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Jason is in the body. Someone else used to be there. He is what remains.
There is no handbook for what happens when you become your own burial. And then your own archaeologist (Jason only snorts a little, when this thought first occurs to him).
And there is certainly no handbook for a revenant who rises when they had no intention to do so.
When Jason lands in Gotham, the first thing he does is visit his own headstone. He traces out Jason Peter Todd and mourns the child he used to be. Breathes through the anger, the secondary emotion, the reaction, the symptom to grieve a 15 year old boy too full of hope and hunger for a better future.
Too full of love. Of life. The things you aren’t supposed to be able to have in excess.
Every part of him is shaped by his death. Even his love is different. Talia likes to choose him to watch Damian because she knows that he doesn’t care for romance or sex anymore. Maybe it’s something knocked loose on the other side, but he can’t. Doesn't know how to want in that way anymore.
It makes the tatters of his familial bonds ache all the more loudly, but it really does shape him into an ideal protector for Damian. These are other loyalties Jason doesn’t have or will not be swayed by. Never let it be said that Talia isn’t a practical woman. He just didn’t think she anticipated that Damian could be good for him too. It’s hard to think of revenge when he knows Damian waits for him--he’d hate to see a repeat of his own story.
He’s tired of the story where the children are not a priority. Why are children always saints and martyrs? Inevitably, for him, Bruce will always be the father who couldn’t be the father Jason needed because he had to put duty first. A man both not human enough and too human. The anger isn’t that he let Jason die. It’s about what he didn’t do after Jason was dead.
But even that, now, is old news. Distilled into his smallest parts, intangible even by atoms, Jason is made of reckless hope. The kind of hope that holds on far after it shouldn’t, after everything around it is poisoned in fury and misery and he can’t even see straight, let alone breathe through it. The kind of hope that makes him wonder why he won’t lay down yet, why he’s still alive, if this ever ends, even as his hands keep moving and he keeps choosing to do something, because trust me, the inaction is worse. To be alive and not moving is worse. When his hope is ripped and strung out and hanging by its own innards, it will nonetheless still be here.
So he knows, detachedly, that his blame is at least thirty percent justified, and twenty percent unjustified and he’s kind of waiting to see how that other fifty percent shakes out–in bad choices or emotionally intelligent realizations.
He would be lying if he said that he hasn’t wondered sometimes about what-ifs. What if he had ended it all when it first started? But he’s also too aware that “when it started” is a question he isn’t necessarily ready to face–before Robin? He’s not stupid enough to think Crime Alley would have spared him any more than his gruesome death at fifteen years old. Before the League? To never return to sanity? Trapped in catatonia? Before or after his spectacular homicidal world tour where it really set in how far he had strayed from Robin?
It’s a useless thought exercise, especially when the anger gives way to the grief that maybe you hadn’t wanted to wake up past fifteen years old anyways. You don’t ever remember Crime Alley giving you the opportunity to dream past the next day, and maybe once, you had dreamed of college but.
Well.
Jason still doesn’t even know how to imagine a point in the future beyond a year, and he’s nineteen-ish now. Twenty-ish. Give or take, a couple months, an undeath here or there, you know how it is.
Talia sends him to Gotham in a piss poor attempt to separate the two of them, Jason and Damian, wary of the reciprocal attachment and loyalty that he’s garnered with her son. She’s a bit too late in that, sending him away when they’ve already spent a couple years attached at the hip (though not by Damian’s choice initially. Damian had been precocious, stubborn, and grumpy, even as a tiny child).
Damian, additionally, sees himself as partially responsible for Jason, even though he really, really isn’t, because of the period of time Jason had spent virtually catatonic and still stunningly deadly (another point to Talia’s practicality–she’d seen Jason as a weapon then, and forged him into something effective to protect her son. Jason is too tired to even pretend that he doesn’t see through it and also too tired to pretend that he doesn’t care for her anyways. After all, she did fish him out of the streets of Gotham, and risk Ra’s wrath to drop him in the Lazarus Pits).
Nonetheless, Talia would be correct to separate them if creating distance was her goal. However, unknown to Talia, Jason is sure Damian trusts him without hesitation. He’s not sure what would happen if Talia and him ever ended up on opposite sides of the line, but Damian has seen Jason die for him. These days, he’s skilled enough that a nameless assassin couldn’t get the drop on him. But Jason’s willingness to do anything to keep Damian safe during those early years speaks volumes.
