Archive of Our Own

It is almost dawn when Jason comes back to the asylum, feverish and shaking. He can still taste vomit in the back of his throat.

Batman is dead.

And the Wayne manor is burning.

He doubles over, feeling a wave of nausea wash over him; the thought is almost physically painful. He can still smell the ash on his skin, his suit. Sweat snakes down the back of his neck, and it feels like ice.

He has never felt so cold. Jason leans against the wall, panting. He can feel every bruise, every ache, every pulsing scar, and he wants to tear at his skin to make it stop--

“What are you doing here?”

His reaction is almost immediate, hands snapping to the holsters around his hips to where he keeps his guns, but his fingers find only air.

Jason had left his guns at Panessa studios, along with the message that Batman will never see. But he can still fight, he still knows how to maim and tear and kill, even with his bare hands, and his fingers are around your throat and he is squeezing before he even realizes what’s happening.

It is that rattle that grounds him to reality, that last, desperate gasp for air that has followed him ever since he met you. Sometimes, he thinks he can hear the sound in his dreams.

You haunt him like a ghost.

And he releases you, scrambling back as if he’s the one who’s been burned, stopping only when his back meets the wall of the asylum. He watches you suck in air greedily, your breath punctuated by coughs.

When you lift your head to face him, he sees your eyes. They are bloodshot, but blank, and he doesn’t see fear or hurt or confusion. He doesn’t see anything.

“Why did you do that?” you ask, and your voice is so calm that he immediately hates you for it.

Hate is, after all, the only thing left in him.

“I thought you were someone else,” Jason says.

“Oh.” You pause. “But there’s no one else here.”

That part is true. The asylum has been abandoned, along with the rest of Gotham, and for the first time since Jason can remember, it is dead silent. In his memories, the asylum is never silent. Patients being rolled to and from their sessions, the senseless, ceaseless chattering of the inmates. And of course, Joker’s laughter.

And he thinks: he’ll be hearing that laughter for the rest of his life.

“Good.” His voice cracks at that single word.

He realizes he meant it; he did not want to kill anyone else tonight. There is enough blood on his hands. Jason forces himself to his feet, on unsteady legs. The straps of his pack pull tight against his shoulders, a sudden, sharp burst of pain.

His left shoulder is a mangled mess of scar tissue, stiff and almost unfeeling. Still, the pain is enough to ground him, and he remembers what he came here to do.

“You should...you should leave,” Jason tells you.

“Oh.”

This time, he isn’t surprised by the blank stare you give him, the slow, unsteady way you form your words.

“What...are you planning to do?”

Jason breathes in slowly. Even abandoned, Arkham has a distinct smell: blood and mildew and rot. And underneath that, the faint smell of antiseptic, as if someone had tried to scrub away the building’s history.

“I’m going to destroy this place. All of it.”

If he does...will the nightmares stop? Will he stop hearing Joker’s voice? Will he finally be free?

The sun is just barely peeking past the horizon, and the light creeps in through the broken windows. Dried blood is smeared across the walls, the tiles. Perhaps some of it is his; an entire history painted inside the walls of Arkham.

He thinks: there is nothing here worth saving.

Your eyes shine in the dim light.

“You’re going to...destroy it,” you repeat.

“Yes.”

Your lips twitch, the hint of a smile. “I’d like that.”

It sounds odd, coming from you, something close to an opinion, something close to thought. But he shutters out the notion and nods at you. Gets to work. The floor has several support columns and attaching his bombs to them should be enough to bring the building down. You follow him as he works, puppy-like, and stare at the bombs in his hands with mild curiosity.

“I think,” you say. “That I’d like it. Not having to come back here again.”

He grunts. That makes both of you.

“Why don’t you leave then? I told you to leave before tonight.”

The answer, always the same, “I’m looking for something.”

It is the only thing you’ve ever said with any sort of conviction, and guilt goes through him, needle-sharp. Another thing that he will have to live with.

“There’s no one here,” Jason points out. “Whatever you’re looking for is gone.”

Or right in front of you.

Jason wonders if you recognize him, his voice. He wonders if you have enough memories in you to hate him.

You purse your lips. Irritation, or something like it. He has learned to read the minute changes in your face, the smallest hints of emotions.

“No, I don’t think so. But I think...I think it’ll be nice. Not to come back to this place anymore.”

“Will you miss it?”

The question slips out of him before he can stop it, and the words burn like acid against his throat. He chokes, struggling for breath. The weight of what he’s said nearly breaks him in half.

“What?”

And this is his out, he thinks. You didn’t hear him, and you don’t have to answer him, and he doesn’t have to think about it anymore.

He doesn’t want to think about it, anymore.

But a part of him wants, no, needs to know.

“Will you miss it?” he repeats.

The thought burns in the back of his head; because even after two years, his mind keeps going back to this place. The halls, his cell, the shrill sound of Joker’s laughter. He can feel the scar on his cheek, pulsing like a\\ wanted to forget, there is a part of Jason that keeps coming back. Joker had carved this place into his bones. He made sure of that when he pressed the brand to Jason’s face and marked him forever.

Even in his dreams, he sees the same four walls, the same chair. The same smiling face, humorless and dead.

“Are you...okay?”

A pause.

And then...he hears you say his name.

“Jason, are you okay?”

His mind goes blank.

“How do you know my name?” His mouth feels dry; he struggles to swallow.

No one has called him Jason in nearly two years.

“What do you mean?” you ask. “You told me.”

In a painful flash of clarity, he remembers the first time he met you. He had been delirious, half-mad with pain and fever; he was surprised that he could speak at all.

Help me, please help me, my name is Jason Todd.

He remembers that the first thing he told you was his name. The one thing that the Joker hadn’t taken away from him yet. He remembers being terrified of dying, nameless, and being buried in an unmarked grave somewhere. Just another one of the thousands of souls that Gotham chewed up and spit back out.

