Chapter Text
His throat burned. His chest burned. Every breath felt like it scraped something raw on the way in.
He stayed curled on the concrete, one arm wrapped around his ribs, the other clawed against the floor like it might anchor him to gravity. The world tilted. His vision narrowed, then widened again too fast.
Not out.
Not dead.
Still here.
That realization didn’t feel comforting.
It felt temporary.
The warehouse was silent now.
No footsteps. No breathing that wasn’t his. No pressure on his throat.
Just wind through broken windows and the low hum of the city waking up somewhere far away.
Dawn bled in through the high windows — not bright, not warm — just a thin, pale strip of gold cutting across the concrete like a wound.
Jason squeezed his eyes shut.
Light felt wrong.
Light was when it happened.
His hands were shaking. Not adrenaline — that had already burned off — but something colder, deeper, like his nervous system hadn’t received the memo that he was no longer being held down.
He pushed himself upright anyway.
The motion sent stars across his vision. He paused, waited for the floor to stop tilting, then forced himself to stand.
Bad idea.
His knees buckled immediately and he caught himself on a support beam, forehead dropping against cold metal as he sucked in air that still didn’t feel like enough.
“Okay,” he muttered hoarsely. “Okay. Okay.”
His comm crackled.
“Red Hood, respond.”
Barbara.
Then Dick.
Then —
“Jason. Status.”
Bruce.
The sound of his voice hit like a physical thing.
Not because Bruce was dangerous.
Bruce's face. Weight. Voice.
They were a threat - atleast his nervous system thought so.
Even when logic was screaming that that was wrong.
Jason’s stomach dropped. His hands went numb. His pulse spiked so hard his vision blurred again.
He tore the comm from his helmet and threw it across the warehouse. It shattered against the wall, plastic cracking loud enough to make him flinch.
No.
No no no.
He couldn’t hear Bruce right now. Couldn’t see him. Couldn’t risk the way his brain might translate the shape of his face into pressure again.
Not safe.
Not rational.
Didn’t matter.
He staggered toward his bike.
The ride was a mess.
Not exaggerated — no swerving through traffic, no near-collisions — just wrong in small ways that meant his brain wasn’t tracking time properly.
Streetlights blurred. Sound lagged behind motion. His hands didn’t feel like they were attached to his arms.
Twice, he had to pull over because he couldn’t tell if he was breathing or just remembering breathing.
He focused on mechanical things instead.
RPM. Engine vibration. The way the road hummed through the frame.
Concrete. Asphalt. Painted lines.
Reality in fragments.
By the time he reached his safehouse, the sky had fully lightened.
That made his stomach twist.
Dawn wasn’t supposed to feel like exposure. It wasn’t supposed to feel like something that found you.
The door fought him. Of course it did.
“Open,” he rasped.
It slid up.
Jason stumbled inside and barely managed to get it closed before his legs gave out. He slid down the wall and sat hard on the floor, helmet half-off, chest heaving like he’d sprinted miles instead of survived.
His hands were shaking.
Not adrenaline.
Aftershock.
He pressed his palms to his thighs, tried to still them. They kept trembling anyway.
His throat still burned.
Not injury — memory.
He kept expecting pressure.
Kept expecting the air to stop.
Every breath came with the irrational certainty that this was the last one — not because something was wrong, but because something might decide it was.
His internal comm buzzed faintly in his helmet.
He ignored it.
Ignored it again.
And again.
Because the meta could shapeshift.
Because it could look like anyone.
Because anyone could be it.
Which meant trust wasn’t just risky — it was structurally unsound.
If it can dissipate, it can become flesh.
If it can become flesh, it can become family.
Jason stayed where he was for a long time.
Didn’t check the locks.
Didn’t scan the room.
Didn’t take his armor off.
He just sat and breathed until his lungs stopped screaming at him for surviving.
Eventually, he forced the helmet off.
That helped. A little.
His reflection in the darkened window caught his attention — pale, sweat-soaked, eyes too bright.
He didn’t look like himself.
Good.
He didn’t trust faces right now.
Not even his own.
He stood, shakily, and crossed to the sink. Drank straight from the tap because cups required coordination and coordination felt like a luxury. The water burned cold down his throat, grounding and wrong at the same time.
