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Jason doesn’t usually remember his dreams. At most, he wakes up with the hint of one pricking the corners of his mind; maybe there’s the faintest notion of having adopted a baker’s dozen worth of cats in the timelessness of his slumber or having been chased down familiar yet slightly warped alleyways of Park Row as graffiti melted down the nearby brick walls.
Sometimes he’ll scrub at his face as he pries his eyes open against the blaring sun cutting through his blinds when he inevitably wakes in the early afternoon and feels the drying tear tracks trailing down his cheeks. What was enough to make him cry in his sleep? Jason never remembers.
He tries to guess, sometimes. Tries the sensation of different scenarios playing out through his mind. He never seems to be able to hit the nail on the head. Maybe it’s for the best. Who knows what horrors his subconscious is cooking up for him as a side dish to the atrocities Red Hood faces on the streets every night.
So no, Jason Todd does not dream. Not really. If he can’t remember them, they don’t count.
It doesn’t bother him. In fact, he prefers it this way. Dreams are distractions that mean nothing. Why fall into the arms of a world that’s nothing but a comforting facade or an exaggerated horror movie? You’ll open your eyes in a few hours and it’ll mean nothing.
Jason prefers action. Things that happen in the physical world stick. Make real change.
That’s why he’s been avoiding sleep. Too much to do. Too many assholes to punch full’a rubber bullets. Too many people to sweep outta danger’s way.
That’s what he tells Dick when he asks, anyway.
It’s easier than the truth. And why’s he gotta be truthful, anyway? His stuff’s his own business, and none of Dick’s.
And Dick takes the answer well enough. Just tugs his face into an expression that Jason knows to mean that’s unhealthy and you’re a mess simultaneously.
Jason just shoots him back a sneer he hopes encapsulates the phrase, I’m just more committed than you, and then Dick’s commandeering the apartment’s poorly glazed shower and Jason’s stuck sitting on the old stained couch in what can only be called a living room by technicality, adjusting himself to avoid the lumpy sections where the springs beneath the scratchy fabric are completely shot, drinking a room-temperature beer that tastes vaguely like piss, and marinating in his own sticky sweat that plasters the base layers of his Red Hood getup to his skin. There’s sawdust clinging to the bare section of his neck, and he’s sure it’s all over his face too, because somehow, despite all of the latching mechanics of his helmet, any time he so much as breathes in the direction of a warehouse he’s blowing motes of all sorts of dust and grime from his nose into his cheap-ass paper towels for days after. Fuck his life.
He should’ve fought Dick harder for first dibs on the shower. It’s his own goddamn safehouse, too—and now he’s only gonna have the last dregs of hot water, if any at all. Screw Dick and his ages-long showers.
Jason feels gross. Sticky. Grimy. As if he has to crack through a layer of dried sweat like peeling wax just to bend his joints.
Now, Jason’s not disciplined according to the Big Bad Bat’s standards, but he is disciplined. Hell, he spent over three hours attaching a bomb to the bottom of the Batmobile years back. That took patience. Willpower.
Apparently, that level of discipline still isn’t enough to stay awake when you’re teetering the edge of overwhelming exhaustion—did he mention he hasn’t really been sleeping? One moment he’s settling his beer bottle onto the scratched linoleum floor at the base of the couch after a long swig(fuck if you think he’s got a coffee table) and settling back against the couch, then the next his vision’s blurring over and it’s lights out.
The distant hiss of the shower tap fuzzes out into white noise. He can still hear it, but it’s…Far. Like he’d never be able to reach the source even if he ran toward it.
The world around him is so shadowed and murky he can’t even make out his fingertips. And Jason dreads what he knows is coming. He locks his jaw tight.
Breathe, orders an echoing voice, overlapped like a chorus and hissing like it’s dripping from a snake’s split tongue, and so Jason does.