Jason licks his lips.

“You still remember that?”

There are some days when you can’t even remember your own name.

You blink, slowly, as if turning the question over in your head. “I do.”

Guilt makes his stomach twist. Even with that, he needs to know.

“Will you miss it? This place?” Jason asks again, and shame makes his face burn. It has been two years since he has escaped from the asylum, and yet a part of him feels like it never left. He thinks that perhaps you are not the only ghost that haunts this place.

Even in his sleep, he dreams about it, the endless hallways and the echoing footsteps. How he used to wait, with his heart beating against his throat, for someone to realize that he was there.

“I don’t know,” you say. “I keep coming back here.”

Because you died here, Jason thinks.

“But I’d like to see what the outside looks like,” you add as an afterthought.

He almost laughs; just outside the asylum, Gotham lays broken and empty. Wayne manor is burning. The only people left are the stragglers from the GCPD, the criminals. And him. The Arkham Knight.

The one who caused all this.

Once again, he considers sitting here and burning with the rest of Arkham. Fitting, he thinks, he had been left here to die, after all.

There is nothing left for him to go home to.

“Do you…” He swallows against the dryness in his throat. “Do you remember what it’s like outside?”

“A little bit. I remember I was happy.”

And he looks at you, takes a look at the emptiness in your face, the utter lack of emotion in it. He realizes that it’s hard to tell the color of your clothes; they blended too well with the walls of the asylum.

He did this.

Jason wonders then, just how many lives he’s destroyed.

“If you can get out of here,” he asks. “What will you do?”

You consider his question carefully.

“I don’t know,” you say. “What about you?”

Jason smiles humorlessly, even though he knows you can’t see it. He isn’t even sure if he wants to leave the asylum. His finger lingers on the detonator. He wonders if dying will hurt, if the flames will be as hot as the brand.

And yet, he surprises himself by saying, “Get out of Gotham, probably.”

Something flickers across your face; a curtain drawing shut.

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I don’t either.”

Jason had spent two years, traveling the globe and slowly amassing his army, but even then, it had always been with the end goal of coming back to Gotham. He realizes, then, that he could have started a life somewhere, at any point in those two years. But the thought never even crossed his mind. The city is like a black hole; its pull is inescapable. Somehow, he always finds himself getting drawn back in.

“Where would you go?” you ask, and there is a hopefulness in your tone that is almost painful to hear.

With Batman dead, hope will not last long in Gotham City.

He considers his answer, seriously considers it. He owes you that much, at least.

“Star City,” he says.

The farthest from Gotham, geographically, with a large enough population that he can disappear among the crowd. Joker sneers at him from the darkness, his face the white of bleached bones.

Do you really think you can do that Todders? Do you really think you can forget about little old me?

Jason swallows, and he feels anger rising in his chest. It is Joker’s voice that makes him pause, and somehow, it is Joker’s voice that makes him realize what he wants to do.

Because he doesn’t want to give that bastard the satisfaction of knowing he’s killed Jason.

Bruce had promised him tonight, with one hand outstretched, that he will help Jason fix what Joker broke.

But if there is one true thing that the Joker taught Jason, it was this: Bruce Wayne lies.

He lied about understanding what Jason went through, he lied about wanting to help Jason, he lied about hope and healing and home. Lied through his teeth while in the back of his head, he planned to burn down Wayne Manor, the only place Jason had ever felt safe.

Bruce was wrong.

Hope can’t fix what the Joker had done to him. It wasn’t hope that made him escape from Arkham with a bullet wound in his chest. It wasn’t hope that kept him going for the last two years. And it certainly wasn’t hope that brought him here, back in the bowels of Arkham Asylum.

Spite, he’s learned, can work just as well.

The sun has fully risen by the time the two of you reach Miagani Island. The streets are still empty and what few stragglers remain know enough to steer clear of him. Even from a distance, Jason can make out the blackened ruins that used to be Wayne Manor.

The back of his mouth tastes like smoke and ash.

Soon, the news will break, spread across Gotham like wildfire: Batman, finally unmasked after all these years, is dead.

He should feel broken, a part of him does feel broken. There is a space inside Jason that feels hollow and dead. Batman has been a part of Gotham, a part of Jason for such a long time that he can’t see how the city will function without him.

Even in his darkest moments, when he dreamed of putting a gun to the man’s head and pulling the trigger, Jason was still thinking about him.

There is a terrible sort of freedom, he realizes, in knowing that Batman is dead. Freedom streaked with grief and guilt, a freedom with teeth, so sharp that it threatens to split him open. But freedom, all the same. He is here, and Batman is dead, just like Joker is dead.

And for the first time since he stepped out of Arkham Asylum more than two years ago, Jason can think clearly, without either of their ghosts haunting him.

His chest twists, a pain so sharp that it makes him gasp. Later, he decides, later when the GCPD is no longer looking for him, when he is somewhere safe, he will allow himself the luxury of grief. But not now, when escape is so close he can almost taste it between his teeth.

“Stay here,” he tells you. “I’ll be right back.”

You don’t answer. You are looking around at the ruined buildings and there is something like wonder on your face. It strikes Jason again, how out of place you look. How colorless you seem amidst the streets of Gotham.

Once again, he thinks ghost.

“Hey, did you hear me?” he asks.

You stare at him without blinking. “Okay.”

“What did I say?”

The faintest hint of a scowl touches your features. “You told me to stay here.”

“Good.”

He doesn’t know if he can trust you not to wander off just yet; you were already looking at a ruined diner with some measure of curiosity. Jason considers bringing you into his safe house but quickly dismisses the idea. The safe house is littered with his tech, maps of Gotham, everything he needed as the Arkham Knight.

But he isn’t the Arkham Knight. Not anymore. And a part of him shies away at letting anyone see it; like hiding a rotting wound.

