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First, his dead-beat dad dies in prison.
Next, his mom overdoses.
Then, he gets kidnapped by a furry and blown sky high under false pretense just to get resurrected in a pit of green goo with daddy issues as a parting gift.
Just once…Just once could things go right in his life?
The glass equipment beside Jason shattered in a burst of unidentifiable liquids and powder, lighting up the nearby surfaces in an amalgamation of neon colors that were equally mesmerizing and unsettling. His arm flew up to block the splatter out of habit before he felt silly, remembering the helmet currently sealed over his head. Killer Croc roared in the too small laboratory and Jason cursed Scarecrow a million times over for getting them into this mess.
This was supposed to be a simple recon mission: find Scarecrow’s lab, determine whether the burlap sack was stuffed inside, and figure out what he was planning. As if that was any mystery, like the deranged scientist did anything but mix up new variants of fear toxin and threaten to dump them into the water system. To any Gothamite, it was just another Monday—dreadfully awful and begrudgingly expected—so it should’ve been an easy run of the mill mission.
But alas, when did anything with the Bats go as planned?
Not only was there no sign of Scarecrow when he and Tim arrived, they became the unfortunate victims of right place, wrong time twice over. Halfway through their scouring of the lab and Jason’s complaints about the healthy layer of dust coating the room, Killer Croc burst through one of the walls, dramatically wailing about the toxic waste being dumped into his sewers before he came to the same conclusion they had. Scarecrow was MIA.
The uncertain silence that fell between them would’ve been comical if Croc’s murderous intent hadn’t switched targets at the sight of his current second favorite chew toys: the Bats.
Which led to the suddenly painful present.
“Hood!” Tim shouted.
Stars exploded behind Jason’s eyes from the body slam, his leg throbbing from having nearly been yanked out of its socket. Croc followed him to the ground, jaws snapping for his head with teeth the size of rifle bullets, and he would know. He strained away, hands shoving against the mutant’s head before suckerpunching him. Croc’s head snapped to the side, giving Jason wiggle room to tuck his legs up and, in one smooth movement, slam his boots against Croc’s chin and twist into a back handspring. Freedom was short lived as reflexes saved Jason from taking a vicious swipe of Croc’s claws across the gut. They failed to save him from the following punt.
Stupid fucking good for nothing—
Spinning like a poorly thrown shuriken, the wall rudely reminded him that gravity existed and it was not happy. Something cracked and he groaned, sliding down the wall like wet spaghetti.
“A little help would be appreciated,” he groaned.
“I’m trying,” Tim exclaimed, voice muddled from the ferocity that Croc was whipping around in an attempt to dislodge the wayward bird latched atop his head. Or was it Jason’s ears ringing?
“Try harder! I’m getting tenderized down here while you’re up there playing stripper,” Jason snapped, relief turning to dread when his vision cleared just in time for him to see Croc charging at him in 4K. He didn’t wait around, diving out of the way of Croc’s punch to the ground. The concrete splintered. His ribs shuddered at the sight. Good God have mercy. He scrambled to his feet, sprinting for the other side of the room. “What are you still doing up there?”
Taking advantage of Croc’s momentary disorientation to check what the fuck his partner found so much more important than doing his actually job, it gave him the perfect, panic worthy view of a vulnerable Tim dangling from Croc’s jaws. How the kid hadn’t been strangled by the mutant yet, Jason didn’t know.
He wanted to rip his hair out.
“My staff is stuck!” The kid shouted back. Sure enough, he tugged futilely at the metal stick stuck between two of Croc’s teeth, boots braced against the overgrown lizard’s jaw, upside down. Scratch that, Jason wanted to rip Tim’s hair out because what kind of limp ass explanation was that?!
“Then leave it!” Incredulity poured off his voice, so potent none of it was lost through his voice modulator, and Tim, the little shit, had the audacity to spare the effort to shoot him an affronted look over his shoulder.
“I can’t!” Tim countered, now a blur of traffic light colors amidst the neon glow of the lab as Killer Croc regained his bearings. The kid’s luck seemed to run out as Croc’s attention zeroed in on him, and if it weren’t for his agility, it would’ve been his body caught in Croc’s grip, not his cape.
