Archive of Our Own ^beta

alguien me habló todos los días de mi vida

al oído, despacio, lentamente.

me dijo: ¡vive, vive, vive!

era la muerte.

—

“Dead men tell no tales.”

Jason doesn’t respond except to bare his teeth – and they glint appropriately unnerving in the blinding spotlights.

His death, after that, comes swiftly and painless and, honestly, it’s probably one of the better ways to die. A bullet to the head. Quick. Clean. They dump his body in Morrison Harbor leaving him for the fish. It’s only because of luck or fate or the universe saying fuck you (to who? No one knows.) that the current takes him and washes him right up on shore against Madison Bridge. Still very much in Gotham.

The night is calm. Quiet. The clouds drift just enough to expose the starry night before it’s covered once more – casting shadows on Jason’s pale, slack face. He looks peaceful in death. Probably not as kind of a thought as one would think, considering. His lips are gray, debris clings to his temple, all the blood washed away. His chest is still. Unmoving. Breathless.

Until it isn’t.

Jason’s eyes snap open and his mouth gapes for one giant heaving gasp. He surges up, coughing out water and blood. There’s a quiet plink-plink of a crumpled bullet hitting rock, then he groans and goes sprawling back to stare at the clouds.

It’s been barely ten minutes since his death. There’s not even a bruise to show for it.

“Dead men tell no tales,’” he mocks, followed by a raspy laugh as he stands on shaking legs. He staggers then gains footing, shaking off the momentary weakness from blood loss. “Well, this one fucking does.”

Then he walks on – fully intending on showing those bastards how fucked they actually are.

—

It’s just like he remembers, and everything is fine.

—

Then – there’s blood in the back of his throat. Thick and heavy and, and Jason groans, spits it out, gagging. He hangs there, lets it string from his lips to the ground, head pounding. Everything hurts – fuck, why does everything hurt? Voices in his ear, loud and demanding. The creaking groan of an unstable building. He climbs laboriously to his feet as he looks around, heat licking his exposed skin, turning his suit into a sauna.

Oh. Right. Explosion. Collapsing building. Not the first time that’s happened.

The piece of rebar that barreled straight for him, though, that’s new.

“Hood! Answer me!”

That’s new too.

“His helmet went off-line. I can’t get a read on his vitals.”

“Red Hood. Damnit!”

Not gonna lie, it’s kinda nice.

Jason presses a hand to his chest, and it comes away bloody – the leather of his glove glistening in the firelight. He clenches it into a fist. The blood is already tacky and drying. His suit is going to have to be completely replaced. Breathing – he sucks in a deep breath and whines when something in his ribcage gives – breathing’s gonna…suck for a few hours.

That is also new. And not as nice.

The gaping hole from the rebar, thankfully, has already healed up.

Still. Fuck. It hurts. Why does it still hurt?

At least – he rummages in his pocket and aha! – at least he got what he came in here for. Would’ve been real shit to risk his life, and actually lose said life, and get fuck all outta it. He can sit through the unwanted lecture about recklessness and bone-headed moves with smug satisfaction now.

—

Dick leans against the doorframe, watches Jason splash water on his face. He frowns as he catalogues all the reasons he decided to crash at his little brother’s place instead of heading to the Manor on his last night in Gotham – the shadow peeking out from his shirt. The one that leads to a punched out looking black and blue bruise in the middle of his chest. The deep scrape across his face. The marks on his knuckles. The other injuries, covered by clothes. The exhausted pinched look around his eyes and mouth.

They’re vigilantes – so, yeah, the only one with a decent sleep schedule is maybe Stephanie because she refuses to retake her classes. And he can respect that wholeheartedly.

But there’s something…off about the gauntness of Jason’s face.

A building collapsed on him just yesterday – or was that the day before yesterday now? What time is it? – just barely avoiding shattering his ribcage into a billion pieces and killing him on the spot. And, and he just wants to act like it’s no big deal? That none of them were worried or scared when the bomb went off and the building went up in flames just as Jason decided to dash back like the reckless asshole that he is?

He takes a deep breath; his fingers tap out an uneven rhythm on his arm.

“Are you eating?” he murmurs – because that’s safe, he’s sure that’s safe – and it sounds loud in Jason’s tiny bathroom.

Jason tenses, hands pressed to his face. “Fuck, Dickie. What kinda question is that?” He drags his hands down, pulling on his cheeks, and that just highlights the shadows under his eyes, the paleness of his face. “Yes, mother. I’m fuckin’ eating. You forget who you’re talkin’ to?”

He hasn’t, but that doesn’t stop him from eyeing Jason unconvinced. His cheeks are sunken in – not a lot, just enough to be noticeable if you’re used to anything but. It reminds him of the early days, when Jason had just moved into the Manor, when baby fat had been a pipe dream for the kid. Then again when he came back to Gotham as Red Hood, half-starved for more than justice and affirmation.

Dick doesn’t say any of that. Doesn’t even hint at it. He knows that if he does, that’s a one-way ticket to getting booted out of this safe house and for Jason to burn it right then and there.

Instead, he tosses a towel at his brother’s head, smirks when he catches it with a squawk. “I want burgers.”

Jason glares at him from the corner of his eye. “I ain’t got nothin’ to make burgers with here.”

“I’ll buy,” Dick says, shrugging.

That brings a sparkle to his eyes – really, good food is one of the best ways to make Jason happy and Dick will never deny the list of restaurant recommendations in his phone he’s been hoarding like a dragon specifically for Jason time – and Dick has to fight his smirk from softening into something that might make him try to hide that sparkle away. He’s sure he hasn’t heard Jason laugh yet – like, really laugh – but he’s pretty sure that day is getting closer and closer.

“Counter proposal.”

Dick laughs. “Well, B does owe us.”

Jason grins widely, exposing the odd sharpness to his canines that no one’s been able to get an answer about. “Fuck yeah, now you’re talkin’. I know exactly where we’re goin’ and you’re not allowed to complain about the tip.”

“In what world have I ever done that?”

“…true.”

—

Being a vigilante is dangerous. Jason’s always known that of course. He doesn’t quite remember near-death experiences happening as often as they have been – but, who’s to say they haven’t? Once it becomes the norm, then why bother remembering it? And no one has death experiences. Jason should probably be more careful.

But…sometimes. Most of the time. It’s worth it not to be, yanno?

—

Jason sits in the rundown hallway, arm around a sobbing little girl. His vision keeps going in and out, but that’s okay. She curls up against his side, face tucked painfully under his arm. He sucks in another painful, wet breath, lets it stutter out of him. Blood comes with it and that’s worrying, but, also, that’s okay.

Because he did it. He made it in time. Everyone’s alive.

He drags his hand comfortingly up and down her arm, hums a broken, crackling song under his breath . Her sobs lessen then trail off altogether into little sniffles she tries to wipe away. There’s sirens in the distance – he thinks, whoops, hearing’s a little off too. Notices it now that there’s other sounds than just the groaning of the old building and the soft cries of children.

“Are you – going to be – okay?” she whispers, a little raspy, stopping and tripping, though he isn’t too worried.

He hums a noncommittal sound, glances down to see her looking up at him with big, green eyes. The whites are a little too pink – only pink though, not red, not shot dark with blood – thanks to the faint (faint, oh-so faint) marks around her neck. Her breathing is slow and shallow to help out but seems mostly okay. Her words are clear when they’re whole. There’s blood crusted on a split in her lip. A chunk of her hair is missing.

But she’s alive.

He made it in time. Thank you. Thank you.

She reaches up, brushes shaking fingers against the blackened, much darker than hers bruise on his own throat. Jason can’t help the flinch, grabs her hand before it puts too much pressure on it. He manages to smile for her, and she smiles back small and wobbly.

A creak catches their attention. She ducks down and under his arm, scrambling until she’s half-hidden behind his back. His hand goes to his gun as he stiffens, only to relax when Red Robin steps out of the shadows, frowning.

“What happened to you?” Tim demands, eyebrows pinched in the middle.

Jason grimaces. “Don’t – worry – about it,” he rasps out – oh god, that fucking hurts.

Just because what healed him doesn’t mean he’s outta the woods yet – which…not gonna lie, is a little weird. His throat should be completely taken care of, right? That’s…He’s pretty sure nothing ever lingered like this before – except, wait. Yeah, the building collapsed a few weeks ago. His ribs were sore for a while after that. Huh.

Before that, though, everything healed.

He must sound like he feels – sharp, agonizing pain – because Tim winces. “Just…don’t talk. Jesus Christ, Hood.”

“Don’t yell at him!” the little girl says sharply, bravely peeking above his shoulder to glare. “He saved us!”

Tim visibly falters. “’Us?’” Then – “I’m not yelling at him.”

“Well – it sounded like – you were,” she says, almost pouting. Any strength she had fades and her sentences are skipping again. “And us. The others – won’t – come out.”

Jason grins at her, reaches back despite the way his ribs protest, to swing her back to his side so he can squeeze her in thanks. “See –,” he starts to say but a small hand covers his mouth.

“He’s right – don’t talk.”

Tim laughs outright. Doesn’t even bother to hide it even a little. Bastard.

The kids are quickly taken care of by the arrival of ambulances and cops. Leaving Red Robin and Red Hood on the opposite roof, supervising the arrests of the bad guys and the rescue of the ten kids. Jason ignores Tim’s intense staring with the kinda practice that comes with ignoring unwanted looks for years and years – does he think staring is gonna make him look at him? Is that what this is?

