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Jason felt like he was being held together by warmth.
Not heat—warmth. Soft and weightless, like the inside of a memory that had been rubbed smooth at the edges. He floated in it, heavy-limbed, boneless, the kind of comfort that didn’t ask anything of him. For once, nothing hurt. No scars pulled. No phantom ache bloomed in his chest. He thought, dimly, that if this was dying again, he wouldn’t mind it so much.
Then he heard humming.
The sound slipped through the fog gently, tuneless but familiar, a low, wavering melody that didn’t quite exist anymore. It wasn’t clean or perfect. It cracked on the higher notes. It was tired.
Jason’s breath hitched.
He knew that hum.
His eyes fluttered open.
The world resolved itself in pieces, like a badly stitched photograph. White tile—no, not white, once-white—yellowed and cracked, spiderwebbed with grime. A sink with rust crawling down its porcelain like dried blood. A toilet with no seat, the lid leaning drunkenly against the wall. A mirror so fractured it reflected him in shards.
And sitting on the floor, knees folded beneath her, was his mother.
Catherine Todd.
She was real in the way dreams sometimes are—too solid, too specific. Her hands were in his hair, fingers combing through the curls slowly, repetitively, like she was afraid to stop. Jason realized, distantly, that his head was resting in her lap. That was the cloud. That was the warmth.
Catherine was crying.
Not loud sobs. Quiet ones. Tears slid down her cheeks and dripped onto the fabric of her skirt, darkening it in uneven spots. Her shoulders trembled as she hummed, the sound breaking every few seconds as she tried to breathe around it.
Jason’s chest tightened painfully.
“Mom?” His voice came out rough, scraped raw like he’d been screaming for hours. “Hey—hey, don’t cry. I’m okay. I’m right here.”
He tried to lift a hand, to wipe at her face, but his body felt wrong. Heavy. Delayed. When his fingers finally brushed her sleeve, they sank into the fabric like it was soaked through with water.
Catherine startled.
Her humming faltered and stopped. She looked down at him, eyes wide and red-rimmed, like she hadn’t expected him to speak. Like she hadn’t expected him.
“Jason?” she said uncertainly. She said his name the way someone might say a word they were afraid to pronounce wrong.
Relief flooded her expression a second later—too fast, too forced, like a mask snapping into place.
“Oh,” she murmured, smoothing his hair again. “Yes. Yes, of course. You’re awake.”
Jason frowned. Something prickled at the back of his mind, sharp and wrong, but it slid away before he could grab it.
“You okay?” he asked again. His thumb brushed her knuckles. They were cold. Too cold. “You don’t have to cry. I’m not… I’m not going anywhere.”
Catherine laughed softly at that, a broken sound. “You always say that.”
She wiped at her cheeks with the heel of her hand, smearing tears instead of clearing them. Her gaze kept flicking away from his face, darting to the corners of the bathroom like she was expecting something to crawl out of the shadows. The light overhead buzzed faintly, flickering just enough to make her seem like she was phasing in and out of focus.
“You called me… Mom,” she said slowly.
Jason’s heart stuttered.
“…Yeah?” he said, confusion creeping in now. “That’s— that’s what I call you.”
Catherine hesitated.
For one terrible second, her face went blank. Empty. Like she’d forgotten her lines.
Then she smiled.
It was a gentle smile. A practiced one. The kind she used when she was trying to make him feel safe even when she wasn’t.
“Right,” she said softly. “Yes. Mom.”
She said it like she was borrowing the word.
Jason swallowed. His throat felt tight, like it did when he was six and the power went out and the apartment filled with shadows. He shifted slightly, pressing closer without really meaning to, anchoring himself to the familiar weight of her lap.
“This place sucks,” he muttered, glancing around the filthy bathroom. A cracked tile near the sink was slowly dripping water, each drop echoing too loudly in the small space. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s gross.”
Catherine followed his gaze, and for a moment her expression twisted with something like guilt.
“It’s quiet here,” she said. “No one’s looking.”
Jason snorted weakly. “Figures.”
He closed his eyes for a second, just breathing. The hum of the light. The drip of water. The steady rise and fall of her chest above him. It all felt warped, like the world had been folded in on itself, but he didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to wake up somewhere colder.
