Chapter Text
A siren howled somewhere deep in the city's gut, too far to help and too close to ignore. The alley reeked of piss, blood, and sour rot, but Jason barely noticed. Not over the pounding in his skull. Not over the fire crawling just beneath his skin.
He staggered forward, breath fogging the cold air, soaked leather clinging to his back like a second skin. His boots squelched in something red and warm.
"Please-" one of the men wheezed, slumped against a brick wall, his wrist snapped clean in two.
Jason didn't answer. His knuckles were raw. His jaw clenched so hard it felt like bone might crack. Four bodies already lay in the alley, groaning or unconscious, one wasn't getting up again. The fifth had tried to run. Big mistake.
"I-I didn't know-" the man tried, holding up bloodied hands.
"You knew enough to bring a knife to a kid's throat." Jason's voice was low, gravel soaked in smoke. "You knew enough to drag her into the alley."
"She's fine! We didn't touch her-!"
The helmet lay forgotten beside a trash bin, on his face was the simple black domino mask that was enough to conceal his identity.
Jason struck. A fist to the gut, elbow to the temple. The man went down hard, bones rattling against asphalt. Not dead. But he'd feel it for weeks.
Jason stood over him, chest heaving. His vision swam green for a heartbeat, a wave of dizziness, a pulse of heat behind his eyes like someone had lit a match inside his skull.
He stumbled back, bracing against the wall. His fingers shook. Not from the fight, that part had felt good, like scratching a festering wound. It was what came after that wrecked him. Always after.
He gasped. Closed his eyes. Tried to focus. But the pit's whisper had already started, curling around his thoughts like smoke:
They deserved worse.
You should've broken their spines.
Why stop now?
"Shut up," Jason muttered, clutching his head.
No one else was there. The girl was long gone, he'd told her to run, and she did. Smart kid.
The man behind him moaned weakly.
Jason turned back. He thought about finishing it. Just one move. Quick. Easy. A red smear and silence. His gloved fingers itched towards his holstered handgun.
Instead, he picked up his helmet, breath rattling inside it as he forced it back over his head. The HUD flickered briefly. No messages. No Bat-symbol in the corner. No voice in his ear. He hadn't let them in yet.
He kicked the gang leader's gun down the drain. Then turned his back on the blood, the bodies, the sirens that would come too late.
The alley swallowed him again, and he let it.
-
The roof was slick with rain, the gravel glinting under the harsh glow of a nearby neon sign that blinked PAWN SHOP in sickly pink letters. Jason crouched near the ledge, elbows resting on his knees, helmet tilted downward. The city sprawled beneath him, wet and ugly, shrouded in mist and shadow.
He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there.
The blood had dried under his gloves. His heart had stopped racing. But the Pit's whisper still echoed in the hollow of his skull, quieter now, but ever present.
The wind shifted behind him.
Graceful, light. Like a little bird. Like a memory.
Jason didn't turn. Didn't have to.
"Hey, Hood."
The voice was warm. Familiar. Just annoying enough to stir the ache in his chest.
Jason rolled his shoulders and grunted. "Stop following me."
"I'm not following," Dick said easily, his boots making no sound as he walked toward him. "You're just real bad at covering your tracks lately. Big bloody alley. Police chatter. Five guys down, one with a fractured spine. It's like you're leaving breadcrumbs."
Jason scoffed under the helmet. "Didn't know you were tracking me with bedtime stories."
Dick stopped a few paces behind him, arms crossed loosely over his chest, rain trailing down the sleek blue lines of his suit.
"You know, B's been keeping your name off the comms," Dick said after a beat. "Even when Tim says he's seen you. Even when I have. He says we wait until you're ready."
Jason didn't respond. He watched a patrol car crawl through the streets below. It didn't stop. Gotham never did.
"He wants you to come home," Dick added. "We all do."
Jason's shoulders stiffened under the red bat emblazoned on his black Kevlar gear. "Yeah?" he muttered. "Well, I don't."
A pause.
"Jay."
"No." His voice was sharper now. Hard. "Don't start. I'm not doing this. You said we weren't enemies anymore, and I agreed. I've stayed out of your way, haven't I?"
"Not enemies doesn't mean not family. You don't have to fight alongside us, just don't fight with me,"
Jason stood then, finally turning. The glowing eyes of his helmet stared down at Dick, unreadable.
