Chapter Text
It's an ordinary day, as usual, hearing and listening to the quiet but noticeable whispers around the bookstore, people-watching those who are looking at novels, self-help books, and even comics—the latter of which I went to help the most, scouting out for the issues or book covers they preferred, which of course I would suggest mainly Superhero comics, you can't blame me, you're just the damn reader that can't even answer me, like usual.
You can probably guess who I am now, hm?
Superboy Prime, yeah, that's me, right now I'm sitting behind the cash register reading a comic book with my legs lifted on the counter and pointedly ignoring anyone who looks like a Karen; I might've done some stupid stuff, but at the end of the day, it's night—I was joking! Don't click off yet! I swear I'm not subconsciously written like a dad!
Um, so basically, I might've stupidly tried to get back to my own Earth with a few reality punches from curiosity of how the people back at home felt about my last few comic issues, and then some more, like a lot more; at first, I thought I did come back to my Earth with all the comic enthusiasts running around, but as I've found out, I'm not—I learned from a few hints of how people viewed the Batman of this world, and the other superheroes that trail behind him even as he gruffly says he works alone, and from it all, I'm pretty sure I'm in the Arkhamverse?
You know, the games.
Which is a problem, because I've never played the games, just because I'm a comic book reader doesn't mean I play the games based on them!
I didn't even have enough money to buy a PlayStation, and yeah, don't forget, I'm still the Clark Kent from a farm in the middle of nowhere!
So, of course, I would know nothing.
Other than the fact that I know someone's still reading my suffering, I can't really do anything to predict what will happen, can't promise any angst, any joy, not even any supervillains for me to fight!
It's whatever.
And also, don't ask how the hell I became the owner of a bookstore. When I woke up, I got a text on a phone that wasn't mine, which read, 'Don't forget to open up your bookstore!' So, not only am I apparently not Clark Kent here, but I might also be in someone else's body?
That's only a maybe because I can still fly and have powers—I checked—plus I look the same, so I don't know, okay?!
At least the bookstore wasn't half bad, not my kinda style, but still stylish, more like a library from a Gothic novel or something than an actual bookstore, like, wood everything except for the walls, there were probably more than a hundred dark oak trees—the darkest of the dark—cut down to make this place, but at the same time, it isn't Batman dark? It still feels human, not just a symbol, not a mission, not just a style, a bit personal. Plus, Gotham apparently loves the aesthetic; there is a considerable number of people here.
That's enough exposition; this might get boring.
I flip to the next page of the comic with annoyance written all over my face. Unfortunately, it wasn't Superman, or any other recognizable DC superhero, but a random fictional hero I had never heard about. It was admittedly a little weird that superheroes and supervillains exist in this world, but the public still writes fiction about them. Does that mean it would count as RPF, or is it because it's an OC that it's not RPF?
At this point, even I'm not knowledgeable enough in this field to have a solid answer.
That train of thought crashes into the nearest wall because after I hear the bell chime from the front door signaling another customer coming inside, I glance up briefly, looking back down at the comic I'm yawning through, before immediately looking back up fast enough to cause vertigo in a normal human and stare.
Dick Grayson, or Richard Grayson, Nightwing, walking into a bookstore?
Wasn't that Jason's thing and not his?
Wait, is Jason still dead here?
The objectively best Robin looks around the place, he's got a few scars on his toned and lightly tanned body peeking through his casual T-shirt and jeans that I'm pretty sure only I notice, since; one, I'm paying close attention to him, and two, it was also because of a little bit of X-ray vision, only on his shirt, you perverts—the guy's hair is pretty neat, but messy at the same time, with the jet black color that was always synonymous with him, when looking downwards towards his face, I wince, yeah, Jason's definitely dead or at least missing; greeted with the worst eye bags I've ever seen and distant eyes that are so dead I wonder if he can also see that he's just a comic character.
Or is he technically a game character?
Maybe just fictional, I feel like we should stick to fictional.