When he opened his eyes again, Catherine was watching him closely.
“You’re so grown,” she whispered, like the words hurt. Her fingers traced the faint scar near his temple, reverent. “I blinked and you were… like this.”
Jason’s mouth tilted into a half-smile. “Guess I didn’t stay little forever, huh?”
Her eyes filled again.
“I tried,” she said, voice shaking. “I tried to keep you safe.”
Jason’s breath caught. Old, familiar anger stirred—hot and reflexive—but it tangled with something softer, heavier.
“I know,” he said immediately. Fiercely. “I know you did.”
He meant it. Even now. Especially now.
Catherine bent forward, resting her forehead lightly against his. Her tears dropped onto his face, warm and real, and Jason didn’t pull away. He stayed still, grounding her the only way he knew how.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, over and over, like a mantra. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. You’re not alone.”
The bathroom seemed to tilt around them, the walls breathing in and out, the mirror fractures catching impossible reflections—Jason younger, Jason broken, Jason bleeding out on cold concrete—but Catherine stayed solid.
She kept humming again, quieter this time, her hand never leaving his hair.
Jason let his eyes close.
If this was a dream, it was a cruel one.
If it wasn’t… he didn’t want to know.
For now, he stayed exactly where he was—head in his mother’s lap, listening to her heartbeat, holding onto the fragile, distorted comfort like it was the last good thing left in the world.
Time didn’t move right in the bathroom.
It stretched and sagged, pooling in the corners where the grime was thickest. The buzzing light never burned out, never steadied. The drip from the cracked pipe never finished falling. Jason had the vague sense that hours were passing because Catherine kept talking—because her voice grew hoarser, because his body sank deeper into the floor beneath him—but the idea of when felt slippery, untrustworthy.
Catherine chatted the way people do when silence scares them.
She talked about nothing and everything. About the price of bread going up. About a neighbor who used to sing too loudly through the walls. About a bus route that had changed years ago. Some of it Jason remembered. Some of it felt… off. Like she was mixing memories together, stitching them into a shape that almost made sense.
All the while, her eyes kept flicking toward the bathroom door.
Jason noticed it after the third time.
At first, he told himself it was nothing. Old habits. Nervousness. But Catherine’s attention snagged there again and again, her voice faltering mid-sentence before she smoothed it over with a smile and kept talking.
Jason’s jaw tightened.
“Mom,” he said quietly, tilting his head just enough to look up at her. “Who’re you waiting for?”
Her fingers stilled in his hair.
The silence that followed was thick, wrong. Even the light seemed to buzz louder, as if filling the gap.
Catherine looked down at him, eyes wide with something like alarm.
“Oh,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “No one.”
Jason searched her face, every instinct he’d ever sharpened screaming at him. He knew that look. He’d known it as a kid, watching her flinch at knocks on the door, watching her count money with shaking hands.
“You sure?” he asked gently. “’Cause if it’s—if it’s one of your dealers, you don’t gotta—”
“No.” Her voice cracked like a whip.
She cupped his face suddenly, hands trembling as they framed his cheeks. Her thumbs brushed beneath his eyes, wiping at nothing.
“No,” she repeated, softer now. “Not that. Never that. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Jason froze.
Her expression smoothed, the panic draining away as if it had never been there. She smiled down at him, all sweetness and reassurance, like she’d reached for the right mask this time.
“I’m not waiting for anyone who’d hurt us,” she said. “You’re safe. I promise.”
Safe.
The word echoed hollowly in his head.
Jason swallowed and nodded. “Okay,” he said, because arguing felt pointless. Because she looked like she needed him to believe it.
Her hands returned to his hair, resuming their slow, repetitive motion. The tension in his chest eased—just a fraction.
“Hey,” she said after a while, voice brightening. “Did I ever tell you about the time you tried to steal a tire off that old Buick down the street?”
Jason huffed. “You mean the time I successfully stole a tire until the guy chased me halfway down the block?”
She laughed—a real laugh this time, light and surprised. “You were so small. I thought they were going to catch you.”
“They didn’t,” Jason said smugly. “I was fast.”
