Chapter Text
Jasmine Fenton is both exactly what Jason thought she’d be, and nothing like it, at all. She and Danny have the same face shape, basic bone structure, but that’s where the similarities end. She smiles when Jason joins the video call, a mug of tea in her hands.
“Good morning,” she says. “Although, it’s afternoon over there, isn’t it?”
“I just woke up,” Jason admits, “So it’s basically morning for me too.”
“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot, I’m sure you can gather.” Jason shrugs, looking to the side. “How are you doing today?”
“I’m home.” Jason says, looking around at the apartment that hadn’t been this clean in, well, since far before Jason moved in. “Your brother cleaned while I was in the hospital.”
“He did?” Jazz says, as if it’s news to her. “Nice of him.”
Jason nods. “Got rid of all my drugs, I bet.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know, he hasn’t told me. Would you be upset if he did? Or relieved?”
“I can’t do anything about what he did.” Jason states. “I’ll probably be pissed when the cravings hit.”
“I do think it would’ve been more beneficial for you to get rid of them yourself.”
“I never would’ve.” Jason says.
“Ach. Never.” She says. “Very limiting word.”
“Tim said you wouldn’t do CBT.”
She smiles, taking a languid sip of tea. “Do you think that your words- the way you speak and think about yourself- has anything to do with the way you view yourself and your potential?” When his face bitters, she laughs, gently and inoffensively. “Ah, that’s gonna be the crux of it, isn’t it.”
“I don’t think my ‘self talk’ is gonna solve my trauma.”
She smiles ruefully. “Of course it won’t. But its certainly not doing you any favors. So- here’s- here’s the thing, right, is there’s all this trauma I’m not gonna try and unpack today, because you don’t know me yet. And then there’s everything else that’s going on with you right now. Maybe if you weren’t a vigilante and a crime lord, the first would be easier, and then we could go on with the second, but as is-” She holds up her hands by her shoulders- “it’s whatever you’re willing to work on.”
“And if I’m not willing to work on anything?” He asks.
“It would sure fucking suck for me,” she says, and Jason coughs a laugh, surprised by her language, even though he probably shouldn’t be. “Cause I went to bat to get this topic approved for my dissertation, and it’ll be super humiliating if I have to change it.”
“What I say...” Jason trails off. “Will it get back to B?”
“You have rights.” Jazz says, offended by the notion. “That’s strictly unethical.”
“But he’s paying you for this, right? He’s paying your tuition?”
“Oh, no.” Jazz laughs, startled. “Well, maybe in pert- I know the Wayne Estate contributes a lot to scholarships and stuff.”
“But- it’s all...”
“You, me, and the board of Psychology at Stanford. If, in a few years, we’ve found success, then I’d like to publish, but not without your consent, and you wouldn’t be named.”
“But Bruce, Dick, all of them would know.”
“Maybe. Maybe you’ll be okay with that if the time comes.”
Jason can’t imagine ever being okay with that, but he nods.
“So.” She folds her hands on the desk in front of her. “What are you willing to work on?”
They sit in silence, for a minute, before Jason says: “Is it true, that you found Danny when he- uh- with his scar-”
Her smile falls a little. “Yes.”
“How can you... are you...”
“Okay?” She finishes. “I’m not. I don’t talk to my parents anymore. Every time I don’t hear from Danny for more than a week, I freak out. It’s why I’m not going to medical school- I wanted to be a psychiatrist, but I had to drop anatomy. There are plenty of things I had trouble with. But I’m functional. I’m not suicidal.
“It’s easier for me. I can leave. I don’t have to interact with my triggers. I know life will get better.”
“You don’t think my life will get better?”
“It could.” Jazz starts, “if you choose to leave. If you change your situation.”
“I can’t.”
“I know.” She says, and it sounds resigned. “There will always be pain and suffering in this world, and you will always do what you can to fix it. It’s who you are. I can’t ask you to leave it.”
“It’s killing me. It has killed me.”
“And maybe it will again.” Jazz concurs.
“And that’s just- that’s okay by you?”
“If you get shot and killed, or poisoned by the joker, or your head bit off by King Shark, or whatever it is that’ll kill you again, it has nothing to do with how well of a job I did.” She pauses, twists her mouth in consideration. “Well, passive suicidality is another thing- putting yourself in those situations deliberately and without adequate preparation because you want someone to end it for you without you getting the blame.
“But first, we can focus on the active suicidality.”
“Do you think that what we do- all of us- is passive suicidality?”
“To some extent. Do you think it is?”
He starts to nod, then shakes his head. “No. Batman, maybe. But Robin was about hope. And hope requires living to see tomorrow.”
“So there’s a way to do what you do without wanting to die.”
“Robin killed me.”
“Do you want to go?”
“I wish I’d stayed dead.”
She nods, and doesn’t respond right away. “I’ve spoken with a lot of ghosts, as I’m sure you know. Death is a very personal experience. To be allowed to rest is a right, and that it was taken from you without your consent is very violational."