He leaned over the counter, palms braced, waiting for his pulse to slow.
It didn’t.
The comm buzzed again.
Then stopped.
Then buzzed again.
He ripped it out of the helmet and shoved it into a drawer, then shut the drawer hard enough to make the whole cabinet rattle.
Silence.
Better.
He peeled off his jacket, then his armor, then his gloves, movements stiff and jerky like he didn’t quite trust his own limbs to behave.
Every time his throat brushed fabric, he flinched.
That was new.
He sank onto the couch without meaning to.
Stared at the wall.
Waited for his body to catch up with reality.
It didn’t.
Instead, his brain started doing what brains do when they’re terrified and idle:
Running simulations.
What if it comes back.
What if it’s already here.
What if it looks like —
He cut the thought off hard.
No.
No faces.
No hypotheticals.
He focused on the room instead.
The hum of the fridge. The faint tick of cooling pipes. The weight of the couch under his thighs.
Present. Solid. Real.
Still, his chest kept tightening.
Because the thing hadn’t just attacked him.
It had watched him.
“You stopped watching my hands.”
It hadn’t needed strength.
It had needed timing.
Which meant it hadn’t needed to overpower him.
Which meant it didn’t need to overpower anyone.
It could just…
Become.
A knock sounded.
Jason’s body reacted before his mind did.
He was on his feet with a gun in his hand, pulse detonating in his ears, every muscle locked tight.
The knock came again — slower this time. Softer.
Not aggressive.
That didn’t help.
Nothing about this helped.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t answer.
“Jay,” someone said quietly. “I know you’re in there.”
His stomach dropped.
Not because the voice was threatening.
Because it was familiar.
Which meant it could be fake.
Which meant it could be real.
Which meant he had no way to tell the difference.
The meta could shapeshift.
Anyone could be it.
Anyone.
Jason backed away from the door without looking away, gun steady in his hand, heart slamming hard enough to make his vision stutter.
“Go away,” he rasped.
The voice paused.
Then: “Okay.”
No argument. No pressure. No trying to override him.
Just… okay.
That shouldn’t have felt as significant as it did.
Seconds passed.
Then more.
No sound of forced entry.
No movement.
Just quiet.
Finally —
“I’m sitting down in the hallway,” the voice said. “So you know I’m not doing anything stupid.”
Jason swallowed.
He edged closer to the door, careful not to make noise, and leaned just enough to look through the peephole.
Nightwing.
Blue mask. Black suit. Escrima sticks clipped at his sides.
Hands empty.
Posture loose. Deliberately non-threatening.
Not looming.
Not crowding.
Not moving.
Jason didn’t unlock the door.
Didn’t lower the gun.
Didn’t open it.
Because the meta could look like anyone.
And Nightwing was, objectively, anyone.
“Say something only Dick Grayson would say,” Jason called hoarsely.
There was a pause.
Then, confused but amused: “You still owe me forty bucks from that time you bet Tim couldn’t hack Wayne Tower in under ten minutes.”
Jason closed his eyes.
Goddammit.
That was real.
Probably.
Still —
“Another one.”
“Bruce once tried to make pancakes with almond milk and protein powder and we all pretended it was edible because he looked genuinely proud of himself.”
Jason snorted despite himself.
The sound shocked him.
His body froze again immediately afterward, like it didn’t trust its own reaction.
Silence stretched.
Then softer: “Jay?”
Jason exhaled shakily.
“…You’re not coming in.”
“Okay.”
Not defensive.
Not offended.
Just… okay.
That hurt worse than protest would’ve.
“I can sit out here,” Dick offered. “Or go downstairs. Or leave entirely. You tell me.”
Jason stared at the door.
His gun shook.
Not fear — fatigue.
Everything felt heavy. His bones. His lungs. His thoughts.
“Door,” he muttered. “Stay there.”
“I am staying there.”
Jason approached slowly, every step deliberate, like proximity itself might trigger something in his brain. He unlocked the door but didn’t open it immediately.
Counted his breaths.
Then opened it six inches.
Nightwing didn’t move.
Didn’t look relieved.
Didn’t smile.
Just stayed exactly where he was.
“Hey,” he said gently.
Jason didn’t respond.
