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The orthodontic surgery office smelled like antiseptic and fear, with an undertone of industrial coffee from the waiting room machine. Jason's knee bounced against his will—a nervous tic he'd never quite managed to kill even after dying and coming back. The muscles in his jaw kept clenching, making the already-tender wisdom teeth throb with each unconscious movement.
He hated this. Hated every second of being here.
The paperback in his hands—some noir detective thing he'd grabbed at a bookstore without really looking at the cover—wasn't holding his attention worth a damn. He'd read the same paragraph four times. Something about a dame in a red dress walking into the detective's office with trouble written all over her. The words kept sliding off his brain like water off glass, refusing to stick, refusing to mean anything.
Jason forced his eyes back to the page. Tried again. The dame said something. The detective said something back. It didn't matter. None of it mattered because his brain was too busy cataloging exits and analyzing threats and running through worst-case scenarios.
He hated this. Hated surgery, hated being put under, hated the loss of control. His fingers tightened on the book's spine, the cheap cardboard crackling under the pressure. Of all the things the Pit had done—healing the brain damage, fixing the malnutrition, repairing the bones that had been shattered by a crowbar—replacing his missing teeth felt like a cheap joke. Like the universe was laughing at him.
Here, have your teeth back. They'll just grow in wrong and painful and you'll have to do this all over again.
He'd gotten here early—twenty minutes before his appointment—checked in with the receptionist using his current favorite alias, and planted himself in the corner chair farthest from the door. Strategic positioning. Old habits that would never die because they'd kept him alive too many times to count.
From here he could see everyone who came in. Had his back to the wall—never sit with your back exposed, Bruce had taught him that. Had a clear line to both exits—the main door and the back hallway that probably led to the surgical rooms and a service exit.
The waiting room was decorated in that aggressively cheerful way that medical offices favored, like brightness could somehow cancel out the fear. Motivational posters about smiling—Smile! It's contagious!—with stock photos of diverse people laughing at salads. A TV in the corner playing the Food Network on mute, some chef doing something elaborate with a whisk. The sound was off but the closed captions were running, half a second behind the action.
A middle-aged woman across from him flipped through a magazine without seeming to see it, her eyes glazed and distant. Probably nervous about her own appointment. An elderly man dozed in the corner, his chin dropping to his chest every few seconds before jerking back up with a soft snort. The receptionist typed something on her computer, the click of keys steady and rhythmic.
Normal. Everything was aggressively, painfully normal.
Jason tried to focus on his book again. The detective was lighting a cigarette now. Or maybe that was three paragraphs ago. Jason had lost track.
His jaw clenched again and pain shot through his wisdom teeth, sharp enough to make him wince. He forced himself to relax. Breathe. This was fine. This was a normal medical procedure. People did this all the time. Nothing was going to go wrong.
Except everything always went wrong.
A draft of cold January air swept in, carrying the smell of car exhaust and old snow that hadn't quite melted yet, the grey slush that lined Gotham's streets this time of year. Jason looked up automatically—tactical awareness, always aware of who was coming and going—ready to scowl at whatever idiot was letting in all the winter cold.
His eyes landed on the newcomer and his blood turned to ice.
No. No, no, no—
Of all the people in Gotham. Of all the dental offices. Of all the fucking days—
Jason immediately hid his face behind the book he was failing to read, holding it up high enough to block his face but low enough to keep the door in his peripheral vision. His heart was hammering against his ribs. His hands had gone numb around the book's spine.
Of all people…
Bruce Wayne walked in like he owned the place—which, knowing Bruce, he probably did. Owned the building or the practice or had some controlling interest. The man was wearing a expensive winter coat that probably cost more than Jason's motorcycle, tailored perfectly to his frame. Civilian clothes. Civilian posture. Bruce Wayne, not Batman, but Jason could see the way he moved. Could see the assessment in his eyes as they swept the room, cataloging, analyzing, filing away every detail.
Those eyes would land on Jason any second now. Would recognize him. And then—
"Checking in for Timothy Drake," Bruce said to the receptionist, his voice carrying that easy, public charm he used when he was being Brucie Wayne, billionaire philanthropist.
Timothy Drake. The replacement. Of course. Of course they were here for the same fucking reason. Because apparently the universe had decided that today.
Jason kept the book up, eyes fixed on words that had stopped being English. His peripheral vision was working overtime. He saw Bruce turn slightly, scanning the waiting room with the kind of casual awareness that looked natural but was anything but.
He saw the exact moment Tim noticed him.
The kid had been trailing behind Bruce, probably glued to his phone or something, but now he went completely still. Even from across the room, Jason could see it—the way Tim's shoulders drew up tight, defensive. The way his whole body tensed like he was preparing for an attack.
Good. The kid should be scared. Should remember what Jason had done, what Jason was capable of. Should remember that Jason wasn't some ghost story anymore, wasn't safely dead and buried. He was here and alive and dangerous.
Except Jason didn't feel dangerous right now. He felt trapped.
Tim's eyes met Jason's for just a micro-second before Jason could jerk the book higher. Just a flash of recognition. Fear and calculation and something else Jason couldn't name.
Fuck.
How could this happen? Through all his planning, all his groundwork, all the tedious habits he'd developed—avoiding cameras, changing routes, never using the same safehouse twice in a row, staying off the grid—all of it to avoid exactly this. A chance encounter. A moment where the careful distance he'd maintained shattered like glass.
All for it to go to shit in a dental office waiting room.
Just pretend you didn't see me, Jason thought desperately, willing it at Tim with the force of prayer. Just keep quiet, whatever you do don't tell—
"Jason?" Bruce's voice. Careful, measured.
Fuck. Of course the replacement ratted on him. Of course he couldn't keep his mouth shut for five seconds.
Jason kept the book up, eyes fixed on words he wasn't reading. The dame in the red dress was doing something. Saying something. He had no idea what. His peripheral vision caught Bruce's approach—expensive shoes, probably the Italian leather ones Alfred kept polished to a mirror shine, moving with that characteristic silent grace that was unnerving on a man that size.
Tim's voice was conspicuously absent, but Jason could feel those calculating eyes on him. When he dared a glance over the edge of the book, the kid had gone very still in his chair across the room. His shoulders were drawn up tight, his jaw set, and even from across the room Jason could see the way Tim's fingers had curled into a fist against his leg.
The replacement was probably already running through scenarios in that hyperactive detective brain. Trying to figure out what Jason was doing here, whether it was a threat. Whether Jason was armed. Whether—
He didn’t even have a single knife on him at the moment. But that wasn't the point. The point was that he wasn't here for them. Wasn't here to cause trouble. Was just here for the same stupid mundane reason they were—fucking wisdom teeth.
Jason's fingers tightened on the book and lowered it just enough to meet Bruce's eyes over the top edge. Tried to keep his expression neutral. Bored. Like running into your former father figure in a dental office was perfectly normal and not at all the worst possible timing.
Bruce stood there, three feet away, close enough that Jason could see every detail of his face. The lines around his eyes that seemed deeper than Jason remembered. The grey at his temples that definitely hadn't been there before. The way his jaw was set, tense, the muscle jumping slightly.
Bruce looked older. Tired. But his eyes were sharp, analyzing, taking in every detail of Jason's appearance with the kind of focus that used to make Jason feel safe and now just made him feel exposed.
Bruce wasn't Batman right now. He was wearing the Brucie Wayne mask, but underneath Jason could see the gears turning. Could see the assessment happening. The threat evaluation.
And Bruce, in turn, was looking at Jason. Not Red Hood. Just Jason. Jason in civilian clothes and a paperback novel and probably looking exactly like what he was—a nervous patient waiting for oral surgery.
The cognitive dissonance must have been staggering.
"Jason…" Bruce started, and his voice was doing that thing. That careful, gentle thing that he used for scared witnesses and traumatized victims. "Whatever it is you're planning—"
"Mr. Peters? They're ready for you."
The nurse's voice cut through the tension like a knife, bright and professional and completely oblivious to the drama unfolding in her waiting room. She stood in the doorway to the back, clipboard in hand, smiling that practiced dental-office smile.
Jason took a deep breath, steadying himself. His heart was still racing. His hands were shaking slightly. He forced them to still.
This was fine. He just had to get up, walk past Bruce, go through that door, and then he'd be in surgery. Unconscious. Safe from this conversation for at least an hour.
Jason slowly stood up, his movements careful and controlled. Bruce took a small step back, giving him space, but his expression shifted. Confusion deepening with an edge of suspicion creeping in at the corners of his eyes. Like he expected Jason to pull out explosives or take the office hostage or do something equally dramatic and violent.
Like Jason was a bomb waiting to go off.
Fair enough. Jason had earned that suspicion. Had earned the way Bruce was watching him like a threat. Had earned all of it with his actions over the past six months. The fear in Tim's eyes. The tension in Bruce's shoulders. The way the receptionist had her hand hovering near the phone, probably ready to call security.
He'd earned all of it.
"One moment, miss—" Bruce started, one hand rising like he was going to—what? Grab Jason's arm? Stop him? Restrain him?
Jason's whole body tensed, ready to fight or flee, adrenaline spiking hard and fast.
"Leave it alone old man, I'm not here to—" Jason stopped himself from finishing that sentence. From saying 'I'm not here to cause trouble' or 'I'm not planning anything' because that would just make it sound more suspicious. Would just confirm that Bruce was right to be suspicious.
Here they were, two civilians in a waiting room. Not Batman and Red Hood. Not the Dark Knight and the crime lord. Just Bruce Wayne and Jason Todd, and Jason—for all his hatred of Batman and the replacement and everything they stood for—he wasn't mentally prepared for a confrontation like this. Not without his guns or mask. Not without the armor of Red Hood between them.
It made it feel too real. Made it feel like he was still just a kid and Bruce was still his dad and they were having a fight about something normal.
But it wasn't normal. None of this was normal. Jason had died. And Bruce had moved on. Had replaced him. Had let his murderer live.
Nothing about this was normal.
Jason gritted his teeth together, pain shooting through his jaw from the pressure on his wisdom teeth. He decided it would be easier to just appease Bruce's suspicions. To give him something. Some explanation that would let Jason escape this conversation and get through that door.
"They fucking grew back," Jason muttered to Bruce, gesturing vaguely at his face. At the reason he was here.
And that's all the explanation he gets. That's all Jason was willing to give.
Let Bruce puzzle out what that meant. Let him wonder about the implications.
Jason made his way toward the door to the back, his movements controlled despite the adrenaline still flooding his system. The receptionist stood aside, clipboard in hand, still smiling that professional dental-office smile like nothing unusual was happening.
Like she hadn't just witnessed a confrontation between a dead boy and the man who'd failed to avenge him.
Then he was through the door, leaving Bruce standing there in the waiting room.
If he'd looked back—if he'd had the courage or the stupidity to look back—he would have seen Bruce's mouth hanging slightly open, his hand still half-raised, frozen mid-gesture like a paused video. Would have seen the way Bruce's eyes had gone wide, processing. Would have seen the exact moment the implications clicked into place.
He would have seen Tim's eyes go wide too, the fear in them mixing with something that might have been curiosity. Might have been concern. The kid was too smart for his own good, already putting pieces together, already adding this to his mental file on Red Hood.
But Jason didn't look back. Kept walking. Followed the nurse down the hallway with its sterile white walls and the smell of antiseptic getting stronger. Let the door close behind him with a soft click, putting a barrier between himself and the waiting room and Bruce and Tim and all of it.
His hands were still shaking.
The nurse was saying something cheerful about the procedure, about how it would be quick, about how he'd be asleep and wouldn't feel a thing. Jason nodded in the right places, made appropriate sounds, let her lead him to the surgical room.
But his brain was still back in that waiting room. Still seeing Bruce's face. Still feeling the weight of that recognition.
Six months. Six months of careful planning, of staying hidden, of avoiding exactly this kind of confrontation. And it had all fallen apart because his fucking wisdom teeth grew back.
The universe really did have a sense of humor.
Jason sat in the surgical chair, let the nurse put the blood pressure cuff on his arm, let her ask him questions about allergies and medications. He answered automatically, his voice flat and mechanical.
