Chapter Text
At first, he hesitated when Tim called him and asked if he could swing by the cave.
He's on good terms with the bat-birds now - well, on speaking terms at least....
Fine. On not-trying-to-murder-each-other terms, and occasionally-working-together terms, and Red-Hood-is-sort-of-a-bat-now-so-we-can-trust-him terms.
He swings by the Manor every few weeks to have tea with Alfred. And he hangs out with Dick occasionally. Dick has been pretty insistent since he returned and Jason, well... he minds it less and less as time goes by.
And Tim and him have started to banter and joke a bit when they cross paths.
As for Bruce—Jason's pretty sure doesn't give two shits about him. But since Jason isn’t trying to kill him or his third kid, things are... fine? At least the man has stopped pushing Robin behind him when they meet, they’ve exchanged small talk, and even a few smiles. He’s been invited to stay at the Manor once or twice. So yeah—good terms, relatively speaking.
Also, he figures he's mostly out of the woods with the whole Lazarus Pit thing. The uncontrollable, violent blackouts—just rage and green water drowning his brain and soul—have stopped. There were strange side effects too: he thought he could hear people's thoughts, or think so loudly people thought he’d spoken, even if he had remained silent. He once mentioned it to J'onn, but that conversation hadn't amounted to much.
Besides, it had all faded away with time, and despite the many gruesome jokes he told about it, he never wanted to actually talk about that whole dying, crawling out of the mud, Lazarus Pit mess.
Especially now that he was getting back into his family's good graces.
So when Tim calls him and tells him they need him to help out on something dangerous, he eventually agrees. Eventually, because he's still a little jittery around Bruce. Not that he would ever admit that to anyone, mind you.
“It’s a new fear toxin formula,” Tim says, showing him a report in the cave. “Scarecrow didn’t get a chance to release it, but we think he might have given it to his allies before we caught him. The usual antidote doesn’t work—it’s too different. And… it’s extremely potent.”
Jason is sure they are equally skilled in identifying chemicals and potential antidotes, so he doesn't understand why Tim called him here.
"Okay? And you need me to what? Beat the information out of him?"
"No," Batman growls as he emerges from the shadows, startling Jason into a near-heart attack.
"Jesus, warn a guy, will you?" he breathes out, "I just crawled out of the grave, give me a few years before I go back under."
Batman grunts and Jason is pretty sure he's rolling his eyes under the cowl. He hates Jason's jokes, especially those regarding dying. Jason, on the other hand, has always loved annoying Bruce.
It doesn't get him a punch to the face anymore, so it's a win-win these days.
“No,” Tim echoes, his voice lighter and a little amused. Gotta hand it to him—he’s one of the few who laughs at Jason’s death jokes. Aside from Steph, of course. “We need someone to test it on. See how it works and if any of our antidotes help. We don’t have time for lab results.”
It takes Jason a full five seconds to register what the kid just said.
He cuts his eyes over to Bruce.
"So you need a lab rat."
Bruce removes the cowl. Jason is a little stunned to see his brow crinkled in worry, but it doesn't lessen the anger.
"I wouldn't be asking if I had any other option," the man says, looking down at the reports as if he's reading them.
Of course. Right. Dick, Tim, Steph and Cass are too precious to sacrifice. Jason, on the other hand, is no longer Bruce's son, just a convenient ally that keeps Crime Alley safe enough that Batman doesn't have to sully his combat boots in the worst part of Gotham.
And Bruce himself can't be knocked out, he needs to be alert at all times. Can't trust his own kids to watch while he succumbs.
He knows Bruce can't be bothered to pretend to give a fuck about him or his safety anymore, but something in his chest still crumbles.
He tries to fill up the current gaping wound behind his ribs with determined anger.
"Fine, whatever. I'll do it."
He'll be damned if he lets the old man see how much this is getting to him - Batman will never see him sad or afraid again if he can help it. Consequences be damned.
Tim seems to want to add something, but thinks better of it and gestures to the medical table. There is an oxygen mask lying on top of it, connected to a large metal container. But there's no oxygen in there, he knows. Jason ignores the cold spike running down his very spine and tries to forget the last time he was subjected to fear toxin.
There's also a small table with a few needles next to it. Yay, he loves getting injected.
And... oh, restraints. Awesome.
"It's uh, just a precaution," Tim says as he follows his line of sight. "We don't know how your mind will react to this new strain."
Jason swallows hard and nods.
It's probably a good idea, too. He hasn't had a Pit episode in ages, but fear toxin could very well bring it back. And if that happens, with Bruce and Tim here...
He shakes that thought away and walks determinedly to the table, lying down.
Just as Tim is fastening straps on his wrists and arms, Dick shows up.
Great.
“Hey, Little Wing,” he says—less cheerful than usual, but Jason doesn’t blame him. Watching your younger brother strapped to a table, about to be pumped full of fear toxin, can’t be easy. Dick shoots Bruce a hard glare. Huh, he’s pissed at their- his dad. “Steph and Cass will cover patrol tonight.”
Bruce grunts noncommittally as he pretends to keep reading the same fucking piece of paper he's been staring at for the past ten minutes.
Dick walks closer to them. "Hey, baby bird," he says to Tim.
The younger boy smiles slightly.
"Came to see the show?" Jason asks, and he hates how his voice shakes a little. God, he's getting nervous.
Dick smiles at him, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Sorry for this, Jay, but... hey, at least it doesn't affect you like it does us, right?"
...What.
"It doesn't?" he asks, genuinely confused. Maybe they found out something about his DNA in a medical check that they neglected to tell him...
Dick opens his mouth to answer and stutters a bit.
"You..." Tim begins, hands frozen before he can tighten a strap on his bicep. "Uhm, that's what you told Scarecrow. That, because you had died, you weren't afraid of anything, so his toxin didn't affect you."