He stared.
Not at the mask — masks were safer than faces — but at the shape of Dick’s shoulders. His stance. The way he held himself like someone trying not to take up too much space.
Real.
Probably.
Still —
“Hands,” Jason said.
Dick lifted them immediately. Open palms. No hesitation.
Jason’s chest tightened.
Not fear.
Something worse.
“Okay,” Dick said softly. “What do you need from me.”
Jason swallowed.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know what’s safe.”
Dick nodded like that made perfect sense.
“That’s okay.”
No correction.
No “you’re safe with me.”
Just acknowledgment.
Jason unlocked the chain and stepped back.
Nightwing didn’t enter until Jason retreated first.
Even then, he moved carefully, stopping well short of arm’s reach, posture loose but attentive, like he was braced to react without escalating.
The door slid shut behind him.
Jason flinched at the sound.
Dick noticed.
Didn’t comment.
Just stayed still.
“You didn’t answer your comm,” Dick said quietly.
Jason shrugged. “Phone died.”
“Helmet was transmitting until five minutes after the warehouse.”
Jason stiffened.
“…You tracked me.”
“I worried about you.”
Not accusatory.
Not interrogative.
Just… true.
Jason looked away.
“B’s losing his mind,” Dick added carefully. “Alfred’s pretending not to. Barbara’s running probability trees like anxiety is a solvable equation.”
Jason swallowed.
Bruce.
Just hearing about him made his throat tighten.
“I can’t see him,” he said abruptly.
Dick didn’t react.
Didn’t ask why.
Didn’t say Bruce’s name again.
Just tilted his head slightly. “Okay.”
The simplicity of it hit harder than reassurance would’ve.
Jason frowned. “That’s it? No ‘why’?”
“You’ll tell me if you want to,” Dick said. “Or you won’t. Either way, I’m here.”
Jason stared.
“…You’re bad at lying.”
“I know.”
That almost made him smile.
Almost.
Silence settled.
Jason became acutely aware of how close he was to shaking again. His breath was starting to hitch — not full panic, but the warning tremor of it.
Dick noticed.
“Hey,” he said softly. “You’re breathing like you’re waiting for something to stop you.”
Jason’s jaw tightened.
“Don’t—”
“I’m not diagnosing,” Dick said quickly. “Just… noticing.”
Jason exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Well. My lungs are dramatic.”
“Your lungs were deprived of oxygen.”
“Semantics.”
Dick didn’t push.
Instead, he shifted his weight slightly — not closer, not farther — just enough to change the visual rhythm of the room.
“Want water?” he asked. “Or space. Or company. Or silence. I’m very flexible.”
Jason hesitated.
“…Water,” he admitted.
Dick moved slowly, deliberately, grabbing a bottle from the kitchenette and setting it on the table instead of handing it to him.
Jason appreciated that more than he wanted to admit.
He drank.
The water felt wrong — too cold, like it was sliding straight through him instead of staying in his body — but it grounded him anyway.
He didn’t look at Dick while he drank.
Looking meant registering a face.
And faces were unreliable now.
The meta could look like anyone.
Which meant trust required proof.
Which meant proof was impossible.
If perception is compromised, certainty is irrational.
Jason set the bottle down harder than he meant to.
Dick glanced at the sound but didn’t react beyond that.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Talk to me.”
Jason huffed. “That’s the problem.”
Dick waited.
Jason stared at the floor.
“It can shapeshift,” he said finally.
Dick stilled.
“Like biologically?” he asked carefully. “Or—”
“Like whatever the hell it wants,” Jason snapped, then winced. “Sorry. I just—”
“You’re allowed,” Dick said. “You were strangled by a light-based nightmare.”
Jason snorted weakly.
Then his throat tightened again.
“It didn’t attack me,” he said. “Not like normal. It watched me.. Told me I stopped bracing. Stopped fighting.”
Dick’s jaw set, but he stayed quiet.
“It didn’t need strength,” Jason continued. “It needed timing. And then it… dissolved. Like it was never there.”
“That’s…” Dick paused. “Not great.”
“Yeah.”
Jason rubbed his face hard.
“And Bruce,” he said. “I can’t—”
He stopped.
Couldn’t finish.
Dick didn’t push.
