Chapter Text
Jason was supposed to be happy now, right?
He was alive. Bruce was alive and back in the right time. The Phoenix Force was off doing Phoenix things and staying far away. He was getting along pretty okay with his family. He’d even finally managed to talk to Tim about stuff other than the mission or passing the salt at dinner. It was pretty awkward, and mostly just focused on books and movies and stuff, but nobody got punched, so he considered it a win.
He was happy, right? He was smiling and laughing a lot more than he could remember doing in recent memory. He was a lot less stressed, thanks to not having to worry about where he was going to sleep or how he was going to get his next meal. That was supposed to be happiness, right?
It was normal to not be happy all the time, right? It was normal to have bad days. It was normal for someone like him to have flashbacks. It was normal for someone like him who’d done the things he had to see the sun in the sky and remember a great, terrified presence scrabbling against him for escape as its parent devoured it, or to pick up something cool and metal and remember the feeling of a batarang pressed against the back of his neck, or any number of innocent and stupid things that made him run to the nearest bathroom and lock himself in until he didn’t feel like throwing up anymore.
But being normal didn’t make it any better.
Obviously, everyone noticed. Detectives and all. Thankfully, they didn’t make a huge show of it. They were all too smart to expect him to come out of causing the deaths of billions unscathed. But they all asked him if he was okay a lot more, and didn’t make fun of him for things he knew for a fact they would have if they weren’t worried he’d shatter like glass at the first insult, and once again none of them were willing to leave him alone. Or maybe it was just that Bruce didn’t want to leave him alone because, from his perspective, he’d just come back to life, and the others didn’t want to leave Bruce alone because he’d just come back to life.
It was a bit annoying, but he could deal with it. He was fine. Everything was fine.
In hindsight, he really should have realized things were going to come to a head eventually, because they always did.
It went without saying that recent events made his nightmares even worse. In addition to the horrible memories, there was also the fact that most of his dreams involved him having telepathy again, and waking up felt like going deaf all over again. He never thought he’d come to hate a ceiling, but spending so much time staring up at it in a cold sweat trying to rationalize why he deserved to still be alive left a lot of bad associations.
On one particular night, he woke full of panic and terror along with guilt. By the time he properly woke up, he’d already pulled his gun from underneath his pillow and was crouched by the bed for cover. He tried to take a deep, calming breath, but his throat was too tight to let it through. He willed his muscles to relax, and was slightly successful, slumping against the side of the bed and burying his face in his hands. He wasn’t quite sure if his hands were shaking from fear, the winter cold, his pounding heartbeat, or maybe he’d suddenly caught some sort of deadly shaking disease. He wouldn’t be surprised. Something always came up to ruin every good thing he had.
He tried to rub at his eyes and nearly squished one of his eyeballs before he realized he was still holding his gun. With a jolt, he thrust his hand away from his face and made sure his finger wasn’t on the trigger. It wasn’t, and the safety was still on. He was okay. He was fine. All he had to do was unclench his fingers and put the gun on his bedside table.
His fingers refused to listen. Maybe they hadn’t quite caught up to his brain on the fact that he wasn’t actually in danger. Maybe they wanted to make sure he could appreciate the way the gun gleamed in the moonlight – once the black spots were gone from his vision, anyway. Maybe it was just his imagination, but that gleam almost seemed… inviting.
Was this really what the rest of his life was going to be? Waking up every night terrified and spending his days stealing happiness and purpose from people he didn’t deserve to call family? Did he even deserve that much? Should he even –
The door creaked open, and he instinctively pointed the gun at the door. Before he could make out more than a large, poorly-lit silhouette standing in the doorway, the lights flicked on, basically blinding him.
Jason ignored the instinct to shoot first and ask questions later, which was very good because it was Bruce’s voice that asked, “Jason?”
He lowered his arms and squinted his eyes so that he could see Bruce’s face without feelings like his eyes would melt in their sockets. Bruce, for once, wasn’t looking at him with those big sad ‘everything bad you’ve ever gone through is clearly my fault, including the stuff that happened before we met’ eyes. Instead, he was staring down at the gun like it was… well… a gun, or, as Batman saw them, the embodiment of humanity’s cruelty and failings.