“So why won’t they let me die again?” Jason asks. “If death is a right I’ve been refused.”
“Death is not a right.” Jazz corrects. “Rest is.”
“I want to rest.”
“Good.” She agrees. “Rest is extremely important. How much sleep would you say you get on average, each night?”
“Either not at all, or... sometimes I sleep for days.”
“With substances?”
He nods.
“And when you stay up, is that also chemically assisted?”
“Just caffeine. I don’t like stimulants.”
“Just opiates?”
“And alcohol. Benzodiazepines. On occasion, usually with others. For sleep.” Jazz listens, open and non-judgemental in that medical professional manner. It had less to do with sleep and more the little death of numb, crossed slumber. But Jason knows she knows that. “I don’t fuck with hallucinogens. Bad interactions with residual fear gas, Joker toxins. Weed.”
“What about it?”
“I do it. And cigarettes.”
“We’re gonna work on whatever kills you fastest. Given where you were up til yesterday, we both know what that is.”
“Dick has me signed up for a methadone clinic.”
She nods. “It’ll help out the withdrawal symptoms.”
“I’m sending a ‘but’.”
“What am I gonna say?”
“But withdrawal isn’t why I’m addicted.”
“Do you know why you are?”
Jason knows that he’s been in pain ever since he dug himself out of his grave. He knows that he can't sleep without drugs, because the nightmares leave him more tired than when he went to sleep. He knows that Sheila did dope while she was pregnant with him and he was born in withdrawal, spent days in the hospital crying, inconsolable.
That the chips were stacked against him.
That it wasn't his fault.
He doesn't say that to Jazz.
“Addictive personality,” he says with a shrug.
“Maybe.” She says.
“Am I wrong?”
“I’m sure that's part of it.”
“But not all.” Jason finishes.
“Do you have any medications to help you sleep? Prescribed or OTC.”
He shakes his head.
“Well, melatonin-”
“Won’t do shit.” He grunts. “ And no doctor in their right mind would give me anything stronger with that hospitalization on my record.”
“Is there anything that helps you sleep?” She asks. “Other than chemical aides.”
“What’s with the focus on sleep?”
“You said yourself you want to rest,” she replies, without a second thought, “and I agree that’s what you need. Between the trauma and the paranoia, I doubt it’s easy to fall or stay asleep, and that’s why you turn to the chemical aides.
“But you have to understand that drug-induced sleep isn’t actually helping you rest. You’re poisoning yourself. Your body isn’t putting in the effort to heal you, to get you back into fighting shape, cause it’s so concerned with trying not to die. Do you ever wake up feeling better than when you fell asleep?”
“I only feel better when I’m asleep.”
“You don’t feel anything at all.” Jazz corrects. “That’s far from feeling okay.”
“I don’t know.”
“Any self-soothing exercises? Going for a run? Masturbation?”
“Hey!”
Jazz looks completely unabashed. “Of course, if you’re not comfortable talking with me about that, I totally understand. You only just met me, of course.”
Jason hugs his arms. “There’s nothing.”
“What about from before you died?”
Jason does not want to do this. He does not want to talk to Danny Fenton’s older sister about masturbation and drugs and the way he talks about himself, or thinks about himself, or the fact that he had nightmares as a kid (they were not a side-effect of the revival) and the only way to make himself feel better after was crawling into Bruce’s bed and watching the rise and fall of his chest in the dark master bedroom.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“Good, because I’m not going to.”
“Is it something you could try?”
No way in hell. Jason stares at her face on the screen, then shakes his head.
“I’ve only just met you,” Jazz says slowly, “and I don’t have an understanding of you, or your situation. Not even a rudimentary one. But I do know psychology. You’re familiar with Maslow’s hierarchy of needs?”
“It’s bullshit.”
“It’s not all-encompassing, but it has its merits. Do you feel safe?”
“My door’s locked. I sleep with a gun.”
Jazz’s lips press into a suppressed grin. “That actually belies a jarring lack of security.”
“It’s Gotham. I got enemies.”
“When’s the last time you felt safe?”
“Before. In a place that doesn’t feel safe anymore.”
“Sleep is a physiological need,” Jazz says, letting the subject drop at Jason’t tone. “But you can’t sleep without your security needs met, and those- I think- are going to be tied up with love and belonging for you.”
“And I won’t accept love and belonging,” Jason says blithely, “due to my self-esteem.”
“Not from your family,” she agrees. “Have you considered a dog?”
“A dog.” He repeats, unable to believe it.
“Or a cat. Whatever you prefer.”
“An emotional support animal.”
“If you want to call it that. In fact, I’m sure I could get an order for a service dog, for PTSD.”
“I’m not disabled.” Jason says, perhaps a little viciously.
“I never said that,” she replies, cool and even.
“I just- I meant- fuck- there are people who need it more than me.”
Jazz blinks at him. “Who.”
“What?”
“Who needs it more than you?”
“Some- some kid, a vet- there are people who need it.”
“And that means you don’t?”