Oh.
Ohhhh...
Jason doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry. Of course the toxin affects him! Worse than the others, he'd be willing to bet. His brain is way more fucked up than any of theirs, he's pretty sure of that. He had been fucking bluffing! The Pit rage had fueled his actions, so he had managed to stilll beat the living shit out of Scarecrow while under the toxin, but that didn't mean he hand't been drowning in horror the whole time.
Jesus.
He looks at Bruce and sees it. The man isn't even looking at him, he's looking at Tim with uncertainty and... hope, maybe?
Right. They asked him because all their hopes lie in Tim's inability to differentiate between Jason scaring someone shitless and actually meaning what he says.
Well, whatever lets them sleep at night. He's not about to tell them that they're wrong and ruin the whole plan. He's already talked himself into it, and once again, he's not going to let Bruce think for a second that he's backing out because he's nervous.
So he simply nods, trying to look calm.
"Yeah... yeah, it - it's fine. Go on."
Dick seems to be about to say something, but shuts his mouth and watches as Tim attaches wires to Jason's temples and chest to monitor his vitals.
When they lower the mask to his face, Bruce finally walks up to him.
He locks eyes with him.
"It'll be alright, Jason. We'll be right here."
Jason crinkles his brow in confusion for a moment before deciding that Bruce just wants to earn forgiveness points from Dick by treating him somewhat good.
He closes his eyes.
A faint hissing sound floods the room before the scent hits his nostrils and -
- he tries to call Bruce's name. He can hear his dad calling desperately for him, but he cannot take more than a tiny wheeze.
Every inch of his body hurts, even worse than before the explosion when the crowbar broke what seemed like every bone in his body.
This time, he can feel something slowly crushing him. It's too heavy and presses against his torso, against his broken ribs. Something else is on his face, sending pain into a pulverized cheekbone and ripped apart jaw, and forcing his head sideways at an exaggerated angle that he can't turn away from. And his limbs... he can't feel his legs at all, which is terrifying, but his arms are crushed. He can't see the left one since his head is twisted to the side... in fact, he can't see the right one either, as it is currently utterly buried in debris, but he can feel how mangled they are. All the way from his shoulders to the tip of his fingers, it's just a writhing, angry, violent agony.
He can feel blood trickling down every inch of his skin, and things are puncturing through him, and his skin is burnt everywhere. It tears through him, and he can't tell if there are flames still licking at his body or if it's just all charred skin.
He would be sobbing desperately if he could take in more than a few strangled gasps.
"ROBIN!" he hears again, frantic, desperate.
He tries, again, to make a sound, but he can't. He can't.
And then there's something awful in his mouth. Not ash or his own blood... smoke. It invades his nostrils. At the next gasp, it burns through his throat and tears at his lungs.
Whatever air he had been able to gulp is nonexistent now.
"Robin... Jason, please. My God. Jason, where are you?"
His chest rips apart at hearing Bruce have a mental breakdown at the inability to see him.
He tries, but... nothing. He can't. He can't breathe.
He can't breathe.
His vision blurs even more -
Jason gasps awake and screams. Screams bloody murder, his brain still trying to force him to make a sound. Any sound that would help Batman find him.
"Hey, hey! It's alright! Jason!" someone says next to him.
His wide eyes turn to Dick, who looks pale and is shaking.
" - indeed a variant of the poison known as fear toxin - " he hears Tim saying, and he turns to him.
Right. Jesus.
Right. He's not - he's not dying.
It's the... what the fuck?
The toxin's never been like this before. It creates hallucinations and triggers the fear receptors in your brain but it doesn't shove you into your worst memories and makes you feel like you are actually in there. Like you're actually living through it again.
The pain, the fear... they were as sharp as when he actually suffered it.
That was... way more than what he signed up for.
He looks for Bruce, but the man isn't there. Tim is next to the Batcomputer, talking into a recording device.
"- much stronger than previous strains."
"Tim, come on, let's take this off him, this was a terrible idea," Dick says as he reaches for a strap.
Tim looks up, and he also looks a little pale. But much more determined that Dick.
"That was just five seconds of the dose, Dick. We need more data."
Just five seconds??
"It obviously affects him just as much as any of us, Tim."
"Dick, that was just to confirm it is indeed fear toxin and not something else. Now we need to actually get him under the effects -"
He ignores the rest of their fight as he closes his eyes, fear and adrenaline still lingering inside him and a green-tinted something poking at his brain. Fuck.
He swallows and once again runs his eyes around the cave, trying to see if Batman is hiding in the shadows. But nope, the man just fucked off. So much for that 'we'll be here' bullshit.
Well, fuck him. Jason can do this. He's not a fucking baby and he's not that poor, helpless little child that got blown up.
He's the fucking Red Hood.
"- he's not a fucking lab experiment!"
"Dick," he says, his voice sounding stronger than he felt. "It's alright. I'm fine. It is strong, but I can handle it, alright? We need the stupid antidote, leave it alone."
"Jason, you don't have to do this. There's nothing to prove."
"Fuck right off, Goldie," he growls. "Kick it up, Robin. I'm ready."
Tim walks back over to the table and looks at Dick for a moment. Dick sighs angrily and crosses his arms, looking away. Then Tim shoves the recording device in his face.
"What was it like?"
Jason swallows a bit and rolls his eyes.
"It's different. It mimics actual bad memories, I guess. Makes you re-live them, instead of fucked-up hallucinations."
"This is insane. Jay, please, we'll find another way to do this."
"I'm fine, Dick!" he snaps.
Tim sighes on the other side of the table and twists the knob of the container. The hissing sound starts back up -
- "Should've thought better before trying to steal food from my turf, huh?"