"You got your team," Jason said. "Your cozy cave. Sunday dinners and Bat-kids galore. You don't need me screwing up the photo."
"That's not true," Dick said softly, stepping closer. "You've always been part of this family. Even when you didn't want to be. Even when you were gone."
Jason's jaw clenched behind the helmet.
"I don't belong there, Dick."
"Bullsh—" Dick bit the word off. Tried again, gentler this time. "You do. Even if you don't feel like you do. You're not the kid who died in Ethiopia. You're not just the guy the Pit brought back. You're you. And that's enough."
Jason didn't answer. He couldn't. The words were a punch to the gut, not because they were wrong. Because they were too close to the truth he didn't want to face.
"I'm not ready," he finally said, barely above the rain. "Not yet."
"I know," Dick said, without hesitation. "We'll be here when you are."
Jason looked away.
Without another word, he turned and vanished into the night just a blur of red and black slipping over the ledge.
-
The building had no roof.
Not a real one, anyway just rusted beams and patches of tarp someone had strung up between the broken supports. Jason ducked through the loose boards of the back wall, boots crunching on shattered glass and old rat bones.
It was colder inside than out. The wind whistled straight through the busted windows, sweeping in the damp stink of mildew and mold. But it was quiet.
His sanctuary.
Home, in the loosest, most miserable sense of the word.
Jason yanked off his helmet and set it down beside an old mattress that sagged in the middle. The springs inside poked up like a mouth of metal teeth, but it beat sleeping on the floor. Barely.
He collapsed onto it with a groan, wincing as his spine cracked. His jacket was soaked through. His gloves were stiff with dried blood, some of it his.
Everything ached.
Not the kind of ache you got after a fight. That he could deal with. No, this was deeper. A bone-deep throb that came in waves, like something was chewing through his nerves from the inside out. Like an acid slowly eating away. His hands twitched involuntarily as the Lazarus aftershocks rolled through him.
He'd read once that withdrawal was like dying in slow motion.
This was worse.
Some nights, he felt like the Pit was still dragging him back, piece by piece, cell by cell, trying to reabsorb him like it knew he didn't belong here in the world of the living.
Jason curled in on himself, squeezing his eyes shut, breathing through clenched teeth. The green haze returned behind his eyelids, twisting shapes in the dark.
He hadn't eaten since yesterday. Maybe the day before. The protein bars he'd lifted from the convenience store were gone, and the vending machine down the block had been smashed open weeks ago.
He could've stolen more, sure. But even that took energy.
And there were rules.
He didn't steal from kids. Didn't shake down street dealers or shelters. And he never took from anyone who looked hungry enough to fight him for it.
Gotham was full of people like him. Survivors.
His stomach growled. Loud enough that he laughed a bitter, broken sound that echoed around the ruined walls.
"Real funny," he muttered to the darkness, dragging the damp blanket up over his shoulder.
A two rats skittered across the far corner. He watched them idly. Didn't even flinch anymore. He'd named the biggest one Oscar. Oscar was bold. Came right up near the mattress sometimes. Lewis was the smaller one who waited for scraps.
"Try me tonight, buddy, I'm not in the mood," Jason warned Oscar.
His voice sounded rough, ragged.
It had been days since he'd spoken to anyone besides Dick. Weeks since he'd let someone get close. Months since he'd slept more than an hour without waking up ready to fight a ghost.
He hated this.
Hated the silence. The rage. The guilt. The fact that, deep down, part of him didn't think he deserved to have it better.
Not after what he'd done. Who he'd become.
Not after how he came back.
His hand drifted to the jagged scar on his chest, where the crowbar had cracked ribs. Where the Pit had stitched him back together like a broken toy.
His breathing slowed.
His eyelids flickered.
And eventually, the cold took hold. Not enough to numb him. Just enough to carry him into another restless, haunted sleep.
-
The sun never really rose in Gotham.
It just made the rain clouds a shade lighter.
Jason walked through the alleyway behind the building, his breath puffing white in the air. His boots squelched from puddles that had pooled on the street, and one of his gloves was torn where a bottle had nicked him during a brief scuffle behind a bodega.
But he had food.
