Chapter Text
Symptomania
noun
The desire for a diagnosis that could neatly unify your flaws and contradictions, not to solve the inner chaos but to signal it—so others might know to tread carefully.
Jason’s mouth twists into a hard line, every muscle in his body taut, wired with a tension he’s long learned to ignore. “I’ll stop it. I’ll listen to you. No more guns,” he mutters, voice low, barely a promise but enough to get the words out. His jaw clenches, fingers flexing restlessly against his sides as he straightens, pulling his shoulders back. “Just give me a chance to... fix this.” The word nearly catches, a bitter taste on his tongue.
He doesn’t look at Bruce; instead, his gaze falls to the ground, his hands twitching as if they’re searching for something to hold onto. A feeling he can’t shake—heavy and sharp—digs into his chest. He forces a steady breath, but it only seems to bring more of that bitter, acrid taste to his throat. Straightening, he drags his shoulders back, trying to carve out the last shred of dignity he has left. ‘ Stand tall, ’ he thinks, but the old urge to shrink, to brace himself, nags like an itch he can’t reach.
He finally lifts his gaze to meet Bruce’s, but the look he finds is cold as winter, indifference akin to stone. Where there was once respect, there’s now only disdain—disdain that seems to pierce through Jason as if he’s less than the dust under Bruce’s boots. A distance hangs between them, vast and unbridgeable, filled with shadows that echo his failures in whispers he can’t ignore.
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” he says, voice tight, as if he’s fighting himself as much as he’s speaking to Bruce. “I know I’ve hurt people. Family.” He practically chokes on the word; it feels fragile, hollow, like something that never really belonged to him. “But I’ll make it right.”
His pride rebels against every syllable. The words taste like ash, cutting into him as he speaks them. He wants to swallow them down, crush them, anything but let Bruce see him like this, even for a second.
Then Bruce’s voice drops, quiet but unyielding. “Do you even deserve it?”
The words dig in, sharper than any blow. Jason’s stomach tightens, bile rising at the back of his throat. He swallows it down, jaw clenching, a simmering rage starting to build beneath the shame.
“You beat Tim,” Bruce continues, his tone cutting through Jason’s restraint like a blade. “How pathetic was that? You think that makes you deserving?”
The old fury flares in Jason’s chest, but he forces himself to stand still, his fists clenching until his knuckles go white. He doesn’t have to close his eyes to remember that night—the raw, blinding anger that had driven him. Tim, standing there in his colors, in his life. They’d moved on so easily, as if his death was just a minor inconvenience, quickly smoothed over by a new, unscarred Robin. That jealousy, that resentment, it had gutted him, and he still hadn’t found a way to fill the hole it left behind.
He grits his teeth and nods, the admission pulled out of him like poison. “Yeah, it was pathetic,” he mutters, barely audible. “But I’m trying to make it right. Trying to do something.”
But Bruce is already closing the distance, a storm of anger and disgust in his eyes. Jason feels himself shift backward instinctively, but he forces his feet still, the defiance sparking in his chest. Then Bruce’s grip is on his collar, iron-hard, jerking him down until he’s forced to one knee. The ground is rough against his skin, and he stifles the urge to pull away, to break Bruce’s hold and storm off. But he knows that would be worse—he’s trapped, caught between anger and the weight of everything he’s done.
“You want to make it right?” Bruce’s voice is dark, weighted, pressing down on him with the same crushing inevitability he’s felt a hundred times before. “Then die.”
The word freezes Jason’s blood, and in that instant, the world shifts. The shadow looming over him twists, contorting into something with white skin, wild green hair, and that twisted, mocking smile he’ll never forget. His breath catches, every instinct in him wanting to lash out, to fight. But his body betrays him, curling inward as if the old wounds have flared to life. The crowbar gleams, and Jason feels the memory of its cold metal against his ribs, its jagged, unforgiving impact.
The first strike rips through him, tearing at his defenses, and his fists clench, knuckles pressing into the dirt as he sinks lower, clinging to the floor like an anchor. Each blow vibrates through his bones, bringing back a pain he thought he’d buried, and his mind tells him to get up, to throw the punch, to fight back. But he stays down, the helpless rage churning in his stomach, pinned under the weight of it all.
