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i. when the time for sleep is through
It’s foggy, at first. Like someone else’s memories, peeking through a dream, a dull haze. Snatches of conversation - Jason, Jason, Jason - a thick, choking heat on his skin, a distant thwang that has him flinching, unwavering darkness.
He catches Tim grab the newspaper before he can spot it; Dick smile, too sharp, too warm, like he’s seeing another ghost; Bruce stare and stare when he thinks Jason isn’t looking, like he’s afraid of losing what he’d never had in the first place, turning off the TV when he hears Jason’s footsteps, stuttering; and Alfred, baking meal after meal, warm and hot in Jason’s hands, holding onto warmth that keeps disappearing.
They think he doesn’t know, he knows. But he does, even if the words don’t come, even if all he can muster up some days is the darkness of his room, the silence of his own breaths. They think he doesn’t know, because he smiles at Tim, at his computer, and Tim startles like he can’t quite believe it. Because the words twine their way around his tongue and don’t push their way past it. Because he can’t remember.
Not really. Not truly.
But he does. Of course, he does.
ii. in the wind that remakes
Joker released: Gotham in chaos!
Jason stares at the newspaper.
“You don’t need to be looking at that, chum,” Bruce says, slow, quiet. “You don’t need to worry about it.”
You don’t need to worry. How many times has Jason heard that, these last few months? Something rises in his throat, acidic, charred ash. The back of his head thrums. That sickly green, that bitter laugh, the clang of -
Something. Something, he knows. That ache, strike after strike. That burn in his gut, hatred, loathing.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
He knows -
He knows.
There’s something to it. There’s something they’re hiding from him. He just can't place what. The newspaper - the TV - that gnarled laughter - that heavy press against his bones, grinding–
Jason walks over to the computer. He shouldn't do this, maybe. Look up a past he's long since forgotten. Unbury memories that are supposed to be dead. But he unlocks it. He's seen Tim do it, often enough. Opens a private tab. Searches.
Joker
Joker Robin
Robin dead
Jason Todd Bruce Wayne
Jason Todd Killed in Accident! The first article blares, and Jason slams the computer shut.
–
His head feels fuzzy. He lies on his bed, stares at the ceiling. He knows he was - dead, before. Knows he woke up. But now, now–
It explains the pain, a distant part of him thinks. Burning, aching, unending. The scars. The mottled bruises. Breath catching in his lungs. The Joker killed him. He closes his ears, covers his eyes, but he still hears that laugh, the dull thwack of the crowbar hitting flesh, crunching bone, that suffocation, that stark coldness–
The Joker killed him, and now he's out again. Now he can kill again.
And Bruce didn't even–
iii. leave your shadow hollow
He knows it's not fair. Maybe. But life hasn't been fair to him, either, has it? The Joker killed him, and Bruce did nothing. And Jason knows - knows - that Bruce doesn't kill, that Bruce looked the man who killed his parents in the eye and did nothing, but–
Well. Jason thought he was special. Jason thought he was something of a son.
He was wrong.
–
“You good? Jason?” Tim says, later. He's back from school.
No, Jason thinks, but the word doesn't come, catching in his throat.
Tim frowns. “What's wrong? Is it the–”
“No,” Jason says. The word falls from his lips, odd, choked, half-hoarse.
Tim blinks. “Um,” he says, slowly. “Okay. But something is wrong, right?”
Jason shrugs. His gut burns. Yes. Bruce failed me. He can't say that, though. Not to Tim, whose eyes light up whenever Bruce pats his shoulder.
“Well, alright. If you want to talk…” Tim lets his words hang in the air, awkward. Jason knows he doesn't mean it. He has friends, and Robin, and parents, and Jason has nothing.
Just a father who betrayed him.
–
“Hey.” Tim, again. After dinner. “Got you some…” he waves a chocolate bar. “They were giving them out at the bus stop today.”
Come to babysit me? Jason thinks, bitter, then pushes the thought away. Tim's young; it's not his fault. Jason knows that much, at least. Even if he is - stupidly, stupidly - Robin.
Jason nods, takes it. Tim sits on his bed. He looks small, like this, all quiet.
“Dick said you might have remembered something.” Tim's voice is clear as glass when he speaks. He looks up, into Jason's eyes, implacable. “Have you?”
Jason's breath freezes in his chest. He swallows.
“Your behaviour is congruent with someone who's recovered memories,” Tim continues. “And I saw what you looked up. It's private, not…well, anyway. What did you remember? Is it…was it…” he stumbles over his words. There's something like hope in his eyes.
Dying, Jason thinks. I remember dying. But how can he say it, when his throat feels like stone?
He takes a bite of the chocolate bar. It's sweet.
“Are you gonna…” Tim straightens, like he's steeling himself. “Do you want Robin back?”
A puff of breath leaves Jason's lips. Want Robin back? When it killed him? He shakes his head, no.
“Oh.” Tim seems to deflate. “Okay.”
Jason clears his throat. Tim stares, expectant. Jason resists the urge to rub at his neck. “I…um. Died. The Joker…” Jason doesn't know what he wants to say next. Even this feels like rocks tumbling from his lips, scratching his insides. “Killed me,” he says, finally. “Bruce didn't…he didn't…” Jason's voice cracks.
“He was in bad shape,” Tim says, even, measured. “Beating people almost to death, excessive force…he wasn't himself. He wasn't what Batman is supposed to be. I tried to talk Dick back into being Robin, and when that didn't work, I volunteered.”
I volunteered.
“He was upset because of…he blamed himself for what happened to you. He was grieving. But he was tearing himself up in the process.”
Jason swallows. Sure, Bruce was upset, but he didn't – he never–
“He loves you. You're his family.” Tim states it plain, like a fact.
If he loved Jason, how could he let the Joker kill him and do nothing?
iv.spit the bones from your teeth
Bruce notices. Of course, Bruce notices.
“Are you alright, Jason?” He says, over breakfast.
Jason shrugs. He thinks he sees Alfred mouth a, teenagers, sir, and ignores the sting in his chest, the boil in his gut. He killed me, he thinks, over and over.
Bruce turns on the TV, after. “Want to come watch, chum? It's one of those Victorian documentaries you like.”
Jason sits on the couch and stews. The edges of his mind are tired, clanging, aching.
“He killed me,” he says, in the middle of some diatribe about Victorian upholstery, and Bruce turns and stares, face pale.
“Jason?” Bruce says, and it sounds like disbelief.
Something crests in Jason's chest, terrible and hot. “He killed me,” he says, again, and Bruce's eyes look tortured but he's not looking at Bruce's eyes, just the grey of his jumper. “He killed me, and you – you–” his voice cracks.
Bruce surges forward, wraps Jason in a hug. It's warmer than Jason remembers. His cheeks are wet, pressed against Bruce's jumper. His chest aches, dull and fierce, like someone's hammered at his ribs. “I'm sorry,” Bruce says. “I'm sorry, son.”
Jason presses his cheek into the warmth of Bruce's chest. I'm sorry, son. Just a little longer, he tells himself. The anger's still there - the hurt, the betrayal - a stone in his stomach, clawing at his heart, but for now, for now–
His Dad is apologising. His Dad is hugging him. And maybe things will be okay, this time around.