A crumpled plastic bag hung from one hand, two instant ramen cups, half a loaf of white bread, and a bruised banana that smelled like it had one good hour left in it. He'd scared off the guy who tried to take the bag from an old woman, then took it from him instead. The woman didn't stick around to thank him, and he didn't blame her.
He didn't exactly look like a hero. But he was glad to have food.
He stepped over a rusted beam and ducked through the side entrance. The wind howled through the skeletal ribs of the building, tugging at the blue tarp he'd stapled to the wall in a failed attempt to block the drafts that morning.
His mattress sagged where he'd left it, still soaked around the edges. The thin blanket was curled on top like a dying animal.
Jason dropped the bag beside it and flopped down with a grunt, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. It barely reached his elbows.
His leather jacket hung from an exposed pipe near the ceiling, dripping steadily onto the cracked concrete. He stared at it for a moment, jaw tight, teeth chattering.
I should put it on, he thought. It's better than nothing.
But the cold leather would only shock his already-numb skin. He left it where it was.
The ache started in his spine. A hollow throb. That was normal.
Then came the real pain.
A sharp, searing bolt across his chest, like claws raking down his ribs from the inside. Jason hissed through his teeth, doubling over on instinct. His breath came fast, too fast, like the Pit itself had reached up through the floor and sunk its fingers into him.
He'd learned not to scream. Not anymore.
Instead, he shoved the blanket off and stumbled to his feet, the world tilting on its axis. He nearly fell but caught himself against a wall, heart hammering. Sweat ran cold down his back.
He needed the pills.
Now.
He limped across the room, to a broken locker he shoved his gear in. Pulling the door open he shoved aside some extra armor, and lying under it all was the duffel.
He yanked it out with shaking hands, the zipper half-stuck with rust. He forced it open and dug through the contents: spare shirt, backup magazines, a few knives, two crumpled receipts, and finally—there.
A metal case, scratched and dented. He popped it open, fumbled with the bottle inside. The prescription label was long gone, peeled off or worn smooth by months of use.
He tipped two pills into his palm. Swallowed them dry.
His throat burned, but it was worth it. It always was.
He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, hands braced against the duffel. Waiting for the worst to pass.
Then, slowly, he returned to the mattress.
He sank back down, pulled the blanket over himself again, and reached for the plastic bag. Opened the banana first. Ate half in two bites. His jaw ached from clenching it.
The pain dulled, the edges softening. Not gone, never gone but tucked beneath layers of exhaustion and muscle memory.
He leaned back against the wall, eyelids heavy. His eyes caught the broken mirror on the wall and the shell of a boy he saw in the reflection. And all he could think about was miserable he looked. How dumb and helpless. It was one of the reasons he hadn't gone back to his family. How could he go back when he couldn't even look at himself?
-
The past week was hard.
But then again, they all were.
On Monday, Jason got jumped behind a pawn shop by two guys high on venom-laced something. He took them down, barely, and limped away with a busted lip, a cracked rib, and what felt like gravel in his lungs. Slept in the stairwell of an office building that night because he couldn't drag himself back to the shelter.
On Tuesday, he woke up and stole a scarf from a donation bin to keep himself warm. No food, just water from a rusty faucet behind a deli. He kept his helmet on all day. It was easier than facing what was underneath.
Wednesday was worse. He stopped by the alley behind a soup kitchen, hoping for leftovers. Instead, he found a gang hassling a girl with a stroller. The fight was fast, ugly, and over before he really knew what he'd done. Someone pulled a knife. Jason pulled a gun. No one died, he made sure of that, but one of them screamed when Jason broke the man's arm.
Jason's own wrist snapped sometime during the fight. The Lazarus in his bloodstream had left him buzzing so much after the fight, he didn't notice his own injury.
Not until Thursday morning, when he tried to push himself up from his mattress and that familiar white-hot pain of shattered bones shot up his arm. His hand wouldn't close. The swelling was bad, angry and bruised like a rotting fruit.
"Cool," he muttered, teeth gritted. "That's new."
He wrapped it tight with a cut-up shirt and used duct tape to brace it. No hospitals. He didn't trust them. Not with his name, not with his blood. He didn't need people questioning the boy who was supposed to be dead. So instead he crushed a painkiller and snorted it.
