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Neal should have known better. He knew this was a bad idea, yet he came anyway, and the only person he let know was Mozzie, who was miles away in New York—useless, completely useless, right now.
Now Neal had to figure out how to get out of his chains. His arm was screaming in protest, probably broken, and a sharp, constant pain told him a few ribs were fractured too. The dull throb at the back of his skull was almost certainly a concussion.
His vision blurred whenever he moved his head, and each breath rattled
painfully in his chest.
If only he hadn’t taken the clown on. Why did he think he could deal with this on his own?
You’re probably wondering, Neal, what the fuck did you do?
Well it all started about 3 weeks ago......
It had started with a calling card. Not one of his usual tips or clever intel leaks, but a literal Joker card, waiting for him at the scene of a heist.
A little reminder from Gotham’s favorite homicidal prankster: “Hello, Neal. Let’s play.” At first, he’d laughed. He’d thought it was funny. He’d thought he could handle it.
He was wrong.
In the beginning, it had been small stuff. Little traps. Misdirections. Things that should have been obvious to anyone with a functioning brain. And for a day or two, he had stayed a step ahead, feeling clever, feeling alive, feeling like Neal again.
Then the messages had started.
Personalized, taunting, unsettlingly precise. Every move he made, every heist he pulled off, it was as though the Joker could read his mind—or, worse, anticipate it. Neal adapted, improvised, cheated the clown a few times, but it was never
enough.
Week by week, the stakes grew higher. His escapes became narrower, the scratches and bruises deeper. Small injuries turned into bigger ones: ribs aching, a sore arm, the beginnings of a concussion. Still, he pushed forward. Pride had a funny way of overriding common sense.
And then came the big mistake—the heist that had been just too tempting to resist.
Neal had ignored the red flags, ignored the warnings, ignored every instinct except his own pride.
And the Joker had been waiting, not for a laugh or a message this time, but for the endgame.
That was how Neal ended up here. Broken.
Chained. Possibly concussed. Definitely humiliated. And he knew, in that frustratingly clear way, that he might have deserved every bit of it.
Three weeks of chaos, in a nutshell, and Neal was still breathing. Barely.
Jason’s phone had been vibrating for nearly an hour before he finally snapped. Every instinct screamed something was wrong. He had texted Neal hours ago.
Nothing. Called. Voicemail.
The unease in his gut had grown into a full-blown storm.
“Where the hell is he?” Jason muttered to himself, pacing the small apartment in the safe house. His fists clenched so tightly he could feel his knuckles crack. The sight of Neal’s empty chair, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air, was worse than any crime scene.
He didn’t bother with calm, measured breaths. He was already past it. Every second Neal was out there alone, every second he wasn’t answering, his panic spiked. He was his father now, and he wasn’t just worried. He was losing it.
The Batcomputer pinged—a signal from Dick. Nightwing was already coordinating everyone. Tim, Damien, Bruce, even Roy and Kyle had joined remotely. Everyone had a lead, a grid, a list of likely targets. It was organized chaos, and Jason still felt like he was failing.
“Nothing yet?” Jason snapped into the comm.
“Still tracing his last known movements,” Dick replied, calm but firm. “He went off-grid about six hours ago.”
Jason gritted his teeth. “Six hours? Six hours too long.”
Then the call came from New York. Mozzie. Jason picked it up immediately, not even a hello, just:
“Red Hood, listen—Neal was planning a heist. He was supposed to check in with me. I don’t know why he didn’t, but there’s… there’s a mention of a clown.”
Jason froze. The single word hit like a punch. Clown. His mind raced—he knew exactly which clown.
“Where? Where is he?” Jason demanded.
“Can’t give you a location,” Mozzie admitted. “He was planning this solo. Said he didn’t want anyone to know. Just… be careful. He’s in over his head.”
Jason didn’t wait. He hung up, slid into his gear, and activated the Batwing tracker.
Every muscle in his body screamed. That’s my kid. He had to find him. Had to.
Meanwhile, the Batfam was already in full motion. Tim’s fingers flew over the console, cross-referencing Neal’s known contacts and likely heist targets. Damien was interrogating informants in the city with merciless efficiency.
Dick coordinated the streets, checking security cams, vehicle movements, even street reports. Bruce monitored everything silently from the Manor, his usual stoic presence now tinged with quiet worry.