“That’s not-” Jason growls in frustration. “I just think- that- it- it would be wasted on me.”
“Because you don’t think you’re going to get better.”
Jason shrugs an affirmative.
Jazz breathes again, evenly. “Well, you’re talking to me. That’s something.”
“It was this or a horse farm in upstate New York."
She grins again. “Was it really?”
“Tim was threatening me with a court order.”
A single, thin eyebrow arches up into her forehead. “So important to you, law and order is.”
“I don’t want to hurt a dog. I’m not a safe- a good home.”
“You could be.” She sighs, checking her wrist. “I do have more time, but I fear you’re a bit at your limit, today.”
“I feel worse.”
“Growing pains.” Jazz notes. “You have my phone number, and a crisis line besides. If I don’t pick up, you have other people you can call, instead?”
“Dick. Tim.” Jason replies dutifully. “Roy.”
“Good. How frequently do you think meeting would be the most beneficial to you?”
Never again. Every day. “Tw- three. Three times a week?”
“Right.” Jazz says. “I’ll get a schedule to you in a few hours.”
“Nice to meet you, Jasmine.”
“You too, Jason.”
The video call ends, and he leans back and closes his eyes. The apartment smells of disinfectant and lemon. He doesn’t have any new furniture, apart from the couch Danny allegedly got off facebook marketplace, to replace the puke-stained one.
Jason actually believes it. It’s cheap, probably from ikea, but it isn’t in super poor shape, and it’s comfortable enough.
He almost feels guilty when he flicks his zippo on to light up.
No, he actually does feel guilty. He stands up and walks to the window. Danny dusted them off, and though some of the paint is peeling, they’re brighter white than Jason’s ever seen them. The old hinges protest loudly as he opens it.
He sucks in the smoke by rote, although it’s frustratingly ineffective, the methadone still numbing him.
His phone chimes in his pocket, and he crushes the still-new cigarette into the sill. Jasmine Fenton sent him a survey to match him with a service dog. Jason scowls and deletes the e-mail.
Then goes into his trash to re-open it.
When Jason dies, the brat will gladly take another animal. And could- would- kill him if he neglected the poor thing.
He didn’t agree to therapy and a fucking dog.
He fills out the survey.
Two hours later, he’s sitting on the new couch with a lukewarm beer, when someone knocks on his door.
“I’m not open for business right-” he opens the door to Roy, Lian hanging off his back- “now.”
“We just got done saying bye to Dick.” Roy said, “And I figured I should check in with you one last time before heading back west.”
Lian tumbles into the apartment like a storm. Jason braces for the standard twinge of embarrassment, but none comes- There’s no mess, no sharps or weapons that he’s worried about her hurting herself on. “She’s getting big.”
“She is,” Roy agrees. “It’s kinda fun, seeing her become her own person.” They’d already had a version of this conversation before, a couple times since Dick had enlisted Roy to come and try to solve Jason, but he’s uncomfortable trying to talk about anything else, so it’s this, again.
“You know, you really shouldn’t have this around if you’re trying to quit the harder stuff.” Roy says, but he doesn’t take the beer from him.
Jason grunts instead of agreeing, even though he knows it’s true. “My therapist says it’s fine.”
“Your therapist,” repeats Roy. “Now I’m doubting you actually met with this lady, if she said that.”
She actually just hadn’t condemned it. “Well, I did.”
“I’m surprised Dick isn’t making her confirm with them that you’re actually going to sessions. For a while, I could only have Lian if I was going to meetings.”
“I’m not going to meetings.” Jason said. “I can’t- too many people know me, they can’t know that I-”
“Have a problem? Jay, it would help them.”
“I can’t be weak!”
Roy takes a hard breath, taking his hat off, shoving his hair back and resituating it. “Look, I want to be your friend, Jay, I really do, but-”
“You can’t.” Jason sneers. “You can’t hang out with an addict.”
“We’re both addicts,” Roy says, immediately. “It’s not something you ever stop being. I was going to say, I can’t be your sponsor, and your friend.”
“I never asked you to be my sponsor. And if Dick did, he overstepped.”
Roy presses his lips tight as Lian tumbles over the back of the couch, rolls, and heads to climb up the windows. “We always brought out the most in each other, you know. Good and bad.”
“JAY!” Lian shouts, and torpedoes into his side unexpectedly. Jason catches her and his balance, and feels the shout swell up in his throat until he looks down at her, clutching his leg like some sort of marsupial.
“You know, you shouldn’t announce yourself if you want it to be an ambush.” Jason informs, and she laughs while he picks her up by the armpit.
“Raghh!” She replies, flailing at him.
Roy smiles as Jason hoists her up to sit on his shoulders. “Jason?”
“What?”
“Do you want to get clean?”
Jason grimaces. “I’m not- I’m not ready.”
“You’re never going to be.” He holds his arms out for Lian to slide into, and slots her onto his hip. “But do you want it?”
“I can’t do this again today.” Jason says.
“Just think about it.” Roy suggests. “Find a reason, man. There are plenty waiting for you.”