His face is smashed into the jagged edges of the brick wall, the rough surface scraping skin from his cheek each time he jerks. One arm is wrenched so far behind his back it feels like the bone might split from the socket; the other is crushed flat against the wall, held there by a hand three times the size of his own, fingers digging in like claws. Agony pulses outward from behind him in sickening, molten waves, swallowing his body in white-hot pain. Something is tearing—inside—and blood is dribbling freely down his legs.
He tries to speak, to plead, to explain, but the only sounds he can make are high, raw wails, strangled by his own sobbing. His throat is torn from screaming, his jaw trembling too hard to form words. He hadn’t meant to steal. The bread had been lying there—forgotten, crusted with mold, barely food. He hadn't known. Hadn't understood the invisible borders, the vicious, unwritten laws of the streets. Not yet. He hadn’t been out here long enough to learn who owns what, and what happens to those who take without asking. He tries to move, but his legs are buckling, twitching with useless spasms. He tries to speak again—please, please, please—but it’s just noise, high and broken.
--
-- "Nah, I'm just gonna keep beating you with this crowbar,"
The fucking piece of metal slams into him again—right on the ruined mess of his hip—and the impact is like being struck by a speeding car. Something gives. A deep, structural collapse. Bone grinds on bone. His legs seize, then go limp. Pain floods him so violently it blanks everything else out—sight, sound, even breath. There’s nothing but white. A roaring, blinding white.
He can’t scream anymore. His mouth is open, gasping, but the only noise is a ragged wheeze, his throat too torn to cry out. His stomach convulses; he tastes bile, maybe blood, maybe both. Tears pour down his face, but his eyes won’t focus.
Bruce, he thinks. Bruce, please. Please find me. Please.
He doesn’t know where Bruce is, doesn’t even know if he’s close—but he clings to that name like a prayer, as everything inside him screams and splits and burns.
Another blow is coming. He can hear the whistle of air through metal, feel the shift in weight behind him. He wants to run. He wants to die. He wants someone, anyone, to make it stop. --
-- "Look, buddy, your daddy is in jail and your mommy is too much of a junkie to make rent, so unless you want me to kick both of your asses to the curb in the middle of winter, you're going to get on your knees, open that pretty mouth, and do as I fucking say." ---
-- His dad’s bloodied fist rises again, knuckles already wet with Jason’s blood, and Jason backs up until the heel of his foot hits the wall. There’s nowhere else to go. He clutches his face, blood spilling hot and fast from his broken nose, dripping through his fingers and onto the cracked linoleum floor.
His eyes flick to the bed. His mom hasn’t stirred—not even a twitch. She’s sprawled sideways, mouth slack, arm hanging off the mattress. The bent spoon and used needle on the nightstand gleam in the dull yellow light, like quiet little warnings that no help is coming. She's gone to whatever place she goes, and he knows better than to hope she’ll come back before the next blow lands.
He whimpers, voice barely more than a breath. His fingers tremble where they try to shield his face.
The man roars at him about the kitchen—about the mess, about the broken plate, about how Jason always ruins everything. His spit flies, and his shadow swells over Jason like a stormcloud. The rage isn’t just loud—it’s violent, alive, thrumming in the floorboards and rattling in Jason’s teeth.
He squeezes his eyes shut, too scared to beg, too exhausted to scream. --
-- "HELP!" he screams, but the sound doesn't travel and there isn't enough oxygen. His fingers are bleeding and torn as he scratches and punches at the wood above him, trying to ignore the disgusting wiggling and crawling on his skin and the taste filling his mouth, "HELP ME, PLEASE!"
His screams are desperate as he slams his bloodied fists against the lid, terror too intense to register the pain of knuckles cracking, fingers dislocating, blood running warm down his wrist. He keeps going. Blind. Animal. Desperate. Each movement sends a jolt of fire through his joints. Something in his shoulder snaps. He doesn’t stop. As soon as the wood cracks and gives in, dirt and mud pour on his face and he nearly chokes. It fills his mouth, his nose, his eyes. He claws through it anyway, coughing, gagging, sobbing. There’s no up or down—only pain and pressure and the screaming in his head. One hand desperately claws at the earth, trying to dig further, and the other tries to keep breaking the casket so his body can fit through. He can't stop screaming. He is too fucking scared.
This is too horrible, a minute ago he was buried underneath burning debris and now he's buried in a fucking grave! He keeps screaming, and screaming and --
-- sobbing.
Dick can't look away from Jason, strapped to this cold metal table with fear toxin filling his lungs, straps holding him down as he sobs. It's quiet and soft, and he isn't trashing around, so maybe it's not that bad.
He looks up at Tim, who is monitoring his vitals while he talks quietly to the recorder, like doesn't even register what's happening. Like he's as cold and emotionless as the batcomputer.
"- expected spike in adrenaline, higher than normal response in the amygdala, but he doesn't seem to be reacting violently to it. It's been twenty seconds breathing it in, removing the mask now."
The younger boy slowly removes the mask from Jason's face.
Dick barely notices Bruce walking back into the cave, pale and looking like he might get sick. Probably did get sick.
But the first five seconds Jason had screamed Bruce's name, and... and had begged for Bruce to find him. And the old man had been unable to witness it anymore.
He hates Bruce at the moment for even agreeing to this idea, but he pities him a little, too.
And then... Jason opens his eyes. But they don't focus on anything in particular. His pupils are shaking as he continues crying softly.
"J-Jason?" Tim ventures. The other boy doesn't respond. "Jason, can you hear me?"
Jason takes a deep, deep breath and then begins hyperventilating, but doesn't say anything. It's sad and terrifying, but the lack of screaming is a bit reassuring.
