Chapter Text
Jason Todd did not get good things.
It was a universal realization. Decided the first time his dad decided Jason looked better with a bruise and out in a damp alley then tucked into bed with a goodnight story. The first time his mom got a package of something white and the last time she hugged him before all she became was a cold body on a molding bathroom floor. The first time the bigger kids realized the newest addition to the streets was all bark and no bite and the last time he let strange hands wander over him before he decided taking his chances with a rusted car iron was a better way to die.
Jason Todd did not get good things, but Bruce Wayne made him think he could.
Bruce Wayne had seen him, seen Jason , and had given Jason hope to become something more than another underfed body rotting in the back of an alley. Had given him food and books and his own room with a lock only he could open. Had sent him to the best school Gotham had to offer with a smile, and had offered to help him with his homework even if Jason taught it all to himself the night before. Had given Jason a family — something he thought he lost when he was nine and knew his mom was never going to wake up again.
He made Jason feel like he could actually do something. Help people in the way he had wanted to be helped. He gave Jason Robin and Jason felt free for the first time since he learnt that dad’s beer led to punches and mom’s powder led to nothing at all.
And then Jason died, and, well.
Then there was something else inside him. Something rotten and twisted and green. Something etched into the right side of his brain that filled him with a permanent rage that made his body something other than his own. Something that hid in the space between his eyes and his skull and clouded his vision so bad all he could see was a green haze and then bloody bodies.
Something that made him feel so full he felt he might explode. Something that left him so empty he didn’t know what he was without it.
Something that made him look in the mirror and see his mother’s blank glaze instead of anything else.
“Hood.”
Jason Todd did not get good things, but, god, for one second he wish he did.
“Hood?”
There’s a dead body on the floor. The boy’s throat is bared open, too many slashes to justify it as impersonal. He has Tim's face, mouth parted in a silently deafening scream, eyes blue and scared and unseeing.
Jason squeezes his eyes shut, lets out a breath, and looks away. It’s not real , he repeats to himself. It’s Fear Toxin. It's Crane. It’s something that could’ve happened but didn’t . It's not real, it’s not real, it’s not real.
Because of course he got hit. Of course some goon decided to dose his knife in Fear Toxin and of course that’s the one weapon that sliced a line through his arm.
Of course Nightwing decided to appear with just enough of an entrance to distract Jason while the goon got the cut in. Because Jason Todd did not get nice things and this week had been a bit slow anyways.
“ Hood ,” Nightwing hisses, close, too close , and there's a hand on his shoulder, heavy and warm and touching him — and Jason couldn’t hold back the violent flinch back if he tried.
There’s panic clawing the way up his throat and Tim’s throat has started to gurgle as broken lungs tried to draw in breathes through ripped organs and there’s a certain, horrible laughter ringing through his ears, coming from the utility closest of the evil liar warehouse of the week that makes Jason want to scream and shoot and cry.
Nightwing backs off, or it looks like he does. His eyes are blurring, creating half illusions of red lipstick smiles and dark back-of-alley leers. The Pit is fighting it, beating and slicing and stabbing at the effects of the drug just like it does anything else in its path, but it's not working fast enough because Dick’s chest is growing red with a spreading stain and one arm is morphed into something so broken it can’t be fixed and Jason’s hands are stained with so much blood he knows it will never come off.
“Hood,” Nightwing says again, more desperate, pleading, and Jason tries to latch onto the sound, the alive sound, instead of the bullet hole over his heart. “What’s going on? Report?”
And Jason tries to force the words out, he does , but they get caught in the web of fear building in his ribs and all that comes out is a choked off whine, something hurt and scared and lonely.
It's not real . Dick's chest, dripping red with too many gunshots to count, the bright blue bird stained so dark it looks as black as the rest of his suit, isn’t real . But it looks like it is. It looks exactly how Jason had dreamed it all those nights ago, when the green rage was all he had and he pictured dying family to fall asleep.
Dick stumbles forward, and Dick never stumbles, is never anything less than grace carved into bones. Jason scrambles back to maintain the distance, familiar screams of no, stay back, I'm sorry, get away from me drowning out the quieting mantra of it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real .
He trips over something, crashing to the floor with his hands thrown back to catch himself with a yelp, smashing into concrete and sending painful vibrations up to his elbows. He looks down at the leg he tripped over. Black and green armored legs.
