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Jason was plagued with strange flashes of blind panic since he was a kid. One moment, he’d be drifting off to sleep and the next he’d lurch up, heart rabbiting in his chest, drowning in the certainty he’s falling backwards to his death. This is a bit like this, maybe. Just this feeling of sudden weirdness and complete disorientation. Joker’s laugh and Sheila’s screaming are matched with—
He can’t breathe. Something is—Is it blood? How much blood could there be—
Something plucks him out, some invisible force stops him from—Drowning? What? He was dying in fucksville, Ethiopia, not drowning in a weirdly green pit of water—
“Easy kid,” a voice rasps into his ear. It sounds weird. The words are all correct and understandable but that ain’t no native speaker. “I’ve got you. Easy.”
Fuck you. Jason is naked and a strange man is touching him and he can’t see and—For a moment he’s sure he scrambled back so forcefully, he’ll pitch back into the pool, but the invisible energy catches him. A magician, remember?
“Yeah, no, you aren’t going anywhere near that ooze. I don’t know—”
People are screaming and shouting. Jason’s mind flashes with pain, and he thinks—There was someone else. A woman and—A baby? Someone who took care of him. Maybe?
“Okey dokey. Close your eyes, sweetheart. There you go. Goddamn it, Kisuke, what the fuck is his place—”
His rescuer’s name is Ichigo, pronounced like itchy-go. He looks to be vaguely Asian, with bright orange hair that’s not dyed. Not with highlights like that.
Ichigo with the orange hair slaughters a river of people that burst into the creepy lake-cave they’re in, wielding swords and knives he takes off the corpses. Finally, some old guy storms inside and doesn’t waste time on monologues. He lashes out with what damn-near look to be magical shackles and the guy, Ichigo, freezes.
“Very good,” the guy says. “Now, kneel, pet, and let me get a look at you—”
Jason’s been inching toward the nearest corpse so he can—Get some clothes on, maybe, or a weapon, but he freezes a the off-hand suggestion of that. He hadn’t—The guy is ancient, hair pure white and hair wrinkled and gross and sagging. He shouldn’t be able to, even if he wanted—
“Oh, I am going to enjoy this.”
As it happens, Ichigo can make his soul leave his body, and his soul has swords, except the one he chose is bigger than Jason’s body, pure-black and fires off magical attacks.
So that’s cool, watching a soul cut a man in half vertically and then saying something in a pissed-off tone into the thin air and—Something else, fuck. If he hadn’t known any better he’d think he was watching an exorcism because the feeling of energy and wrong and death surge up and up and up until Jason’s certain the fabric of reality will rupture and erase their very potential of existence before it just stops. Just like that.
Jason curls as far into himself as he can. What is this? What is happening? He can barely think through a thought, he doesn’t recognise his Goddamn body, his head hurts, he can’t feel any of his scars and—
Several more people pop into existence, which, okay. Whatever language they use, Jason doesn’t speak it. Japanese, maybe? One of them, a man with a straight blonde bob and ice in his smile steps Jason’s way, the palm of his hand resting on a sword hilt. Who the fuck—Why are they dressed the same? Is it an uniform? What—
Before he has the presence of mind to, yell or run or even figure out how to coordinate his limbs, Ichigo’s hand flashes forward, snags the blonde by the collar and yanks him back so hard his feet leave the ground.
Jason’s, by that point so certain he’s next, overreacts. He’s not even embarrassed. How long ago—He lost time. Joker—He must have—Did any of it happen? The tremble in his hands increases as tears sing down the cuts and scrapes on his face. He doesn’t have any scars, and he would’ve. He remembers having J carved into the back of his neck and the side of his face at the very least. So. Fear toxin? Kidnapping? Only he woke up naked and wet and surrounded by people—
Maybe this isn’t a Robin situation. Maybe the cult kidnapped Jason Wayne? Maybe none of that actually went down? A sob builds in his throat. Fuck, B—If—He is probably worried sick. It they—Who knows how long the cultists had him? He is bigger. Fuck, months, years, who knows and—If they kept him drugged throughout—
“Hey kid,” says Ichigo all of a sudden. Jason is too frightened to jump, but he does curl further into himself, back digging into the unforgiving stone of the cave. There is no place to run. “Where do you—What do you want to do?”
