Chapter Text
“Are you injured? Status report.”
Jason groaned, slamming his gloved hands over his helmet. He’d rather fucking shoot himself than tell Bruce his injuries. …He did need to catalogue his injuries though.
As discreetly as he could with the big bat staring straight at him, he patted himself down to check for injuries. His cuts on his left arm and thigh were bleeding heavily thanks to a few good punches reopening the wounds from the night before. Jason could feel the heaviness in his chest, and a sharp pain in his ribs. Ouch, one of them was definitely broken. He hissed sharply when he tried to put pressure on his left leg. Jason could see the edges of his ankle start to swell in protest of the probing he had done.
Shit.
Bruce sighed, clearly reading the stiff body language from Jason. He could see the way Jason stiffened slightly when placing weight on his left leg and his arm reflexively came up to his left ribs to cradle them. Dark stains littered his dark brown leather jacket and his gray cargo pants, and his eyes were turning a flashing green, a clear response to the pain he was in. His helmet was still firmly on his head, but Bruce could almost see through it, the way Jason’s face twisted in pain and his pupils widened as if to scream for help.
The expression was vibrant and the color of his skin tainted with blood was so real in his mind Bruce had to bite back a gag, knowing eerily well on where he had seen that expression before. Jason stared at his father, knowing all too well the fight Bruce was facing in his mind.
You slit my throat and watched the blood run down my neck. I can still taste the fear and betrayal on my tongue when I look at you.
Oh, Jason could only wonder what his life could’ve been like if he had a father who actually loved him.
Bruce had extended a hesitant hand towards Jason, stopping only a few inches before he could grasp the tattered jacket.
“You need medical attention, Jason.”
His words were firm and left no room for question, but the way his tone lingered when he said his name betrayed Bruce’s masked concern.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Jason rolled his eyes and turned his back towards his father. “I guess they really don’t call ya the ‘World’s Greatest Detective’ for nothing, huh?”
He was starting to feel a bit lightheaded to be honest. Jason risked a glance at his left thigh, and saw crimson had started to cascade in dark stains from his upper thigh to his knee. There was so much blood, Jason thought he was dying again. Dark shadows swirled around his vision, laughing and threatening to swallow him whole.
Jason swore, barely hearing his father take another step closer forward to him.
“Jaylad, please.”
Jason full bodied flinches, angrily swiveling to face Bruce before taking a stumbling step back.
“Stop– Don’t call me that!”
He couldn’t remember taking another breath or being caught by his father when he almost slammed into the hard concrete ground. The black cloth was softer than Jason remembered. When he was Robin, the fabric on Bruce’s cape felt more like leather, and was usually wrapped around him wherever the wind bristled his hair too hard or when his cheeks were so cold they turned a blistering red. He still remembered Bruce's fond smile whenever he cradled Jason under the cape, like a mother bird protecting her youth from harm’s way.
Bruce…
His arms went limp in his father’s arms, and Jason felt bad for making him take his entire body weight after a long night of patrol. But, he was so tired. The smell of expensive aftershave and cologne was noticeable on Bruce's clothes, no matter how much he saw Bruce try to rub the traces of Bruce Wayne off of Batman. Jason buried his nose deeper into the fabric, feeling the smell of sharp whiskey and musky wood settle deep into his body.
It hurts…
Jason felt the tough, expensive leather of the Batmobile underneath his weak body and the soft black cape over his figure. He could feel himself drifting off, away from reality and the sounds of Bruce and a mechanical voice speaking lured him to close his eyes.
Before he could surrender himself to a dreamless sleep, he saw in his blurry vision, Robin.
Mangled, bloody, and sobbing, Robin continued to cry out to Bruce, not knowing he couldn’t see him.
Save me, he begged, it hurts.
Jason closed his eyes, trying to will away the sobbing and the pained cries from the second Robin.
-
Jason woke up to the sight of a familiar ceiling and the hum of a machine running. Blearily, he turned his head slowly to see an IV machine hooked to his scarred arm, and a heart monitor slowly counting the number of times his heart had beat. The number was eerily low, which Jason expected. The Lazarus Pit had done some funky stuff to his body.
He might as well be dead at this point, because mentally and physically he was still in that coffin six feet underground with only the earth and as his friend.
“Hey.”
Jason moved his head to his left to see a tired Tim Drake with an oversized hoodie that had to be Dick’s and a phone in his hand.
Jason didn’t reply, instead choosing to stare in disbelief at the teenager.
An awkward silence filled the room.
“...You doing okay?”