"Oh, little bird..." Dick mutters.
"Alright," Tim says, trying to sound steady as he grabs a syringe from a little table next to the container. It has a pink liquid inside it. "First test - Antidote B36A."
He injects it into Jason's arm.
The hyperventilation stops for a second -
- a second in which they all three feel hopeful, believing more and more that Jason is indeed immune to the toxin. And this antidote might just be it.
And then, the screaming starts.
Blood-curdling, loud, desperate.
Jason begins thrashing in his bonds, so hard the straps dig into his skin. The monitors go crazy, alarms blaring in all of them.
"HELP! HELP, PLEASE, HELP! HELP ME! BRUCE, PLEASE, PLEASE DAD, PLEASE!" A heart-wrenching sobbing gasp interrupts the screaming, like he is trying to get oxygen into collapsed lungs but his heart just wants to wail, before he goes right back to it, his unseeing eyes wide and his face the perfect picture of terror. "DICK! DICK, PLEASE, PLEASE, I'M SORRY! PLEASE, HELP ME!"
Dick feels like a hot poker is stabbed right into his heart and rips apart at everything inside of him. His ribs melt into his stomach, his heart cracks into jagged pieces that stab at his lungs.
If it's true, and Jason is re-living a memory then... then he had begged for Dick's help at some point, too. And Dick hadn't shown up. Because he can't remember ever hearing Jason beg for his help.
"Second test," Tim says, his voice breaking as he fights hard to keep his composure, pulling up another syringe, "Antidote C45X."
Dick is openly sobbing now as Jason's screams stop for a second, his eyes closed.
There's a beat or two of rising hope and then -
"W-why did you give him my suit? I'm Robin. I-I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm such a failure but-but I'm still your son..."
A raw, wounded noise from Bruce startles Dick and he turns to see the man covering his face with one hand, the other one supporting him against a table as he fights his own demons.
And then... screaming again. Louder than before. Jason's spine arches up as he throws himself against the straps.
His eyes open and... they're glowing. They're glowing green.
What in the world...
His screams aren't pained anymore but - angry.
Tim shudders, his hands shaking as he fumbles with another syringe.
"I'm going to fucking murder you all. Return the fucking favor. You are all fucking traitors and liars." He squeezes his eyes shut. The anger melts right out of his face as fear takes residence again, but he doesn't scream anymore.
Tim plunges the syringe in, but this time it does absolutely nothing.
And then -
- it feels like the lights of the cave shut off.
There's pitch darkness.
"What -"
Something green begins glowing next to them, slowly increasing in intensity.
Dick can't take his eyes off of it as he triest to find out what it is, but he can also see Tim and Bruce standing next to him, green light reflecting off of them.
He can't see Jason though, but before that thought can fully materialize...
The green glow becomes some sort of puddle, and there's a body suddenly tearing through the surface, gasping and choking.
He's covered in bandages, his face wild and terrified and lost as he looks around for a second and -
- it's Jason.
The boy screams as he crawls out of the puddle and takes off into the darkness that surrounds them.
In the back of Dicks mind, a sudden sort of understanding rings through.
Somehow, for some reason, they are going to start living through this with Jason.
He looks at Tim and Bruce and knows that they know, too.
All thoughts, all awareness they might have, get interrupted as they are suddenly somewhere else, someone else -
- J'onn stares at him with that impassive, stoic expression.
He feels a little nervous, not for the first time glad that his helmet hides his face.
He knows the Justice League hate him for how much grief he caused Batman, Robin and Nightwing when he materialized out of nowhere in Gotham.
He's also glad none of them know who he really is. He doesn't think he could handle Clark and Diana's disappointment on top of everything.
But he gets invited to the Watchtower a few times now, when he's working with Nightwing and Batman on a case that involves the JL, and he can feel them glaring at the newly side-switched Red Hood who now carries a red bat on his chest like he belongs to this shitshow or something.
"A Lazarus Pit, you say?"
"Yes. It's a long story. Strange things have been happening since and - "
"I can tell you have a more open psyche than the average human. Is that what you mean?"
What?
"I'm not sure," he says slowly. "But it feels like a very watered-down version of telepathy sometimes, I guess. Reading some surface thoughts, and maybe projecting my own thoughts without speaking. That sort of thing."
That's all he's going to discuss with the martian. The Pit-rage is not even going to cross his mind, in case the man is reading it. Nuh uh. That's a secret he intends to take to his grave. His second grave. If he even gets one the next time around.
J'onn studies him for a moment.
"I'm sorry, Hood. I have no experience or information regarding Lazarus Pits, other than myths that it may perhaps enhance human bodies, or infuse them with meta-like abilities. But these are just myths," he clarifies. "I could, however, try to teach you to control it, or study it, if you're interested. It would require that I enter your mind to understand it myself first."
Oh, no. Nope. Not going to happen. His brain is too fucked up.
Before he can say anything, Batman walks up to them. "Time to go."
His tone makes his spine stiffen, a cold claw of drear running down his spine and fisting the pit of his stomach, and he nods at J'onn before following his family to the zeta tube.
They emerge from the tube into the Batcave.
"Care to tell me what you were so quietly discussing with Manhunter?" Bruce asks, his tone sounding upset.
Jason tries to play nonchalant, but the truth is that after the huge fight and Batarang to the throat fiasco, he still gets a little shaky when Bruce sounds like this. He clawed fist inside him clenches even more, and his throat tightens a little.
"Asking him if he'd get jealous of me painting my helmet green."
Nightwing and Robin snort. Batman glares at him. His heart thumps.
"Your admittance to the Watchtower is a privilege, Red Hood. One that is still under review. If you pull anything at all with the Justice League -"
"Whoa," he says, lifting his hands. "What the hell do you think I'd pull with Superman and Wonder Woman right there?"