“You’re coming to the cave,” Tim finally says. Jason wrinkles his nose. “Don’t even. I’m surprised you’re still breathing, that looks nasty.”

Jokes on him. He hadn’t been breathing. That’s what happens when someone literally crushes your windpipe with a metal bat after being a coward and using a kid as a human shield. For good measure, the bastard went the extra mile by wrapping their hands around his throat to push the pain even further and, yanno, kill him.

It was not a pleasant way to go.

(Jason’s pretty sure that’s just going to be yet another reel in his nightmares.)

As much as he doesn’t want to, there are advantages to going to the cave instead of his apartment. One, it’s closer than any current safe house, let alone his apartment. Two, it’s definitely more stocked than anything he’s got. He’s gonna need actual medical attention even though he’s sure he’s in no danger of dying (again).

(Even though, weirdly enough, it feels like he is.)

He doesn’t look at Tim as he signs out, slowly and with sharp deliberateness, “You are driving.”

Tim, ever the smart one, keeps his trap shut as they climb onto his motorcycle.

—

He should say no. He should definitely say no. But – But he flaked out on their last meeting. And they’re running out of time.

And he promised.

—

Stephanie frowns, tilting her head to peer at Jason like that’s going to help her figure out the riddle in front of her. He studiously refuses to look at her, focused on the stack of papers in his hands, eyes not moving as he stares at the same spot on the page.

He’s supposed to be helping her with her Lit essay, but he’s barely said a word since they got their drinks and sat down. Bundled up in a hoodie, sleeves pulled all the way down. She feels like that’s a clue. An important clue. She taps her pen on the table, watches as Jason’s eye twitches in annoyance.

“Sooo,” she drags out. His eye twitches harder. “I know you like playing the strong and silent type when you’re not playing a dramatic asshole. But this is a bit much.”

Jason glares at her, pulls the stack of papers up higher so she can barely see his face. The motion slides back his sleeves, though, and shows her exactly why he hasn’t been drinking his coffee.

Bruises. Barely healed, painful looking bruises that are…familiar. Steph swallows thickly, stops tapping her pen. Her own knuckles throb in sympathy and half-remembered pain.

Baseball bat.

Shit.

Baseball bat.

Familiar – so, so familiar.

“Those are supposed to be healed,” she breathes out in horror. “You – it’s been a week!”

A week since Jason decided to take on a small-time human trafficking group on his own. A week since he more or less succeeded – yeah, he still had to call for backup (because he met the bad end of a freaking baseball bat), but, ultimately, that back up was only needed for clean-up.  

A week, she’s now realizing, since Red Hood’s been out on patrol.

And the bastard decided that helping her was more important than hiding – which she should be thankful for because she knows that if it weren’t for his moment, right there, no one would’ve ever known that his healing factor isn’t working.

Jason slaps the essay on the table. He shakes his sleeves back over, glaring. Now that she knows what to look for, though, her eyes automatically drift down to his neck where the collar of his hoodie does a pretty decent job of concealing the mess of bruises mashed against his throat.

“Jason,” she hisses. “What the fuck?” He scowls. She laughs hysterically. “No. No. Don’t give me that. You’re supposed to be healed.”

“Taking longer than normal,” he signs out slowly, averting his eyes. Steph watches his hands twitch around the sentence like a stutter. “It happens.”

“That’s not okay. Does Bruce know?” His hands fall back to the table before they reach out and wrap around his coffee, effectively gagging himself. “Does anyone?”

He shrugs and refuses to take his hands off the coffee cup.

Steph sits back, conflicted. On one hand, Jason really is the best person to know his limits when it comes to whatever the Lazarus Pit did to him. He’s been living with it for more than half a decade. If his healing factor slowing down for a bit is a common thing, then it’s a common thing and she really shouldn’t be freaking out about it.

On the other hand – her gut says that something’s terribly wrong. This isn’t right.

“How often does it slow down like this?” she asks slowly.

Jason twists his mouth, thinking about it. Steph groans and covers her face. What is this family? What the hell is with this goddamn family? Seriously.

“Give me one good reason. Just one. Why I shouldn’t go straight to Bruce about this?” she says. He doesn’t answer, just scrunches his nose. “Oh god. Seriously, Jason. You’re gonna do this to me?” He shrugs. “Shrug one more time and you’re gonna regret even more coming out with me.”

He fucking shrugs again.

Steph shoves her chair back violently enough it screeches. People stare, but she doesn’t care. She sets her palms on the table, looming. She never gets to loom over Jason, the bastard is too tall, so she can’t help but relish the moment. Especially when he doesn’t even seem fazed, just tilts his head back, eyes narrowed like it’s a challenge. Would she like him to take her seriously as a threat? Yes. But also, it’s just really fun to meet someone head on.

Tilting his head back puts the bruise on display, and she swallows thickly, finding it hard to breathe all of a sudden.

“Coffee is acidic,” she murmurs. Jason blinks, brows furrowing. “You have until I get back to come up with a good reason, kay? Kay.”

She goes up to the counter for a soothing tea. Chewing on her lip as she waits, she stares at Jason’s back – the way his shoulders hunch, like he’s curling in on himself – and wonders how bad this actually is. What is she missing? What are they all missing?

Is this really, truly, normal?

(Jason doesn’t come up with a good reason. But he looks tired, and he promises it will heal, just slower. Steph folds like a wet paper bag. She can’t help it. She can out stubborn Tim and Batman and Bruce, but everyone else in her family is hit-or-miss, especially Jason.

Maybe it’s their similar childhoods, growing up in the worst parts of Gotham. Maybe it’s the fact they both died at the hands of a Rogue (even if her death was only a couple minutes, it still counts, it still left a scar).

Maybe. Maybe – .

It doesn’t matter why. It just matters that she agrees to keep this to herself.)

—

(When everything comes to a head later. She’ll think back and hate herself just a little bit for this.)

—

It happened too quickly.

Jason’s not used to that. Things don’t happen too quickly. Not for him. They happen quick enough, and he’s always been quick enough to react. That’s the nature of the game. The nature of his goddamn life.

If you’re slow, people die.

So, Jason’s never slow. (Not anymore.)

Dent must’ve shelled out some extra cash this time around because his new goons mean business – Dent also seemed to have forgotten to tell them he doesn’t actually want any of the Bats dead, but whatever. Jason knocks one out, kicks another in the stomach hard enough to make them retch then drop. There’s a bleeding cut on his cheek from a well-placed knife, his shoulder throbs from a vicious grapple. Also, whatever.

He scans the rest of the room, taking stock of everyone.

Batman, nowhere to be seen so he’s with Dent. Nightwing, doing his flippy shit and doesn’t seem to be favoring anything. Batgirl’s hand keeps creeping towards her side before she stops herself, but he doesn’t see any blood and her punches don’t have a hitch to them. Red Robin is limping even as he round-houses someone in the face. Black Bat is also nowhere to be seen and – Jason counts the number of bodies. Okay, some of them escaped and Cass noticed.

The only issue is Robin.

Heartbeat ticking up a bit when he doesn’t spot Damian right away, he ducks under a sloppy punch and almost absently cold-cocks the guy as he finally finds the little bird backed into a corner. Damian’s good – better than good – but when it’s five goons against one injured kid – blood on his temple, favoring his left side, movements swaying like he can’t see right – good doesn’t mean much.

Jason throws caution to the wind, focused only on the knives in the enemies’ hands, and barrels into the party like a very effective battering ram, shoulder checking a goon against the floor-to-ceiling window. Relishing in the spider webbing crack that splinters out. He scruffs one of the smaller ones and literally tosses them to the side, right into the dance Tim has going on.

“I had it!” Damian snaps.

He doesn’t bother responding – mostly because of the goddamn guns coming into play. Jason dodges a shot, spinning into Damian to get the kid closer to the ground, and using him as a small springboard to kick out with both legs. Another good goes down with Jason’s heels in their gut, gun flying. Jason smirks – then loses it when another shot rings out, burning hot fire slicing through his side. He hisses and lunges, yanking the goon from behind into a sleeper hold. They struggle fruitlessly, nails scraping against Jason’s armor.

Damian’s gone. Off to prove himself against some other idiots, hopefully with more supervision and – yeah, Jason sees him with Dick. Good. He watches for a second, just to make sure Dick’s aware of the little bird in his shadow. And of course, Dick notices. This is Nightwing. Jason grins okay, so – shit

– his thought is interrupted when the idiot in his hold braces his feet on a wayward table and –

Shoves.

Jason doesn’t think fast enough. It happens too quickly. He grunts. Stumbles. The idiot shoves harder. His shoulders hit the window and – and, already weakened from his battering-ram impersonation and the bullet embedded in it from when he dodged – there’s a cracking sound first –

 – before it shatters under their combined weight.

Free-falling…

Free-falling is not all that it’s cracked up to be.

Yeah, there’s the freeing sense of weightlessness at first. Different from flying. You’re not fighting gravity. You’re free. Nothing can touch you. All your worries mean nothing.

But then you realize: you have to land at some point.

Jason tries to turn their bodies so the goon lands first – fucking sue him. Okay? He doesn’t know if this will actually kill him and if it doesn’t, jesus fucking christ, he doesn’t want to think about how much it’ll hurt. And, even if it does kill him – even if it does, the goddamn injuries that won’t be healed coming back are going to fucking hurt because his life sucks and dying sucks a lot more than it used to.