He inhales, and it’s like acid flooding his lungs. It burns, bursting across his nerves like a swarm of tiny needles. He chokes, drowning on the liquid flooding his nose and mouth and ears. His lungs hitch, screaming for air. He writhes, formless, and tries to cough up the invading substance.
But the disembodied voice commands breathe once more, and despite his mounting panic, the horror clawing at his chest, Jason does.
The burning liquid seeps further, churning in his stomach and tearing through his veins and pricking at his tear ducts.
His chest is impossibly tight. His lungs feel like they might burst.
Stop, stop, stop, Jason begs wordlessly, eyes darting around frantically and finding nothing.
Let me out, is the voice’s counter-offer. The words skitter across Jason’s skin, spreading gooseflesh in their wake.
I can’t, Jason pleads, and he thinks maybe he’s shaking his head. I can’t.
And there’s a moment where everything fades off into quiet, swallowed by a distant buzz that Jason can’t seem to remember the source of. Where was he before this? He needs to go back there. His stomach clenches, and he tries to heave the acid back up through his mouth. Get out, he begs, get out get out get out—
A displeased rumble echoes in Jason’s ears. It feels like it grows louder with each reverberation, so piercing Jason thinks it might cut straight through his eardrums and stab into his brain. He lurches.
Then: Breathe.
No. No. No.
And Jason tries to refuse but his lungs constrict again anyway, and his lips part to invite more acid along his tongue and down his scratchy, raw throat.
He knows he’s convulsing. He can’t see his body, can’t tell what’s up or down or left or right, or if he even has limbs here at all, but he feels the burn of his muscles twitching and tightening and tensing. His mouth is parted in a silent scream.
Son of the Pit, the snakelike voice booms. Obey.
He’s not sure if his vision is clear or blurry, or if his eyes are even open for that matter. He’s lost. Feels vaguely like he’s falling. Sinking. His head is spinning. His thoughts feel all fuzzy and torn, like paper disintegrating in water. He claws out for anything. There’s resistance against his disembodied form, like he’s submerged in Gotham Bay. He tries to steel himself and prepare for the next onslaught of burning liquid through his body as he says, No.
Insolent worm, it spits.
The two words spear into him like razor sharp barbs, needling at his brain, and as they root around his mind, slicing and pulling and tearing through obstacles without an ounce of mercy, Jason wonders if the pain alone will kill him again. He thrashes as it presses further, relentless, like it’s attempting to split his mind in half.
You belong to me.
The sharp thing in his mind is searching for something, burrowing into his brain, seeking the perfect lever that’ll make Jason bend. But Jason won’t. He fucking won’t.
Jason’s continued resistance seems to infuriate the thing coiling through him. Excruciating pain carves through his head, plucks at his optical nerves and makes everything in his mind split, like a deck of cards unfurling across a table.
And then the word rolls through the darkness again: Breathe.
No. No. No.
Let me go, Jason tries to scream, lungs and diaphragm spasming as the flood comes again, slicing through every part of him like jagged shards of ice. Let me go let me go let me go—
And then there’s a voice right in his ear, “Jason!”
Let me go let me go let me go—
“Wake the fuck up, Jason! God dammit—”
And then there’s artificial white light against the back of Jason’s eyelids and there’s air in his lungs and he nearly chokes on the suddenness of it. He sucks in a violent breath and jolts up—he was laying down?—and doubles over, crumpling to his hands and knees on the cold ground and heaving up the contents of his stomach. He gags and spits as the last of it hits the floor gracelessly.
He’s shuddering, shaking, spikes of panic racing through him in waves as he stares at the eerie green water splattered across the linoleum below him. It glows with a faint pulse of energy, almost flickering. He could almost swear it’s crawling toward his hands.
You belong to me.
And then hands snatch his shoulders, pulling him up a bit and to one side. Dick’s there, kneeling on the floor next to him.
Jason’s heart is still pounding hard against his ribs. He flicks his eyes back to the pool of Lazarus water he’d upheaved, but when he looks again, it’s nothing more than a puddle of indistinguishable stomach acid and beer.