“You tripped over your own feet.”
“I recovered.”
She shook her head fondly and started telling the story anyway, embellishing it with details he didn’t remember—him grinning wider, the sun brighter, her voice steadier than it had ever been back then. Jason listened, half-amused, half-dazed, the rhythm of her words lulling him.
His eyelids grew heavy.
The warmth returned, thick and comforting. The edges of the bathroom blurred, the cracked tiles melting into something softer. Jason let himself drift, muscles loosening for the first time in… he didn’t know how long.
Just as sleep began to take him, Catherine’s grip tightened.
“Jason.”
His eyes snapped open with a jolt.
“What—?” His heart thudded painfully. “What’s wrong?”
“Stay with me,” she said urgently. Her face hovered too close, eyes searching his like she was afraid he’d disappear if she blinked. “Don’t go to sleep yet.”
Jason frowned, confusion cutting through the haze. “I’m not going anywhere. I was just—”
“Please,” she whispered.
He hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Okay. I’m awake.”
Her shoulders sagged with relief. She brushed his hair back again, slower now, as if steadying herself.
“Sorry,” she murmured. “I just… I thought of another story.”
She launched into one without waiting for his answer. This one was about his first day of school. About how he’d come home furious, insisting the teacher was wrong about a math problem. About how she’d watched him explain it, hands waving, eyes bright with conviction.
“You were so sure,” she said softly. “I remember thinking—God, he’s going to be something.”
Jason’s throat tightened.
“Guess I showed you,” he muttered.
Catherine didn’t respond to that. She just kept talking.
Again, his eyelids drooped. Again, the world softened around the edges. His breathing slowed, deepened.
Again, she shook him awake.
“Jason.”
This time, irritation flickered through the confusion. “Mom,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Why won’t you let me sleep?”
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
She looked away, gaze snapping back to the bathroom door. The hum of the light grew louder, harsher. For a moment, her reflection in the broken mirror looked wrong—stretched, doubled, like it didn’t line up with her movements.
“I just need you to listen,” she said finally, not meeting his eyes.
“That’s not an answer,” Jason said quietly.
Her fingers clenched in his hair—not painful, but desperate.
“Please,” she said again.
Jason studied her face. The fear there wasn’t for herself. It never was. It was sharp and singular and aimed entirely at him.
“If I fall asleep,” he said slowly, “am I not supposed to wake up?”
Catherine flinched as if struck.
“No,” she said too fast. “No, no, no. Don’t say that.”
“Then why—”
She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. Her hand shook.
“Just stay,” she whispered. “Just a little longer.”
Jason exhaled through his nose, a familiar ache settling into his chest. He nodded, because he always did. Because even now, even here, he knew how to be the steady one.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m here.”
Catherine smiled at him—fragile, grateful—and began another story.
Jason listened.
He stayed awake.
And every time sleep crept closer, he felt her tense, felt her pull him back, as if the moment he let go, something terrible would finally be allowed to happen.
The taste crept in slowly.
At first Jason thought it was just another wrong detail—another thing the dream had decided to get backwards. Sweetness bloomed on his tongue, artificial and syrupy, unmistakably grape. It coated the back of his throat, thick and cloying, the kind of flavor that didn’t belong in a filthy bathroom that smelled like rust and mold.
He swallowed.
The taste didn’t go away.
It intensified, spreading through his mouth until it was all he could focus on. Grape. Like cough syrup. Like children’s medicine. Like something meant to make pain easier to swallow.
Jason frowned faintly. His head felt heavier in Catherine’s lap, his thoughts dragging like they were moving through syrup too.
“That’s… weird,” he muttered. His voice sounded far away, like it had bounced off the cracked tiles a few times before reaching his ears. “Why do I taste—”
He stopped.
Catherine’s voice wasn’t with him anymore.
She was talking—but not to him.
Jason’s eyes shifted, slow and unfocused, and that’s when he noticed the phone in her hand.
Black. Old. Scuffed at the edges.
Had it been there before?
His pulse kicked up, sharp despite the fog. He couldn’t remember her picking it up. Couldn’t remember hearing it ring. One moment she’d been smoothing his hair, telling him about a summer that might never have existed, and the next—
“Yes,” Catherine was saying quietly. “He’s awake. He’s been awake.”