Jason’s mind was singularly focused. He didn’t care about strategy or protocol. He only cared about finding Neal, about making sure he was alive. The thought of Neal out there, alone, in the Joker’s orbit, tightened his chest and set every nerve on fire.
“Move,” Jason muttered under his breath, voice low and dangerous.
“Bring him home.”
Neal wasn’t sure how long he’d been out this time. Minutes. Hours. Time had started to blur somewhere between the second hit and the moment his arm stopped cooperating entirely.
What he did know was this: he was still chained, still breathing, and very much not alone anymore.
The sound came first. Slow. Deliberate. Echoing footsteps against concrete, accompanied by a soft, almost cheerful hum. It didn’t belong in a place like this. It didn’t belong anywhere.
Neal forced his eyes open, vision
swimming as the world tilted unpleasantly. He focused on the shape emerging from the shadows—tall, pale, wrong in every possible way.
“Well, well,” the Joker sang, voice light and delighted, as if this were all some kind of party. “Sleeping on the job already? And here I thought we were having fun.”
Neal swallowed hard, ignoring the sharp protest from his ribs. His instincts screamed at him to stay quiet, to play it safe—but that had never really been his style.
“Fun’s not exactly the word I’d use,” Neal rasped, voice rough but steady enough. “I’ve had better first dates.”
The Joker stilled for a moment. Then he laughed. Loud, sharp, unhinged.
“Oh, I like you,” he said, stepping closer, crouching just enough to get in Neal’s space. “Smart mouth. Pretty face. Terrible survival instincts.”
Neal managed a faint, crooked smile. “You’d be surprised how often that works out for me.”
For a split second, something in the Joker’s expression shifted—interest sharpening into something colder. More dangerous.
“Ah,” he murmured, tilting his head. “There it is. That confidence. That attitude.”
His gaze darkened, something ugly curling beneath the surface.
“Just like your daddy.”
Neal’s stomach dropped.
The Joker straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for something casual, something routine. The crowbar in his hand caught the dim light as he lifted it, tapping it idly against his palm.
“You know,” he continued, voice almost
thoughtful, “I’ve met him. Big, scary, all growly and protective.” A grin spread across his face, too wide, too sharp. “Very rude.”
Neal tensed, chains rattling faintly as he shifted. Every instinct screamed at him now—not to run, not to fight, but to endure.
The Joker took another step closer. “Tell me,” he said softly, almost kindly, “am I going to have to beat some manners into you too?”
Neal held his gaze. Even now, even like this, something stubborn and defiant burned in his chest.
“Guess you’ll have to try,” he said.
The hit came fast. Brutal. The kind of force that knocked the breath from his lungs and sent pain exploding through his already battered body.
Neal gasped, vision going white at the edges, the world tilting dangerously as the chains dug into his wrists. Every nerve screamed, every injury flaring all at once.
Somewhere above him, the Joker laughed again.
Bright. Delighted. Completely, horrifyingly
unbothered.
“Oh, this is going to be fun.”
Neal barely managed to stay conscious, clinging to the one thought that mattered through the haze of pain and noise and darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision.
He just has to stay alive long enough for his dad to get here.
Neal didn’t know how long it had been anymore.
Time had stopped making sense somewhere between the pain and the silence. There were no windows, no light to mark the hours—just the slow, suffocating stretch of nothing in between the Joker’s visits.
He’d tried to count at first. Seconds. Minutes. Anything to stay grounded.
That had stopped working a long time ago.
Now there was just this—aching bones, a splitting headache that never quite went away, and the quiet, creeping exhaustion that settled deeper into his chest every time he woke up.
He was losing.
Not in the dramatic, explosive way he was used to. Not in a clever game of outwitting someone or slipping out of cuffs at the last second.
This was slower. Quieter.
And so much worse.
The sound of footsteps dragged him back to awareness again.
Neal didn’t even bother lifting his head this time. It took too much effort.
“Well, well,” the Joker’s voice chimed, bright and pleased, like he’d just walked into a party instead of a cell. “Still with me? I was starting to think you’d gone and died on me.”
Neal swallowed, throat dry, voice barely more than a rasp. “Disappointed?”
The Joker laughed softly, circling him like this was all just a game.
“Oh, not at all. You’re far too entertaining for that.”
Neal let his eyes fall shut again, conserving what little energy he had left.
Talking hurt. Breathing hurt. Existing hurt.
Still, he managed,
“You’ve got a weird definition of entertaining.”
