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Jason is sitting on the edge of a roof he doesn’t remember climbing, boots dangling over empty air, helmet abandoned at his side like something he forgot how to wear. Gotham looks wrong tonight — not dangerous, not alive, just… blurry. The lights smear instead of sharpen. Sound feels padded. Like the world’s been wrapped in cotton and he’s floating somewhere inside it.
He keeps turning his hands over in front of his face.
They don’t feel fake. Just distant. Like they belong to someone he knows well but isn’t currently inhabiting.
“That’s annoying,” he mutters to the night. “I like my hands.”
The wind presses against his jacket. He lets it. His spine aches in that old, familiar way — not injury, not strain, just the accumulated weight of too many years carried too tightly in one body.
Jason exhales.
“Can’t do this forever,” he tells the city, voice soft and unguarded. “Not like this. I don’t think I’m built for… long-term existence.”
He snorts faintly at himself, the sound loose and hollow, like it slipped out before he could catch it. The laugh dies fast.
He leans back on his palms and tips his face up toward the sky. The stars are barely visible through Gotham’s haze, but he squints anyway, like they might offer him something if he looks hard enough.
“I’m so tired,” he says, quietly. “Like… bone tired. Soul tired. Tired in a way naps don’t fix.”
That one sits in his chest afterward. Heavy. True.
His phone buzzes once in his pocket. He ignores it.
Then again.
Jason sighs and fishes it out with clumsy fingers, squinting at the screen like it’s written in another language.
Dick.
Of course it is.
He stares at the name for a long second, then taps answer without meaning to.
“Hey,” Dick says immediately. “You alive?”
Jason blinks. “Rude.”
“That wasn’t rhetorical.”
Jason considers this. “Still rude.”
There’s a pause. Then: “Where are you?”
Jason opens his mouth to lie, then forgets how.
“…Up.”
“Up where.”
“Like. Philosophically? Or—”
“Jason.”
He squints over the edge of the building, watches traffic crawl far below like a slow, glowing bloodstream. “Tall place,” he offers. “With wind. And vibes.”
Dick sighs in that specific way that means concern disguised as annoyance. “You sound weird.”
“I feel weird.”
“Define weird.”
Jason opens his mouth again, then closes it, frowning at the effort it takes just to translate internal sensation into words.
“I feel,” he says slowly, “like my thoughts are walking instead of running.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not bad,” Jason says. “Just… floaty. Kinda nice, actually. Everything’s quieter.”
Dick doesn’t respond right away. Jason imagines him standing in the cave, phone to his ear, expression tight but careful. Like he’s approaching a skittish animal.
“Did you take something?” Dick asks.
Jason grimaces. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“Jason.”
“I’m fine,” he says, reflexive. Then softer, more honest, “I’m not in danger.”
There’s another pause, heavier this time.
“Where exactly are you?” Dick repeats.
Jason exhales. “Warehouse district. Big ugly building with a broken billboard. I think it used to sell tires.”
“Stay there,” Dick says immediately. “I’m coming.”
“You don’t—”
“Jason.”
Jason stops. There’s something in Dick’s voice — not command, not panic, just quiet insistence. Like a hand on the back of his neck guiding him somewhere safer without making a big deal of it.
“…Okay,” he says.
He hangs up and shoves the phone back into his pocket, then immediately forgets he did and pats himself down for it anyway.
“Oh,” he mutters. “There you are.”
He returns his attention to the city, legs swinging slightly over nothing. The height doesn’t scare him. It should. It used to. Now it just feels… theoretical.
His brain keeps drifting into strange places.
He thinks about Bruce’s hands.
Not in a weird way. Just — steady. Big. The kind of hands that close around your shoulder and make you feel like the ground underneath you is suddenly more solid. Jason hasn’t let Bruce touch him like that in a long time.
He thinks about Alfred’s tea.
Dick’s laugh.
The way Damian’s eyes narrow when he’s worried but pretending not to be.
His chest tightens with something too big to be one feeling.
