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“Please? Pretty please?”
Jason rolls his eyes, tightening the apron around his hips. “You know, I may be wealthy, but I don’t think I have thirty grand to spend on a new kitchen again, Steph.”
“I promise I’m not going to set anything on fire this time!” Stephanie says, hands joint in prayer, begging, “I’m not even going to touch the stove! Nor the oven!”
Jason cocks an eyebrow, arms crossed. “And if you do?”
“You can hang me upside down over a shark tank, or– do whatever it is that you do to criminals!” she says, eyes shut, fingers intertwined tightly. “Please!”
“I love how you constantly come up with new stuff you think I do,” Jason sighs, mildly amused, “Okay, fine. You’re on vegetable cutting duty– we’re making ratatouille, since Damian asked for it.”
“That’s– awfully nice of you.” Stephanie says, and she tries her best not to make it sound like an accusation, but it kind of is.
Jason scoffs. “Whatever. Now go wash those hands, lil’ demon’s going to be back in three hours, and I’m already behind schedule because of you.”
Stephanie beams, darting to the bathroom to thoroughly scrub her hands with soap and disinfectant, before reaching Jason again, who’s busy with the sauté already.
He glances up at her, then nods at the zucchini on the counter. “Start with those– make the slices thin, got it? Thin.”
“How thin?” she asks.
A shrug, “Thin. I don’t follow any recipe, just make them right.”
Stephanie scoffs, “So helpful, Jason, thanks.”
Then, she grabs the knife, positioning it near the zucchini before Jason grabs at her wrists, not tight, eyes squinting menacingly.
“What did I just say? I like this kitchen, including the countertop!” he growls, exasperated, “Did your parents not teach you that you need to use a cutting board?”
“You did not just mention my parents.” she gasps, a hand on her chest, purposefully dramatic, “Take it back.”
Jason chuckles, handing her the cutting board, “Hey, let me joke about shitty parents in peace. I earned it.”
She laughs, and he exhales, a tiny smile on his face. And so, they busy themselves with the preparations. At some point, Stephanie starts singing– and she knows that Jason won’t stop her.
Truth is, she’s not really that interested in cooking ratatouille, or anything at all. But Jason’s face has been dark for the past couple of days, and nobody has seen him on patrol for that time– so Stephanie’s decided to stay with him, to keep him company, grounded, in the present. And she knows that cooking soothes him.
Damian’s request for a ratatouille could be seen as a godsend, if not for the fact that it had also been a part of her plan– Stephanie herself was the one to ask Damian to collaborate with her, to pull Jason out of whatever hellish hole he’s been burying himself into, by isolating himself in his apartment.
Unsurprisingly, there had been no need to bribe the kid, who’d agreed with a simple “Whatever, Brown.” before grabbing his phone to text Jason. Unsurprisingly, yes, because everyone in the family knows for a fact that Damian would do pretty much anything for any of them if they’re in danger– and a lost Jason is, indubitably, a threat to himself.
So Stephanie sings, happily cutting the vegetables, hips waddling and occasionally bumping into Jason’s, who scoffs and shoos her away jokingly, not hard, not pushing her. Stephanie’s modestly proud of her plan, because it’s going well.
Jason’s smiling, and the eyes that supervise her doings are teal, calm.
That is– until she accidentally drops the knife, and instead of letting it fall on the kitchen rug, she tries to grab at it distractedly. The blade nicks at her palm, before she rapidly re-adjustes the grip to grab at the wooden handle.
“Stephanie!” Jason calls, holding her injured hand above her head, his free one scrambling to grab at a rag to wrap hers. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m sor–”
“If you drop a sharp object, you scoot away and let it fall.” he says, more on the angry side than scared, shaking his head, “Kids are taught this around the same time they’re taught not to run with scissors in their hands.”
She rolls her eyes, “Sorry, mom.”
He does the same, not answering her. A quick glance at Stephanie’s sliced up palm suggests that the cut’s actually superficial and clean, not even deep enough to scar.
Jason exhales, relieved, before his eyes move to her elbow, slick with the blood that’s trailing down the injury, and– dripping on the tiles steadily.