Jason forced the words out anyway. “His face. His voice. It’s stupid, I know, but my brain keeps doing this thing where—”
“Bruce's face plus suffocation equals threat,” Dick said gently.
Jason blinked.
“…Yeah.”
“That’s not stupid,” Dick added. “That’s conditioning.”
Jason laughed bitterly. “Congratulations. My trauma has a thesis statement.”
Dick smiled faintly. “You’re very efficient.”
Jason’s shoulders loosened by half a degree.
Then he went still again.
“…But it’s not just him,” he admitted. “That thing can look like anyone. Which means anyone could be it. Which means I can’t tell who’s real.”
Dick didn’t answer immediately.
That scared Jason more than anything else so far.
Then: “Okay.”
Not dismissal.
Not fear.
Just acceptance.
“That makes sense,” Dick continued. “If the threat model is ‘any face,’ then faces become non-credible data.”
Jason stared at him.
“…Did you just trauma-logic me.”
“Yes.”
“Rude.”
“Effective.”
Jason huffed a breath.
Still —
“I don’t know who to trust,” he said quietly. “I don’t know who to unblock.”
“Then don’t,” Dick said. “Not yet.”
Jason looked up sharply. “You’re not gonna tell me I’m being paranoid?”
“Nope.”
“Or that Bruce deserves—”
“Nope.”
“Or that I’m being unfair?”
“Jason,” Dick said gently. “You almost suffocated to death. Your brain is currently in ‘everyone is a possible threat’ mode. That’s not a moral failing. That’s biology.”
Jason swallowed.
“…But Bruce.”
Dick didn’t flinch at the name.
“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Jason said. “That’s the worst part. He didn’t. And I still—”
“Your fear doesn’t need his guilt to exist,” Dick said. “And his goodness doesn’t cancel your reaction.”
Jason stared at the floor.
“I don’t want him near me.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want him seeing me like this.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t even want him knowing where I am.”
Dick paused.
“…Okay.”
Jason looked up sharply. “You’re not even gonna argue?”
“No,” Dick said. “Because if you feel unsafe, then you feel unsafe. The solution isn’t forcing proximity. It’s restoring agency.”
Jason’s throat tightened.
Agency.
He hadn’t had that in the warehouse.
Hadn’t had that when the air left his lungs.
Hadn’t had that when the thing’s hands slipped through him and vanished.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” he muttered.
“You don’t have to fix it,” Dick said. “You just have to not be alone in it.”
Jason frowned. “Those aren’t the same thing.”
“I know.”
Silence stretched again.
Jason’s breathing evened out incrementally.
Not calm.
But less wrong.
He sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Dick stayed standing, still careful not to crowd him.
Eventually, Jason said, “Why are you here.”
“Because you stopped answering your comm,” Dick replied. “Because you scared everyone. Because you scare me when you disappear.”
Jason grimaced. “Sorry.”
“I’m not here for an apology.”
“Then what.”
“Because you’re my brother,” Dick said simply. “And brothers get found.”
Jason’s chest tightened.
He looked away.
“…Don’t,” he muttered.
“Don’t what.”
“Don’t say stuff like that.”
“Why.”
“Because I’ll believe you.”
Dick smiled softly.
“Good.”
Jason didn’t respond.
Time passed.
Then —
Another knock at the door.
Jason flinched hard this time.
Gun was in his hand before he realized he’d reached for it.
Dick’s body shifted instantly — not defensive, but alert — eyes tracking Jason’s movement more than the door.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to answer.”
Jason’s pulse roared in his ears.
The meta could look like anyone.
Which meant the knock could be anyone.
Which meant —
“Jason,” a familiar sharp voice called from the hallway. “Open the door.”
Damian.
Or something wearing Damian’s voice.
Jason swallowed.
“Say something only Damian would say,” he called.
Immediate: “You once tried to microwave a Pop-Tart in its foil wrapper and nearly burned down the safehouse. I was eight and had to stop you.”
Jason winced. “That was one time.”
“And you still mock me for forgetting my grapnel launcher that same year,” Damian shot back. “Which is hypocritical.”
Jason snorted.
Dick hid a smile.
Still —
“Another one,” Jason said.
