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Dick is exhausted when he finally stumbles through the door at midnight.
His fingers ache as he works the laces of his boots. There's blood all over his right glove, but he doesn't even remember whose blood it is- some trafficker in the Bowery, maybe. His shoulder throbs where someone got a lucky hit with a pipe, by morning it'll be dark purple.
He needs to file a report; Barbara's going to want details on the trafficking ring. His laptop sits on the coffee table, waiting. He'll deal with it tomorrow, when the sun is up and his eyelids aren’t so heavy.
He's halfway to the bathroom, rolling his shoulder and cataloging the new ache, when he catches green eyes staring at him.
Jason is sitting on the couch.
The exhaustion vanishes, replaced by a freezing spike of adrenaline. He slams on the light.
Jason is in Dick's living room with his hands raised in the air, palms out. His little brother, his dead brother, the one who burned down an orphanage six months ago because he thought the director was "letting the children suffer". He looks horrible.
"Don't." Jason's voice is raw, like he's been screaming. Maybe he has. "I'm not doing anything. My hands are up. See? You can see them."
Dick's own hands are around his back holding onto the escrima sticks. His heartbeat pounds in his ears.
Jason is sitting in his spot: the corner of the couch, cross-legged just like he always used to sit. Close to the heater vent. He always hated being cold, even in the summer, going on about growing up in apartments where the heating was a luxury and winter meant sleeping in every piece of clothing you owned.
Dick built this apartment to be safe. Reinforced door, bulletproof windows, enough security to make Bruce's cave look elementary. He built it to keep the monsters of Gotham out.
He never imagined one of them would be his own brother. The one he had welcomed in, time after time, waking up to empty cereal boxes and complaints of how Alfred “never lets us eat the good shit!”
"How did you get in?" Dick's voice doesn't sound like his own. It doesn’t belong in his apartment. It's the voice he uses on criminals, not family.
Jason is a criminal. He has been for two years.
"Window. Used the fire escape on the south side, the one that faces the alley. You've got sensors but they're motion-activated and I know the blind spots. Your lock is good, quality deadbolt ‘n all, but the window frame ain’t. I shimmed it with a putty knife 'n popped the latch." Jason's words tumble out fast, tripping over each other. "I didn’t break anything. I was careful. You’re welcome."
He did come in through the window- Dick can see it from here, cracked open two inches, letting the cold night air creep in.
"Just hear me out." Jason's hands are still up. "That's all I’m asking, I swear. 'M not gonna hurt you or nothin’."
Dick knows he should call Bruce. He knows that he should hit the panic button sewn into his sleeve. Knows he should do literally anything except stand here, frozen, staring at the ghost on his couch.
Jason's eyes are glowing a low green. There are scars on his face, a thin line cutting through his eyebrow, and his hair is longer than Dick remembers seeing in his latest mugshot, matted and unwashed. He's wearing a jacket that's too big for him. He looks like he hasn't slept in days.
"Do you know what the date is? Do you care? Does anybody even care about her anymore?"
Dick's mind is still trying to catch up. Jason is here, Jason broke into my apartment, who is “her”?
The date clicks into place.
Catherine Todd died today. Overdosed in a shithole apartment in Crime Alley while her eight-year-old son was at school.
"I know what day it is," Dick says quietly.
Jason's face spasms.
"The Pit is screaming," Jason says. His arms above his head are starting to shake. "It wants- It’s begging me to go out there. To find every dealer, every supplier, every piece of shit who ever sold someone a fix.” Jason's tone is alarmingly conversational. "Break their fingers one by one, all ten, ‘n make them watch. See if their screams get louder or quieter with every new break. Then the ribs. Crack ‘em so they puncture the lungs. Slow suffocation can take hours if you're careful. The screaming usually stops after the shock sets in, but if you keep the adrenaline high, you can keep ‘em alert the whole time. The Pit wants me to make them beg. It likes the noise. It thinks it's music. Keep going despite their pleas because they didn't stop when people begged them, when I begged my mom-"
"Jason." Dick cuts through the spiral. Jason’s nose twitches.
"Agh!" Jason growls. He squeezes his eyes shut and places his palms on either side of his skull. He pauses and raises them back up. "I'm trying to explain. It's so loud tonight. Louder than usual.”
"Your mom wouldn’t want you to hurt anyone." The words come out before Dick can stop them—therapy voice—the one he uses on victims, on scared kids. Wrong, all wrong, but he doesn't know what else to say.
Jason huffs out a sarcastic laugh. "No. She wouldn’t. She didn't like violence. Ain’t that ironic? She used to cover my eyes during the scary parts of movies even though we both knew I'd seen worse in the kitchen every day. She'd just put her hands over my eyes and tell me when it was over. She always told me when the scary part was over.”
Dick wasn’t sure they were talking about movies anymore.
Jason’s arms finally lower. Just slightly. “I need you to keep me locked up tonight."
Dick’s hands itch for a weapon. He doesn’t understand the angle here.
"What?" He says automatically. "Why here? Why me?"
Jason looks at him like the answer should be obvious. Like Dick is stupid for even asking.