‘Get up, ’ he tells himself, fury and frustration burning his throat. ‘ You’re stronger now. You could stop this if you wanted to.’ But his body stays curled, reflexes trapping him in place as his mind whispers that maybe he deserves this. The laughter echoes around him, pressing against his ears, and Jason shuts his eyes, feeling the bitterness coil tighter inside him.
It’s a scene he’s played out in his mind a thousand times—a dark mirror that taunts him, reminding him of what he’ll always be. The strikes, the laughter, they carve it deeper: this is who he is. An intruder, a mistake, a stain that’ll never be scrubbed clean. He lets out a strangled breath, the rage simmering just under his skin. He’s older now, but somehow still that kid on the floor, broken and battered. The crowbar crashes down again, and he shuts his eyes, teeth grinding together as the blows tear through him. There’s a sick part of him that accepts it, that thinks maybe, after everything, he’s earned this.
Jason bolts upright, sweat dampening his skin, gluing his hair to his forehead. His chest rises and falls with shallow, erratic breaths as he stares into the darkness, trying to steady himself. His hand twitches before reaching up, dragging fingers through his tangled hair. The motion is supposed to be grounding, but his hand comes away shaking, as if even his own touch betrays him.
A laugh breaks free, low and bitter, as he leans back onto the mattress.
“What the hell am I doing?” The words slip out in a ragged whisper, his throat aching from the strain. He closes his eyes, but the weight in his chest remains, pressing down, his pulse loud and insistent against his ribs.
With a slow, tired exhale, he opens his eyes and lifts his hand, staring at the roughened skin. The light from the streetlamp outside catches on each callus, each scar—a map of every choice he’s made, every wound he’s endured. They’re etched so deeply, it’s like they’ve always been there, permanent reminders he can’t wash away.
He lets his arm fall heavily to his side, the sheets tangling around him, half-covering his body like he’s a soldier at rest, though he feels anything but. A quiet, frustrated huff escapes him, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes shut tight as if he can block out the thoughts piling up inside his mind.
“Get yourself together, Jason.” His own voice is a strained murmur, barely audible over the pounding in his chest.
He stares at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster as if they might reveal some hidden answer. His breath catches, images flickering behind his eyelids—dark smudges on a green-lit haze he’s quick to shove back down. He wipes a hand over his face, letting it fall back limply to the mattress. The weak daylight pushes through the gap in the curtains, pale and soft, and he squints at it, turning on his side to hide from the light. Tugging the covers up, he curls in close, letting the fabric press against him like a cool, quiet weight. For a moment, it almost feels familiar, like he’s back to the days of his mother’s cold, steady presence.
His phone buzzes, cutting the silence with its relentless hum. The noise claws at his patience, but he ignores it, hoping it’ll end. It does, but only for a second before it starts up again. He imagines it smashed to pieces against the wall and tries to savor the idea, though he knows his neighbors would give him grief for it.
Eventually, he swipes it off the bedside table and puts it on speaker, slumping back without looking at the screen. “Yeah?” he mumbles, rubbing at his face.
“Hey, Jason.” Dick’s voice filters through, somehow gentle and grounded all at once. “Have you eaten yet?”
Jason exhales, a faint hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth even as his patience fades. He doesn’t respond, waiting him out, but Dick doesn’t need much time.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Dick sighs, his voice carrying that strange, almost unshakable warmth Jason’s never gotten used to.
Jason rolls his eyes. He must be hearing things.
Silence stretches a beat too long, and sure enough, Dick fills it. “There’s food in the fridge. Compliments of the chef.”
Jason raises an eyebrow, sitting up slowly, his brain catching up to the implication.
“Alfred,” Dick clarifies, in case Jason missed it, and Jason can practically hear the smirk.
Jason lets out a grunt, and he feels his hand tightening around the phone as he pushes himself up. Even that small movement feels like an effort, like he’s pulling himself through sand. But, somehow, Dick’s voice, as familiar as it is persistent, sticks with him, tugging him out of bed.