“You hum when you clean guns,” Damian replied. “You think no one notices. You are incorrect.”
Jason froze.
“…You little creep.”
“Yes.”
That was real.
Probably.
Still, his hand stayed tight on the gun.
“Open the door, Todd,” Damian said sharply — then stopped himself. “Please.”
The second word landed heavier than the first.
Jason unlocked the door but didn’t open it immediately.
Then he did.
Robin stood in the hallway, mask on, posture tense, eyes scanning Jason’s face like he was cataloguing injuries he hadn’t yet earned the right to ask about.
He took one step inside —
Jason recoiled.
Not dramatically.
Just a sharp, involuntary backward jerk, like his body had made the decision before his brain could intervene.
Damian froze instantly.
Didn’t advance.
Didn’t speak.
Just stopped.
Jason’s chest tightened.
“I’m not—” he started, then stopped. “I’m not scared of you.”
Damian studied him for a long second.
Then, quietly: “You are scared.”
Jason exhaled. “Of faces.”
Damian blinked.
“…Explain.”
“He can shapeshift,” Jason said. “Which means anyone could be it.”
Damian’s jaw tightened.
“That is illogical,” he said automatically — then corrected himself. “That is… understandable.”
Jason snorted weakly.
“Bruce wants to come,” Damian added.
Jason stiffened instantly.
“No.”
“I told him not to,” Damian said. “He did not agree.”
Jason’s stomach dropped. “He’s coming.”
“No,” Damian said firmly. “He is furious. He is terrified. He is blaming himself. But he is not coming.”
Jason looked up sharply.
“…You stopped him?”
“Yes.”
“How.”
“I informed him that if he entered this apartment against your wishes, you would associate his presence with threat and it would worsen your condition.”
Jason stared.
“You said condition.”
“Yes.”
“…You’re being weirdly emotionally competent.”
“I am capable of growth,” Damian snapped. “Do not make this unpleasant.”
Jason almost smiled.
Almost.
Then his chest tightened again.
“Tell him I’m fine,” he said. “Tell him I’m busy. Tell him I’m asleep. Tell him—”
“Akhi.”
The word cut through him.
Not loud.
Not sharp.
Just… deliberate.
Jason froze.
Damian only used that when something mattered.
“You are not fine,” Damian said quietly. “You are not busy. You are not asleep. And you do not need to lie.”
Jason swallowed.
“…Akhi,” Damian added, softer.
Jason’s throat closed.
“Don’t,” he muttered.
“I will not force you to see him,” Damian said. “But I will not allow you to pretend this did not happen.”
Jason looked away.
Dick watched them both, silent.
“I don’t know who to trust,” Jason said finally. “I don’t know who’s real.”
Damian frowned. “I am real.”
“Prove it.”
Damian blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Prove it,” Jason repeated. “Say something only you’d say. Not facts. Not memories. Something… you.”
Damian considered.
Then, stiffly: “You are… tolerable. For a Todd.”
Jason snorted.
“That’s weak,” Dick said.
“I am not here to entertain you,” Damian snapped.
Jason laughed — short, breathless — and then immediately pressed a hand to his chest like the sound had surprised him.
Real.
Probably.
Still —
“Stay back,” Jason said quietly.
Damian nodded immediately and stopped moving.
Dick didn’t move either.
Neither of them tried to close the distance.
Neither of them told him he was safe.
They just… waited.
Which, somehow, felt safer than reassurance.
“I don’t want Bruce here,” Jason repeated. “I don’t want his face. I don’t his voice. I don’t want—”
He cut himself off, breath hitching.
Dick crouched slightly, lowering his height without getting closer. “Okay.”
Damian crossed his arms but stayed put. “Accepted.”
Jason stared at the floor.
His hands were shaking again.
Not as bad as before.
But bad enough.
Dick noticed.
He always did.
“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re doing that thing where your breath goes shallow.”
Jason exhaled sharply. “Don’t narrate me.”
“Sorry,” Dick said. “Habit.”
Jason sighed.
Silence stretched.
Then Dick said quietly, “You don’t have to trust us.”
Jason looked up.
“…What.”
“You don’t have to,” Dick repeated. “Not right now. Trust is a cognitive commitment. You’re in a physiological crisis. Different systems.”
