kids,” he says simply. 

He thinks of grimy alleys, dull eyes, and bruised skin. An image he got too used to when he was young. They were kids too, just like those fictional girls.

The older gentleman seems to notice something in Jason’s gaze, in the way he tenses and clenches his jaw. Something different, as if this book held memories, rather than a pure distaste as the elder initially believed.

Alfred sets the novel aside, mind whirring. He swallows. “I… know how you value safety, Jason. Especially the safety of those who cannot defend themselves. Ever since you became a part of our lives…”

The things Jason saw...

Jason snaps out of it, shaking his head slightly. “Stop psychoanalyzing me,” he huffs. He swallows, “I know… I know the point, alright? I’m not stupid— far from it.” He winces slightly as the words leave his mouth. He doesn’t apologize though. 

Jason sighs. “I know the point is to parody the male gaze, to show how the boys never saw these girls as human. But… the girls didn't deserve to be remembered that way. Through their birth in life and fiction, they were just— just fantasies. They asked for help, died for a reason, and no one paid attention. No one remembered them like they deserved. Not the narrators, not their family, and with some of those creepy ass descriptions, sometimes not even the author.”

“Everyone but you,” Alfred offers.

“Huh?”

He repeats himself. “Everyone but you— you’re remembering them as they deserved to be. You've always been passionate about helping others, even those you do not hold a physical space with. I remember the note you wrote to the girls, apologizing to them, even though they weren’t real.” Alfred smiles softly. “Your books… you always had a way of connecting to them that I couldn’t help but admire.”

“Had,” Jason repeats softly. After all, that was a younger Jason, who didn’t have an empire to uphold, bodies to bag, or drugs to run. 

Alfred stares at him the same way he did when he first walked in. But this time he doesn’t shake his head or clear his throat. He looks, and his lips twitch into a frown. Jason recognizes the expression as one of grief. A tired acceptance burrows into the former Robin’s chest and rests. He doesn’t have the energy to be angry anymore. They can miss the kid all they want.

After all, he misses the Jason he used to be too.

Alfred nods— a minuscule movement. “I understand you don't appreciate talking about the past much. I do have a question now, though. How would you like to be remembered?” He asks, picking the novel up and tracing his fingers over the spine. 

A cold shiver runs down Jason’s spine. One of pure confusion. “How would I like to be remembered?” Jason tilts his head slightly.

“Yes. The Jason you are now. How would you like to be remembered in death?” Alfred presses, finally acknowledging the reason he’s here. “What were you hoping for, how did you want us to remember you?”

Jason shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. It’s so far-fetched it’s embarrassing.”

“Humor me anyways,” the butler presses. He tucks the book under his palms, pressing it onto his lap, his stare intent on Jason’s face. 

He swallows the growing knot in his throat. “ I tried.” 

Alfred takes a wavering breath.

Suddenly, Jason loses the words he wishes to say. He doesn’t even know who he is, let alone how he wants to be remembered. Most nights he thinks of himself as a monster, a necessary evil in a world full of terrors like the Joker. 

Some nights— rare nights— he allows his chest to warm when he thinks of a title bestowed upon him by a gangly group of alley kids he helps from time to time. Hero.

A hero and monster, someone who doesn’t deserve to take up space but does his best to make up for it.

“I did my fucking best. My best, not Bruce’s best. I did what I could to protect people, even if I had to chuck heads and lob bodies to do it,” he finally says.

Jason looks past Alfred and towards the inky window for a second. “I wanted to be remembered as I am, not as the little shit I used to be. Because I was always in him.” His eyes flit back to his grandfather. “Always. And he’s still in me, no matter how much everyone, including myself, hates to admit it.”

Alfred opens his mouth to speak but Jason cuts him off with a tired sigh. “Why, Alf? I mean why even bring that book in the first place?”

The older gentleman takes a moment to collect his thoughts, clearly caught off guard by the question. He hums for a second before speaking softly. “It… reminds me of you— the girls, I mean. They were bright, and full of personality that was quashed by their upbringing. What happened to the girls was a result of their environment. They were failed.”

Jason quirks a brow. “Failed? Is that what you think?”

“Yes… it’s an apology, Master Jason,” Alfred says softly, looking into Jason’s eyes.

Jason furrows his brows, frowning a bit. “What are you talking about?”

“You were as much in my care as Master Bruce. I am just as responsible for your fate.” Alfred states matter-of-factly.

“Are you serious?” Jason finds his voice raising a notch. “That’s— you’re—” he shakes his head, “you’re joking, right?” His heart picks up in pace, his mind whirls in a mess of confusion, disbelief, and frustration at the thought that Alfred is possibly blaming himself for his own stupid mistake— for his death.

Alfred shakes his head, a grim expression on his face. “When you were a child… that night two weeks ago… I failed you,” Alfred says with a tremor lacing his voice.

“Even now,” the butler croaks, “I am failing you. You’re bleeding, Jason.” 

Jason’s breath hitches as Alfred reaches out and opens up his clenched fist. Four crescent moon notches are buried deep into his palm; a steady stream of blood trickles down his weathered skin and onto his crisp white sheets.

There’s a heavy silence in the room as Alfred wipes some of the blood with his gloved thumb. The soft fabric seeps it up, Jason’s blood spoiling the pristine white of his gloves in a webbed contamination.  Alfred sighs softly under his breath. “I will wrap that for you,” he says quietly.

Alfred quickly fetches the supplies and gently grasps Jason’s hand in his own. His wound is cleaned with not much of a hassle. His nails hadn't dug in too deep after all. Jason averts his eyes, finding himself much too embarrassed to fuss or complain about the way it stings when Alfred dabs the wet cloth into his hot wound. 

“How am I supposed to do this by myself?” Jason asks, finally, his voice no more than a gravelly whisper.

“You don’t,” Alfred says as he bandages him. “Whether you believe it or not, you have your family. And if not them, and not your friends, your other allies, you will have me,” he says firmly, with slight hitches as his voice attempts to betray him.

“You’ll get tired of me,” Jason replies, “I’ll just be a bother, you don’t need more shit on your plate.”

“I’m more than happy to help you. I know that your work isn’t necessarily the safest, so I want nothing more than to keep you from harming yourself— you get enough of that as Red Hood, Master Jason.”

“Even if you help me I’ll just feel shitty again,” Jason argues.

Alfred hums. “And we’ll make you feel better.”

The boy frowns. “And the cycle continues.”

“But you’ll feel better again, eventually. You’ll be alive.”

“But I’m tired.” Jason sighs. He looks at Alfred, carrying too much exhaustion on his shoulders for a twenty-something-year-old. His breathing is slow, his body hunched over and his back aching from sitting in that position for so long. 

Alfred places a gloved hand over his chest and presses gently. Jason falls back with a soft thump. “Then rest, Jason. I will watch over you.”

Suddenly, Jason is fourteen again. He’s in his room, thinking of… everything, and Alfred is by his bedside, a gloved hand on his chest. He hates being forced to sleep, even if he’s tired. Especially as memories run rampant in his mind.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Jason responds, in the past and present. In his mind, he flickers between his old room and this sterile medical wing.

“Sleep,” Alfred chides. "We'll speak when you're feeling better." 

Jason sighs, fourteen and twenty-one at once. “You’re a real dickhead, Alf,” he says with no heat behind his voice.

Alfred's eyes twinkle dimly but joyously. He takes off his gloves so as to feel the heat of Jason’s body, and crushes him into a hug, “You haven’t changed, my boy.”

A tear falls.

It's everything he's wanted.

It's… everything he's wanted.

Jason's hands shake. He looks behind Alfred, out of that dreadful window, and all he sees is a black hole, sucking him in.

Chapter Text

Is there such a thing as mourning yourself? Who you are, what you could have been? What was taken from you and what you still hold?

What about those who live and breathe right before your eyes?

Corpses walk all around Jason. He grieves those whose hearts are still beating.

The black hole has sucked him in. 

Alfred has long left. 