She turned slightly away from him, angling her body so the phone was pressed between her shoulder and ear. One hand remained in Jason’s hair, fingers combing through automatically, like she was afraid to let go even for a second.
Jason tried to lift his head. His neck barely responded.
“Mom?” he asked. The word felt thick on his tongue. Sticky. “Who’re you talking to?”
She didn’t answer him right away.
Her eyes flicked down to his face, sharp and assessing now, no trace of the scattered softness from before. She studied him the way she used to when he was sick—counting breaths, watching color, cataloging every little change.
“Jason,” she said gently, directly to him now. “Does anything hurt?”
He blinked at her. The question seemed important. It took effort to sort through his body.
“Not really,” he said after a moment. “Just… tired. Kinda floaty.”
Her jaw tightened.
She turned back to the phone. “He says he’s not in pain,” she reported, voice carefully steady. “No, no trouble breathing. He’s responsive. Yes. Yes, I understand.”
Jason’s heart started to pound.
“Mom,” he said again, more urgently. “What’s going on?”
Catherine lifted a finger toward him—not shushing this time. Asking for patience. Asking him to wait.
“Just a second, sweetheart,” she murmured.
Sweetheart.
She hadn’t called him that in years.
“Yes,” she continued into the phone. “I didn’t let him sleep. I know. I know that was the right thing. I just—he kept trying.”
She swallowed hard.
“I’m right here with him.”
The bathroom seemed to tilt.
Jason stared up at her face, trying to line it up with the pieces in his head. The humming light buzzed louder. The mirror fractured her reflection into a dozen worried Catherines, all watching him with the same fear.
The grape taste grew stronger.
Something cold settled in his stomach.
Catherine finally pulled the phone away from her ear. She looked at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen, then pressed something and slid it out of sight—into her pocket, or maybe into nothing at all. Jason couldn’t quite track where it went.
When she looked back down at him, her full attention locked onto his face.
“There,” she said softly. “All done.”
Jason licked his lips. “You said I wasn’t waiting for anyone.”
Her smile trembled at the edges.
“I didn’t lie,” she said. “Not the way you meant.”
She brushed his hair back from his forehead, her touch tender, reverent. Like she was memorizing him.
“Mom,” Jason whispered. His chest felt tight now—not pain, exactly, but pressure. Like something heavy was resting on him from the inside. “Why do I taste medicine?”
Catherine’s eyes shone.
“It helps,” she said. “That’s all. It helps when things hurt too much.”
“I said I wasn’t in pain.”
“I know.” Her voice cracked, just a little. “I know.”
Jason’s thoughts tangled. He tried to piece it together—dirty bathroom, her not letting him sleep, the stories, the phone call, the sweetness flooding his mouth. Old instincts flared, sluggish but insistent.
“Am I dying?” he asked quietly.
Catherine sucked in a sharp breath.
“No,” she said immediately, leaning closer. “No. Don’t think like that.”
“Then why—”
“Because I couldn’t lose you again,” she whispered.
The words landed heavy and wrong.
Jason stared at her, something cold and awful blooming behind his ribs. “Again?”
Her composure finally fractured.
Tears spilled down her cheeks, dropping onto his face, mixing with the sweetness on his lips. She pressed her forehead to his, just like before, her breath shuddering.
“I tried to keep you awake,” she said. “I did everything right this time. I watched you. I listened. I didn’t look away.”
Jason’s breathing grew shallow. The bathroom felt farther away now, like it was receding from him. The buzzing light dimmed, then flared.
“Mom,” he said weakly. “I’m really tired.”
Her hands tightened in his hair, desperate but gentle.
“I know,” she whispered. “I know, baby.”
He tried to fight it. Tried to cling to the sound of her voice, to the weight of her lap beneath his head. But the warmth was changing now—no longer cloudlike, but sinking, pulling him down into something soft and endless.
Catherine cupped his face, forcing him to look at her.
“Stay with me just a little longer,” she begged. “They’re coming. I promise.”
Jason’s eyelids fluttered.