"I don't have anybody else." He says it bluntly, matter-of-fact. "I thought that was pretty fucking obvious by now."
The words hit like a gauntleted punch.
"I know you don't give a shit about me anymore," Jason continues. "I know what I am to you now- just another Gotham nutcase. But you care about the civilians out there.” He points at the open window. “You care about keeping Gotham’s people safe. So even if you won't do it for me, you'll do it for all them. Right?"
Dick wants to argue, wants to tell Jason that it’s not true, that he does care about him. But his hand is still hovering near his escrima sticks and they both know it.
"Right," he says quietly.
Jason's smile is bitter. "See? I knew I could count on you." He looks away and mutters to himself. “This time.”
Dick doesn’t know what to say.
"I know you've got reinforced doors, secure rooms, the good shit. I saw the blueprints once, way back when, before-" Jason's gaze flicks to Dick's face and then back away, fast. "I'll stay in whatever room you want. You can cuff me, I don't care. I just need to not be out there tonight. If I'm out there, I'm gonna paint the whole city red and I can’t do that. Not today."
Dick’s alarm bells are blaring. This is insane. This is a trap. Jason held a woman hostage three weeks ago, screaming about betrayal and death until the GCPD had to tase him. Jason is not stable, not safe, and certainly not someone Dick should be making deals with in the middle of the night.
"We can go to the Manor," Dick decides. "Alfred's there, Bruce can-"
"NO."
The word is a lightning strike. Jason's eyes flare, the sick glow that means the Pit is close to the surface, and he’s on his feet now, hands clenched into fists. Dick's entire body goes taut with adrenaline.
“Jason. Sit down.”
"Not the Manor. I can't see him. Can't look at his lying fucking face." Jason's breathing is ragged. "Please, Dick. Just tonight. Just keep me here tonight and tomorrow you can take me to Blackgate like you always do.”
Dick cringes at the last words. He looks at the criminal in front of him and sees someone who knows a hundred different ways to kill while the Pit whispers instructions.
He also sees his little brother. Sees Jason at fourteen, sprawled on this same couch, complaining that Dick never bought the best cereal. At twelve, still small enough to fall asleep during movies with his head on Dick's shoulder. The way he used to be, before Ethiopia, before the crowbar, before the Lazarus Pit turned him into something fundamentally different.
His fingers twitch towards his panic button and stop. He's making a mistake. He knows he's making a mistake. But Jason is looking at him with something that might be hope and Dick has never - never - been able to say no to that look.
"Okay," he says.
Jason's shoulders drop. "Okay?"
"Okay. Tonight. Just tonight."
"Thank you." Jason sighs with relief. "I promise I'll be good, I'm not gonna do anything stupid."
“This way.” Dick moves toward the hallway, careful to keep Jason in his direct line of sight.
The spare bedroom is at the end of the hall. Dick hasn't used it in months. It's small, barely big enough for a bed and a dresser, but the door has three locks and there are no windows.
He's using his spare bedroom as a cell for his dead brother.
Jason follows him down the hall, steps quiet. He moves like he used to move on patrol, weight balanced, ready to react.
Dick opens the door, hits the light switch, and takes stock of the room.
"I need to make it safe," Dick says. “Stand where I can see you.”
"I know, I know." Jason steps inside, hands visible again.
Dick starts removing everything. The lamp goes first, heavy ceramic that could crack a skull. Then the steel-framed chair that could be a weapon or a battering ram. The curtain rod comes down next- the metal pole could choke or bludgeon. Even the hangers in the small closet go, made of wire that could be fashioned into a lock-picking tool.
Jason watches it all without comment. Just stands in the middle of the emptying room with his arms stretched out.
When Dick takes out the cuffs, Jason presses his wrists together.
"Elbows too," Dick says, voice strained.
Jason complies, rotating his arms to nearly touch at the joints. Wrist cuffs alone won't stop someone with his training; it has to be both. Dick secures them carefully. They click shut, like a cell door closing.
"Mattress on the floor okay?" Dick asks.
Jason nods.
Dick drags the mattress off the frame, dropping it down to the floor, removing the risk of somehow leveraging the bed frame. He's seeing everything as potential weapons now, anticipating threats the way Bruce taught him. Dick wishes he could remove the whole frame, just in case, but its dense, solid oak- heavy as a tank and hard to maneuver.
When the room is finally stripped down to nothing, Dick hesitates in the doorway. He feels his instincts creeping in- the urge to make sure Jason’s okay.
“I’ll be back,” he says, and turns, eyes off Jason for the first time since he got here.
He leaves the door half-open, enough that if it starts to open the sound will give him a second’s warning, and goes to the kitchen. When he opens the cupboard and reaches for a glass his hand hovers over the mug Jason made him in art class. The lumpy, red-yellow-green “It’s just a stupid mug, Dick” mug. Dick grabs a plastic cup instead.
When he comes back, Jason is sitting on the mattress, legs folded under him. The cuffs are forcing his arms into an awkward angle and he’s staring at the ceiling.
Dick sets the water down carefully, just within Jason's reach.
"You still have that crack in the ceiling." Jason's voice is distant. "The one I used to stare at when I'd sleep on your couch. I thought it looked like a bird but you said it looked like a pterodactyl and we argued for like an hour."
