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It’s three stories up, moonlight catching on gargoyles and broken antennas, Gotham breathing beneath them.
Dick lands first. Then Tim. Then Bruce.
Jason is already there, standing on the ledge like he’s about to address an audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces, spreading his arms wide, “for my next trick —”
Bruce’s stomach drops.
“I’m gonna kill myself.”
Then Jason backflips off the roof.
Dick’s heart actually stops.
Jason doesn’t fall.
He spins — clean, controlled — catches the fire escape three floors down, vaults back up in one fluid motion, and lands in front of them with a grin like he’s just nailed a stage bow.
“Relax,” he says. “Ten out of ten dismount.”
Dick swears. Tim yells. Bruce’s pulse is in his throat.
Jason beams. “Wow, tough crowd.”
“That wasn’t funny,” Bruce snaps.
Jason shrugs. “Comedy is subjective.”
And that’s that — adrenaline drains, irritation replaces fear, and the moment collapses into noise instead of meaning.
Jason wanted it that way.
It’s 2 a.m. in the Cave. Everyone’s exhausted. The Batcomputer is glitching. Tim is mid-rant about corrupted files.
Jason spins in his chair, boots on the desk.
“Well,” he says, “guess I’ll just kill myself.”
Then he dramatically rolls backward off the chair.
Hits the mat.
Stays there.
Dick stares. “Are you—”
Jason raises one arm. “Tell my story.”
Tim throws a batarang at his head.
Jason sits up, grinning. “See? Still alive. You guys panic too easily.”
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Jason.”
“What? I died. I got better.”
Tim groans. “You’re insufferable.”
Jason smirks. “And yet.”
Again: noise. Frustration. Eye-rolls.
Not concern.
Which is exactly how Jason needs it.
They’re on comms — spread across rooftops, tracking a trafficking ring.
Jason, of course, is bored.
“Hey,” he says into the channel, “if this takes another twenty minutes, I’m gonna jump off something.”
Tim sighs. “You’re already on a roof.”
“Exactly. Efficient.”
Bruce snaps, “Jason.”
“What?” Jason says lightly. “Multitasking.”
Then — click — Jason cuts the channel and jumps anyway.
Not off the building.
Across it.
A twenty-foot horizontal leap, roll, pop to his feet, hands already up.
Dick exhales sharply. “Jesus Christ.”
Jason clicks back in. “See? Still here. False alarm.”
There’s a pause on comms.
Then Tim mutters, “You’re the worst.”
Jason grins into the night.
He doesn’t hear the way Bruce’s breathing hasn’t quite settled yet.
Damian is mid-spar with Jason and losing badly.
Jason disarms him, sweeps his legs, pins him.
Damian scowls up at him. “Get off.”
Jason doesn’t move.
“Wow,” he says. “If you glare any harder, I might kill myself out of sheer intimidation.”
Damian freezes.
Cass, watching from the corner, looks up sharply.
Jason clocks it — the micro-shift — and instantly overcorrects.
“Relax,” he adds. “I’d never give you that satisfaction.”
Damian shoves him off and stands, furious. “You are crude.”
Jason grins. “And undefeated.”
Cass keeps watching him after that.
Jason pretends not to notice.
They’re driving back from patrol. Bruce is silent. Jason is restless.
“You’re riding like crap tonight,” Jason says.
Bruce ignores him.
Jason sighs theatrically. “Wow. Okay. Guess I’ll just kill myself.”
Then he opens the door.
Not all the way — just enough for the wind to howl — because of course Bruce slams the brakes instantly, one arm shooting across Jason’s chest and hauling him back into the seat before momentum can carry him anywhere.
“What the hell are you doing?” Bruce snaps.
Jason laughs and closes it. “Relax. I’m kidding. God. You’re so dramatic.”
Bruce grips the steering wheel hard enough that the leather creaks.
“That’s not funny,” he says quietly.
Jason shrugs. “It is to me.”
But his smile doesn’t quite stick this time.