“Why the fuck not?” Jason chucked a desk lamp at the back of Croc’s head. It smashed, barely scratching the mutant’s thick hide. Yellow eyes found Jason on the other side of the room, pupils sharpening. His stomach dropped.
Fuck.
Croc roared, lunging.
“Oh shut up,” Tim growled, delivering a kick to Croc’s face. “It’s my lucky one!”
All the time Jason spent preaching about Batman losing another Robin when he got back…he’d imagined death by kidnapping and torture, or more broadly, killed in action. But death by refusal to abandon a stick like some stubborn dog? Never even crossed his mind. And maybe that’s his fault. Maybe he should’ve taken more creative liberties when stating his case.
“I don’t care if it cures cancer, drop it before I make you drop it!” Jason was screaming now, voice chords straining against every word. He darted to the right, boosting himself off the wall to kick a metal cart filled with tools and tubing into Croc’s legs. It did little to dissuade the latter’s approach. Croc swatted it aside, crushing the cart underfoot. The plastic tubing gave a pathetic wheeze. It was a little too relatable. Resigning himself to getting back up close and personal, Jason kept his fists tight and body loose. He really didn’t want to do this. God, he hated fighting Killer Croc. “Robin!”
With a curse, Tim finally gave up on the stick, distracting Croc from engaging with Jason by twisting around, grabbing his cape in one hand and jamming a batarang into the mutant’s fingers. Croc dropped Tim and Jason dove forward, catching him and rolling through Croc’s legs.
“You pesky bats, I’ve had enough of this!” The rogue snarled, spraying saliva.
“You and me both, pal,” Jason quipped.
“I’ll peel the meat off your bones.”
Croc reached back, grabbing one of the crates he and Tim were actively avoiding.
“Don’t–”
Tim threw a batarang too late. Jason tossed him out of the way like a rugby ball before bracing himself. The crate of fear toxin crushed him against the wall, bursting and dousing him in a cloud of glittering orange. Croc fled before the particles could reach him, spewing insults to Crane and his toxic creation.
“No goodbye?” Jason called after Croc’s retreating back.
“You good?” Tim asked from across the debris, finding his footing.
“Yeah,” Jason said, shoving off splintered planks and nails before dragging himself up. He dusted himself off and held a hand up when Tim tried to come closer. His entire ensemble was covered in the shit and he’d prefer not having to stab an antidote into Tim’s thigh. “As good as can be from almost dying for a bo staff. Seriously, what the fuck was that about?”
“I told you it was my lucky staff.”
“You did. And so I ask, once again, what the fuck was that about?”
Tim rolled his eyes and his head. “Alright, give it a rest.”
“Hard to when I almost died for it.”
“Go investigate the cages. I’m gonna grab a sample of the toxin,” Tim instructed, done with Jason’s complaining. It was a clear dismissal and he left with a scoff but nonetheless went to do his job. There wasn’t much left of the laboratory to search after Killer Croc’s free reign in it. Most of the room was completely smashed or dented, leaving a few documents strewn about and a cluster of rat cages untouched. He wandered over to the cages, peering inside. Not much to look at there either. The rats were all dead. Put down from the look of it. Whatever new variation of fear toxin Scarecrow cooked up seemed to work.
A tingle slithered its way down his skin, spreading to his toes and he shivered. Weird. He shook it off as getting the heebie-jeebies about where Crane decided to take his toxin and what he was going to do with it. The papers over by the desk might help with that.
“You find anything?” Tim called.
“No.”
Jason wandered around the cages, finding a few bigger ones in the shadows. They were about two feet high and five feet long, an odd dimension for any animal that could be used in experimentation. Biological science wasn’t his area of expertise but even he knew the cage was too big for any rodent and too long for a monkey. His fingers tapped against his thigh as he got closer to the cages, activating the night vision in his helmet to better see. The little light that was in the room would mess with it a little, but it was better than seeing nothing.