Dick knows exactly what he’s talking about. The crack is still there, a fracture in the living room’s plaster that he doesn’t care to fix.
"You were so annoying about it," Jason continues. His eyes are still fixed on the ceiling. "It was obviously a bird. But you kept insisting, going on about the beak structure or some shit."
Dick remembers that argument. Remembers laughing while Jason tried to draw his interpretation on a napkin. It was two in the morning- they'd just come back from a successful patrol and everything had felt light and easy.
"I remember," Dick says.
Jason's eyes finally drop to meet his. "You laughed so hard that night. I'd never heard you laugh like that before. Totally lost your shit over a ceiling crack."
A smile tries to form on Dick's face- muscle memory of happiness.
"Man. Not as hard as the Joker laughed, though." Jason's tone doesn't change, doesn’t shift at all. "Boy could he laugh. He almost keeled over when he broke my ribs. Fourteen total, did you know that? He'd hit one, stop, wait for me to scream, and then he'd laugh and laugh like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. By number nine he was laughing so hard he was crying, these big fat tears rolling down his face, and I remember thinking, this is it. This is how I die. Listening to this fucker laugh himself sick while he turns my bones into powder."
The smile dies instantly.
"The sound." Jason's eyes are glassy. "The cracking sound. It's- it's wet. Bones aren't dry inside, you know? There's marrow and blood and all this- this nasty shit. So when they break it's not a pretty snap. It's a crunch. Wet 'n nasty. Like bitin’ into a chicken bone. You know that sound?"
"Jason-"
"I can still hear it sometimes. Crystal clear, like it's happening right now. Crunch, crunch, crunch…” Jason repeats the word, counting each one on his fingers until he reaches fourteen. “And that fucking laugh between each one."
Dick wants to be anywhere but here. He wants to pinch his arm and wake up to find this was all some sick dream.
Jason blinks and the glassiness fades a little. "Anyways." He shakes his head like he's trying to throw the thought out of his mind. "What were we talking about?"
"The ceiling crack."
"Right. Yeah. The bird." Jason smiles, but it’s wrong- too wide, and doesn't reach his eyes. "You were so stupid about it."
Dick should turn this into an interrogation. Ask questions and try to understand what the hell has been happening in Jason's head. But looking at him now, cuffed and trying so hard to hold it together, Dick can't make himself do it.
One night. He can give him one night.
"Remember when we stopped that robbery at the jewelry store? And you were so proud because I did that flip, the one you taught me?" Jason is staring up again. "And after, when we got pizza, you let me get the ‘disgusting one’ with pineapple on it.”
Dick does remember. Jason had been so excited, practically vibrating with pride. The flip had been perfect, textbook execution and Dick had ruffled his hair and told him he was getting really good.
Jason laughs—for half a second it sounds exactly like him—like the real Jason, the before Jason. He misses that sound so much it hurts.
Then the laugh twists and goes manic. Too high and too fast. The illusion shatters.
“I don't remember it all, but I know we were laughing. Makes me laugh now too, ‘cause I had no idea what was coming. Just a dumb kid walkin’ around in the suit he’s about to be buried in. Pfft, actually thinkin’ he was gonna get to grow up."
He rolls his neck in a slow circle.
"There was so much blood on my suit that night,” Jason says, tone casual. "I’d bet I broke that guys nose in three places. You told me I used too much force but I could tell you were impressed. His bone crunched when my fist connected, sorta like the pizza crust if you think about it. That’s pretty neat, huh? Everything crunches if you apply enough pressure. You get a crunch, you get a crunch, we all get a crunch."
Jason smiles when he says it.
"Just a little force on the right spot and snap! Noses are easy as hell. Fingers are even easier. I broke someone's fingers last month, all of ‘em on his left hand. Just like I wanna do tonight. He begged me to stop after the third one but I had two more to go so I told him to shut up. The sounds were so fun. Snap, snap, snap. Like bubble wrap. That's what I told him, that it sounded like bubble wrap, ain’t that funny? He didn't think it was funny. He was cryin’ too hard to laugh."
"Jason, stop." Dick's voice strains.
In the moment of quiet, Dick reasons he should be more afraid. That he should keep his hand on a weapon and be ready for Jason to break into a Pit-fueled rage.
Instead he's thinking about pineapple pizza. About how Jason had stolen a slice off Dick's half when he wasn't looking and then claimed innocence with tomato sauce on his chin.
"Dick?"
Dick shifts on his feet before he realizes he's moving. "Yeah?"
"Can we talk? It’s so loud. I'm trying not to think and it's easier if I talk."
Dick lets go of the tension in his stance. His training yells at him for it, but he makes his way down to a crouch on the floor. Close enough to talk, far enough to run if he needs to.
"What do you want to talk about?"
"Anything. I don't care. Normal stuff. Tell me about your day. Your week. Whatever."
Normal stuff. As if anything about this is normal. Dick hasn’t told Jason about “normal stuff” in years.
"Patrol was quiet," he starts. "Stopped a trafficking ring in the Bowery. I think one of them got me pretty good."