The surgeon came in, introducing herself with a smile. Dr. Lore, she said. She'd be taking care of him today. Nothing to worry about. Just a simple extraction. He'd be asleep and it would be over before he knew it.
Jason nodded. Sure. Simple extraction. Nothing to worry about.
The IV went in. Cold liquid started flowing into his veins. The surgeon was saying something about counting backward from ten.
Jason's last conscious thought before the drugs pulled him under was that he'd made a mistake. Should have left. Should have rescheduled. Should have done anything other than stay.
Should have known that nothing in his life was ever simple.
The world went dark and quiet, and Jason let it take him.
The world was soft around the edges when Jason surfaced. Cotton-mouthed. Floating. His tongue felt thick and foreign, probing at the gauze packed into his cheeks. Everything tasted like copper and chemical numbness.
The recovery room ceiling tiles were white with little gray flecks. They made patterns if he stared long enough. That one looked like a rabbit. That one looked like a gun. That one looked like—
"—doing just fine, Mr. Peters. Don't try to talk too much because of the gauze."
A nurse swam into view above him. Kind eyes. The sort of eyes that had seen too many people coming out of anesthesia to be surprised by anything. Her scrubs had little cartoon teeth on them. Smiling teeth. Jason's brain decided this was hilarious for reasons he couldn't articulate.
"Here, want to see them?" She held up a small plastic cup, rattling it slightly.
Jason's unfocused eyes tried to make sense of it. Inside were four teeth, bloody at the roots, looking like tiny grotesque trophies. His wisdom teeth. Again.
Wait, he did do this already, didn’t he?
"Grew back," Jason mumbled through the gauze, vindicated. He'd been right. Take that, medical science.
"Well, that's very unusual," the nurse said cheerfully, in the tone of someone who'd been trained to agree with everything patients said while coming out of anesthesia. "Most people only get them once!"
"'M special," Jason announced, with the gravity of someone delivering a crucial piece of intelligence.
"You certainly are, sweetheart."
The nurse moved aside to check something on a monitor—beeping, steady, probably his heart rate—and Jason's unfocused eyes landed on a figure in the chair beside the recovery bed.
Bruce.
Bruce, sitting in one of the waiting chairs that nobody's spine was shaped for, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, watching Jason with an expression that Jason's drugged brain couldn't quite decode. Worried? Confused? Calculating? All three?
"That's my dad," Jason announced to the nurse, words slurring together as he pointed at Bruce.
The nurse looked over, smiled that warm professional smile. "Oh yeah? You look like your dad."
Bruce made a face, a face that was… a face? What was he thinking?
“Yeah…” Jason blinked heavily.
The nurse turned away to write a few things down, and Jason quietly said, "B, I don't think she knows I'm adopted. Don't make her feel dumb."
Bruce's expression did something complicated again. His mouth opened. Closed. His hands tightened where they were clasped. Opened again.
"Jason—"
"It's okay, Bruce. She doesn't know. We don have ta tell her." Jason reassured him.
The nurse was writing something on her chart. She was smiling, so Jason felt like he didn’t want to make her feel bad. She was nice.
A few moments passed. The world tilted pleasantly. Jason stared at the ceiling tiles, which were definitely moving now in interesting patterns, swirling and reforming. He could see faces in them. That one looked like Alfred. That one looked like—like…
"Bruce?"
Jason found Bruce’s face again… he was right here.
"Yes, Jason?"
"Am I dead?"
The nurse laughed, a bright sound. Bruce didn't. His face went very still, and Jason's drug-soaked brain registered that he'd said something wrong but couldn't quite figure out what.
"No, Jay," Bruce said, and his voice was so carefully, carefully controlled. "You didn't die. You got your wisdom teeth removed."
That didn't sound right. Jason frowned, trying to piece together reality through the fog. The memories were slippery, sliding away when he tried to grab them. "No... but I did die? Or am I still dead?"
He looked down at his hands, turning them over slowly. The motion was fascinating. "I have hands. Do dead people have hands?"
The nurse started explaining something to Bruce about confusion and anesthesia being normal, but Bruce looked wrong. Pale. Tight around the eyes, white at the corners of his mouth. Pain written in the set of his shoulders.
Jason remembered suddenly—a flash of clarity through the drugs like lightning through clouds—and tried to fix it. Had to fix it. Bruce looked like he was hurting.
"No, I'm not dead anymore." The words felt important. "B, I remember now. I had to break free from my coffin like a zombie. I punched through the wood and the dirt and everything."
He made punching motions that were more like gentle waves through syrup. Bruce's face was doing that thing again, the horrified thing, eyes going wide and dark. That wasn’t what Jason wanted to happen, now Bruce looks worse than before.
The nurse had stopped writing on her clipboard, “Well, I’ll excuse myself for a bit to check in on Mr. Drake. He should be waking up soon.”
Jason tried to think hard, how to make Bruce stop making that face, oh right!
"No, Bruce, it's okay now. All my fingernails grew back—see?" Jason held up his hands, wiggling his fingers in Bruce's face. Bruce flinched back slightly. "They fell off in the coffin when I was getting out, but then grew back. Then the green goop water fixed me. The green water fixed everything. Even my teeth! That's why they grew back. It was the green water."
Bruce stood abruptly, the plastic chair scraping against linoleum. He moved closer to Jason, close enough that Jason could see every detail of his face—he looked different than before… before what? Jason’s thoughts were confused.
"The... green water?" Bruce repeated, his voice very quiet, very controlled. Too controlled.
"Yeah! In the—the—" Jason's face scrunched up, trying to remember. "The big bathtub. In the desert. With Ra's. You know Ra's, right Bruce? Kinda dramatic. Lots of swords."
Bruce was staring at him now, really staring, and Jason's drug-fogged brain registered that something was happening, something important. Bruce leaned in closer, so close Jason could see his own reflection in Bruce's eyes.
"Jason," Bruce said slowly, carefully, like he was testing the words. "Your eyes..."
"Mmm?" Jason blinked up at him, trying to focus.
"They're green."
Jason wasn't sure what Bruce was trying to get at.
"I got good eyes. Pretty eyes. Dick said so once." Jason assured him. That was important.
"No, Jason. They're—" Bruce's hand came up like he was going to touch Jason's face, then stopped, hovering. "The Lazarus Pit. You're talking about the Lazarus Pit."
Two neurons made a connection in the fog.
"That's what it's called! Lazarus! Did you know I came back from the dead, Bruce?" He said it with the excitement of sharing interesting news. Fun facts. "And the pit made my teeth grow back. Who knew!"
He started giggling, the sound bubbling up from his chest. Who knew teeth could grow back? Who knew death was temporary? Who knew the universe had such a weird sense of humor?
"Who knew," he repeated, dissolving into more giggles.
"Jason." Bruce's hand finally landed on Jason's shoulder, grip tight. Almost too tight. Like he was trying to make sure Jason was real. Solid. There.
Jason got distracted looking at his hands again. He turned them over, examining his palms. The lines there were fascinating, swirling and intersecting like a map. Like a maze. "These are good hands. Very hand-like."
"Jason, look at me." Bruce's voice had an edge now. Something sharp under the careful control.
But Jason's hands were more interesting. "Very hand-like hands," he repeated, wiggling his fingers. Ten of them. All working. All present.
Bruce was still staring at him though, and there was something in his expression that Jason's drugged brain couldn't parse. Something bigger than shock. Something that looked almost like—what?
His hand was still on Jason's shoulder, and it was shaking harder now. Or Jason was shaking. Hard to tell. The whole world felt like it was vibrating slightly, everything moving at frequencies Jason could almost hear.
"The Lazarus Pit," Bruce said again, like he was testing how the words tasted. "You were in the Lazarus Pit."
"It heals things then makes you mad! And also teeth, apparently. Who knew!" Jason said it cheerfully, proud of himself for remembering. "The pit brings back everything. You should try it, Bruce. You could get your appendix back."
Bruce blinked, "I still have my appendix, Jason."
"Oh. Well that's good. Mine's gone. Got it out when I was eight." Jason's face scrunched in concentration. "Do you think it grew back? Did the pit give me a new appendix? We should check. Is there a way to check? Can we X-ray it?"
Bruce pressed his fingers against his eyes, like he had a headache. He probably did. Jason felt vaguely bad about that, but the feeling was distant, muffled by layers of drugs and gauze and the pleasant floaty sensation of not being in control of his own brain.
"They're going to bring Tim in here for a while," Bruce told him, clearly trying to redirect. Trying to get the conversation back to something manageable. His hand was still on Jason's shoulder. He hadn't let go. "Until you're both good to go."
"Tim?" Jason tested the name. The 'm' buzzed funny in his numb mouth. Interesting sensation.
"Tiiiimmmm?" He said it again, dragging out the sound, feeling how it vibrated. "Timmmmmmm. Tim-Tim-Timothy. That's fun to say."
The name bounced around in his mouth like a marble. Tim-Tim-Timothy.
"Who's that?"
Bruce's expression did something new. Something that looked almost like pain. "They're getting your brother."
Jason's drug-addled brain struggled with this information. Brother. He had a brother. That was news. Important news.
Jason was shocked, "I have a brother?"
"You have three brothers."
"I HAVE THREE BROTHERS?" Jason tried to sit up. Bruce gently pushed him back down, "Bruce! You didn't tell me! When did this happen? Did you adopt more kids while I was dead? How long was I dead? Do they know about the green bathtub?"
The questions tumbled out, each one more urgent than the last. This was crucial information. He had brothers. Multiple brothers. Three whole brothers.
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please stop calling it that."
"It should have bubbles. All good bathtubs have bubbles. Maybe it would make me less angry if there were bubbles." Jason was on a roll now, the thoughts tumbling out faster than his numb mouth could form them.
He considered this. The pit. With bubbles. Like a bath. A nice, relaxing, resurrection bath with bubble bath.
"Maybe lavender scented," he added. "Lavender is calming."
Before Bruce could respond—and the expression on his face suggested he didn't have a response—there was movement at the door. Another gurney was wheeled in, and some kid was on it, small and pale under the harsh lights, his cheeks already showing the beginning of swelling.
For a moment, he was quiet, blinking slowly at the ceiling with unfocused eyes. Then his face started to crumple, features scrunching up, and he started crying—small hitching sobs that shook his narrow shoulders.
"Bruce," the kid sobbed, the name coming out wet and thick. "Why did they take my organs? Did you have to sell them? Are we poor now?"
Jason could see it even through his drug haze—the way his hands were clutching at the thin blanket, the way his breathing was hitching, his voice mixing with confusion.
"Tim, no—" Bruce moved between the beds faster than Jason could track, his attention splitting. "Nobody took your organs. You got your wisdom teeth out."
"But I can feel it," Tim wailed, one hand coming up to touch his swollen cheeks, fingers probing gently at the tender flesh. "There's holes! In my face! My organs are gone!"
"Those are just the sockets where your teeth were—"
"MY FACE ORGANS!" Tim's voice cracked on the words.
Jason stared at the newcomer, he was slightly familiar?
"Why are you crying?" Jason asked.
Tim turned his head to look at Jason, and Jason could see the flicker of fear in those red-rimmed eyes, the way Tim's whole body tensed despite the drugs, the way his breathing stuttered. But the drugs were stronger than the fear, and Tim just kept crying.
"I don't know why I'm crying!" Tim wailed, which made him cry harder, tears streaming down his swollen cheeks. "I'm just so sad! Everything is sad! The ceiling is sad! That clock is sad!"
He pointed at the wall clock with a shaking hand, his whole arm trembling with the effort and emotion.
"Why is it so sad, Bruce?"
Bruce looked at the clock. It was a standard medical office clock. Round. White. Black numbers. Completely neutral.
He looked back at Tim, clearly having no answer.
"It knows what it did," Tim said darkly, his voice dropping to a whisper, and then immediately burst into fresh tears.
Jason's drugged brain decided this was hilarious. The clock knew what it did. What did the clock do? He stared at it, trying to figure out its crimes.
"Ohh right, the replacement," Jason said, the recognition finally clicking. That's who Tim was. The kid who took his place.
"Jason, knock it off," Bruce warned.
But Jason couldn't remember what he'd said. Had he said something wrong? The thoughts were slippery.