“I’m so tired,” he says again, to no one. “I don’t wanna—”
The rest of the sentence never forms. It just dissolves, leaving behind a hollow ache.
He presses his palms into the concrete behind him, grounding himself in the rough texture, the chill seeping through his gloves.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he adds, quieter. Not dramatic. Just tired. Like stating a fact about gravity or weather.
Footsteps land softly behind him a few minutes later.
Jason doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to.
“You’re gonna fall if you keep swinging like that,” Dick says.
Jason hums. “I’m balanced.”
“You’re dangling over thirty stories.”
“Yeah but like… emotionally I’m stable.”
“Not what I meant.”
Dick moves closer anyway, boots scuffing concrete, and then there’s weight beside him — solid, familiar. Dick sits close enough that their shoulders brush. Jason doesn’t pull away.
“You look wrecked,” Dick says gently.
Jason frowns at the skyline. “That’s just my face.”
“No,” Dick says. “This is… different.”
Jason considers that. “I feel different.”
“Explain.”
“I can’t.”
Dick sighs, but it’s fond. “Try.”
Jason tips his head back, staring at the sky. “Everything’s quieter,” he says again. “Not peaceful-quiet. Just… muted. Like someone turned the volume down on my brain.”
“That sounds… not terrible?”
“It’s not,” Jason agrees. “It’s just… when the noise goes away, there’s nothing left to drown out the other stuff.”
Dick glances at him. “What other stuff.”
Jason opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
He laughs softly instead, rubbing his face with his palms. “God, I’m so bad at words tonight.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“I’m really not.”
Dick doesn’t argue. He just shifts slightly closer, knees brushing.
They sit in silence for a minute. Then another.
Jason’s body feels heavy and light at the same time. Like he’s sinking into himself. Like he might drift away if he doesn’t anchor.
“I don’t wanna do this anymore,” he says suddenly.
Dick turns sharply. “Do what.”
Jason stares at the edge of the roof. The empty air. His boots.
“…All of it,” he admits. “The being awake part. The trying part. The pretending I’m not exhausted part.”
Dick’s jaw tightens. “Jay.”
“I’m not—” Jason cuts himself off, frowning. “I’m not doing anything stupid. I just… feel like I’m bad at existing.”
Dick’s voice softens. “You’re not bad at existing.”
“I kinda am.”
“No,” Dick says firmly. “You’re bad at resting. There’s a difference.”
Jason huffs. “That’s not a real distinction.”
“It is when the problem isn’t that you don’t want to live,” Dick says quietly, “but that you don’t want to live like this.”
Jason doesn’t answer.
Because that lands too close.
Dick studies him for a moment, then nudges his knee gently with his own. “How much did you take.”
“Enough to make my thoughts walk instead of run,” Jason repeats.
“That’s not a unit of measurement.”
“Feels accurate.”
Dick sighs. “You’re coming home.”
“Not the cave.”
“Not the cave,” Dick agrees immediately. “My place.”
Jason blinks. “You live like… five buildings away.”
“Correct.”
“I could’ve walked.”
“And yet,” Dick says, “here I am.”
Jason looks at him then, really looks at him. Dick’s hair is a mess, mask shoved up into it, eyes sharp with concern he’s trying not to make heavy.
“You didn’t have to come,” Jason says softly.
Dick’s expression shifts — something gentle, something real. “Yeah,” he says. “I did.”
Jason’s throat tightens.
“…Okay,” he says.
He doesn’t move.
Dick waits.
After a moment, Jason admits, “My legs feel weird.”
“Define weird.”
“Like they forgot how gravity works.”
“Alright,” Dick says easily. “Lean on me.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“I didn’t say that either.”
Jason glares faintly, then relents, allowing Dick to slide an arm around his back and help him to his feet. The motion makes the world tilt slightly, but Dick steadies him instantly.
“Wow,” Jason mutters. “You’re very solid.”
“High praise.”
“Emotionally,” Jason clarifies. “And structurally.”
“I work out.”