The guy looks around the store like he doesn't know what to do, so of course, I stand up, toss the dumb comic I was reading haphazardly onto the nearest table, and walk towards him with my most charming smile.
"Hello, sir, welcome to the bookstore of your dreams. Any specific books we may be looking for?" I ask from behind him, startling the guy. Isn't Dick supposed to have better reaction skills? Well, I guess his brother is assumed dead right now, so maybe he's too depressed to care, which is understandable; I think.
His eyes are wary, and they redirect to my chest, and I know well what he's looking at, the name tag, which wasn't my real name, but it was fine for now.
"Uh, yeah, I was looking for…" Dick trails off, looking down at some paper in his hand, his eyes glassy as he looks at it. I, of course, take a peek, and it's in handwriting that I would never believe to be Dick's—it just didn't feel like his style with how scratchy it was—and it read, 'Jane Austen, nobody else, nothing else! Don't forget again! >:('.
Oh.
Jason was dead, dead.
And now Dick was staring at the paper. Gosh, he looks so dead inside. It's genuinely concerning. Yeah, I knew the guy had hallucinations of his younger brother; though, right now, he looks genuinely disgusted at everything. It's a little disturbing.
Had I looked like that back then? When I had lost everything?
I shouldn't dwell on my past; I've had my redemption arc, after all. Thinking of that is stupid; maybe I'm stupid for trying to get back anyway, now I'm stuck here because I'm a coward to try again—
Hey, no, angst isn't allowed yet, not this early.
"I'm going to presume that you're looking for some of Austen's collection?" I startle the guy for the second time. Jeez, is it that bad? It probably was.
"Yeah," Dick looks around, a hand behind his neck as his eyes look up into mine, I kinda felt bad looking at the dullness of the blue that greets me, "If you don't mind showing me where they are."
"I work here," Technically a lie, but it was whatever, "Of course I'll show you where her collection is stored."
We walk past other customers as we went deeper into the place, it was a relatively large bookstore, and in all honesty, exactly what I had expected considering I had woken up in the most luxurious apartment I had ever seen only a few hours ago, rich people books, but also not, since apparently the original owner was a kind man and kept everything at affordable prices, which was nice of him, especially in Gotham, ugh.
Eventually, we get to the Jane Austen section; of course, she deserves her own section—obviously— and there are a decent number of people there, either reading or putting her books in their shopping carts; thank goodness the original owner had hired countless employees, there was no way I could've handled all this by myself.
"This is where all of Austen's collection resides. Any specific books in mind?" I ask, turning towards Dick, who just rolled up and turned around the paper in his hands, his eyes staring at it… again.
"He—I mean, I was wondering if there was a special edition of Pride and Prejudice?" Dick asks, trying to sound like he knows books, but it's an obvious lie, especially to someone who reads books for a living, literally me, "I've… always wanted it."
I wonder if his tongue stings at the lie, or maybe I've read too many comics of him being sweet and caring.
I only smile and nod, it was the only mercy I could spare him after all, "Yes, we do have the special edition, and we have other editions as well if you'd like, but they'll arrive later in the week. I could email you if you register for my humble bookstore." I tell him, a secret plea to talk more; I need to know the truth of this Earth, one of the few places I have no anticipation for and no connection to.
I walk towards where the original owner seemed to have kept the special edition. I'm not a novel connoisseur, but I feel like you knew that. I did try to read Pride and Prejudice, though. The prose just wasn't my type of thing. I wouldn't be a DC fanboy if I didn't know that Jason Todd loved Jane Austen, so I kept the book, and its siblings, siblings? That's a horrible way to word it—I kept them in mind when I looked around the bookstore before it opened; it was scary as hell at dusk; now it's just lively.
I stopped right in front of the display, placing my hands behind my back and once again giving my most charming smile; I looked back at Dick, who stared into my eyes.
We had a little staring contest for a bit, his eyes shaking like they were shivering, the colorful and bright blue I was used to from the comic art style was almost gone, to the point I could've thought it was gray, it was unnerving—and even as he shook, Dick didn't seem to be close to faltering, like he was trying to find something in my eyes, was he?