He stills, eyes wide.
“Hey, let go.” Stephanie calls, her tone somewhere between annoyed and apologetic, “Jas–”
But she stops, because Jason’s chest isn’t rising anymore.
He suddenly feels a wave of dizziness wash over him, eyes glued to the blood-stained white tiles. His heart races.
And he knows what’s happening, he knows where, or, when his brain is dragging him, but he can’t go there, he can’t let himself go there again, he–
“Jason,” Stephanie calls, voice purposefully level, “can you let my wrist go, please? Jay?”
His grip tightens slightly, then relents– hand slowly moving from Stephanie’s. Panic sets in as he tries to fight the memories.
Jason closes his eyes, taking deep breaths, trying to ground himself in the present moment, because he’s fine, he’s– at his place, in the kitchen, with Stephanie.
“S-Steph,” he whines, eyes open again, staring unblinking at the tiles, “pl’se.”
And– he’s not sure what he’s asking for.
“Jason, I’m fine, it’s just a cut, look– it’s stopped bleeding already.” Stephanie says, calm, holding up her hand. “See? All this blood is just– much ado about nothing, as Shakespeare said. You like Shakespeare, don’t you?”
Oh, Jason wishes he could actually raise his gaze, pry it from the tiles at his feet to see how the objectively shallow cut on Stephanie’s palm is nothing more than a faint, pink line now, and he wishes he could at least hint a small smile– but he can’t.
“Jason, take a deep breath. Feel your shirt, feel my hand.” she says, uninjured hand outstretched, but not touching him yet, waiting for Jason to grab at it if he wants to.
Nothing happens.
Stephanie watches in horror as Jason suddenly seems to freeze in place, eyes wide, unblinking, pupils blown, almost drowning the teal around– and it’s a relief, at least, that it’s teal that she sees, and not an angry shade of green.
“Jay?”
His body tenses up, eyes now fluttering, like he’s trying to focus on something that isn't there.
Stephanie shifts in place– she doesn’t reach for him, but doesn’t scoot farther either.
“Jason, you’re okay.” she says, firm. “You’re alright, Jay, I promise. It’s okay. We’re in your kitchen, safe and sound. The sun is up in the sky, see? It is, huh, May 16th, we’re at your place, in Crime Alley. You’re twenty-five.”
But still, he remains unresponsive, his gaze glazed over, lost.
And she really doesn’t want to leave him, not even to reach her own phone on the counter, but– she knows that, despite their bond, she can’t quite manage to pull Jason out of a flashback the same way Dick does.
Because of course, of course the only person that Jason lets close when he gets like this, is Dick– the only sibling who knew him before he’d died.
Surely, Stephanie could also call Barbara over, but she’s not sure if seeing her in a wheelchair, because of what the Joker has done to her, might help Jason snap out of it– if anything, Stephanie’s sure it’d push him deeper in the flashback.
She takes a deep breath, and slowly takes a step backwards, then another, moving towards the counter with deliberate, unequivocal movements.
Yet, Jason’s body starts to shake uncontrollably nonetheless, with hot tears welling up. He lets out a choked sob, Adam’s apple bobbing, breaths shallow.
“Jas–”
“No, n-no, please help me," Jason whispers, his voice barely above a whisper, and he sounds so– young.
He slowly brings his hands up to his hair, tugging at it, and lowers himself towards the ground– not fast, not hard, his knees barely making any sound as he kneels on the tiles, pupils fixed to the specks of blood on the tiles.
Stephanie feels her heart break as she watches Jason hunch over, his body shaking with sobs, unmistakably disconnected from reality.
And her supposition isn’t wrong.
Jason blinks, and– he’s there.
Sprawled on the floor, hands tied painfully behind his back, lays Robin, and oh God, there’s so much blood.
Thick, crimson, coppery, dripping steadily from his mouth and nose and ears and forehead and–
“Wow, that looked like it really hurt!”
Jason shakes, watching as the Joker grins before bringing the crowbar back down on Robin’s body, slamming into his ribs at full-force. They crack– Robin screams.
“Now, hang on. That looked like it hurt a lot more.”