“Where did you get that?” he asked. It sounded a little like he was being strangled, which he probably was, metaphorically by his own emotions.
I snuck away during a trip into town to beat up a piece of shit mugger and steal it. Yeah, that wasn’t going to fly. Everyone was already leery enough about letting Jason so much as set foot outside the manor. He’d changed a hell of a lot since he was fifteen, but the Gotham media was both far too insightful and far too willing to pass ludicrous theories as fact for them to be sure they wouldn’t wake up to an article about Jason Todd being alive.
If he didn’t have what few trips he had, he was going to go completely stir crazy, so instead he just shrugged and said, “Alfred’s fine with it. It’s only got rubber bullets.”
Bruce finally looked up at him, clearly trying to think of an argument. It was a doomed endeavor. If Alfred said it was okay, it was okay, no matter what anyone else might say about it. And thank God for that, because never in a million years would he be able to convince Bruce that having a weapon close at hand to defend himself was one of the only reasons he got any sleep at all. Alfred understood, though. Good old Alfred.
Good old Alfred who thought Jason deserved to be alive, and didn’t deserve to lose him again.
His fingers finally went limp, letting the gun clatter to the floor in a way that would give anyone with any modicum of knowledge on gun safety a heart attack. He used his newly freed hands to rub at his eyes, trying to get the sleep and tears and nightmares out of them.
He felt more than heard Bruce walk across the carpet and take a seat on the floor next to him. He didn’t say anything or try to hug him or anything like that, which was good because any unannounced touch would probably get a punch in return right now. He was just there, and that was the best thing he could be for Jason right now.
“It never stops, does it?” Jason asked quietly.
Bruce didn’t have to ask what he meant. World’s best detective and all. Plus, he was intimately familiar with never being able to get over things or finding an end to nightmares.
“No, it doesn’t,” said Bruce. “But with time, you learn to cope better.”
“What if I can’t?” How could Jason possibly cope with this? With the knowledge that billions upon billions of people were dead because of him? That countless others had their lives ruined because of it? And how was he supposed to cope with losing powers that had become a part of his identity without him ever noticing? How was he ever supposed to not feel like there was a piece of himself missing, especially when every dream loved to remind him of what he once had?
Bruce hesitated a moment before he said, “Is it all right if I put a hand on your shoulder?”
Jason nodded and took his hands away from his eyes, instead using them to hug his knees against his chest. He kept his gaze firmly on the floor two feet in front of him as he felt Bruce’s hand rest on his shoulder and give a comforting squeeze.
“If you can’t do it yourself, we’ll help you,” Bruce promised. “That’s what family is for.”
Jason felt his fingers dig into his knees. Even through the fabric of his pajamas, it hurt. It was the least he deserved, though, so he didn’t bother doing anything to stop it.
“I don’t want –“ he began, and couldn’t continue. He wasn’t sure exactly how to phrase what exactly it was he didn’t want, and telepathically transmitting the thought directly wasn’t an option. He didn’t want to cause them all any more pain than he already had. He didn’t want to need help. He didn’t want to rely on others. He wanted to be able to function without leaning on others like a crutch. He didn’t want to be like this. He didn’t want–
“You may not want help, but you need it,” said Bruce firmly. “And we’ll give it to you whether you like it or not.”
Jason’s first instinct was to attack. To ask how Bruce knew what Jason wanted, to yell at him for always ignoring what he wanted in favor of what Bruce thought he needed, and usually that turned out to just be what Bruce would have wanted in that situation and Jason wasn’t him, why couldn’t he just –
But wasn’t that why he was in this situation? Because he refused to listen? Because he believed that he knew what was needed, and everybody else was wrong? Because he refused to listen to Bruce because he knew he might change his mind?
“Are you glad the Joker’s dead?”
Bruce’s hand on his shoulder clenched for a moment before he regained his composure. Or, at least, Jason assumed he regained it. He still couldn’t bring himself to look at him.
“Why?” Bruce asked.
Jason didn’t know how to explain the reasoning behind the question. He didn’t really understand it himself. He knew, logically, that he wasn’t as bad as the Joker. Even if he’d caused far more damage than the clown ever could have in a full lifetime, the intentions behind his actions had been good. That counted for something. Didn’t it? He could be better. He wasn’t guaranteed to hurt more people as long as he was alive. Wasn’t he?