He’d just settled down on one knee when a voice brushed against his ear.
A hauntingly familiar voice.
“It’s just big enough for a person, don’t you think?”
Ice doused over his head, locking his joints into an awkward perch. Purple strolled beside him, the movement rustling his hair as the Joker came to stand in front of him. With a sigh, as if their reunion has been long awaited and he just can’t get enough of it, the clown squatted down in front of him, leant back on his heels and chin pillowed in his hands.
“About the size you were when we last had our fun.”
The Fear toxin. It got him.
Caught between fear and confusion, his stomach churned. How did it get him? His helmet—no. The crack he heard when Killer Croc hit him. Dammit, it wasn’t a bone, he’d hoped it was a bone. A quick scan of his helmet alerted him to a breach in its airtight seal. His vision swam and his arms felt like lead as he caught himself, keeping himself from swaying to the ground. Christ, this toxin was fast.
“Oh? Looks like we’ve got a friend here,” Joker noted, drawing Jason’s attention back to the cages. At first he didn’t see anything, peering through the bars bathed in green light. He didn’t notice he was swaying forward until something struck out between the bars, grabbing his wrist. It yanked him against them, leaving him straining as another hand lashed out, grabbing the collar of his jacket.
A ripped domino mask faced him, blue eyes nearly hidden by the swelling.
“Tim,” Jason gasped.
“Remember what you did?” Robin’s voice was rough like gargled glass.
The floor fell out from under him, taking Tim with him. They hit the ground, rolling until Jason ends up on top without any effort, hands around Tim’s neck. The kid was beaten black and blue, bloody in a few places where the skin split, and the image of him lying on the floor of the Titans Tower transmuted with that of Jason’s on the dirty warehouse floor. A near fucking replica.
Tim pried one of Jason’s hands away and suddenly there’s a solid weight curled within his fingers, sharp and hungry.
“Tim, what are you doing?!” Jason fought against the grip Tim had on the hand holding the knife, pressing the blade against the skin of his neck right over the jugular vein. It’d be a knick, enough to make it a slow death just like he’d wanted.
But he hadn’t gone through with it.
He hadn’t even tried.
“But you could’ve,” Tim said. “What’s a little more blood on your hands?”
Jason screamed when the blade cut, deep enough to be irreparable. It was a death sentence and he knew it. And yet, he pressed his hands to the cut, willing the red to stop flowing, to stop slipping through his fingers. Tim’s grip on the knife slipped, sending it clattering to the ground in the steadily growing pool of blood.
“You’re looking a little green there, kiddo,” Joker said when Tim’s eyes had glazed over and his chest had gone still. The clown’s red lips twisted in displeasure, pasty skin cracking under the movement. “It’s not going to be much fun talking to you if you’re beside yourself with this…sickness. Where’s that antidote Batsy always carried around, hm? You carry that too, don’t you? Like a good little soldier.”
Like a good little soldier.
Nausea tickled at the back of Jason’s throat. He couldn’t look away from Tim’s body.
Joker’s boney grip dug into his shoulder, demanding to be paid attention to. “Find the antidote so we can play.”
The clown was right, for whatever sick twisted reason. Even freshly back in Gotham, Jason had a dose of the antidote. He kept it in the same place he still did. All he had to do was find it. His hands shook and his heart fought against the enclosing prison that was his rib cage. The sting of the antidote beat back the effects of the toxin enough for Jason to steady himself, clarity clawing its way through the fog.
He still felt like he was choking.
“Hey, Hood.”
The floor fell out from under him again, dropping Jason back in the laboratory, knee aching from where he knelt in front of the cages for God knew how long. He startled, whirling around. Tim—the real Tim, whole and breathing—stood a few paces behind him. Something flashed across the kid’s face, a memory or reality, but he knew what it was. Had seen it nose to nose in a T-shaped building plagued by a power outage and lockdown.
Fear.
Please, no…
Tim made to take a step back.
Jason’s chest seized in fear, desperation.
Wait—
Tim aborted his escape, steeling himself with a huff before coming closer.