“Looks like it.” Jason nods toward Dick's shoulder. "You gonna need stitches?"
Dick had forgotten about the injury. "Probably not. It's shallow."
Silence stretches between them as Dick tries to think of what else to say. It's uncomfortable, nothing the peaceful coexistence it used to be.
“Speaking of crying,” Jason starts. Dick thought they were past that. "Remember when we got Alfred that cookbook for his birthday? We spent like three weeks hunting down a first edition."
Dick remembers that too. They'd scoured every bookshop in Gotham, traveled to estate sales in the suburbs. Jason had been relentless, determined to find the perfect gift.
"He cried," Jason continues. "Did you know that? After we left the kitchen, I came back to sneak snacks into my room and he was just holding it. Crying. I didn't say anything, didn’t wanna embarrass him. But I saw."
Dick's chest aches. It’s one of the sweetest things he could imagine, Alfred's perfect composure unraveling around a thoughtful gift from his baby brother.
“I wonder if he cried when I died. If he held anything of mine like that or if he just threw it all away. Easier to forget, right? No use keeping the dead boy's things around."
“Of course he did-”
“It’s pathetic," Jason says abruptly. His tone shifts. "How easy people cry. How little it takes. A tiny hit to the right area. Threatening the things they love. I made someone cry so hard the other month. Really sob, you know? The kind where they can't breathe and the snot is runnin’ all down their face and they're hiccuppin’ and shit. That guy was crying so fuckin hard and man, my brain was all over the place. I thought about Alfred holding that book."
He laughs again. It's a horrible sound.
"Isn't that something? I was making someone suffer while thinkin ’bout the nicest thing I ever did. The Pit thinks that's hilarious. It won't shut up about it. Keeps showing me Alfred's face next to this guy's and asking if I can see the difference."
"There's a difference," Dick says.
"Is there?" Jason tilts his head. "Tears are tears.”
"Jason, you know there's a difference."
"Do I?" Jason’s green eyes pin him. "I don't know what I know anymore. It’s all mixed up in here.” He points to his head and taps. “Good memories, bad memories, things that happened, things I wish happened. It's all the same."
Dick wants to say something comforting, something to help, but everything that comes to mind feels like a risk he doesn’t have the energy to take.
"My mom once saved money for my birthday," Jason says, looking at the wall now instead of Dick. Dick’s hackles go up. He knows this is a risky topic. "Not a lot. She couldn't, obviously. Dad would’ve lost his shit. That and, well, y’know. Anyways, one year she saved twenty bucks. Didn't spend a dime of it on a fix. Which for her was like, really somethin'. She kept it in an envelope taped under the kitchen sink. I found it two days before my birthday when I was hiding from my old man. I didn't say anything. Didn't wanna ruin the surprise."
His voice has gone softer.
"When my birthday finally came around- well she was out of it that day- but the day after, we went to the corner store and she let me pick out anything I wanted. I got this toy dinosaur, one of those cheap ass plastic ones that break if you look at them wrong. Cost maybe three bucks. Then we got ice cream with the rest. At one of those actual shops, not the box stuff from the grocery store. We sat on a bench and ate it and she sang me happy birthday even though it was technically the day before and I thought, man this is the best day ever."
Dick can picture it: baby Jason, small and underfed, eating ice cream with his mom. Holding his dinosaur like it was made of gold.
"You were right earlier,” Jason continues. “She wouldn't want me to be out there hunting down every two-bit dealer in Crime Alley and busting their kneecaps. Poppin ‘em backwards, snapping the joint, ‘n showing them what the fuck it’s like to really hurt.”
His eyes flash green.
"It's begging me. It's saying they deserve it, every single one of them, for what they did to her. For what they do to everyone they touch. The Pit says I could make it last for hours. Days, if I'm real careful. Keep them alive and suffering.”
"Jason." Dick's voice is firm, cutting through his monologue. "Stop. She wouldn't want that."
"I know." The green is bright. "I know, I just said that. That's why I'm here. That's why I asked you to lock me up. Because I fucking know that and I’m trying.”
He spits out the last word.
"If she was here I’d be asleep already. She always helped me fall asleep," he says, staring into his kneecaps. "I had a fuckload of nightmares as a kid and she knew it. If she was havin’ a good night she’d come in and tell me to imagine I owned a zoo. Asked me where I'd put all the animals, what toys I'd give ‘em. I had a whole layout in my head. I even had a dragon exhibit."
A strained laugh.
"I was a kid. I didn't know dragons weren't real. She didn't correct me though. Just asked me what color they'd be and nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. Red, I told her. Red dragons with gold wings."
Dick's throat goes hot. His eyes start to burn a little.
"She was the nicest person I ever knew. She cared about me. She loved me,” Jason says through gritted teeth. "And she died. Alone. On a bathroom floor with a needle in her arm.”
Jason scowls, but it doesn’t look angry. It looks pained. “Do you think it hurt? When she overdosed? Do you think she was scared?"
This is dangerous ground. Dick knows it, but he can't figure out how to redirect it. "I don't know."