Friday, it rained nonstop. His tarp collapsed under the weight of the water. So he ended up sitting in the corner of the shelter with his knees to his chest, and the blanket over his head like a child hiding from a storm. Every hour or so, another Lazarus wave hit, pressure behind his eyes, static in his brain. The hunger didn't even register anymore.
By Saturday, the banana was a memory and the bread had grown mold. He picked the green off the crust and ate it anyway. The ramen he'd rationed for three days was finally gone. His wrist was worse, too stiff to even hold a crowbar, let alone pull a trigger properly.
And now it was Sunday.
Jason sat in the dark of his shelter, wrapped in his thin blanket, staring at the wall like it might say something back.
His breath fogged in the air. His wrist throbbed beneath the tape, but he barely felt it, the rest of his body hurt too much to care. He didn't know a singular person could hurt this much, suffer this much. He wondered why there was so much pain in the world
-
He hadn't meant to take it.
He told himself that a hundred times.
Not because he was weak, he'd survived death, the Pit, the streets, the Bat. He knew pain. He could live with pain.
But this? This wasn't pain anymore. This was possession. Like something had hollowed him out and filled him with hellfire, burning him from the inside while whispering in his ear.
By the time Sunday bled into Monday, Jason was shaking so hard he couldn't tie his shoes. Couldn't keep food down. Could barely walk without his vision fragmenting into green shards. His head throbbed like a war drum. His skin felt like it didn't fit.
He told himself it was a one-time thing. Just to quiet the Pit for a while.
The stuff he bought was cheap, sketchy. But the guy said it was strong, and that's all Jason cared about. He took it in silence, alone. Didn't even flinch.
It worked.
God, it worked.
The buzzing in his skull faded to a whisper. The ache dulled. For a few blessed hours, he was weightless, not dead, not undead, just floating somewhere outside the pain.
But then... it started to come back.
Not slowly.
All at once.
-
By the time Nightwing found him, Jason lay sprawled across a rooftop in the Narrows, one boot half-off, his hoodie twisted around his shoulders like he'd tried to take it off and forgotten why. His civilian clothes were dirty, sleeves frayed. One hand was curled near his chest, twitching weakly, braced with duct tape.
His lips were cracked. Jaw slack as he gasped for air like a fish outta water. His body spasmed every once in a while.
Dick landed lightly on the gravel, heart dropping into his stomach at the sight.
"Jay?" he called gently, already crossing the roof. "Hey. Jay, it's me."
No response.
He knelt beside him, fingers finding the pulse in his neck. It was there, but faint. Uneven.
Jason's skin was cold. Too cold.
"Damn it," he whispered, brushing hair back from Jason's forehead. "What did you take?"
Jason blinked once. His eyes didn't focus. His lips moved, but no words came out. Just a breath, ragged and broken.
"I got you," Dick murmured, pulling off his own jacket to cover him as he knelt and started to wind his arms around his brother, "You're okay. Just hang on."
Dick had seen a lot of things in Gotham.
Blood. Bruises. Broken ribs.
But nothing hit harder than the sound of Jason wheezing for air, his body half-limp in his arms.
"Come on, Jay," Dick muttered, easing Jason's weight against him, voice low and steady. "Stay awake. Stay with me."
Jason's head lolled. His breathing came in short, shallow gasps, painful ones. Like every inhale had to tear through steel wool.
Dick gently slapped his cheek, trying to keep him conscious.
"Jason. Look at me."
Jason blinked, slow and sluggish, pupils unfocused and blown. His good hand twitched toward his chest like he could hold the pain in place.
"I need to take you to the cave," Dick said softly, firmly. "You're not okay."
Jason flinched. A part of him, even in this state still tried to pull away at the word cave. His body tensed weakly, like instinct said no, but strength said too late.
"Jay," Dick said again. "Listen to me. We'll patch you up. You don't have to stay. But you have to come with me now. You're not gonna survive another night out here."
Jason coughed, full-body and violent. He turned his head and spat onto the rooftop, mostly bile. His breathing grew harsher, panicked now.
But he looked at Dick. Really looked.
And after a long, broken pause—
"...'kay," he choked out, voice raw and torn, barely audible. "Okay."
Relief hit Dick like a punch to the gut.
He adjusted his grip, one arm around Jason's back, "Hang on, little wing," he said, lifting him with practiced ease. "I've got you. We're going home."