“Who’s coming?” he murmured.
Her smile was broken and beautiful and full of grief.
“Help,” she said.
The last thing Jason felt clearly was her hand smoothing his hair, over and over, as the grape sweetness overwhelmed everything else—and the world, finally, began to slip away.
Jason didn’t wake up.
Not really.
Sound came first—leaking in around the edges of nothing. Muffled voices, overlapping, kept deliberately low. Whispers. The cadence was careful, controlled, like people afraid of being overheard by something fragile. The noise pulsed in and out, riding the slow rhythm of his breathing.
“…he’s still out.” “…heart rate’s steady.” “…should’ve killed him.”
That last one snagged on something in his chest, but even that felt distant, dulled, like it had to travel through water to reach him.
Then came touch.
Unpleasant, immediately. Jason became aware of pressure beneath his back—too firm, too flat. Not Catherine’s lap. Not warm. A thin mattress, maybe. Plastic-coated. It stuck slightly to his skin when he shifted, like it didn’t want to let go.
His stomach churned.
A sour, hollow nausea rolled through him, sharp enough to make him groan. His throat burned, raw and acidic, and his tongue felt thick and dry. The taste of grape was gone, replaced by something bitter and medical. He had the distinct, awful sensation that he’d already been sick—that whatever was in his stomach had come back up at least once.
His hand twitched.
Something tugged at his wrist.
Jason frowned, or tried to. His face felt stiff, uncooperative, like it belonged to someone else.
Sight came last.
It hurt.
Light stabbed behind his eyelids, white and merciless. He squeezed his eyes shut reflexively, a low sound of pain slipping out of him before he could stop it. His lashes felt glued together, sticky and heavy, like sleep itself was fighting him.
“Jason,” a voice said immediately.
Not whispered. Not careful.
Concerned.
Jason forced his eyes open again, slowly this time, inch by inch. The world swam, unfocused, a blur of shapes and brightness that made his head throb. He blinked, tears leaking out unbidden, and tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
Chairs.
Metal ones. Hospital-grade. Two of them pulled close to the side of whatever he was lying on.
Figures sat in them.
Jason’s heart kicked hard against his ribs.
For one wild, hopeful second, he expected to see Catherine—knees folded beneath her, hands already reaching for him, face creased with relief.
Instead—
Black hair. Broad shoulders. A familiar, rigid stillness that radiated control even while seated.
And next to him—brighter somehow, even slumped with exhaustion. Curly hair. Red-rimmed eyes. A posture that leaned forward, like he’d been braced there for hours.
Jason stared.
His vision sharpened just enough.
“…Bruce?” His voice came out hoarse, barely audible. Confused.
Bruce Wayne was already halfway out of his chair.
“I’m here,” Bruce said quickly, hand hovering over Jason’s shoulder like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. His voice was low, steady—but strained in a way Jason recognized too well. “You’re safe.”
Dick leaned in from the other side, his knee bumping the bed as he moved too fast. “Hey. Hey, easy, Jay.” His smile tried to be light and failed miserably. “Welcome back.”
Jason’s breathing picked up.
No.
No, no, no—
“Where’s my mom?” he asked.
The room went very quiet.
Not the heavy, buzzing quiet of the bathroom. A clean, clinical silence—machines humming softly somewhere out of sight. Jason’s gaze flicked between them, searching their faces for reassurance, for correction, for anything.
Bruce and Dick looked at each other.
It was the look that did it.
That hurt, careful look—like they were stepping around broken glass. Like they’d rehearsed this and still hadn’t found the right way to say it.
Jason’s chest tightened painfully.
“Where is she?” he repeated, louder this time. “She was just—she was right here.”
Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose. He sat back down, finally resting a hand on the edge of the bed, grounding himself.
“Jason,” he said gently. “You were alone when I found you.”
Jason shook his head weakly. “That’s not—no. She was with me. She—she didn’t let me sleep. She was talking. She called someone.” His voice wavered, anger and panic bleeding through the fog. “She said help was coming.”
Dick swallowed hard. His hands were clenched together so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
“You were kidnapped,” Dick said quietly. “Whoever took you… they injected you with multiple substances. Way too much. You were overdosing when Bruce got there.”
