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“Hey, Dames.” Damian froze and it took Tim too long to realize that it was because he’d called him by a nickname. But it had...felt right. He was too tired to pretend that he and Damian still hated each other. They’d wasted so much time, he realized, keeping their distance, playing enemies. They were brothers, had been for years. And it was too late, now, to take advantage of that. To actually be brothers.
“Drake…”
“Hey, you gotta go. They’ll be…” He had to stop to hack wetly. “They’ll be back and you can’t be here when they come. You don’t have time to drag me out of here—it’ll slow you down too much. They’ll catch us both, then. Go. You can get help and come back for me. That’s the only way we might both get out of this.”
“Drake, I don’t think you have that long—”
“Either you leave me and we have a chance,” His voice was getting weaker, his vision spotty. “Or you stay and we both die.”
“I can protect you.”
“No. You can’t.”
Damian knew it was true. He’d seen them fight—he was outmatched. They both were, even if they were working together, and he knew it.
“Go, Damian. Get help. If I’m lucky, they won’t bother to kill me. I’ll be dead whether they kill me or leave me, my only chance is if you get back with help before that happens.”
They were coming. Tim couldn’t hear them over the ringing or the blood pounding in his ears, but he could tell when Damian’s head shot up.
“Damian...I’m sorry I haven’t made more of an effort to be your brother. I wish I had time to try again. Don’t let me be the reason you die. Let this be our way of making it up to each other. Go.”
Damian wanted to respond, Tim could see it in his face and his hesitation, the twitch of his lips, but the sounds grew louder and he took one last look at Tim before he ran.
Tim had been right. They gave him a few parting kicks for good measure, laughed, and left him for dead.
He faded in and out. The pain became his whole world. He couldn’t think, or breathe, he could only feel.
The next time he came back to himself, the pain was gone, and there was a boy standing over him. A very familiar boy. Maybe fifteen, teal eyes, dark hair, a shit-eating grin.
“Jason?
“Hey, baby bird.”
“What...how are you here? Why are you…”
“Why am I baby me?” He laughed. It was the kind of laugh he hadn’t heard come out of Jason’s mouth in a very, very long time. When Jason had first come back, his voice was all mockery, a nasty, sneering growl. When he found himself again, it was still a deep, gravelly thing, but there was no malice in it. Some of the old Jason peeked through the cracks when he laughed sometimes. There was a heaviness to it, a weight that would never lift, but it was unequivocally Jason.
But this Jason’s laugh...was bright, and brash, and light. Tim’s Robin.
Tim tried to nod, but all he managed was a twitch. Jason understood, anyway.
“I am the ghost of Christmas past!” he laughed.
A Dickens joke. Definitely Jason.
“Seriously though,” Jason amended. “That is what I am, sort of, from what I can tell. A ghost.”
“But you’re...but Jason isn’t dead.”
“No, you’re right. But I was. Didn’t you notice I came back...different?”
“Dying will do that. Trauma and the Lazarus Pit didn’t do you...didn’t do him any favors.”
Ghost-Jason hummed. “That’s part of it. But do you think the Pit lets you go for free?”
“Of course not. Isn’t the anger, the loss of control, the price you pay?”
Ghost-Jason scoffed. “No. That’s just its curse. A bonus. The price is your soul. Or part of it, anyway. I’m the piece that broke away. Not sure what part you could consider me. I suspect I’m the innocent part, or maybe I’m just the part that remembers the good times, remembers being Robin, remembers all the fun I had with Bruce. I’ve suspected maybe that’s the real price—happy memories. Maybe that’s part of why other-me is so angry. He doesn’t know anything but pain. He hasn’t told anyone, but his memory is spotty. He worries about it a lot. There’re gaps, here and there. There are a lot of memories from before he died that he’s lost completely—he can feel them missing.
“He even gave one away once. One of the only ones he had. The happiest one,” he said with a sad smile. “I can’t tell if he’s better off without it or not.”
“Why are you here? How can I see you?”
“He’d want me to be here, since he can’t be. And I wanted to be here for you. Comfort, moral support, whatever. I’m Robin, helping people is what I do! Especially you, Tim Drake—we're brothers! And I remember you, the tiny idiot with the camera. I saw you, you know, sometimes. I never said anything. B would have made you go home, and I could see the pure joy you got from watching us. I watched out for you, made sure you stayed safe, when I could. Other-me doesn’t remember. He would have been proud of you for becoming Robin, if he did. I’m proud of you. And grateful. You saved B when I couldn't be there. You saved him. Grown-up me is stupid for being angry about that. I’d kick his ass if I were...corporeal, but what can you do?” he said with a shrug.