A pause. Then—
“You know,” the Joker said, almost conversationally, “I’ve been keeping track.”
Neal frowned faintly, forcing his eyes open just enough to focus on the blurry shape in front of him.
“Time,” the Joker clarified, crouching down in front of him, grin sharp and wide. “It’s such a funny thing when you don’t have it, don’t you think?”
Neal didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could.
The Joker leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to make it worse.
“It’ll be a month tomorrow.”
The words didn’t make sense at first.
A month.
Neal’s breath hitched, pain flaring in his chest as the realization settled in. A month of this. A month of pain, of isolation, of being picked apart piece by piece.
A month… and no one had found him.
Something in his chest cracked. Not physically this time—something deeper.
“See?” the Joker continued, almost gleeful.
“And here I was wondering how long it would take you to figure it out.”
Neal’s gaze dropped, unfocused, staring somewhere past the Joker without really seeing him.
A month.
His dad would have found him by now.
His dad always found him.
…Right?
For the first time since this started, doubt crept in. Slow. Quiet. Devastating.
The Joker watched it happen, eyes lighting up with delight.
“Oh,” he breathed, “there it is. That look. I was wondering when you’d get there.”
Neal didn’t respond. Couldn’t. The fight in him—the stubborn, defiant spark that had carried him through everything—felt… smaller now. Fainter.
“I mean, really,” the Joker went on, circling again, voice sing-song, “if your dear old dad cared that much, don’t you think he’d be here by now?”
That hit harder than anything else.
Neal’s fingers twitched weakly against the chains. His throat tightened, vision blurring for a different reason now.
He didn’t want to believe that. He couldn’t.
But the doubt was there now, planted deep and growing.
The Joker hummed, satisfied, before straightening.
“Don’t worry,” he added lightly. “We’ve got plenty of time to find out.”
The door shut behind him with a soft click, leaving Neal alone again.
Alone with the pain.
Alone with the silence.
Alone with the thought that maybe—
Maybe no one was coming.
Neal let his head fall forward, eyes slipping shut as exhaustion dragged at him.
He didn’t want to think about it anymore.
Didn’t want to feel it.
He just wanted—
“…Dad…”
The word barely made it past his lips.
Jason hadn’t slept.
Not really. Not in any way that mattered.
For weeks, he’d been running on fumes and sheer, stubborn will. Every lead chased, every informant cornered, every possible location torn apart piece by piece.
And still—nothing.
No Neal.
The Batcave was quieter than usual. Not empty—never empty—but heavy. The kind of silence that settled when no one had good news to share.
Jason stood in the middle of it, helmet off, hands braced against the console like it was the only thing holding him upright.
“He’s out there,” he muttered, voice rough. “He’s out there and we’re just—what? Sitting here?”
“We’re not sitting,” Tim said quietly from behind him, eyes still fixed on the screens. “We’re looking. Constantly.”
“It’s not enough.”
Jason’s voice cracked on the last word, and that—more than anything—made the room go still.
Because Jason didn’t crack.
Not like that.
“I should’ve—” he started, then stopped, dragging a hand through his hair. “I should’ve known. I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve—”
“Jason.”
The voice was calm. Steady. Familiar.
Bruce stepped closer, not imposing, not commanding—just there.
Jason shook his head, backing up a step like he couldn’t stand still anymore.
“He’s my kid,” he said, and this time there was no anger in it—just raw, open fear.
“He’s my kid and I let him walk right into this. I should’ve protected him. That’s—” His voice broke completely now. “That’s my job.”
Bruce didn’t argue. Didn’t correct him.
He just stepped forward and pulled Jason into a firm, steady embrace.
For a second, Jason went rigid.
Then he broke.
Completely.
His hands clenched in the back of Bruce’s shirt, shoulders shaking as everything he’d been holding in for weeks finally came crashing down.
“I can’t find him,” Jason choked. “I can’t— I can’t find my kid.”
Bruce tightened his hold slightly, one hand steady at the back of Jason’s head like he used to do when he was younger.
“We will,” he said quietly. “We don’t stop. Not until we do.”
Around them, the rest of the family looked away—not out of discomfort, but out of respect.
Because this wasn’t Red Hood.
This wasn’t a soldier or a vigilante.
This was a father—breaking over the thought of losing his son.
And somewhere in Gotham, that son was still waiting.
Neal didn’t have anything left. Not really.
Every breath hurt, every movement sent
sharp, blinding pain through his body, and even staying conscious felt like a losing battle.