Jason laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. It hurt his throat. “You think I don’t know the difference between a drug trip and my own mother?”
Bruce flinched.
“When I got to you,” Bruce said, voice rougher now, “you were in a derelict building. A bathroom. You were talking—to me. Calling me ‘Mom.’”
Jason froze.
“That’s not funny,” he said flatly.
Bruce didn’t smile.
“You were holding onto my sleeve,” Bruce continued. “You kept telling me not to cry. You asked me why I wouldn’t let you sleep.”
Jason’s heart slammed so hard he felt dizzy.
“No,” he whispered. “That’s not—she was—she smelled like her. She hummed.”
Dick leaned closer, eyes shining. “Jay… you were hallucinating. The drugs were doing a number on you. You were mixing memories with what was happening in real time.”
Jason’s fingers curled weakly against the sheets.
“That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “She talked about things you wouldn’t know. She—” His voice cracked. “She knew me.”
Bruce’s hand tightened on the bed rail.
“So do I,” he said softly.
The words landed like a blow.
Jason turned his head away, breathing shallow, staring at the blank wall like it might rearrange itself into something familiar. Something filthy and cracked and hers.
“She was waiting for help,” Jason murmured. “She said they were coming.”
“They did,” Dick said, gently but firmly. “Bruce did.”
Jason squeezed his eyes shut, light flaring painfully behind them. His stomach twisted again, grief and nausea tangling together until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
“You don’t get it,” he said hoarsely. “She was real. She cared. She—she was scared for me.”
Bruce leaned forward, voice breaking just a little. “That’s because you were scared. And your mind gave you the person who loved you first.”
Jason went still.
The words sank deep, settling somewhere raw and exposed.
“No,” he said again, weaker now. “You’re wrong.”
Neither Bruce nor Dick argued.
Dick reached out slowly, resting his hand over Jason’s—careful of the IV taped to his wrist.
“We’re here,” Dick said. “We’re not going anywhere.”
Jason didn’t look at them.
He stared at the empty space beside the bed, at the chair where Catherine should have been sitting, knees folded, humming softly, refusing to let him disappear.
The light buzzed overhead.
The world stayed solid.
And for the first time since he’d tasted grape on his tongue, Jason felt something break inside him—quietly, completely—as the truth pressed in and refused to let go.
The cemetery was quiet in the way Gotham quiet always was—unnatural, heavy, like the city was holding its breath.
Jason stood in front of the headstone with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched against a cold that had nothing to do with the weather. The grass around the grave was thin and patchy, worn down by time and neglect. Catherine’s name was carved into stone that looked older than it should have been, the letters softened by rain and years.
Catherine Todd.
Beloved mother.
Jason stared at it until the words blurred.
He’d been out of the hospital for three days. Three days of doctors’ warnings, Bruce’s careful looks, Dick hovering like Jason might dissolve if left alone too long. Three days of his body flushing chemicals from his system while his mind stubbornly refused to feel real again.
He exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” he muttered to the grave. “I’m here. You win.”
The air shifted.
Jason felt it before he saw anything—the same subtle wrongness he’d felt in the bathroom, like reality had slipped half an inch out of alignment. The smell hit him next, faint but unmistakable: rust, damp porcelain, old mold.
His jaw tightened.
“Of course,” he said quietly. “That figures.”
When he looked up, Catherine was sitting on the edge of the grave.
Not standing. Sitting. Legs tucked beneath her like she was kneeling on a bathroom floor that no longer existed. Her skirt was the same one he remembered from the dream, frayed at the hem. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers laced together.
Behind her, the world flickered.
The neat rows of headstones warped and cracked, the ground beneath them bleaching into stained tile. A broken sink shimmered into existence just long enough for rust to crawl down its side before dissolving back into stone and grass. The cemetery and the bathroom overlapped, refusing to decide which one was real.
Jason didn’t move.
He just breathed.
“…You’re not real,” he said finally, voice hoarse but steady. “They said the drugs could linger. Visual hallucinations. Stress responses. Trauma. All that fun stuff.”
Catherine smiled at him.