Tries being the key word.

The ground comes up. A blur of gray and brown. A smear of ominous concrete.

Jason has time to think fuck –

A sickening crunch.

A snap.

Everything’s an agonizing explosion of pain beyond comprehension.

Then sweet, numbing darkness.

 – that doesn’t last nearly long enough.

Jason comes to with a sharp, painful gasp and – fuck. He rolls over, his cheek pressed against the glass covered ground. The edges slice through his skin, but he doesn’t notice, more focused on getting oxygen into his poor, abused lungs. He can feel the shift of broken ribs. Knows that at least one of them had punctured his lung.

His whole body probably had been smashed to pieces. His brain jelly on the ground.

But, once again, he’s come back.

And he’s in so much fucking pain.

He coughs. The remnants of blood in his lungs speckle the ground in front of him. Jason groans and closes his eyes against the throbbing beat in his head. Carefully tests each limb to see how bad off he is.

Fuck. Ow.

(Oh. Ultimately not that bad. Nothing seems broken. Anymore. Nice.)

“Hood!” crackles over the line. “What the hell? Anyone have eyes on Hood?”

“Shit! He went through the window!”

Jason lays there, motionless, trying to remember where his limbs are even though he’s pretty sure he just tested them and should know perfectly well where they are. He doesn’t want to lie in the glass anymore. They’re sharp and pointy and, and – he whines quietly. Fuck. Hell. There’s a clamoring of voices in his ear. A grating, irritating clamor.

“Shut up,” he slurs out – tries to make it a demand. It comes out as a plea.

The clamor pauses for a moment before it kicks up in urgency, turning into a cacophony of noise. He whimpers and picks out his comm, throwing it as far as he can. (Which isn’t very far right now.)

Boots crunch down. The whisper of a cape. Purple and gold glint on the edge of his spotty vision.

“Shit, Hood,” Steph whispers. “You really did a number on yourself.”

“Not me,” he grinds out as he tries to get up. A hand presses to his shoulder – and there’s no pressure, no force behind it, but it’s still enough to push him back to the ground. “Not my fault.”

She sighs. “Yeah, yeah. Hold still. We don’t know what damage falling from that height did to you.”

Jason wheezes out a broken laugh – and it must sound as bad as it feels, because Steph’s face has gone pale behind her cowl. Her hand comes off like she’s been burned, jaw dropping.

“Hood,” she says quietly. His laughter peters out into pained rasping. “Jay, you’re okay. You’re gonna – .”

“I’ll live,” he tells her with a little twist to his smile that she doesn’t like. “Don’t you worry, East End. I’ll fuckin’ live.”

Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.

—

Tim lets himself in, dropping his coat on the side table instead of hanging it on the hook because it makes Jason get this pinched expression and he lives for the little ways to annoy his brother. He frowns when he doesn’t hear activity in the kitchen or the bathroom. The television is quiet – though that’s not unusual, Jason hates having the TV on in general – but so is his wireless speaker – which is the opposite, he loves playing music at all hours.

He pulls a birdarang from his pocket and creeps on the balls of his feet through the apartment, sliding past doorways as he peers through them. The fridge ticks, the pipes creek. He voids every loose floorboard with ease.

Silently, he comes to the bedroom door. He wraps his hand around the knob, turns it carefully, pushes it open with the birdarang ready to throw.

And blinks in surprise when he sees a lump curled in the middle of Jason’s bed. Turtle, his cat, blinks languidly up at him from her spot on his hip, yawns widely, then tucks her nose back under her fluff.

It’s eleven in the morning and Jason’s still asleep?

The curtains are pulled tightly closed, leaving the room shrouded in a watery gray darkness. Jason looks…peaceful asleep. Young, Tim abruptly realizes. Like. He’s always known Jason’s only a few years older than him. His birthdate is right in his face every time they update their files on the batcomputer for one thing or another – but it’s another thing to come face to face with the knowledge that Jason is not even five years older than him.

What makes it worse, probably, is that he’s been face to face with Jason, on good terms with him, for almost a year now and it’s never fully occurred to him how young he is. How old was he when came back to Gotham? Nineteen? Still, technically, a teenager. Tim’s almost nineteen now, only a few months off, and he can’t imagine it – can’t imagine his death and resurrection would’ve already come and gone.

Jason looks older when he’s awake and animated – he imagines they all look older than they actually are. Their nightlife makes the lines around his eyes and mouth seem deeper. Or they’re at the Manor and Jason’s laughing, play fighting, generally moving around, and Tim never sees – distracted by Steph or Kon or Damian or Dick or something and someone.

Tim stows his birdarang away and debates the best way to wake him up. Touching him is a no-go because he values his nose remaining unbroken at eleven in the morning. Loud noises are also a no-no. That's a song and dance he doesn’t want to repeat. So he goes for the curtain, opening them with a flourish and letting in the bright late morning sun directly on the bed.

And directly on Jason’s exposed face.

He wrinkles his nose and pulls the comforter up higher, covering his face. Turtle lets out an annoyed little mrrp and hops off the bed, clambering up on the bookshelves that line one wall to sit on the cat bed Jason specially put there for her. She stares at them with her wide, disconcerting gaze. Tim eyes her for a moment, he’s learned his lesson when it comes to that cat’s protectiveness over Jason – he’s half convinced she’s not a normal cat but everyone else claims they don’t see it and these are the same people who tried to convince him that Turtle has been Jason's cat since "forever" so he doesn't believe them – but she just starts licking her paw so he’s pretty sure he’s safe.

“Wakey, wakey, Jay,” Tim sing-songs. “You promised me food!”

Jason groans and slowly flips around. Tim follows him, and comes to the other side of the bed. He’s greeted with a gleaming bleary glare from beneath dark lashes. (– Tim glances back at Turtle to see the same gleam staring and he sighs; he thought Steph was joking.) He frowns at the lack of focus and takes a mental step back to document all the little things he can spot now that there’s light.

Pale face. Sweaty hair. Bags under his eyes that could rival Tim’s when he’s on a case-binge. His lips are dry and cracked, already a split’s formed on his bottom lip. Tim can hear him wheezing – a slight whistling between his teeth. There’s dark, angry lines of red on his face like – like Jason recently went through a window – but that – that can’t be –

Mouth moving faster than his brain for once, Tim asks “Are you sick?” as he reaches out to feel his forehead in some weird instinctive move he doesn’t remember having. He aborts it halfway – even before Jason flinches back from it – and stares at his own hand. Huh, that’s new (he thinks). That’s something Bruce or Dick does even when someone isn’t sick but is generally not feeling well.

Huh, he thinks again, but happily, a burst of warmth in his chest.

But that’s quickly snuffed out when he registers Jason flinched from him. He sits on the edge of the bed, trying not to panic. He can’t remember Jason ever getting sick before. Even last year when a stomach bug wreaked havoc on the entire family, he’s the only one who didn’t catch it.

Also – Jason’s never flinched from him before.

Jason stares at him, blinking slowly. His glare has melted away into something confused. “What’re you doin’ here?”

Tim refrains from reaching out again. “You said you were going to take me to some special hole-in-the-wall,” he says patiently.

The stare goes on for a little longer before he grunts and closes his eyes as he…gingerly  flops onto his back, arm thrown over his face. “Fuck. I forgot.”

“Yeah, I can tell. For real, though. You good, Jay?”

Jason blindly slaps around for Tim’s shoulder and more or less manages to pat it vaguely on target. “Peachy, Timmers. Rough night ‘s all.”

“There’s no reports of Red Hood out on patrol last night,” Tim points out – there’s been. Holy shit. There hasn’t been reports of Red Hood on patrol for weeks. They have enough people so it’s not weird to take a night off, but this?

But… They’ve seen Jason and – crap, so much for a family of detectives.

“Means I was extra sneaky.”

“Jay.”

Jason groans, definitely annoyed, but Tim doesn’t care. Not when Jason can’t get through more than a couple of words without pausing for breath. “God. Please, Tim. Not now. I’ve got a raging headache.”

Tim shoves his fingers between his arm and face, prying them apart so he can see Jason clearly. “I’ll call Alfred.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Jason smacks him away and it actually stings. “Why does everyone pull that fucking card when they think I’m being unreasonable? Can’t you, for once in your goddamn life, respect what I actually have to say and leave me the fuck alone?”

He falters, hand hovering mid-air. Oh. Oh. Shit. Okay. A step too far, Tim.

“Sorry,” he says after an awkward beat. He sits back, giving Jason some room. “We do it because we’re worried, you know? Sometimes it feels like you only care about yourself where Alfred is concerned – but we all worry about you. Right now, I’m worried about you. You don’t look so hot.”

There’s a long moment of nothing and Tim’s convinced Jason fell back asleep. But then –

A sigh. “Pretty sure ‘m still feelin’ my date with the pavement,” Jason mumbles not to him.

“…That was – Jason, that was weeks ago.”

Weeks ago. And Jason heals fast. Well, faster than a baseline human, but probably slower than a meta or something. But fast. He should’ve been healed within days – sometimes hours if it’s not that bad – and sometimes it’ll leave a scar if it is bad enough. Not…not this –

(There’s dark, angry lines of red on his face like – like Jason recently went through a window – )

No .