It’s dark out, at least from what Jason can see through the window. It’s an utterly black night, with little to no stars in the sky, and not even the blinking lights of overhead planes attempt to give Jason any reprieve. Their lights are far too dim, and Jason is far too tired to find salvation in the sad replacements for the constellations he loves so much. 

There’s a silence so eerie that Jason almost believes all sound on Earth has been swallowed up, if not for the murmur of his own shallow breathing.

His heart aches and there's a painful swelling in his throat that feels as if it will never leave… and yet he doesn’t know if he even wants it to. It’s grounding— makes him feel. Maybe Jason doesn’t ever want to speak again, maybe he wants to stay in this trance forever.

He has nothing of value to say, and probably never will. He can’t say a simple ‘I love you’, and that’s without the painstaking knot in his throat.

His courage only makes an appearance when blood and hurt are involved, if it can be called that; in the face of true vulnerability, Jason waits for eyelids to flutter closed. He only finds his voice when someone loses their sight of him. 

He waits for the wet press of tears against his neck, for the obscuration of vision so he can make empty promises without the guilt that comes with looking someone in the eyes.

Maybe it’s best that he feels the air is being squeezed out from inside of him. It’s for the better that the lump is keeping him from using his useless voice.

Oh, how he wishes to be consumed by the night sky just outside his window, to be amongst the stars. Maybe he wouldn’t be as useless, not much would be expected of him. 

A star isn’t expected to do even the simplest of things that leave Jason withered and deprived of energy. Stars don’t have to touch or be touched, warm palms and soft fingertips don’t dare to leave impressions on them.

Stars aren’t expected to say ‘I love you’s or affections of that nature. Their existence is enough proof that love exists— it’s written in them.

More than anything, Jason wishes to be something outside of this waste of a body and mind. This mind that can’t make promises, that lets those closest to him slip out of his fingertips. 

Worse still, he actively pushes them away. On some level, he muses, he’s almost like a star. He holds most of the qualities of the celestial bodies: in his distance, his intensity, in how hard it is to reach him. His surface is red-hot, untouchable, and flaming. But Jason differs in that he holds none of the beauty, the innate worth within them.

He will only ever be himself, mortal, and the knot in his throat tightens at the thought.

Jason wishes he was made of constellations, ones that spelled out the things he’s too afraid to say.

I wish I was more than I am. I love you. My love is held in bullet casings and blood, in safe streets and broken codes.

The cot swallows him whole, reminding him of his measly place in this world. He’s not something precious, untouchable in all the right ways. No, he is Jason Todd, human, inane, and that’s all he is and ever will be. 

Jason Todd is stuck rotting in this fucking bed, his arms too weak, his body too frail to move.

And yet…

He looks towards the window and closes his eyes for a fleeting moment. He knows the zip tie and fatigue are not the true reasons he’s been stuck to this godforsaken cot. He knows better. 

He sits up, loosely tugging on the zip tie. He’s not a measly criminal, a dazed patient who can be held back by a simple plastic ring. He knows this, always did.

Jason’s mind becomes frighteningly clear, it’s no longer filled with afterimages of galaxies and stars— at least not for now. No, it instead mirrors the pitch black of the window outside. He feels nothing, is nothing—

A broken teacup has been sitting in his lap long since his grandfather left. It was an accident— really, it was. He clenched it a bit too hard after Alfred left, he really was going to call after the older man and tell him.

And yet, here he is. Shattered porcelain paints the bedding in glittering white. The small inkling of barely-there moonlight reflects off of the more minor remnants, turning them into makeshift pearls. The bigger pieces are bright, large, sharp… tempting.

It’s been a while since Jason first contemplated needing fresh air. He sits in his cot, mulling over the thought. The porcelain is thick and abrasive, a comfortable weight in his lap, even through the sheets. 

He didn’t do it on purpose— really. Maybe he was a bit of a wreck after Alfred left, believing Jason to be tired. And Jason was tired, holding the cup and contemplating this never-ending night. Before he knew it, there was shattered porcelain in his lap. His clenched fists may have pushed the ceramic too far. 

Jason was never good at handling things with care.

Jason grabs a single piece, an unsightly fragment lined with ridges and sharp edges. It’s thick enough for what he has planned. He looks at the zip tie with a bland look, then back at the piece of porcelain. 

He knows he never needed it in the first place. He could have probably wriggled out of the zip tie, hell, even broken it if he tried harder during that breakdown a bit ago. Something held him back, something weak, something in his head that whispered sweet nothings about family and love.

Jason has had enough, at least for now. He’s going to whittle this olive branch down until nothing but useless dust is floating around the stuffy room. 

It’s not an easy matter or a painless one at that; Not as he scrubs the jagged edges against his skin to carve the plastic of the zip tie down. He grinds his teeth and pushes through, messily cutting into the strap whilst subjecting the sensitive skin around it to mindless razing. 

There are easier methods, he knows this, of course he does.

He doesn’t want something easier.

Despite the soft blooming of pinks and reds against his skin, Jason can’t find it in him to react to this self-mutilation. It feels automatic… natural. Maybe he’s made for this, only ever will be meant for this: hurt. 

(And by god, it hurts, a sharp pain that only gets a second to dull before he’s dragging the makeshift blade again.) 

So, with that logic, it’s best that he’s doing it to himself, rather than others, right? 

It burns.

The porcelain begins to get stained a faint reddish color, some of the bits along the edges getting chipped away by the zip tie. It almost looks marbled, the mix of red and white, the different colored peaks and valleys changing with every slice of his skin.

The edges around the zip tie develop pink, red, and white specks of flayed skin, almost as ridged and unsightly as the porcelain he’s carving with. 

The plastic snaps.

Well, almost. It’s not an easy matter. He doesn’t manage to sand it all the way down with the poor substitute for a knife, but he does manage to weaken the band. It’s a painful, sweet, aching pain he feels as he thrusts his arm up and breaks the small band that kept him confined for so long. It’s quick, digs deeply into his flayed skin, and burns like honey.

For a moment, the raven-haired boy simply sits there. He tentatively runs his calloused fingers over the scraped skin, pressing down on the edges just to see beads of blood breach the surface. A rocky plane exists on his arm, rippled edges of his skin forming grooves that make nausea settle at the base of his stomach.

Even then, it’s a comfortable feeling, familiar. It’s not a bullet wound or a jagged slice into his abdomen, but it hurts and dulls the whirring in his mind. 

Jason scoots so his legs dangle over the side of the cot, the tips of his feet touching the cold floor.
The view outside of the window is just as inky and black as it was earlier. He faintly wonders what the time is, but also isn’t too bothered to care.

The vague thought that Bruce may have rigged the room with alarms briefly crosses his mind, but he’s a bat too. He knows what he’s doing. No matter what anyone says, including himself sometimes. Jason steals a breath, and then another.

He rises on shaky legs, gripping the edge of the bed as he stabilizes himself.

“Fuck,” he whispers, speaking for the first time since Alfred left. That aching feeling in his throat comes back in full force, almost as if it wants to swallow up his voice.

The floor is cold against his bare feet, a sharp chill that makes his legs flinch. He inspects the room for shoes and straightens up as he spots a pile in the corner.

He takes a hesitant step forward. It’s wobbly, but he’s moving all the same. Another step, same result. His knees feel as if they’ll buckle any moment, and each step makes his injuries throb with a sharp pain. He almost wonders if they’ve healed at all.

An old beat-up pair of shoes along with fresh clothes are laid out— presumably for Jason’s release in the far future. He puts on a pair of clean socks and struggles to put on the sneakers, not even bothering to change completely. Even this small chain of events leaves him breathless.

Maybe he’s not as strong as he thought. He takes a deep breath and staggers over to open the window up all the way. If there is an alarm, he doesn’t care much about setting it off.

He does, however, comb the air gently for any tripwires anyway, looking lazily for which security camera is staring him down. He knew he was being watched the second his foot touched the floor.

As he leans forward, he wonders why the bats didn't bar his window. Jason looks out of the window, and down. Strands of hair tickle against his forehead as he does so. He wrinkles his nose at the feeling; his hair has probably grown out a bit in the little time he was here.

