Chapter Text
For someone who prides himself for being empathetic and had been called the most emotional Robin, Jason couldn’t bring himself to comfort the sobbing little boy in front of him.
Fat tears rolled down his muddy cheeks, and his hands desperately tried to wipe away to no avail. His clothes were ripped and dirty, courtesy of the deprived traffickers who crammed him into the back of their cheap truck. The boy continued to wail and flinched when Jason tried to give him a hesitant pat on the back.
Christ, he actually used to be good with kids.
Sighing, he knelt down in front of the boy, feeling oddly nothing. Jason could imagine how lost and terrified the boy was, the sour taste of bile in his mouth and his too small hands not being enough to dry all the tears. He could remember because the boy reminded him of before… everything. Jason knew that feeling of abandonment and betrayal will never leave this little boy for as long as he lives. He knows how much it can devour you, and soon you'll end up making bad mistakes you shouldn't have.
Eventually, it'll turn you into an angry vengeful monster.
“Hey, buddy,” Jason soothingly whispered. “You got any injuries on ya?”
Instead of the soft whisper he tried to give, Jason’s voice was rough and broken. The low baritone of his voice only made the boy cry louder, and he swallowed the frustration that bubbled up his throat when he clearly had not made things better.
Jason felt the familiar urge to smash something, to grab something by the throat and watch life leave from its eyes. That rage, only amplified by the Lazarus Pit, began to blur his vision. He could kill this little boy right now. Kill him and leave him to die alone just like how Bruce did. Make him feel the same loneliness he did when no one came for his death. Punish him for trying to be happy. Scream at him for even hoping that someone will love him.
What?
Jason stood up abruptly, fast enough for the blood to rush to his head and blur his vision with black dots.
What is wrong with him?
“Look kid, I-“
Before he finished saying something, he heard the wail of sirens parked with flashing crimson and blue followed by a dark shadow darting by.
Batman.
Fuck, he had to leave now before Bruce can see him. Jason turned to leave before glancing at the little boy. He stopped sobbing, but there were still tears welled in his eyes. Glimmering wetly, he blinked and Jason could only see the hurt in confusion in his expression as he watched another person leave him. Jason bit his lip, glad for his helmut covering the pain in his expression before he grappled away. As he left, he could hear the familiar drawl of Bruce, and knew he was in the same position Jason was just in, kneeling gently in front of that sad little boy.
“Everything okay, chum?”
Jason wished he hadn’t heard the warmth in his voice, and how it sounded nothing like the chilling tone of his own.
-
Jason’s safe house was a cheap, broken down apartment on the edge of Crime Alley.
The windows shutters were broken and replaced with black out curtains Jason had bought from a random store. His door, although flimsy, was boarded with dozens of traps unseen to his neighbors and unwanted visitors. Loud shouts and talking littered the hallways of the apartment, which was frankly common in any Crime Alley neighborhood. His bathroom vanity mirror was broken, his sheets were stained with drops of blood from bad days, and his fridge was empty except for a bottle of spoiled milk.
Home sweet home.
Jason groaned loudly as he sloppily disabled the traps on his window and flopped through, uncaring of his lower floor neighbors hearing a suspicious loud thump above them. Unclasping his helmet, the hiss of it unlocking and Jason’s hiss of relief was intertwined.
Flopping on his back, he stared at the ceiling above him, noticing how the suspicious brown stains resembled too closely to blood. If he looked closer, he could make out the thin splotches that once were part of a person.
Jason groaned, closing his eyes in exhaustion.
He could kill this little boy right now.
His eyes snapped open. Fuck what was he even thinking there? He would never, ever hurt someone.
…right?
Jason swallowed thickly, trying to drown the overwhelming uncertainty that had clouded his mind. What if he started to hurt people? What if he snaps one day and kills an innocent bystander? Jason still remembers the blood from his Robin suit after he had tracked down Tim at the Titan Towers. The blood was fresh and so, so dark, as if it was punishing him for tearing it from its young body too soon. Too many possibilities, his mind whispered, you’re a risk.
Jason swore he would bring justice. He doesn’t want to hurt people. He doesn’t want to kill people the same way Joker did to him…
God he can’t, can’t do this anymore. His breaths felt shallow as if there was a weight on his chest crushing his lungs. Jason heaved his body up and forward towards his bathroom door, shakingly shoving aside the cabinet door. Expired pills, hoards of bandages, and a half used bottle of disinfectant. He shoved the bottle away harshly, knocking it over in the process and spilling the contents. Infection be damned. Behind the bottle was a small pack of razors, innocently staring back at him as he hesitated to grab the packaging.
-
“Jaybird, what’s this?”
Bruce held out a pack of cigarettes towards him. The packaging was worn around the edges, with the paper losing its color and its texture turning fluffy. There were only three cigarettes left.