Hard to beat that.
It’s the one secret he’s asked Damian to keep, even from his mother, and far too intelligent and perceptive, Damian had agreed. Jason’s glad but overwhelmingly bitter that Damian has an idea of consequences and usefulness, even at the age of ten.
So the looming question is how far he’ll get into his self-destruction until immortality really starts looking like a cage too. He hasn’t told Damian how many times he’s died, though the boy is careful about even asking a question like that out loud. He tries to count–his original death, but also guesses that he had died sometime between digging out of the coffin and Talia finding him. He hadn’t died with League because if he had , no doubt Ra would be performing experiments on him to derive “true immortality.”
However, outside of League headquarters, he guesses at least three deaths and two were to save Damian. He knows that he stays down longer when there’s more collateral damage, but that’s all he’s really unearthed. The wound that kills him always starts to heal first, but once his death wound reaches the same level of life-threatening as the others, it’s fair game for the healing factor. It’s not inconvenient; it makes it easy to keep hiding his resurrections.
He is not excited for the day he dies consecutively, and definitely can’t spare a thought for whether or not it’s already happened and he can’t remember. And forget about the logistics of flatlining and being shocked back to life. Does he even count that in his tally?
Jason makes a series of mistakes and rash decisions, coming back to Gotham.
He feels like a loose cannon without Damian around—purposeless and subject to his own rage. He hadn’t realized how much of his protective instinct had kept his fury leashed until he was uncontrollable.
There is nothing right about what he does to Tim. No apologies that quite make up for it.
“You were my Robin,” Tim says quietly, after the dust settles.
Jason doesn’t know how to tell him that he has never known how to keep a good thing alive. That killing is what he does, even to a memory.
“I’m sorry,” Jason says, and it’s not enough. It never will be. “You’re a good Robin. Too good, for Bruce.”
Tim stares at him, and Jason looks at this hypercompetent boy, too good at picking apart people and even flaying himself open, and mostly hopes that Robin is not always meant for tragedy.
“You shouldn’t have had to step into a dead boy’s shoes,” he adds.
It’s another apology. You’re too young. He’s still too young.
Yet, Damian is younger, and sharper than any of them had been at that age.
Hypocrites. That’s what they are. Every single one of them—even him.
The first day Damian is sent to Gotham, Talia calls him. He trails the transport from the edge of the city, all the way to Bristol, choosing regular civilian clothing.
He’s just Jason, watching over his little brother. Before making it all the way to Wayne Manor, Jason pulls up alongside the car and rolls down his own window. It’s a vehicle Bruce doesn’t know, although he’s not hiding much at all anymore. Just strategically avoiding.
The Shadow driving the car nods, acknowledging him, and allows Damian to hop out of the car.
As he exits, Jason sees the moment is spotted by the widening of Damian’s eyes. He tries not to feel unbearably fond of the brat. “Akhi,” he breathes out, eyes sparkling, and Jason swears he sees the start of a smile, before his face goes very serious. “I do not require an escort to Father’s residence.”
“You’re acting like I’d pass up a chance to see you, habibi. I don’t doubt you’re capable.”
Damian only spares a moment to narrow his eyes before he gives away his eagerness by scrambling over to the passenger side. “This is acceptable,” he huffs as he buckles in.
“Just acceptable, huh?” Jason replies, smiling as he reaches over to ruffle Damian’s hair.
Damian scowls, but Jason sees him leaning in, just a touch.
Jason drives the last mile into the manor, getting out of the car with the hood of his sweatshirt up, wearing a cap underneath it, along with sunglasses and a face mask.
He’s basically spelling himself out as “SUSPICIOUS PERSON,” but he doesn’t really care. They already know who Red Hood is, who Jason is. It’s just that no one knows his connection with the League of Assassins yet, and he’s too lazy to deal with it now.
He’s sure they’ll put it together eventually, especially since he isn’t trying that hard with his disguise, but eventually isn’t today.
Damian gets out of the car, and stands stiffly for about ten seconds before Jason grabs him into a hug. He melts into it, and Jason murmurs into his hair, “Take care, habibi. I’ll be here whenever you need it. You know how to reach me.” He presses a key into Damian’s hand as they back away from the hug, and he accepts it smoothly, hiding it without difficulty.
He spots a hint of a smile before Damian’s expression goes serious. Jason gets back in the car, windows tinted, and watches as he announces himself to the gate.