Jason stared.
“That’s a lot of words.”
“Short version: you’re allowed to not know.”
Jason swallowed.
“…Then why are you here.”
“Because you don’t need trust to not be alone,” Dick said.
Damian nodded. “Presence does not require certainty.”
Jason looked between them.
Two figures in masks.
Two people who could, theoretically, be anyone.
And yet —
They weren’t moving.
They weren’t pressuring.
They weren’t touching.
They weren’t demanding reassurance.
They were just… staying.
“I hate this,” Jason muttered.
“Yes,” Damian said. “It is unpleasant.”
“Understatement.”
Dick smiled faintly. “You’re alive.”
Jason exhaled.
“Barely feels like a selling point.”
“It is,” Dick said softly.
Another stretch of quiet.
Jason’s breathing slowed.
Not calm.
But steadier.
He leaned back against the couch and let his head rest against the cushion, eyes closing for half a second before snapping open again — not asleep, just… checking.
Still alone.
Still not alone.
“I’m not blocking Bruce forever,” he said eventually. “Just for… right now.”
“That’s fine,” Dick said immediately.
“I will handle him,” Damian added.
Jason eyed him. “You already are.”
“Yes.”
“…Thanks.”
Damian looked away.
“Do not make this sentimental.”
Too late.
Jason exhaled and rubbed his face.
“I don’t know what that thing wanted,” he said. “I don’t know why it stopped.”
“Light,” Damian said. “It reacted to dawn.”
“Yeah.”
Jason glanced toward the curtained window.
“…I don’t like mornings now.”
Dick’s expression softened. “That tracks.”
Jason huffed. “Everything tracks with trauma.”
“Unfortunately,” Dick said.
Another pause.
Then, quietly, carefully —
“Little Wing.”
Jason's gaze flicked to Dick’s face.
Dick only used that when something mattered.
When Jason was hurt in ways that didn’t bleed.
When he needed grounding without pressure.
“Hey,” Dick said softly. “You’re here. You’re breathing. No one’s touching you. No one’s restraining you. You’re in your space.”
Jason’s chest tightened.
His eyes burned.
“Don’t,” he whispered.
“I know,” Dick said. “But I’m saying it anyway.”
Jason pressed his palms into his eyes.
Didn’t cry.
Didn’t sob.
Just… breathed harder for a few seconds.
Then steadier.
Then quieter.
Damian watched, jaw tight, expression unreadable.
When Jason finally lowered his hands, his voice was hoarse.
“…I don’t feel safe.”
“I know,” Dick said.
“I don’t know when I will.”
“I know.”
“But you’re staying.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not calling Bruce.”
“No.”
“And you’re not touching me.”
“Correct.”
“And you’re not lying.”
“Never about this.”
Jason stared at the wall.
“…Okay.”
Not fine.
Not healed.
Not resolved.
But —
Okay.
Damian shifted slightly. “You require medical assessment.”
Jason grimaced. “No hospitals.”
“I meant vitals,” Damian clarified. “Pulse. Oxygen saturation. Concussion screening.”
“…You brought a med kit.”
“Yes.”
Jason sighed. “Of course you did.”
Damian moved only when Jason nodded.
Slowly.
Carefully.
No sudden movements.
No reaching for his throat.
No crowding.
Jason let him check his pulse.
Let him shine a penlight briefly into his eyes.
Let him listen to his lungs.
Every touch felt like something he had to consciously permit.
Agency.
Damian noticed.
Adjusted.
“Your oxygen saturation is normal,” Damian said. “Your pulse is elevated. Expected.”
Jason shrugged. “My heart’s dramatic.”
“Yes,” Damian said. “It runs in the family.”
Jason snorted.
Then —
“Akhi.”
Jason looked up.
“You survived,” Damian said quietly. “That matters.”
Jason swallowed.
“…Akhi.”
Damian’s eyes softened — just barely.
Dick watched them both, something like relief settling into his shoulders.
The sky outside continued to brighten.
Jason didn’t look at it.
Not yet.
He stayed on the couch, flanked by two figures in masks, neither of whom tried to remove them, neither of whom tried to pretend that faces were safe or that fear was irrational.
They just stayed.
Which, somehow, was enough for now.