"I'm just so sad," Tim insisted through his tears, his voice thick with gauze and emotion. "And my face organs are gone and Jason hates me and—and—I think I'm hungry but I can't feel my mouth. Bruce, where's my mouth?"
Bruce's mouth twitched despite everything. Almost a smile. Almost. "It's right there, Tim. On your face."
Tim's hands flew up to his face, patting frantically at his cheeks, his lips, his chin. His movements were uncoordinated, clumsy.
"Oh. There it is. But I can't feel it!" His eyes widened, genuine panic setting in. "It's there but I can't feel it!"
"That's the anesthesia—"
"What if it never comes back?" Tim's eyes were huge and wet and terrified. "What if I never feel my mouth again? How will I eat? How will I talk? Bruce, I'll have to learn sign language! Do you know sign language?"
"Tim, your feeling will come back—"
"I could be a mime," Tim continued, the thought clearly horrifying him. "Is that what you want, Bruce? A mime son? I'll be trapped in invisible boxes forever! I'll have to wear the striped shirt! The white face paint!" He was fully spiraling now, his voice getting higher with each word.
“Mimes are better than clowns though.” Jason reasoned.
Everyone was worried about mimes but clowns were clearly worse. Much worse. The worst.
Jason hoped that the replacement would understand his hatred of clowns. Why did Jason hate clowns again? There was a reason. An important reason. Something about a clown and—and—
The thought slipped away before he could catch it.
"I think I'm dying," Tim announced with grave seriousness. "Is this what dying feels like? Jason, is this what dying feels like? You would know."
The room got very quiet. The beeping of the monitors. Tim's hitching breaths. Bruce's sharp intake of air.
Jason would know. Because Jason had died.
"Hmmmm…” Jason thought about it, did he feel like he was dying right now?
He tried to remember dying. It had hurt. A lot. The crowbar. The pain. The fear. And then... nothing. Or something. Hard to remember through the drugs and the time and the pit.
"No, dying doesn't feel like this," Jason said finally, with the authority of experience. "Dying hurts a lot at first, but then you die and it doesn't hurt anymore, so that was nice. The not hurting part."
He paused, thinking harder. "Waking up after is kinda scary though. Because you're in a box. In the ground. And it's dark. And you can't breathe.”
Why did Bruce look sad though? Bruce wasn't sad when Jason died. He couldn't have been. That's why he got replaced. You don't replace someone you're sad about losing.
Bruce took in a sharp breath. "Your mouth is fine,"
Tim was sniffling quietly now, the panic subsiding into general misery. Jason was back to studying his hands, turning them over slowly. The ceiling tiles were still making patterns. Everything was soft and distant and wrong but also okay.
"But why is it so hard to talk?" Tim asked plaintively.
"You have gauze in your mouth, it's to stop the bleeding."
"Does Jason have gauze?" Tim turned to look at Jason with sudden interest. "Jason can I see your gauze?"
"No," Bruce said firmly, preemptively.
"Why not?"
"Because you'll both start comparing and then something will go wrong—"
Too late. Jason was already opening his mouth to show Tim, gauze and all. Look. See? He had gauze too. They matched.
"Whoa," Tim breathed, his eyes going wide. "You have SO much blood. That's so cool."
"Okay, that's enough," Bruce said, standing up, “The nurse is going to get you both ready to go—"
"Go where?" Tim asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowing.
"To the car, Tim."
Bruce looked at the nurse who had reappeared at some point. The nurse looked back at him with deep sympathy and barely concealed amusement. She was clearly enjoying this. Had probably seen dozens of drugged patients. This was entertainment.
"How much longer?" Bruce asked, and he sounded tired. So tired.
"About 10 more minutes, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce sat back down heavily, his shoulders dropping in defeat.
"Hey Bruce?" Tim called, his voice small.
"Yes, Tim?"
"I'm still sad."
"I know, Tim." Bruce's hand found Tim's shoulder, mirroring his grip on Jason.
"And my face organs are still gone."
"I know."
"And I think—" Tim paused dramatically, his eyes going distant and unfocused. "I think I can taste colors."
Jason and Bruce both stared at him. Even through the drug fog, Jason recognized that this was weird. Weirder than normal.
"What color?" Jason asked, fascinated despite himself. Which color was tasteable? Could you taste red? Blue?
"Purple," Tim said seriously, with the absolute conviction of the completely stoned. "Everything tastes like purple."
Purple. Jason tried to imagine what purple tasted like. Couldn't quite manage it.
"What does purple taste like?" he asked.
"Sad," Tim said, and started crying again, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. The revelation about purple apparently too much to bear.
Bruce dropped his head into his hands, his whole body curving inward in defeat.
Jason watched Bruce's shoulders shake slightly. Was he laughing? Crying? Having a breakdown? All three?
Jason didn't remember leaving the recovery room. Didn't remember walking, any of it. One moment he was on a bed discussing what made Tim sad, the next he was being guided into a car by someone's steady hands. Bruce's hands, he thought. They felt familiar, careful.
When did he get to the car?
The memory gap bothered him in a vague, distant way. Like misplacing something important but being too tired to look for it. There was just... nothing. A blank space where walking and leaving should be.
Didn't he drive here? Where was his bike? Did someone steal his bike? He should probably care about that. The bike was important. Had weapons hidden in it. Equipment. His means of escape.
But his face felt like it was full of marshmallows and thinking was hard, and caring about things required energy he didn't have.
Tim was already in the back seat when Jason climbed in, buckled in and staring at him with red-rimmed eyes and chipmunk cheeks. His hands were twisted in his lap, fingers knotted together tight. Even through the drug haze, Jason could see the tension in the kid's shoulders, the way he'd pressed himself against his side of the car like he was trying to maintain maximum distance.
"You look stupid," Jason informed him as he fumbled with his own seatbelt. The buckle didn't want to cooperate with his numb fingers. Why were there so many parts to a seatbelt? Who designed this? It was unnecessarily complicated.
"You look stupider," Tim shot back, but the effect was ruined when his voice cracked and he started tearing up again. "Why are we in a car? Where are we going?"
"Home," Bruce said from the driver's seat, turning the key in the ignition. The engine purred to life.
"Which home?" Tim asked suspiciously, his fingers tightening in his lap. "Your home? My home? Jason's home?"
"We're going to the manor. Both of you are staying at the manor until you're recovered."
The words registered slowly in Jason's drug-fogged brain. The manor. Bruce's home. His old home. No—Bruce's home. Not his. Not anymore.
"I don't live at the manor," Jason said. The words felt important to establish. He lived in safehouses. Multiple safehouses. Safe places where no one could find him.
He did live at the manor once though, didn't he? A long time ago. When he was small. When things were different.
Or was that someone else? The memories felt slippery, like they belonged to a different person.
"You do now."
"Since when?"
"Since you need supervision while you're still recovering."
Jason tried to remember. The memory was there, fuzzy and distant. “I left though. I left home. I went to Ethiopia.”
The word felt heavy in his mouth. Ethiopia. Where something bad happened. Something very bad.
"Yes, you did." Bruce's voice was careful. Too careful. "—and now you're back, and I'm going to make sure you don't leave again."
Jason's drug-addled brain struggled with this. Bruce wanted him to stay? But wasn’t he mad at Jason? Because Jason used guns now? Because Jason tried to make him kill Joker?
"You don't want me to leave again?" The question came out smaller than Jason intended. Confused.
"No, Jaylad. I want to fix things."
Tim giggled randomly, the sound bursting out of him like a hiccup. It turned into actual hiccup, then he was crying again, the emotions cycling faster than Jason could track. "Bruce, he's touching me!"
Jason looked at his hands. They were folded in his own lap, nowhere near Tim. Definitely not touching anyone. "I'm not!"
"He touched me before!"
"Did not!"
"Tell him to stop!" Tim was pressing harder against the door now, his whole body rigid.
"Jason's not touching you, Tim—"
"He's touching me with his eyes," Tim wailed, pressing himself further against the door. "Make him stop looking at me!"
Touching with eyes. Jason's foggy brain turned this over. How did you touch someone with eyes? That wasn't how eyes worked. Eyes looked at things. That was their job.
"It's aggressive looking! Hostile looking! Bruce, he's hostilely looking at me!"
Jason made a point of looking out the window instead, watching the buildings slide by in a blur. The city looked different from inside a car. Softer. Less threatening. "There. Happy?"
He wasn't looking anymore. Problem solved.
"No," Tim sobbed, and he actually sounded distressed. Genuinely upset. "Now he's ignoring me. That's worse."
Jason couldn't win. Looking was bad. Not looking was worse. What was he supposed to do?
"Tim's being a shithead," Jason said to the window, to his own reflection in the glass. His reflection looked tired. Swollen. Kind of pathetic actually.
The crying intensified. Full sobs now, Tim's whole body shaking.
"Jason!" Bruce snapped, and there was real sharpness there now. Actual anger breaking through the careful patience. "Stop calling your brother a shithead."
"I didn't—" Jason started, then realized he must have said it out loud. The filter between his brain and mouth was completely gone. Words were just happening. "He's being—"
"You started it," Tim accused, his voice hitching.
Jason whipped around. "How did I start it?"
"You're—you're—" Tim's face scrunched up, trying to find the words through the fog. "You're being very Jason about everything!"
Very Jason. What did that even mean? How did you be very yourself? Wasn't everyone just themselves?
"What does that even mean?"
"It means you're being you! And you is mean! You don't—" Tim's breath hitched, "You don't like me and that's fine but you don't have to be mean about it."
"That doesn't make sense!"
"You don't make sense!" Tim was fully crying now, tears streaming freely down his swollen cheeks. "Nothing makes sense! We're in a car and I don't know why! What if we're being kidnapped?"
"Tim," Bruce said carefully, his voice dropping into that soothing register, "I'm driving the car."
"You could be kidnapping us," Tim pointed out with impeccable drug logic. "Did you check if you were kidnapping us?"
"I'm not—"
"Are you sure though?"
"Yes, Tim, I'm sure I'm not kidnapping you."
That brought back memories to Jason. Memories that swam up through the fog, clearer than they should be.
"Bruce's lying, Tim. He's kidnapped me before. And he's doing it again."
The words came out matter-of-fact. Simple truth. Bruce had taken him from the streets. Had brought him to the manor. Had made him Robin without really asking.
Benevolent kidnapping maybe. But still kidnapping.
"Jason, quit it—" Bruce's voice had a warning edge.
But Tim was already spiraling. "What happened when you were kidnapped?"
Jason thought hard, but thinking was like swimming through jelly. Grape jelly. Probably purple jelly, since apparently purple was a taste now.
What had happened when Bruce kidnapped him? He remembered... the streets. Being hungry. Being cold. Trying to steal the Batmobile's tires because he was stupid and desperate and didn't know any better.
And then Bruce. Taking him in. Training him. Making him into something.
"He forced me to be his child soldier," Jason said seriously.
It was true from a certain perspective. Bruce had taken a kid off the streets and turned him into Robin. Into someone who fought crime in a cape and pixie boots. Someone who punched criminals and jumped off buildings.
Child soldier was pretty accurate actually.
“Wahhhh”, Tim wailed, “he's going to make me his child soldier”
"Timmy, you already are—you're fighting in his war…" Jason tried to explain. Tim was already Robin. Was already the child soldier. He'd already been recruited.
Did Tim not know? Did he not realize?
"Noooooo!" The wail intensified, Tim's hands coming up to his face.
Bruce's hand tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles going white. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Jason quit teasing Tim. He's your brother and he's had surgery and you're both high. Be nice."
Brother. That word again. It kept coming up. Kept being important.
Tim was his brother. Not his replacement. His brother.
Jason's foggy brain couldn't quite reconcile this. How could the kid who took his place also be his brother?
Tim wailed, his whole body shaking with sobs. "I just want to watch Star Wars! Is that so much to ask? Is it? I just want to see Luke! And Leia! And the droids! I love the droids, Bruce, did you know I love the droids?"
"Yes, Tim, you've mentioned—"
"R2-D2 is the best. He's so small and brave. Like me. I'm small and brave, right Bruce?" There was a desperate edge to the question that cut through even Jason's drug fog.
"Very brave, Tim." Bruce's voice was warm, certain.