He snaps out of his stupor and returns his attention to the ground below. He’s a bit high, barely being able to make out the garden of the backyard below, well, more the path to it. The asphalt below is a deep gray, almost black. It doesn’t twinkle like it does in the sunlight, and if it did Jason is far too high to see it anyways.

Jason raises his head to look above. It’s almost instinctual to look at the sky above, to try and find anything in the stars. The night is as dark as ever, but a glimmer as he cranes his neck upward catches his eye. 

A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. There are stars out, he just has to reach them.

There’s a ledge.

He leans even further, still looking up. He spots some grooves along the outside wall of the manor, a path to the roof. It looks easy enough. So, on shaky legs and one shallowly bleeding arm, he hauls himself up.

It’s not so bad. If anything, it makes him even more disappointed in himself for not leaving earlier. He’s also the slightest bit offended that they didn’t secure him further, he’s not that weak.

(Never mind the stumbling to the window earlier, the quiver in his breath, and aching pain all over. Even now, he finds himself gritting his teeth at the burning pain as he hauls himself up on buckling knees and a burning arm. But Jason refuses to be weak— to succumb to his self-inflicted injuries. He’s gone through worse.)

Jason Todd is not weak, he reminds himself despite it all. Or maybe it’s more like a prayer and less of a reminder. A hope, a sad, fleeting, and desperate attempt to convince himself he’s more than he is.

Jason Todd is not weak, he grits from the depths of his mind, repeating it like a mantra as he pulls himself up, out, and onto the ledge above the window.

The former Robin’s mind immediately flits back to the mess of tears and soon-to-be broken promises.

No, he is weak, he realizes. Three simple words leave him in shambles; it doesn’t matter if he’s the one to say them or not. Even worse, is that the lack of their presence leaves him an empty husk all the same. Jason is weak and selfish. The three words he aches to hear he refuses to say himself. They have to be pried from his bloodied hands.

Speaking of, the beads of blood have turned into trickling streams down his arm. It’s a bit grotesque— the mess of flayed skin and blood around a thin mark where the zip tie once was— but nothing that requires any type of attention. 

Whatever the case, he finds himself on the roof eventually. It’s a mess of gritted teeth and grunts, of aching joints and the pull of barely-healed flesh. He scrapes his hand on some of the stone on the side of the manor and probably infects it when he grabs onto the railing of a rusty ladder.

 It’s still incredibly dark out, the view from the roof is not much better than the view from the window. He sits down anyway, not planning on doing anything impulsive, no matter how much he wishes to.

After all, Jason is certain there are eyes on him, but he doesn’t care enough to show that he’s noticed. It seems that whichever one of the bats is watching him right now doesn’t care much for conversation either— so definitely not Dick. He can’t spot them, but years of training make it incredibly easy to tell when a pair of eyes is staring him down.

He stretches his legs against the rough, sloping tiles of the manor’s roof. He huffs a bit of a laugh. Although this entire situation is not anything he wanted to deal with… he has to say, these scrubs are comfortable.

They’re not the usual blue gown. They’re more like thin pajamas- comfortable and light. Most importantly, they’re good at keeping the skin of his legs from grazing against the rough dirty tiles, as the palms of his hands are.

Maybe it’s a sensory thing, he vaguely muses as he looks down at his abused arm. It’s rough up, flayed, a mess of pinks, reds, and whites that mesh in uneven layers. He’s perfectly fine with this, but not with the thought of his calf brushing against the unforgiving surface beneath him.

It’s a bit silly.

A single star in the infinite sea above catches his eye, distracting him from his musings. 

Must be quite lonely , he thinks, staring at it with a calm admiration.

He lies down, not quite having enough strength to support himself for too long as he stargazes from the roof. Tiles dig uncomfortably into his back, but the soft cushion of the thin scrubs grants some semblance of comfort. Not that he necessarily deserves it.

He tilts his head and squints at the sky above, recognizing the constellation after a few muted breaths.

The water bearer.

He smiles a bit to himself— an abundance of water, how ironic. Just a couple of hours ago, he was thinking of white flesh in an infinite sea, and now the celestial one above him decided to grant him an even better depiction.

Stars litter the sky in scattered patterns, some are so dim that Jason wonders if they’re constellations or if his vision is spotting as the pain of his injuries takes a toll on his body.

(His arm throbs, but it’s not even the worst of his injuries. He may have popped a stitch or two as he lugged himself up here, and it fucking burns.)

Either way, it’s a gorgeous portrayal of his earlier depravity. But instead of white flesh littered along a polluted sea, the twilight sky provides him with a prettier rendition of that scene two weeks ago. 

However, it does fail to capture the full contrast between the pale skin and inky sea. The stars are much too dim except for one. Tonight, one star shines brightly on its own, and Jason finds himself drawn to it like a moth to light.

Even with their lack of intensity tonight (except for the one that shines alone), the stars aren't an empty mass, sucking him into nothingness. They're a possibility. Each one brims with the opportunity for something more than this world.  

He looks down at his wrist.

Sometimes, late at night, he wonders if there are other universes out there. Most of these nights, he wonders if he’s happy in one of them; maybe a bit naive and stupid— but happy— clean from the invisible dirt that mars his skin.

He often looks for those universes in the stars. Maybe that’s where his obsession stems from— the search for something beyond the world he feels so stuck to.

The constellation above him may be dim, but he obsessively takes note of each star inside of it anyway.

Jason wonders if there’s a universe where he’s untouched. 

(Calloused fingers caress the scar on his neck. It takes a moment too long for Jason to realize it’s his own marred hands showing his delicate skin that softness. But of course, he’d be foolish to think anything else.)

Untouched. He wonders… could that be? Is there a universe where he exists in his purest form? Jason can’t fight the grimace that blooms on his face at the thought— a version of him that’s not compromised by the evils of this world. He thinks of a version of himself that is a child, lives as a child, and experiences joy as a child.

(His hands wander. Just an inch or two, he feels his pulse thrumming under his fingers. His heart aches.)

The young man looks at the stars and sees a better version of himself in them. 

That Jason would be untouched by grief and grudges, his hands wouldn’t be stained with blood. He would know nothing about the sick relief of a blade against skin, of blooming blues and purples mottling flesh, or the soft trickles of red. He wouldn’t hold onto his anger forever, wouldn’t hold it close to his heart no matter how much it scalds him or the people around him. He wouldn’t experience whiplash-inducing mood swings that leave him breathless and dazed. 

In another universe, there exists a version of himself worth fighting for.

That Jason would be worth the anger, the protection. He would be an innocent child, rather than a good soldier.

A small, breathless laugh leaves him at the thought. He can’t even imagine it: a version of himself that hasn’t witnessed blood seeping into the harsh cracks of skin on his hands (whether it be his own or of others, he wouldn’t ever have to make this distinction). A version of himself that doesn’t spend hours under scalding water, washing away the sins from his skin (from his actions, or the actions of others… he doesn’t know).

Jason takes a deep breath, his gaze lazily raking over the dim stars. He smiles. Maybe there’s a version of him out there that doesn’t hoard things. In another universe, he is kind, and gentle, and doesn’t leave desperate, painful marks on everything that leaves him.

Maybe for that Jason— the one that’s worth it— nothing leaves him in the first place. Maybe people sink their claws into him, keep him from flying away. He wouldn’t mind being a caged bird if that meant someone felt he was precious enough to keep.

But that’s the problem. Jason wants freedom. He wants to be trapped. He wants to be cupped between firm hands and never let out yet would fight tooth and nail to escape.

Truth be told, he wants it all. He wants to hold people close, wants his breaths to be theirs, and still, wants to push them away if they even so look at him. He wants to leave impressions on everything he touches and for his name to go down in history yet most days he wishes he never existed in the first place. He wants to be fought for but forgotten, feels an insatiable appetite but never wants another bite of food again.

He wants to feel everything and nothing. He wants the stars he looks at so fondly to burn in the palms of his hands yet hopes he never reaches them. 