"I think it did. I think it hurt like hell. Your heart stops, you know. When you overdose. Just stops cold. But your brain keeps going for a little while after. So you know. You know you're dying, you know you can't stop it, and you know you're alone."
Jason's nose twitches again.
"Like me. In that warehouse. Joker was gone by the end. It was just me and the timer. I could hear it ticking. Sixty seconds. Forty-five. Thirty. I screamed through the pain ‘Bruce, Batman, Dad’. Like a fucking baby. Like a stupid kid who actually believed his dad cared enough to come save him."
Dick's eyes are burning in full now.
"And when I finally accepted he wasn't coming... when I knew I was going to die... I screamed for my mommy." Tears form in his eyes. "I called for her over and over. 'Mama, mama, please.' Like she could hear me, like she'd come."
"Do you think she heard me? In whatever comes after death for people who get to stay dead? Was she there when I died? Did she hear me screaming for her?"
Dick opens his mouth to reply.
"Because I need to know." Jason's eyes are desperate now. "I need to know if I died completely alone or if some part of her was there. Even if she couldn't do anything, even if she could just watch, at least I wouldn't have-" His breath hitches. "At least someone would have cared that I was dying."
"She would have cared," Dick manages.
"But was she THERE?" Jason's volume climbs. "That's what I'm asking! When I was calling for her—when the timer hit zero and got so bright and I could feel my body tearing apart—was she there or was I alone? Did she know her son was calling for her? What if she heard every second and couldn't do anything? What if she had to watch me die the same way I had to watch her? What if I made her feel the same way I felt, finding her on that bathroom floor? I want to know if she held me after, when I was dead. I want to know if I was alone!"
His breathing is ragged, pleading.
Dick's vision blurs with tears. "I think-“ His voice cracks. "I think if there was any possible way she could have been there, she was. I think she would have moved heaven and earth to reach you."
“But you don’t know.”
"I don't know," Dick whispers. It's the only honest answer he has. “I wasn’t there.”
Jason scoffs. “Yeah, trust me, I know.”
They sit in silence. Dick watches his brother, a murderer, crying on his floor about the pain of death. He doesn’t know what to do.
"You look older," Jason says eventually. "When did you get older? Your hair's different. Did you cut it?"
"Jason, you know-"
"How long was I gone?" Jason's eyes are wild now, unfocused. "Dick, how long was I dead? The Pit… it- it took time from me. Sometimes I think I've been dead for years, sometimes I think I died yesterday, sometimes I think I'm still dead and this is hell and I'm just replaying the same moments over and over. Which is real? WHICH IS REAL?"
"You’ve been-“
Jason cuts him off again.
"Did we do anything? The last day before Ethiopia? I can't remember shit, the Pit burned it out. Did we fight? Was I being an asshole? Did I-" His breathing is speeding up again. "I need to know if I wasted it. If I knew it was my last day, I would have-"
"The day was mostly normal," Dick interrupts, trying to keep his voice leveled and calm. "I remember feeling worried about you. I could tell something was off but I didn’t push it. I should have. I really, really should have.”
He'd known that something was wrong. Had seen that Jason was pulling away, getting reckless, angry in ways that went beyond teenage rebellion. But Dick had let it go. He’d been too busy with the Titans, with Blüdhaven, with his own life. He had no idea his brother was about to lose his.
"You're lying." Jason's eyes narrow. "You keep looking at the door."
The sudden accusation takes Dick by surprise. "I'm not-"
"Yes you are. Every thirty seconds, like you're timing something." Jason's voice goes harsh. "You called someone, didn't you? Before you locked me in here. Who's coming, Dick? Is it him?"
"No one's coming. I promise-"
"You're lying." Jason is on his knees now, the mattress shifting underneath him. "You're lying, you called Bruce, didn't you? You called Batman. You couldn't just give me one fucking night-"
"I didn't call Bruce."
"This room." Jason spins, looking around frantically. "You brought me to this specific room. Why this one? The walls are thicker here, aren't they? This is where you'd put someone you wanted to interrogate. This is-" He laughs, sharp and bitter. "This is a jail. You built a jail in your apartment. For me. How long have you had this ready?"
"Jason, it's just the spare bedroom-"
"A SPARE BEDROOM DOESN'T HAVE A REINFORCED DOOR!" Jason slams his cuffed hands against the wall. The sound echoes. "You think I don't notice? You think I'm too far gone to see? I taught you how to spot a fortified room! I TAUGHT YOU!"
Dick's breath catches. Jason's right, he did teach Dick that. Years ago, when they were on a stakeout and Jason was showing off, pointing out all the ways to identify a safe house or a trap. But Jason also knows that the apartment has been like this since before he died, he even said it earlier.
"You're recording this," Jason continues, voice dropping to something even lower. Something wrong, that makes Dick's instincts scream. "Building your case. 'Look how crazy he is, look how far gone, he needs to be locked up forever’.”
His eyes flash neon green, bright enough to cast shadows.
"IS THIS ROOM BUGGED?!" He's screaming now, standing up in full. "Are they listening right now? Are you all listening?!"
He rounds on Dick and for the first time tonight, there's menace in his posture. Real threat. The Pit is close to the surface, pushing against Jason's skin like it wants to claw its way out.