“Did you hear me calling you? Or did you go deaf when Croc kicked you into the wall?” He asked flatly, going as far as to rest a hand on his hip expectantly. Jason's mouth felt dry, but the reminder of Croc offered another anchor. He clung to it. He rushed to take stock of himself, relieved to find that he hadn’t actually moved at all from his knelt position. There was no falling against the bars or body lying in the shadows. It was all in his head.
If it hadn’t been, Tim would’ve heard.
Unless he didn’t care.
Stop.
Jason shook his head, regretting immediately when the world rocked again. He switched the night vision off, letting the neon colors erase some of the green and ease away some of the dizziness.
“It wasn’t that hard,” he protested, standing up.
“I heard it. I’m pretty sure Nightwing heard it all the way on the other side of Gotham.”
“Pfft, yeah right.”
Tim peered around Jason, now noticing the cages. “Wow, those are…weird. Wonder what animal Scarecrow housed in them.”
Jason followed his gaze. “I was thinking of some kind of monkey.”
“Why’re they empty?”
“Crane probably dumped the bodies into the sewer.”
Tim snorted. “Killer Croc sure was angry.”
Jason looked back at him and froze.
A line cut across Tim’s throat, beading red until it started to spill.
“Ready to head out?” Tim asked, oblivious to the blood leaking out.
Jason watched it soak the collar of the Robin suit. “Uh huh.”
I’M FINE I’M FINE I’M FINE
Back at the Cave, Jason made it a mission to get through decontamination and dressed with a speed that rivalled the Flash. His clothes were wet and he wasn’t going to wait around for the dryer to go through a cycle, so he shoved them into a plastic bag he kept around for instances like this where he needed to make a fast escape.
“You should’ve stayed dead.” It echoed in the Cave, bouncing from one end to the other.
He knew it was the fear toxin speaking, feeding into his insecurities around the Bats. Their relationship was tentative at best, both sides uncertain where they stood with each other. For the most part, Dick tried to bridge the gap first. Haunted by all the lost time and the reassurance of having his “Little Wing” back, Dick had taken his role as the oldest child and the glue of this family to coax Jason back into the fold. Tim was surprisingly unperturbed by his presence, the little freak, despite having duked it out just months before. But Jason’s guilt still lingered and he wasn’t sure it would ever go away no matter how many times the kid told him to knock it off. So he ignored it.
He tried to at least, but damn was it tenacious.
“You came back wrong,” and Jason picked up his pace. Reaching his bike, he stored his clothes and Red Hood helmet into the storage compartment and had just yanked his riding helmet over his head when he was stopped.
And he’d been so close to freedom.
“Where do you think you’re going, dear boy?”
He froze, waiting for a moment to see whether it’s just another hallucination. Some of the worst ones he’d heard so far were in Alfred’s voice and he nearly brained himself on the shower tiles to get it out of his head. When Alfred called out again, he’s certain it’s real and pivoted slowly to find the butler standing at the edge of the parking platform.
“Home. I’m all clean,” Jason explained, gesturing to his entirety.
“Master Bruce has yet to examine you,” and he did not want that. Bristling, he felt every muscle stretch taut as the urge to lash out like a cornered animal meshed with the need to flee. His instincts chose the former and he felt the regression into who he was when he’d been fueled by hate viscerally, doling out attitude he hadn’t given in months since he’d started working with the family again.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
“Everything,” said the voice that’s usually in his head. Just another gift of the toxin. Manifesting the bullshit inner conscious roosting in his head into unignorable audible words instead of annoying thoughts.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he snapped defensively, partly to himself and partly to a poor bystander, and immediately regretted it. It’s a slip, a clue towards the fact Jason was hiding something. Alfred’s eyes narrowed, shooting him a disapproving look that made him want to beg for forgiveness.
Alfred knows, Jason feared.
Lifting his nose, Alfred affirmed calmly, “I know there is nothing wrong with you, Master Jason. You know we don’t like to use that word around here.” In other words, they don’t like him using it. Something about self-care or some shit. He won’t admit it to them but he appreciated it.