Jason glances at you one last time before heading into the safehouse. The lock has several scratches on it; someone must have tried to force their way inside last night. He feels a grim sort of satisfaction knowing that whoever tried to get in walked away with electrical burns.

He feels a sudden lightheadedness when he steps into the room; a sense of unreality. Less than twelve hours ago, he had been trying to kill Batman and take over Gotham.

Now, he is trying to flee from it. He wonders if he can ever run far enough to escape what he’s done. He is reaching for an ammo clip when he realizes that his fingers are shaking. Closes them tight into a fist, and grunts in pain. Ever since the Joker, almost every movement is laced with pain.

Another one of Batman’s lies: to promise he can help erase what’s been done to Jason, when it had been carved into his skin. Too late to think about that now, Jason decides. Batman is dead.

And Jason...Jason must do what he can to escape his gravity.

The crackle of static makes him jump, the muscles in his body going taut.

He remembers the harsh glare of lights, the static of an old camera as it flares to light. Joker’s voice.

Now, who do you hate?

He feels a scream rise in this throat, and he grits his teeth against it. The noise seems to be coming from one of his spare helmets. He had designed it to look almost exactly like Batman’s cowl; he wanted Bruce to remember his failures every time he looked at Jason’s face.

Now, the helmet seems to mock him.

He pauses.

Did someone hack into his tech? There aren’t a lot of people who could do that, and almost all of them had already evacuated Gotham. He is braced for her voice before it even comes through.

“Jason? Jason, can you hear me?”

Her voice feels like a knife in his gut. He considers not answering, burning that particular bridge forever.

Leave. Lock the door behind him and walk out of Gotham with whatever dignity he had left intact.

As if hearing his thoughts, she speaks again, “Jason, if you’re there. Please, please answer me. Bruce, he--”

She takes a deep breath, and he knows, even without seeing her face, that she is holding back tears. Barbara Gordon gasps, a soft, desperate sound. Something twists violently inside his chest, and Jason feels himself begin to crack at the edges.

He tethers there, at the edge, and he fears that if he breaks now he will never put himself back together.

“Hello?”

It is your voice that breaks through his thoughts, and it is like a splash of cold water. He actually shivers. Jason whirls around and he finds you staring at him. A sudden sense of deja vu overtakes him, and he is sure that this is not the first time the two of you have been in this situation.

“Are you okay?”

The question sends shivers down his spine.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically.

Behind him, Barbara’s voice goes weak. “Jason. I...I’ll try other electronics. I’ll keep going until I find you.”

He reaches for his helmet and switches on the comms before he can stop himself.

He owes her this much, he thinks.

Jason tries to speak her name, but it feels like acid on his lips. In the back of his head, he can still hear the Joker’s voice, snide and sing-songy, Tell me, Tiddy, Toddy, wee Todders. Tell me about the wee little Bat, hm? Tell me who she is. If you’re good, maybe we can arrange a playdate.

He had lost count of the number of times Joker asked him, about Batman and Nightwing and Oracle. Each time he refused, there’d be a new punishment.

And the Joker was endlessly creative.

There were times when he lost consciousness during the interrogations. There were days where he simply couldn’t recall anything. And Jason wondered--did he slip up?

Was she in a wheelchair because of him?

He closes his mouth and tries again.

“Oracle,” he says. “I’m here.”

“This place is nice,” you remark, and there is a sense of wonder in your voice.

Jason supposes that after staring at the walls of Arkham Asylum for so long, any place can look wonderful. Oracle strains to catch a glimpse of you as you wander the Clock Tower. The corners of her lips twitch; it’s obvious that she wants to ask.

He keeps an eye on you; it’s surprisingly easy. You don’t wander off like he expects, like he did after he first got out of Arkham, instead you take your time soaking in your surroundings. The shelves of books seem to fascinate you; you trace their spines with the tip of your finger.

He wonders if you’d read any of them; whether you liked to read. He wonders just how much he’s taken from you.

A lifetime, he thinks. A soul.

But for the first time since leaving the asylum, he does not see you as empty. There is open curiosity on your face, a hunger that he did not expect.

Oracle swallows. She’s nervous. A bead of sweat runs down the side of her head. Somehow, he wants to ease that.

“She’s fine. She….she won’t tell anyone about…” He gestures to his mask.

He still wore the same mask as the Arkham Knight, but Oracle holds his gaze without flinching. Her expression is that of cool professionalism.

“I’m glad. Would you...would you care to introduce me?” she asks.

Oracle’s voice is calm, but on her lap, her hands are clenched tight, a sure sign that her mind is working furiously. She wants to know about you, wants to know why Jason hasn’t killed you, wants to know what you meant to him.

Jason doesn’t know himself.

“She’s...from the asylum,” he says.

Oracle’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “I see. Is she...an inmate?”

He snorts. “No. She’s--”

The words jam against his throat, and they are surprisingly hard to get out. It has been two years since he had gotten you killed, and he’s sure that you’d died multiple times since then. But even now, he finds it hard to admit.

Jason swallows, his throat working hard.

“She tried to save me. From Joker. She--” He bites off his words before he can say more.

She tried to do what Batman never did.

Despite his restraint, Oracle seems to understand.

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “You can say it.”

“She’s the only one who tried to save me,” Jason snaps, and it is hard to keep the bitterness out of his tone.

“Jason. You know that’s not true, We searched for you for months.”

“Didn’t take too long to find a replacement, did you?”

Jason pauses, exhaustion drags at him like lead weights. It is the same old argument, the same old hate that once drove him to madness. And the only person who can give him answers is dead.

There is a thump behind him, and he looks to find that you’d dropped one of the books.

He raises his voice, “You all right back there?”

“I’m fine.” Then, you add with a bit of irritation, “You don’t need to keep checking up on me.”

But he can see the way you struggle to pick up the book, fingers twitching as if your nerves weren’t firing properly. It brings to memory the first few days after his escape from the asylum; the way every movement seemed to cause pain, the way his muscles didn’t seem to want to obey him.