Tim surges up to lean over Jason, ignoring his grumbled protest, and casts a shadow so he can see his brother’s eyes. They shine that weird green glint in the angle of sunlight, but beneath that – teal blue, a speckling of copper around the outer iris, a smear of green around the pupils. Acquired sectoral heterochromia – a misnomer because it’s three colors. There is no such thing as a natural three-color heterochromia. But, well, a lot of what Jason’s been through could never be called natural.

He remembers the one and only time there hadn’t been green in his eyes. A magic user who sneered at death magic and deemed Jason tainted.

And then took it away.

The way Jason screamed –

He’d screamed and cried out, scratched at himself as he hit the ground, writhed like he was being tortured, unable to hear any of them calling out for him. Tim remembers kneeling next to him, feeling so helpless as Jason whimpered, back arching, convulsing. The mage had sent out magical constructs, separating them, but not before he saw the green fading from his eyes and leaving behind teal and copper.

Then he went terrifyingly still. No one could tell if he was alive or not. They couldn’t check. But then –

They got it back. Somehow. Tim doesn’t like to think about most of that case, it’s all hazy with panic and dread and a sick sort of pre-grief where he’d been so sure Jason was dead again and he’d already been half mourning him.

Tim had never been happier to be wrong, the way Jason gasped and choked when the Lazarus magic visibly seeped back into his skin. It healed his wounds in seconds, let him stagger to his feet.

That case became the launching point for actual reconciliation, so there was some good.

…The way he screamed didn’t leave Tim for a long while after that.

Jason rubs his eyes and lays his arm back over his face. Tim gets up and closes the curtains, cinching them tighter than they were before. Turtle’s eyes flash in the pinpointed light, nose twitching. He waits for her to jump down and, when she doesn’t, he comes around to sit on the edge of the bed again.

“Do you want me to get Alfred?” Tim offers quietly. Better Alfred than Bruce in this situation.

He shakes his head. “Nah. Just need to – sleep it off.”

Tim doesn’t say you’ve been sleeping it off for weeks now, I don’t think it’s working and he doesn’t say something’s wrong, come to the cave because Jason’s breathing quickly goes slow and steady, only the subtlest hitches interrupting the easy rhythm.

Too quickly – he’s not getting enough sleep. Hasn’t been getting enough sleep. Tim stares at him, flipping his phone between his hands, doesn’t react when Turtle hops up on the bed next to him and goes to curl up on her owner’s chest. Jason rests a hand on her back, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a small smile, but he doesn’t react beyond that.

“A day in doesn’t sound too bad,” he murmurs as he pulls up a delivery app and clicks no contact delivery. Jason will probably still wake up at the approach, but at least the delivery guy won’t knock and make it worse.

Jason just lets out a wheezing snore, oblivious.

—

“How can you be so reckless!” Dick rants, hands waving in the air as he paces. It’s only by the grace of being Dick that Jason doesn’t immediately bristle at the tone. “You’re not some sort of cat with nine lives, little wing! You – !”

Jason tracks him silently, arm wrapped around his middle as Alfred stitches up his shoulder. He lets him get out a few more words before he zones out, ignoring the older man completely.

He didn’t even die this time. (Not that Dick would know either way.) What’s his problem?

Also – Ha. Nine Lives. Hmm, how many has it been?

His face scrunches as he tries to remember.

Well, there’s the obvious one: the Joker. Which, contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t the crowbar that did him in. Sure, fucking felt like it. But no, he was very much alive after the Joker had his fun. Not so much when the bomb went off and the warehouse collapsed on top of him.

Then, he’s pretty sure he died while trying to claw his way out of his own grave. It’s hard to pinpoint how he knows he died; he just does. Just like he remembers the feeling of wood splintering under his nails and the taste of grave mud on his tongue, the grit between his teeth. A breath into the next, a scream consuming all the oxygen in that tiny space, a void of nothingness that is missing all the edges of the Lazarus Pit and what trauma made his memories.

So, yeah. Died.

His third death had been after the Pit under one of his teachers – that he then promptly killed in return. He’d planned on killing the child-trafficking bastard the whole time anyway, who was he to pass up the perfect opportunity?

His first two resurrections were a pretty good indicator that the Lazarus Pit had no hand in this incredibly weird as fuck cycle of death and rebirth he’d been caught up in. At most, he can attribute the Pit to his accelerated healing and those bursts of strength that wouldn’t look out of place during an adrenaline surge but come to him outside of them.

Just – what could it be then? He never really thought much about it because…well, he comes back, right? He comes back healed – mostly nowadays, but he’s alive. It all turns out okay in the end. So why worry about it?

Then for the fourth death – he grimaces. That mage who hated death magic. Ugh, that bastard. He hadn’t even wanted to be on that case in the first place, had been perfectly fine with leaving the Bat to them and theirs and him taking Crime Alley for his own. But…out of all of them, he knows magic the best and he couldn’t help but see the signs.

(It was hilarious to see their reactions when he strolled into the Cave and completely dismantled their entire world view when it came to magic.)

The bastard took the Lazarus magic away from him – and he died for it. Painfully. Briefly. It doesn’t keep him alive. If he were to lose it gradually, he would’ve been fine. But to have it ripped from his soul so violently?

Not fucking fun, okay?

He got it back – it didn’t even take that long in the grand scheme of things – but whatever’s been bringing him back and healing him beyond the Lazarus magic had already done so before that happened. 

(That violent, horrible combination of magic and resurrection surging throughout his body is something he never wants to experience again.)

He’s not sure if the Bats realized he even died. And he can’t really blame them for that. There was a lot going on and – he doesn't really want them to know anyway. So works out.

After that, he found Birdies constantly flocking to his safes houses and apartment and butting in on his cases more often than not.

Fifth, the Falcones’ flunkies got him in the head, and he dished that back and then some. Sixth, the collapsed building. Seventh, the crushed windpipe. Eighth, the goddamn stupid move with the window.

Huh. So…close then. It’s been eight times. Eight deaths.

Which means – he’s on his ninth life.

Jason suddenly has this absurd, terrible thought that…maybe he really does only have nine lives like a goddamn cat.

Death doesn’t scare him. It didn’t scare him the first time – he’d been more resigned than anything else. Because of course, of course, what’s one more person to throw him to the wolves. It scared him even less when he came back – and then came back – and then came back. Each return was fine, it was okay, but recently they haven’t been, but that’s okay, because he comes back. He doesn’t fear death. Just living.

But, well, if the ninth death will be his final death – because this could be his final life, so his final death could be right there. Maybe…

Maybe he should learn to fear death after all.

“Are you even listening to me?” Dick says, patting his cheek gently.

Jason startles, sucking in a sharp breath – he ignores Dick and Alfred exchanging looks to frown instead, trying for aloof. “No. Were you talking?”

Dick frowns in return, expression pinched in concern, until he clocks the mischievous twinkle in his eye then he huffs, sounding fonder than he should towards a little brother deliberately ignoring his born-of-worry rant. “Asshole.”

“Dick.”

He laughs loudly. “You’re the only one who gets away with calling me that, little wing.” Jason grins, pleased. It’s one of those little brother moments he relishes in, hoards away for his bad days. Dick’s expression sobers. “Seriously though. You gotta stop doing this.”

Jason hums non-committedly and pretends he doesn’t notice the response makes Dick and Alfred even more concerned.

—

Like an echo –

—

“How could you be so reckless?” Bruce demands – he sounds emotional. He is emotional, but usually he has a better handle on it.

Tim and Dick give him an odd look, but Bruce is too busy staring at the lazy backward handwave Jason sends him. He smiles bright and unburdened at Stephanie’s chatter, leaning to better hear something Cass says. Bruce falters, conflicted, at the sight of all his children in the Cave, laughing and talking and getting along and here. It took so much effort to get to this point. And… everything turned out okay, but – but there’s blood on Stephanie’s suit, Damian’s favoring his ankle. Jason has a black bruise blooming deep on his jaw.

“Jason,” he says sharply, mostly Batman and barely Bruce Wayne. Cold, but not detached enough. “That was reckless and impulsive. You – .”

“Had it. I had it,” Jason says slowly. Dangerously. Like he’s trying to warn Bruce without saying it out loud and Bruce turns a blind eye to the bright warning sign. “It worked out.”

“You jumped into a close-quarters shootout,” Bruce reminds him patiently – remembers the sick fear when he realized Jason’s intentions. Remembers being too damn slow to stop his son from jumping down. He feels like he’s done worse, taken more risks, but then – broken bones, wheezing breaths, the light dimming in normally bright eyes. “That was a reckless move,” he reiterates. “You could’ve gotten someone killed.”

You could’ve gotten killed. Again.

Jason flinches violently. That – did Bruce say that last bit out loud? He frowns, opens his mouth to say something else – the rest of the kids have fallen silent, and Bruce can’t help but feel like they’re just watching a train collision in slow motion.

“Jason – .”

“There were already people dead down there,” he says quietly. The sense of threat rises – a bright neon flash of colors that the Bat refuses to see. “Like there weren’t more dropping every second we didn’t interfere. I saved people.”

“There was a plan,” Bruce says less patiently. How does he get him to see the risk he took wasn’t worth it? That the plan is priority no matter what. The plan would have saved people as well (and, maybe, slightly less, but Bruce hasn’t had time to realize that yet.) “You agreed to that plan. Going off on your own gets people killed. You, out of all of us, should know this.”

This is…not what he meant to say.