"I don't know, but I'm sure you can think of something," the man growls.
"Hey, B, let's tone it down," Nighwing says, placatingly.
"What, so I can follow you to the Watchtower like a puppy but I'm not allowed to talk to your friends? Is that it?" Jason growls, anger momentarily pushing the nervousness aside.
"You are not allowed to step one toe out of line, especially where the JL is concerned. You have to earn my trust back, Red Hood. Until then, I'm watching your every move."
The stab in his chest and consequent fracture in his heart make him hesitate.
"You're saying you don't trust me."
"Should I?" Batman growls, his fists tightening.
Jason sees the muscles in the man's arms straining, the way he plants his feet like he's ready to fight. The memory of the Batarang tearing through the flesh under his chin suddenly hits him full force, and his heart is beating too fast for his liking. His throat is closing up. His body is made of ice and terror.
He's had plenty of panic attacks to recognize when one of them is coming.
So despite Nightwing's protests, he spins on his heels and gets the hell out of there.
He breaks down in the middle of a dark alley, unable to breathe or see enough to keep driving his bike.
He tries desperately to calm down, gasping and clutching as his chest, but panic attacks are a bitch.
He closes his eyes -
Bruce opens his eyes, completely unaware that he had closed them.
They are back in the cave, and - and -
Fuck.
He's shaking, tears are coating his face, he's gasping. His heart is beating too fast in his chest, the remnants of a panic attack coiling around his throat and lungs.
He looks around. So are Dick and Tim, trying to calm down, both kneeling on the ground.
And Jason, crying harder than all of them, still strapped to the table.
Fuck. Fuck.
Dick looks up and his glare is murderous.
He remembers that instance - weeks of guilt had followed it. But that day, he had been too upset. Every time he took Jason to the Watchtower, half the JL would hound him for taking a crime lord under his wing, with immediate access to not only his own children but their information. Diana had insisted they arrest him right there. That day, he'd had enough.
Bruce had been livid with everyone, and seeing J'onn looking coldly at Jason as they spoke had sent his mind into all kinds of scenarios.
He had thought Jason had left the manor equally enraged. Never in a million years would he have thought that... he had fled because he was terrified. Of him.
And - and... Fuck.
He realizes with another spike in his racing heart that he made a huge mistake. He had been too desperate for an answer, so he had believed Tim's theory through and through. He had had his doubts, but all in all, it made sense. If Jason was immune to the fear toxin's effects, then it made sense that they test it on him.
If Bruce had known that it was a lie, he would have never -
"What the fuck" Dick begins, still gasping, as he gets up from the floor, "is the Batarang to the throat thing?"
Bruce doesn't have a chance to answer before they're shoved away from their own awareness again -
--
Everything hurts, but his throat is on fire. A ragged, searing agony has latched onto it like a hot brand, choking every breath, turning his insides to ash.
Jason blinks up at the sky, dazed, heart pounding so fast it feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of his chest. What the hell just happened?
He had been standing in front of Batman. He remembers that clearly.
Then—snap. He was on the ground, gasping for air, blood bubbling up past his teeth. No warning. No hesitation. Just pain, deep and clean and intentional.
Bruce hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t even looked angry.
He’d just… thrown the batarang.
Not to disable. Not to distract. It had been a kill shot.
A fucking kill shot.
Jason’s fingers fly to his throat, slick with blood. The cut is deep—he can feel it, pulsing and warm and wet. His breath rattles through it in broken wheezes.
Bruce just tried to kill him.
The thought guts him. No—it doesn’t even register at first. It ricochets around his skull like something too big, too cruel, too wrong to believe. His brain can’t make sense of it, but his soul already knows. It screams with the truth of it.
Betrayal and pain and heartbreak drown him, make him unable to breathe, even worse than the blood he's choking on.
Bruce—his father—finally got him back. And decided he was better off dead.
Despite everything, Jason had hoped. Stupidly, naively hoped that some part of Bruce missed him. Loved him. Mourned him.
But clearly, he had Tim now. A better Robin. A cleaner slate. And Jason?
Jason was the broken one. The failure. The one who died and came back wrong.
Maybe deep down he’d known Bruce didn’t want him. But this?
He didn’t know Bruce wanted him gone.
Tears blur his vision as he rolls onto his stomach. The gravel bites into his palms as he pushes himself up, one hand still clamped desperately to his bleeding throat. Every movement is a struggle, but the pain inside is worse than anything his ruined body can throw at him.
It’s not the wound that’s going to kill him. It’s this—this hollow, collapsing void inside his chest where something used to live. Trust. Love. Hope.
He staggers to his feet, each breath a shudder. Blood trails down his arm, splashing onto the ground. His knees buckle, but he keeps moving.
Why? Why?
Bruce doesn’t kill. That’s his one rule. He wouldn’t break it for Joker. He wouldn’t break it for the scum of Gotham. But he’d break it for Jason?
For his son?
The Joker murdered him and Bruce spared him. Jason came back and Bruce chose this.
Chose a blade to the throat. Chose silence. Chose rejection so brutal it might as well be a second death.
Jason’s vision wavers, legs trembling beneath him, but he walks anyway. Because he has to.
Because if he stops, the pain will swallow him whole.
And maybe… maybe that’s exactly what Bruce wanted.
- Fuck. Fuck
Fuck.
Tim blinks fast, realizing that tears are falling down his face, and he's kneeling on the floor. One hand is curled protectively over his throat, but he's not choking anymore.
He looks up as he realizes they're back in the cave. His heart is beating too fast, his brain isn't working.
Jason is still strapped to the table. He's breathing hard but he's not screaming anymore.
Tim's throat is raw. Was he screaming?