Taking in another shuddering breathful of air and nearly melting at the immense relief of the simple action, Jason whips his head back over to Dick.
“What the fuck did you do?” he tries to shout. His voice is hardly more than a crackling croak. “Did you—fuckin’—put sleeping pills in my fuckin’ beer? What the fuck did you do? Why did I—”
“I didn’t do anything, Jason,” Dick’s voice is loud, almost too loud. Jason winces. “I didn’t touch your beer. You hadn’t even opened it when I went to shower, remember?”
Jason startles a bit. Takes in his surroundings. He’s in one of his safehouses on the south end of Gotham. Dick came with him; they’d planned to have an extremely late dinner together after they’d showered. Jason’s in his stripped-down uniform, still grimy as fuck.
Jason isn’t sure what he tries to say in reply. It just comes out as a shudder.
“You just fell asleep,” Dick says.
Jason gets up from the floor slowly. There’s still a tremor in his shoulders as he settles back onto the couch. Dick follows suit, and it’s at this moment that Jason realizes that Dick’s hair is significantly drenched, and he’s wearing nothing but sweatpants speckled with damp patches. Rivulets of water run down his upper body. It looks like he tumbled out of the shower, skipped drying off, and tugged on pants as a last-minute thought.
Maybe that’s exactly what happened. Something must’ve alerted him—Jason must’ve alerted him.
Jason’s throat feels scratchy. “So you…Heard something?”
“Heard something?” Dick asks, face warped with unmasked horror. “I heard you screaming, and—and choking!” Dick rakes his shaking fingers through his sopping-wet hair. “God, I thought you were having a fucking seizure, Jase. You were literally—”
“—I don’t need you to tell me what I looked like,” Jason bites out. He smooths his hands down his thighs. “I’m just gonna go shower.”
Dick stops him before he can even begin to stand. “No fucking way, Jase. You gotta tell me what the hell just happened.”
“It’s none of your goddamn business,” Jason snaps.
“I thought you were dying!” Dick nearly shouts.
“Yeah? Well, I’m not. I’m fine.”
“Like hell you are.” Dick gestures to the scene of the incident beside them, then down to the puddle of vomit that’s probably settling into the grooves of the floor as they speak. “That wasn’t normal. Even nightmares—I’ve never seen you have a nightmare like that. That was something else.”
“It’s none of your business,” Jason repeats. His mouth still tastes sour from the bile he spat up.
“It is when you freak the hell outta me like that!”
“Fuck off.”
“Is this why you won’t sleep? Is that what happens every time?”
“No, it’s—” and Jason feels some of his resolve breaking. He’s so tired. “It’s not every time.”
“But it’s happened before?” Dick presses.
Something thick clogs in Jason’s throat. It has happened before. And it’s gonna happen again. It’s gonna keep happening until it gets what it wants. Jason reaches up to pick at the skin of his bottom lip, but his hands are too jittery to have any success. “Yeah,” he admits, barely more than a whisper.
“Jay,” Dick says, voice suddenly much softer, “tell me what’s going on. Please.”
“I should clean up the fuckin’ puke,” Jason replies weakly.
“Jason,” Dick begs. “Please.”
Dick’s sapphire blue eyes are glistening with worry, and his brows are pinched upwards, creating a little crease between them. Jason listens to the faint hum of the bathroom fan.
“I don’t know what to do,” Jason says shakily, “I don’t know if there’s anything I can do.”
“If you tell me, I can help you figure that out,” Dick replies gently.
Jason stares at his brother, and presses his lips into a thin line. He doesn’t breathe for a moment. Holds out for something. A reason to keep this all to himself. When no sign from the divine comes, he forces himself to talk.
“The Pit,” he tells Dick. “I belong to it. I’m…Tied to it. Bound to it.”