"I had surgery! That's brave! I'm so brave!" Tim was smiling through his tears now, but his hands were still shaking. "Jason, did you have surgery?"
"What are you talking about?" Jason said, touching his swollen cheeks. They felt enormous.
Oh right, he had surgery. He was pretty sure he had surgery. That's why he was in the car. Why his mouth tasted like blood and chemicals.
"Surgery buddies!" Tim declared, his smile widening. Then, immediately, his face crumbling again, "Are we gonna die?"
"No—"
"We might die," Tim continued, spiraling fast. "People die from surgery all the time. I watched a documentary. So many people die. We could die. I could die and you'd just—you'd just get another Robin and—”
"Tim," Bruce interjected, his voice firm. "You're both fine. You're not going to die. Either of you."
"That's what they tell everyone before they die," Tim said darkly, but some of the panic had eased from his shoulders.
They were quiet for maybe thirty seconds. Jason counted them, watching streetlights pass by through the window. One, two, three...
"Bruce?" Tim called.
"Yes, Tim?"
"I can't feel my tongue."
"That's normal."
"Is it? IS IT NORMAL?" Tim was panicking now, his words coming faster. "What if I swallowed it? Can you swallow your own tongue?"
"You didn't swallow your tongue—"
"How do you know? Did you check? Can you check? Bruce, you have to check if I swallowed my tongue!"
"Tim, if you swallowed your tongue you wouldn't be able to talk." Bruce's voice was strained, patient wearing thin.
"Maybe I'm talking from my stomach now. Maybe my stomach learned to talk. BRUCE, MY STOMACH IS TALKING!"
Jason was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. His sides hurt. His face hurt. Everything hurt but Tim was losing his entire mind about his stomach learning to talk and it was the funniest thing Jason had ever witnessed. The fear in the kid's eyes made it somehow even better.
"It's not funny!" Tim insisted, but he was looking at Jason now, really looking, and there was something in his expression that wasn't quite fear anymore.
Like he didn't know what to do with Jason laughing. With Jason being anything other than threatening.
Bruce pulled into the manor gates. The wrought iron slid open smoothly, and the familiar tree-lined drive stretched ahead.
"Oh look," Jason said, trying to distract Tim from his existential stomach crisis. "We're here."
"Where's here?" Tim asked suspiciously, his hands unclenching slightly from his lap.
"The manor."
"Bruce," Tim said seriously, his whole demeanor shifting to grave. "I think my legs are gone."
Jason could see Bruce’s shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. "Your legs are fine, Tim."
"I can't feel them."
"That's the—"
"The anesthesia, I know, but what if they actually fell off and the anesthesia is just making me not care? What if they're just gone and I'm just okay with it because of the drugs?"
This was actually a reasonable concern, Jason thought. From a certain drug-addled perspective.
"Your legs are attached. I can see them." Bruce's voice was strained.
"Can you though? Can you really see them? Or are you just seeing the idea of legs?"
"I'm seeing your actual legs."
“Prove it.”
Jason watched this exchange with fascination. Tim was spiraling into philosophical territory now. This was advanced panicking.
Jason breathed. "You're the worst. You're the worst brother."
"I'm not the worst brother," he argued, but his voice was small. "You're the worst brother. You came back to life and didn't even tell anyone."
"I was in Gotham for like 6 months though? It's not my fault I got kidnapped when I was right under your nose”
Wait. He'd been back for six months? Living in Gotham? That felt right, but was it actually true?
That seemed... bad. Seemed like a failure on their part. The great detectives who couldn't detect.
"You should leave a note next time." Tim's jaw was set, stubborn despite the tears still drying on his cheeks.
"A note?"
"Yeah, like 'Dear family, I'm alive now, sorry about dying before, love Jason.' That would have been polite."
“I’ll leave a note next time then,” Jason promised. He wasn’t the worst brother, Tim was.
"Is not happening again," Bruce said firmly, pulling the car to a stop in front of the manor. "To anyone."
"Okay but hypothetically—"
"No hypotheticals."
"Just one tiny hypothetical—"
"No."
"You're no fun," Tim pouted, crossing his arms. "Jason, Bruce is no fun."
Jason was being asked to take sides. To agree that Bruce was no fun. To bond with Tim over their shared experience of Bruce being a killjoy.
"I know," Jason agreed, because the kid looked so pathetically disappointed. "He's the worst."
"I can hear you both," Bruce said, getting out of the car.
"Good!" Tim called after him. Then, quieter to Jason, "Do you really think my legs are still there?"
Jason looked down. He could see Tim's legs. "Yep. Still there."
"Oh good." Tim smiled, genuine relief washing over his face. Then immediately started crying again. "But what about later?”
"What about later?"
"What if they fall off later?"
Jason looked at Tim—really looked at him. The replacement was a mess. Face swollen, eyes red, gauze visible when he talked, tears streaming down his cheeks for no reason at all. His hands were still shaking slightly, twisted together in his lap.
He looked pathetic. He looked scared. He looked like he needed someone to tell him his legs weren't going to fall off, and also that he wasn't the worst, and also that dying wasn't contagious.
"Your legs are gonna be fine," Jason heard himself say, and was surprised to find he meant it.
"Promise?" Tim's eyes were huge, wet, hopeful.
"Yeah. Promise."
"Okay." Tim wiped at his eyes with clumsy hands, smearing the tears. "Thanks, Jason."
Before Jason could respond—before he could figure out what to do with the warm feeling in his chest that definitely wasn't the anesthesia—Bruce was opening Tim's door.
Bruce looked between them and sighed the sigh of a man who had made many mistakes and was currently living with all of them at once. But there was fondness there too, in the set of his shoulders, the quirk of his mouth.
"Inside. Both of you. Now."
Reality shifted again.
Cold compresses on his cheeks, the gel pack lukewarm now against his skin. Soft couch under him, the leather creaking when he shifted. The opening crawl of Star Wars playing on a screen the size of a wall—"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away..."
Wait. When did he get on the couch? Where was the car?
Jason's brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton, thoughts struggling to connect. He remembered... the car? Bruce's voice? Tim crying about something? The memories were slippery, sliding away when he tried to grab them like water through his fingers.
Did he walk in? He didn't remember walking in. Didn't remember leaving the car. Didn't remember—
His hand went to his face, fingers pressing gently against the swollen flesh. Still tender. Still real. Okay. That happened. The surgery. The teeth. They'd grown back and now they were gone again and somehow that felt like a metaphor for something but his brain was too foggy to figure out what.
"Little Wing you with us?"
Jason turned his head—ow, okay, bad idea, his face was still swollen and angry—and found Dick crouched beside the couch, grinning like Christmas came early. His hair was a mess, like he'd run his hands through it a dozen times, and he was wearing civilian clothes—jeans and a Nightwing T-shirt that was definitely ironic.
Dick. When did Dick get here? Was Dick always here? Jason's brain couldn't remember.
"I heard you had to get your wisdom teeth out again?" Dick's grin was pure delight, the kind of smile that meant he was about to be insufferable about something.
Again. Right. Because they grew back. Because the pit brought everything back, even the things you didn't want. Like memories. Like anger. Like teeth, apparently.
Jason's brain was moving through molasses, thoughts slow and sticky. "The fuck you doing here?" The words were still mushy around the gauze in his mouth. He could taste blood and chemicals. When did they take the gauze out? Or was it still in? He couldn't tell. His mouth felt like it belonged to someone else. "You're supposed to be in Blüdhaven?"
"And miss this?" Dick's grin widened impossibly, and he held up his phone. "Say hi to the camera!"
"You taking a picture of me?" Jason's words slurred together, his tongue thick and clumsy. He tried to glare but couldn't tell if his face was cooperating.
"Video, actually. I regret not doing this the last time," Dick said, still grinning like this was the best day of his life. Like Jason being vulnerable and drugged and unable to control what came out of his mouth was entertainment. "You definitely have to see this when you're not high anymore. Future you is going to love this."
Future him was going to hate Dick. Present him already kind of hated Dick. Or did he? His emotions felt distant, muffled, like someone had turned the volume down on his feelings.
"Foot is you? Who's that?"
What? What did he just say? The words came out wrong. His mouth wasn't making the shapes his brain was telling it to make.
From somewhere deeper in the manor—the kitchen, maybe, or Alfred's domain—Bruce's voice carried through, "Dick, stop antagonizing Jason."
Bruce. Right. Bruce was here too. Bruce was always here, wasn't he? This was his house. The manor. When did they get to the manor?
"Hey, you called me here because you needed help with these two, I'm just making the most of it." Dick's voice was still light, teasing, but there was something underneath it. Something watchful. Like he was paying attention to more than just what Jason was saying.
Tim was on the other end of the couch, curled up with his own ice packs pressed to his swollen cheeks. His eyes were glued to the TV, reflecting the blue glow of the screen. He looked small, folded in on himself, still wearing the same clothes from the dentist. There was a little bit of dried drool on his chin and his eyes were red-rimmed.
The replacement. Right. They'd had surgery together. That's why they were both here, both drugged, both pathetic.
"This is the best part," Tim mumbled, not looking away from the screen. His voice was thick, words catching on the gauze or maybe just emotion.
"What part?" Jason asked, his head lolling to watch. The movement made the room tilt pleasantly. Or unpleasantly. He couldn't tell.
"When Luke looks at the two suns. Binary sunset."
Luke stood silhouetted against the twin stars of Tatooine, dreaming of something more. Dreaming of a life that wasn't this one. A future that looked different.—
Tim started crying, tears sliding silently down his swollen cheeks.
"Why are you crying?" Dick asked, swinging the camera toward Tim.
"Because—because—" Tim gestured helplessly at the screen, his ice pack slipping. "It's so beautiful! And Luke is so sad! And he doesn't know he's gonna be a Jedi yet! And his aunt and uncle are gonna die!"
Oh yeah, Tim couldn’t stop crying because of the anesthesia.
"That hasn't happened yet in the movie," Dick pointed out reasonably.
"BUT IT'S GONNA!" Tim wailed, his voice cracking. "And he doesn't know! He's just standing there looking at the suns and he has no idea that everything is about to be terrible! Everything's about to change and he's just—he's just a kid and he doesn't know!"
Jason knew about that. About being a kid who didn't know everything was about to change. About standing on the edge of something terrible without realizing it.
"I think you're projecting," Jason said.
"I'M NOT PROJECTING, YOU'RE PROJECTING!" Tim's voice went high and thin, defensive. His hands clutched at his ice pack like it was the only solid thing in the world.
"I'm not the one crying about Star Wars."
"It's sad!" Tim wiped his eyes, smearing tears across his swollen cheeks, wincing when he pressed too hard. "You just don't understand art, Jason."
"I understand that you're being dramatic."
"I'M NOT DRAMATIC!" The shout was immediate, emphatic, and immediately followed by fresh tears. "See? I'm not dramatic at all!"
"You literally cried about a clock earlier."
Tim pointed at him with the kind of fierce conviction only the truly drugged could muster. His finger wavered in the air between them. "That clock knew what it did."
Dick was laughing behind the camera, his shoulders shaking. "Oh, this is gold. Pure gold. Bruce, you getting any of this?"
"Every second is seared into my memory," Bruce's voice was closer now, and when Jason turned his head—slowly, carefully—he could see Bruce settling into the armchair across the room. "Whether I want it there or not."
Bruce looked tired. More tired than Jason remembered. When did Bruce get so tired? There were lines around his eyes that Jason didn't remember being there before. Or maybe they were always there. Maybe Jason just hadn't been looking.
Maybe Jason had been dead.
The thought floated through his mind, disconnected and strange. He'd been dead. He'd been in the ground. And now he was here, on a couch, watching Star Wars.
"What else did he cry about?" Dick asked Jason, leaning in conspiratorially.
Jason tried to remember. The car ride was a blur of tears and panic and Tim's voice going high and distressed.
"His stomach becoming sentient," Jason supplied, settling more comfortably into the couch. The leather was warm where his body pressed against it. Nice. Safe. "His legs falling off. The possibility that Bruce was kidnapping us. Purple."
"Purple?" Dick's eyebrows went up. He was grinning again, delighted.
"He could taste it, apparently."
"I COULD!" Tim insisted, turning to face them both. The movement was too fast and he wobbled, catching himself against the couch. "Everything tasted like sad purple!"