Trying to think fast, he turns to Batman. Just in time to see Dick punching him square in the face.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?" his older brother shouts, his voice raw and hoarse.
They had all been screaming.
"It was an accident," Bruce says, lifting his hands. There are tears on his face, his body is shaking. "I was aiming for the gun and he moved, I-"
"We only just got him back and you were trying to kill him all over again!" Dick says, and underneath the rage there is something raw. He's sobbing. He's hurting.
Tim takes a deep breath and gets up, turning to Jason. He has to act fast. He has no idea what is happening, why they are all seemingly under the effects of the toxin but only influenced by Jason's brain, but he has to stop it. A half-assed explanation materializes in his head about what Jason tried to tell J'onn regarding telepathy born from the Lazarus Pit, but his mind is running and drowning in adrenaline. His hands are shaking too hard but he grabs the next needle.
Something has to work.
He ignores everything. He blocks out Jason's chillingly green eyes, the way he glares at him but is still sobbing. He blocks out Bruce crying and apologizing and trying to explain while Dick insults him and also cries and - he jams the needle into Jason's arm -
--
Darkness.
It’s pressing against his skin, crawling into his throat. He wakes to it choking him, crushing him. No air. No space. Only panic.
He tries to move. Slams his head against hard wood. His arms twitch and scrape against something close—too close. Walls. Above. Below. All around. A box... A coffin.
He’s buried.
The realization hits like a spike to the chest, and suddenly his body is alive with pain—every nerve raw and electric. His limbs won’t listen at first, like they’ve rusted shut. He screams, but the sound doesn’t go anywhere. It dies in his throat, swallowed by soil and silence.
What kind of fucking nightmare is this.
"Bruce?" he calls, his voice choked and small and raw. "BRUCE!"
Oh God. Oh, fuck. He needs to get out.
He punches upward. Once. Again. The lid doesn’t budge. Splinters stab into his knuckles. He scratches and punches and kicks and writhes and screams.
What is happening? Jesus, please, why? Why did they bury him alive?
What the fuck happened?
"HELP!" he screams, fingers bleeding and torn as he scratches at the wood above him, trying to ignore the disgusting wiggling and crawling on his skin, "HELP ME, PLEASE!"
He keeps digging, the pain shooting through broken fingers and crushed knuckles ignored. He's choking and gagging on the mud, gasping and sobbing.
This is too horrible, a minute ago he was buried underneath burning debris and now he's buried in a fucking grave! He keeps screaming, and screaming and --
-- "Robin is mine, Bruce! You can't just give it away! It was not yours to give!" Dick shouts, voice raw and cracking with emotion.
Jason stares. He tries to glare, tries to summon that stubborn anger that usually shields him, but the shouting—the volume, the venom—roots him in place. Adults yelling like this never meant anything good. It meant belts. Bottles. Blood. Pain that came later, when they forgot they were fighting each other and remembered he was there.
So he stays quiet. Frozen.
Bruce has been trying—trying—to keep things calm, but now his own anger ignites, sharp and loud as a slap.
"What would you have me do, then, Dick? Throw him back into Crime Alley? Back to the streets? You're acting like a child!"
"Stop twisting my fucking words!" Dick snarls. "That is not what I'm saying and you know it! You’re the one acting like a child!"
They keep going—voices rising, accusations flying—but Jason barely hears it anymore. A thick rush fills his ears, a crashing wave of static and pounding blood. His heart’s beating too fast, his hands are shaking. He can’t seem to get enough air.
Then Bruce’s words cut through everything else like a razor: Back to the streets.
He knows Bruce didn’t mean it. Not really. The man has told him time and again: You’re safe here. I’m proud of you. You're never going back there. You’re my son. But the words—those specific words—hit him like a punch to the ribs. All the oxygen leaves his lungs.
Back to the streets.
His breath catches. Then hitches.
Then fails completely.
His chest seizes, eyes wide, mouth gasping like a fish out of water. He claws at his sternum, vision spinning. Shit. Panic attack. That’s what Alfred called it last time. Panic attack.
He doesn’t wait for anyone to notice. Doesn’t ask for help.
He runs.
Tears streak down his face, hot and silent, as his lungs betray him and his body screams. His feet pound against the hallway floor. One hand clenched at his chest like he’s trying to hold himself together. The other wiping uselessly at his face.
He doesn’t know where he’s going. Only that he has to get away --
Dick screams in frustration even as the memory fades. Why? Why can't the stupid fear toxin finish the memory and show what happened right next? Show that he rushed after Jason, hugged him, helped him through the panic attack, kissed his head and cuddled him. Told him for the very first time that he loved him and that he was glad Bruce had adopted him.
He hadn't been angry at Jason. He had loved Jason the moment he met him. He had been angry at Bruce for forcing Robin on a child.
Bruce.
He looks up at the man, who can't stop crying.
Before he can decide what to do, they're gone again.
-- "It's taking Daddy Bats an awful long time to find you, ain't it? At this rate I'll end up breaking my trusty crowbar."
Jason tries to bite something back, but he can't breathe. Pain detonates through him again—hot, electric, blinding—but the only sound that escapes is a strangled grunt. His voice is too shredded, his body too broken to obey him. Somewhere beneath his ribs, he hears the crack of a bone already broken giving in again. A jagged, sickening sound that vibrates through his spine like a death knell.
He coughs. Thick blood surges up his throat, flooding his mouth. It’s warm and bitter, metallic and wrong. It runs down his chin, but worse—it slips down his throat. He swallows it before he can stop himself, and the nausea hits instantly. His stomach twists, his whole body lurching uselessly in place. He retches, but there's nothing left to give—just more blood, just more pain.
He dares to lift his head, just for a second.
