Work Text:
A shiver runs through his spine while he lies on the cold stone of the warehouse. The smell of mold, vomit and cigarettes drowns his senses as he desperately tries to crawl on the ground. He knows he doesn’t have much time left and the action is getting harder with every second it passes, ticking like the hands of a clock.
His upper arms feel like they are on fire, looking purple and swollen. His muscles spasm and cringe in agony. His lower limbs no longer respond to his commands as his mind screams at him to rush. Every movement results in desperate gasps and wheezing as the air tries to fill his lungs in vain, making him cough until his eyes fill with tears and the burning sensation in his throat is replaced with the taste of a metallic flavor.
He doesn’t dare to take a second glance at the place where his mom’s body lies, now covered in his own vomit. He can still hear the piercing sound of the gunshot going off, the bullet going straight through her skull, shattering upon impact. He freezes at the sight, barely registering the actions as her body collapses on the ground, unable to avert his gaze while his gut constricts at the scene of her brain matter scattered on the ground along with bone, hair and tissue.
His voice is lost deep within him. He tries to scream without success, while the clown looks at him, his face almost covered by the shadows, in consequence of the harsh lights of the warehouse. His eyes dark like a void, gleaming in pleasure. He laughs while his body is contorting in caricaturesque motions, swinging his arms up, like he is dancing to an invisible tune.
Jason can feel the tears streaming down his face. His body vibrating due to the uncontrollable shaking of his limbs, the nausea creeping through his throat and making him gag until he pukes all over his mom and his suit.
Suddenly the clown just stops. Looking completely serious as he looks directly into Jason’s eyes. His mouth starts twitching, a smile forming, growing bigger and bigger until it becomes a freakish grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. He starts laughing again. Hard. Wrenching back and forth, forming a path of pee on his pants until it forms a puddle. He cackles and shrieks until the sound engraves into his mind.
He can still hear him, just behind his back, even though he knows damn well that the clown no longer lingers the pace physically. His memory clings to his mind, poking and making fun of him, his voice getting hoarse and uncanny until it distorts into something unrecognizable.
Jason desperately tries to open the door, attempting to escape before the bomb goes off. He doesn’t pay attention to the gooey feeling of blood streaming down his hands as he scratches in vain at the material, getting his nails chipped in the process.
The counting reaches ten seconds. He is not gonna make it. The realization stings.
Eight seconds. Batman is not here. Jason hopes he doesn’t blame himself.
Five seconds. He is gonna die in a shitty warehouse, betrayed by his own mother, and it’s all his fault.
Three seconds left. He is going to die with nothing but the clown's laughter as company.
The blast goes off. Bruce is the last thing that crosses his mind. He calls his name one last time.
He wakes up shouting, his heart racing like it wants to go out of his chest. His throat is dry and sore due to his screams. Rubbing his eyes to whip his tears away as he is met with the impassive look of his dim living room. The place is almost boring-looking with just enough furniture to make it habitable.
He groans with exasperation and decides to leave his couch. He is still shaken from the nightmare. His limbs tremble as he paces around his living room, passing his arms around his arms. His mind is still stuck in the past.
His skin itches from the ghost of the mushy larvae wriggling all over his flesh, roaming every inch. The nausea and tickling from the maggots actively trying to come out of his mouth, the salty taste combined with dirt and blood. He can almost feel the mud between his nails, sticking into his eyes and his clothes.
He flinches heavily as thunder roars in the sky, making him jump on his place and out of his mind. Fuck. He mutters under his breath while grabbing his head, inhaling and exhaling methodically, trying to steady his heart rate without success. ‘Is just a fucking storm’, he whispers to himself.
Nothing seems to appease his mind. Every single time he closes his eyes, his mind flashes images of Ethiopia. His breaths increase in speed, coming out more ragged as time passes by, he wants to shut his brain down.
Like an automaton, he moves with practice ease towards his kitchen, searching through his cabinets, he wonders if the increase of his discomfort is the result of the unfortunate date looming over his shoulders, crushing them.
His hands hover around a familiar bottle, not bothering to look for a glass to pour it. His mind is fuzzy at best, his thoughts all over the place, making it impossible to focus. He swallows the drink, its content burning in its way to his gut.