When he finally stands in front of the fridge, he gives it a skeptical look, feeling its cold air brush his face as he opens it. Sure enough, it’s fully stocked. The moldy leftovers he’d been meaning to toss are gone, replaced with a neat row of containers, like some quiet, invisible reminder that someone’s keeping track.
“Spaghetti alla carbonara,” he mutters, recognizing the dish. He stares at the container, his eyes lingering as his mind drifts somewhere else. The smell is faintly familiar, stirring something deep in his gut—a distant reminder of cold nights where his mother would murmur sorry into the darkness, her fingers brushing his hair as he pretended he didn’t see the marks on her arms. Back then, he’d wondered if she’d eaten, if she felt hunger at all, though her eyes were always glassy, far away.
He glances away from the dish, swallowing back the tight feeling building up.
It’s just food.
“I’m not hungry.” Jason mutters, hand still on the fridge handle, ready to slam it shut.
But Dick’s voice cuts in, filling the silence with that same easy warmth. “Don’t lie, Jason.”
There’s affection there, clear as day, and Jason’s thumb hovers over the screen, the urge to hang up flickering through his mind. Dick has this way of speaking, of reaching out, that feels… strange. Foreign. It puts Jason on edge, like he’s being dissected by someone who still manages to sound like he cares. Dick’s persistence—his stubborn, unfazed kindness—it’s almost disorienting, like he’s speaking a language Jason’s only ever heard in passing.
“I can practically hear your stomach growling from here,” Dick adds, a hint of a smirk in his tone.
Jason opens his mouth to argue, but his stomach betrays him with a loud, grumbling protest before he can even get a word out. He scowls, jaw clenched, feeling the quiet humiliation simmer in his chest.
“Told you so,” Dick says, and Jason can practically see the stupid grin.
Jason grumbles something low and unintelligible, but he reaches back into the fridge and pulls the container out, setting it down on the table. He stares at it, lips pressed in a tight line, the familiar ache in his gut twisting into something else. He should heat it up, make it feel like a proper meal—like he’s willing to accept it.
But part of him lingers, as if even now, he has to earn it.
Jason huffs, pushing away the muddled thoughts that linger too close. The container is cold to the touch—probably needs a minute or so in the microwave.
He stares at it, considering. No way he’d finish the whole thing in one go. His stomach grumbles, but he ignores it, grabbing a plate and portioning out a reasonable amount, nodding in silent satisfaction. It feels weirdly deliberate, as if breaking it down will make it easier to stomach. He slides the plate into the microwave, covers it with a paper towel, and punches in the time with more focus than it really deserves. He steps back as it begins to hum, arms crossed, watching the seconds tick down.
Jason’s gaze drifts to the small, neon-yellow post-it notes dotting his fridge door, then across the kitchen. Actually, they’re everywhere—on cabinets, the counter, even the lamp by the couch. Each one is handwritten, every letter curved and neat, the lines gently sloping upward in a way that feels intentional, like the hand that wrote them couldn’t help but leave a hint of warmth in each stroke.
The handwriting is unmistakably Dick’s: letters spaced out with careful, unconscious precision, each one open and inviting. Jason’s own cursive is a stark contrast—sharp, slanted downward, more prone to crowding the words together, like he’s in a hurry to get them out and get them over with.
He reaches out, thumb brushing over a note pinned to the fridge, inked with some trivial reminder that Dick must have thought important enough to leave. It’s something about getting fresh groceries, with a little smiley face drawn beside it. The note isn’t even necessary; Jason knows his own fridge inventory down to the last wilted leaf, but he lets the paper stay where it is, leaving the strange blend of care and order that only Dick would bring into his space.
It’s annoyingly thoughtful.
His eyes drift around the dining room, catching on a windbreaker slung over the back of the couch—one he knows isn’t his. Dick’s. Left here probably on purpose, knowing him.
Jason scoffs, cutting into Dick’s usual rambling. “You left your jacket here, you know. Want me to drop it off or something?”
“Nah, keep it,” Dick replies smoothly, not missing a beat. There’s a familiar warmth in his voice, something that hovers between playfulness and affection. “Just gives me an excuse to come by later.”
Jason snorts, glancing away, but he can’t quite shake the faintest curve to his mouth.