Robin whimpers and writhes, his little body convulsing on the blood-stained tiles, kicking his bare feet, trying to catch his breath.
“So let's try and clear this up, okay, pumpkin?” the Joker calls, voice even, “What hurts more?”
He brings down the rusty crowbar again, slick with crimson– on Robin’s back.
“A?”
Another swing, on his side. Bile tickles at the back of Jason’s throat as Robin spasms and groans, lungs struggling to pump.
“Or B?”
The Joker laughs. Robin wails.
“Forehand?
More laughter. More wailing.
“Or backhand?”
Robin howls, airy– blood spills from his lips, choking him. He contorts on the floor as much as his shredded muscles and shattered bones allow him, thrashing, nerves like livewires.
Jason shakes in place, a hand weakly reaching out to Robin, who lies still, too still, and oh God, oh no, please, please move, please get up, please breathe–
“...son, Jason. You need to breathe, you’re alr...” a voice calls from the surface, but he can’t, Jason can’t–
“And, hey, please tell the big man I said, hello.”
Jason screams, curling on himself as the sound of the heavy metal door getting shut and locked makes the kid’s mashed bones rattle. And Robin still won’t move.
“Pl’se,” he calls, frantic, one arm wrapped tightly around his own torso, the other hand pouding against his skull, teeth gritted and grinding to dust, “J-Jason, Robin, pl’se, get– get up– p’lse– I can’t br-breathe, I can’t breathe, fuck, it h–”
“...screaming for the past ten minutes, he’s…”
There’s so much blood on the floor, grout lines drenched in coppery crimson.
“...give him antipsychotics, if he…”
It’s soaking his pants where he sits, and oh God, Robin, please, you have to– Jason, Jason, please get up.
“...hurting yourself, Jason, you’re okay, hey…”
“...touch you, okay? Little pinch…”
No, no, he doesn’t want to be touched, he needs to move, to help Robin, because he’s dying, little Robin is dying and he needs to save him, Jason needs to get him out of there, he has to–
“...okay, you’re okay, now, Jay. Take some deep breaths for me.”
He does.
Jason’s breathing slows, and his muscles begin to relax, and it all seems so– easy. A sense of peace settles over him, and a dull ache in his arm registers in his mind. He closes his eyes and allows himself to fully embrace the overconsuming tranquillity that overtakes his senses.
Robin is nowhere in sight.
“There you go,” someone– Dick, that’s Dick– says “you’re okay now, just keep breathing for us.”
Jason blinks– us?– and he sees Stephanie kneeling behind Dick, brows furrowed, a now-bandaged hand held tightly against her chest. She offers a weak smile.
And only then does Jason realise that he’s being held, cradled in Dick’s arms, his back against his brother’s torso, legs sprawled in front of him.
“D-Dick.” he calls, voice hoarse. He coughs, tasting copper. “Wha’ happ’n’d?”
The eldest grins, but his eyes don’t smile. “Don’t worry about it now, okay? Let’s just focus on breathing for a moment.”
A nod. A few minutes go by, and they all stay quiet, breathing.
Jason blinks, after a while, more coherent. And he’s experienced these episodes long enough to recognise them as such immediately after being brought back. His chest heaves.
“M’sorry. I c-can’t– control i’.” he whimpers, low.
“Don’t apologise.” Dick and Stephanie echo.
“You don’t have anything to apologise for.” Stephanie continues, placing her uninjured, gentle hand on Jason’s knee.
“It’s my fault, all of it,” she says, voice wet, “I’m so fucking sorry, Jason.”
A shake of the head. “S’fine, not th’ firs’ time.”
“But–”
“Steph,” Dick calls, calm, eyes kind, “don’t beat yourself up over this.”
Jason nods along in agreement.
“Now,” he says, gaze back to meet Jason’s, “do you think that you may get more upset?” Dick adds, apologetic, “I’m so sorry, but I really need to take a look at your forehead and then get you into bed.”
Jason lowers his gaze.
He’s not.
“Mhm,” he hums, shaky hands trying to push his body up before Dick’s hands grip at his elbows to help him up, “le’s go.”