"What does sad purple taste like?" Dick asked, genuinely curious now. He always got like this, invested in the absurd, finding joy in the ridiculous.
"Like—like—" Tim thought hard, his face scrunching up. His swollen cheeks made him look like a distressed chipmunk. "Like if a grape was disappointed in you."
The image was so absurd that Jason felt something bubble up in his chest. Laughter, maybe. Or hysteria. Hard to tell with the drugs.
A disappointed grape. That's what sadness tasted like.
Then Bruce appeared more clearly in Jason's swimming vision, settling deeper into the armchair. He had a mug in his hands—coffee, probably, because Bruce always had coffee—and he was watching them with an expression that Jason's foggy brain couldn't quite parse.
Soft, maybe. Concerned. Sad?
Why was everyone so sad today?
Jason looked between Bruce and Dick. Dick was still grinning, still recording, but his eyes were watchful. Bruce was still and quiet, the way he got when he was thinking too hard about something.
And Jason remembered—
Wait. He remembered something. Something sour. Something that made his chest tight.
"Bruce, don't yell at Dick today, okay? I don't like it." Jason slurred.
Dick flinched. Actually flinched, his shoulders drawing up, and he looked between Jason and Bruce with an expression that was too complicated for Jason to read. Hurt? Surprised? Both?
Bruce's face did something. Something that made him look older, more tired. "I—I'm not going to yell at him."
"Good," Jason said firmly, even though his tongue felt thick and the words were hard. This was important. He had to make sure Bruce understood. "He's mean to me when you don't get along."
The room went very quiet. Even the movie seemed to fade into background noise.
Dick made a face like Jason had just told him all his cereal was gone. His mouth opened. Closed. The phone dipped slightly, like he'd forgotten he was holding it.
"Jay," Dick started, his voice strange. Strained. "I—"
But Jason wasn't sure what Dick was trying to say because his brain was already moving on, thoughts slipping and sliding like fish in water. Why did Dick look upset? Jason had just solved the problem. He'd told Bruce not to yell at Dick. That was good, right? That fixed things.
"BRUCE CAN I HAVE A LIGHTSABER?" Tim yelled out suddenly, his whole body perking up like a puppy who'd just heard the word 'walk.'
Jason's scattered thoughts scattered further, trying to keep up with the conversation shift.
"A replica?" Bruce asked carefully.
"NO A REAL ONE!"
"No Tim, they don't exist."
Tim became undone, crying again. Big, heaving sobs that shook his whole body. His face crumpled, devastated by the fundamental injustice of a universe without lightsabers.
Jason watched him cry and thought hard for a second. There was something... something he could do...
"I have magic swords," he said, trying to console Tim.
Tim's head whipped around, tears still streaming. "You do? Are they lightsabers?"
"Maybe?" Jason couldn’t remember what they were, "Do you want to see?"
"YEAH!" Tim was vibrating with excitement now, tears forgotten, his whole face lit up.
Jason held his hands out in front of him, and tried to concentrate. His brain was all soupy, thoughts floating in fog, but the All-Blades were always there, waiting just beneath his skin. Part of him now, bone-deep and blood-bound.
He just had to reach—
"Uhhh, I don't think that's—HOLY SHIT!" Dick fell off the couch onto his butt, the phone clattering to the floor.
The All-Blades appeared in Jason's hands with that familiar weight, that familiar burn. They glowed in the dim room, crimson light casting shadows across the walls. Beautiful and terrible and his.
Jason had forgotten how tired holding them made him feel. How heavy they were, not in weight but in meaning. The blades hummed against his palms, warm and almost alive.
Tim's eyes were huge, reflecting red light. "Whoa."
Bruce was on his feet, holding careful hands out. Not threatening. Not attacking. Just... ready. Always ready. "Jason—"
"Is Jason a Jedi?" Tim was amazed, leaning forward despite Bruce's warning. "Can I hold them?"
"You can try," Jason said agreeably. The blades were getting heavier. Or he was getting more tired. Hard to tell.
Tim held out both hands, eager and trusting and completely unafraid of the magical weapons.
Bruce walked closer, putting himself between Tim and the blades. "No Tim, we're not going to hold the magic swords right now."
The All-Blades vanished the moment Jason let go of them, disappearing back into wherever they lived when he wasn't using them. His hands felt empty now. Cold.
"Wahhhh, they're gone!" Tim wailed, devastated by this new injustice. "Why does Jason get a magic sword but lightsabers aren't real?!"
"Because you’re a shithead," Jason supplied helpfully.
"JASON," Bruce said sharply.
"What? It's true."
"You're not helping."
"Father? What is all this noise? Why is Todd here?"
Jason's drug-fogged brain took a moment to process the new voice. Small. Imperious. Angry.
He turned his head—still slow, still careful—and saw the little angry demon standing in the doorway. Hah! A small demon he was.
“Jason’s here because he had to get his wisdom teeth removed and is still recovering from the anesthesia," Bruce explained.
Then said demon looked over to Jason. And something clicked slowly.
Damian.
The fog in his brain receded for just a moment, and a memory surfaced. Not a clear memory. More like a feeling. Warm and protective and achingly familiar.
Small hands. A quiet voice. The weight of a child who trusted him completely.
Jason reached out his hands trying to grab Damian, moving on instinct, on muscle memory from a time he couldn't quite remember. Damian stepped back, wary, his hand moving toward a weapon that probably wasn't there.
When did Damian learn to be afraid of him?
Jason didn't know why he'd do that, why he'd step away. Damian never did that when he was small, when Jason was—when they were—
"[Little one]," Jason said in League dialect, the words coming easier than English right now. "[Here now, safe here.]"
The language felt right in his mouth despite the gauze and swelling. Natural. Like coming home.
Damian froze. His green eyes went wide, his whole body going still. "What did you say?"
Jason reached out again, and this time Damian came closer, hesitant, like a wild animal deciding whether to trust. When he got close enough, Jason pulled him onto his lap, arms wrapping around the small body.
He felt satisfied for some reason. Complete. Like a missing piece had clicked back into place.
Jason started humming a song long forgotten, one that lived somewhere deep in his bones. A lullaby maybe. Or a battle hymn. Something from the League, from before, from a time when he was different but still himself.
"Ahki?" Damian's voice was small. Uncertain.
Brother. Yes, that was Jason.
"[It's safe here, it's safe here]," Jason reassured him, still humming, still rocking slightly. The motion was soothing. For both of them, maybe.
Damian's hands were around him now, small fists clutching at Jason's shirt, and he was crying. Not like Tim's dramatic sobbing. Quiet tears, almost silent, the kind you cried when you'd learned crying loudly got you hurt.
"Ahki, ahki! I thought you were dead!"
Jason just hummed and rocked him a little more. The motion was automatic, instinctive. Like his body remembered this even if his brain didn't.
"Jason? What is—why is Damian calling you that?" Dick's voice was strange.
Jason blinked at him, trying to focus. Dick was still on the floor where he'd fallen, phone forgotten, staring at them with an expression that was too complicated to read.
Jason froze, his humming stopping abruptly. "I don't know? I guess I forgot?"
Forgot. He'd forgotten. Forgotten—
Jason vaguely remembered having to protect a baby, but Damian wasn't a baby? So why did he feel like it was him? The memories were sliding around in his head, refusing to line up properly. A baby in the League. Training. Protecting. Being needed.
Being loved?
Jason was confused.
Damian's breath hitched, and he looked into Jason's eyes, searching for something. "Why did you leave, Ahki? Mother said that you were gone, and I, and I thought—"
Mother? Talia? Jason remembered her too.
“I had to go get magic swords.”
Damian's face crumpled. "That's not—you can't just—" His small hands fisted tighter in Jason's shirt. "You left me!"
The words hit Jason like a physical blow, even through the drug fog. Left him. He'd left Damian.
Except Jason didn't remember Damian. Not really. Just... impressions. Feelings. The weight of responsibility. The need to protect something small and precious.
"Wait, wait, wait." Dick was off the floor now, moving closer, his voice careful. "Damian, are you saying you knew Jason before? Before he came back to Gotham?"
Damian didn't look away from Jason, tears still streaming down his face. "He was my guard. My—my protector. Mother assigned him to me."
"Talia did? Is she the reason why the pit- Damian you’ve been here for years now and didn’t tell us?"
Jason frowned, and hugged Damian tighter. Why was Bruce getting mad at the kid?
"I didn't know it was him!" Damian's voice cracked, defensive and hurt all at once. "His face was always covered! He wore the—the mask, I never saw—" He stopped, hiccupped. "But I knew him. I knew his voice, the way he moved, the way he—"
Jason's brain was moving too slow, thoughts like molasses. He looked down at Damian, at this small angry child who was crying and calling him brother and saying—
“I’m sorry, what? I’m not- Bruce,” Dick rubbed his face, “You didn’t mention the Lazarus Pit-”
Jason laughed again, “It made my teeth grew back. Then I had to get them out again because the universe is stupid.”
He remembered how funny the universe was.
“We’ll talk about it later, Dick. It’s just, there's been a lot today.”
Jason didn’t like how that sounded. It sounded like they were going to go fight again, and then Dick would be mad and leave and ignore his phone calls when he needs help again, and miss his funeral-
"Dick?" Jason asked, desperate to change the subject, to think about anything else.
"Yeah?" Dick's voice was careful now. Gentle.
"Are we going skiing again?"
Dick's face looked sad for a second. Then he smiled softly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Would you like to go on another trip? We could invite Tim and Dami this time."
Jason nodded, "I don't remember well, but you didn't hate me when we were skiing. It was nice."
Dick's smile froze on his face, cracking like ice. "Jay that's—I never hated—"
"BRUCE!" Tim's voice cut through the moment, high and panicked. "BRUCE, I FIGURED IT OUT!"
Everyone turned to stare at Tim, who had somehow gotten himself tangled in the blanket on his end of the couch. His face was flushed, eyes wide with the kind of manic clarity that only came from being incredibly high and thinking you'd solved the universe's greatest mystery.
"Figured what out, Tim?" Bruce asked carefully, in that voice he used when he was bracing for impact.
"Why we have wisdom teeth!" Tim struggled with the blanket, managed to free one arm, and pointed it dramatically at the ceiling. "It's a CONSPIRACY!"
"Oh no," Dick muttered.
"Think about it!" Tim was wiggling now, trying to sit up but mostly just rolling around like a swaddled burrito. "Why do they grow in when we're teenagers? Why do they HURT? Why do we have to get them REMOVED?"
"Tim, that's just evolution—" Bruce tried.
"NO!" Tim's voice went up an octave. "It's the DENTISTS, Bruce! The dentists are in on it! They WANT us to get wisdom teeth so they can take them out and make MONEY! It's—it's—" He stopped, his face scrunching up as he thought hard. "It's Big Dental!"
Jason giggled. Maybe big dental made a funny agreement with the universe to give Jason his teeth back so the dentists got more money.
“AND-”
“You don’t have to yell, Tim. I’m right here.”
“And I’m thirsty,” Tim said nearly whispering.
Dick rolled his eyes and got up, he reappeared within a minute putting a glass of water into Tim’s hands. Water also appeared in Jason’s hands. Whoa did it appear like the magic swords?
Tim took a sip, immediately started crying again. "It's so cold! And wet! Why is it so wet, Bruce?"
"Because it's water."
"Oh. Right." Tim took another sip, considering. "It's actually pretty good."
Jason drank his own water, carefully shifting Damian on his lap. Tim was right. It was actually pretty good. Cold and clean and real in a way that cut through the lingering drug fog.
The water helped. Made his mouth feel less like a chemical factory. Made his thoughts a little clearer.
Clearer enough to notice Dick watching him with that careful expression. Clearer enough to feel Bruce's eyes on him, always watching, always analyzing.
Clearer enough to remember that he was sitting in the manor like he belonged here, when he didn't. When he'd spent the last six months trying to destroy everything they'd built.
"I'm going to get you both some pudding," Bruce said. "Do not move from this couch."
"Okay," Tim said agreeably. "Bruce?"
Bruce stopped, turned back. "Yes, Tim?"
"I love you."
Bruce's expression went soft, the tiredness melting away for just a moment. "I love you too."