Dick’s eyes widen slightly with something like fear mixed with surprise, but he just nods mutely, and waits for Jason to continue.
“It wants me to—to—” he stutters, and rests a hand on the back of his neck, tugging at a couple of the curls that rest just above. The pain of it grounds him, somewhat. He licks his lips and continues, “It wants me to give in. To go mad, or whatever the fuck.”
“But you’ve been resisting,” Dick points out. “You’re stronger than it, Jay. You’ve always been stronger.”
“But I think it’s working.” Jason’s voice cracks at the admission. “I think it’s makin’ me go crazy. It’s getting in my head, Dick. Pullin’ stuff apart. Lookin’ and takin’ and rearrangin’—”
“We won’t let it,” Dick says, and he has a sureness to his voice that Jason wishes he could believe in. “We know plenty of people who can help. Zee, Doctor Fate, Constantine…”
Jason scoffs. “As if I need more people tearin’ through my head.”
“It’s an option,” Dick tries. “And you’d have full control over everything. The moment you said no, they’d back off.”
“Maybe,” Jason mutters halfheartedly.
Dick leans down and picks up Jason’s discarded beer bottle gingerly from the floor. Taps his fingers along the glass neck of it. Tink, tink, tink. He plays out a short tune on it before asking, “How long has this been happening?”
“A while,” Jason answers hollowly. “Months, technically. But it got real bad over this past week. Almost every time I sleep now, it tries to fuck with me.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone?” Dick asks, his tone almost pained. “And you weren’t gonna tell anyone?”
Jason shrugs one shoulder. “What good would it do, really?”
“We don’t know yet. You don’t know what’ll happen until you try, right? There’s plenty of things still on the table. You’re not alone, Jay.”
Jason’s next exhale comes out with a shudder. His chest feels heavy, yet also, weirdly, carved clean. Maybe he’s been hollowed out to create a cavity for the madness that’s gonna swallow him soon. “You don’t need to make me feel better. What’s gonna happen is gonna happen. I got dealt a shit hand as a kid, I come back, and the game’s all rigged for me to lose again. It’s whatever. I had an okay run in the meantime, I guess.”
Dick’s narrowed eyes are suddenly far more intense. “Don’t talk like you’re gonna die. I won’t let that happen. Bruce won’t let that happen.”
That reassurance didn’t do me any good last time, Jason wants to say, but he figures that comment would drag this conversation into the pits of hell, so he keeps it to himself. He sighs. “Maybe I won’t die,” he says dryly. “Maybe I’ll just go crazy, an’ you’ll hafta throw me into Arkham with all the other fuckin’ wackos.”
Dick looks wounded. He brushes the expression off quickly, however, and plasters it over with another look of determination. “That’s not going to happen. We’re gonna figure this out, okay?”
Jason raises a brow. “I can’t tell how much of that you really believe, and how much of it you’re saying just to try and make us both feel better.”
With a sad smile, Dick admits, “I’m not sure, honestly. But I’m serious about figuring this out. We’re detectives—figuring stuff out is what we do.”
“I’m more about killin’ people,” Jason says, deadpan.
Dick looks unimpressed.
“I’m fuckin’ with you,” Jason tells him.
“I know,” Dick replies.
There’s a beat, then Jason asks, “Can I shower now? I feel disgusting.”
Dick’s mouth twists with hesitance, like he’s worried Jason’ll disappear for good the moment he leaves Dick’s sight. His fingers resume tapping over the beer bottle. “Can I…Contact Zee about this while you do that? See if she’s got any ideas?”
Jason lets out a vague hum as he pushes to stand. “Sure, I guess.”
“Cool,” Dick says a little awkwardly, as if he wants to add something more.
“Cool,” Jason echoes.
As Jason rounds the couch and heads for the bathroom, there’s a short intake of breath, and then Dick calls, “Love you, Jay.”
Jason snorts. Sappy bastard. “Right back at you, Dickface.”
And then he closes the bathroom door.