“And you can see me because you died, Timmy.” He said it calmly, as though he wasn't just telling Tim the worst thing you could ever tell a person.
“I...oh. Okay. What happens now?”
“Can’t really say, to be honest. My death was different, I guess, than normal people’s. I don't remember the dying part. When I went into the Pit, I just got ripped to pieces and left behind to wander. But you don’t have to worry, anyway, you haven’t been dead long—just a few minutes. Your heart’s stopped, but brain death takes a while. You’ll probably even get away without any permanent brain damage. B is coming. He was already coming, he always comes—sometimes he’s too late, but he always comes. Damian’s just speeding up the process, leading him back here to you. You made the right decision sending him away. It kept him safe, and it’s going to keep you alive.”
He looked over at something. “There they are now. Do me a favor, when you get home? Ask stupid-me if he remembers you. Suicidal-Camera-Kid, that’s what I called you. You know, as an endearment,” he said with a sly grin.
“Uh. Sure.”
“I gotta go. I hope I don’t see you again for a long time, Camera Kid.”
He turned away, but Tim called after him. “Wait! Do you always just wander around on your own?”
Something flickered over ghost-Jason’s face.
“Yeah. I guess I do.”
“Doesn’t it get lonely?”
He shrugged. “I’m used to it now.”
“Do you think maybe you can go back to stupid-you? Hang around him, keep an eye out for him? Maybe you can get back to him, someday. Maybe staying close will help him remember. Or at least, maybe he’ll feel you nearby. Maybe it will help him.”
Ghost-Jason tilted his head, and hummed. “That’s not a terrible idea.” He smiled. “He’s always surprised at how clever you are,” he said. “You can totally tease him for that. He'll deny it, but he’ll really be paranoid about how you figured it out. He'll think it's starting to show."
“I hope I remember this,” Tim said. “I think it’ll make me feel better, too, knowing you’re nearby. I hope it makes him a little happier.”
“Me too, Timmy. You should go to sleep, now. It’ll make the next part easier. Coming back hurts.”
Ghost-Jason walked away, and Tim closed his eyes.
——
It didn't hurt when Tim came back. When he woke up, he was in his old bed at the Manor. Damian was sitting next to him, asleep in a chair. He looked exhausted. Tim wondered how long he'd been unconscious, and how long Damian had been awake, watching over him.
"Dames," he croaked.
Damian's eyes snapped open, and he rubbed at them hastily. "Drake!"
"You saved me?"
"I...no, it was father. You—you were…" His voice broke uncharacteristically. "I let you die."
"No, Dames. You brought Bruce to me. Thank you."
"Tt." Damian looked away. "I'll go get father. And I'll bring you some water."
Tim had a lot of work to do, when he was feeling better. He had a whole relationship to build and repair with Damian. And he had half a lifetime of memories to help Jason regain. He was already formulating a plan—interviews with Dick and Bruce and Alfred. Old pictures. Ones he'd taken, and ones he was sure Alfred and the rest had taken. He'd put together a whole book for Jason.
A lot of work. But it was worth it, for his brothers.
——
"Hey Jase. This is going to sound strange, but...do you...remember me?"
"Uuuh...yes? You're literally standing in front of me. Did you accidentally get high from mixing the wrong chemicals in your lab again?"
Tim rolled his eyes. "No, and that was one time. I mean... do you remember me from before? From when you were Robin."
Jason stiffened at his words.
"I think you saw me. I think you protected me when I was following you."
"I don't...why do you think that?"
"Does the name Suicidal-Camera-Kid mean anything to you?"
Jason blinked, his brow furrowing.
"I don't…" His eyes flicked to something behind Tim's shoulder, as if he saw something. Tim glanced back, but there was nothing there. He looked back at Jason. "Actually...I think maybe...maybe I do?" He looked shocked. "How did I ever...shit. Shit, Tim. How did I forget you? You little idiot, I kept you from getting your ass handed to you so many times, you were such a pain in the ass. Fuck. Fuck, you...and you became...Tim, I…" His voice wavered and his eyes glistened. "I'm so…"
Tim smiled. "It's okay. You can make it up to me. I have a project I'm working on. When I'm finished, will you look at it with me?"