"And Dick?"
"And Dick."
"And Jason?" Tim's voice had gone small, uncertain. Hopeful.
Jason's breath caught. He kept his eyes on the water glass in his hand, not looking up, not watching Bruce's face.
"And Jason," Bruce said, quiet and firm and certain.
"Even though he's mad at us?"
"Even though he's mad."
The water glass was very interesting. Very important. Jason studied it intently, the way the light caught the water, the slight tremor of the surface from his shaking hands.
"Good." Tim smiled, genuine and warm. "Because he's our brother and we have to love him even when he's mean. That's what brothers do."
Jason's chest felt tight. Too tight. Like his ribs were compressing his lungs. He blamed the anesthesia, even though he knew it wasn't. Knew it was something else entirely, something warm and terrifying and completely outside his control.
Damian shifted on his lap, small fingers still twisted in Jason's shirt. Not letting go.
Bruce left to get the pudding. Dick was on the floor now, phone now recording the carpet, his expression distant and sad.
Tim was already crying at Star Wars again—the trash compactor scene this time, the walls closing in.
"They're gonna die!" Tim sobbed, his hands clutching at his ice packs. "They're gonna be crushed! Luke's gonna be compacted!"
"They don't die," Jason reminded him.
"But they could!"
"But they don't."
"But they COULD! And that's what matters! The potential for tragedy! The dramatic tension!"
"This is going to be a long night," Dick said, but his voice was fond. Warm.
Bruce came back with pudding. Chocolate for Jason, vanilla for Tim. He set them down on the coffee table carefully, like they were important.
Maybe they were. Maybe everything was important now, in the wake of revelations and confessions and truths spoken under the influence of anesthesia.
They ate in relative silence, the sounds of Star Wars filling the space. Luke was escaping the Death Star now. Obi-Wan was about to face Vader.
"This is sad too," Tim announced around a mouthful of pudding.
"What is?" Damian asked from his position on Jason's lap. He hadn't moved. Wasn't planning to, apparently.
"This part. Where Obi-Wan dies. It's so sad."
"He becomes one with the Force. It's a noble sacrifice."
"IT'S STILL SAD!" Fresh tears started flowing. "He's gonna die and Luke's gonna watch and it's gonna be terrible!"
"You already knew this happens. We've watched this before."
"That doesn't make it less sad! Knowing bad things are coming doesn't make them hurt less! It makes them hurt MORE because you have to wait for them!" Tim was crying harder now, pudding forgotten in his lap.
Jason understood that. Understood the waiting. The knowing something terrible was coming and being powerless to stop it.
Like knowing the Joker was still out there. Still breathing. Still—
His hands tightened on his pudding cup, the plastic crackling.
Jason’s mind was blank, just staring without really seeing.
"Jason?" Dick's voice, closer now. When did Dick move? "You okay?"
Was he okay? What a question. What an impossible question.
"I'm sleepy," Jason said instead, because it was true and easier than the real answer.
Dick's eyes softened, concerned. He was looking at Jason's face, cataloging. "You look tired." He paused, really looking now. "Like, really tired. You have bags under your eyes."
"Can't sleep," Jason heard himself say, the words slipping out calm and matter-of-fact. It felt too easy to talk about. Like he was talking about someone else. "The nightmares are too bad."
Jason took another bite of pudding, unbothered. "I wanted to kill Joker. Had the chance to do it. So many times. But for some reason I can't do it each time." He frowned at his pudding, like it was a mildly interesting puzzle. "I don't know why. I get there and I just... can't."
He said it conversationally, like he was discussing a problem with his bike or a tricky lock he couldn't pick. The drugs smoothed out all the jagged edges, left just the facts.
Dick's mouth opened. Closed. He looked at Bruce, then back at Jason.
"Every time," Jason continued, scraping his spoon against the pudding cup. "Get right up to it and then I freeze. It's weird. Very annoying." He paused, considering. "Keeps me up at night though. Can't sleep thinking about it. Wish someone would just finish it already so I can stop wondering why I can't."
The pudding was really good. Chocolate.
"Jay…" Dick’s voice faltered.
"Sometimes I think about kicking the chair when I think about how he’s still alive," Jason added, still in that same detached, conversational tone. Like he was making small talk. "Would be easier, probably. Quieter. And I wouldn’t be tired anymore."
Dick was quiet now that Jason answered his question. But why did he look like that?
"What?"
"Jason," Bruce said carefully, his voice very controlled. "What do you mean by 'kick the chair'?"
Jason thought about it, his drug-fogged brain working slowly. "You know. Kick the chair. End things. Make it stop." He gestured vaguely with his spoon, pudding still stuck to it. "Like when you're playing a game and you're losing real bad and you just want to quit."
"That's not a game, Jason," Dick said quietly.
"I know it's not a game. I'm just saying it makes sense sometimes." Jason shrugged.
It felt easy to talk about it right now. Like it wasn’t about himself. Like he was working through a math problem. A plus B equals maybe I should die.
"Besides," Jason continued, "can't even kill the Joker. Can’t make the green go away. Can't do anything right. Just stuck in the middle being tired." He looked at his empty pudding cup. "Can I have more pudding?"
Nobody moved.
"Is there no more pudding?" Jason asked.
That’s a shame, he was still hungry.
"Jason," Bruce said, and his voice was rough. Strained. "How long have you been thinking about this?"
"About pudding? Like thirty seconds."
"About—" Bruce stopped. Started again. "About ending things."
"Oh." Jason blinked slowly. "I don't know. A while? It's not a big deal. Just thoughts. Everyone has thoughts."
"Not everyone has those thoughts, Jason," Dick said.
He yawned again, settling deeper into the couch. "But it's fine. Just thoughts. Mostly I'm just annoyed I can't sleep."
"Ahki," Damian's voice was very small. His fingers were twisted tight in Jason's shirt.
Jason looked down at him, blinking slowly. "Yeah?"
"You can't leave again." It wasn't a request. It was a command, fierce despite how small Damian's voice was.
"I'm not leaving. I'm right here." Jason patted Damian's head. "I'm eating pudding. This is good pudding. Did I mention the pudding is good?"
"He means you can't die again," Dick said, "You can't—Jason, you can't do that."
"Why not?" Jason asked, genuinely curious.
"Because we just got you back," Dick said.
Then Bruce was kneeling in front of the couch, his hands on Jason's face. His thumbs were moving slightly, gentle against Jason's skin, like he needed the tactile confirmation that Jason was real and there and alive.
"We're going to fix this," Bruce said, and his voice had changed. Gone hard. Determined. "All of it. The Joker. The nightmares. The thoughts. All of it."
Jason blinked at him slowly. "Okay."
"I mean it, Jason." Bruce's eyes were intense, boring into his. "This ends now. Your suffering ends now. I'm not—I'm not losing you again."
"You already lost me," Jason pointed out reasonably. "I died. That's pretty much the definition of losing someone."
"And I got you back. And I'm keeping you." Bruce's grip tightened slightly. "You're staying here. We're going to get you help. Real help. Therapy, medication if you need it, whatever it takes. And we're going to deal with the Joker."
"You don't kill, you already chose the Joker." Jason said. It was the central problem. The thing that couldn't be fixed.
"There are other ways to deal with him." Bruce's jaw was set. "Ways that don't require you to carry that weight. Ways that don't require you to be the one to—"
He stopped. Breathed.
"You shouldn't have had to think about killing him," Bruce said quietly. "You shouldn't have had to think about killing yourself. You should have been able to come home and be safe and heal. And I failed you. I failed you when you died and I failed you when you came back and I'm not failing you anymore."
Jason's chest felt tight. It was hard to feel the full weight of what Bruce was saying, but he could sense it there, hovering just out of reach. Something big. Something that would matter when he was sober.
"We're going to talk about all of this tomorrow," Bruce said. "When the anesthesia stops affecting you. When you can think clearly. But for now, I need you to promise me something."
"What?"
"Don't end things. Don't—" Bruce's voice caught. "Don't leave us again. Not like that. Promise me."
The drugs made it hard to lie. Made it hard to pretend.
"I can't promise that," Jason said honestly. "I can promise to try not to. But I can't promise I won't think about it."
Bruce's jaw clenched. His hands dropped from Jason's face. "Then promise me you'll talk to us when you do think about it. Promise me you won't do anything without talking to us first."
"That's not really how it works, B."
Bruce was asking for silly things again. Jason thought.
"Promise me anyway."
Jason sighed. "Fine. I promise to try to talk to you before I kick any chairs. Happy?"
On screen, Obi-Wan was facing Vader. And Obi-Wan died like he did everytime in this part of the movie.
"Obi-wan...." Tim announced through his tears, right on cue. "Now I have to wait to see him again, when he's a force ghost after Luke defeats the empire..."
Jason also hated waiting.
Like knowing the nightmares would come as soon as he fell asleep. Like knowing he'd wake up gasping, clawing at sheets that felt like coffin lining. Like knowing his murderer was still alive and could break out at any moment.
Like knowing that the thoughts about disappearing from the world would come back, louder each time, harder to ignore.
"Yeah," Jason said quietly. "Waiting's the worst part."
Bruce stood, his knees cracking slightly. He moved to sit on the arm of the couch next to Jason, close enough to touch. His hand landed on Jason's shoulder, heavy and warm.
"No more waiting," Bruce said. "We deal with this now."
Jason wanted to argue. Wanted to point out all the ways this couldn't work. But his eyes were so heavy and the couch was so soft and Damian was warm against him and Dick was close and even Tim's bubbling was becoming background noise, familiar and almost comforting.
Jason's eyes were getting heavy. The pudding was gone. The movie was still playing—Luke was training now, or maybe fighting, Jason couldn't quite follow the plot anymore. The scenes blurred together, lightsabers and X-wings and that desert planet that looked too much like the deserts he'd trained in with the League.
"I think I'm falling asleep," he announced to no one in particular.
"That's okay," Bruce said. His voice came from somewhere above. "You can sleep."
"On the couch?"
"On the couch."
"What if I drool?" Jason's words were really slurring now, barely intelligible.
"Then you drool."
"What if my legs falls off?" Tim asked from some other location in the room.
"Father, I refuse to act the same way when my wisdom teeth are removed" Damian said, exasperated.
"But what if—"
Jason stopped listening. The voices were fading, becoming part of the background noise along with the movie and his own heartbeat and the soft sound of breathing—multiple people breathing, close by, safe.
His eyes were closing. Damian was warm on his lap, small and solid and real. The couch was soft. Dick was somewhere nearby, his presence a comfort even if Jason wouldn't admit it.
Sleep was pulling him under, gentle and insistent.
Safe, his brain whispered. The drugs made it feel true.
The last thing he registered before darkness took him was Bruce's hand still on his shoulder, steady and sure, and his voice, low and determined, "We're going to fix this. All of it."
And somewhere deep down, beneath the drugs and exhaustion and broken pieces, some small part of Jason—the part that was still that kid who'd believed in Batman, who'd believed in justice, who'd believed things could get better—wanted to believe him.
The part of him that was too tired to keep fighting alone.
Jason woke up slowly, consciousness returning in layers.
Soft. Everything was soft. The bed, the blankets, the pillow under his head. Morning light filtered through curtains he didn't recognize, casting the room in pale gold.
His face hurt, but it was a dull ache now, manageable. His mouth tasted like copper and chemicals, but his tongue could move around the empty spaces where his wisdom teeth used to be without hitting gauze.
He sat up slowly, testing. His head felt heavy, fuzzy at the edges, but clearer than—than whenever 'before' was. The memories were still fragmented. The dentist's office. Bruce. Surgery. And then... nothing concrete. Just impressions. Voices. Laughter, maybe?
There were clothes folded on a chair. Not his clothes—too clean, too new—but in his size. Jason changed mechanically, his body moving on autopilot while his brain tried to catch up.
The hallway outside was familiar in that bone-deep way that came from years of living somewhere. His feet knew where to step to avoid creaking floorboards. His hand knew which way the doorknob would turn.
He followed the smell of coffee and something sweet—pastries, maybe—down the stairs, through hallways, toward the kitchen.
Voices drifted out. Multiple voices. Familiar.
Jason walked in and found them all there.