He wants the Joker back, just to do it all again, to give everyone a second chance to fight for him.

In another universe, he doesn’t have a pit in his stomach, an emptiness inside of him that longs to be filled but never will be.

Jason Todd is a selfish man always has been and will be. He wonders if this is true in every universe or just his own.

(His hand wanders down to his abdomen, gently grazing his healing wound before settling it just above where his stomach should be. It’s comforting, he feels hungry but has no appetite.)

There’s a pit at the base of his stomach, all-consuming, filling him to the brim until he’s nauseous. And yet, he’ll always want more.

Or maybe it’s less of a pit in his stomach and rather an insatiable emptiness inside of him. He wants to hold anything he can grasp under his skin. He wants to tuck everything good and worthwhile under his rib cage, keep them prisoner, snug under his flesh.

Grief finds Jason on a cold night under the loneliest star in the celestial sea.

Suddenly, he’s made too aware of the ache in his heart, the longing for something he doesn’t have and never will. He grieves for the version of himself that will never be: a boy whose smile is unaffected by the terrors he’s faced and committed.

His heart rate picks up. His hands clam up. He shouldn’t be here. He wants to go home. He wants to go home— he wants to go home— he wants to go home!

But Jason couldn’t name one if he tried. He longs for the concept of a home; he furrows his brows and closes his eyes as he thinks of a faraway warmth and coziness. He thinks of spread, loving, warm arms with no face.

Jason jerks his eyes open, breathing harshly and hoping to find anything in the stars.

This time, Jason doesn’t think about becoming one— not exactly. Now, he imagines millions of universes out there. Maybe— just maybe— if he plays his cards right, he’ll wake up in one of them.

(His fingers wander to the wrist of his left hand now. They press down firmly over his sickening pulse. His clammy, calloused fingers balance on his pulse. He wishes for nothing more than to dull it, let the feeling drift slowly from his grasp.)

If he plays his cards right, he’ll wake up in a universe where he is Jason Todd: worth more than his weight in bullet casings. 

He feels sick and nauseous. 

Jason scrapes the skin of his bicep until he feels a comforting sting. He feels sick, so sick.

He’s rotting from the inside out. He can feel it so clearly now— the sickness inside of him. Jason is rotting from the inside out and there’s no helping it. His brain is filled with tar, and his blood coagulated. 

He digs his nails into his bicep, clawing, wanting to free himself from this rot, to depollute his body.

Deep blue eyes look up to the stars above as quickened breaths leave chapped lips in fast bursts.

It’s almost as if every thought that passes Jason’s mind gets captured into an infinite spiral. He feels bugs under his skin, maggots eating away at everything putrid and vile inside of him.

Every interaction, every memory, and every feeling gets warped until it’s no longer recognizable.

At this point, he doesn’t try to find logic in his thoughts or actions. He doesn’t care if his family will be better or not without him, he just wants to go. 

Hugs become snake constrictions, tears like acid against his skin. He’s going away, and there’s nothing anyone can say or do to change his mind. He cups his face and it feels like that of a corpse.

In and out in and out he steals a breath and then another over and over again as he tries to convince himself he’s not actually rotting. But his cheek is so cold, rough, he squeezes and feels nothing.

He’s overstayed his welcome. Jason should have stayed dead long ago… he should appreciated that chance better— taken it with stride and stayed dead. 

The bone under his cheek aches, he vaguely wonders if he’s pulling too hard— wonders if it will tear off— if he’ll rip at the seams and fall apart into nothingness.

Nausea builds up again— he feels everything and nothing. It feels as if the blood in his body has stilled and he can feel every frozen cell, yet when he pulls at the cold, sensitive skin of his face he feels nothing but a distant ache.

Jason should have stayed dead and slept six feet under for eternity. There is no redemption for someone who steals every breath he takes.

God, he just wishes he’d fuckin—

.

.

.

And just like that, his mind silences just for the briefest moment. 

Drip, drip, drip.

The ache in his jaw subsides as he finally unclenches it.

A deep breath in, and out.

The stars above may twinkle dimly, but he only sees a dusky blue.

Drip, drip.

It’s like a leak, Jason realizes. Maybe— just maybe— or, more definitely so, Jason was born to be broken. He was born with a leak, where all the good would leave him eventually. It’s inevitable, he realizes.

Drip.

Nothing good comes out of him, just an ever-festering trail of rot and pain. Each step he takes is marked with brain matter and gunpowder. He is Jason Todd, the bearer of floods unlike anything anyone has seen before, drowning everything around him in inescapable rage and death.

…

Jason Todd, the boy with the leak spilling from his heart onto the spaces below him. Maybe it has finally caught up to him, emptied, and now all the good, and potential for it, is gone. His mind lulls to a quiet— not completely silent, never silent— murmur.

Sweet whispers of promises for something more… something hard to grasp but just a razor blade or pill bottle away.

He’s never felt so alone despite the crowd of loved ones sitting under the rooftop he’s lounging on— despite the one bat lurking somewhere not too far. 

Maybe it’s because he knows he’s not worth it. He’ll only break them, form cracks too large to mend, and start leaks in them too.

He’s loved, cared for, alone— like a rare blade polished and displayed behind a glass case. Inevitably, he will only ever carve the hearts out of everyone who handles him with care. 

“Ha…” a quiet sigh escapes him, rough, wet. It takes effort to breathe now.

He tugs at his cheek again.

It’s a quiet night out.

He sits up and looks at the floor beyond the edge of the roof. 

He knows he’s being watched from afar. It’s clear to him that they probably can’t see the smaller details of his breakdown: the thin trickles of blood, the crescent moon scabs. So, he keeps his distance from the edge, not wanting to provoke whatever bat is watching him.

In a moment— a blink, a barely noticeable transition— the sun rises with Jason. Maybe it was up for a while. Maybe it just appeared. He blinks the exhaustion from his eyes.

It’s… pretty. It’s a soft thing, delicate yellows, oranges, and pinks across a light blue sky. It’s gorgeous. He will miss it.

The air feels stale despite the breeze. He breathes— sucks in a sharp breath but it feels stuffy and not enough and—

Maybe it’s time to move on, the former Robin realizes.

He can’t exactly spread his wings and find solace in the pavement below, but in the glimmer of the sunlight peaking over the horizon, he makes a promise to himself. The stars are no longer visible, but he looks up at the sky anyway. 

It’s a quiet acceptance. A calm beginning to the end of Jason’s story. He promises himself: to start anew. This Jason— this version of himself is beyond saving, so he will join the constellations above. He’ll become a version of himself worth fighting for, a version of himself that will never experience the horrors of grieving oneself. 

Jason has a plan now. He’ll do it right. He’ll wake up somewhere new, without the weariness in his bones. He won’t feel like an exposed nerve, won’t spend his life looking up at the stars— he will be one.

Behind him, there’s a soft flutter. Jason doesn’t bother to turn at the slightest breath of wind, one that he recognizes immediately.

He steals a breath.

“... What are you doing here?”  

-

-

-

dedicated to you, who i lost.

maybe in another life.

I want to trace those flowers you tattooed on your skin, the same ones you said were for me. I'll name a reason I love you for every petal. I'm sorry I never did. I’m sorry I never will. I wish I could see you one last time, hold onto your arm, and remind you of the promise you made to me: to stay. You told me to keep spreading sunshine, but I don't know how to without my moon to comfort me at night. 

i miss you, i love you, i wish you were here. 

Chapter Text

“What are you doing here?”

The words seem to escape Jason's mouth before he can help them— at least, that’s how Tim interprets it. The older… Robin? Bat? Vigilante?

… His brother seems to hold himself taut. Tim’s never been the best at reading Jason, though he’s tried. It’s usually fruitless.

Most things with Jason are.

But Tim is a bat, a damn good one. So he sees the slight twitch in Jason’s brows, the faint exhale of air, and assumes he’s not about to throw either of them off the roof. Hopefully.

“I could ask the same,” Tim shrugs and steps beside him. He doesn’t look down at Jason, rather, he looks at the fall below. 