Still, he lifted his head when he heard the footsteps.
Of course it was him.
“Well,” the Joker said brightly, stepping into view like this was just another casual visit.
“You’re looking worse every time I see you. I almost feel bad.”
Neal didn’t bother responding this time. He didn’t have the energy.
The Joker tilted his head, studying him. Then, slowly, his grin widened into something colder. Something familiar.
“Oh wait,” he added lightly, “I’ve done this before.”
Neal’s vision swam, but he forced himself to focus.
The Joker stepped closer, crowbar resting easily in his hand.
“You know,” he continued, almost conversational, “your dad? He was just like this.”
Neal’s stomach dropped.
The Joker leaned in, voice dropping, words deliberate.
“So stubborn.”
The first hit landed.
“Refused to listen.”
Another.
“Wouldn’t stay down.”
Neal cried out, body jerking against the chains, pain exploding through him in waves.
“And I told him,” the Joker went on, almost fondly, like he was reminiscing, “this is what you get for not learning your lesson.”
The crowbar struck again.
Neal’s vision went white, breath tearing from his lungs as the world tilted violently.
“Looks like I might have to teach you the same one.”
Neal sagged forward, barely conscious, barely holding on.
But he didn’t go limp.
Didn’t give him that.
The Joker paused, watching him carefully.
Then, slowly, he straightened.
“Ah well,” he sighed, almost bored now. “All good things must come to an end.”
Neal didn’t understand what he meant, until he saw the bomb.
Small. Simple. Deadly.
Set just a few feet away.
The Joker hummed as he adjusted it, completely at ease.
“Let’s see if your family’s as impressive as you think they are,” he said lightly. “Tick-tock.”
And then he was gone.
The door shut.
Silence.
Neal stared at the device, heart pounding weakly in his chest.
No.
No, no, no—
He forced himself to move.
The chains rattled as he dragged himself upright, legs barely holding him. His arm screamed in protest, ribs shifting painfully with every breath.
Everything hurt.
Everything was telling him to stop.
But he couldn’t.
He wouldn’t.
Neal stumbled forward, half-falling, half-dragging himself toward the door, toward anything that might get him out. His vision blurred, dark creeping in at the edges.
He didn’t know how much time he had.
Didn’t know if he’d make it.
But one thought cut through everything else.
Survive.
“We’ve got something.”
The words snapped through the comms, sharp and immediate.
Tim didn’t look up from the screen.
“Warehouse. East End. It matches activity patterns from the last known signals. It’s him.”
Jason was already moving.
“Send it,” he snapped, helmet in hand, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
Coordinates flashed across his display.
That was it.
That had to be it.
He didn’t wait for confirmation. Didn’t wait for backup. He was already gone.
The ride there was a blur.
Every second felt like too long. Every red light, every turn, every delay—too slow.
Hold on, he thought, over and over again.
Just hold on.
The warehouse came into view.
Jason barely stopped before jumping off the bike, already running—
—and then it exploded.
The force of it knocked him back a step, heat and debris blasting outward in a violent wave.
“No—!”
Jason surged forward immediately, but a hand caught him hard across the chest, stopping him.
“Jason.”
Bruce held him back, grip iron-strong.
“Let me go!” Jason snapped, struggling against him, voice breaking. “He’s in there—he’s in there!”
The flames roared, the structure groaning under the damage. Smoke poured into the sky.
Everyone froze.
Just for a second.
Because that was it.
That had to be it.
And then—
“Wait.”
Someone—Dick—pointed.
Movement.
At the edge of the wreckage.
Jason turned—and the world narrowed to a single point.
Neal.
Battered. Burned. Barely upright.
Staggering toward them like every step might be his last.
Jason didn’t think.
He ran.
He had never run that fast in his life.
“Neal!”
Neal’s head lifted slightly at the sound, unfocused eyes finally locking onto him.
And then he broke.
Whatever had been holding him up snapped, and he stumbled forward the last few steps—straight into Jason’s arms.
Jason caught him instantly, dropping to his knees with him, hands shaking as they tried to hold him together.
“I’ve got you,” Jason said, voice wrecked, pulling him close. “I’ve got you, kid, you’re okay—”
Neal let out a broken sound, clutching weakly at Jason’s jacket as the tears finally came.
“Dad…”
That did it.
Jason pressed his forehead against Neal’s, holding him tighter.