He looks to the side, sees Damian's face, eyes closed, skull caved in, and throws himself away from the corpse of his brother. His other brother. His youngest brother .
It's not real, it’s not real it’s not – but there’s so much blood pooling from the crater in Damian's head, slowly crawling toward him like it’s reaching out, drawn to the creator of the lethal wound.
His hands are so red– Jason’s hands are so red – they’re leaving small puddles of handprints as Jason backward crawls away from his brothers, from his family . His dead, murdered family. Because of him .
“Little Wing, please .” And Dick is back, hobbling toward him like a zombie, blood dripping down his front and left ankle broken to the side and right arm twisted so backwards the elbow is facing Jason. The mask is gone, but his eyes are still white, iris cloudy and glazed over as Dick drags himself closer. The dead trying to pull him back where he belongs.
Because Jason Todd should be dead, buried, forgotten. Just like he was the first time. Jason Todd should’ve stayed dead because Jason Todd does not get good things and life was obviously too grand for him.
Because Jason Todd hurts people. It doesn’t matter if he means too or if he doesn’t. If they’re a stranger or his family. If they deserved it or if they didn’t. Jason Todd hurts people because he is his father’s son and not even dying could get him away from that fate.
Dick drops down in front of him, and Jason can see the wounds that much closer, bone shining through holes. He tries to look away, cover his face– when did he take off his helmet? – but his hands are shaking– he is shaking too hard to do anything but stare wide eyed and anguished at the sight of his older brother broken and bloody and dead because of him.
Dick’s eyebrows are furrowed, his mouth pulled into that concerning frown even as a line of blood leaks out of the corner. His hands raise cautiously, right arm bent unnaturally– horribly – and he grabs at Jason’s shoulders, keeping him still, keeping him trapped –
“You’re okay, Jay.” His voice is soft, delicate. There’s an underlying level of worry that leaks into his tone, making it sound uncertain and weak. “You’re okay. Breathe.”
He can’t and he doesn’t understand why and Tim’s fingers aren’t even twitching and Damian’s blood is making a determined line of death towards him and he can see Dick’s elbow bone sticking out from how he’s trapping Jason.
“Hey, hey– just look at me. Eyes on me, okay? Eyes here.”
Dick's unbroken hand traces up to cup his cheek, dragging his face away from Tim’s lifeless body and Damian’s broken skull. He knows his eyes are glowing, that sickly green that tints his nightmares and his anger. He knows because he can see the reflection in Dick’s clouded ones, a circle of green in a mirror of grief.
“It’s not real, okay?” Dick’s voice is gentle. Every time he opens his mouth a fresh stream of blood pours out the right corner. “Whatever you’re seeing. Whatever you’re hearing. It’s not real. Can you talk to me?”
Jason wants too, god does Jason want too, but Dick’s bleeding out because of him . Dick is dying– dead, too many bullets to be alive – because of him. Tim’s throat is gorged open for the crows because of him. Damian’s head is–
“Hey, eyes here– here , Jason. I’m okay. You’re okay. We’re all okay, okay? Whatever you see isn’t happening. It's just us. They got away, I’m sorry. It’s just us.”
Just them. Just them because everyone else was dead and Dick was dead and his zombie came back to drag him back to where he belongs.
“I’m not going back,” Jason forces out. The words are choked, whispered, more scared then determined. But he is not dying again. No one is putting him six feet under. He can’t do that. Not again. “I’m not.”
“I’m not going to make you,” Dick clamps down onto the words immediately. Like they’re a lifeline. Like its all he’s got to pull Jason where ever he wants Jason to go.
It’s easy to imagine Dick’s broken hands– both twisted at the wrist until the bones jutted out– slipping down to wrap around his throat in a vengeful grip. Its easy to imagine the thrashing, the pain of no air, the clawing at Dick’s arms and knowing it’ll stop nothing because Jason’s already hurt Dick so horribly he died and he can’t do anything worse than that.
It's easy because he can’t breathe. There’s not enough air coming in and too much air coming out and Dick’s gentle and broken fingers are pressing against his face and there’s panicked shouts coming from somewhere that might be him or Dick or Tim’s body jerking up or Damian’s head shooting sideways to stare blankly or–
The world goes black.