“Never mind,” he said, shrugging Bruce’s hand off his shoulder. “It’s stupid.” And when he gave it more than a moment’s thought, he realized that he didn’t dare risk hearing the wrong answer.
As fucking usual, Bruce ignored him. “I don’t know if I’m glad,” he said. “He hasn’t hurt anyone since, and he never will again, but people still get hurt. A lot of that is because of the vacuum he left. I’m not sure anyone will ever be able to fill it, but that won’t stop them from trying. Some of those people might have been hurt by the Joker anyway. We aren’t omniscient. We can’t know if the world is better or worse without him in it. Does that answer your question?”
“Not really,” said Jason. He couldn’t think of a better question, though, so he just silently stared down at the floor.
Bruce sat in silence, too. Not quite long enough for Jason to get anxious and frustrated enough to tell him to get out, but pretty close.
“His death didn’t undo any of the damage he did in life,” said Bruce. “Nor would that damage negate any good he might have done if given the chance.”
Jason finally turned to look at Bruce, just to make sure he wasn’t fucking joking. He wasn’t. “Are you honestly so delusional you think he would have taken that chance?”
Bruce’s expression hardened into robot mode. “We aren’t talking about the Joker.”
Jason turned away again and squeezed his eyes shut to stop any more stupid tears from coming out. “I’m too tired for this shit,” he said, getting to his feet. “You probably are, too. Go back to bed or I’m telling Alfred you skipped that meeting to play bat and mouse with Selina.”
He kind of wanted to keep his eyes open so he could see Bruce’s reaction, but that would just encourage him to stay, and right now Jason just wanted to be alone. He climbed back into bed and closed his eyes, giving as strong an emanation of ‘Go away and let me sleep’ as he could without telepathy.
Bruce, for once, didn’t push. “We’ll talk about it in the morning,” he said. Jason faintly heard his footsteps cross the carpet, saw the lights go out through his closed eyelids, and heard the door creak shut.
Once he was sure Bruce was gone, he let himself cry and feel miserable until he fell asleep. He was still a teenager. He had the right.
Jason got through the night and breakfast without incident, and was just starting to think maybe they could all pretend his talk with Bruce never happened when Alfred asked (aka ordered) him to help him wash the dishes. There shouldn’t have been anything that the dishwasher couldn’t handle, so Jason braced himself as he walked into the kitchen and put the stack of dishes he was carrying on the counter.
Alfred got right to the point. “Master Bruce informed me of your conversation with him last night.”
Jason sighed and turned around, leaning against the counter. “Damn. And here I hoped that was just another bad dream.”
Alfred opened the dishwasher and gestured to Jason’s stack. “Would you please bring that over? We can work while we talk.”
Jason swore internally as he complied. On the one hand, it was good to have something to do with his hands and stare at instead of having to look at Alfred. On the other, he was now societally required to stick around until the job was done. Oh, for the days he was just a dirty street kid that could get away with anything with a pair of puppy-dog eyes.
Alfred waited until the clinking and clanking of dishes and cutlery had lulled Jason into a false sense of security before he sprang. “Have you considered trying therapy again, Master Jason?”
Jason froze and waited until he was sure he wouldn’t accidentally smash anything before he picked up the next glass. “I don’t think there are many therapists out there specializing in possession.”
“You might be surprised. Gotham University’s psychology program, at least, has made a great many changes to its curriculum to better prepare students for more… unusual cases.”
“I’m sure those students will make excellent use of it when they inevitably become supervillains.”
Unfortunately, Alfred did not take the bait and change subjects. “From what I understand, the Justice League is looking to hire some official therapists their members may work with without compromising their secret identities. I am certain nobody would object to you using such a resource.”
Damn it. There went most of his other reasons for not getting a shrink. What did he have left? That he just wanted to lock all his feelings and memories from the last three years in a vault deep inside his mind and throw away the key? That didn’t work. Just look at Bruce. Just look at Jason. It was already seeping through the cracks and threatening to drown him. But how the hell was talking to some stranger supposed to help?
“I’ll think about it,” he said, putting the last plate in place. “See you later. I gotta…” He couldn’t think of anything he had to do, besides get the hell out of here, so he assumed Alfred knew he didn’t have anything, too, and just walked out of the kitchen.