Jason imagines he probably says something suitably dramatic about being the son of the Bat, and only regrets a little that he won’t get to see Bruce’s face.
Life goes on, and knowing Damian is settled safely into Wayne Manor, Jason decides to bring down an entire drug trafficking ring, particularly because they are known for dealing to kids to get “lifelong customers.” Crushing the Penitente Cartel is just about as close to catharsis as Jason can get these days.
This ends up being a debatable decision, because the final confrontation is him versus over twenty people. Jason won’t lie that he was a little sloppy, mainly because he was looking for a fight with the assholes that would exploit children and steal futures. They have guns, but he has guns and explosives, although he is also still human (probably).
As he makes his way into the warehouse, he discreetly disposes of the two guards at the door with knives, but his patience for stealth immediately dissipates after. Kicking down the door, he enters by throwing in his kitchen Molotov cocktail. The resulting fire sends people scattering like rats, which is ironically true to their characters.
Since he is wearing his helmet, he doesn’t worry about fumes, and takes the time they spend coughing as a gracious invitation to start kicking ass. He isn’t really out to kill anyone except the person in charge, but he spares no mercy in his kicks and aims his guns at shoulders and kneecaps like they are limited edition.
The last five men surround him, each holding a gun as they squint through the smoke.
“We have you now,” Aitch-Eyes proclaims.
Jason, as effective as he has been, is not unscathed. Bruised and bleeding, he tilts his head as he waits.
“Look at that,” Tony sneers out, covered in soot and grime, “Turns out the Red Hood isn’t invincible.”
He doesn’t have enough hands to fire back on five people at once, but these gangsters aren’t exactly the kind of people to hesitate in killing a man, especially one like him, who has just tried to beat all of them to a bloody pulp. His moment of deliberation ends very quickly.
Relying on his instincts, he ducks as they fire, but he still gets shot in the leg, since they were surprisingly intelligent enough to not all aim at his head. Unfortunately for them, he follows through with his motion, kicking one of them to disorient, and shooting two members as he turns, a gun in each hand.
Clenching his teeth, he turns back and shoots the guy on the ground as he bends over to avoid another bullet, whittling the group down to two.
But Jason isn’t a miracle worker, and as they continue firing, a bullet catches him in the chest. He collapses, and feels the blood well up into his throat, the pain of the other wound in his leg hitting him all at once.
As a stubborn bastard, however, Jason remains conscious and picks up his guns again. Even bleeding out on the floor, his aim is true. The mysterious “leader” of the cartel was stupid enough to not check that he was actually dead in their haste to leave.
Choking on the iron coming up his throat, Jason fires twice, too quick for them to react, both dead center through their heads. The gun slips out his hand again as the adrenaline starts to wear off, clattering to the floor.
Breathing feels like moving a truck on his chest as he bleeds out around the bullet and drowns in his own blood. As Jason weighs his options, he realizes he does have many except waiting to die. Because it’s inevitable, since he works alone. No one is coming. He considers his choices again, before weakly feeling around for the gun he dropped and sending a bullet through his brain. He only gets a short moment to laugh to himself about efficiency before it goes black.
(“You seem to arrive quite frequently,” a voice says. And for a moment, in the dark, there is nothing but peace. Space to breathe and more. “You should endeavor to live longer, child.”)
Jason wakes up to Dickwing feeling his head for an injury he won’t find.
“What’re you doing here, idiot?” he slurs.
“Saving your ass, apparently,” Dick shoots back, voice edged with relief.
Jason laughs, and laughs, and laughs, because it’s a far better option than crying about dying alone again.
That story is tired. He is tired of living it, and yet too cynical and scared to stop it from happening again.
(If he’s not even fully in his body, what does his body become? A jar? Not him, but it).
Distilled into the purest form of his crystal-lattice-brittle-framework of a person, Jason is recklessly holding onto hope, yes. Cynical and bitter and dreading how it all ends, while trying in spite of it.
The thing is, he’s never wanted power, or success. He doesn’t even know if he knows how to want love the right way. Mostly, for as long as he can remember, he’s wanted to be safe. To feel safe and protected.
It’s why he guards his sense of self so insistently—he knows how easy he could fold. How easy he did .
Desperately wanting to be accepted and safe, he would take scraps of affection. Would gamble for even the chance of somewhere safe, and always pay for it by collapsing into himself.
Sheila took him and turned him into a supernova of a boy, before Joker even set the bomb to detonate.