Wincing, Jason worried at his bottom lip and fought the need to fiddle with his visor. “Right, sorry Alfie. Won’t happen again.”
“I hope not. Now, come along.”
Reluctantly, he followed. Led deeper into the Cave, the voices become louder and more frequent and always an iteration of one thing or another.
“Nobody wants you here. You’re a killer.”
“You’re a mistake.”
“You’re not my son.” He focused on watching Bruce putter around the med cot, cape dragging along the floor. Never once did the man look back at him, attention solely trained on giving Tim his mandatory post-patrol pat down, but the hallucinations showed Bruce tossing backward looks that spoke volumes.
“Batsy doesn’t look too happy with you, boyo,” Joker cooed at his side. “What did you do this time? Break another birdie, roll another head, hurt your dear butler’s heart? I tried going after him once.” Jason tracked the clown as he traipsed across the room, circling an oblivious Alfred. Joker dared to run a finger down the man’s cheek and Jason locked his joints to keep himself from intervening. “Protective, Batsy is over that one. In fact, now that I think about it, he’s like that with everyone. Goes all mother bear doesn’t he? Well…for everyone but you. After all, I’m still kicking and breathing after taking one of his pretty cubs.”
Jason took a deep breath, turning back to Bruce. The man’s finishing up with Tim, surely giving the kid a few pointers from the reaction he’s getting.
“Couldn’t get close to that one. But you did. I was so proud of you, taking after your old man.”
“Bruce would never—” He slipped again and prayed it was quiet enough to be muffled by his helmet that he’d forgotten to take off.
“I’m not talking about Batsy. I’m talking about me,” Joker preened, and Jason felt nauseous for a whole new reason. Jason took after the Joker…the very person he hated most in the world and he followed in his footsteps by going after a defenseless bird just to get to Batman. He knew this, understood the similarities, but to have it pointed out so plainly at a time like this.
Oh my God.
Jason lifted his eyes, startling to find Tim staring directly at him.
“I’m terrified of you, Jason.”
“Every day I'm scared you’ll snap.”
“I’ll never forgive you. How dare you ask that of me?”
Tim’s gaze tears away to land back on Bruce.
“He’ll do it again,” his lips read and now they’re both looking at Jason. Cautious. Bruce’s lips moved but Jason couldn't hear the words. They’re probably an agreement and a command to keep an eye on him—
Stop it, that’s not what they're saying. That’s not what’s happening here. It’s all the toxin talking. Jason swore he'd catch that son of a bitch Crane and give him a taste of his own medicine. It’s the least he deserved after indirectly putting Jason through this shit show.
He jolted at a touch to his shoulder. “What?”
Alfred pulled his hand away. “Master Jason, it’s your turn.”
Jason almost asked “for what” before catching himself. That’d surely flag some suspicion. Without fanfare, he braced himself and took Tim’s vacated spot on the med cot. He felt silly sitting on it, legs dangling just a few inches on the ground. Usually, if he were in a better mood, he’d swing them to see how long he’d be able to get away with “accidentally” kicking Bruce. “Pretty damn long” by Dick’s report. “Infinitely” by Tim’s. “What kicking” by Alfred’s. His legs remain still this time and he only realized he missed something else because Bruce called his name.
“Jason?” Bruce stood right in front of him, brows furrowed.
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yeah?”
“Did you hear me?”
I’ve heard your voice plenty.
“Repeat it?”
“I said I need you to take off your helmet so I can check you over.”
Now that Bruce brought it up, the helmet suddenly felt too claustrophobic. He managed to get it off without hassle, gathering himself to settle his expression into something nonchalant and normal before it came off. He set it aside, exposing himself to the full force of Bruce’s attention. Besides looking tired, the man didn’t appear bothered by Jason’s inattention.
“Injuries?” Bruce prompted and like a good little soldier, Jason reported.
“Back bruising from Croc. Nothing’s broken.”
He tensed when Bruce shifted out of view and fingers skated across his back, applying pressure here and there in case there are any bruises or bokeh bones beneath the surface that Jason’s lying about. Or equally probable, that Bruce doesn’t believe him. Because Bruce is a paranoid mother hen. Not because he doesn’t trust Jason. He repeats this to himself, trying to remind himself of the truth in the face of the toxin’s unyielding attempts to tell him otherwise.