Jason turns away; he didn’t want anyone to see him back then either.

Oracle follows his example, focusing on him instead, “Did the Joker...did he capture her, too?”

He blinks and remembers that moment. It is one of those things that he remembers clearly: Joker’s genuine smile illuminated by the gunfire.

“He didn’t,” Jason says flatly. “He shot her in the back of the head.”

Oracle’s eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline, once again, she glances at you.

“Did she…?”

“She died right in front of me,” Jason concludes.

Your eyes, the light fading from them. Blood pooling underneath your head. The crater of an exit wound in your forehead.

He breathes in deeply, tries to ground himself.

“And what…?” Oracle’s voice is low. “She came back?”

“Seems like it. She’s...not all there. Can’t remember who she is. Can’t...do much of anything. She’s...actually a lot better now than she was back then.”

You barely talked, then. Barely did anything but blink. You remembered him, though, remembered that you wanted to save him.

“I see.” If Oracle is surprised, she keeps her emotions in check. “Stranger things have happened in Gotham. And...and, that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

Jason is increasingly conscious of the sun beginning to illuminate the surrounding buildings. Soon, GCPD will flood the streets.

“Tell me what you want, Oracle.” He sounds weary, even to himself, and he remembers that he hasn’t slept in over seventy-two hours.

She looks at him with red-rimmed eyes, and he is acutely aware of the fact that she had likely been crying less than an hour before. When she speaks, her voice is as soft as he’s ever heard it.

“You’re family, Jason. I wanted to check up on you, after...after.”

“After Bruce killed himself,” he says flatly. There is no use sugarcoating it. “Probably took Alfred with him, too.”

It hurts to think of Alfred.

“Yeah. After that.” She pauses.

A silence settles over the two of them, and he feels Batman’s ghost hovering over them. The very air seemed to thicken; Jason feels his throat work furiously. Thinking about Batman makes it hard to breathe.

“I was thinking of Star City,” he says. “Far enough from…everything.”

Far enough to get away from what he’d done.

Oracle glances at you.

“Her, too?”

The question makes him stop.

It would be easier, he thinks, to say no. He doesn’t quite know what to do with you. He doesn’t know if you follow him because it is what you want or simply because there’s nothing else for you.

When you glance at him, he looks away.

You tried to save him.

“Yeah. Her, too.”

Oracle glances at him with wide, sad eyes, and it irritates him. He hates her, he thinks, for being able to cry so easily over Batman. Jason doesn’t even know if he had the right to cry. He had, after all, tried to kill him.

You cried over Joker, a small voice whispers. You cried when you found out he was dead.

Only because he didn’t get the chance to pull the trigger himself.

“What is it?” His voice comes out harder and rougher than he intends.

“I just...Batman is dead. Everyone saw it.”

Why must she keep bringing that up? The thought makes his skin itch and burn.

“I know. What’s your point?”

He can see her bracing herself for something. On her lap, her fingers clench into fists.

“How long do you think it will take for his enemies to come crawling out of the woodwork? How long before they make another bid for Gotham now that he’s dead?”

And Jason’s mind goes white. He feels rage, always just simmering underneath his skin, boil over to the surface.

“What the hell do you want me to do about it?” he snarls. “Take up the fucking mantle? Pretend I’m still his little lackey? He forgot about me!”

“He thought you were dead! When Joker sent that tape, he shut down. He wanted to keep looking and we...and we…” Her voice cracks, it sounds like glass breaking. “We were the ones who convinced him to stop.”

“We believed that tape. It was our fault. Mine. I should have known better. But Jason, he never, never gave up on you.”

Jason’s chest feels tight, his skin is burning.

Batman had told him the same thing.

“And Robin?” He practically spits out the word. “Don’t tell me that Batman never forgot about me when he replaced me so quickly.”

“He wanted...needed...help. Jason, he was running himself ragged looking for you. He needed help.”

He’s heard all this before, and with a sudden sense of exhaustion, he realizes that he does not want to hear it again.

What did it matter, after all? Batman is dead.

“What do you want, Oracle? Just tell me.”

“A--a couple of months.” Though her voice trembles, she wipes away the tears with the back of her hand. “Tim...he can’t do it alone and...I’m scared, Jason. Everyone in Gotham knows who Bruce was, and they’ll be targeting everyone who’s ever been close to him. We’re going to need all the help we can get. Just a couple of months. Please.”

He stares at her. Her shoulders are shaking and her tears refuse to slow, but she meets his gaze without flinching.

“I can help you get into Star City, if you want. In the meantime, I can set you up in a safe house here. We just need a couple of months to make sure that what happened here won’t happen again.”

“To make sure some crazy bastard doesn’t try to take over Gotham?” Jason says.

Her lips curl upward, not quite a smile, but it is enough.

The safehouse is small but cozy enough that Jason struggles to even call it a safe house. A bathroom. A tiny kitchen. Two beds. It even had a bookshelf and a small desk. These, Jason is sure, are meant for you. Oracle must have noticed how you were drawn to the books in the clocktower.

The notion is only further strengthened when you approach the shelf and run your finger across their spines. A faint smile touches your face.

“These are the same ones from the tower.”

Jason doesn’t answer at first. He doesn’t like the idea of spending so much time with you, in the same small room. He doesn’t like the idea of spending so much time with anyone.

You pull one of the books from their spot and flip through the pages. You look excited, eager.

To Jason, you look naive. Like you do not belong in Gotham. The same bright excitement on his face, when he had first stepped into the Wayne Manor library. He had taught himself to read from whatever books he could find in his previous home at Park Row. Old magazines, brochures and pamphlets that someone had stuffed into their mail slot, the occasional paperback that his mother would tear apart for kindling.

Back then, the Wayne’s library had felt like the height of luxury. Inside it, he had felt safe. Protected.

“Can I read this?” you ask.

Jason blinks.