The madman looming over him is grinning like a demon out of some nightmare, eyes wild and glinting, teeth bared in unholy glee. The piece of metal—bent, rusted, streaked with Jason’s blood—is raised high above his head again, catching the dim light like an executioner’s blade.
Jason wants to scream. Wants to curse him. Beg. Fight. Something. But he can't even breathe.
All he can do is stare as the metal comes down again.--
-- The breath on the back of his neck is hot, wet, wrong. It curls against his skin like something alive, something gloating. He tries—desperately—to focus on that, to anchor his mind to the revulsion of it instead of what’s happening lower, where pain burns and tears and sears through him in waves that feel endless. It hurts too much. It's too unbearable.
He clamps his eyes shut. His fingers scrape against the mattress, frantic, like maybe if he can just grip something, he won’t fall apart. But the sheets keep slipping away from him, useless and thin—just like his voice, just like his choices.
The hands on his hips are clamped down like vices, nails digging deep, grounding him to the horror of every second. Bruises are already blooming beneath his skin—he can feel it, like rot spreading inside him.
Don’t make a sound. That’s all he can think. Don’t cry. Don’t scream. Just let it be over. Let it be over.
He thinks of the money. Of the empty fridge. Of the pill bottles with shaking labels on the kitchen counter. Of his mother’s gaunt face, too tired to even smile anymore. He needs it. He needs the money.
He tells himself this isn't happening to him. That he's somewhere else. Someone else. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere clean.
But he’s not. He’s here.
And it’s never going to stop hurting. --
-- "Mom... mom, please," he whimpers as he shakes his mother by the shoulders. Her eyes are wide open, glassy, staring at nothing. "Mom, I need you, please..."
Tears are running down his face and he shakes her harder but she doesn't respond and there's a needle in her arm still and she's too pale and cold and... and... Jason can't breathe. His mind can’t keep up. Fear claws at him, clawing, shredding, mixing with pain and hopelessness and that terrible, lonely ache in the pit of his stomach. He can’t feel anything fully because all of it is too much. He can’t breathe, can't think, can’t process. He can't, he can't. This is too much.
Denial is choking him, grabbing onto his neck, slipping into his chest and squeezing his heart and lungs. It feels like his heart is literally breaking, like if he looks away from his mom's face, there will be pieces of it lying below him. His brain catches on the memory of a dead bird he found once in the school playground with its chest ripped open. He thinks he feels that way. Empty. Broken.
"Mom, please, you can't leave me alone. You have to wake up," he tries again. But something inside finally gives.
Something inside him snaps, a jagged crack through his very core. The realization settles over him, heavy and suffocating—she won’t wake up. Not now, not ever. That’s it. She’s gone.
And for the first time, Jason’s breath stops entirely, his chest aching as the overwhelming certainty settles deep in his bones. He feels like his heart is being ripped from his chest, torn to shreds, while his body fights against the terror, the grief, the utter desolation. He can’t make sense of it. He can’t fix it. He has no idea what to do except cling to her—just cry, just feel the unbearable weight of nothing. --
-- He's too cold, too hungry, too exhausted.
Curled on top of a wet piece of cardboard as snow falls on top of him, his hands clinging to his shoulders as he hugs himself in an attempt to stay warm. But he's only wearing a hoodie and ripped jeans and the temperature has done nothing but climb down. His lips are cracked, his throat raw, but he’s too exhausted to care. He hasn’t eaten in days, and every breath feels like it’s drawing in nothing but the frozen air, cold and sharp as glass.
A soft, hollow cough escapes him, and he closes his eyes, willing himself to ignore the gnawing hunger twisting through his stomach. What he would give for something to eat...
"Hey, kiddo. You look cold. I'll pay for a night in a nice, warm room if you make me feel good."
Jason has avoided these men like the plague. Doing it for his mom's survival was one thing. Getting forced to do it, well, he can't do anything about that. But doing it willingly, because he's cold? Fuck that. He keeps his eyes closed and curls tighter around himself. He'd run but... he doesn't have it in him anymore.
"I'll buy you dinner."
And something inside him cracks. --
-- And then—air. Cold, biting air.
A hand bursts from the ground, followed by an arm, a shoulder. He drags himself from the grave like something born wrong. Covered in blood and filth and rebirth. Gasping. Trembling. Eyes wide with the shock of being. The grave groans around him as he pushes upward. Every movement is agony. His limbs are stiff, wrong, like they forgot how to be part of him.
He drags himself inch by inch through the coffin’s shattered remains, splinters gouging into his arms, his back. But he doesn't care. The rain on his face, the air in his lungs feel like heaven.
He doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t know who he is. --
-- God. Fuck. Fuck.
His face feels like it's been split open, every inch of it a pulsing, fiery mess. Actually, his entire body feels like it’s been hit by a goddamn truck, but his face?
Jesus Christ.
He cracks open one swollen eye just in time to see Batman pulling his fist back, that snarl on his face sharp and full of rage. Bruce’s teeth are bared, his jaw clenched with purpose, like this is something he’s been waiting for. Then that fist flies at him, and Jason can do nothing but watch it come.
Motherfucker, that hurt even more. The impact is a freight train to his skull, pain so intense it makes his vision blur and his senses scramble. His head snaps back and for a moment he can taste blood, warm and thick, flooding his mouth as he gasps through the choking cough. The air is sharp, wrong, full of metal.
He would be on his back by now, but the bastard is grabbing the front of his jacket to force him to stay upright. Like he’s some sort of ragdoll, meant to take every hit without ever being allowed to fall down.
Well, at least if he throws up he won't choke on it.