Tim Drake is a simple man. A simple man with a plan to fix… whatever this is. 

“It’s steep,” Tim remarks bluntly, tilting his head a bit to size Jason up. 

Tim is a good bat, but so was Jason (a lifetime ago).

Every movement of Jason’s is lined with whispers of his past life, rooted in years of training he’ll never grow out of. There’s a faint pause in the older boy’s actions, in his breathing. Jason purposely avoids looking at the drop below. 

Reading him is like trying to translate a language no one has figured out how to be fluent in— all that can be deciphered are sentences with gaps that lead to fatal mistranslations.

It’s another minute before Jason replies: “I’m not trying to kill myself,” with equal bluntness as Tim’s observation. “‘M not stupid.”

And Jason’s expression betrays so much but Tim can’t even begin to understand what he’s seeing. 

So Tim shrugs again and sits beside him, leaving a couple of tiles between them. It’s quiet for a moment. He’s had experience with this kind of stuff before, but never like this. Somehow, it’s easier with strangers. 

Somehow, this is the hardest conversation Tim has had on a roof. He feels like he’s stumbling through a minefield. Should he be serious? Be stern? Try a heart-to-heart? 

… Yeah, maybe not.

“I mean..” Tim gestures loosely in the air. “I wouldn’t call leaving your room and scaling the building while you’re injured smart. ”

“Funny.” Jason deadpans and turns away. It’s not an outright rejection. “Here to point out any other categories I’m lacking in? You gonna come for my roundhouse next?”

Tim debates with himself for a moment. “Well now that you bring it up—”

Jason bristles even more. “Fuck off. And stop stalking me.”

“It’s kind of my job right now,” Tim mumbles. He takes note of Jason’s annoyance… and lack of enraged outbursts. Tim was usually a notable trigger: whether it was arguing with Jason, ignoring him, talking… breathing.

It seems the pit has left. It’s one thing to hear it happened and another to see it. Jason doesn’t jerk his neck downwards, doesn’t flex his muscles as he does when he’s visibly restraining himself. He still bristles, though, clearly irritated with this ‘stalking’.

Tim catches himself stressing a bit. “I mean— it’s my job but I wasn’t actually doing it—” Tim quickly catches himself and waves off Jason’s quirked brow at that statement. “— Fuck. I mean, I was doing it but I wasn’t stalking you or watching you through the window all night. I just get feedback on your pulse.”

Jason’s brows shoot up even more and yet still manages to make it come off as unimpressed. “Right. So much better,” he grunts.

“Anyway,” Tim sighs and gives up, “I was patrolling but heard an alert. Maybe don’t rip out your vitals next time? I thought you flatlined.”

Jason snorts, an amused grin on his face. “Disappointed?”

Tim frowns. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. Instead, he shrugs and bites the inside of his cheek. “You really should work on that roundhouse. You don’t extend your leg enough. Maybe stretch your hips some more.” 

“Don’t you think I’ve tried that?” Jason grunts, bringing his knees up so he can loosely rest his arms on them. “Somethin’ is wrong. Can’t move like I used to.” 

Tim relents and makes a placating gesture. Jason waves him off with another grunt and they fall into a tense silence. 

At least, they should. Tim knows the logical flow of the conversation should follow: awkward silence for about another five minutes, a quick lecture about vitals and breaking out of confinement Jason certainly won’t listen to, and finally a Bruce-laced threat. But he finds himself struggling to keep quiet. He’s never been good at keeping to himself. He has to help, needs to fix things. It’s in his nature.

Because that small movement from Jason just seconds ago— the wave of his hand— was painted with specks of pinks and reds that make the smaller bird do a double take. Those injuries are new. He can’t just leave this conversation now. 

Tim straightens up, zeroing in on the injuries on Jason’s arm while trying not to bring attention to himself. 

The camera didn’t show this. Then again, it had only been streaming when Jason got out of bed— when it was much too dark to see anything other than his silhouette.

But Jason’s arms are folded around himself now. Tim can’t see them, no matter how hard he tries. Jason’s forearms are uninjured but his wrists–

“Stop staring. Your eyes are freaky,” Jason grumbles.

The injuries are not lethal, not even technically much to worry about, but Tim finds his brows furrowing anyway. “But I’m not wearing a mask,” he replies instead, debating on how to bring the injuries up. Sure, Jason isn’t ringing his neck right now but Tim is not looking to tempt the beast.

“Yeah, exactly.” Jason looks away and Tim continues his sweep for injuries. 

Flayed skin on his left wrist, light scratches on his left bicep, indents on both of his wrists— now those, he knows aren’t self-inflicted. Damian.

“You’re hurt,” Tim says, inching a bit closer.

Jason shrugs. “Nothing I can’t handle.” He shoots a glare Tim’s way and groans. Loudly. “Stop looking at me like I’m crazy, I just needed some fresh air and to break out of those shits Damian put on me.”

Tim nods. It makes some sense but seems so… destructive. Still, this is something he should report rather than tackle himself. 

Tim’s never been the best at talking to Jason. There’s still an uneasiness in his gut around the other vigilante, the worry of making the slightest mistake or hiccup. Especially now that any little thing sets off the other members of the family, Tim chooses his battles, he should report this to Dick, no matter how much he wants to stick his nose in Jason’s business. But…

“You should go back to the room soon. They’ll probably get infected. Why didn’t you call someone? I’m pretty sure Dick could have let you out… I don’t think hurting yourself did any favors.”

“Why are you out here anyway?” Jason grunts as he picks at the skin of his arm, the unharmed one. He doesn’t glare or blow up.

… Why does Tim keep expecting him to blow up?

Jason’s perfectly neutral right now. Even bored, it seems. His face is flat, eyes dull as they look over the skyline. 

Tim makes the mistake of looking him in the eyes. He keeps hearing about those blue, blue, blue eyes. They’re not Lazurus green, per se, but Tim finds himself on edge when he notices the film of green, the pure teal. Not blue. 

And he wonders.

Not for long, though.

There’s a vague sense of guilt in Tim. He almost annoys himself when he realizes he’s walking on eggshells around him like he’s some big bad Lazarus-roided meathead. 

He clears his throat and finally answers, “I’m here because you ripped out your vitals—”

“No,” Jason says a bit more gruffly. “Why are you out here? You could have easily snitched. Told Dick, Cass, Duke, hell, Damian…” He starts picking at the tiles on the roof now, making a grating noise that has the smaller boy gritting his teeth.

“So anyone but me?” Tim replies bitterly. Of course, why would he expect Jason to warm up to him so suddenly? He hates Tim. “Is it really that crazy to think I don’t want you dead?”

“It’s insane, yeah.”

They stew in silence for a while. 

If there’s one thing that can bring them together, one thing they can share, it’s the family-wide habit of brooding. So they sit on the somehow (no, really, how?) tidy roof, and stare at the sky in silence. He doesn’t know how to answer Jason. So instead, he thinks of anything else, hoping he stumbles upon an answer.

Tim thinks about the sunrise, the way the heat warms his achy joints, the way it reminds him of just how tired he is. He thinks about the last couple of nights, the cold, the sunken eyebags he’s definitely sporting right now. 

They all are.

Tim thinks about hate. He thinks about patrolling Crime Alley for the man who attempted to give Titan’s Tower a paint job in the lovely shade of Timothy-Drake-Red.

He thinks about hate and the feeling of a weak pulse. Hate and the sight of so, so much blood. Hate and the cold pit of grief in his stomach. Hate and that morning’s breakfast blown in slimy chunks on the floor in the med bay after the first time he saw the defibrillator in use. Hate and the sob he never expected to come from his throat. Tim thinks, in the end, that’s probably not hate.

“I don’t like you,” Tim confesses after so long that answering the question is too awkward and late. “But I don’t hate you.”

Jason stiffens and relaxes before Tim can even blink. There’s a quirk of his lips, a small smile. “Yeah. I deserve that.”