His son’s face pales, eyes hardening into chips of ice. It doesn’t hide the bone-deep hurt, though.

(Behind them, Stephanie audibly holds back her “Oooooh,” that was appropriate when he was just Jason and Bruce arguing again, but not so much when Bruce said…that.)

Jason grips his helmet tighter between his hands, breathing in slowly through his nose and out through his mouth, eyes falling closed, squeezing shut.

When he opens them there is no blaze of anger, no rage. None of that hurt either. Instead, he seems blank. Empty.

“Never thought you’d throw that in my face,” Jason murmurs. “You know jack shit.”

Bruce’s shoulders drop. “No. Jaylad, that’s not – .” A red helmet is shoved against his chest as Jason brushes past, not even bothering to shoulder check him. He catches it before it can hit the ground, the lens stare accusingly back at him. “Jason. Listen. I – .”

“Save it,” Jason says distantly as he throws a leg over his motorcycle and revs the engine. “Just…save it.”

Then he’s gone without another word, leaving the rest of them standing in the Cave.

“What the hell, Bruce?” Dick yells.

“That was low,” Stephanie mutters, stepping back into the shadows.

Tim doesn’t say anything and that’s enough of a condemnation. Damian scoffs, but the fact he doesn’t immediately say something disparaging about Jason or Bruce means more than he would ever say.

Cass steps into his sightline, breaks him away from staring out where Jason disappeared down the tunnel. “Hurt him,” she says quietly.

“I know,” Bruce says equally as quietly, pained. “I didn’t mean to.”

She smiles, but it’s small and wane and they both know his words to her aren’t enough, aren’t what’s going to fix this. “Give him time before you say sorry.”

Bruce presses a hand to his face, digging his finger pads against the corner of his dry, gritty eyes. They’d made so much effort to get to this point – the point where they’re all a family. Where Jason, Jason comes to dinners and game night and started calling Dick and Tim and Damian brother and Steph and Cass sister even if he hasn’t gotten to the point of calling Bruce dad again. And – And –

Did…Did Bruce just fuck up more than a year’s worth of reconciliation?

—

“There’s a lead on the leftover fear gas. Wanna come?”

“…Is B gonna be there? I don’t really – .”

“Yeah, but I’ll call dibs on you if you want. Or Steph can. Anyone will. Hell, even the gremlin is up for calling dibs.”

“Ha. As if…. But – okay. Sure. Just tell me a time and place.”

—

Jason can feel Bruce staring – what is with this family and staring to get acknowledgment? He expects that behavior from his goddamn cat and at least she eventually just head butts him when she’s tired of waiting – He can feel him staring, but he refuses to look at him throughout all of Oracle’s briefing, the choosing of pairs – Tim plants himself at Jason’s side, daring Batman to comment – and even when they arrive at the unnecessarily large warehouse and stand there in a huddle.

He turns to jump down after Tim, hears a soft, “Jason…”

And the fact – the fact that Bruce is actually using his name out on the field, both of them wearing masks, says a lot. It says a whole fucking lot of things. But –

“No,” he says. Doesn’t snap it. Doesn’t say it in any way other than tired.

Jason has always known that no one got the full story of Ethiopia. And, honestly, he doesn’t really want to admit the full story either. But he…he never expected Batman – Bruce – his dad – to assume the worst, that he was reckless enough, stupid enough, angry enough to risk his mom and get her killed.

They don’t know that Sheila sold him out. They don’t know that it was a trap.

Jason doesn’t want to tell them – it could clear things up for sure. But it hurts that he would have to do it in the first place.

Jason grits his teeth. “No,” he repeats. “Whatever you want to say – say it when you’re not feeling guilty, and you actually thought about why I’m so upset. You’re the detective. Figure it out.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything to that because of course.

He jumps off the roof and hustles to where Tim’s waiting in the shadows. Tim raises an eyebrow, tilts his head curiously even though they both know damn well the little shit was dropping some eaves. He makes a face, silently asking Jason if he wants to talk about it and is promptly brushed off as Jason makes his way to the east side of the building. Not stomping like he wants to, they’re on a goddamn mission after all.

But the hurt and anger is swirling up inside of him and he just – ugh, fuck. He doesn’t know what he wants to do. There’s ants under his skin, a current thrumming his nerves. He cracks his knuckles, pops his neck, and that releases some of the tension, but he knows it won’t be enough.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “Let’s go.”

Everyone in pairs but Batman – Tim and Jason East, Steph and Cass North, Dick and Damian South, and Batman has West all to himself. The mission is simple: the last time Scarecrow escaped Arkham he focused more on stockpiling and hiding his fear gas instead of testing it. While they found most of the hidden caches, the notes they found indicated there were a lot more than they thought.

Enough to be a state-level concern, possibly even national if traffickers get their hands on the canisters – which seemed to be part of the original plan as well. Crane is expanding and, with that, things have gotten a lot harder. Gotham Rogues just don’t do that. Next on the list after securing the fear gas is figuring out where he got that idea to begin with and snuffing it out.

Jason hovers over Tim’s shoulder, scanning the area for heat signatures. And there’s plenty of them. Nothing to indicate where the canisters are, though. No clusters of guards over certain rooms. Just steady rotations and a smattering of bodies here and there grouped together, more or less casually stationary. His finger twitches on the trigger and he pointedly sets his finger above the slide stop. No fingers on the trigger unless he’s ready to shoot. Not when he’s this twitchy already.

“Left,” Oracle says.

Tim hums, pokes something else on his gauntlet screen. “The plans look different than what you showed us, O.”

A quick pause then, “Crap. You might be right. They must have done some remodeling in the last three months. Got a map?”

“Not a full one, the other cardinals are too far away. Here’s ours.”

“Hm. That doesn’t really clear it up. All indications say you should still go left.”

“Yeah, but – .”

Jason lets out a gusty sigh. “We split up.” Tim opens his mouth to argue, and he holds up a hand, practically shoving it into his face, to get him to shut up. “No. Listen. It’s mostly recon anyway. We split up. Stay on comms. O’s in our ears, what more can we ask for?”

“A decent plan?” Babs says dryly, but she doesn’t make an actual argument against his very real plan.

Tim stares at him for a long moment – jesus christ, the staring, again – before his mouth twists and he nods anyway. Jason grins even though he can’t see it, gives him a casual salute, and stalks off to the left since Tim was so insistent on going right.

“Let me know immediately if you need back up,” Tim says, voice faint between them but loud and clear on the comms.

“Yeah, yeah, this ain’t my first rodeo, Red.” Jason tries not to feel bitter about the mild babying. He knows he freaked Tim out last month about his lingering injuries. “I know how to do a damn recon mission.”

There’s no response to that. Hell, Batman really is a bad influence on them all. At least it’s not a pointed, condescending silence.

—

With the infrared it’s easy to duck into empty rooms when guards swing around. He needs a manifest. With this many people here and the amount of fear gas still unaccounted for, there’s a whole deal going on right now and that means a manifest and an itinerary. Everything they need to quickly, easily, and painlessly put this whole shebang down nice and clean.

The lack of chatter in his ear is disconcerting – if there’s a thing about Robins, it’s that they’re always chirpin’, but this is a worse place than normal to be talking and he knows that. It’s just damn freaky to have his ear silent except for Babs’ occasional typing when she comes to their line specifically.

Empty room. Empty room. Not an empty room. Empty room. Not an – ugh, HVAC. Mid-February like this means their heat is on. Luckily, it’s not trying to heat up the entire warehouse, but keeping this branch of office-sized rooms warm enough to survive makes things a huge smear of red and yellow on his HUD. Why’d they have to turn it on now. C’mon!

Jason pauses, tries to get a read on how many red figures are people before they’re consumed by the slowly encroaching heating system. His tech can configure to accommodate, he just doesn’t have the patience right now. It’s not as fast as the night-vision switch. He flips it over to manual visuals, grumbling under his breath.

Looks like it’s gonna be mostly the old fashion way. What’s the point of tech if it’s completely useless when he needs it – oh god he sounds like an old man. He can’t sound like an old man, he only missed at most a year's worth of technological advancement! Not. Not – No, focus.

He turns off his infrared and creeps around corners, heading towards the one room that is just about centered to the other rooms – the exact place where most bigwigs have their offices and it’s definitely large enough for their egos. His footsteps are sure and quiet, creeping along in a way that unsettles people because they never expect a big guy like him to be so damn quiet.

The room is as empty as it looked when his helmet actually did its job. It’s lined with bookcases on one wall, filled with those useless, fancy looking books that insecure almost-rich people use to make themselves look smart. Another wall has a liquor cabinet and large paintings with an open crate of fear gas canisters. Ah, showing off the goods, okay. A low coffee table sits in the middle of the room surrounded by a couch and two chairs.

And, exactly what he’s looking for: a large, grossly opulent desk and a single painting on the wall behind it that screams there’s a safe behind me! come look!

Jason grins. Oh, it’s gonna be fun to rub in Tim’s face that Oracle was right as per usual.

He goes for the desk first. In his experience only the really arrogant or the really stupid leave important papers on the desk when they’re not around, usually in locked drawers, and this whole operation reeks of arrogance, so maybe he’ll luck out.

Oh shit – he doesn’t even have to check the drawers. They’re probably unlocked anyway! He lets out a disbelieving laugh. Seriously? Seriously?

Manifest and itinerary right in front of him Crisp, clean hard copies right there. He grabs a couple pictures of them, sending them to Oracle’s system, and moves down to the drawers (unlocked, he was right!).