It’s a roof.
Of course it is.
But this time there’s no audience.
No eyes burning into his back. No performative stance. No dramatic timing. Just the city spread out below, wind scraping cold against his cheeks, helmet abandoned behind him like something he doesn’t deserve to put back on.
Jason stands near the edge.
Not on it.
Near it.
Close enough that the distance feels… negotiable.
He isn’t crying. He isn’t panicking. That’s what scares him most — the calm. The quiet, methodical way his thoughts are lining themselves up like dominoes instead of spiraling.
I could just… stop.
Just — stop.
His brain keeps offering solutions the way it offers routes on patrol: efficient, unemotional, disturbingly practical. He hates that. Hates that part of himself. Hates that it feels less like despair and more like problem-solving.
This would end the noise.
Jason shifts his weight forward slightly.
Just a fraction.
Just enough that his balance changes.
He doesn’t register the footsteps behind him.
Doesn’t hear the soft scrape of boots against concrete.
Doesn’t sense the presence until —
A hand slams into his shoulder and yanks him backward.
Hard.
Jason stumbles, heart detonating in his chest, instincts screaming threat as he spins —
“What the hell are you doing?”
Dick.
Breathing hard. Eyes wide. Hands still gripping Jason’s jacket like he’s afraid to let go.
For half a second, Jason can’t speak.
His brain feels like it got knocked out of orbit — thoughts scattering, calm shattering, adrenaline flooding in so fast it’s nauseating.
“I—” He swallows. “What—”
“You were about to step off a building,” Dick snaps. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Jason looks past him — at the empty space where he’d been standing — and something cold slides down his spine.
“I wasn’t—” he starts.
Then stops.
Because he was.
His mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Dick’s expression changes instantly.
Not anger.
Not accusation.
Fear.
Raw, unfiltered, barely-contained fear.
“Jason,” he says, voice dropping, steadying, “talk to me.”
Jason’s chest tightens violently.
“I didn’t—” He exhales shakily. “I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t planning— I just—”
His throat locks.
Dick loosens his grip slightly but doesn’t step back. Keeps one hand anchored at Jason’s shoulder like a tether.
“You were standing at the edge,” he says quietly. “You were leaning forward.”
Jason’s stomach twists.
“I didn’t realise,” he whispers.
And that’s the truth, somehow — the worst part of it. He hadn’t felt dramatic. He hadn’t felt desperate. He’d felt… logical. Like he was evaluating options instead of standing on the brink of something irreversible.
“I was just thinking,” Jason mutters. “I didn’t think I was that close.”
Dick stares at him.
“You were.”
Silence crashes between them.
Jason’s pulse is still screaming in his ears, but underneath it — under the shock, under the adrenaline — something heavier is settling in: the realization of what almost happened.
Not as an abstract concept.
As a fact.
Dick pulls him back another step without asking.
Jason lets him.
They stand there, the edge now safely behind Jason, the city still roaring below like nothing almost changed at all.
Jason’s hands start shaking.
He hates that.
He shoves them into his jacket pockets, jaw tight. “I wasn’t trying to—” He swallows. “I wasn’t gonna do anything stupid.”
Dick’s voice is quiet but unyielding. “Jason.”
Jason looks up.
Dick’s eyes are glassy.
“You were about to die.”
The words hit wrong.
Too blunt.
Too real.
Jason’s breath stutters.
“I didn’t think about it like that,” he whispers. “I just— my brain was quiet for once. And I thought—”
He cuts himself off.
Dick waits.
“I thought,” Jason continues hoarsely, “maybe I could make it stay quiet.”
Dick’s throat tightens.
“That’s not wanting to die,” he says immediately. “That’s wanting the noise to stop.”
Jason blinks.
“Is there a difference?” he mutters.
“Yes,” Dick says. “A huge one.”
Jason’s shoulders sag.
Dick’s grip tightens again — not painfully, just anchoring.