His weight finally gives up in one of his empty chairs. Why does he bother? It's not like this day is specially reserved for him. He is no longer a kid to be checked up on for a knee scrape. Everybody has a life, jobs and people to take care of. It's not their fault that his own mind is betraying him. Shit, even his body is protesting at this point, aching in places that no longer present injuries. Mocking him.
The lazarus may have incredible healing power, but not even that is able to fix his flaws. He reminds himself.
He can’t even blame them. They lost a kid, a too-trusting fool, plagued by dreams and worlds to read. Thin, with big bright blue eyes and thick lashes, adorable round cheeks splattered by little freckles. Pitiful but cute enough to be lovable. Like a stray kitten, too small and sweet to care if he has fangs or claws to lash out with.
But he has been on the streets long enough to know that once its complexion stops being endearing. Its claws will be too long, his fangs too sharp, and his existence too much of a hassle.
So it is good that they were able to keep that sweet, innocent image, immortalized. Untainted by time.
By the time he stops his train of thoughts, the weight of his bottle is lighter, like his body.
Who cares if no one thought of him on his ‘death day?’ It's not like it is important. The ‘him’ that matters has been six feet under for a while now, never to be seen again.
In fact, he should be laughing, like the clown. He is having a blast in Arkham after all, not a single scratch on him.
The sole concept makes him feel an ugly sensation in his gut, burning and clawing at him. His sight goes green. He launches the bottle into the nearest wall, it shatters, leaving the traces of his anger in the floor. Jason obligates himself to take a deep breath.
He takes a look at his empty table. It is not that big, but he remembers listening to the vendor say that this one is expandable, able to accommodate multiple guests. At the time it sounded fantastic. Now it's just stupid.
With a little sting, he remembers mentioning his new apartment to the bats. Resulting in awkward silence. Dick asking tentatively if it is a backup safehouse to patch each other up in case of necessity.
He remembers laughing it off while agreeing to the statement. Fuck, he is so dumb. He almost wants to bash his head against the table, only stopping after he notices his gun.
The agitation almost leaves his body at the sight of the familiar weapon. He remembers taking it home due to an issue with the components that absorb the backward kick of the shot.Taking it apart and emptying the chamber.
The weight of the gun feels so familiar yet strange in his hold. The smell of gunpowder is still present. Absently, he traces with his fingers every dent he can find in the weapon. He feels numb.
He has the sensation that something's wrong but is unable to find the source. Knowing that he should store the weapon somewhere safe, take a bath and try to distract himself with something else, but his body seems unable to stand, to even move his hands out of the gun.
The room spins and his eyes are burning. His mind just won't shut up. He lifts the weapon until it is aligned with his temple. He feels so stupid and wretched. Why is he even doing this? He just wants to stop feeling this wrong, this shameful, this broken.
But shame is a hungry beast. It always comes back, taking a piece of you every time it strikes. Leaving you lethargic, scraping for a steady place to stand on.
He can feel it every time their gazes study him after patrol. When he watches the news and the people he tries to protect are still suffering. He also feels it at night, when he reminisces about his actions in the last few years.
His fingers flicker around the trigger, while he vacantly looks at his ceiling. It feels weird. Like he is floating out of his body. His mind keeps replaying images of the clown, the storm and Bruce screaming at him.
He hates him for moving on.
Selfishly, he loathes himself for being forgettable, insufficient enough to keep his memory alive. Because deep down he knows that moving on was the right thing for them, even if it implies that his existence is not needed anymore.
Yet he is unable to dim his craving for love and attention.
He doesn't realize the moment it happens. Suddenly, the sordid sound of the gun going off echoes across his almost empty apartment. The silence that follows is almost deafening, like the world is suddenly shutting down.
That’s not what he wants, he thinks to himself as his vision goes white. Hot throbbing pain dripping down on his temple. His body collapses on his kitchen floor, while he just looks desperately across the room, unable to move. The scent of burnt lead lingers in the air as he loses consciousness.
He wakes up with a faint whine escaping out of his lips. The sun rays barely pass through the curtain windows and reflect directly into his eyes. The memories of brief episodes of consciousness flicker across his mind. He decides to finally sit on the ground and take a look around, noticing a puddle of dry blood under him and his gun near it.
Fuck.
His mind feels drunk and is unable to concentrate on the exact actions of the last night. Brief memories flash through his brain. The constant question of ‘why?’ Keeps appearing. He recalls checking the gun and taking the ammunition in his kitchen, or is it the warehouse? he can’t remember.