"Say something," Jason snarls. "Say something they can hear. Tell them, tell him, tell Bruce his biggest regret says-"
"There's no one listening," Dick says, and then he’s standing too, hands up, placating. "Jason, I swear to God, there's no-"
"STOP IT!" The words crack into a scream. "You're all LIARS! You left me there! You left me in the ground when I was awake! I was AWAKE and I dug through six feet of fucking dirt!”
He stops, breath heaving, eyes wild.
He's screaming at the ceiling now. At the walls. "ARE YOU GETTING THIS, BRUCE? A NICE PROFILE FOR YOUR GOOD SOLDIER?!"
He turns to Dick again and Dick tenses, ready to move, ready to run if he has to.
Then Jason's face collapses.
The rage vanishes like someone flipped a switch. What's left behind is painful to look at.
"Dick." He drops to a frantic whisper. "Dick, please. Make them turn it off. Please don't let them see me like this."
"There's no one watching," Dick tries again, softer this time.
"You're lying." But Jason sounds less sure now. Lost. "Why else would you- why else would you build this room?"
"For me." The words come out more desperate than he wanted them to. "I built it for me, in case I ever needed a place to hide. Remember Jason, the blueprints?”
Jason stares at him, searching for the lie. His eyes are still flickering between shades of green.
"Okay," he says finally. "Okay. I didn't mean to yell. It just gets so loud sometimes and I can't tell what's real."
"It's okay."
"Nothing is okay." Jason slides down the wall, sits hard on the mattress. "I haven't been okay since I woke up in that coffin and I don't think I'm ever going to be okay again."
Dick wants to contradict him, wants to say the right thing, but his mind is still stuck on ‘you're lying’ and the look in Jason's eyes when he thought they were all listening.
"When I had nightmares," Jason starts, and his voice is so small now. The whiplash is making Dick nauseous. "She'd stroke my hair. Right here." He tries to touch the back of his head but the cuffs won't reach. He makes a frustrated sound. "I can't remember what it felt like. I remember that she did it but not how it felt. Isn't that fucked up? I can remember the exact sound of my ribs breaking but I can't remember what my mom's hands felt like."
He looks at Dick with wide eyes.
"It hurt," he says. "Dying. It hurt so much. Physically, yeah, but also, also knowing that nobody was coming. That I was going to die alone in that warehouse and nobody even bothered to know that I was missing yet. That was the worst part. Not the pain. Being alone."
He's crying again, anger seeming to have dissipated in seconds.
"I don't want to be alone," he whispers. "I don't want to hurt anyone and I don't want to be alone and I don't know how to do both. The Pit won't let me. It won't let me be good and it won't let me have people. It just wants blood and screaming and I'm so tired, Dick. I'm so fucking tired."
Dick isn’t sure if his heart actually snaps down the middle or if it just feels like it. He’s never heard Jason say out loud that he doesn’t want to do the things he’s been doing. He has struggled so badly with understanding how his Jason could possibly do the things he’s seen him do. This isn't the monster from Arkham. This is his little brother. His little wing. Drowning in an agony Dick can't even comprehend, and he's been drowning for two years. Alone. Dick knew Jason was always so scared of being alone.
"You’re not alone right now," Dick says. It's inadequate—pathetic—but it's all he has.
"You're afraid of me."
"I'm afraid for you."
"Same thing." Jason's laugh is raw. "You built a jail for me in your apartment and you're sitting in the doorway so you can run. You're afraid of me… you should be."
Dick doesn’t correct him about the jail comment.
"I think about hurting you sometimes. The Pit shows me all the ways I could do it. You're fast but I'm faster now. I could have you on the ground in seconds. Could break your arm before you could call for help. The Pit thinks it would be funny. Full circle, you know? It wonders if he would come for you. He probably would. He actually loves you.”
Dick's blood runs cold. It hurts. He knows it’s the Pit talking, but the words come out of Jason’s mouth and it hurts.
"But I don't want to," Jason continues. "I don't. That's the thing, the Pit wants it but I don't. There's still some of me left to fight it. Is that enough? Is wanting enough when the Pit is this loud?"
"Yes," Dick says. He doesn't know if it's the truth, but he says it anyway. He wants Jason to believe it is, wants it to actually be.
Jason looks at him for a long moment.
"You were a good brother," he says finally, eyes falling back down. "Before. You were the best big brother a kid could ask for. You taught me things, made time for me, didn’t make me feel like a burden even though I know I was."
"You weren't a burden.”
"I was,” Jason snaps. "I was angry and violent and I didn't fit in the family at all. I didn’t even come close to filling your ‘Golden Boy’ shadow. But you never treated me like that. You made me feel like I belonged.” He takes a breath. “You deserved for me to stay dead. At least then you could’ve kept the good memories instead of me ruining them by crawling out of the ground.”
Dick opens his mouth to respond, but Jason’s entire face squeezes tight, a whole body shudder traveling through him. When he opens his eyes again, they’re vacant. He stares forward at nothing.
"I want-" Jason's voice breaks. "I want to go home. I want my mom. I just want my mom. ”
The words slam into Dick and he recoils. The plea hangs in the air, small and helpless.