They make it to Dick’s place without incident — mostly because Dick keeps a steadying hand on Jason’s elbow the entire walk, casual enough to not feel like surveillance but constant enough that Jason doesn’t drift off the sidewalk.
Inside, Jason sinks onto the couch immediately, curling sideways like gravity has finally caught up to him. Dick kicks off his boots, grabs a glass of water, and presses it into Jason’s hands.
“Drink.”
Jason stares at it. “Why.”
“Hydration.”
“Is this a metaphor.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
He drinks anyway, spilling a little on himself.
“Wow,” he mutters. “Graceful.”
“Stop roasting yourself,” Dick says. “You’re fine.”
Jason frowns. “I don’t feel fine.”
“That’s allowed.”
Jason looks at him. Really looks.
“Are you mad at me.”
“No.”
“Disappointed.”
“No.”
“Concerned.”
“Yes,” Dick says immediately. “But that’s not the same thing.”
Jason studies that answer like it’s written in code.
“I don’t like when people are concerned about me,” he admits.
“I know.”
“Feels like… pressure.”
“I know.”
Jason’s shoulders slump. “I’m tired of being someone people worry about.”
Dick sits beside him. “You’re not a burden for being human.”
“I’m not good at being human.”
“Neither is Bruce,” Dick says mildly. “Or Damian. Or me. You’re in good company.”
Jason huffs. “You’re very good at being human.”
Dick laughs. “Objectively untrue.”
Jason leans his head back against the couch, eyes sliding shut. “I don’t wanna do this anymore,” he murmurs again.
Dick’s voice softens instantly. “Do what.”
“…Tomorrow,” Jason says. “The day after. The whole endless string of them.”
Dick studies him. “You don’t want to die.”
Jason doesn’t answer.
“You want to stop hurting,” Dick continues. “There’s a difference.”
Jason swallows. “…Maybe.”
“That’s not the same thing as wanting to disappear,” Dick says. “It’s wanting relief.”
Jason rubs his face. “You’re very good at words.”
“Comes with the circus trauma.”
Jason snorts faintly, then goes quiet.
After a moment: “I don’t feel like I belong anywhere.”
Dick’s chest tightens.
“You belong here,” he says immediately.
Jason shakes his head. “I don’t mean physically. I mean… conceptually.”
“That’s worse,” Dick says gently. “But also fixable.”
“How.”
“Time. Therapy. You not doing everything alone.”
Jason opens one eye. “Gross.”
“Accurate.”
Jason exhales and lets his eyes close again.
“Stay,” he murmurs.
Dick doesn’t hesitate. “I am.”
Bruce finds them two hours later.
He doesn’t mean to — he’d been tracking Jason, mild concern escalating to sharp when Jason stopped moving for too long — but when he reaches Dick’s apartment and knocks, he’s not prepared for the sight of Jason curled sideways on the couch, jacket still on, boots kicked off, face slack with exhaustion rather than sleep.
Dick looks up immediately.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “He’s okay.”
Bruce exhales a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.
Jason cracks one eye open. “Wow,” he mutters. “This is embarrassing.”
Bruce freezes. “You’re awake.”
“Regrettably.”
Dick glances between them. “I’ll grab coffee.”
“Traitor,” Jason murmurs.
Dick snorts and disappears into the kitchen.
Bruce steps closer, slower than usual, like approaching something fragile that might spook.
“How are you feeling,” he asks carefully.
Jason considers lying.
Instead, he shrugs. “Like my brain’s lagging.”
Bruce studies his face — the unfocused eyes, the loose posture, the absence of Jason’s usual sharp edges.
“Did you take something,” Bruce asks.
Jason grimaces. “Don’t give me that look.”
“I’m not giving you a look.”
“You’re absolutely giving me a look.”
Bruce sighs. “I’m concerned.”
“Everyone is,” Jason mutters.
Bruce sits in the armchair across from him, posture controlled but not rigid. “Why.”
Jason opens his mouth.
Closes it.
“I don’t know,” he says finally. “I’m just… tired.”