I'm not exactly an expert at details in body language; that was Batman's deal.
But I had my own suspicions, after all, I still look like Clark Kent, was he finally realizing the similarities now that he got a better look?
"Mr. Grayson." I squeak out, being the awkward one felt wrong. I was supposed to make other people uncomfortable, not be the one disturbed.
"Grayson?" Dick looks at me with accusing eyes, my brain short-circuits for a moment too long, and I have nothing to defend myself with. "How do you know my name?"
"You seemed familiar, and I had guessed prematurely, should I apologize?" Thank the comic writers, I'm a good improviser.
Dick keeps his eyes on me for a little longer, and then he sighs, rubbing his eyes until they hurt for a human. He takes out his phone and looks up at me expectantly, "You said registering up, right? Do you need my number as well?" I nodded, knowing well he was probably going to ask Oracle to trace my number when I call later, but that's actually more useful; the more bat-family that know about me, the better.
"Yes, if you're comfortable, but we can do that at the register. Do you still want to buy the special edition?" I nod my head towards the casing once more. He's not interrogating me here and now, not the day I got here.
Dick sighs; he's really too tired for all of this. I'm half sure he would tackle me and demand answers if he weren't so tired, though I remember that the longer Jason stayed dead, Nightwing actually got worse, mentally. As a hero, he got better, but deep inside? If I'm not mistaken, he just broke even more every day.
So how long had that second Robin been dead?
"Yeah," Dick's voice pulls me out of my thoughts, "I'd like to buy it."
After that, it wasn't as interesting. He just bought the book, registered on the website I apparently own, and gave me his number.
He did give one last look back as he left the bookstore, a glint in his eyes that I would personally guess to be suspicion, but I do guess that emotion for any glints in the eye of a batfamily member, so, high chance that I'm wrong.
Whatever.
The rest of the day went as it had before, occasionally helping customers, reading comic books, reluctantly picking up Pride and Prejudice, forcing myself to read through, even if the prose was trying to kill me on every page, I didn't get that far until the other employees started leaving and told the owner to close up, which was me, I was going to close up the store, which, seemed very even, considering I had barely done anything.
The moment I locked the front door and decided to leave through the back door was my first mistake; it led to an alleyway, rain pitter-pattering down with my every step.
What was I thinking? Of course, something would catch my eye in an alleyway of all places; it's Gotham.
So, of course, now I'm sitting on the dirty Gotham alley floor, well, crouching down—yeah, bully me for being a farmer and squatting a lot—staring down at someone unconscious, which I of course recognize, to my own annoyance.
Jason, Jason Todd.
Of all places, it had to be the alleyway behind my bookstore—ugh! I was already calling this world's things mine.
I didn't dare touch him, because he looks like a goddamned ship wreck, worse than the Titanic under the ocean right now.
And probably as beautiful as the Titanic.
It was hard to see the details due to the dark transition between evening and night. I did pull out the umbrella I wasn't planning to use since I had a raincoat to cover us both from the rain; unfortunately, it only made it harder to pinpoint the details of Jason…
For a human.
Ruffled up and messy black hair that has slightly grown out, with unhealthy curls forced straight, a face that looked to be torn apart, eye bags even worse than Dick's under his barely closed eyes, a 'J' burned onto his left cheek—I try not to wince at piecing together how that got there, it scarred heavily and looks like it didn't heal properly, probably on purpose; small scars and scrapes all over his neck, and his Robin suit was tattered and ripped apart at the seams, it looked like someone had tried to stitch some parts back together, but was hopeless at it, he looks like a torture victim, which he probably was.
I take the hoodie wrapped around my waist and put it on him, concealing his face from the dark and any potential onlookers, pulling Jason into my embrace and picking him up with care. I never got to meet him during my time in Earth-1, so maybe I can make up for that now. He was my personal favorite, Robin after all, and the one I had saved from death myself, even if accidentally.
Was this a bad idea?
Yes.
Was it entertaining for you and me?