You were holding up a copy of The Complete Adventure of Sherlock Holmes.

He felt a smile flicker and die on his lips. A reflex, he thinks, nothing more. If you had pulled the same book at the Wayne Manor library, you would have been surprised when the shelf moved back to reveal the entrance to the Batcave.

As a child, it had been his favorite path to and from the secret hideout.

“Sure,” Jason says. “You don’t even need to ask. I think Oracle put it there for you.”

“Oh.” You look at him, uncertain. “Thanks.”

You hesitate before opening the book gingerly. It is clearly new, the spine resistant. Oracle must have gone on a shopping spree. Despite clearly wanting to read, you keep glancing at him.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

The corner of your lips twitch.

“Nothing.”

He can hear the lie in your voice, and Jason feels something ugly and heated rise inside him.

More lies. Little ones. Big ones.

“Just tell me the fucking reason,” he snaps.

His voice cracks like a whip, and you flinch as if you’ve been struck.

“Sorry,” you say in a small voice.

The anger fades away, almost as soon as it came, and it leaves nothing behind but shame and hot guilt.

“No, I’m sorry,” Jason says. “It’s not...it’s not your fault. Just don’t lie to me, okay?”

You don’t look at him. “Okay.”

He feels tired, his skin tight. Batman’s death, talking with Oracle...you. He doesn’t want to deal with any of this just then. He wants...he wants to sleep. And forget, at least for a little while.

“I’m going to bed. Wake me up when something comes up, okay?”

“Okay.”

Jason chooses one of the beds, the one closer to the door, and collapses on it, not even bothering to change out of his clothes.

He wishes for a sleep without dreams.

Instead, he wakes up screaming.

Jason dreams of fire.

The heat of a brand burning against his cheek.

The raging inferno that consumes the manor.

The Cloudburst, cracked open like a shell, the hiss of the fear toxin seeping into his helmet. Even back then, he saw fire.

Whether on fear toxin or within the confines of his own ragged mind, Jason Todd sees flames.

Jason flares awake, every nerve in his body screaming, and he nearly slices your throat open before he realizes what he is doing. Your frightened gasp brings him back to his senses.

He blinks and sees his own frightened face staring back at him. He had always kept his knives sharp. A prick of blood wells up from your neck. In your eyes, he sees something. Not fear. Something harder, older: resignation.

Jason pulls back from you as if burned.

The bead of blood slides down your skin, stains the collar of your shirt.

His heart thumps painfully inside his chest.

Your face is blank and expressionless.

He has to try several times before he can speak, “Why...why did you wake me?”

“You were screaming. In your sleep, I mean. Did you have nightmares?”

You don’t mention the fact that he almost killed you. He wonders if he should. He wonders if it even mattered to you.

“I did.” His mouth feels painfully dry.

“Oh.” You pause. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

You don’t sound like you mean it. In fact, you sound almost exactly the way you were those first few days back at the asylum. Dead.

Another long pause, and then you spoke again, “Can I do anything to help?”

The answer comes automatically, “No.”

“Okay.” You go back to reading.

It is well into the night now, and you hadn’t even bothered to turn on the lights. He wonders if you can see in the dark, wonders if he should offer to turn on the lights. The scar on his cheek throbs, almost as if in defiance.

Your neck is still bleeding.

He licks his lips; they feel cracked and dry. “I almost killed you.”

“Yes.”

“If I killed you...if I had killed you, would you have come back?”

“I think so.”

“Does…” Jason stops, unsure how to continue.

His chest feels tight. When Joker had shot him, his Robin armor had absorbed most of the blow, the bullet had shattered against it. But it didn’t stop the ricochet from burying itself into his chest, his neck, his arms. The scars it had left ached now. He doesn’t know how long he spent lying on the cold, tiled floor, waiting for death, wishing for a god he didn’t believe in to finally, finally end it all. He doesn’t know how long he prayed until you found him.

“Does it still matter to you?” he asks, softly. “Dying? Knowing you’ll come back. Does that scare you?”

You are silent for a long time.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me what you dreamed about. Does that sound fair?”

Jason feels the sudden bite of annoyance, surprise. He doesn’t remember you ever demanding anything. To demand anything, one needs a will. And Jason thought that had long been driven out of you.

Maybe you aren’t quite as dead as he thought.

“Okay,” he says.

“You first.”

“Fire.” The answer comes automatically, and he is surprised that he says the truth.

He had planned on lying; he does not like the idea of someone rifling through his thoughts, his memories, as if it’s an envelope. The Joker had done enough of that.

“Fire?” you ask.

Jason raises a trembling hand and taps his cheek. His scar feels burning hot against his finger.

“I dreamed of...when he gave me this. It was...it was a few weeks after you died. The first time you died.”

A few weeks after he found out that he had been replaced.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Yes,” Jason admits. “All the time.”

He does not know why he’s being so truthful to you. But then again, perhaps you are the only one it made sense to be truthful to. You already knew his secrets. You had been there for most of them.

You do an odd thing then, you raise a hand to the back of your head, like scratching an itch. Your face twists. He wonders if you can feel the bullet hole there.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“That’s not your fault. You...you tried to save me from him.”

He realizes, then, that he’s never thanked you for that.

“Not like I succeeded.”

“You still tried.”

You had come back three more times after that; your face pale and your eyes blank. You walked like a marionette on broken strings, your movements jerky and spastic. But still, you tried. The Joker had killed you, every time. He remembers envying you, hating you for dying, for having the escape he so desperately needed.

“Why did you keep coming back?” he asks. “To the asylum. You could have gone anywhere.”

You don’t answer for a long time. When you speak, your voice is flat, toneless.

“Sometimes, I don’t remember much. Sometimes I’d wake up and all I can remember is that someone needed saving. And I’d walk and I’d walk until I found the asylum again. Sometimes, I remember you clearly, and I’d come back, because…” your voice trails off, wisp-thin.