Bruce nods slowly. “You’ve been tired for a long time.”
Jason laughs weakly. “Wow. Observant.”
Bruce doesn’t rise to it. “You don’t sleep. You overwork. You isolate. You avoid.”
“Hey,” Jason says faintly. “That’s my brand.”
“It’s unsustainable.”
Jason stares at the ceiling. “So is life, technically.”
Bruce’s jaw tightens. “Jason.”
Jason sighs. “I’m not doing anything,” he says. “I’m just… empty.”
“That’s not nothing.”
“Feels like it is.”
Bruce leans forward, forearms on his knees. “Talk to me.”
Jason snorts. “About what. My tragic vibes.”
“About why you don’t feel like being here.”
Jason’s chest tightens.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You said you’re tired of everything,” Bruce replies quietly. “That you don’t want to do this anymore.”
Jason stiffens. “Dick told you.”
“He was worried.”
Jason turns his head away. “Figures.”
Bruce waits. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t fill the silence.
Eventually, Jason speaks anyway.
“I’m not suicidal,” he says carefully. “I just… don’t feel attached to being alive.”
Bruce’s breath catches.
“That’s… not the same thing,” Jason continues, struggling for words. “I’m not trying to die. I just… wouldn’t mind if I stopped waking up.”
The room goes very still.
Bruce’s voice comes out rougher than intended. “Jason.”
Jason winces. “See. This is why I don’t talk.”
Bruce stands abruptly, then stops himself, forcing the motion into something slower, controlled. He moves closer, kneeling in front of the couch so they’re eye level.
“You matter,” he says firmly. “Your life matters.”
Jason laughs weakly. “That’s very Hallmark of you.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you talk like this.”
Jason swallows. “Because it feels true.”
Bruce’s expression shifts — not anger, not fear, but something like quiet devastation.
“I failed you,” he says.
Jason blinks. “What.”
“I should have seen this,” Bruce says. “I should have—”
“No,” Jason cuts in sharply, then softens. “Don’t do that. This isn’t your fault.”
“Everything that happened to you—”
“Was not your fault,” Jason says firmly. “And neither is this. I just… I don’t know how to want things anymore.”
Bruce studies him. “You want relief.”
“Yeah,” Jason admits. “I want it to stop hurting.”
Bruce’s voice softens. “That doesn’t mean you want to stop existing.”
Jason doesn’t answer.
Bruce hesitates, then lifts a hand — pauses — and rests it lightly on Jason’s knee.
Jason doesn’t pull away.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” Bruce says quietly.
Jason’s throat tightens. “I don’t know how to not.”
Bruce’s hand tightens slightly. “Then we learn.”
Jason’s eyes burn unexpectedly.
“…I’m really tired, Dad,” he says.
The word slips out before he can stop it.
Dad.
The room freezes.
Bruce’s breath stutters.
Jason’s eyes widen. “I didn’t—”
“It’s okay,” Bruce says immediately, voice thick. “It’s okay.”
Jason swallows hard. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise,” Bruce says. “Please don’t.”
Jason looks away, embarrassed, vulnerable in a way he hates.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he whispers.
Bruce leans closer. “Do what.”
“Be strong,” Jason says. “Be angry. Be functional. Be okay.”
Bruce’s voice softens. “You don’t have to be okay.”
Jason laughs quietly. “That’s new.”
Bruce studies him, then says, “You can rest.”
Jason shakes his head. “I don’t know how.”
“Then lean,” Bruce says. “On us.”
Jason exhales shakily. “You’re really bad at letting people be self-destructive.”
“I’m excellent at it,” Bruce replies. “I’m trying to stop.”
Jason snorts despite himself.
Dick returns with coffee and freezes when he sees how close Bruce is, the hand on Jason’s knee, the tension in the room.
“…Am I interrupting,” he asks carefully.
“No,” Bruce says.
Jason glances at Dick. “He’s being weirdly emotional.”
Dick raises an eyebrow. “That tracks.”
Bruce shoots him a look. Dick grins faintly.