Tim was at the table, his face still slightly swollen, picking at what looked like scrambled eggs. Damian sat across from him, eating with perfect posture, already dressed for the day. Dick was leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee, grinning at something on his phone.
Bruce stood by the coffee maker, filling a mug. He looked up when Jason entered.
"Morning," Bruce said, "There's oatmeal, scrambled eggs, applesauce. Alfred made sure everything's soft."
Jason blinked at him. He was still tired, he’d like to go back to sleep more.
"Coffee?" Bruce held up the pot.
"Uh. Yeah." Jason took the mug Bruce offered, added sugar and cream on autopilot. The ceramic was warm in his hands.
"How's your face?" Dick asked, pushing off the counter. "You look way less like a chipmunk."
"It's fine," Jason said automatically. He was still standing in the doorway, mug in hand, trying to figure out—something. What was he trying to figure out? Why does everything feel off?
"Sit," Bruce said, nodding toward an empty chair. "You should eat something."
Jason sat. Tim was next to him on one side, Damian on the other. Dick took the chair across from him. Bruce sat at the head of the table.
Alfred appeared with a bowl of oatmeal, setting it in front of Jason with a small smile. "Good morning, Master Jason. I trust you slept well?"
"I—yeah. Thanks."
The oatmeal was good. Perfect temperature, with brown sugar and cinnamon. Jason ate mechanically, listening to the conversation flow around him.
Jason ate his oatmeal. Drank his coffee.
"—and then Tim went off about Big Dental," Dick was saying, grinning. "had this whole business plan worked out—"
Jason nodded along, not really remembering but not wanting to interrupt.
"You were confused why water was ‘cold and wet’," Damian added to Tim.
"I was high from anesthesia!" Tim protested, his face flushing.
Bruce's mouth was quirking at the corners. Actually smiling. He looked relaxed, almost content, one hand wrapped around his coffee mug.
Jason reached for his own coffee. His elbow bumped Tim's. "Sorry."
"It's fine." Tim smiled at him.
Jason took another sip of coffee.
The conversation flowed. Dick showed them something on his phone—a video, Jason caught a glimpse of himself on screen, his face swollen, saying something that made everyone laugh.
Jason ate his eggs. They were good. Fluffy. Alfred knew how to make eggs.
"We were thinking of watching Empire Strikes Back later," Dick said. "Since we started the trilogy yesterday. Tim cried through most of it."
"I did not—"
"You absolutely did. I have video evidence."
"That doesn't count, I was drugged!"
"Still counts."
Jason found himself almost smiling. Tim's indignation was kind of funny. The way his face scrunched up, his voice going high and defensive.
Wait.
Jason's hand stilled on his mug.
He looked around the table. At Dick, grinning and relaxed. At Tim, arguing with Damian about something. At Bruce, drinking his coffee and watching them all with that soft expression he sometimes got.
At the kitchen. The table. The food.
For the first time since he saw Bruce and Tim in the waiting room, Jason’s brain had finally caught up to his situation.
"Wait a damn minute," Jason said, his voice cutting through the conversation. "What the hell am I doing here?"
Everyone stopped. Looked at him.
Tim blinked, and something shifted in his expression—like he was just now realizing the same thing. Just now remembering that yesterday, in the waiting room, he'd been tense and afraid. Had kept his distance. Had looked at Jason like a threat.
And now he was sitting next to him. Comfortable. Close enough to touch.
"You—" Tim started, then stopped. His shoulders drew up slightly, defensive. "You're here because Bruce brought you back after your surgery.”
"Jason, you were in no condition to drive," Bruce said, his voice calm, measured. "Or even walk home safely. The anesthesia—"
"So you brought me to the manor." Jason's hands tightened on his mug, reality settling in sharp and cold. "You just—what, don’t remember that I tried to kill the replacement 2 months ago?"
"I wasn't about to let you try to ride your motorcycle while drugged out of your mind," Bruce said. "Or stumble through Gotham alone."
"I would have been fine—"
"You summoned magical swords in my living room," Bruce said flatly. "You were not fine."
The memory hit Jason like cold water. The All-Blades. He'd—he'd shown them the All-Blades. In front of everyone. While drugged out of his mind.
His heart started racing. What else had he done? What else had he said?
Jason pushed back from the table, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"Jason—" Bruce started.
"No. No, this was—" Jason looked around at the table, at all of them, at the whole domestic scene. "This was- I shouldn't be here."
“Ahki…You weren't in any condition-" Damian said carefully, “Father just wanted you somewhere safe.”
"I would have figured it out!"
Jason had forgotten that he wasn't supposed to be here. That they weren't supposed to be comfortable around him. That he'd spent six months being a threat to them. That he spent even longer than that hating them for everything that they did and didn’t do.
"I'm leaving," Jason said, it was time to escape whatever this was.
"Jason, wait—" Dick was on his feet now.
"Don't." Jason held up a hand, not looking back. "Just—don't."
He made it to the hallway before Bruce caught up to him. Of course Bruce caught up to him. Bruce always caught up.
"Jason, stop."
"Why?" Jason spun around, and he could feel it now—the panic turning to anger, hot and familiar. Safer than panic. Easier to handle. "So you can convince me to stay? Fuck you, Bruce. Don’t you remember all I asked you to do was choose me or Joker, and you chose Joker?"
Bruce's expression flashed for a moment, “I didn’t choose Joker. I- We’re going to fix things."
"You expect me to believe you?"
“I’m not asking you to believe me, I’m going to handle things even if you don’t. But I-” Bruce’s took a breath, and Jason didn’t know why he was still there, “You… told me things yesterday… when you were still under the influence of the anesthsia…”
Jason's blood turned to ice. "What?"
Jason ran through a mental list of things he didn’t want Bruce to know about… there were too many things he didn’t want Bruce to know about.
Jason saw the look in Bruce’s eyes and immediately knew he must have told him way too much. Jason slowly took a step back, “What did I say?”
“Things you probably didn't mean to tell me." Bruce knew it as well.
Jason's mind was racing, trying to remember, trying to piece together the missing hours. What had he said? What had he revealed?
Bruce watched him for a long moment. "You talked about the coffin."
A flash of wood and mud came to his memory.
"And the Lazarus Pit."
No. No, no, no—
"You talked about not being able to sleep. About nightmares." Bruce's voice was getting quieter, but somehow more intense. "You talked about wanting to kill the Joker but freezing every time you get the chance."
Jason's back hit the wall. When had he stepped back? His hands were shaking.
Bruce knew all of it now. Knew his whole motive behind his plans behind his anger.
"I was drugged! I didn't know what I was saying!"
"I was there the first time you got your wisdom teeth removed, remember? I know the drugs don't make you say things that aren't true. They just make you say things you normally wouldn't."
He vaguely remembered. Sitting on the couch. About Tim asking if Bruce loved Jason even when he was mad at them.
The memory surfaced, fragmented and hazy but there. Tim's voice, small and hopeful. Bruce's answer, certain and immediate.
And Jason. Even though he's mad.
Then Jason remembered talking about being tired. About—
Jason wanted to run. Wanted to disappear into the city, into his safehouses, into the familiar isolation where he didn't have to deal with this. Where he didn't have to face Bruce's concern or his own broken pieces.
"I'm not going to force you to stay."
Jason’s hammering heart evened out a little. His expression must have implied his feelings because Jason was sure Bruce didn’t have the ability to read minds.
Bruce's expression was pained but resigned. "But I'm not going to let you disappear either."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a phone. A burner, probably. He held it out to Jason.
"What's that?"
"A way to stay in contact."
Jason stared at it. "I don't need—"
"Take it anyway."
"Bruce—"
"Take it, or I follow you."
Jason's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."
"Try me." Bruce's voice was flat. Absolutely serious. "I will sit outside every safehouse you have. I will follow you so close you won’t have time to vanish. I will make myself a nuisance until you either take the phone or come back here."
"That's—that's ridiculous."
"Call it what you want. But I'm not losing track of you again."
Jason glared at him. Bruce stared back, unmovable as a mountain.
With a muttered curse, Jason snatched the phone. "There's a tracker in this, isn't there?"
"Of course there is." Bruce didn't even try to deny it. "I want to know where you are."
"That's—do you know how paranoid that sounds?"
"Yes." Bruce's voice was matter-of-fact. "I'm aware. Take it anyway."
Jason wanted to throw it back at him. Wanted to crush it under his boot. But something in Bruce's expression stopped him—the fear poorly hidden behind the determination. The desperation in the set of his shoulders.
Jason pocketed the phone. "This doesn't mean anything."
"It means you have a way to reach us if you need to."
"I won't need to."
"Humor me anyway."
Jason turned toward the door, toward escape, toward the familiar safety of distance. He made it three steps before Bruce's voice stopped him.
"Your motorcycle is in the garage. Alfred made sure it was brought here last night."
Jason didn't respond. Just kept walking, through the manor, past the memories, past the ghosts of who he used to be. The garage door was where he remembered it being. His bike was there.
He got on. Started the engine. The familiar rumble was grounding, real.
When he looked back, Bruce was standing in the doorway. Not following. Not stopping him. Just watching.
Jason revved the engine once, then drove.
One week later.
The safehouse was quiet except for the drip of the leaky faucet Jason kept meaning to fix. Morning light filtered through the grimy window, pale and grey. Gotham light. The kind that never quite managed to be cheerful.
Jason woke up gasping, the nightmare still clinging to him like cobwebs. The crowbar. The laughter. The darkness closing in, the wood of the coffin pressing down, dirt filling his mouth, his lungs—
He sat up, his hands shaking, his breath coming in short gasps that he couldn't quite control. The room was real. The bed was real. He was alive. He was here. He was—
His eyes landed on the phone.
It sat on the makeshift nightstand (an overturned crate), exactly where he'd left it a week ago. Untouched. Uncharged, probably. He'd meant to throw it away. Meant to dismantle it, find the tracker, destroy it.
But he hadn't. Jason hadn’t had the energy after the emotional mess he was in after being taken back to the manor without his consent.
The screen lit up as he picked it up. Still had battery. Of course it did. Bruce would have made sure it was the kind that held a charge forever.
There were messages. Several of them. Jason's thumb hovered over the screen.
The most recent was a link. A news article. The preview showed a headline: JOKER PERMANENTLY REMOVED FROM GOTHAM - Transferred to Off-World Facility
Jason's breath stopped.
He clicked it with shaking fingers.
The article loaded. There was a photo of Arkham, of a transport ship, of crowds in the streets. Celebrating. Actually celebrating.
In an unprecedented move, the Joker has been transferred to a maximum security off-world prison facility, effectively removing him from Gotham permanently. The decision came after extensive review by multiple government agencies and was spearheaded by Gotham citizen, Bruce Wayne, with his legal team and—
Jason couldn't read anymore. The words were swimming. His hands were shaking so hard the phone almost slipped from his fingers.
Gone. The Joker was gone. Not dead—but gone. Off-world. Basically gone forever. Somewhere Jason couldn't reach him. Somewhere Jason couldn't freeze up trying to pull the trigger. Somewhere Jason couldn't—
The phone showed another message beneath the article link.
Can we meet?
Simple. Direct. Bruce.
Jason stared at it. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could respond. Could say yes or no or fuck off or thank you or any of a thousand things that were fighting for space in his throat.
He locked the phone instead. Set it down. Stood up.
The room felt too small suddenly. Too close. The walls were pressing in and the air was too thick and he needed—he needed—
Nothing made sense. The Joker was gone. Bruce had done something. Had actually done something. Had found a way that wasn't killing, wasn't breaking his code, but was—
It was enough. Maybe. Possibly. Jason didn't know.
He sat back down. Stood up again. Paced to the window. Stared out at Gotham's grey morning. Paced back. Sat down. Stood up.
The hours slipped away like water. The sun moved across the sky, shadows shifting in the room, light changing from grey to gold to grey again. Jason moved through it like a ghost, not quite present, not quite real.
Dissociating. The word came from somewhere, maybe a therapy textbook he'd read once, maybe something Dick had mentioned. Being there but not there. Present but absent.
Time passed. Jason wasn't sure how much.
The knock on the door jolted him back to reality.
Three sharp raps. Deliberate. Familiar.