Jesus have mercy. “Bruce,” he hiccups. “I don’t—Bruce Wayne. Dad. Please, just. I don’t know. But I want Bruce.”
“Sure. No worries. I’ll take you to—” He knocks his finger firmly into the strange retro phone he hadn’t seen outside vintage stores in a hot minute. “—Bruce Wayne. But first—You wanna put on a shirt? Maybe some pants? Let’s not scandalise your old man more, hey?”
The kidnapping theory is becoming increasingly likely. The cult thing too, because more and more guys keep attacking, the further out of the cave they move. There’s almost a pattern. Ichigo puts him down, because Jason doesn’t recognise his body enough to walk, then kills a bunch of no-shit ninjas, and casually picks him back up again. By the time they make it out of the weird not-palace, Jason is crying nonstop, fully hysterical, clutching his rescuer as hard as he can with arms that don’t feel like his.
“It’s okay,” Ichigo is saying. Has been saying for a while. “I’m here. Just breathe, kid. I’m here. I’m not leaving you. Your dad will be here soon, a friend of mine went to—To tell him where we are. It’s okay, in and out, just breathe—”
Jason thought of himself as a self-sufficient guy, generally. Worldly, even. He’s been in some fights, seen some shit. But—
Ichigo killed people as if he was putting on socks and attached as much emotional significance to it. He didn’t pursue them, he let them back off, but the principle was the same. Deflect. If they attack again, that’s strike two, disarm. Third strike and you’re out.
Jason’s rescuer literally took him through a river of blood and—And he’s nauseous, his head is ringing, his vision is dark with black spots and he can’t stop crying. Whining a thready, animal noise. He’s seen trafficking victims get like this. He’s been in enough dockyard scraps with B to know what to expect when merch comes in from Asia or Europe. Those who survived were mindless with terror and, yeah, Jason always arrogantly thought that would never be him. He thought he knew how bad things could be.
“It’s okay. It will be okay. Your dad is on his way. It—”
Superman flashes onto the scene like two meters and a hundred and twenty kilograms of Godly wrath. What’s more surprising is that Ichigo matches him, if not in speed than in magic. He moves impossibly quickly, carrying Jason in his arms like he doesn’t weigh so much as a gram.
“Friend of yours, kid?”
“Clark,” he babbles. “Uncle Clark please, he—”
“I’m not keeping him from you, or you from him. Jason, was it?” Jason nods beyond speech. “Do you wanna—Let go—Or, no, do you want me to—Give you to him? Let him—”
Yes. “No!”
Ichigo blows out a puff of air and Jason cringes and hides his face in the man’s chest. If he can’t see Clark’s face then—Then he doesn’t have to think about why—
“It’s all good,” Ichigo says, passing a warm hand down his back, the other one petting his hair. “No stress, yeah? You’re doing great kid. Jason. You’re doing so well. We’ll just wait here with your—”
“I am called Superman,” Clark says. A choked whine bursts out of Jason’s throat as a fresh flood of tears spills down his face. He forgot. He outed Clark, how fucking stupid is he? He isn’t—“You appear to be a magician of some sort.”
Ichigo makes a considering noise in the back of his throat, and his chest vibrates with it. “I am all sorts of things. We’ll talk more when Jason has had a little time to rest.”
“Is he—” Jason can hear the tension in Clark’s voice. “Your associate wasn’t generous with details and only stayed long enough to give us coordinates.”
“That’s just how he is, don’t take it personally. So, you came to check for traps?”
“Jason has been dead for three years.”
What a strange kidnapping. Why’d they let B think he was dead if they wanted cash? “Not,” he chokes out. It’s I “I’m just—” The tremble in his shoulders and back increases, as his mind struggles with the many ways he could finish that sentence and how he is afraid of all of them. “I—”
“If you plan to be a dick about it, then you might as well go,” Ichigo says, voice easy and calm. Chill.