"Why won't she come get me?" Jason's rocking now, arms wrapped around himself as much as the cuffs allow. "I've been good. I've been trying to be good.” His voice is climbing, getting younger, more desperate. "I want my mom. Please. Please, I want my mom. I'll be good, I promise.”
Dick's feet won't move. He's rooted to the spot, watching his brother break apart.
He's pulling at the cuffs now, not violently. Just panicked, confused, like a child who doesn't understand why they're restrained. "I'll be quiet. I promise I'll be quiet. Dad won't even know I'm there. I'll hide in my room and I won't make a sound. Just please, please don't leave me here. Don't leave me in the dark again."
Jason’s breathing is getting so fast he starts choking on air.
Dick's paralysis breaks. He's across the room in three strides, stopping just short of touching. His hands hover, uncertain what to do.
"Jay," he tries, but it comes out strangled.
Jason doesn't seem to hear him. His eyes are unfocused, seeing something that isn't there.
"There’s so much dirt," he mutters, breaths short and rapid. "There's so much and it's so heavy and I can't breathe, mama, I can't breathe-“
"Jason, look at me."
No response. He's somewhere else entirely.
“I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe-“
Dick makes a decision he knows he'll regret. He reaches out slowly toward Jason's face.
The moment his fingers touch Jason's cheek, thumb catching a tear, Jason's entire body goes still.
His eyes snap up.
For a moment there's nothing. Just Jason staring at him with wide, confused eyes.
Then-
"Mom?" His voice is tiny. Hesitant. Hopeful in a way that physically hurts to hear.
Dick's hand is still on his cheek. He should pull away, should correct this immediately.
Red and swollen eyes shine with tears and a look of hope that Dick hasn’t seen since before the Joker. Since before he failed him.
"I-" Dick's throat closes around the words. He needs to tell the truth.
"I thought you were gone." Jason's crying harder now. Hysterical cry-laughter that sounds like it's being torn out of him. "I thought I'd never see you again.”
He's reaching for Dick with his bound hands, desperate, shaking.
“I knew you'd come back," Jason says, and he's smiling now through the tears. "Everyone said you wouldn't. They said you were gone forever. But I knew. I knew you'd come back for me."
Tell him. Tell him the truth. Don't do this.
But he looks at the aching longing on Jason's face.
He doesn't say "yes." He can't. The lie would choke him.
Instead, Dick pulls him carefully against his chest. Holds the back of his head the way Jason described, the way Catherine used to.
"Shh," Dick whispers. "It's okay. I'm here."
Jason lets out a sound that's half-sob, half-laugh. It's horrifying.
He buries his face in Dick's shoulder and clings, babbling.
"I missed you. I missed you so much. I tried to be good, I tried, but it's so hard. Everything hurts and I don't know how to make it stop."
Dick rocks him slightly. The motion is automatic. Something from muscle memory, from all the times he's comforted scared kids on patrol. From comforting his brother after nightmares.
"I know," he murmurs. "I know it hurts."
"I was so scared." Jason's voice climbs with panic. "He had a crowbar and he kept laughing and he wouldn't stop. He wouldn't stop and I-"
"Shh, shh, no. Don't think about that. We’re not there. We’re right here." Dick's tears are falling hot and fast now, disappearing into Jason's matted hair. "Think about- think about the zoo, baby. Remember the zoo? I want to hear about the dragons."
Jason's breathing stutters. "The red ones?"
"That's right. The red dragons." Dick keeps rocking him, slow and steady. "What else would be in your zoo?"
"Elephants." Jason's speech is slurring now. "Big ones. They'd have a pool to swim in. And- and penguins. On the other side of the zoo cause you gotta keep ‘em cold. That's important."
"Very important," Dick agrees, pushing his forehead into Jason’s temple as he chokes down a sob.
"And lions. In a super giant cage. They'd have a whole field to run in."
"That sounds perfect."
Jason's breathing is starting to slow. The panic bleeding away into something that looks almost like calm.
"Can we- tomorrow, can we go to the park? The one with the blue slide?" he asks. "Before dad gets home? You said we could go when you got better.”
Every word is a fresh knife between Dick's ribs. Catherine never got better. They never went.
"Yeah," he whispers. "Yeah, we can do that."
"Can we go on the swings?" Jason adds. “I’ll push myself so you don’t get so tired. I’m big enough now!”
Dick squeezes his eyes as tight as he can to stop the tears from pouring out.
"We can swing."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
It's the cruelest lie he’s ever told.
Jason curls closer, weight solid against Dick's body.
"I love you," he breathes. So quiet Dick almost doesn't hear it.
Dick closes his eyes, but the tears still spill over.
"I love you too,” he whispers into Jason’s hair. “So much."
This time, it's not a lie.
They stay like that: Dick holding his baby brother, Jason believing his mother came back for him. The lie sits on Dick’s chest, heavy and suffocating.
Jason died in a warehouse in Ethiopia. Alone. Crying for Bruce and his dead mother to save him.
But he's here now, in Dick's arms, and for five minutes Dick can give him the comfort he died screaming for.