Very much so.
Flying at night in Gotham is usually a no-go, but I'm not someone who cares about the rules; no kryptonite can hurt me either, so what can the bat do anyway?
You probably knew that, right? Well, if you read my few comic runs, you definitely did.
Did I see a figure in blue on a rooftop?
Yes.
Am I gonna get another visit from Dick Grayson?
If he saw my face, definitely yes; if he didn't, still a definite yes.
I went as fast as possible, not fast enough to hurt Jason in anyway, though, I was fast enough that the human eye couldn't comprehend what it saw, so I was just a blur, thank the writers that my apartment was a fair distance away from my bookstore, so unless Nightwing has access to all CCTV in Gotham, me and Jason are gonna be just fine.
Going in through the window while carrying someone in bridal style is one of the worst decisions of my life; it was utter hell, so remind me, the writer and the readers, to NEVER try that again.
I repositioned Jason like five times until I could comfortably get inside without being forced to throw Jason inside first, because, of course, the only window I had unlocked was the smallest window ever that could barely even fit me. I was lucky that this Earth's Jason was abnormally skinny and slightly hunched over—even when passed out—so I could adjust him in different ridiculous poses.
In all honesty, I'm more shocked that he didn't startle awake onetime, must have been really beaten up from dying.
Wait, if he's still wearing his Robin suit, that means he hasn't been dipped into the Lazarus Pit! Does that mean he's gonna be a half-alive zombie?
Ugh, I really should've thought this through.
I close and lock the window behind me, because even if there is a no meta rule in Gotham, it does not mean Batman can't just sneak in through the window, or worse, Nightwing, I do not want to have to deal with him in his depressive state, especially with Jason in my possession—bad wording, again, I sound misogynistic, jeez—after all of that, I just lay Jason down on the green sofa I didn't notice before when I ran out of this apartment because that anonymous messenger kept reminding me about the bookstore.
With like seven different text messages, all you needed was one! Why more?!
Seeing him away from the dark alley, but in a well-lit room, was so much worse; everything was clearer, easier to spot and notice, everything.
He looks so… oddly beautiful. Maybe that's because of the supposedly retconned sadistic part of me, but, Jason looks breathtakingly gorgeous covered in blood and scars, there's an injury I could only guess came from a knife, it made jagged edges from under his chin—near his Adam's apple, tempting in a way that made me feel like a pervert, up to his eye, and barely reaching it, it's on the other side of his face away from the burned on 'J', which meant there was no part of his face without scarring, I wonder if that's on purpose, it looks purposeful, which makes my skin crawl, not like I have any jurisdiction to be disgusted anyway.
Other than that, other injuries scattered his body as well, smaller ones, like cuts and bruises that came from punches and kicks, to bigger ones, large gashes that seemed to have been the only ones to be bandaged, albeit very, very poorly.
If Jason had only recently left his empty grave behind, I have a pretty solid guess that he is not gonna like light very much, so I mostly ignore the fact that Jason has left blood on my sofa and turn off the lights in the living room, coating everything in the shadows, before going to the kitchen and making myself a snack, because I am hungry.
It was just a sandwich, a very normal, ordinary, and unassuming sandwich, totally not just two pieces of bread stacked on top of one another without anything in the middle, and a second sandwich that had peanut butter and jelly.
I'm normal, okay?
You readers, don't get to judge me.
Right when I'm about to take a bite of my very ordinary sandwich, I hear muffled breathing, quiet enough that no human would be able to pick it up, which only confirms how creepy the Bat-family is. How do you teach a kid to soften their breath to the point they instinctively do it right after being revived?
Ugh.
I float towards the living room, making no noise at all. If I were a zombie that had just woken up, I would definitely bite the first thing I see, and right now, I was not in the mood to be bitten.
The breathing quickened, but I decided to stay in the shadows, only, there was a problem with that I had gravely forgotten.
"Who are you?" A raspy voice echoes through the mostly empty apartment, sounding like it hadn't been used for a long time, or actually, strained so badly that it was damaged.