It wasn’t the brittle, frightened smile from before. It was soft. Tired. Fond.
“You always were good at explaining things,” she said.
Her voice landed in his chest like a fist.
Jason swallowed. “You’re dead.”
“I know,” she said gently.
“That didn’t stop you last time,” he shot back. There was no heat in it. Just ache. “You let me think you were real. You let me think you stayed.”
Catherine tilted her head, studying him. “I did stay.”
“That’s not how that works.”
She patted the stone beside her. “Sit down, Jason.”
He hesitated. Every instinct screamed at him not to engage, not to sink back into it. But his legs moved anyway, folding beneath him as he sat cross-legged in front of the grave.
The moment he did, the bathroom sharpened.
Cold tile pressed against his back. The cemetery remained at the edges, like a backdrop someone had forgotten to fully remove. Catherine shifted closer, and before he could stop himself, Jason lay down—muscle memory dragging him into the same position as before.
His head settled into her lap.
He froze.
The weight was wrong. Too light. Too perfect.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t do this again.”
Catherine’s hand came to rest in his hair, fingers combing through slowly.
“I’m not here to keep you,” she said. “I’m here to let you go.”
Jason laughed weakly. “You picked a hell of a way to do that.”
“I know.” Her thumb brushed his temple. “I always did things the hard way.”
The knot in his chest tightened painfully. “Why did you keep waking me up?”
Her hand stilled.
“For the same reason I used to shake you when you got too quiet,” she said softly. “Because I was scared.”
Jason squeezed his eyes shut. “I wasn’t dying.”
“You were,” she said, simply.
The word echoed, sharp and final.
Jason opened his eyes again, staring up at her face. She looked clearer now than she ever had before—less distorted, less frantic. More… settled.
“You weren’t ready,” she continued. “You’d just found me again. I didn’t want that to be the last thing you felt.”
His throat burned. “So you tricked me.”
“I protected you,” she corrected. “The only way I knew how.”
Jason’s hands clenched in the fabric of her skirt. “You shouldn’t have been there.”
“But I was.” Her voice softened. “Because you needed me.”
Silence stretched between them, filled with the hum of a light that wasn’t there and the distant cry of a crow that was.
“Everyone keeps saying you loved me,” Jason said quietly. “Like that’s supposed to fix it.”
Catherine smiled sadly. “Love doesn’t fix things, Jason. It just makes them hurt for a reason.”
He swallowed hard. “I thought… when I saw you… I thought maybe I could stay.”
Her hand tightened slightly in his hair. “I know.”
“But I can’t,” he said.
“No,” she agreed. “You can’t.”
Jason shifted, sitting up despite the ache it left behind. The pressure of her lap faded immediately, like it had never really been there.
“Are you going to disappear now?” he asked.
Catherine looked at him for a long moment. “Eventually.”
“That’s not comforting.”
She laughed quietly. “You never liked goodbyes.”
Jason’s gaze dropped to the headstone—the real one this time. Solid. Cold. Unyielding.
“I’m angry,” he admitted. “About everything. About you. About him. About the fact that I keep surviving things I shouldn’t.”
“I know,” she said.
“I kill people,” he added, almost challengingly. “I don’t do it the way Bruce wants. I don’t think I ever will.”
Catherine reached out and cupped his cheek. Her touch was faint now, like the echo of warmth rather than warmth itself.
“You were never gentle,” she said fondly. “But you were always kind where it mattered.”
Jason shook his head. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“I know who you are.”
That nearly broke him.
The bathroom began to crumble around them, tiles cracking and dissolving into soil, the rust bleeding away into nothing. Catherine’s form flickered, edges softening.
“Hey,” Jason said quickly. “Wait.”
She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead—light as breath.
“You don’t need me to keep you awake anymore,” she whispered. “You’ve got people for that now.”
Jason’s vision blurred. “I miss you.”
“I know,” she said. “I miss you too.”
And then she was gone.
Jason was alone again, kneeling in front of a grave under a gray Gotham sky. The air smelled like wet grass and stone. No rust. No mold. No humming lights.
He rested his palm against the headstone and stayed there for a long time, until the cold seeped into his bones and the world finally, reluctantly, felt real again.