“But I could like you,” Tim murmurs as he looks at the skyline. It seems not even Gotham can dim the sun’s light. The city bustles, specks of people mill about, and he releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I could like you,” he repeats. “Just… don’t kill me again. But yeah. I don’t hate you. You’re kind of my brother,” Jesus what is he saying? Kind of? He allows himself to cringe at his own words a bit, shakes his head, and takes a deep breath. “I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t want you gone.”

Jason clicks his tongue. Not out of judgment, Tim knows this because he watches his expression carefully, his heart beating out of rhythm. He may not be fluent in him, but he can translate some of his gestures. He knows Jason isn’t going to explode. But he’s scared.

Because now, Tim thinks of hate and Jason. More specifically, the thought of Jason hating him. 

 They’re all a little fucked up, he muses.

“I don’t hate you either,” Jason grunts, answering as if he could read Tim. “I did. And sometimes you’re infuriating–”

“I think a baby looking at you the wrong way would infuriate you.” Tim can’t help himself. “Can’t do much about myself.”

“I’ll fucking kill you.”

Tim grins.

After a long, long, deep, deep breath from Jason, the older Robin looks him over. “I think I could like you too. If you stop being annoying.”

“Seems we’ve reached an impasse.”

“Die.”

Another silence falls over them, this one not as tense. 

Tim thinks about hate and death.

Jason’s a lot easier to get along with after he’s been hooked up to an IV for a bat-decade (... a couple of weeks).

He thinks about hate, death, and Jason. 

Tim has felt hate before, it’s an ugly thing, something bitter that has a permanent seat somewhere in his gut– a painful coil that he has to tamp down again and again.

He doesn’t feel that with Jason. Irritation, agitation, exasperation… yes. But there’s an ever-present admiration under all of the complex emotions that weigh down on his skin like a knitted blanket, a knot for each flinch, each argument, each grudge… and each whisper of warmth, each ‘not bad, kid’, and each beat up late-night dinner after getting their asses kicked together.

They may not like each other right now, but they love each other. And sometimes that’s just what family is. For a little while, at least.

It’s been more than a little while. Tim decides that should end soon.

So no, Tim doesn’t hate Jason.

“I’m glad you made it,” Tim admits, and it’s true. He does have a reason to lie, but he doesn’t need to.

Jason grunts in acknowledgment and flicks Tim’s temple. “Save that for later. I set my brain to tune you out right now after the baby thing.”

The snort Tim releases is kind of horrifying, but neither of them comment on it.

Tim looks down at his beat-up shoes from patrolling, muck and grime somehow dirtying the roof (No, really, how is it clean? ).

He’s thought of death before. This is not the first time he’s almost lost someone, not the first time he’s walked parallel with mortality. 

But this… hits close to home in a different way. He looks at the larger boy beside him and bites back a sigh.

It’s strange, knowing you’re not alone.

Sometimes, Tim wonders. Not often, he’s made sure of that with his workload. 

… Maybe often.

He’s caught himself a couple of times, he could probably count on his hands how many times after a fight his mind wandered toward the thought: He barely escaped death, and didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.

Usually, though, Tim thinks about the people that died. The people who died and came back, the people who died and didn’t. What right did Tim have to outlive them? 

So no, Tim doesn’t exactly want to fling himself off a roof, but there’s a startling sense of kinship he feels toward Jason now that he knows he’s probably haunted in a similar manner. Because Tim gets sad. 

Bouts of emptiness, survivor’s guilt, everything guilt. He needs to be better, needs to feel, he needs to be everything he’s not. And sometimes, in the dead of night, when his mind wanders, and he’s stressed himself into another impending catastrophe, he thinks about death a lot. He’d probably give his life too easily to save another if it weren’t for Bruce, for Dick.

Tim looks at Jason again and wonders.

The smaller male has had plenty of late-night phone calls with Dick those same late nights where his frenzied mind is louder than his reasoning. He wonders if Jason’s been afforded the same.

Tim thinks about hate, death, and Jason… and realizes he doesn’t think he c an hate Jason if he tried. He’ll hold a grudge for a while, and keep away from enclosed spaces with him… but he feels a flicker of solidarity that wasn’t there before. Because he knows that Jason shares this same grief, and depression that was so isolating, and now not so much. At least, he thinks so.

He swallows and looks at the pavement below. “Sometimes I uh… think about that stuff too. Not that much. And I’m not trying to like– fuck. I’m rambling. I’m not trying to take away what happened. I just… I feel it too sometimes.”

Jason takes a moment to look up and toward Tim a little. “Oh, yeah that’s… that’s rough, Timmy. I’m sorry. I’m really…” Jason swallows and exhales softly. “...Sorry.”

“No!” Tim yelps, his voice cracking in once again a horrifying manner. “Not like that– not cause of you or anything. Am I making it worse? I’m making it worse, aren’t I?” He huffs and drags his hands down his face. “I’m just saying I get like that too sometimes. Like… What am I doing here, you know?“

Jason stares at him for a long, long moment.

And lets out a not-horrific snort. “Aren’t you supposed to be done with puberty, Timmy?” He grins. “What was that? You sounded like a twelve-year-old.”

Tim squawks. “No, I did -n’t!” 

Fuck.

“Ahem,” he clears his throat and lowers his voice a notch or two… or ten. “No, I didn’t.”

And Jason doesn’t just smile, he grins and cackles. He throws his head back and Tim knows he finally did something right.

A sense of tranquility falls over them, and Tim feels it in his chest. It’s going to get better. Because Jason smiled and it was large and grand.

And Tim did that. So fuck you and bye-bye unhealthy family dynamics. Tim is basically a pro now.  

“I know what you mean,” Jason mutters, a shiver going through him as his body catches up to the probable hypothermia he gave himself sitting out here so long. “What am I doing here?” He asks, and there’s no good answer.

But then Jason looks at him, that smile still on his face. “You know, you’re still a little twerp, but a good one. Now help me inside because my ass is numb.”

So Tim lets out another gross snort (Really, he needs to get that fixed. Or checked.) and helps Jason to his feet, and blanches when he realizes they actually have to get inside. But Jason lets him help, so he’s at least a little happy doing so.

It’s terrifying and hard and something Tim never wants to repeat. They nearly slip several times trying to sneak back in because Tim refuses to get a disappointed stare, and Jason doesn’t ‘want to hear more yapping’. Thus, Tim helps steady Jason’s weight (Because despite his body forgetting that when he got up here, he is still sickly. But heavy, Jesus.) and helps him back into the window.

It feels like a mythological trial. Or one of the circles of hell. Either way, they’re both out of breath when they reach Jason’s ‘hospital’ room again.

“That was–” Jason gasps, “a lot easier when I was climbing up. What the fuck.”

“Adrenaline?” Tim guesses, lying on the floor after helping carry about 200 pounds of nearly dead-weight bat-son. He gags.

Jason kicks him. “Drama queen. It wasn’t that bad.”

Tim gags again.

Silence seems to be an ongoing theme with them, but Tim doesn’t care much as they catch their breaths.

Inhaling deeply, he recalls flayed flesh.

When Tim returns his attention to Jason, he’s tapping his foot restlessly and leaning against the wall, across from his cot. It’s clear to Tim that the older Robin is probably growing agitated being cooped up for so long.

“You probably won’t be back on the streets anytime soon,” he tells Jason, “but your injuries are pretty healed. Alfie said you would probably just need to build your mass back up and get used to walking again.”

Jason hums in acknowledgment and rolls his ankle. “I feel like I’m walking pretty good.”

“Your mobility isn’t bad,” Tim agrees, “But it’s better to take it slow.” He stands with a groan, joints popping so loud that Jason shoots him a quizzical look.

“Old age,” he jokes and gets another one of those big grins. Everything feels lighter somehow. “C’mon, I’ll escort you to the bathroom.”

“You know I lived here before,” Jason replies with a roll of his eyes but follows anyway.

Tim shrugs. “I gotta make sure you don’t topple over on the way. Yeah you’re walking pretty alright, but I gotta make sure. Plus Bruce installed some uh…” He gestures in the air. “Some stuff in the shower in case you fall. But it’s in this specific bathroom.”