Jason leans back into the couch, exhaustion finally dragging at his limbs in earnest.
“I feel like I’m made of wet laundry,” he mutters.
“Accurate,” Dick says. “You look like it too.”
“Rude.”
“Loving.”
Jason closes his eyes. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”
Dick’s voice softens instantly. “Hey. You don’t have to figure out forever tonight.”
Jason cracks one eye open. “Then what do I have to figure out.”
“Staying,” Dick says. “Just staying.”
Jason stares at him. “…That feels hard.”
“I know,” Dick says. “But you’re already doing it.”
Jason frowns. “How.”
“You’re here,” Dick says simply. “You didn’t disappear. You didn’t isolate. You answered your phone. You let me come get you. You’re talking to Bruce. That’s staying.”
Jason exhales shakily. “Wow. The bar is low.”
“It’s exactly where it needs to be.”
Jason goes quiet again.
After a moment: “I don’t want to be alone.”
Dick smiles gently. “Good news.”
Bruce doesn’t move his hand.
Damian shows up last.
Not preformativelly - just the quiet presence of him stepping inside without knocking because Dick never locks his door when he knows family is around. Jason hears him before he sees him, light footsteps, precise.
“Todd,” Damian says immediately, sharp eyes scanning him. “You appear impaired.”
Jason opens one eye. “Wow. You too.”
Dick snorts. “He’s tired.”
Damian’s gaze sharpens. “That is not exhaustion.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Jason mutters.
Damian steps closer, studying him with unnerving intensity. “You smell incorrect.”
Jason laughs weakly. “That’s not a medical term.”
“It is to me.”
Bruce stands. “He’s safe,” he says quietly.
Damian glances at him, then back at Jason. “Explain.”
Jason sighs. “I’m fine.”
Damian narrows his eyes. “That is demonstrably untrue.”
Jason considers this. “Okay. I’m… medium.”
“That is not better.”
Damian steps closer to the couch, arms crossed. “You are behaving strangely.”
“High praise,” Jason mutters.
Damian hesitates — visibly, awkwardly — then says, “Are you… unwell.”
Jason’s chest tightens.
“…Yeah,” he admits.
Damian studies him for a long moment. Then his voice softens, just slightly.
“You should have contacted us.”
Jason shrugs weakly. “Didn’t wanna bother anyone.”
Damian frowns. “You are not a bother.”
Jason looks at him.
Damian stiffens. “Do not look at me like that.”
“Like what.”
“Like… that.”
Jason smiles faintly. “You care.”
Damian scowls. “Obviously.”
Jason exhales. “I don’t feel very… real.”
Damian blinks. “Explain.”
“Like I’m watching myself instead of being myself.”
Damian’s expression shifts — from irritation to something sharper, more worried. “Disassociation.”
Jason tilts his head. “That’s a big word for you.”
“I know many big words.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Damian studies him for another second, then does something unexpected.
He steps closer and sits on the edge of the coffee table, facing him.
“Are you in pain,” he asks.
Jason hesitates. “…Yeah.”
“Physical.”
“No.”
“Emotional.”
“…Yeah.”
Damian frowns. “Why.”
Jason laughs weakly. “That’s… a long story.”
“I have time.”
Jason looks at him — really looks. At the way Damian’s posture is stiff but his eyes are intent. At the way his voice is clipped but not unkind.
“I don’t wanna do this anymore,” Jason says quietly.
Damian stiffens. “Define this.”
“…Being alive,” Jason admits.
The room stills.
Bruce tenses. Dick’s breath catches.
Damian freezes.
Then, slowly, carefully, he says, “That is unacceptable.”
Jason winces. “Wow. Thanks.”
“No,” Damian snaps, then corrects himself, jaw tight. “That is not… acceptable because it is incorrect.”
Jason frowns. “That’s not how feelings work.”
“Your feelings are lying to you,” Damian says bluntly.
Jason blinks. “…Excuse me?”