When the microwave beeps, Jason steps over and pulls out the plate, wincing slightly as the heat sears his palm. He mutters under his breath, setting it down on the table and tossing the oily paper towel into the trash. He slides into his chair, fork in hand, the simple routine grounding him in a way he doesn’t entirely understand.
On the other end of the line, Dick is quiet—a rare thing, like he’s waiting for something.
Jason winds the pasta around his fork, bringing it close to his mouth and blowing on it a bit before taking a bite. The warmth settles in him, filling the emptiness with something simple and comforting.
"Well?" Dick’s voice breaks the silence, a hint of expectation laced in the single word.
Jason pauses, swallowing as he leans back. “It’s good,” he replies simply, his tone flat, but he knows Dick can hear the weight in it. He can practically feel Dick’s satisfied grin through the phone.
"Glad to hear it," Dick says, his voice lighter.
They settle into a rhythm, Dick’s voice rambling on about the small details of his day while Jason eats, passively listening, not saying much but finding himself strangely at ease in the quiet exchange.
Jason stares at his empty plate, fork resting dead center like he’d set it down and forgotten it. The strange sensation of feeling full lingers—warm and unfamiliar, like a softness he wasn’t sure he should let himself have. He rises slowly, plate in hand, and brings it over to the sink, setting it under the steady stream of water.
The faint grit of food remnants washes away, bubbles frothing up from the soap he squeezes onto a sponge. He scrubs in slow, deliberate circles, watching the white porcelain gleam back at him, strangely hypnotized by the simplicity of the task. His mind drifts, each bubble dissolving into a quiet thought that he lets slip away, watching the lather swirl down the drain.
He places the plate and fork on the drying rack, his hand moving almost automatically to the towel nearby. He dries his hands, the soft fabric brushing against his fingers, grounding him in the here and now.
“—ason! Jason, are you still there?” Dick’s voice suddenly cuts through, a touch too loud, as if he’d been calling for a while.
Dick’s voice cuts through, breaking the bubble of quiet. Jason blinks, glancing back at the dining table where his phone sits abandoned. For a second, he just looks at it, considering, before stepping over and picking it up.
“Yeah,” he replies, his voice curt, low.
He hears Dick release a breath, as if something had been on hold, just waiting. There’s something soft in the sound that catches him off guard.
“Good,” Dick says, a faint warmth weaving through his words. “Thought you’d left.”
He gives a noncommittal grunt, listening as Dick continues to ramble, and Jason lets the words flow around him, grounding him as he watches the last bubbles pop and disappear in the sink.
“I have to get going—responsibilities and all that.” Dick’s voice is light, though Jason can hear the reluctance underneath, a quiet sigh slipping through. “Take care of yourself, yeah?”
Jason nods, a silent, automatic gesture even though he knows Dick can’t see him. His eyes slip closed, and there's a faint ache deep in his chest, a slow, dull twist at the thought of that familiar warmth stepping away, leaving his space just a little colder.
“Sure,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. “Yeah.”
The word hangs there, hollow in the quiet room, but he doesn’t say anything more.
At some point, through the fog clinging to his mind, Jason finds himself at the bathroom door, fingers wrapped around the cold metal knob. He doesn’t remember getting here. The door creaks open, and his hand falls back to his side as he steps into the room, the dim light casting a dull gleam across the tiles.
His gaze catches on the mirror, and he stops, the sight pulling him in. A furrow forms between his brows, mirrored instantly in the reflection—a man he doesn’t quite know.
Pale streaks slice through the darkness of his hair, cheekbones sharp beneath shadowed eyes. His face feels older somehow, unfamiliar in ways he can’t place, and yet undeniably his own. The longer he looks, the more he searches for something he recognizes, the less he finds. There’s an edge there, a fatigue deep enough to reshape his face into something distant, hollow.
His fingertips graze his jaw, the faint stubble rough against his skin. It’s barely noticeable at a glance, but he feels it—each bristle prickling under his fingers, a quiet reminder of how long it’s been since he bothered with something as routine as shaving. He sighs, dropping his hand and opening the cabinet under the sink, reaching past a jumble of half-empty bottles to grab the can of shaving cream and a razor, both cool and weighty in his grip.