Dick holds him through all the mumbled memories that follow. Jason whispers about the time she bought him shoes that actually fit, the songs she used to sing when Willis wasn’t around, about the park and the zoo and all the small moments that made up the childhood Jason barely got to have.
Dick strokes his hair the way his mom used to, hyperaware of every sensation. Jason's weight pushes against him and the cuffs dig into his own ribs where Jason is pressed close.
"I was so scared," Jason whispers. "When I couldn't find you. After. I looked everywhere."
"I'm here," Dick chokes out.
"I know. I know, mama." Jason's words are getting slower. He nestles deeper into Dick. "I'm so tired."
"Sleep then. I'll be here."
"You won't leave?"
"I won't leave."
Jason's breathing starts to even out. His weight settled heavier in Dick's arms.
Dick sits there on the floor of the makeshift cell holding his brother. His back aches, his legs have gone numb, but he doesn't move.
He watches Jason sleep and counts all the new scars on his face; wonders how many more are hidden under his clothes.
Dick hopes he's dreaming about the zoo. About red dragons and elephants with pools. About anything other than crowbars and coffins.
His cheeks are soaked. His chest aches.
The hours crawl by and his body starts to beg him to move. He gently shimmies Jason towards the bed frame and unlocks one of the cuffs with steady hands, putting the cuffs around the frame’s leg and relocking it. Jason barely stirs.
Dick crawls slowly backwards until he hits the wall. He knows he should triple check that the cuffs are secure. Every piece of training he has screams at him not to let his guard down.
But his eyes are so heavy. The adrenaline crash hit, making his whole body feel like lead. Just a few minutes, he tells himself. Just a few.
The last thing Dick sees before his eyes close is Jason's face. Peaceful for the first time in years.
———
His back is throbbing from sleeping propped up against the doorframe. His neck has a crick that shoots pain down to his shoulder. For a disoriented moment he doesn't know why he’s on the floor.
Then he remembers.
Jason.
His eyes snap to the bed. Empty.
"No." The word comes out hoarse. "No, no, no-“
He's on his feet before his body fully catches up, stumbling into the room. The mattress is on the floor. The cuffs are still attached to the bed frame, one hanging open.
There's blood on the floor. A lot. Dick drops to his knees, fingers pressing into the dark spots- it’s wet.
His eyes track to the open cuff and his stomach turns. There's skin. Thin strips of it, caught on the metal edges where the cuff opens, pink and raw. There's blood snagged on the inside of the metal too. Dick gags.
Jason must have dislocated his own fucking thumbs to slip the cuffs.
Both of them. While Dick slept fifteen feet away. Skin tearing when he forced his hand through the too-small opening, blood making it easier to slide.
"Fuck." Dick's hands pull at his hair. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK-“
He's on his feet, running to the window Jason had come in through. He leans out to see the fire escape is clear. No sign of him, not even a trail of blood.
He could be anywhere. He could have been gone for hours, hunting down every dealer in Crime Alley with dislocated thumbs and a raging glow in his eyes.
Pressure builds in his chest so hard he can barely breathe.
He let him go. He fell asleep and he let him go.
Dick slides down the wall and feels his phone shift in his pocket. He should call Bruce, call Barbara, activate every tracker and camera in Gotham.
His eyes catch on something on the kitchen floor- an empty cereal box, the cheap store-brand kind Jason used to love. Dick frowns. He just bought that two days ago.
On the back, facing up, is a cartoon maze.
A blood trail follows the correct route through the first few turns. Then the line wavers, crosses itself like it forgot where it’s been. The blood gets thicker and smeared. It circles around the box, back to the start, over and over, cardboard fraying along the path.
It ends in a violent, bloody smudge.
Dick stares at the maze, the blood on the cardboard. He moves to the living room and sinks down onto his couch as the sun rises fully, painting the city in shades of gold that don't belong there. He sets the cereal box on the coffee table in front of him.
Dick sits there, in the morning light, and thinks about Catherine Todd.
About a woman who saved twenty dollars for her son's birthday. Who covered his eyes during the scary parts and told him when it was over. Who never got to hold him when he died screaming for her.
He thinks about Jason, small and scared. “I don't want to be alone.”
Jason’s alone again. He hurt himself and left.
Alone.
The way he always is.
The way he died.
"I'm sorry," he whispers to the empty room. To his brother who isn't here to hear it. “I'm so sorry."
The bloody box stares back at him.
Jason used to love the cartoon mazes. He always finished them.
”You were the best big brother a kid could ask for.”
Were.
Dick lets his head fall back against the couch.
Jason always said the crack was a bird. Was so insistent about it, so sure, even when Dick argued it was a pterodactyl just to watch him get worked up.
"It's a bird, Dickface. Look at the wings. Pterodactyls don't have wings like that."
"Pterodactyls absolutely have wings like that."
They didn’t. He knew they didn’t.
"You're so stupid. It's obviously a bird."
They’d argued for an hour, both laughing, knowing it didn't matter. That the fun was in the argument, not the answer.
Dick doesn't cry. He's out of tears.
He just sits on the couch, looking at a crack in the ceiling.
It's always looked like a bird.