Then a knee catches him in the side of the ribs, he feels the crack. Or maybe hears it. Definitely feels the pain that blossoms like lava from a volcano and his head is suddenly not in the spotlight anymore. His chest spasms in agony, his vision swims, his body a battleground. The scream he tries to let out dies in his throat, lodged there as he fights not to pass out.
He wheezes.
Jesus, Batman's going to kill him if he continues like this.
He can't even get a proper look at him anymore, his vision swimming in and out of focus. The helmet’s gone, so he knows there’s no fucking way Bruce can pretend he’s not seeing Jason right now. He can see the rage in the man’s eyes, the fury burning bright, and it’s not even aimed at the bad guys. No. It’s all directed at him.
If only he'd been this enraged when Joker killed him...
He wasn't even trying to kill Penguin. If he had been trying, then that fucking bullet to the face would have been real, not a blank. Sure, Penguin will have a headache for a few days but doesn't he fucking deserve it?
"Fuck," he whispers weakly. Fuck.
But Batman doesn’t hear him. He doesn’t care. He’s already pulling back again, his fist coiled tight, ready to lash out like some sort of mechanical animal—a force of nature—like he’s been wound up to break Jason apart.
If Jason wasn't so close to passing out, he might have found a twisted humor in it all.
But Jason’s brain isn’t keeping up anymore, and everything starts to slip away, his body shaking, his muscles on fire, the unbearable weight of everything pushing him toward unconsciousness. At least it’ll be an end to the pain. At least he won’t have to deal with this fucking nightmare.
He looks up at Bruce again, hoping to see the man getting bored or winded, but he's just pulling his fist back again. Distantly, he prays they don't bury him again --
--
Tim gets up from the ground, again, feeling like he ran into a fucking freight train. And then stares in horror at the new injuries on Jason. The straps are digging into his flesh.
Dick runs to his brother, grabs him by the shoulders.
"JASON! Jay, you need to fight this, please, please. Jason, you need to fight the toxin!"
- His hand immediately goes to his throat, and he panics as he feels how much blood he's losing.
Bruce just tried to kill him. -
"I'm sorry, Jason, I'm sorry," Bruce says next to him, grabbing his hand. "It was an accident, I'm sorry!"
Besides the remnants of pain and horror from the wretched link they are sharing with Jason, Tim feels shock.
Bruce is full-on crying. He's having a fucking mental breakdown.
-- Jason stumbles into the empty alley, one hand tight over his bleeding side.
Fuck. Fucking Sionis managed to shoot him in the fucking stomach.
His vision doubles and blurs, darkness crawling at the edges of his sight. The world feels far too loud and distorted, like he's hearing everything through water. He staggers, and the sharp pain makes his knees buckle. He hits the ground hard, hands scraping against the rough asphalt as he tries to catch himself.
He can't breathe properly—his chest is too tight, too heavy. His mind starts to spin in panic as he curls into himself, trying to hold it all together, but it’s slipping away.
He makes a quick, mental list of who could help him but... fuck.
Roy is in rehab. Artemis and Biz are both off-planet in different missions he sent them on. And... that's it. God, how pathetic is this?
And then, of course, the thoughts of Dick and Bruce crawl their way in, uninvited.
Dick—he could help. He shoves that thought away as quick as it comes. They haven't spoken in ages and he tried to kill his father and brother. Dick’s disgust for him is as clear as the bleeding hole in his side. The distance between them is so wide now, so unbridgeable that Jason can't even pretend to hope for something different. He knows. He knows.
Bruce... he coughs a laugh at that, almost choking on the blood in his throat. If he didn’t kill him on sight, the hatred in his eyes would do the job just fine. Bruce hasn't given a single fuck about him since he stopped killing people, and before that the man only tracked him to take him down. So... not an option.
Bruce hates him.
He coughs again, and can feel blood splashing into the inside of his helmet. --
"No, no, Jason," Bruce says, his voice cracking and raw, his hands grabbing his face, "I love you, Jay, I love you. I would have helped you."
"Don't touch him!" Dick screams, his voice craking.
-- Green. Green.
Green.
He's drowning in fire. He's screaming. Shrieking.
The world slams into him all at once—burning, freezing, wrong. His lungs seize with the stench of brimstone and rot, sucking something thick and awful. Every nerve in his body feels like it's tearing apart and he can't breathe. He can't fucking breathe. He thrashes, choking on bile and rage, and something clings to him like tar, thick with centuries of madness. Something green and heavy and wrong.
He can’t breathe! He's not even sure he remembers how. Everything burns. His skin. His bones. His soul, if he still has one.
Memories attack him like a burst of pain behind his eyes. He remembers everything. The crowbar. The blood. Begging. Praying. The Joker’s laughter echoing in his skull like a war drum. Exploding. Burning alive. And then—nothing. No peace. No afterlife. Just a black, suffocating void that clung to his soul like claws.
And... crawling out.
And insanity.
His heart beats too fast, like it's trying to outrun what he’s become. And he can't stop screaming. Whether in rage, pain, grief - he doesn't know. Maybe all three.
He needs to get out of here.
All he knows, the only certainty he clings to as he climbs out and ignores the voices calling after him, is that he. Is. So FUCKING. Angry. --
--
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
Tim can't take it anymore. He can't. It's too much. Too much fear, and too much pain, and too much grief. It's tearing him apart.
He feels like a bursting dam, water and hurt seeping through cracks and just about ready to explode and break him into tiny splinters.
The pain and fear are too unbearable. They feel them just as deeply as Jason had at the moment.
So he does the next best thing - he bolts.
Runs as fast as his shaking legs can carry him, out of the cave.
"KON, PLEASE, WE NEED HELP!" he screams as soon as he's outside, his throat raw and gasping.
Connor materialises next to him in a second, catching him as he falls to his knees, shaking and crying.
"Tim, what -"
"Please, help us."