(What he will never tell Dick: he would have folded himself into any shape Dick had asked for, to have an older brother who loved him and protected him. It’s why the jealousy and resentment doesn’t always abate immediately. Dick is trying, and fifteen year old Jason is mostly lucky that he was kind foremost, before angry.
And then fifteen year old Jason wasn’t lucky at all, again.
But nineteen-ish, twenty-ish Jason still wishes sometimes, for an older brother, but can’t quite get over what he didn’t have when he needed it most.)
Jason freely admits his mistakes. He carries consequences all over his body, and the scar on his throat is a nebulous something he can’t quite label. It aches all over again when the Joker breaks out of Arkham for the nth time.
But he isn’t surprised when it happens, because it is an inevitable, looming truth of his life. He is even less surprised when he notices the cameras following him specifically, indicating Oracle’s watchful presence.
He is a ticking time bomb whenever the Joker comes into the conversation. Even though he is “better,” Jason’s past actions echo loudly in the minds of everyone, and Batman particularly.
At first, when he initially hears that the Joker is loose, Jason starts making plans. In a green haze of fury, spitting mad at Batman and his ideas of collateral damage, he starts crafting plans, some with explosives, some with guns. Some of the plans include a clean kill, over half include mess and retribution.
Clarity strikes him abruptly, knocking anger aside. He can’t do this anymore. He just can’t. He can’t do any of this. It's too much, knowing that his killer, the person he hears in his nightmares is right there, and he can’t do anything about it. If he does, there’s no guarantee he’ll succeed, and the consequences from Batman are unknown.
The scar on his neck proves how far it can escalate.
Everything in his head momentarily goes quiet. For those few days, he runs relentless patrols. He focuses on keeping Crime Alley safe, ignoring that he can feel that Oracle is watching him closer, that he’s seen a couple of Bats skate along the border of Crime Alley, watching him. He feels like he’s stepped halfway out his body and wonders, distantly, if the door to his apartment can be considered a headstone if he leaves a note on it.
In the end, he does nothing. The Bats all act like they are holding their breaths until the very moment the Joker is in Arkham again. Jason doesn’t bother to look at the numbers, knowing the death toll has grown higher. He feels very numb.
He feels like a shade of himself, the idea of inaction going against the very core of who he is. He wants to throw up. Help me, he wants to say, but there is no one around to hear it and he can’t even bring himself to say it. I don’t know who I am outside my anger.
Dick sends him a text, and they don’t acknowledge that Jason has been on his “best behavior” this time around. His care is shown in the fact that he texts Jason the minute that he hears: The Joker is in Arkham again.
It’s supposed to be a reassurance. It’s over. You did good.
It’s over, but it never is.
Abruptly, Jason realizes that right now, he just really, really wants to feel safe.
Even if the Joker is caught again, cuffed in Arkham, he will be out whenever he decides it. And Jason has to choose between his safety and peace of mind, versus being around to keep Crime Alley safe.
He is tired. Feeling achingly selfish.
First, the towels are laid out in the bathroom. Then, plastic wrap is placed over the hard to clean surfaces, like the mirror. Finally, he sits down and only hesitates a second before he puts a bullet between his eyes.
(The dark is clean. And soft, though he cannot feel it.
“Child,” a voice murmurs, “You know I can’t keep you.” The voice sighs. “A little while, then. You can rest here for a moment.”
And Jason is warm, and held, where no one can hurt him.)
He comes to, head lolling over the bathtub he had been leaning against. Sighing, he starts to shift before inhaling sharply, making eye contact with Damian, sitting on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest with his back against the bathroom cabinets.
He stares back at Jason, quiet.
“Oh, habibi, I didn’t want you to see that,” Jason says softly.
Stiffly, Damian responds, “But you don’t regret it.”
“I’m sorry, ‘bibi.”
“You are not sorry that you did it. You are sorry that I found you.”
Jason heaves himself over to pull Damian into a hug, tucking him under his chin. He doesn’t say a word.
Muffled, Damian says, “You are going to do it again.” He sounds like he’s going to cry. “You have done it before.”
“You’re too young to worry about all that,” Jason dodges the implicit whywhywhy . “I protect you .” This line is a hope, a dream, and a prayer. A prayer that he is never needed and never too late.
No more dead Robins.
His body can be both a house and a grave, holding the shattered pieces of himself and the ghost of a small boy with so much magic.