“You’re tense,” Bruce noted and Jason tried not to flinch. “The apprehension will make it easier for me to find any injuries.”
“‘M not hiding any,” he mumbles.
“What was that?”
“I said, I’m not hiding any.”
Bruce grunted, continuing his pat down. Jason’s breaths were shallow, a mix of the toxin coursing through him and the routine nervousness that came with being around Bruce, especially in such close proximity. He’s hyperaware of where Bruce is, where he’s touching, and it’s difficult to try and breathe normally when there are fingers checking along his rib cage. He moved robotically, lifting an arm here, clenching a fist there, and flexing a leg whenever Bruce needed him to, and if he lacked the usual fight that takes place, neither of them point it out.
Risking a glance, Jason spotted Joker appraising his Robin suit memorial.
“Is this the original?” He asked and Jason ignored him.
Somewhere, metal screeched and Jason’s nerves lit up like a live wire.
“Relax for me, Jason.”
“I am fucking relaxed,” and he nearly bit Bruce’s head off. He folded his arms across his chest tightly, building a physical barrier between them and trying to hold himself together for just a bit longer. He just wanted to escape the others’ prying eyes and hide in his safe house, curled up in a dark corner as he argued with the voices in his head until the Pit could burn the toxin out of his system. The longer he spent here, the more likely he was to give something serious away. Like if he kept getting asked questions, he won’t be able to keep his mouth shut, and if he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, then he couldn’t guarantee something embarrassing like a whimper wouldn’t escape the next time the Joker got close or a mimic of his family spoke a lie.
“Just get this shit over with already. I told you I’m fine already, stop micromanaging.”
Bruce stopped, pulling back to look him in the face and send him a look that had a voice echoing in his ear. “You’re disappointing me again.”
Jason’s expression must do something—shit—because suddenly the furrow in Bruce’s brow deepened, detective eyes scrutinizing every microexpression that he tried to suppress. To counter this, Jason played a childish route. He turned his head away, which he realized quickly was the wrong thing to do when Bruce retaliated. He didn’t notice Bruce’s hands retreating from where he’d been running them down Jason’s legs, like limb injuries weren’t the most obvious injuries, but he couldn’t miss the hands coming for his face. It’s all he could see and he jolted backward violently, catching himself before he could sprawl backward on the medical cot. Bruce froze in his tracks, hands outstretched and eyes wide, and Jason’s in a similar state but for different reasons.
Dammit, could you be more obvious? Keep it together, Todd.
“Can I check you for a concussion?” Bruce asked this time and Jason disguised the shakiness in his breath in a frustrated exhale.
“Whatever.”
Eased back up into a sitting position, Bruce slid his hands around Jason’s hairline and along his scalp, searching for any bumps or cuts. For a moment, it felt nice and he stiffened to keep himself from swaying into the touch. Then, the moment shattered when Bruce shone a penlight into his corneas.
“Your pupils are dilated.”
Fear toxin will do that to you.
“Concussion,” Jason lied.
Bruce’s lips thinned. The penlight flicked off leaving black spots in Jason’s vision. “You didn’t mention it before.”
Jason shrugged. “Slipped my mind.”
“Jay…”
“Stop.” Please.
“Alright,” Bruce acquiesced softly, finishing off his examination with a gentle rake of his fingers through Jason’s hair and fixing a stray curl and Jason just might throw up if he didn't get out of here right this second. “You’re all set.”
“Great.” He didn’t hesitate to grab his helmet and jam it back over his head, taking a breath and letting his face relax into what he’s sure is a petrified expression behind the safety of his visor. Rushing across the Cave and swinging a relieved leg over his bike, he’s about to jam the key into the ignition when Bruce is suddenly at his side.
“One last thing.”
Jason stopped and looked over his shoulder.
“Were you hit by the fear toxin?” Bruce asked seriously.
Yes.
“No.”