“I’m here,” he said, voice shaking. “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”
Around them, the rest of the family moved quickly—calling it in, securing the area, getting help—but Jason didn’t let go.
Not for a second.
The hospital was too bright. Too clean.
Too quiet.
Neal was alive.
That was all that mattered.
Doctors and nurses moved quickly, taking him from thr ambulance and rushing him into surgery, voices overlapping with medical terms Jason didn’t care about.
Alive.
He was alive.
That had to be enough.
The rest of the family filled the waiting area not long after.
Dick Grayson. Tim Drake. Damian Wayne.
Even Roy and Kyle.
No one left.
Not one of them.
The news had already spread across Gotham—Neal’s disappearance, the search, the rescue. Public appearances maintained, stories controlled.
But here, in the hospital, none of that mattered.
Hours passed.
Eventually, Jason found himself sitting beside Neal’s bed, the machines around him beeping softly, steady and alive.
Bruised. Bandaged. Breathing.
Jason leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the edge of the mattress, eyes fixed on his son’s face.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured quietly.
No response.
Just the steady rise and fall of Neal’s chest.
Jason swallowed hard, reaching out carefully to take his hand—gentler than he’d ever been in his life.
“C’mon, kid,” he said softly. “You made it this far. Don’t stop now.”
His grip tightened just slightly.
“I’m right here.”
Neal woke up gasping.
Air rushed into his lungs too fast, too sharp, sending pain ricocheting through his ribs. His heart pounded wildly, vision blurring as he tried to sit up—only for his body to protest violently.
Everything hurt.
The room was wrong. Too bright. Too clean. Too not where he’d been.
For a split second, he thought—
He’s still here.
“Hey—hey, it’s okay.”
The voice cut through the panic instantly.
Jason.
Neal’s head snapped toward the sound, breathing uneven, eyes wide and unfocused.
Jason was there in an instant, already at his side, one hand hovering near his shoulder like he didn’t want to hurt him.
“You’re safe,” Jason said quickly, voice low, steady, nothing like the chaos Neal remembered. “You’re in the hospital. I’ve got you.”
Neal stared at him, trying to piece it together. The explosion. The fire. The running—
Jason.
He was here.
Neal’s breathing stuttered, then slowly, painfully, began to even out as Jason stayed right there, grounding him.
“I’m here,” Jason repeated softly. “Not going anywhere.”
That did it.
The tension drained out of Neal all at once, his body sagging back against the pillows, exhaustion hitting him like a wave.
Jason exhaled quietly, then reached for the call button. “Stay with me, alright? I’m getting the doctor.”
Neal didn’t argue. He just watched him go, eyes heavy but fixed on him like he might
disappear if he looked away.
The doctor and a nurse came in not long after, moving efficiently but gently.
“Well, welcome back,” the doctor said with a small smile, checking his vitals. “You gave us quite a scare.”
Neal huffed weakly. “Seems to be a theme lately.”
The nurse adjusted his IV while the doctor continued.
“You’ve got a broken leg, which we’ve set—it’ll be in a cast for a while. Several cracked ribs, significant bruising, and some burns that we’re treating. Your arm’s healing well, no permanent damage there. You also had a concussion, so we’ll be monitoring that closely.”
Neal processed that slowly, nodding faintly.
“In short,” the doctor added, “you’re very lucky.”
Neal glanced toward Jason at that. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”
After a few more checks and reassurances, they left, the room settling into a quieter, calmer space again.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Jason stepped closer.
And Neal reached for him first.
Jason didn’t hesitate. He leaned in carefully, wrapping his arms around him as gently as he could, mindful of injuries but firm enough to be real.
Neal held on tight.
Too tight, probably—but Jason didn’t say anything.
He just held him back.
“I thought…” Neal started, voice rough, then stopped.
Jason tightened his grip slightly. “I know.”
Neal buried his face against his shoulder, breathing him in like he needed the proof.
Like if he let go, he might lose him.
Jason stayed exactly where he was.
The next few days blurred together. Pain meds made everything hazy, soft around the edges. Neal drifted in and out of sleep, sometimes waking to quiet conversations, sometimes to the steady presence of someone sitting nearby.
They all came.
Dick with easy smiles and careful jokes.
Tim with quiet check-ins and updates.
Damian, who said very little but stayed longer than expected.
Even Roy and Kyle dropped in, loud and relieved and trying not to show how worried they’d been.
And Jason?