Hmm. This is way too easy.

That gives him pause – stupidity or trap?

Always, always, always err on the side of caution. It’s always better to feel stupid for being too paranoid than to feel dead for not being paranoid enough.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. His head snaps up, lens flaring as he scans the shadows for anything suspicious. Nothing. He sees nothing, but that doesn’t stop his gut from churning.

Jason slowly slides the drawer shut and steps around the desk until he’s blending in with the deeper shadows made by the bookcases. He slows his breathing until it’s barely there, his heart beating steadily. Even without his helmet, no one would hear him. He flips his lens off, the soft white light he mostly uses for intimidation goes dark.

And then he hears it –

Voices.

He grips his gun tighter, tenses in preparation. Waits – hopes – that it’s just a guard rotation passing through, but the voices are too loud, too boisterous to be anything but the men who own this room, this whole operation.

“Sir, please wait.”

“Damnit, man. Who’s going to be in there? We were barely gone an hour.”

“Just a precaution, sir.”

Shit.

The knob turns and the door creaks open. Jason shifts, waiting. A man comes in, dressed in tactical gear – a merc not a hired goon – and Jason swears silently. Of course.

The merc doesn’t even get the chance to switch on the light. Jason comes at him like a bat outta hell, smashing the butt of his gun viciously against the back of his head. He crumbles instantly and –

Jason is standing in front of the open door, in perfect view of the rest of the party. Three men dressed in suits staring wide-eyed at him, and an overkill of about a dozen more dressed in similar tactical gear as the first guy. All going for their weapons.

“Hey,” Jason says automatically. “You left your door open. Should be real careful about that. You don’t know what kinda bird might just fly in and wreck your shit.”

He ducks under a thrown knife then all hell breaks loose. Everything is a blur as he brawls his way through the mess, blocking and punching, using his gun more as a blunt weapon than, yanno, a gun. These bastards are trained – when he dodges one, another is right there, gettin’ in his face. His right arm goes numb from a well-placed jab; his knee is twisted at some point as he bodily drops one of them.

“Yeah,” Jason grunts. “Gonna need back up here.” He swears and ducks under an electrified baton – he’s been hit with Nightwing’s enough in sparring (and before, yanno – ) to know how much that fucking hurts. “Jackpot and shit but could really use some help!”

“On my way,” Tim says, he’s already panting.

More than half of the goons are down, the bigshot assholes are cowering in the corner – and yeah, he was right on the goddamn money when he called them stupid. Most people would run in this situation. Jason snarls and tackles one of the remaining three mercs, throwing them into another one and hearing a sickening crack as their head meets the wooden bookcase.

“Ten minutes,” Jason mutters, slamming his fist into the first merc’s face. He shoves off the hands trying to grapple with him. “You couldn’t wait ten fucking minutes for me to get outta here?” One last punch and the merc is out cold, blood smeared across his face, but breathing.

He hears, “Goddamn bastard” and doesn’t have time to turn before something heavy cracks across his helmet. His neck wrenches, his face turning with the blow. Black flickers in his vision, his ears ring. He swings back automatically to elbow his attacker in the face, but the initial hit has him going with the momentum and spinning wildly. The guy ducks and Jason goes up and over his back.

Jason tucks and rolls, stumbling to his feet in time to get whacked in the stomach.

He doubles over – then his chin snaps up as the object – fear gas canister, his mind supplies not-so-helpfully, it doesn’t matter what’s hitting him, just that he’s getting hit – his chin snaps up as the canister slams upward. Blood bursts in his mouth. His right lens flares too brightly then goes dark. Jason grunts and tries to roll with it – the canister hits him across the face again then slams into his chest hard enough something cracks, spreading white-hot fire across his torso.

He falls back, gasping for breath, feeling ribs shift. The last merc looms above him, canister held between both hands, and he barely has time to aim for him with shaking hands before the canister is smashing against the weapon, knocking it away – then it smashes over his head over and over and over again – and there’s – there’s a hissing sound and his vision is darkening and breathing is hard and, and – sour taste in his mouth, pain rattling in his head.

Jason gropes blindly, wheezing horribly, and finds the bastard’s ankle. He yanks with all his strength and the jackass goes down with a surprised yelp.

“Fu – ck,” Jason grits out.

Ringing in his ears. Blood in his mouth. The guy tries to get up and Jason’s on top of him, clumsily grabbing his shirt, bruised hands protesting the way he curls his fingers and shakes the guy back and forth until the dazed look in his eye isn’t just Jason being unable to see properly.

When that happens, Jason cold-cocks him in the face, jabbing his knuckles just the right way that whatever fucking black eye he’ll wake up with, he’ll be feeling for months. He drops back, limp, and Jason staggers to his feet, the world moving and swirling, and he has to swallow back bile, teeth watering. All he smells is blood and something sour and acidic and he paws at the release latch of his helmet, his stomach churning.

Puking in his helmet is not fun. He knows this from experience. Gross, disgusting experience.

He sucks in a breath of air – and somehow that’s worse than in his helmet – and promptly bends over to vomit, shoulders quivering, his chest screaming at him. Jason sniffs, blinks back tears, puts a bracing hand on his ribcage as he straightens and –

Stares at the bodies littering the floor. All twisted up like ragdolls, drenched in blood.

Black and blue – Dick staring sightlessly into the distance, hair matted, chest burst open. Red and black – Tim, neck twisted sideways, expression full of horror. Purple and gold – Steph reaching out for him, fingers crooked, a bullet wound in her forehead. Black and gold – Cass, throat split in half. Green and red and yellow – Damian, curled into such a small ball Jason can’t see what did him in but he looks down at his own hands and they’re drenched in blood.

He stumbles back, an indescribable sound escaping from him, and, and trips.

Jason hits the ground, lands on something hard and soft and wet. He makes another noise and scrambles off the body – the body of Bruce. Bruce because there’s no cowl. Bruce with long-dried tears on his cheeks.

Bruce who is staring up at the ceiling, face streaked with blood, not a single defensive mark on him.

Jason sobs, hands fluttering helplessly over his dad’s chest up to his face where his skin is cold under Jason’s hands. Ice cold. Death cold.

“It was easy,” someone says airily. “So goddamn easy.”

He freezes, hunched over his dad’s body, and slowly turns his head. A figure leans lazily against the desk on the other side of the room, expertly spinning a gun in their hand. When they see Jason looking, they smile big and wide, the corner of their lips stretching impossibly far, red staining their lips.

“You could do it,” Jason says – because that’s him. That’s… That’s Jason, with a gun in hand and a bloodied knife at his hip and the torn suit and the wide smile and the blood, the blood caked up his sleeves, packed into the soles of his shoes. “You would do it.”

“I wouldn’t,” he croaks out. Sobs quietly, “I wouldn’t.”

Jason hums. “But you could so you would. That’s how it goes right? You’re irredeemable. A monster. A killer. Batman says there’s no coming back from that, so what hope is there for you, really?”

No, he wants to say. Bruce always said it was a line he couldn’t come back from, that he himself didn’t have the strength for it, but he can’t get the words out around the scream building in his chest, clogging his throat, turning into a keen breaking through his pressed lips.

“You’re always gonna be the risk,” Jason coos. His steps are sure and steady, just like Jason’s are. A blood covered hand touches his cheek and he looks up at himself, at the J carved gruesomely into his cheek, at the redredred on his lips. “And what do we do with risks, Jason? What do you do with murderers?”

—

“Yeah. Gonna need back up here. Fuck. Jackpot and shit but could really use some help!”

Tim slams his bō into an unprotected gut, elbows them down, and gasps out “On my way” as he drags the unconscious guard into an empty room with the other three he stumbled across. He tags the room four doors down as containing a ridiculous amount of fear gas then hustles back the way he came.

“How are the others looking?” Tim asks.

Babs hums. “Some fear gas. You found the most. There’s still a bunch unaccounted for, Hood sent me some shots of their manifest.” Damn, it really was the jackpot. “So, we’ll be able to pinpoint exactly how much and where it’s going.” There’s a beep over the line, almost like an alarm. “Crap. I just lost connection to Hood’s helmet.”

Tim swears quietly and clips on a rebreather just to be safe. He doesn’t remember making it this far from their starting point – and then, jeez, Jason covered some ground. He grips his bō tightly, extends his stride on the balls of his feet to move quietly and swiftly. He spots an open door, translucent billows of gas pouring out of it, dispersing as soon as it gets to open space.

He peers around the corner, finds the room absolutely riddled with still-breathing unconscious bodies and –

And a familiar figure hunched over himself in the middle of the room.

Tim steps in, collapsing his bō to clip it to his belt. Jason isn't wearing his helmet; his curls aren't pressed down by the straps of a rebreather. But…fear gas – 

He braces himself for the worst as he comes closer.

“Hood – ?”

And is woefully unprepared.

His head snaps up and Tim falters at the flash of metal in his hand, pressed against the soft underside of his jaw. Jason stares at him – no, stares past him with wide eyes, tears on his cheeks, his chin trembling. Tim holds up his hands, steps closer then – then freezes when Jason jams the muzzle of the gun harder against his jaw.

“’m sorry,” he whispers brokenly. A sob crackles between his lips. His eyes slide shut. He radiates misery and defeat and a desperate sort of resignation. His finger is on the trigger, curling tighter. “’m sorry. ‘m sorry.”