Tim’s tentative question snapped Jason from his trance, instead redirecting his eyes to the ceiling above him once more. The medical room in the bat cave was always cold and if Jason shut his eyes he could hear his younger self walking down the halls, humming a nonsensical tune.
“Jason. I will call Damian here to wake you up for real if you don’t say anything.”
Jason sighed, hearing the familiar frustration directed towards him from, well, all bat family members at one point.
“I’m fine, Tim. Stop freaking out baby bird, I’m not dead yet.”
Tim stiffened at Jason’s last words, which sent a shock of annoyance through his body. Jesus, he knows he died once and that was traumatizing, but he was so over the worried gazes and unspoken words every time he went near his family.
“Just… stop. Don’t say that,” Tim mumbled, shoving the sleeves of his hoodie to cover his hands. “We barely see you and when we do, you say stuff like that.”
Tim’s thin lips sloped downwards and with the large hoodie, he seemed smaller than Jason remembered. There were bags under his eyes, likely from long nights trying to solve difficult cases. Jason knew he wasn’t the same fifteen year old he had made bleed, but he couldn’t stop seeing him with those tattered, neon clothes.
If he looked closely, there were still specks of blood beneath his fingernails, from all of the people he’s killed. God, if he could, he would take the pain away from all the people he’s hurt and use it to end himself for good.
For a moment, he was overcome by a strong, overwhelming grief of pain for Tim.
“Don’t worry about me baby bird,” Jason said solemnly. “S’not worth it anyways.”
Tim’s eyebrows quirked up, and that familiar analytical gaze traced over his features. Tim was always the smart one, the one who could rival Batman's title of “World’s Greatest Detective”. Jason was proud of him for distinguishing himself from Dick and his Robin, as there was nothing special to his Robin compared to the likes of the first either. Jason was the replacement Robin, one Batman picked up to mask his grief over losing Dick Grayson. Tim was the Robin who stepped up, and since his rampage upon Gotham years ago, he can see how valuable he really was.
Tim was Jason’s successor, not his replacement.
“Jason, I don’t– I got over the Titan Towers thing a long time ago.”
Tim’s fingers twisted the sleeves of the hoodie sharply, stretching and pulling at the worn green fabric. He opened his mouth and closed it, as if his mouth was moving faster than his brain.
Jason was getting an odd sense of deja vu, as if he had already gouged his heart out to another member of the family recently.
He blamed Dickhead for everything that was happening right now.
Jason wasn’t even that upset right now, just tired and a bit uncomfortable. It felt like there was an invisible force trying to push Jason out of the Manor, and back into the dirty, lonely, safe house.
Jesus, even the building was trying to tell him he doesn't belong.
Jason took a deep breath, remembering the warmth of Dick’s presence a few days before he had left for Metropolis.
You’re not selfish for getting a second chance.
Jason really, really wanted to believe in those words.
Before he could spiral into another depressive episode, Tim had finally gathered the words to speak.
“Jason… I know you still blame yourself for the incident, but I forgive you. I never hated you or wanted to replace you,” Tim’s eyes were starting to get glossy, his words rough as if they had been locked away for a long time. “I’m sorry I never told you directly. I thought you would’ve figured it out by now.”
Those tears flowed down the apples of his cheeks and curled around his jawline, making him look younger. His cloudy blue eyes stared at the bandages on his arms.
“Those scars, you hurt yourself over it right?”
Oh.
Jason stared at the bandages on his arms, remembering that night.
-
The day before Dick could leave for Metropolis, he ran the blade over his skin multiple times. He had sliced through the muted purple and brown scars and scratched the scabs of his healing wounds. Dark red slashes cried out in protest, erasing the memory of recovery.
Staring at the abuse on his skin, he couldn't stop thinking about how ugly and how much he deserved this pain. Again, he thought about the people he’s killed, the little boy he left behind, and the feathers covered with blood plucked from Tim’s unconscious body.
Jason felt nothing, but a sorrowful emptiness.
Is this how ghosts feel?
Will the pain ever stop?
The little boy stared at him and he could still taste the ashes of betrayal and felt the pain of his gaze when he had left him.
More blood spilled on his thighs, swirling with unspoken words and mixing with the poison of his self-hatred.
His phone was dead, he couldn't reach Dick right now. Dick was busy with his own life.
Jason felt shame for failing to follow his older brother’s words. But he also felt a sense of relief, and he was glad Dick didn't have to see this pitiful sight.
Tears pricked his eyes unexpectedly, as he choked on a harsh sob.
It’s all his fault.