He just stays there for a while, with his heart racing, trying to process his actions. Feeling detached from his own body as the world stays foggy.
After what feels like hours, he reaches the end of his table and pushes his weight up with difficulty. He needs to assess the injury. The pressure of the new height on his temple makes it throb with pain as he takes careful steps to his bathroom.
When he stops in front of his mirror he can’t help but feel nauseous. His shirt is completely soaked in blood. His complexion sickenly pale. He takes his shirt off and rinses it with water, then utilizes it to clean his temple and look at the damage.
Shit, shit, shit. Okay, despite the amount of blood he has seen so far, the wound doesn’t look that bad. He definitely needs at least four stitches, but that’s it. Nobody needs to know about it. He thinks while he passes his hands frantically through his arms.
His headache worsens at the thought of someone finding out. He needs to do something. He splashes his face with water and goes out of his bathroom, moving to his living room, and glancing briefly at his kitchen. He stops.
Why is there a puddle of blood on his floor?
He huffs in annoyance and looks for a rag to clean it with, soaking it in the remains of fresh blood, no, he needs to rinse it with water first to take off the dried parts first. He tries to correct himself. He shakily stands up again to rinse the rag when he notices the clock on the wall.
It 's late. He needs to prepare for patrol. That’s weird. He thought the sun was at its highest point not too long ago.
He gears up and decides to visit his nearest safehouse. He is almost joining the rest of the bats on the usual route when Jason finally remembers to turn on his earpiece. The screeching sound of voices dances around his ears, asking him why is he late. Making his headache worse. His vision just won’t stop spinning.
He thinks that he has a mild concussion, it doesn’t seem like anything major, and it’s not like it is the first time that he goes out in that state.
If Bruce notices, Jason won’t hear the end of it, even if he doesn’t realize the story behind it. But he doesn’t want to stay in his apartment, so he asks Oracle for the coordinates to their mid-patrol debrief.
She spits out the information and asks him a question that he doesn't quite remember, responding with only a hum in acknowledgment. He starts grappling across the city, only to end up in Park Row again.
The sight startles him. That can’t be right, he has been grappling for too long to still be in the same place.
He asks for the coordinates again, only to be met with more questions. Something about his current location. Batman asks for a report of the situation in the background.
The sound makes him dizzy enough to close his eyes for a moment. The pain is unbearable and makes him want to scream, so he shuts his mouth tightly, forming a thin line.
By the time he opens his eyes again, he notices the bats staring at him. They are talking in hushed tones, stealing glances at him, with stiff postures. He takes some steps closer to them. Are they talking about him? Why? He knows he is late, but the debrief is more important to Bruce anyway. Why is he not shouting at him?
“Are you sure you're all right little wing?“ Dick asks with caution, his face apologetic even with the domino on. He moves carefully, as if he is scared of spooking Jason.
With just a quick look he realizes that he is surrounded by them. He takes a step back, confused. Looking into their faces, searching for answers. Why would they need to take an offensive stance? He hasn't done anything wrong.
“Yeah... You kinda look like you could use some rest” Tim follows, his gaze calculating Jason’s movements, analyzing him.
“That’s none of your business” Jason says, a little bit more rough than intended. Making him wince at the sound of his own voice.
He notices their faces sharpening, their bodies stiff and bracing in expectation. They know something is off. They move slowly, creeping closer. He needs to go. Jason doesn’t know why but his head is screaming danger at him. He shifts his stance.
Jason feels like a living corpse, with rotten flesh and bloodied wounds that won’t heal no matter what he does. Pretending to be alive, and filling the gaps that keep him whole. Trying and failing to seem like himself again.
Taking a deep breath, he tries to analyze his situation. He is alone, surrounded by five, no, four highly trained individuals. Meanwhile, he is already out of breath, dizzy, and the white-hot pain on his temple won’t leave him alone. His mind is foggy, yet he still can tell that this is a fight that he can’t win. Maybe if he explains the situation, they’ll let him go. So he starts making an excuse.
The words start coming out more slurred as time passes by, the information tangles itself with his input and the facts. Jason knows that he is falling apart but is unable to stop the cascade of senseless information that his tongue is spitting.
Mid sentence, he tries to correct information and starts reciting the made-up excuse again. Feeling like a toddler trying to explain a complex subject.