Jason was always there.
Neal never woke up without him nearby.
Three weeks later, Neal was told he could go home.
Home.
The word hit differently now.
He’d never been happier to hear it.
Getting out of bed was… an experience. Crutches, a cast on his leg, ribs still tightly bandaged, burns needing regular care—but he was upright.
He was alive.
And he was going home.
Jason stayed close, steadying him without hovering too much—though it was clearly taking effort not to.
“You good?” Jason asked quietly as they made their way toward the exit.
Neal nodded, adjusting his grip on the crutches. “Better than I was.”
“That’s not a high bar,” Jason muttered.
Neal huffed a small laugh.
At the front entrance, Bruce Wayne was already waiting, flanked by bodyguards.
Calm. Controlled. Prepared.
Because outside—
Was chaos.
Reporters crowded the entrance, voices overlapping, cameras flashing the second the doors opened. Neal flinched slightly at the sudden noise, grip tightening on the crutches.
Jason noticed immediately, stepping just a little closer.
“I’ve got you,” he said under his breath.
Bruce stepped forward smoothly, handling the press with practiced ease, giving just enough to keep them occupied while security held the line.
Jason guided Neal through it all, one hand hovering near his back, ready to catch him
if needed.
Neal kept moving.
Step by step.
Out of the hospital.
Past the noise.
Past the chaos.
And toward the car.
Toward home.
He didn’t look back.
Recovery wasn’t linear.
Neal learned that pretty quickly.
Some days were easier. The pain dulled to something manageable, his movements a little steadier, his thoughts clearer.
He could joke again, could smile without it feeling forced, could almost pretend things were normal.
Other days—
Other days dragged him right back.
The nightmares were the worst.
They came without warning.
One moment he’d be asleep, the next he was back there—chains biting into his wrists, the sound of footsteps echoing too loud, too close. The Joker’s voice, bright and wrong, cutting through everything.
Neal would wake up gasping, heart racing, body tense like he was still trapped.
He never had to call out.
Jason was always there.
“Hey—hey, you’re okay.”
The words came every time, low and steady, grounding him before the panic could spiral too far. Jason would already be moving, sitting up beside him, a hand on his shoulder or in his hair—something solid, something real.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe.”
Neal would cling to that.
To him.
Sometimes he didn’t even realize he was shaking until Jason pulled him closer, careful of healing ribs and burns, holding him just tight enough to remind him he wasn’t alone.
And Neal held on right back.
Like if he let go, he might lose him.
He didn’t sleep alone anymore.
Not after the first few nights.
Not after waking up disoriented and terrified in an empty room.
Now, they didn’t even pretend otherwise.
Jason had moved into the same room without a word, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Some nights Neal stayed in his bed, some nights he ended up half-curled against Jason’s side, clinging without thinking.
Jason never complained.
Never pulled away.
If anything, he held on just as tight.
During the day, it was quieter. Softer.
Neal healed. Slowly, but he did.
The cast came off eventually. The crutches were used less and less. The bandages grew lighter, fewer. The burns still needed care, but even those began to fade with time.
Physically, he was getting better.
Mentally…
That took longer.
But Jason was there for all of it.
Hovering, yes—but softer now. More careful. Like he was learning Neal all over again.
“You need anything, baby?”
Neal didn’t even question the pet names anymore.
Didn’t roll his eyes or deflect with a joke like he might have before.
Now, he leaned into them.
Let himself have it.
Sometimes he’d just shake his head and sit a little closer, shoulder brushing Jason’s arm. Other times, he’d quietly ask for something small—water, help adjusting a bandage, just… company.
And Jason always gave it.
Every time.
There were moments—small ones—where Neal caught himself relaxing.
Really relaxing.
Laughing at something stupid Dick said.
Letting Tim drag him into some overly complicated explanation.
Even trading the occasional sharp comment with Damian that almost felt normal.
But he always circled back.
Back to Jason.
Sitting close. Leaning into him. Existing in that space where he knew—without a doubt—he was safe.
One evening, weeks into recovery, Neal found himself half-asleep on the couch, head resting against Jason’s shoulder.
He didn’t remember falling asleep.
Didn’t remember deciding it was okay.
But it was.
Jason shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, one arm settling more securely around him.
“Sleep, kid,” he murmured quietly.
Neal didn’t move.
Didn’t pull away.
If anything, he leaned in just a little more.
And for the first time in a long time—
There were no nightmares.