“You’re okay, Jason,” Tim says soothingly even as his heart beats wildly and he risks another step. “It’s okay. Just – put the gun down. What you’re seeing isn’t real. I promise.”

Jason’s shoulders droop, but the grip on the gun doesn’t let up. “You’re right,” he says to the empty space beside them. “He was right. I – I killed them. That’s all I’ll ever do – I – I’m irredeemable – .”

“No," Tim breathes, horrified.

He sobs. “A monster.”

Tim lurches. “No! Jason! That’s not true. Listen. It’s not real. Please. I promise. No one’s dead. Everyone’s okay. Please – don't!"

“I’m so sorry.”

Jason’s finger twitches and Tim lunges with a shout – only to flinch back when a sharp crack thunders and warmth splatters across his face. He watches in shock as Jason’s head jerks, his hand drops, and he’s fallingfallingfalling back into a boneless heap.

“J-Jason?” Tim asks shakily. He collapses to his knees next to his brother, hand hesitating in the air. Lets it drop to his chest, finds it still. Unmoving. “Jason.”

His eyes stare blankly up at the ceiling. His face covered in gore. Tim refuses to look below his nose. Refuses to look up, refuses to acknowledge the gaping – the, the gaping – He sobs, bowing over Jason, fisting the edges of his jacket.

No. Nonono. This can’t be happening. Tim wipes at his face, smears Jason’s blood, and he gags – this isn’t his first encounter with death. This isn’t his first, his first suicide. But this is Jason. Tim chokes on sob. This can’t be happening.

“Red,” Oracle says in his ear. “Red Robin, report. I heard…I heard a gunshot.” Her voice trembles because they’re detectives, they put one and one together and get two.

“Please, Jason.”

Tim whimpers – he tries to find the edges of his grief, of his panic, his shock, and seal them all up so they stop spilling out, so he can see, can see what it really in front of him instead of this,

This desperate pleading for Jason not to be dead. He touches Jason’s unmarred cheek and finds it already cooling. He stares at those blank, empty eyes, and inhales sharply – and chokes on it. Chokes and chokes and chokes on the roaring wailing, on the mantra of impossible, impossible, fucking impossible, this can’t be happening – and screams the only thing he can think of –

“BRUCE!”

Bruce, he screams, because he’s Batman. He’s dad. He can fix this. He has to fix this.

Footsteps. Voices in his ear – Tim presses his face against Jason’s chest, tries to relearn how to breathe – Voices not in his ear. A sharp, terrible gasp. Tim doesn’t want to look.

He looks.

Meets Batman’s eyes – Meets Bruce’s wide, grey eyes before they flicker to the cooling body of his son. His expression shatters and he’s falling, collapsing, to his knees on Jason’s other side. A heavy, mournful sound escaping him.

There’s hands on Tim’s shoulders, pulling him away from Jason and he fights them, clings to Jason like he’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this world – some childish thought that maybe he’s keeping Jason tethered to this world, that he’s not gone. That this isn’t happening. That the sound of the gun isn’t echoing in his ears.

The hands don’t let him go. They pull him back and tuck him to their side. He clings to Cass just as hard now, shaking, just as Bruce heaves Jason up into his arms. Jason’s head flops back, exposing his neck in such a vulnerable way Tim feels lightheaded.

He’s nothing but dead weight in Bruce’s arms, legs sprawling unnaturally as Bruce cradles him gently, so, so gently in his lap.

And Bruce rocks him, sobbing silently – and the lack of sound somehow makes it worse – his face pressed to Jason’s blood matted hair, uncaring of the wet gore. Jason’s eyes remain empty and sightless, staring up at the ceiling.

“Jason,” Bruce weeps. “Jason. My Jaylad.” And he can’t say anything else but that, his son’s name over and over like a mantra, like he can call him back to this world. Like he’s just asleep and shaking him will wake him up and make him smile and make him grumble about the hour and offer to make breakfast because he always offers to make breakfast.

“I’m sorry,” Tim croaks out. Cass shushes him, bundles him closer. He glances up and she’s staring at Jason’s lax face, tears on her cheeks. Her breaths hitch and it takes him too long to realize she’s trying not to sob. “I’m sorry,” he can’t help but say again.

I was too slow, he doesn’t say.

I could’ve stopped him, he doesn’t say.

(No, Tim. You couldn’t have stopped him. That’s not how this works. You can’t save everyone. You tried, and that’s what matters the most.)

Steph stumbles to the door, panting. “Damn, Black Bat. You move – .” She cuts off with a choked sound, eyes wide, lips parting. She staggers into the room, catches herself on a bookcase. “I don’t – . What the fuck – Jason?”

Disbelieving and horrified – her eyes flicker to the gun abandoned to the side then back to Jason, taking in the angle of the shot, the mess of blood, and comes to the correct conclusion. Her knees knock together, seconds from sending her to the ground, and Tim reaches for her, halfway to trying to catch her if it weren’t for Cass’s grip around him.

Steph staggers to their small huddle and drops heavily, arms wrapped around her stomach to keep herself together. Her cowl grows dark from her tears and she rips it off to cover her face. He grabs her cape, twists it in his fists, and holds on for dear life as she drops her forehead against his shoulder and cries.

Bruce pets back Jason’s hair, arranges his curls to cover the mess on his head and fails miserably. His lips are bloody from kissing his forehead, from murmuring pleas and bargaining against his skin to whoever is listening, falling into threats when he realizes the impossibility of it.

“Nightwing,” Babs murmurs over the line in warning – her voice barely makes it through, quiet and grieving.

A thunder of footsteps and Dick bursts in, barely registers the three of them clustered together, his eyes only for Jason cradled in Bruce’s arms. “Jason,” he breathes out and that’s worse than if he’d yelled, if he’d screamed it.

There is no shouted grief anymore. It’s the soft, silent anguish of being too late, too slow, of thinking is this my fault, and oh god oh god not again I wasn’t here again, and he’s gone he’s gone no why how can this be happening.

Tim ducks his head and curls in closer to Cass, unable to watch Dick breakdown over Jason’s chest. He grabs his little brother’s jacket, gripping tight, and begs for Jason to wake up even though they can see, they know, that this isn’t something you just come back from. They don’t know what resurrected Jason the first time. They don’t know how to replicate it. He’s gone. And – And –

Damian tucks into Tim’s side, his eyes wide and rimmed pink, shiny with unshed tears until Dick lets out a breaking sob and then they fall, his expression opening and collapsing, and he ducks his head, hand over his eyes. He stretches his foot out, tapping his toes against Jason’s knee and his leg just rocks freely with the force. Tim wraps an arm around him, holds him closer, as Damian’s shoulders shudder.

And they stay there, huddled together, adrift.

—

 – and with a sad smile and fond eyes, Death whispers, slowly and gently, “Live, live, live.”

—

They don’t see it. The way Jason’s fingers twitch then curl.

They don’t see the way the hole under his chin grows smaller until it disappears completely except for a deep bruise. They don’t see the way the one on his head shrinks until it’s nothing more than a deep wound that doesn’t penetrate bone.

His lips twitch. His lashes flutter. A spark comes to his eyes – shining, bright, wholly alive.

But also dazed. Confused. Memories flash – fighting, bodies, his family, a sickening smile on a too familiar face – and he wheezes breathlessly. Something hangs heavy in the air and he twists his head, feels whatever he’s laying on flinch, but he doesn’t really register it because he sees a huddle of color twisted up in each other and wide green eyes looking back, tears streaming down Damian’s face. Jason tilts back, finds Dick staring open mouthed next to him, domino missing to reveal red-rimmed blue eyes that shine with a broken hope.

“Dickie?” he croaks out and it feels like he’s swallowed liquid fire. “What’re – ?” Then he looks up, letting his head fall back despite the way it makes the room swirl so he can see Bruce – Bruce watching him, face pale, cheeks blotchy. Jason swallows thickly, feels a lump in his throat. “Dad?”

Bruce sobs loudly, unrestrained, and yanks him up until Jason’s pulled tight against his chest in the most bone-breaking hug he’s ever had the pleasure of being a part of. His limbs feel like they’ve been filled with concrete, but he takes the effort to lift them anyway to wrap around Bruce. He sits there, frozen, feeling Bruce’s body shake with the force of his sobs, his stuttered thank you, thank you pressed against his temple.

It only lasts a second because then Jason is clinging to him, grabbing his cape and – he lets go. He sobs into Bruce’s shoulder, pouring out not just the fear and hurt from this moment, but from every single death before when he died alone and he woke up alone and in pain and, and – he was alone, and now he’s not.  

His body is one huge bruise. His nerves are both frozen and superheated. His breaths hitch on every inhale and crackle with every exhale. Jason can’t tell where the hurts stop and start. He’s got a raging headache, his face feels numb, his mouth tender and painful.

But Bruce is clutching him like he’s never going to let him go again. Dick is on his back, forehead resting between Jason’s shoulder blades. There’s weight on his legs, pressure on his arms, as the rest of them cluster desperately close. Fingers on his wrist, feeling his pulse. A hand on his chest, feeling him breathe.

And – And he can’t help but whisper, “Dad,” again, like he still can’t believe it – and he can’t. They’re here? They’re not – he didn’t kill them? He didn’t murder them?

Bruce rocks him side to side, face buried into his hair. “You’re okay,” he murmurs over and over again. “You’re okay. I got you.”