“Because?” Jason prods.

“Because you said that no one else was going to come for you,” you say.

Jason looks away then, he cannot quite meet your eyes. The truth is that he’d forgotten most of what he said, the first time he met you. He had been delirious with pain and fever; he would have said anything if it meant getting out of the hell Joker had trapped him in.

But he remembers that. He remembers telling you that no one was coming to save him. Because Batman had a new Robin because he gave Jason that suit and raised him and made him feel like he was special only to discard him the moment he became inconvenient.

Oracle would disagree if she heard him. But Oracle is not here.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, finally. “Let me fix it for you.”

If he has to talk more about the Joker and the asylum and you, he thinks he’s going to cry.

“Okay.”

“Just stay there. I’ll turn on the lights and find a first aid kit. Knowing Oracle, she probably stashed several in here.”

“Okay.”

You watch Jason silently as he fumbles about the room looking for the light switch, and then the first aid kit. It is only when he is in front of you and cleaning the injury do you speak.

“It still scares me,” you say.

Jason is thinking about whether you’ll need stitches, and he responds almost absentmindedly, “What scares you?”

“Dying.”

He freezes.

Seemingly unaware of his reaction, you continue. “Every time I come back, everything seems faded. Colorless. Not really there. I have a hard time thinking. I have a hard time remembering who I am.”

Your eyes slide to the book on the table; you are halfway done with it.

“I think...the longer I stay alive. The more I remember. The less it hurts. To speak. To think.” You tap the cover of the book, almost fondly. “I think I used to like reading.”

Jason doesn’t know what to say, so instead, he says, “That’s good.”

“I’d like to stay alive. Long enough to remember everything.”

“Good. I’ll…” His throat closes as he struggles to get the words out.

Jason Todd is not a hero, can’t be anyone else’s savior or protector. Even when he had been Robin, Batman had always berated him. Too violent. Too reckless. Too temperamental. He can’t be Gotham’s new Dark Knight, the way Oracle wants him to be.

But still, if anyone deserves his protection, it would be you.

“Just stay close to me,” he says quietly. “I’ll...I’ll make sure you won’t die.”

He finishes dressing your wound.

“Done,” Jason adds.

You look startled, then raise a hand to your neck and smile when you feel the bandages there.

“Thanks,” you say.

“I should be thanking you,” Jason says hoarsely.

“For waking you up?” you ask.

Jason struggles. How does he thank someone who died trying to save him? How does he thank someone who nursed him back to health? For keeping him sane? He bows his head, he cannot look you in the eye anymore. The weight of what he’s done feels too great. His scar is burning so hot that it’s a surprise that it doesn’t set him alight.

Finally, finally, he gets the words out, and even then, it feels shallow and impotent. But it is all he can offer you.

“For everything,” he says.

Some days are easier than others.

Gotham City rebuilds fast, it always has. New buildings are built on top of old ones, ruined skyscrapers are either torn down or abandoned and left to the squatters.

Like a snake shedding its skin, Gotham moves on.

On those rare good days, Jason believes that he can almost forget...everything.

Today, however, is not one of those days. Jason wakes up to an overcast sky, and feels the chill in his bones, the stiffening muscles in his back, his hands.

Rain hammers against the windows. The wind howls relentlessly.

He braces himself for the first wave of pain, knows from experience that it is there to stay for the rest of the day. Even breathing is difficult, there is a twinge of pain from where the bullet had hit his chest.

He lies silently, listening for the flipping of pages, the steady sound of your breathing. He does not know when he began to find it comforting.

A pause. A thud.

He hears you take a deep breath.

“You okay?” you ask.

The word yes is at the tip of his tongue. It is achingly familiar, like a spice he has long-grown used to. When he had been Robin, Batman had disapproved of every moment of weakness. Every cut, every bruise Jason obtained from combat could have been avoided, or so Batman said. If only he’d been faster, smarter, stronger. The scar on his face beat in time with his own pulse.

As the Arkham Knight, he couldn’t, wouldn’t show weakness. Not to his men, who valued strength. Nor to Scarecrow, who was just waiting for the moment he showed any hint of fear, like a lion scenting prey.

And what is he now? He is no longer Robin, nor is he the Arkham Knight. He wonders if this new version of him can show weakness, wonders if he’ll be mocked or reprimanded for it.

He glances at you. You have already put down your book, and are looking at him curiously.

He can try, he thinks. He can try again.

Just this once.

“No,” he says.

The word hurts more than he’ll care to admit.

“What’s wrong?”

“Cold weather makes it ache,” he says

Jason’s cheeks burn. Shame, perhaps. Or embarrassment. Or maybe some odd combination of both.

“It?”

“Just...everything.”

He remembers Batman’s face, drawn tight with disapproval as if it had been carved from stone. Jason turns his face away, not wanting to see the same, grim disappointment in yours. The chair scrapes against the floor as you push it back.

“I’ll heat up some water for you,” you say. “Do you want something to eat?”

He feels nauseated at the thought. “No.”

“Okay. I can make a warm compress or fill up a hot water bottle or…”

Listening to you ramble, Jason feels himself relax.

Jason feels a warm towel press against his back and closes his eyes relief. It doesn’t do much for the pain, but it chases away the stiffness and the chill.

“This good?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

“Just tell me if it gets cold, okay? I can heat it up again.”

“Sure,” he pauses. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

The silence settles between the two of you. He feels like he can almost fall asleep again, and he struggles against it. He doesn’t want to sleep, doesn’t want to dream.

Jason hears a thump and opens one eye to see you sitting on the floor, staring at him.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Just watching for nightmares.”

The corners of his lip twitch; an almost smile. Even without your memories, you are sweet. He wonders if he would have liked you before...before you died. He watches as you reach up a hand, almost hesitantly, and stroke his hair.

You used to do this for him.