"Surprisingly enough I wasn't joking" he laughed, a humourless laugh
“Good,” he says. “Because if you were, I wouldn’t know how to forgive you.”
Jason huffs weakly. “Damn. No pressure.”
“Jason.”
“Okay,” Jason says quietly. “Okay.”
Silence again — but different now. Less sharp. More weighted.
Jason finally looks at Dick properly.
“How long were you watching me?” he asks.
Dick hesitates.
“Long enough,” he admits. “To get scared.”
Jason winces. “Sorry.”
“No,” Dick says immediately. “Don’t.”
Then, softer: “Don’t apologize for almost needing help.”
Jason’s chest tightens.
“I didn’t mean to make it real,” he whispers. “I always make it a joke. I don’t… do this.”
“I know,” Dick says. “That’s why this scared me.”
Jason laughs weakly. “Congrats. You caught me in the one episode I don’t commit to the bit.”
Dick doesn’t smile.
Jason’s smile fades.
“Yeah,” Jason murmurs. “Me neither.”
Dick shifts closer, lowering his voice like he’s afraid the city might overhear.
“Are you safe right now?”
Jason doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” he says. “I don’t want to—” He exhales. “I just… didn’t realise how bad it had gotten.”
“That happens,” Dick says. “Brains lie quietly sometimes.”
Jason nods faintly.
“I wasn’t trying to die,” he says again, like he needs to convince himself. “I just didn’t know how else to make it stop.”
Dick’s voice is steady. “Then we make it stop another way.”
Jason snorts. “You got a magic button?”
“No,” Dick says. “But I’ve got time. And stubbornness. And access to Bruce.”
Jason groans. “Tragic.”
Dick huffs — but his eyes stay serious.
“You’re not alone in this,” he says. “Not now. Not after this.”
Jason swallows.
“Okay,” he whispers.
Dick finally lets go — slowly — but stays close.
“Come sit,” he says, nodding toward the safer part of the roof.
Jason follows.
They sit on the concrete, backs against the wall, Gotham stretching endlessly in front of them.
After a long minute, Jason mutters, “You know what sucks?”
“What?”
“I didn’t even realise I was doing something dangerous until you touched me.”
Dick exhales.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s the part that scared me most.”
Jason presses his forehead into his hands.
“I think… I think I’ve been treating death like a punchline for so long that my brain forgot it was real.”
Dick nods slowly.
“That makes sense,” he says. “Humor’s a shield. But shields can crack.”
Jason’s voice is muffled. “I didn’t know mine had.”
“I do,” Dick says gently. “Now.”
Jason looks up.
“You’re not mad?”
“Jason,” Dick says, incredulous. “I almost watched my brother fall off a building. No. I’m not mad.”
Jason’s throat tightens.
“Oh.”
Dick hesitates — then places a hand on Jason’s shoulder again. Not gripping this time. Just steady.
“We’re going to tell Bruce,” he says. “Together.”
Jason winces. “Can we not—”
“Together,” Dick repeats. “Which means not alone, no jokes, no performing.”
Jason exhales.
“Fine,” he mutters. “But if he starts with the disappointed dad voice—”
“I’ll tackle him,” Dick says immediately.
Jason snorts. “Deal.”
They sit in silence again.
Safer silence.
Eventually, Jason says quietly, “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for grabbing me.”
Dick doesn’t hesitate.
“Always.”
Jason doesn’t stop making dark jokes.
That’s not realistic. That’s not him.
But they change.
They lose their edge — not entirely, but enough that they stop sounding like exits and start sounding like coping again. Like humour instead of camouflage.
And when one slips out wrong — when the tone is off, when the weight is heavier than the words — someone notices.
Sometimes it’s Dick, saying quietly, “You okay?”
Sometimes it’s Tim, texting, That joke didn’t sound like a joke.
Sometimes it’s Bruce, placing a steady hand on Jason’s shoulder and saying, “Talk to me.”
Jason still deflects sometimes.
But not always.
And that — more than anything — is the difference.