Jason's hand went to the gun he kept under the couch cushion automatically. His heart was racing, adrenaline flooding his system, fight-or-flight kicking in even though some part of him already knew—
Another knock. "Jason? It- it's me."
Bruce.
Jason stared at the door. He could not answer. Could wait it out. Could—
"You didn't respond to my message." Bruce's voice was muffled through the door but clear enough. "I got worried. Thought maybe—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Jason's legs moved on their own. Crossed the room. Unlocked the door. Pulled it open.
Bruce stood there in civilian clothes, no cape, no cowl, just Bruce. He looked tired. Worried. Relieved when he saw Jason.
"I'm sorry for showing up unannounced," Bruce started. "But when you didn't respond, I thought—I was afraid that—"
Jason stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Bruce.
Jason felt Bruce go still, felt the sharp intake of breath, felt the moment of shock before Bruce's arms came up slowly, carefully, like he was afraid Jason would bolt.
Jason buried his face in Bruce's shoulder and held on. He didn't say thank you. Didn't say he'd seen the news. Didn't say anything at all.
He just held on.
Bruce's arms tightened around him, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Jason's head, and Jason felt him shaking slightly. Or maybe that was Jason shaking. Hard to tell where one ended and the other began.
"He's gone," Bruce said quietly, his voice rough. "I made sure of it. He's not coming back."
Jason nodded against his shoulder. Still didn't speak. Couldn't speak. His throat was too tight, his chest too full of things he didn't have words for.
Jason was free. He didn't need to plot or plan anymore. To make someone do the thing he didn't have the strength for. And it was Bruce who did it. Bruce had done it when Batman couldn't.
"You're safe," Bruce continued. "You're safe and he's gone and you never have to—you never have to make that choice. Never have to carry that weight."
Jason's hands fisted in the back of Bruce's jacket, holding tighter.
"I should have done it sooner," Bruce said, and there was pain in his voice now. "Should have found a way years ago. Should have protected you from ever having to think about—"
"Stop," Jason managed, his voice muffled. "Just—stop."
Bruce stopped. Just held him. Just breathed.
They stood in the doorway of a crappy safehouse in Crime Alley.
Finally, Jason pulled back. Not far. Just enough to breathe, to look at Bruce's face.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Bruce's expression crumpled slightly, pain and relief and love all mixed together in a way that was too much to look at directly. "You don't have to thank me for doing what I should have done a long time ago."
Jason scrubbed his face, his eyes felt wet, but no tears were on his face. Breathing felt easier than he thought it could. He never thought it was hard to breath before, but now he could feel the difference.
Bruce's hand came up to Jason's face, thumb brushing against his cheek like he was checking that Jason was real. "Come back to the manor. Please. You don't have to stay forever, but—just for now. Just until—can you give me another chance? I just want my son to come back"
Jason wanted to say no. Wanted to insist he was fine, that he could handle it, that he didn't need—
But he was tired. So tired. And the Joker was gone and Bruce was here and maybe—maybe he didn't have to do this alone.
"Okay," Jason heard himself say. "Okay."
The relief that washed over Bruce's face was almost painful to witness.
"Okay," Bruce echoed. "Let's go home."
Home. The word should have felt wrong. Should have felt like a lie. But standing there in the doorway with Bruce and the knowledge that the Joker was gone, finally gone—
Maybe it didn't feel like a lie after all.
Epilogue
2 months later.
Jason was in the middle of cleaning his guns when Dick kicked in his apartment door.
Not his safehouse door. His actual apartment door. The one to the place he'd gotten one month ago with an actual lease and everything. The place Bruce had helped him find after—after everything.
After they'd talked. Really talked. About the pit, about the Joker, about Jason's death and resurrection and all the jagged broken pieces in between.
After Bruce had said, voice careful and determined, that he wanted a truce. Wanted to work together. Wanted to start healing.
Jason decided he still needed space and time, but wasn’t against the truce. He and Bruce came to a understanding, and Bruce helped him find a place to stay. Some excuse about knowing where to find him rather than needing to put a tracker in his skin…
After, Bruce had asked what Jason wanted. Not what Red Hood wanted, not what the pit-rage demanded, but what Jason—just Jason—wanted from his life.
The question had been terrifying. Still was, some days.
"What the fuck—" Jason was on his feet, gun half-assembled on the table, already reaching for—
"Pack a bag!" Dick announced cheerfully, like he hadn't just broken and entered. "We're going skiing!"
Jason stared at him. "What?"
"Skiing! You know, snow, mountains, fresh air—" Dick was already moving through the apartment like he owned it, opening drawers. "Come on, we talked about this!"
"We absolutely did not—"
"Sure we did! Two months ago! You were high as a kite and you asked if we could go skiing again!" Dick found Jason's duffel bag in the closet, started pulling out warm clothes. "You said it was nice when I didn't hate you, which—for the record—I never did, but we can talk about that in the car—"
"Dick—"
"And I said we'd go again and invite Tim and Damian, and you seemed really into the idea, so here we are!" Dick held a few thermal sweaters Alfred had sent to him since he got his apartment.
Jason's brain was still catching up. "I was drugged out of my mind."
"Drugged you had good ideas." Dick was throwing clothes into the bag now with the kind of efficiency that came from years of quick getaways. "Besides, you've been doing really well with the—" He gestured vaguely at Jason's head. "—the whole stability thing. Bruce said so."
The stability thing. Right.
That was the other part of what had happened after Jason went back to the manor. After the conversations about truces and working together and what Jason wanted.
Bruce had helped him find treatments for the pit rage. Not a cure—there wasn't a cure—but management. Meditation techniques that actually worked. Medication that took the edge off without making him feel sedated. Journaling also helped with the other things.
It was working. Slowly. The nightmares were still there but less frequent. The rage still came but he could breathe through it now, could let it pass without letting it consume him.
He was getting better. Actually, genuinely better.
"I have patrol—other things that aren’t this." Jason tried.
"Already arranged." Dick zipped the duffel. "Bruce basically gave me all his credit cards and told us to have fun. Alfred packed snacks for the drive. Damian's been complaining about how terrible you all are at visiting for the past 2 weeks—"
"I've been busy—"
"—and Tim is pretty excited to get away and skip school for a few days." Dick picked up the bag, grinned at Jason. "So really, you have to come. Someone needs to suffer through this with me. Come on, Jason. You can continue your weird legally-living crisis later."
Bruce had asked him about that too. During one of their talks. Asked if Jason wanted to come back to life legally. If he wanted to go back to school, finish his education. If he wanted something other than Red Hood.
Jason had said maybe. Had said he'd think about it.
He was thinking about it. Had already looked at some college catalogs. Had already thought about what it might be like to be a person again and not just a weapon for a single purpose then discarded.
"This is ridiculous," Jason said, but he was already reaching for his coat.
"It's a brotherly bonding experience," Dick corrected. "Totally different."
"Why does this remind me of the first time you dragged me skiing?"
"Because I am dragging you skiing, and we're going back to the same lodge. I planned to bring you at least once a year, as a tradition, but then you were taken from us." Dick's grin softened into something more genuine. “I’m definitely re-starting the yearly brothers ski trip, and you’re my Little wing, hence you have to go.”
"You’re such a sap. Don't make me regret this."
"No promises!" Dick was already heading for the door, duffel in hand. "Car's still running! Tim and Damian are waiting!"
“You could have texted me the plans,” Jason grumbled.
“And hear your excuses? No way, I know you too well.”
The car was idling at the curb. A rental, something large enough to fit all of them and their gear. Tim was in the back seat, already nose-deep in what looked like a ski instruction manual. Damian was next to him, arms crossed, scowling out the window.
When Jason approached, Damian's scowl lessened slightly. Tim looked up and smiled, warm and genuine.
Two months ago, Tim had been afraid of him. Had flinched when his torturer was near. Now he was smiling. Anesthesia bonding was one hell of a cure to get past all that bad blood between them. That and Jason got a few good laughs at how fucking funny the kid was when Dick showed him the recordings.
Dick tossed Jason's duffel in the trunk and opened the passenger door. "Save the front seat for ya!"
"So I have to listen to you sing road trip songs for the next 4 hours? No thanks, I’ll pass-"
"Too late, Jaybird. Tim gets carsick if he reads in the front, and Damian called shotgun but I overruled him because you're the second oldest and—"
"That's not fair!" Damian protested. "I called it first!"
"Life's not fair, baby bat." Dick grinned. "Jason gets front seat privileges."
Jason looked at the car. At his brothers. At the open door and the highway beyond and the cold mountains and all the stupid falling they were going to do on the slopes.
"This is so lame," Jason said, getting in the car.
"It's family bonding," Dick corrected, sliding into the driver's seat. "Totally different thing."
"Pretty sure you’re forcing it."
"Only if you don't want to go."
"I don't want to go."
"Liar." Dick started the car, pulling into traffic. "You're already smiling."
Jason wasn't. Except—he kind of was. Just a little.
From the back seat, Tim laughed. "Did you know that skiing was originally invented as a mode of transportation in Scandinavia over 5,000 years ago?"
"Here we go," Damian muttered.
"The word 'ski' comes from the Old Norse word 'skíð' which means 'stick of wood'—"
"If I hear one more skiing fact I'm jumping out of this moving vehicle."
"That would be extremely dangerous, Damian. The fatality rate for vehicle ejection—"
"I know the fatality rate, Timothy, I'm threatening to do it anyway—"
Jason listened to them bicker, watching Gotham slide past through the window. The city looked different now. Still his city, still his territory, but not his whole world anymore.
He had this too. Had brothers who kidnapped him for ski trips. Had a father who asked what he wanted. Had a grandfather-figure who packed snacks. Had a life outside the mask.
Had a future that wasn't just about revenge or rage or trying to fix things by breaking them further.
"So here's the plan," Dick said, merging onto the highway. "Four hour drive, nice lodge, awesome dinner, then we hit the slopes tomorrow morning."
"I don't remember how to ski."
"I'll teach you! It'll be great! You just—"
"Point the skis downhill and try not to die?" Jason finished, remembering Dick's terrible instructions from the trip he barely remembered.
Dick laughed, surprised and delighted. "You do remember!"
"Barely." Jason settled into his seat. "Pretty sure that's the worst skiing instruction ever given."
"That's what I said!" Tim piped up from the back. "Actually, the proper technique involves—"
"Drake, I swear—" Damian started.
Dick just grinned, and Jason felt something warm settle in his chest. Not the pit-rage. Not the anger or fear or guilt. Just—warmth. Contentment. The feeling of being exactly where he was supposed to be.
The highway stretched ahead of them, leading away from Gotham, toward mountains with snow-capped peaks. Tim was already back in his manual, muttering about parallel turns. Damian had stopped scowling and was watching the scenery with what might have been curiosity.
Dick was humming along to whatever pop station he'd found, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
And Jason was in a car with his brothers, being kidnapped—invited, whatever—on a ski trip he hadn't agreed to and absolutely didn't want to go on.
Tim was trying to start a betting pool with Jason on how many times they thought Damian would fall during skiing, and Damain was bragging about his superior agility and balance. Jason put down a thousand on falling 10 times.
Damian was shocked.
Jason found himself laughing. Actually laughing. And when Dick glanced over at him, grinning like he'd won the lottery.
"There it is," Dick said softly.
"There what is?"
"That smile. The real one. The one that means you're actually happy."
Jason wanted to deny it. Wanted to say he wasn't happy, wasn't soft, wasn't any of the things that smile implied.
But it would be a lie.
"Yeah," Jason said. "Yeah, okay."
"Okay what?"
"Okay I'm happy. Don't make a big deal about it."
"TOO LATE!" Dick's grin was blinding. "JASON ADMITTED HE'S HAPPY! IT'S OFFICIALLY A BIG DEAL!"
"I take it back—"
"No take backs! Tim, you're a witness!"
"Witnessed," Tim said solemnly, grinning.
"Damian?"
"I heard it too," Damian confirmed.
"This is why I don't tell you people things," Jason muttered, but he was still smiling.
The mountains rose in the distance, white-capped and waiting.
Maybe this is what Jason wanted. Living well. Living happy. Letting his brothers kidnap him for ski trips and making new memories and slowly, carefully, building a life worth living.
Yeah.
That sounded pretty good.