He leads him to a bathroom a little walk away from the room Jason is currently residing in, one he visibly recognizes from his days here. It’s large, spacious, and usually reserved for guests so it’s spick and span. 

And easy to pick the lock, with a window way too small to escape from. Jason snickers when he walks in and Tim tries not to look too guilty.

Tim skitters about, making Jason wait a moment before returning with a set of Jason’s clothes. 

“What the fuck?”

Tim smiles sheepishly. “I stole ‘em from one of your safehouses.”

“Lovely. Remind me to blow that up,” Jason grumbles but snatches the clothes anyway.
In the light of the bathroom, Jason’s wounds are made jarringly visible. Skin peeled like the edges of lettuce leaves, pink and white, with rings of yellow bruising. Tim swallows down the nausea seeing it.

“Can I uh– clean that up?”

Jason is standing over him, and somewhere in the back of Tim's mind some synapses are firing telling him to run but he’s not as intimidating as usual. Just… tired looking. The older boy shrugs. “Yeah, go ahead.”

And Tim can’t help the grin that breaks out on his face. At first, it’s a small, tentative thing. But joy pulls at his cheeks and relief fills his chest— because everything just might be fine. He’s helping. 

So he takes out some bandages and a small bottle of antiseptic. This is good, this is progress, right? Tim almost feels like this is going too well, it was almost too easy. But he shouldn’t mess up a good thing, right?

He juggles the aid in his hands a bit nervously. He extends his hand and swallows. “Your arm?”

—

Jason looks down at his hands.

He knows an olive branch when he sees one. Or in this case, hears it. He looks at the slight shake in Tim’s hand as he thumbs over the antiseptic and nods.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason murmurs and hands over his now slightly scabbed arm.

Suddenly, he looks at the boy who replaced him and can’t even begin to understand the ache that hollows out his chest. He doesn’t think it’s hate anymore, at least, not hate toward Tim.

It hasn’t been for a long time, and he realized it on that damned rooftop.

He’s caused a lot of trouble for the poor guy, no matter how much he tried to deny it on the roof.

As Tim mends his wounds and dabs the open skin with antiseptic, Jason thinks about hate, death, Tim… and replacements.

At one point, Jason did hate Tim. He did, he beat the crap out of him, for god’s sake. Plucked that baby bird’s wings and snapped his wishbone, praying he wasn’t as expendable as he felt. He hated the kid, hated what he represented, hated that he was by Bruce’s side where Jason belonged.

“I should have done this before your shower,” Tim muses, cutting off his train of thought. 

He doesn’t stop disinfecting the wound though. 

After the injuries have been sufficiently disinfected, Tim turns to rifle through the cabinets.

“I’d wait if I could but I need to go back to patrol soon,” Tim yawns. “But the scrapes are pretty surface level so I can get away with putting a waterproof bandage on them.”

Jason nods, not trusting his voice because fuck he feels like such a piece of shit right now. This whole… situation has probably run the boy ragged. He’s clearly tired and now patching up the guy who beat the brakes off of him not so long ago.

Jason’s given a lot of people a lot of trouble.

He made that realization on the roof, looking out at the sun. He’s always been nothing but trouble. Even now with the anger gone, his mind isn’t healed. He’ll only ever be trouble.

And now he’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. He’ll play his part, ease their worries, and set them free when the time comes. It’s Jason’s time to leave the nest, spread his wings, and become one with the sky above.

He smiles as Tim places the bandages. Tim smiles back.

Jason is happy, really.

He’s glad he didn’t completely fuck the kid up. He’s glad the kid can still smile. And he’ll make sure it stays in the future.

Jason hated Tim, Boy Wonder, Bruce’s shiny new Robin.

But he can’t now as he looks down at him. 

He can’t feel hate for the kid anymore, just guilt for what he’s done. Ugly, gut-churning guilt that makes him want to spill from the edges. A tar that clings to him and sinks him down and down.

“I gotta go,” Tim snaps him out of his ruminations, his arms suddenly patched and trash thrown away.

“Ah,” Jason nods. “Thank you.”

“Uh… I kind of have to tell everyone you’re up. I’ll tell Dick though.” Tim smiles sheepishly. “Well, actually I told him when I was getting your clothes so you might want to go to the living room when you’re done. He’s pretty happy to hear you’re feeling better. He wants to see you.”

Jason nods and gives him a weary smile. “Alright. Thanks, for everything. And sorry again.”

Tim exhales, preens at the job well done, and gives him a little salute. “Any time. And… we’ll work on it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jason replies.

A soft thud seals the door behind the young vigilante as he exits the bathroom.

Jason feels himself lighten. He’s felt lighter since their talk. Kind of. 

He takes a moment to look at the patch-up job. He feels numb yet light. The wounds feel as if they don’t even exist now that they’re not visible. Jason wishes he could pick at them, and peel the skin back even more.

Jason thinks about hate, death, and a heart that stopped beating, if only for minutes.

It will be an easy matter.

It's just a matter of how.

He locks the door, even though the others can probably (definitely) pick it or break it down in seconds.

He's never taken into consideration just how many factors there are in leaving.

His last attempt— because that's what it was— was half-assed, spur of the moment. This time it will be better.

He grips the sink.

(A straight line, maybe. Blooming reds, pinks, white. From wrist to—) 

Jason swallows. 

(A ledge. Twinkling city lights. Or maybe the glimmer of the sea below. Rough, rusted railing under the calloused pads of his fingers. A simple lift of his— letting go of the—)

He turns on the faucet and splashes his face with water and grimaces at the feeling of the beads crawling down his face. They're warm, sticky. Why do they feel sticky? 

Jason looks into the mirror and sees… himself. Greasy hair. Pale, flushed skin. A dead man walking.

(An orange bottle— pushing down on the lid, twisting, and lifting— a clatter of— bringing it from hand to—)

A cough escapes Jason's throat and he scratches the goosebumps that rise on his arm. There's so much to consider. Location, method, date, time, witnesses, goodbyes.

He swallows again, mouth suddenly dry.

Because when he looks up again, he sees teal.

And he stumbles back in confusion. His eyes look the same as ever. Not blue, not bright and cerulean and untainted, and fuck, he’s going to vomit.

It could be a trick of his head, he hasn’t slept well. Hasn’t done much well. 

… Teal?

Jason grunts and strips in a haste, hopping into the shower with the hopes of clearing his head but it’s as if the worries only grow louder. Is the pit back? Had it not fully left in the first place?

He turns the water on, adjusting the temperature to something scorching .

He rubs his skin raw and relishes the sting. 

He’s just not in his right mind, that’s it. Surely the others weren’t lying. His eyes are blue, they have to be. 

Then again, Tim never said anything.

Jason thinks and thinks and thinks so much that his head aches more than his body. He tries to turn the dial more but the water doesn’t get hotter. 

Jason needs to clear his head. He needs pain, and the water isn’t cutting it.

…

He washes himself as quickly as he can without feeling gross. The tub is lined with lavender shampoo, body wash, conditioner, everything. 

And he pushes the thought of his eyes to the back of his mind. A trick of the light, that’s what he’ll tell himself. Surely, they’ve known his eyes have never been green. Surely, they all know this is teal and not blue.

So he scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until he’s sure the lavender scent must be fused to his skin.

And then he scrubs more, makes himself ache.

A repetitive motion, a back and forth easy to get lost in that he repeats all over his body.

Lavender and heat, pink against white tiles, steam that makes his head foggy.

Jason gets lost in it.

He blinks.

Water drips onto the tiles of the bathroom floor as he suddenly finds himself half-dressed, standing in front of the mirror. 

Ah.

Once upon a time ago, Jason believed he had superpowers.

Teleportation, he’d tell people. The magical ability to forget, to find himself somewhere new in times of distress. Sometimes, he thought he shared his body with someone else, an entity that would take the reigns when he was tired of being himself.