He hurt everyone again.
They’re all dead.
-
Tim gently placed a hand over his injured arm, and Jason could feel the warmth of his alive body and the slight shake accompanying his slim fingers.
Jason was real, and he wasn’t a ghost. He was alive, and he hadn’t died from the Joker. Jason was twenty years old and not fifteen.
He was the Red Hood and not Robin anymore.
“Tim, I’m sorry,” Jason whispered, placing his hand over Tim’s. “I can’t forgive myself for hurting you. Hell, I thought,” Jason swallowed heavily, feeling the weight of fatigue and his injuries collapsed heavily on his body.
“I thought I killed you.”
Tim gave an audible sob before launching himself to wrap his arms around Jason. He gave out a hiss of pain as the weight of a young vigilante rested upon his broken body.
“Jason,” Tim cried for the pain that Jason carried. “I’m sorry I didn't say anything sooner. I saw the cigarettes in your old room after you came back. I saw the scars on you months ago and I was so scared.”
Jason took advantage of his bigger build and wrapped his arms around Tim, the same way Dick had done for him before. His smaller body fit nicely against his chest, and Jason felt the sudden urge to never let him go.
“I–I– wanted to take my razor and–”
Jason’s heart dropped.
“Tim. Listen to me. Please, never ever hurt yourself. It’s addictive, you’ll do it all the time, and–and I can’t see you getting hurt ever again.”
Jason squeezed his eyes shut, listening to the broken cries of his little brother.
“I’m sorry.”
Jason didn't know whether those words had come out of his mouth or Tim’s.
For a moment, the silent room was filled with the desperate sobs of a devastated younger brother and the quiet tears from a boy who had once thought he was a ghost.
Once the tears had begun to dissolve and Tim’s sobs turned into sad sighs, Jason loosened the grip around his brother and wiped the remaining tear tracks from his pale cheeks.
“We… are really fucked up.” Tim giggled wetly, when Jason had given him a half smile.
“S’ all right to be fucked up Tim. We got it from Bruce after all.”
Jason rubbed his little brother’s arms reassuringly, silently communicating his affection for him.
Tim smiled.
“Jason, you were always my favorite Robin.”
What?
Jason’s eyebrows flitted up in disbelief, watching as the baby bird sat up from his chest and missing the warmth of his touch.
“We should talk, for real, about all of this. Tomorrow.” Tim stood, shoving his phone in his pocket. “I think you should get some rest first.”
“Wait– Tim–”
“Bye, Jason.”
The little gremlin smirked, looking way too smug after dropping that bomb on Jason and dashed away.
Jason sighed, feigning annoyance but couldn't hide the fond smile that crawled up his face.
Next to him, Robin had stared at him, blood dripping down his eyes.
He’s lying to you, he whispered, grabbing his shoulders. He would never choose you after what you’ve done to him.
Jason gazed at his younger self, wondering why he’s never tried to talk to him before.
“Robin,” Jason mumbled, "Don't you think it’s time we try?”
Robin flinched away from Jason, mouth opening wide with shock.
“Tim never lies, you know that,” Jason began to heave himself from the bed, ripping the IV needle from his skin. “Right?”
Jason glanced in Robin’s direction, not surprised when the ghost had vanished as soon as he started to speak to him.
He sighed, gathering the pile of clothes at the end of his bed.
A red hoodie and black sweatpants he had left in the cave for emergencies was delicately folded in typical Alfred fashion. Jason pulled on the clothes and ripped the heart monitor from his body, hearing the frantic cries of the machine as it began to flatline.
Tim would be mad he wasn't resting, but they would talk about it later.
Jason was starting to feel trapped in that room with Robin.
As Jason shoved the hoodie over his head, before his back tensed, feeling a set of eyes on him. He turned to face a set of suspiciously cat shaped green eyes.
“Todd.”
“Damian?”
The youngest of the family and Bruce's blood son stood in front of him, arms crossed in a defensive manner. He had his trademark scowl, but failed to look intimidating due to the soft blue sweater and gray pajama pants he had on.
His hair was mussed from sleep, the pitch-black locks floating all around his head.
“Shouldn’t you be asleep baby bird? A bit past your bedtime.”
Damian frowned harder, watching as Jason tried to limp past him.
“I heard your conversation with Drake.”
Aw, fuck.
Jason groaned, closing his eyes and raising his head up towards the ceiling in defeat. This family is truly a work of art.
“Nice of you to eavesdrop, but not really. I can’t really deal with another one of these things right now, birdie. Save it for tomorrow?" Jason waved him off, but Damian had grabbed his hand.