Jason stared at the cigarettes mentally cursing himself for hastily shoving the box in his desk drawer and forgetting about it when Alfred entered his room. Oh god, he’s gonna kick me out and leave me for the streets. Bruce thinks I’m a bad Robin and that i can’t handle it. He’s not gonna love me anymore.
Jason felt his head sink to his stomach and his vision began to go blurry. Why can’t things ever go right for him? He swore he was trying his best, but he’s always doing something wrong. Okay breathe, he had about a hundred dollars left from his mother before she overdosed and he needed to pack a bag with clothes before he left.
“Jason?”
A gentle voice nudged him from his spiraling thoughts. Bruce knelt in front of him, knees brushing the ground and a hand grasped his shoulder.
"I won’t be mad if it was yours,” Bruce said. “I just want to make sure everything is okay.”
It reminded him of his mother. She had the same soft voice with those forgiving words and the best hugs he could ever ask for.
Overwhelmed, Jason began to sob, tears flowing from his bright-blue eyes without his consent. Ugly, hiccuping sobs began to choke out, and his small hands gripped the fabric of his hoodie tightly.
Bruce was too nice, he was going to tell him to leave as politely as possible.
He couldn’t see his fathers expression beyond the tears.
“M’sorry Bruce. Couldn’t stop doing it.”
“Oh, Jason…”
Jason felt warm arms encircle him and smelt the familiar expensive aftershave Bruce used. It was the warmest thing he felt since his mother’s last hug.
He couldn’t stop himself from crying out more, the tears running down his chubby cheeks.
“I’m sorry Jason, we’ll figure this out together.”
-
Well, clearly that didn’t work.
Jason can confirm that he is still addicted to cigarettes and also gained a brand spanking new addiction to cutting that Bruce would love. Bruce really needed to step up his game if he really wanted him to stop now.
Beneath the paper wrapping, the razor blade felt cold, but an odd sense of comfort washed over him, filling him with relief. He ripped his armour off before stripping to his worn tank top underneath his patrol clothes. His calloused fingers wrapped around the piece of silver with ease, as he started to run the blade over his left forearm in practiced, fluid motions. With each cut he sighed, the tension bleeding from his bones immediately. Visions of that crying little boy broken and bloody into a mangled mess left his mind slowly, as each time that boy cried, Jason bled for him.
Cuts were both a punishment and a reward for him. Jason deserved the pain he caused to people he loved, and brought pain to civilians. Every cut was dedicated to one person he couldn't save when he was Robin and Red Hood. Jason still remembers the crushing pain in his chest when Bizarro and Artemis had left and the phantom pain on his neck after Bruce had slit his throat. And… he still remembered Gloria.
Oof, he cut particularly harder on that one.
Cutting felt good too. It gave him a sense of twisted hope. Maybe, someone can see his pain. Someone could glance at his scars and realize how fucked up he really is and he isn't just a heartless monster that just kills and takes. I have feelings too, his mind whispered as he started his fourth cut. I've been hurting for so long and I want you to see it too.
The scars felt so rewarding. His pain was tangible, and he wasn't just faking his sadness. His pain is real, raw, and he bleeds for it, see?
A harsh whine seeped from his lips, as blood started to pebble the slashes on his arms. Dark crimson seeped into the edges of his wounds, covering the white layer of skin that had desperately tried to knit itself back together. The cuts didn't go past his skin this time, not into the fat layer. Five messy slashes on his forearms overlapped and intersecting with each other, drawing a sort of twisted painting on his pale skin. Dark brown, purple, and raised scars were left over from Jason's other bad days. His arms were unrecognizable from when he was Robin, where he had nothing but knife cuts from criminals and cigarette burns from his old man Willis.
Robin was gone now, he thought numbly, staring at himself in the broken mirror. His eyebags were dark and prominent, but didn't do anything to hide the eerie Lazarus green that was once an endless ocean blue. His eyebrows were sharp, his lips were spread into a grim line, and his jawline was sharp. Some could say he even looked like Bruce.
His shoulders felt too big to be fifteen, and his muscles bulged from the white tank top, a reminder of how much farther he is from being the malnourished child who tried to steal the tires from the Batmobile.
He dropped the razor blade back into the box, carefully wrapping the paper cocoon around it once more. Blood seeped sluggishly from his cuts, fresh and bright. Jason felt no pain from his cuts, and never had from any self-inflicted wounds.
Should he even bandage today? He hummed, thinking if he even deserved to have the comfort of bandages around his arms. Before he could reach for the box in the corner, he heard soft footsteps outside his door.
“Jason?”
He froze, hearing the familiar voice. It was too light to be Bruce’s and less monotone than Tim’s. Damian hasn’t tried to find him and Jason made sure of it. That only left one bird to be knocking at his door at three o'clock in the morning.
“I’m coming in.”
Fuck, this is the worst possible situation he could end up in right now. Please God, he would take anyone but him to come and find him in this fucking situation.
The door groaned as it cracked open to reveal one shocked Dick Grayson still in his Nightwing suit.
“What the fuck, Jason?”