The episode drew to a close, and before anyone could start up the old argument on whether two in the morning was too late to watch another episode, Stephanie hit pause on the remote and turned to Jason. “So, now that we’re all properly sleep-deprived and in a good mood… Jason, have you been down to the Batcave recently?”
Jason glanced over at Cass and Tim, both of whom looked as confused as he was. Good. He never liked getting ganged up on. “Nope,” he said. “B thinks that if I get so much as a whiff of a case I’ll go running off and get horribly injured the second I’m out of his sight.”
“We all think that’s what you’d do, too,” said Steph. “But that’s not what I wanna talk about. Have you seen your memorial case since you came back?”
“No,” said Jason. The few times he’d been down there, he made sure to avoid looking at it, else he be filled with the overwhelming urge to punch it to pieces with his bare hands. “Does he still have it up?”
“Yup.” Stephanie made sure to pop the p sound. “He’s even upgraded it.”
Jason groaned and leaned back, letting his head fall back against the top of the couch. “Do I even want to know?”
Tim spoke up for the first time since Jason had entered the room. “Yeah, Steph, I really don’t think now is the time.”
Stephanie looked at him and raised her eyebrows. “Can you think of a better time?”
Tim thought it over for a moment before silently conceding defeat and looking at Jason – or, rather, at the wall about three inches to the left of Jason’s face. “Look, he was… He was in a really bad place. And he just got back. He probably just hasn’t had time to take it down.”
“He had lots of time before,” Jason pointed out, while also avoiding thinking too hard about the exact event between now and before. “Why would now be any different?”
“You’re here now,” said Cass. “Before, you were still lost.”
Jason’s knee-jerk reaction was to object, but he couldn’t come up with an argument. He was lost back then. Even though he was alive again, he was still lost to Bruce. Just… lost in general. He was still a little lost. But not lost enough to excuse still having that stupid memorial up.
“I’m gonna go handle it,” he said, rising to his feet. “Do any of you know if we’ve got a sledgehammer lying around?”
Stephanie brightly informed him of which closet he could find one in, and he took off before Tim or Cass could try and tell him smashing things wasn’t a good way to deal with his feelings.
He found it easily enough, and made his way to the Batcave just as easily. Bruce and Damian were out, Dick was off doing stuff with the League or Titans or whatever group he was leading this week, and Alfred was probably getting some sleep while he let Babs handle comms for a while. There wasn’t anyone around who would want to stop him. Which was very good, because if anyone did, he might just try to hit them with the sledgehammer.
The Batcave was empty, and now that he wasn’t avoiding it like the plague the case was as easy to see as a big neon sign in a blackout. There was his old Robin costume, smaller and more to the side than he remembered. The latter was most likely to make room for the addition – his helmet. It must have been the one he left behind when he killed the Joker. Looking at it now, though, he never would have guessed it had been as damaged as he distinctly remembered it. Bruce must have looked through a ton of pictures for references and paid a lot of money to whoever repaired it, because it was perfect.
As he drew closer, sledgehammer heavy in his white-knuckled grip, he realized there was another change. The plaque had been given an addendum.
Jason Todd
A Good Soldier
When It Mattered Most
Huh. Well, at least it was more honest. Irreverence, recklessness, and a near-complete disregard for orders weren’t exactly traits of a good soldier. But when it mattered, he’d been willing to lay down his life to try and save people. It was, at the very least, an improvement, which made him think Dick was the one who’d made the change when he was calling the shots.
Still not good enough to continue existing, though.
The glass was pretty sturdy. It took a couple of swings to finally break it, and a few more to completely reduce it to shards scattered on the ground. Once that was done, he grabbed the Robin costume, went over to the incinerator used to dispose of dangerous substances, threw the costume in, and activated it before he could have any second thoughts.
Once he heard the roar of flame reducing everything it touched to harmless ash, he went back and grabbed the helmet. Halfway back to the incinerator, he realized that he’d already activated it, and it was gonna be a while before he could use it again. Frankly, it would take a lot less time for him to steal one of the numerous bat or bird-themed bikes, drive to the docks, and throw it into the ocean, never to be seen again by anyone but Atlanteans and dolphins.