Before he can bullshit his way out of the situation, another voice speaks loud enough to stop his babbling.
“Hood… it’s okay”. Batman says, concern palpable on his tone. Putting his hands on Jason’s shoulders.
He can feel the scrutiny under the uneasy tone like he is another case for Bruce to poke and dissect like a puzzle. Watching him from every angle, like a broken object that he needs to fix.
He knows they are talking to him, but he can’t focus on them. Despite the darkness of the night, the light feels too bright, blinding him and making him squint. The sounds of the city reverb across his mind. The sirens of police vehicles combined with screams, and people talking, laughing. The world keeps spinning faster and faster.
“Go back to the cave, let agent A do a check up” Bruce continues, his voice loosening the usual clearness.
It feels like he is underwater and the words that are spilling out of his fathers mouth are like bubbles, escaping to the surface and out of his reach.
The next thing he notices is that he is in the ground, his head using someone's lap as a cushion while someone is barking orders in the background, his vision is blurry and he can't help but close his eyes as the pressure on his head intensifies.
He feels so tired.
He wakes to a warm pressure on his hand. It feels heavy yet comforting. He squeezes the embrace just to receive a gentle kiss on his hair. Suddenly he feels a childish prod to whine just to receive a little bit more of coddling. He complies to his urges, feeling in response someone’s gentle embrace, whispering soft reassurances while they rock him back to sleep.
The warmth in his side seems to fade after a while, causing him to stir, missing their clasp on his frame.
The familiar voice speaks softly at him. It sounds like Dick, but a little bit more nasal, as if he had caught a cold and had a runny nose.
With a little bit of difficulty, he manages to open his eyes. This time the light doesn’t hurt him as much. His mind still has some trouble trying to understand the noises coming from his brother’s mouth. It doesn’t matter, he is a detective too, even if the others seem to forget that sometimes.
He inspects his surroundings, he is at the cave. He glances at the machine that he is connected to, which reveals his blood pressure and heart rate, he notices the CPR kit lying beside.
Someone touches his jaw. The grip is gentle as they redirect his vision, using a penlight to check his pupil response. Once they feel satisfied with the results, they decide to check the monitor of his vitals.
His gaze lingers at the table, on the far end rests what looks like a MRI scan, on its left he can see the shirt he was using before patrol, the one that it’s soaked in blood. They know.
His stomach rolls at the realization, wondering the reactions of the bats. A tiny part of him hopes they will care about it.
Jason sees as the rest of the bats come to look at him. They speak to him, and when he doesn’t respond, they squeeze his hand mumbling soft words to him. The others keep watch, checking his vitals or hovering around him.
His eyelids grow heavier as time goes by, so he complies and decides to sleep, hoping that they will stay there at his side.
He is tired of having to deny himself the little happiness that manages to surge in his chest from time to time. Feeling his heart go steady at the sight of little smiles and soft banter with the bats, and the hopeful glaze Bruce gives him whenever he mentions staying at the manor. Like he is wanted.
He is tired. That doesn’t mean he wants to stop trying.
If they can forgive him for the blood in his hands, and still they make a room in their house for him. Even if it is just for one night. Then, he is gonna take it.
He dozes off for a few minutes as his persistent headache and dizziness subsides gradually, until his mind clears enough to feel lucid again.
He can feel the presence of other people, at the far end of the med bay, they are having a discussion. He tries his best to keep his breath slow and steady in anticipation, to mimic the state of someone sleeping.
*
*
“Can I have the samples of his blood work? I want to examine if there are residues of the lazarus pit on his system”. Tim asks, a little hesitant “I know that the last time we checked it, there were not matches, but I still want to compare it with the MRI results. That may give us a clue as to how he came back this time”.
“Only you will think something so anticlimactic in a dire moment, Drake”. Damian spits with disgust “Perhaps it is best to just resign at the sight of the situation and keep our curiosity to ourselves, until we can be sure that Todd will no longer be a nuisance to all”. He finishes solemnly.
“Agree” Jason says with a grimace, trying to keep the corners of his mouth from forming a smile. They turn their sight on him.
Jason Todd is a selfish man.
After all, he wants to stay, even if he has to deny death its necessity to consume him. Because as long as he has them, his heart will keep beating for the chance of a tender future. The large shadows in the back of his mind, fragments of an unruly past, sinking at his pace. Hoping to grow in something else than a reminder.