Jason trembles, tucks himself under Bruce’s chin.

Doesn’t even bother to try and stop crying, doesn’t even think about letting go and wiping his tears and saving face when he’s pretty sure that if he lets go, he’s going to fall through the earth, and this is all going to be a dream.

Bruce cups the back of his head, threading his fingers through blood-matted hair, whispers soothing, gentle words to him as Jason shakes. He clutches him tighter, as Jason’s cries quiet and slow, and he’s slumping against Bruce’s chest, completely wrung out.

His grip on Batman’s cape is still iron tight even as his eyes close and he falls unconscious.

That is the only reason none of them freak out.

—

Bruce lifts Jason easily as he always had even with the extra height and weight Jason will never be anything but easy to carry. He arranges his grip so his temple rests on Bruce’s shoulder. The rest of the kids – even if Dick and Cass (and Jason) are in their twenties, they’ll always be kids to him – scramble to their feet, clustered around them, still touching him where they can, still unwilling to look away. He doesn’t blame them. There’s a comfort in seeing his chest expand and contract as he breathes. Proof. Undeniable proof that he’s alive.

“How?” Dick murmurs. His voice is raspy.

Tim presses the heels of his palm against his eyes, shoulders sagging. “Not the Pit.”

“Lazarus magic doesn’t bring people back to life,” Damian says.

Steph self-soothes by wringing her own cape between her hands, chewing on her lip, until she finally whispers, “Why did he…Why did he do that?”

Tim’s breath catches and he curls in a little, his hands slide down to cover his face. “I don’t – Wait. Wait until we get home before you, before you ask again,” he says in the smallest, quietest voice. Steph wraps him up in her arms and refuses to let go.

Cass’s lips press into a thin line – and it’s obvious she has an idea of why, and she’s usually not wrong. But she shakes her head when Bruce glances at her. “Home,” she says firmly. “We need to go home.”

Bruce looks back at Jason’s slack face. And it’s different than it was in death. There’s color on his cheeks. His eyes are closed. His lashes flutter as he dreams.

He hopes they’re good dreams.

—

They are, in fact, good dreams, but only briefly.

—

Dick’s hands are warm on his face, pinkies feeling Jason’s pulse under his jaw, his thumbs pressed to his cheekbones, refusing to let Jason look away. He does anyway, swallowing thickly and averting his eyes to look at Damian’s sleeping face instead.

They’re the only ones awake, hours and hours later, piled in Bruce’s ridiculously large bed like puppies. He’d woken up comfortable, only aching a little, under their warm, breathing bodies, and looked up to see Dick watching him like he was scared Jason was going to disappear if he blinked.

Jason tried to make a snippy little joke, tried to climb out of the pile, only to find himself like this: barely able to sit up because of his family weighing him down like a blanket, Dick grabbing his face like he’s trying to keep him from running away, and his too earnest too blue eyes pleading with him to not brush this off.

He gently grabs his brother’s wrists and pulls his hands away but doesn’t let go. Tim shifts in his sleep, clutches tighter around Jason’s leg – and he wonders when he signed up to become a teddy bear.

“I’m fine.”

“You died.” And Dick chokes on the word, his expression broken. Jason squeezes his wrists comfortingly before Dick arranges it so they’re clutching each other’s wrists, Dick’s fingers heavy on Jason’s pulse point. “Jay, you died.”

Jason swallows thickly, blinks back tears. He opens his mouth, closes it, then says, “It’s not the first time.”

Dick lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Yeah, I know.”

“No – No you don’t,” he says. His lips are numb. His mouth is moving on its own. “I – Hell, Dick. I’ve, I’ve died before this. After that.” Dick’s stares at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. “It’s been nine times. I’m on,” he gives him a weak smirk, “I’m on my tenth life. Seems I’m not quite like a cat. I’d argue I’m actually better than a cat.”

His joke falls flat. Now there’s horror in Dick’s expression, a sick sort of horror as he slowly comprehends what Jason’s saying. He feels Bruce shift, unnaturally stiff, and knows he’s awake. Jason doesn’t look back. Not when Tim’s grip goes from clutching a teddy bear soft to holding on so tightly, he’s sure they’d have to pry him off with force. Jason glances down and finds Damian staring up at him.

There’s no more soft, sleepy breathing.

Jason takes a deep breath and pretends it doesn’t shudder out of him. “She said…it wasn’t my time,” he says quietly, staring at Dick’s hands over his, shoulders curling in. “Something happened to reality and that gave Her an opening to push the rules back to where they were supposed to be. Now I can’t…I can die, but I won’t stay dead until, until it really is my time.”

Then, the words just spill out – his deaths, the loneliness he tried to ignore but it got harder and harder to every time, the bone-deep hurts that followed him from that purgatory void of not death and not life but the fine line that’s so easy to miss. He keeps talking as arms wrap around him from behind and Steph rests her cheek on his back. Keeps talking as Damian tucks himself against his side. There’s Cass between Steph and Damian, boxing him. Tim presses his face to Jason’s thigh and doesn’t look up. Bruce crawls up on his other side and tugs him close without jostling the others from him.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Bruce asks.

Jason closes his eyes. He can’t say I didn’t think you’d care because that’s not so true anymore. Maybe – maybe once it was, he didn’t think Bruce would care, not after never doing anything with the Joker, not after Tim became Robin, not after Jason came back and realized that nothing had changed.

And nothing had changed, because Bruce’s love for him was still there, still strong. Just the same has it had been before, but there’s a new perspective now that Jason never saw as a kid, as a bright-eyed little Robin.

So, he presses his lips together and shakes his head minutely because he doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t have an answer he wants to tell them. Doesn’t want to think about how easy it was, is to throw himself into danger to get information, to protect the innocent.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he says instead. “Usually.” Tim makes a wounded noise. “It’s been hurting a lot more, recently.”

Steph tightens her arms. “Maybe because you’re a goddamn idiot,” she mumbles into his sleep shirt – one that someone must’ve changed him into.

Jason sighs. “Yeah,” he agrees. “There’s a limit, I guess. To how often I can…in a certain time frame. It didn’t start hurting until the, the rebar one.” He shrugs and feels his family go with the motion.

Dick ducks over their arms, shoulders shaking even as he stays quiet. Jason frees his arms and wraps them around his big brother, resting his cheek on his hair. That puts his face directly into Bruce’s shoulder and he just leaves it there, tucking himself into the little pocket of shadow and comfort that’s been made with all the people piled on him.

Calloused fingers card through his hair, detangling curls, and he sighs in contentment this time. This is different – so, so different than all the other times of waking up confused and scared and alone and, and if, when he dies again. When he dies and comes back and no one is around after tasting this version of what it could be, it might just break him.

Bruce presses a kiss to the crown of his head. “We need to talk more about this later,” he murmurs. Jason shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut. “We do. I’m glad you came back, Jason, my Jaylad, but you can’t – ” he swallows thickly and there’s tears audible in his voice as he says, “You can’t keep sacrificing yourself. I don’t care that it’s not permanent. Sometimes you need to be selfish. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Selfish – if he hadn’t been so desperate to save his mom after she sold him out. Selfish – if he hasn’t gone snooping because there was definitely something suspicious about his teacher. Selfish – if he hadn’t gone in with a half-thought plan when he learned the Falcones were making moves to start recruiting kids. Selfish – like he’s worth more than the innocent and the downtrodden and the people who don’t deserve any of this.

“You are a good person,” Bruce continues. The rest of them are pin-drop quiet, refusing to break this uneasy, tense air. “You’re one of the best – .”

“Don’t,” Jason says weakly. “You don’t know jack shit about me.”

“I’m an arrogant old man,” he says over his protests. “To ever think that you would deliberately put someone at risk. But I can’t accept the thought that you’re so willing to put yourself at risk.”

He pulls away and Jason leans into him without thinking, then is helpless when Bruce pushes him back so they’re looking at each other. His eyes sting and he can’t. He can’t. He looks down, chin tucked to his collarbone.

“Please,” Jason whispers. “I don’t – .”

Bruce sighs before he brings Jason closer again, rocking him side to side. Jason shudders, his tears soaking into his shirt. “This is why I said later,” he says, the tiniest touch of forced humor in his voice. “I think we’re all a little too raw right now for this conversation.”

A beat, then. “Wow, Bruce Wayne is actually communicating his feelings in a healthy manner,” Steph says like she hasn’t been crying this whole time. An admirable skill, really. “Is the world ending?”

Damian snorts. Bruce makes an exaggerated offended gasp. Jason laughs helplessly and no one comments on how hysterical it sounds. Dick comes out of his hug, face pale and eyes swollen, but he’s almost got his signature bright smile back – the real one, not his Nightwing one, not the one for the cameras. He settles himself on Jason’s lap, practically crushing him, and nearly smacks everyone else in the face as he wraps his arms around Jason.

Now Jason is being smothered thoroughly – and has enough mind not to comment on it being a good way to die again. A bit too soon, he’s pretty sure.

Jason’s head is trapped between Bruce and Dick, muffling the outside sounds, and he lets himself relax, lets his eyes close as he listens to the heartbeats of his family.

This isn’t the end of it. There’s too much to talk about, many things need to be addressed. But Bruce is right, there is a time and a place, and that’s not here, not right now.

It’s okay, though, because miracle of miracles, it’s actually going to be a conversation they can have and in what world would they take that for granted?