Jason was staring right at me, at my eyes—damn my glow-in-the-dark eyes—with his dark blue ones, pointedly not green. "Where am I?!" He screamed louder, only emphasizing the hurt in his vocal cords.
I feel like a bastard right now, hearing the panic, confusion, anger, and so many emotions I can't decipher, nor even name, being poured into one perfect glass only to be drank and spit out, coming from Jason directly towards me, the only mercy I have is that I'm pretty sure Jason can't see anything other than my eyes, the problem is, is that Batman was his mentor, and he's quick.
It only takes one blink before I feel something hit me, not very painful, if at all, since I still have the body made from steel.
I heard more than saw that it was hard on Jason, who winced in pain so loudly I considered leaving, right then and there, like a coward.
I didn't.
I stare back—thank my low-light vision—and some part of me still stubbornly says to keep as quiet as possible. I don't know what this version of Jason Todd went through. I don't know any of his triggers or trauma. One theory is that he may have been dumped in the Lazarus Pit already, since he wasn't like a zombie, or maybe he got revived another way, or…
He never died in the first place.
"You can call me Superboy Prime," I whisper, a twitch coming from the man on the ground still cradling his elbow. Huh, he hit me with his elbow, isn't that funny? "Or just Clark, Clark Kent, but I feel like you can tell that I'm not the one you know."
Jason blinked rapidly, his pupils dilating as he forced himself to look up at me, with perfect blue eyes that may no longer have much light, but perfect nonetheless, "What… the fuck… does that mean?"
"Language," I couldn't help myself, "Different universes, Earths, you shouldn't worry too much." I reach out to touch his shoulder, but Jason moves away so quickly, in instinct born of fear, I see it in his eyes, and he doesn't even wince when he worsens his injuries from the sudden movement.
It doesn't take a damn genius to remember that his last memory awake probably was of being tortured by the Joker, goddamnit, why am I such an idiot?
"Sorry, sorry," I say quickly, trying to convey as much worry as possible in my tone, "I'm not gonna touch you, I'm sorry." Ugh, I hate apologies—that's probably a bad thing to think about.
*
"Is this… another trick? Again…? Fuck—FUCK you, fuck this, I can't—why won't you—WHY?! I'm gonna die here…" Jason stammers out, his breath hitching, his eyes flitting around to everything in the room like he's searching for something, anything in the dark, and his heart is beating way too fast.
Wait… his heart is palpitating.
Is he having a panic attack?
Can people trained by Batman have panic attacks?
I don't think there's a comic where Robin has a panic attack?
Well, Batman has had a panic attack before…
Would that apply to—Jason's sweating bullets; his eyes are unfocused; can he see anything?
I go to turn on the light, before zooming right back, and it doesn't seem to help in any way other than making his eyes burn.
Am I stupid? What am I doing?!
I need to calm him down!
Should I tell him to calm down? What, no! It's written in like every book as the worst thing someone can do to someone having a panic attack!
Jason must hear his blood rushing through his ears; even I can hear it! What do I—What am I supposed to do?!
Wait, I have Google!
I grab my phone as fast as possible from the kitchen counter and instantly start typing.
'How to help—'
Jason's breaths are picking up even quicker. Can he even breathe? They're so short-lived, he can't possibly gain any air from it!
'someone having—'
His heart is beating so fast. Why is it so fast?
'a panic attack.'
My finger presses on the first article, without a second thought.
Stay with him, I crouch down to the floor, check.
Quiet place, check.
Ask—"Jason, talk to me."
Jason's stammering eyes look up towards me at the soft sound, but they're unfocused, like they aren't seeing what's real and what's not. His breathing is still abnormal, still not enough.
"Do you need anything?"
"I—want to—fuck, I need him—I need him dead…" Jason rasps out in between short breaths, closing his eyes. I can't imagine what he's seeing, and I can't waste any time.
Check.
Focus—
"Jason, can you move?"
Jason nods, such a small movement I almost didn't register it as different than the shaking and shivering coming from his body.