Jason knows better now. He knows now that he’s just weak. That his mind shuts down at the slightest inconvenience, turning him into a useless husk, surviving rather than living. He sees the glaze in his eyes and knows this won’t do. If he keeps up like this, it will just be a matter of minutes before he finds himself somewhere new and brings attention to himself.

He needs to look fine, he needs to look like he’s better, he needs to snap out of it.

He brings a palm to his cheek with a harsh slap.

The fog lessens and he steals a steadying breath.

First, he needs to clean himself up. He’s grown a bit of facial hair.

He looks too much like Willis.

Jason hasn’t thought of that bastard for a long time and for good reason. He prefers keeping that tucked in the deep recesses of his mind, along with memories of Ethiopia. 

Jason slams his arm into the counter this time to stop that specific train of thought.

He steals another breath and holds it until it’s forced out of him.

Get it together.

He nods to himself and rolls his shoulders, gets dressed save for a hoodie Tim left him.

Jason then rifles through the cabinets for an object he knows is here. His hand closes over the razor, weighs it in his palm, and gets to work. It’s a long couple of nauseating minutes, seeing Willis superimposed over himself. He sighs in relief when he finally gets the shitty excuse for a beard off his face. 

Clean again. Kind of.

There’s blood. Small trickles here and there, if that. 

As he washes his jaw, his finger presses into a shallow wound where he knicked himself, just around the curve.

It’s not much, already clotting when Jason finds it.

He looks down at the razor. It’s a small purchase no one would notice missing– one of those single-use ones they keep around for guests.

The fog is rolling in again.

He needs to clear his head.

He needs to feel better.

He needs–

No one would notice.

Jason eyes the hoodie he has yet to put on.

No one would notice.

He swallows.

Jason weighs it in his palm again. He rifles around for a pair of — to help him ease it out. Angles it just right, grabs the edge and pulls . He's desperate. He knows he is.

Something thin, something shiny, something minute and small sits in his palm. He throws the destroyed item away and weighs the blade in his palm. He can barely feel its weight.

And for the first time— he turns a weapon onto himself. No more accidental swipes or slashes, no more plausible deniability. This is all intention, all Jason and only Jason.

It's like a thread snapping. Or a dam breaking. An explosion.

Blood roars in his ears, he can almost feel his heart beating in his throat. He places the edge of the blade onto his bicep. The corner digs but doesn’t puncture, no, not yet.

Sometimes Jason wonders if the illness he was born with could be physically drained. He wonders if Willis left his mark on him in more ways than one. Maybe it’s written in Jason’s DNA to be a piece of shit.

Maybe death was always meant for Jason, in one way or another. 

Jason had always wished for a life painted in bright colors. He wonders if he’s just destined for dull shades of red, black, and blue. 

Maybe he’s not destined for anything. An empty page. No text, no color. Just Jason Todd.

“Fuck.”

He exhales shakily and glares at his trembling hand.

Maybe, just maybe this was the life he was meant to live. Drowning, shallow, stolen breaths. Short-lived like his parents. Maybe they were drowning together, maybe that’s the way it was meant to be. Maybe Jason was never meant to come back, never meant to be here, in a life of galas and heroism.

One

Two

-

Oh.

There's a jarring sense of calm as the blade presses into his skin, Jason realizes. Where all he can focus on is the way the skin dips around the razor’s edge, the soft squish of meat and flesh. The pudge is addicting to look at, but he finds himself better entranced by how the blood takes a second to bloom. 

He least expects the pure relief.

Jason swipes again.

He watches it drip down his arm, oozing, a deep, dark red that looks like honey. The blade glides like butter. This arm is no longer his own as Jason floats. Has pain always been this freeing?

Again.

Fuck, he can't help himself. 

Again.

Maybe the pit never left. Maybe the whispers remained. Maybe they just convinced Jason to turn the blade to himself.

Again.

He can feel the intensity of his emotions from the ache in his chest to the swell of his throat. Has it really not left? Is he doomed to keep it forever?

Again.

It's now that Jason realizes the intensity of the whispers, the raging thoughts, the body-spiking surges of Lazarus in his veins could have never been the Lazarus itself. It could be him. Pure adrenaline, years of rage that died with the Joker.

Only now, that the source of his rage is half gone, the whispers have turned cruel toward himself .

Again.

The pit was gone, wasn’t it? Maybe it’s still here, maybe this is it clinging onto something, any negative feeling Jason holds. He can hardly understand what’s wrong with him. Is it the pit, or is it him? 

Jason swipes at the mirror and looks into foggy teal eyes.

He can’t stand the fucking look of them.

And Jason swipes again.

Blood leaks out like tar, he muses. For a moment, he doesn't do much other than watch the bubbling red streaks ooze down his arm.

He can't help himself.

Again.

He can't help himself.

Again.

God, can't he help himself?

It’s a simple affair.

It’s a simple affair, disposing the blade, cleaning up, and stopping the bleeding. 

He doesn’t bother bandaging them before he throws on the hoodie, he finds that he likes the ache. He likes running his fingers over the puffy surface. 

The pain clears Jason’s mind and makes him lighter. Maybe some of the sickness inside of him did get cleansed. 

He makes sure to cover his tracks, that the blood doesn’t spot through his hoodie, and leaves his scrubs in a heap on the floor.

And so, Jason walks out. It’s a strange feeling— an unsettling thrum at the base of his stomach mixing with the sudden lightness in his body. He almost feels high, distracted, and weightless.

It’s not Dick's fault that he smiles at Jason when the second Robin steps into the living room with a lively air to him.

“How are you feeling?” Dick asks, and it's not his fault that he asked the wrong question.

“Better,” he says. And he’s not lying. He feels a weight has been lifted. He does feel better, happier… lighter.

Well, kind of. Deep inside, Jason feels an anxious thrum, a coil growing tighter and tighter until he thinks he might explode. 

And it's not Dick's fault that he doesn't notice. Because he's so happy , they both are— for different reasons.

“You look better,” Dick says with a soft, cautious smile. As if Jason is a mirage, just a touch away from disappearing.

And it's not Dick's fault that he doesn't realize how true that is.

Jason smiles back. He sits next to Dick, keeping a bit of space. 

They all sit back, watching something that helps them feel far away. Jason feels like there’s a film glazing over his eyes, he takes a deep breath. 

Maybe it is easier this way.

“My old room…” he starts. “Is it still there?” 

The room falls into a hush. Dick nods. “You’ll probably need newer blankets. Your old ones are kind of… small.”

Jason nods again. “I’ll take them.”

Dick grins, sitting up a bit straighter. An unsaid hope brimming in his expression. So you’re staying?

Jason crosses his arms and sits back. He nods. Yeah.

It’s better that they don’t know.

“And the nerd?”

Dick snorts. “ You’re calling him that?”

Jason throws a cushion at his face.

Not even years of stealth training can help Dick mute the squawk that escapes his mouth.

“Hey!” He pouts and rubs his jaw. “No fair. You know the rules. No heads, top or bottom.”

Jason fakes a gag. “Gross. Just answer the question.”

“He’s patrolling, got an energy spike or something,” Dick hums. “So I’m babysitting. Heard you had a good talk.”

“Yeah…”

Jason looks off to the TV screen. It’s displaying one of those cinematic shots— full view of an ocean, soft rippling waves, glimmers of white. He rests his head on his fist, his elbow lying on the arm of the couch. 

 In a week, he’ll be gone, he decides. He knows them, for all their safeguards and paranoia. He knows their defenses will fall. Hell, some of them still believe he just had a lapse in judgment. 

Jason wonders how they would react to knowing he’s been this broken since before he picked up the tire iron that brought him here.

He feels a lull in the back of his mind. It’s almost like a fog rolling in, or the call of a siren’s song. It promises silence, a severance of mind and body. 

Jason steals a breath for a moment and closes his eyes. He doesn’t care about a bucket list or clinging onto these last days. Instead, he lets the fog roll in and takes him away. 

“You tired, Jay?” Dick asks softly.

“Yeah,” he replies, keeping his eyes closed. “I am.”

The seconds tick by. Jason steals another breath. “But I’ll go to sleep soon.”