“Todd. You are not a ghost. We all love you.” Despite Damian’s confident words, he flushed in embarrassment, not used to his feelings being so directly stated.
Jason stopped and truly looked at his little brother. He saw the small scars from his training with Talia and the slight edge in his green eyes that didn’t fit the typical innocence of a thirteen year old. His hands were covered in callouses that radiated danger and experience, and if Jason could see the resemblance ofBruce in his features.
He was around the age of when I died, Jason thought, But he looks so young.
It took a second to process the words Damian had said, and an embarrassing amount of warmth filled Jason’s chest, outweighing the pain from his ribs and his cuts.
A genuine, full lipped smile covered Jason’s face.
“Thanks, baby bird,” His voice was soft and fond around the edges as Jason nestled his fingers into Damian’s messy hair. “That means a lot.”
Damian made a noise of surprise before shaking his hand off of his head.
“Whatever. I’m going back to sleep. Good night.”
And just as quickly as he appeared, Damian was gone.
It was late after all, around three o’clock in the morning.
Jason ventured out towards the stairs up to the manor, slowly making his way up the spiraling stairs with his injured ankle. He knew that Alfred would scold him for doing so, but he just couldn’t stay down there. That room reminded him of death.
Jason hated the quiet beeps of the monitor and the sterile smell of alcohol, a familiar reminder of injuries and pain that he was so desperately trying to run from. His feet padded across the dark hallways, watching how the walls and furniture he had remembered so fondly before was rearranged and redecorated.
The manor was no longer his home, and she had changed much like he did over the years.
He remembered he had a secret stash of snacks hidden in the corner of the living room, which was gone when he walked past it. He remembered the wallpaper used to be yellow around the edges, old due to age. The walls were instead covered in fresh, pristine brown detailing, erasing history and his nostalgic memories of the manor. Jason walked, following his younger self walking down the exact path to his favorite place in the manor.
Jason watched as the boy happily marched towards his predetermined path, grinning when he saw his favorite painting in the hallway and closing the door to the bathroom, one of Alfred’s pet peeves.
When the boy opened a set of large, wooden doors and disappeared behind it, Jason followed.
His ankle was aching and his eyes kept drifting shut, but he was never more awake.
Because he was in the Wayne’s Manor Library.
Dark wood shelves of books covered the walls and created aisles of ancient paper in the room. It was a lot smaller than he remembered, as Jason traced the higher shelves he used to struggle to reach.
Pieces of papers were sticking out of the covers of some books, evidently used by Bruce for some of his cases. Other books had dark cracked spines, holding memories from before Jason had ever come to this Earth. A thin layer of dust had settled across the entire library, as if it were frozen in time.
It was one of the only places that Bruce hadn’t renovated since his death.
Jason followed the sound of footsteps, deep into the layers of books, to find a small nook with a worn leather chair. A small stack of classic books had been stacked next to it, and a patch of nightlight from an overhead window had grazed across the weary, hazel leather.
He walked slowly, and sat on the chair, watching the puff of dust be disturbed.
Jason looked at the books placed next to the chair.
A well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice sat innocently close to him.
His hands shook as he picked up the book, tracing the same lines on the spine he had remembered placing and feeling the edges of the yellowing paper form crisp lines across his fingertips. Dog eared pages still remained, unaware of when its owner would come back to finish the sections bookmarked.
Jason started to cry.
He cried for the first time, for himself. He cried for the pain he had felt when Bruce slit his throat, when the Joker had continued to beat him while his mother watched in horror, the betrayal when his father wouldn’t be coming to save him.
Sobs rang out because for a long time he had thought his older brother had hated him. He cried and cried because he still remembers the taste of tobacco and his swollen eyes on bad nights when his family had fought.
Tears flowed because he had caused Tim pain, and the sadness in his eyes when he admitted to picking up the razor, much too close to his skin.
He remembered the concern in Damian’s eyes, his favorite chocolate chip cookies from Alfred, and Bruce’s cologne.
For a long time, Jason sat in his old chair, crying for the boy that died alone in Ethiopia, and the man who had grown up thinking that his family didn’t love him.
When sleep had bid him hello, she caressed his cheeks and wrapped her arms tight around him. The embrace was lulling and she promised him a dreamless night.
Before he drifted off, he heard the quiet shuffling of footsteps and felt the heaviness of a blanket being gently placed over him.
“Good night, Master Jason.”
Jason fell asleep with the brilliant stars and the swirling night sky watching him.