“You are exhausted,” Damian says. “You are traumatised. You are chemically imbalanced. You are… suffering. That does not make you disposable.”
Jason’s throat tightens.
“I’m not saying I should die,” Jason says quickly. “I just—”
“You said you do not want to live,” Damian interrupts. “Those are adjacent concepts.”
Jason exhales. “I just want it to stop hurting.”
Damian’s eyes sharpen. “Then you should say that.”
Jason looks at him. “…It hurts.”
Damian’s jaw tightens.
He hesitates, then says, quieter, “You should have told us.”
Jason shrugs. “Didn’t wanna be dramatic.”
Damian’s voice softens. “This is not drama. This is pain.”
Jason stares at him.
“…You’re weirdly good at this.”
Damian huffs. “I am excellent at everything.”
Jason smiles faintly.
Then something in his chest caves.
“I’m so tired,” he whispers. “I don’t think I can keep doing this.”
Damian stands abruptly.
Jason startles. “Oh. Okay. That’s not reassuring.”
Damian steps forward and — stiffly, awkwardly — grips the front of Jason’s jacket.
“Do not stop,” he says sharply. “You are… important.”
Jason blinks.
Damian swallows. “You are… my brother.”
Jason’s breath catches.
“…Say that again,” he murmurs.
Damian flushes. “Do not test me.”
Jason laughs weakly, then exhales. “Okay. Okay.”
Damian releases him and steps back, arms crossed. “You are permitted to rest.”
Jason blinks. “Permitted.”
“Yes.”
“That’s very generous.”
“I know.”
Jason studies him. “You don’t hate me.”
Damian scowls. “I have never hated you.”
Jason’s throat tightens. “…You call me Todd.”
“That is your name.”
“And akhi.”
Damian stiffens slightly. “…Occasionally.”
Jason smiles faintly. “I like it.”
Damian looks away. “Irrelevant.”
Jason’s smile widens.
Then fades.
“I don’t wanna be alone,” he admits quietly.
Damian immediately says, “Then do not be.”
Jason looks at him.
Damian frowns. “We are here.”
Bruce steps closer.
Dick shifts nearer.
Jason stares at all of them, chest aching with something too large to name.
“…I don’t deserve this,” he murmurs.
Bruce’s voice is firm. “You do.”
Dick’s is softer. “You always have.”
Damian’s is blunt. “Obviously.”
Jason swallows hard.
“I don’t want to disappear,” he says finally. “I just… don’t want to hurt like this.”
Bruce nods. “Then we help you.”
Jason laughs weakly. “You say that like it’s simple.”
“It’s not,” Bruce admits. “But it’s possible.”
Jason studies his face. “…You’re not mad.”
“No.”
“Disappointed.”
“No.”
“Scared.”
“…Yes,” Bruce admits. “But not of you. Of losing you.”
Jason’s chest tightens painfully.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says automatically.
Bruce’s gaze sharpens. “Promise.”
Jason hesitates.
Then, quietly: “…I’ll try.”
Bruce nods. “That’s enough.”
Jason slumps back into the couch, exhaustion finally crashing over him in full force. His limbs feel heavy. His thoughts slow.
“I feel weird,” he murmurs.
Dick smiles gently. “You’re crashing.”
“Cool.”
“Not cool.”
“Meh.”
Jason closes his eyes.
“I don’t wanna do this anymore,” he murmurs, voice slurring slightly now. “I’m tired.”
Bruce’s voice softens. “Sleep.”
Jason shakes his head weakly. “Not sleep-sleep. Just… rest.”
“That’s allowed.”
Jason exhales shakily. “…Dad.”
Bruce’s breath catches again.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’m here.”
Jason’s face crumples slightly, eyes still closed.
“I don’t wanna be alone,” he whispers.
“You’re not,” Bruce says immediately.
Dick adds, “Not even a little.”
Damian crosses his arms. “Never.”
Jason’s breathing slows.
“…Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”
And for the first time all night, he lets himself go still — not disappearing, not giving up — just… resting. Held in place by the quiet certainty of not being alone anymore.