Whatever magic is left from his ghost, from his walking grave, he will gladly give to Damian. He is already one step out of this life, scarred and still too brazen.
Damian has cleaned the bathroom while Jason was dead. Jason aches with it, that he is too responsible, too young to deal with the mess that is Jason. Hands too steady when he deals with blood.
“How many times?” he demands.
Jason is steady, steady, steady as he picks Damian up and doesn’t answer.
“ How many times?” he repeats, hitting Jason on the back with his fists. “Akhi, why won’t you tell me?” he cries out and Jason tries not to feel like he only knows how to live in endings.
Tries not to feel like he’s losing pieces of himself even if he’s still breathing.
(Jason’s not sure he knows the answer himself.)
Six months down the line, the next time the Joker breaks out, it’s quieter. Which is worse, because it means he has more time to plan. The more intricate his plot is, the more people tend to die.
Jason makes it about twenty-four hours before he shoots himself again, in the bathtub. He does it in the daytime, unsuitable for most of the Joker’s dramatics. He trusts his men to handle it while he takes a break.
( “These little deaths of yours,” the voice says, “I worry for you.” He curls up in the warmth, and there is nothing else to be said.)
Damian shows up, frantic, just about fifteen minutes after he wakes up. He doesn’t show his anxiety, besides in how heavy his steps are as he pads into the apartment. Jason meets him in the living room, having just placed the towels in the washer with heavy amounts of bleach.
Seeing Jason, there’s an edge of relief in his eyes, but Jason runs a hand through his hair, knowing that Damian is going to realize very quickly what has happened when he’s not allowed to go into the bathroom.
Jason hasn’t finished cleaning up the rest of the mess, and the blood is a dead giveaway.
“Tea in the kitchen, Dami,” he says, reaching out to ruffle his hair.
Damian narrows his eyes, especially because Jason isn’t angry or defensive. He follows Jason, before noticing the closed bathroom door.
He changes directions, but Jason gently interrupts him, redirecting him by the shoulder. “No, habibi,” he says very softly.
It’s as good as a confession.
When they get to the kitchen, Jason hugs Damian until the water boils, and then for a good five minutes after.
“Why?” Damian asks, anguished and unable to understand.
“That’s not your burden to shoulder,” Jason replies.
“If I am to keep your secret, tell me why,” Damian says, almost pleadingly.
He sighs, dropping his head into his hands. “Dying means I go somewhere else.”
“You are lying to me. I will inform Richard that you are doing this–”
“Somewhere safe. That’s all. I get the feeling that I’ve been safe, for just a moment.”
Damian is quiet, as he processes this. “And you aren’t safe, here. But you love Gotham.” Jason is sure Damian recalls his fondness as he told stories of the city, even as he was honest about its grittiness and lack of mercy.
“Sure. I love this city, and would give my life for Crime Alley, easily. But I don’t remember the last time I felt safe here.”
And really, there’s not much to be said beyond that. Especially not when the Joker is still out there.
When Jason gets the call from Oracle, desperate enough to call him when the Joker is running free, he knows that it will be bad news.
That even if it works out, it will be a new nightmare to add to the rotation.
Every other Bat is doing damage control, trying to hold the city together, brute-forcing the seams of a city set to implode.
“Nightwing and Robin are missing,” Oracle states, lined with a quiet undertone of panic. “They aren’t responding to their comms, and the tracker stopped sending a signal here.” She sends the location of a warehouse to him, because of course it is, because he is reliving his nightmare, because it never stops.
“It’s a trap,” Jason says flatly.
Oracle hesitates, before acknowledging, “Yes, probably.”
“It’s the Joker,” Jason guesses, “He heard that Nightwing was patrolling with Robin and decided he wanted two Robins–the first and the latest.”
“You’re catastrophizing.”
Jason laughs. “Maybe I’m just too familiar with how he works.” He starts to prepare, and it starts to feel ritualistic, as he turns himself into a walking armory, dressed in guns and bombs. His life is expendable, a bargaining chip that means that he doesn’t quite care that he’s walking into a trap.
Bursting into the warehouse, Jason can’t say he is surprised to see Nightwing and Robin tied up on the ground in the center, the moonlight through the skylight nearly casting a spotlight on them. They’re both awake and alert, thankfully, but bound with rope, which he can’t imagine will keep Dick trapped forever, as slippery as he tends to be. But he can’t rely on Dick’s escape either.