The memory comes so suddenly that it surprises him; he does not like remembering anything from the asylum. Least of all those raw, broken memories after the Joker had shot him. Jason had honestly believed that he was going to die; relief and despair so closely bound together that it was hard to tell where one ended and another began.

He also remembers shame, shame at nearly telling the Joker Batman’s real name, shame at dying in such a cold, desolate place.

And he remembers, with startling clarity, that you used to stroke his hair.

“Why did you do it?” you ask him one night.

Your voice is mild, but Jason looks up from his helmet, intent. You have been asking more questions lately, with increasing frustration when you don’t get the answers you want. It chafes at his skin; he is not used to questions, isn’t used to anything except the blind obedience of his former militia.

He breathes in, deep, and counts to three. Jason is not a patient man by nature, but he tries. At least, with you he does.

“Why did I do what?” he says with measured calm.

You put down the newspaper you are holding to talk to him. He likes that about you, he thinks, likes that you do not try and split your attention between things. There is a focus in your eyes that was not there a month ago.

“Papers say you killed Black Mask.” You point to the headline.

Jason does not look. He’s already read that article, would have torn it out before giving it to you if he didn’t think you would let him get away with it.

“I did.”

“They’re calling you the Red Hood now.”

He tries and fails to hide his smile. Jason’s new helmet lays on the table, where he intends to spend the rest of the night upgrading it. He has only worn it twice during missions, but already he likes the look of it.

Not like Batman, but not like the Arkham Knight, either. This is something new.

“Why did you kill him?” you ask. “Black Mask?”

He glances at you. “You think I need a reason? That bastard is responsible for half the drug trade in East End.”

“Papers say that he’s got twenty-five bullet holes in him.”

Jason had counted twenty-seven.

“Why are you asking?” he says.

“You’re normally not this excessive.”

Jason looks at you, surprised. You almost never bring up his work with Oracle, though it would have been impossible not to notice: each dawn, he comes back to the safe house, reeking of blood and gunpowder.

You stay up for him, he thinks. Wait until dawn to make sure he’s safe. It jumbles his thoughts, his feelings. More than once, he has snapped at you for your fussing. He is not used to it, and the thought of someone caring for him aches like an open wound.

He grunts. “Didn’t realize you’d been keeping track.”

“It would have been hard not to.” You list what he’s done, ticking them off on your fingers. “Black Mask and Nicovante in East End. Penguin’s right-hand man in the Last Mistake. A scientist who’s been experimenting on people in the Bowery. Every one of them dead with a single bullet to the head. Except for Black Mask.”

Jason stares at you, feeling his skin itch. He thinks of Oracle, her voice strained with concern and disapproval. She dislikes the way he handles criminals, dislikes it because he wouldn’t handle them the way Batman would have. He looks down at his helmet, its guts strewn out on the tables. The scars on his hands pulse.

And Jason thinks, he is living evidence that Batman’s methods do not work.

“It’s not exactly your normal way of doing things,” you conclude.

“No, it’s not,” he says.

Twenty-seven shots to the head and chest is not the norm for him. It would have been a waste of bullets.

“So Black Mask?”

Jason breathes deeply, and counts again. His reply comes out through gritted teeth, short and pointed.

“It was personal.”

You do not flinch, the way you would have a month ago. You meet his gaze steadily, all cool curiosity. Jason wonders if he would like this trait in you if it hadn’t been directed at him. You almost remind him of Oracle.

“Personal how?”

You do not seem to want to let this go. Jason lowers his gaze to the helmet. Guilt burns a hole in his stomach; he finds that he cannot quite look at you. The silence lies heavy between the two of you. It’s suffocating, Jason struggles for air.

He does not want to answer.

Jason hears the rustle of pages; you have gone back to reading. And he can go back to working on his helmet, he thinks, and pretend that the conversation never happened. If he asks you to, you probably won’t bring it up again.

It is easier that way, he thinks. He is getting used to burying the guilt and the shame.

He glances at you, not missing the stiffness of your shoulders, the straight line in your spine. You are tense. Even from the beginning, your relationship has been marked with lies and secrecy.

Robin had been too naive, too reckless, too trusting. He never would have survived in Gotham, not for long. All it got him was broken faith and a bullet to the chest.

The Arkham Knight was a monster. All hate and fury and gnashing teeth. He trusted no one. Not his recruits, not Scarecrow. It kept him safe, but it also kept him empty, carved hollow. Two years and not a single person knew his name. Jason is glad he is dead.

And now this new persona, the one he wears like an ill-fitting cloak: Red Hood. He does not yet know who he is, but he is surprised to realize that he wants to find out.

Jason sighs deeply and sets aside his helmet.

“What do you want to know?” he asks.

“Black Mask,” you say immediately. “Why him?”

He stares at you, his mind working furiously. He remembers Batman, every word carefully curated, every fact provided on a need to know basis.

He does not want to be like that.

“Dick Grayson,” he says heavily.

Not Nightwing. Dick Grayson.

“The cop from Bludhaven?” you ask.

It’s a surprise that you know him at all. Jason raises his eyebrows at you.

“I think he tried to help me once. He was very kind. What does he have to do with Black Mask?”

Jason feels his scars burn, pulse like a heart. He turns away.

“They put out a hit on him.” His answer comes out through gritted teeth.

Not Nightwing. Not the vigilante of Bludhaven. Dick Grayson. The cop from the BPD. With Batman unmasked and dead, anyone who’s ever been connected to him is a target. Old enemies wanting revenge, new ones who want to make a statement. Jason’s actions had painted a target on everyone else’s backs. He’s already found three new open contracts on his replacement’s head.

You look confused. “A friend of yours?”

“Something like that.”

Brother. The thought stings.

You remain silent for a long time.

“You must be close to him, then,” you say.

“I was.”

The last time he had seen Nightwing, it had been through the scope of his rifle. But even as the Arkham Knight, he had been unable to pull the trigger.

“That would explain it,” you say. “Thanks for telling me.”