He grabbed a nondescript black helmet, a nondescript black bag for the Phoenix helmet, and a nondescript black motorcycle, thanked whoever was able to wrangle in the instinct to slap the Bat symbol on literally everything they owned, punched in the code to open the blast doors that he wasn’t technically supposed to know, and took off.
Driving a motorcycle at high speeds in the dark required a lot of focus, so Jason was blissfully free of any inconvenient thoughts and feelings during the drive, especially once he got into the city and had to deal with traffic. There wasn’t quite as much as there would be during the day, but it was still another welcome distraction.
Eventually, though, he arrived at the docks and parked, and all the thoughts came flooding in.
What was he doing? Why was he doing this? He was being stupid. Destroying the case wouldn’t erase the reason it had been created in the first place. He’d still died. He’d still killed. He’d still have nightmares about it, most likely for the rest of his life. Destroying it all might give him a bit of momentary catharsis, but that never lasted. Even if the case wasn’t there, the memory would be, and Jason didn’t know if he’d ever be able to look at the space it once occupied without remembering it.
He yanked the plain helmet off and walked toward the water. Maybe the fresh air would help him think. Or as close to fresh air as you could get in Gotham, anyway.
He stood at the edge, taking care not to put any weight on the wooden fence. Knowing Gotham, it probably hadn’t been replaced in years and was more rot than wood. He pulled the Phoenix helmet out of the bag and gave it a good, long look. It was probably just his imagination that made it seem duller than he remembered. Or the lighting. Or the fact that nothing nearby was on fire.
He expected to feel upset, looking at the helmet. To be reminded of all the awful things he did as Phoenix. But… he didn’t. He didn’t feel much of anything, looking at it. Just, ‘Oh, hey, there’s my helmet’. How the fuck was it that the fucking sun could give him a panic attack, but this thing didn’t get so much as a skipped heartbeat? Was it because he hadn’t actually been wearing it when he lost control? Had his brain somehow, despite all the evidence suggesting it should have, not associate the helmet with those memories?
He brushed his thumb over the helmet’s cheek. Maybe… Maybe this could still be a memorial. A positive one. A reminder that he and the Phoenix had done some good. No matter how awful the things they’d done later had been, those things didn’t erase the good they did together.
Besides, it was a good helmet. If (or, more likely, when) his stupid family got themselves backed into a corner and needed him to come bail them out, it’d be a lot easier to keep this around than to go and find a whole new identity-concealing yet practical outfit.
And even if there were negative memories, throwing the helmet away wouldn’t stop it. Killing the Joker hadn’t stopped the nightmares about him, after all. Bruce was right. It never stopped. You just figured out how to shoulder the burden, even if it did feel like you were Atlas holding up the sky. After all, everything he cared about lived beneath the sky. He didn’t want to see them get crushed.
Was that what Bruce meant about others helping? Maybe it wasn’t making them take on the weight with you. Maybe it was just the thought of them that gave you the strength to keep carrying on.
His phone rang. The sudden noise made him startle and fumble the helmet, nearly dropping it into the ocean anyway regardless of epiphanies. He regained his grip, shoved it back into the bag, and answered the phone without checking who it was. “Hello?”
“So, any reason in particular you decided to smash up the case?” Barbara asked.
Jason shrugged. “Stephanie reminded me of its existence, and I remembered how much I fucking hate it.”
“I see,” said Babs. She didn’t sound very surprised, and definitely not upset. “Are you okay?”
“No,” said Jason honestly. “But… I think I’m trying to be. If that makes any sense.”
“It does,” she assured him. Jason could have sworn he could hear a smile in her voice. “Congratulations, you’re already doing better than B. Speaking of which, he should be back soon. Should I tell him you need more time to cool off?”
Jason took some emotional inventory and found, to his surprise, that he actually felt pretty calm. “No. I’m good. I’ll head back soon.”
“All right. Drive safely.”
The call ended. Jason put the phone back in his pocket and looked up at the sky. He wondered if it was smog or regular clouds obscuring the stars. He wondered if he’d ever see a sky full of stars again. It was probably for the best he didn’t. As beautiful as it was, it wasn’t worth the cost.
He took one last deep, calming breath and went home.