And the Joker would know too–which means that the rope is part of the dramatics, the production of it all.
“Oh, you’re still my favorite Robin,” a voice says, cackling. “No need to be jealous! So eager to be included.”
It’s the laughter that follows him into his nightmares. Jason turns to see the Joker emerge from the shadows, mouth split red and grotesque,
Dick and Damian go very, very still as he walks in.
Jason ignores them, and starts to scan the warehouse, gun trained on the Joker, who doesn’t move. This is too simple, too straightforward.
“Clever, clever bird! There is a bomb! Don’t you love walking down memory lane?” His voice pitches in that particular way that sandpapers across Jason’s entire psyche, gouging out chunks of his sanity. “We can even play scavenger hunt!”
But even a bomb is too obvious, too much of a predictable jab–and predictable is what the Joker hates to be.
“I’m on it,” Oracle says from his comm.
Jason sees the Joker go for something at his waist, and he instinctively lunges forward, slamming the Joker to the ground. The vial that rolls out of the villain’s hand looks too much like Joker venom for comfort. Adrenaline races through his body as he kicks the vial far into the corner, unseen.
“We found a bomb, but it’s not in the warehouse, Hood. Red Robin is on the way to defuse it–it looks like there might be children inside the building,” Oracles reports.
“Tell him to beware of Joker venom, too.”
The rictus of the Joker’s grin seems to freeze, disliking that at least a few parts of his plans have been interrupted. He starts to laugh before he slaps Jason viciously, drawing blood and stunning him enough to take out a gun and shoot.
He misses Jason’s head, but gets him in the thigh, though Jason barely lets out a grunt. In contrast, Nightwing pipes up, voice strained, “Hey, I’m the original Robin. I think we have more to say to each other.”
“I’ll play with you one at a time. Be quiet or I’ll have to make you quiet myself,” the Joker bites out, angry. “You didn’t think it would be that easy right? That this would be the only Joker venom in here? Wouldn’t it be lovely, as an aerosol? A spray? Over the whole city, even.”
It starts to dawn on him. Red Hood being here has completely thrown off the Joker’s plan–this warehouse is a distraction. Meant to invoke memories of Jason’s death and draw Batman here, only to leave the rest of the city vulnerable. He’s been in Arkham for long enough that he wasn’t aware that Red Hood and the Bats were on better terms–and forgot to account for him.
Oracle thankfully comes to the same conclusions. “I’m sending Batman to look at possible control boxes. Hold on, Hood. Red Robin has defused the bomb and the children are safe. He’s joining Batman.”
Jason instead focuses back on the Joker, where he can see the quiet rage. He laughs under his breath, raising his gun. “Oh, you hate that I’m here. You absolutely hate it.”
“Don’t,” Dick‘s voice rings out, which causes a manic grin to form on the Joker’s face. Jason just knows that the Joker loves when the other Bats stop Jason from killing him, enjoying the chaos, discord, and pain he brings.
“Pull the trigger,” the Joker taunts. “No one’s here to help you, Robin 2.” He recovers his gleeful and frenetic energy, pointing his own gun to aim at Jason’s head. “If I’m going down, you’re coming with me. I can’t believe I get to kill you twice.”
Jason watches back, nearly just as steady, aiming the gun at the Joker’s head. He starts to weigh his choices, with Damian and Dick tied up in the center.
No one else will be coming in time. As the Joker cackles again, Jason looks past him, over his shoulder, and swears he sees a shade of himself, fifteen and half dead, beaten until he couldn’t feel it anymore.
Fifteen and wanting so bad to go home where it was safe. In that split second, he chooses to protect that fifteen year old boy.
But Joker makes a decision too, sensing his distraction. “It’s quite rude to not pay attention to me when I have a gun in your face.” He’s incensed that he’s lost Jason’s attention to something else.
He has a second to anticipate the firing. “It’s okay, ‘bibi,” Jason murmurs, half-turning to glance at Damian, scared and anguished as he watches. “I’m gonna be fine.”
The Joker laughs as he pulls the trigger. Jason pulls his trigger too.
The bullet blows his fucking brains out.
Damian does not think that he has ever seen Richard this angry before.
Richard lunges up from the ground, even tied up. His scream of rage is guttural and grief-stricken. His arms break free, and sheds the rope from his legs quickly, clearly having been working at the rope since the beginning, but it is too late to prevent what they all saw.