He studies his reflection a beat longer before he finally shakes the can, a soft hiss filling the air as a mound of foam settles in his palm. He rubs it over his jaw, feeling the cold spread across his skin, clinging to the line of his cheekbones, along his upper lip, smoothing down to his chin. It’s strange, this small ritual of pressing the blade to his skin and sweeping it across, watching it carve clean paths through the foam.
The razor slides along his jaw in smooth strokes, leaving patches of bare skin in its wake. He watches himself in fragments, glimpses of familiar lines beneath the shaving cream and stubble. A flick of the wrist, and another strip falls away, foam and coarse hair gathering in the sink. His face starts to emerge, inch by inch, the stranger in the mirror dissolving into someone he halfway recognizes.
He rinses his face, the cold water shocking against his skin, washing away the last remnants of foam and stray hairs. When he looks up, his reflection stares back, the sharp lines a little clearer now—though still unfamiliar, a little closer to himself.
He sighs, glancing down at the toothpaste, but his gaze strays to the toothbrush beside his—a bright blue one, bristling with far less wear. He picks it up, turning it over in his hand with a raised brow.
"First, the notes. Then his jacket. Now this?" he mutters, his voice barely above a breath. "Doesn’t even come by that often."
But he knows that’s a lie. Dick’s around whenever he can manage it, filling the silence with his familiar chatter, his unrelenting presence slipping into the corners of Jason’s life. And when he can’t be here, he calls. Always, without fail. It’s like breathing to him—clockwork, something Jason’s come to rely on more than he’d ever admit.
Jason presses his lips together, catching sight of his own reflection again. He squeezes a line of toothpaste onto his brush, the motion practiced and unthinking. He brushes methodically, glancing at the mirror where another post-it note clings just off-center, its corners curling.
After rinsing his mouth, he leans closer, plucking the note off the glass. The adhesive leaves a faint smudge behind, a ghost of where it had been.
Dick’s handwriting is there in its usual, light script, the letters looping upward with an energy that doesn’t belong in Jason’s space. A tiny, lopsided drawing—a poorly sketched fist, clenched in encouragement—sits beside the message.
"You’ve got this!"
Jason stares at the note, the words “You’ve got this!” feeling almost too loud in the quiet of the room. He turns it over in his hand, tracing the lines of Dick’s handwriting—slanted and familiar, a little crooked but sure of itself. It’s almost ridiculous, the bright optimism of it, but something about it digs into him, sticks.
Before he realizes it, he’s pulling out his phone and typing, his fingers moving with a kind of nervous energy. ‘ How old do I look?’ He hesitates, thumb hovering over the send button, feeling the weight of the question settle around him. It feels too raw, almost silly—but he presses send anyway, a beat of tension in his chest as he watches the message go through.
The response is almost instant, like Dick had been waiting. ‘ Your age. ’
Jason frowns, feeling that old pang of frustration claw at him. ‘ How old is that?’ The question feels childish, almost petulant, but he doesn’t delete it. He sends it instead, as if daring Dick to answer.
Three little dots blink on the screen, and then: ‘ Nineteen. ’
Jason’s breath catches. Nineteen. The number sits there, stark and simple, but somehow too big and too small at once. He doesn’t remember what nineteen is supposed to feel like. The weight of years he hasn’t lived presses down on him, cold and heavy.
Another message arrives: ‘ Why? ’
Jason lets out a breath, shaky and quiet. He could answer; he could explain the question in all its messy, tangled parts. But instead, he just slips his phone back into his pocket, fingers brushing against the note in his other hand. Dick might wait for a response, might even ask him about it later, but for now, he lets the silence hold it.
Jason huffs softly, pressing his lips into a thin line, phone silent in his pocket. What would he even say? The truth feels too raw, too tangled. He can already hear Dick’s voice in his mind, concerned and steady.
So, instead, he looks down at the note still clutched in his hand, the lopsided drawing and the earnest scrawl. You’ve got this! The words echo in his mind, absurdly optimistic, a stubborn reminder. He sets the note back on the mirror, its adhesive barely holding, like it’s been here all along.