"Can you raise your arms over your head?"
He does, and I'm almost entirely sure he knows he's having a panic attack, with how oddly annoyed his face looks, but at least that means—
Check.
"Breathe with me?" I say, not even needing to read the next instruction fully.
Jason tries his best, the stutters of quick breaths in between forced and focused ones slowly aligning with mine.
Very slowly, admittedly, but better than before, especially since his heart is calming down as well…
Again, only slightly.
Check.
"Hey, you're gonna be okay."
A small nod.
"He's gone, and he won't ever hurt you while I'm here."
A confused mumble, but his breathing is neither sharp nor short-lived anymore.
"You're safe with me,"
A bygone blur in his eyes.
"I promise."
Check.
*
No more loud sound of pumping blood, a slowing heartbeat, synchronized breathing, clear and focused eyes, and a too-wide, too-real smile on my face.
"Jason?"
"Fucking hell," Jason said to no one, or I think he did, "Of course that fucker—had given me my worst fear, fuck him, I'm gonna… I'm going to make him and Batman rot in hell…" I don't even care what he's saying; his eyes are glassy, and tears I hadn't seen had fallen and trailed down his cheeks in such a perfect way, with perfect lines, and he looks so pretty, especially his eyes.
Gosh, were his eyelashes that long before?
"You're beautiful." I stammer out without thinking.
"What?" Jason looks up and blinks away any remaining tears, "Right, you."
"Me." I point to myself and take a step back.
.
Then there's silence, and a pause.
.
A long pause.
.
Gosh, why is it taking so long—
"Forget what happened," Jason says. I won't. "I was just… whatever, I'm—calmer now, explain who you are and where I am."
Such a demanding tone, yet still pretty.
Actually, hold up, what the actual frick is wrong with me?
Didn't I get my redemption arc?
Shouldn't I be more focused on helping Jason than on these weird, sudden thoughts?
He's right in front of me—
"Ah…" Thank the writers for that sound. "Answer me, you Superman lookalike." Jason groans out as he tries to stand up, but only manages to sit up instead.
"I told you who I am already." I stammer out, Jason rolls his eyes at that, which I'm interpreting as about the Kent thing and the different Earths thing, "You're in my apartment, I brought you here since you were kinda passed out in a Gotham alleyway."
"You swear…" He pauses, and another sound comes from him that should be illegal as he once again tries to steady himself. I flinch to help him, my arm already outstretched again, but I hesitate, "That you're—you're not affiliated with the… damn clown, right?"
"I swear, really, on my Kryptonian pride."
Jason winces at that.
So Superman does exist in this universe, to some extent, were the Justice League not formed yet? I have so many questions, but this isn't exactly the time.
"May I help you up?" I ask, like a gentleman should at this moment, but in the tone of a firefighter trying to be soft to one of the people they have to rescue, while inside, both of them are panicking. I'm bad at this, okay? "You know, since you're heavily injured."
Jason seems to have taken a moment to think about it, since he pauses and looks at his hands, which I've only noticed now are bare, they're ruined in every sense of the word, even from someone who ripped off someone else's arm and beat them to death with it—and yes, I won't ever do that again—it made me feel sick, it looked horrible, small cuts from the rocky surface of Gotham's streets and alleys, one large gash on the right hand, and covered in half-dried half-washed out blood from the rain.
But then Jason's eyes roam his body, as a whole, from his chest to his arms, and for a moment, I wonder why he spends so long looking at his shredded leggings. They were also haphazardly stitched back together like his sleeves, but I didn't get why he focused on them.
And then, with a shiver, he reaches out his left hand towards me, the less injured from the two, he's stiff when I grab his hand, he stays still as I help him up, the thought of being in his situation makes my skin crawl, I don't know what he's thinking, but I feel like I can guess how it feels to be able to do nothing in an unfamiliar environment, injured and helpless, with someone you know is an alien with superpowers, that could kill you at a moment's notice, without needing to lift a finger.
I'd be scared.
I think.