You do not say anything more, seemingly satisfied. Jason wishes he can go back to his helmet, but he realizes he can’t. As Robin, he had kept secrets because Batman told him to, as the Arkham Knight, he had no one to tell them to.

And now?

Jason studies you out of the corner of his eyes. A month ago, he had thought you an empty shell, much like he was. Hollowed out and discarded. But now, he’s not so sure. Now, you show glimpses of the person you once were, the person you are. The person that walked into Arkham Asylum, determined to save him.

He thinks if there is anyone he wants to tell secrets to, it would be you.

“He’s my brother.”

You look at him, open curiosity on your face. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Adopted. All of us are. I can’t...see him. Not right now. But still, I had to keep him safe.”

His throat tightens, jaw muscles jumping. The words lie in his mouth, burning.

He looks at you, and all he can think about is the life you’ve lost. Even now, he still thinks of you as a ghost.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

And you are looking at him, with those colorless eyes, curiosity and confusion, and he cannot quite look at you in the face. The words are like a spark, his guilt dry tinder, he can feel himself catching flame.

“For what?”

Jason’s head is bowed, a puppet with its strings cut. He twists his hands in his lap and watches the scars ripple.

When he next speaks, his words are so low he can barely hear them, “For not doing the same thing for you.”

Your eyes widen, and he remembers the same surprised look on your face, the night Joker shot you and you died for the first time.

“What do you mean?”

Were you really going to make him say it? The words almost choke him coming out.

“For not...preventing your death. The first time. The second or...any of them. I’m sorry. For all of them. All I ever did was get you killed.”

His eyes burn. Jason is not a hero, barely even a vigilante. He is not some valiant protector, like Batman was, like Robin is trying to be. But he wishes he can protect you.

When he finally raises his head, you are a lot closer than he is expecting; you must have gotten up at some point. Your noses are almost touching, he can feel the heat from your body, the warmth of your breath on his cheeks, brushing against his scar. Jason swallows, his mouth feeling dry.

No, he doesn’t deserve this.

“I forgive you.”

The way you say it--so easy, as if it means nothing--almost makes him angry.

“Is that it? Do you think it’s that easy?” His voice cracks.

“Do you think it’s not?”

If anything, that makes him angrier. He wants to grab you, shake you, make you realize what he’s taken away from you.

“You died,” he says through gritted teeth.

“I did. Several times.” You look at him. “If it’s forgiveness you’re looking for, then I forgive you.”

Jason’s furious. He wants to yell, wants to turn away and forget this conversation ever happened. He wants to dismiss what you’re saying as another blank, empty-shell sentiment. Not the sort of thing a real person might say. But your eyes are clear and you are looking at him, not with a blankness or a lostness, but something disturbingly close to pity.

You are here, and you have forgiven him not just as an empty sentiment, but really actually forgave him for getting you killed, for letting you die trying to save him.

And the thought terrifies him.

Because for Jason Todd, nothing is ever that easy. Nothing can be that easy.

Forgiveness, he has learned, is spat out through yellowed teeth, it stank of alcohol as his father sneers when he finally lets go of his mother. Forgiveness comes when the bitch finally learns her place.

Forgiveness is hours upon hours of training and practice until he has perfected the new kata and managed to reach Batman’s rigorous standards.

Forgiveness is a terse nod and a small acknowledgment.

Forgiveness is Joker’s smile, when Jason finally breaks and begs for mercy.

It cannot be as easy as you say it is. He can feel his world tilt and crack in two, clean down the middle.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” Jason says, and he buries his face in his hands and cries.

It is the first time he has cried since Batman’s death, and it feels less like grief and more like a release. Finally, finally, he is able to cry. He feels you touch the back of his neck, feels your fingers touch the furrows of flesh left behind by piano wire and this time, he does not shy away.

“I know,” you say. “I’ll be here until you do.”

And after that? He thinks. After you’ve regained your memory, after you realize that you have an entire life you left behind? What about then?

As if hearing his thoughts, you say, “I’ll be here for as long as you want me to.”

It is a different sort of relief, so sharp it feels like pain. He leans forward, his forehead just barely brushing against you. Your hands feel warm against his back.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and his voice comes out tired and small.

“I know. And I forgive you.”

He thinks that he is not yet ready for that, but he is glad for it all the same.

It is dusk when he wakes. Jason does not remember falling asleep, but he must have. He must have moved at some point because the two of you are on the sofa, and your head is resting against your shoulder. He is less surprised that he is able to sleep without dreams, than he is at the fact that he’s holding your hand. It feels small in his, awkward, and he wonders if the scars bother you.

But it feels...right somehow.

He feels you stir in your sleep, against him. He hears your breathing quicken slightly, before it evens. He wonders if you are looking at your entwined hands, wonders if you want to let go.

You don’t.

“Hey,” you say, and your voice is soft with sleep.

Jason’s heart hammers against his throat. The moment feels fragile, somehow, like glass in his hands. He does not want to break it.

“How’re you feeling?” you ask.

It is a loaded question, if Jason’s ever heard one. He does not quite know how to answer.

“Better,” he says.

“Better.”

Maybe that is not quite the right word, he thinks. He had not thought that forgiveness was something he could earn. To have you hand it to him freely, it almost feels like breathing, for the first time since he left the asylum. That first sharp gasp of air, so cold that it made his lungs ache. But it had made him feel free, made him feel alive.

He wonders if you feel that way, too.

Jason glances you at you, at the way your hand seems to perfectly fit in his, and thinks, Not yet.

You are not yet whole, your memories are still in pieces. And Jason...Jason still needs to rebuild, to atone. But there is something there, he thinks. Something small and unformed and something incredibly precious.

It feels like someone’s voice calling out for him when he thought himself forgotten, it feels like a hand stroking his hair after he wakes up from a nightmare. It feels like a smile when the whole world seems against him.

It feels, he thinks, like hope.