The red ring carved into akhi’s forehead. Brain matter and all.
The Joker just keeps laughing, not even fighting as Nightwing attacks him with a type of brutality Damian does not know how to reconcile with his oldest brother. He sounds like he starts to choke on blood, from where Jason had shot him in the chest, his aim thrown off by being hit first.
Seething, he hisses, “You should’ve stayed down the last time I put you there.” Last time? Damian wonders.
Damian shakes himself out of it as the Joker laughs himself unconscious, beaten to a pulp and bleeding out from a bullet. Richard sits there, flexing his fists, when Damian calls out. “Nightwing,” holding up his still bound arms.
“Shit, Robin, I’m sorry,” he breathes out, untying him. Avoiding eye contact with Jason's body, Richard starts to look into the corner, likely eager to find where the Joker venom vial has rolled to. Damian spares him no mind as he stumbles over to his other brother, dead as can be.
He needs to remove the bullet so that Jason can heal. He needs to remove the bullet so that his akhi can come back. His vision tunnels, despite his training, despite knowing that Jason comes back, despite it all. Hands trembling he lifts his brother’s head onto his lap, watching the bullet plink below, fired clean through his skull from being shot at point blank range.
It drops wetly into a puddle of blood, the same blood that Damian’s hands get sticky with as he carefully cards a hand through Jason’s hair, matted and streaked with red.
“Akhi,” he whispers, “Akhi, you can come back now. It’s safe. It’s safe, I’m here.”
“ Damian,” Richard breathes out behind him, heartbroken as he rests a hand on his shoulder. “Damian, I’m sorry.”
Damian shrugs him off. “He hates waking up dirty. We should take him back to clean him off.”
Richard looks even sadder, like he doesn’t believe Damian. He touches Jason’s cheek delicately, like his face might shatter underneath his hands. “Jason, little wing, I—“ He rocks back and looks like he’s going to throw up.
Damian, now angry and frustrated, starts to wipe at Jason’s face with his sleeve. Richard grabs his wrists gently. “Damian, no. He’s gone.”
“He is not. He is going to come back.”
“You don’t know that, Dami. The first time was a miracle.”
Damian feels his face set itself into stone. “I do know. I know that he comes back.”
Richard pauses, looking at his face. His hands stutter in their movement. “How do you know?”
Damian looks away.
“Damian, how are you sure Jason comes back?”
Predictably, that is when Father bursts in. “Nightwing. Robin,” he states, but relief is easy to see in his body. The relief only lasts a split second as he takes in the bodies of the Joker and Jason, his son. Richard watches him closely, as if daring him to go towards the Joker first.
Damian watches as his father compartmentalizes so quickly that he can practically see him become Batman. Batman is the type of man who only pauses momentarily before walking over to Damian. He can tell that Father is coming to take the body away from him, stone-faced, refusing to let his grief shine through. “You have to let him go, Robin,” he says.
Stubbornly, Damian indicates that he will not be moving. “You both are not listening to me. He is not gone.” He ignores that his voice unintentionally raises and wavers. “Just leave then! I will take care of him on my own.”
“Damian,” Dick repeats, “Why are you so sure that he comes back? Who is Jason to you?”
Damian realizes quite suddenly that there is no explanation except the truth, since Dick has heard akhi and habibi from Damian and Jason respectively. “Jason,” he says, voice flat, “is my brother. I am more familiar with him than you are, these days. I am the one who has witnessed the largest number of his deaths, and subsequent returns.”
“How do you know him?” Batman asks.
“Mother laid claim to him as her son too. How do you think he got better?” Damian starts to get defensive, wary of everyone’s outlook of his mother.
Both Richard and Father tense at the idea that Jason had a place in the League of Assassins.
“Have you had contact with him this whole time?” Father asks.
Damian shifts uncomfortably as he gives a sharp nod.
Dick suddenly interjects, tone urgent, “Robin, how many times has he died before this?”
He falls still.
“How many times has he died before this?” Dick asks again.
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Damian whispers.
( “Did you want to stay?” a voice asks. “Is that why you keep coming back, my child?”
Jason cannot speak. Here, he does not care to exist. Here, he is safe to be small. He wants to tell them that it's easier. It's easier to be no one at all.
The voice says, “When it is your time, I think I will hold you very tightly.”
He is not made to be a ghost, or a grave, or a jar. He thinks he is mostly meant to be safe. But until then, )
Jason wakes up.