“I have attended the funeral of Jason Todd,” Clark replies. Jason can barely hear him, but somehow every word sears into his mind, heavy and sharp. Unforgettable. His brain might be scrambled and memory worthless, but he doesn’t doubt Clark Kent telling him that he died and was buried years ago will stick with him until the day he dies. Again, apparently. “Whatever you think you are doing—”
“Okay,” Ichigo hums, hand in his hair not for a moment stopping its slow movements. The other one reaches up and swiftly plucks a couple of stands of hair. It’s longer, Jason knows. Down to his collarbones. “Guess that concludes that. Theoretically, a part of me is sympathetic to your dilemma, but I won’t let you further traumatise the kid. So.” The sound of ripping fabric rings through the air, and Jason sees him wrap the strip of sleeve he took off around the tiny circle of Jason’s hair. “I’m going to take him since you don’t want him—”
Wait, hold on. “No—“ Jason arches back, ears ringing. “Please. Bruce is—He will—”
His eyes are kind. The only people in his life with brown eyes are Alfred and Catherine, which makes it easier to rationalise away the truth of the matter—that Jason is clinging to an absolute stranger who isn’t in the least bit intimidated by Superman.
“Don’t take me away. Please.”
“They will hurt you in their ignorance.” Ichigo reaches out with a slow hand and cups his face, thumbs gently wiping away his tears. “I am not convinced they know how to treat you with respect.”
If he could see his dad— “So come with,” he sobs. “Please? I can’t—Bruce is coming. I haven’t—” The last words he said to him were angry and cruel. He has to know that he’s forgiven. That he has a home, even if—Even if it’s been a while.
Ichigo sighs and guides Jason’s head back to his shoulder, humming a calming tune. “Is he coming? Or did he send you in advance?”
“I don’t see why you would expect me to answer you.”
Jason’s rescuer apparently has a very deep well of patience. “Is there a reason for this hostility?”
Clark makes a small, furious noise. “You are an unknown mass murderer, hiding behind a traumatised boy, who is probably a victim of brainwashing on top of whatever else was done to him.”
“Dull.” Ichigo throws the little bundle of fabric and hair. “Take this, then. Run your tests. Be grateful Jason loves his father more than he loves himself. If it were up to me, I’d have taken him away.” With his hand now free, he rips another strip off his sleeve and gently starts dabbing Jason’s face clean. “Go. We will wait here.”
Jason dozes off the moment Clark flies away, lulled by general exhaustion and Ichigo’s soft hum. The weather is balmy and the air is quiet and—
He isn’t sure how long he was asleep, but it had to have been a good few hours because the sun is going down, bathing the sky with reds and browns. Not that it matters, because Clark brings Bruce with him, which means—
“Jay!”
He tries to scramble up and trips unwieldy limbs tangling. If not for Ichigo’s steadying hands, he’d have fallen flat on his face. Then, between one moment and the next, Bruce has him, voice cracking with manic desperation.
“—Jason, Jay, my boy, you are back with me. You have come back—”
If he had any liquid left in his body, he’d probably have burst into tears again, but—Well. All he has is a head filled with cotton wool, an unfamiliar body and a man—
“They—Where am I,” he stutters. “What’s going on? Was I—Kidnapped? I woke up and—I was in a pool and everything was green and people were—And I’m older and everything hurts and my head is scrambled—Dad—”
“I don’t know sweetheart. I don’t—This is the League. You were—Lazarus Pit—We collected some samples from the hairs—”
“Ichigo saved me,” he says because it’s important. “It hurt so bad in there. I was drowning and—Joker—He was in my head, I don’t know, but I was dying and Ichigo took me out. Fought the cultists. Even the leader.” That’s right. He leans back and tries to force his eyes to focus. “He put chains on him. The old guy. He put magic chains on Ichigo. And Ichigo cut him in half.”
B looks wild. Shattered. “I’m glad, Jay,” Bruce says, but the words sound automatic. Unfocused. B’s hands are flying over his face and body, checking for injuries. His eyes keep flicking between his eyes and the pulse in his neck. “It’s—It doesn’t matter. None of that matters. Somehow, you’ve—” His throat jumps, a bit like he’s choking. “You’ve returned and that’s everything. My precious son.”
“A woman,” he says. “She—I don’t remember well, but there was a woman. She fed me and—She—A baby—”
“It’s okay, Jay. It’s fine. We’ll—We’ll figure it out. We’ll figure everything out. Later. When we get home.”
Home. Home.
“Well, kid—”
Wait.
“No!” He lurches sideways, not daring to let B go any time soon. “No, please. Stay? You—” Panic is crawling up his throat, making it hard to breathe. “Please. I can’t—Just a bit. I promise. Later, you can go. I won’t—Just for a bit. Until I know—” Until he knows—What?
“Sure,” Ichigo says, after a brief pause. His eyes are doing the thing. The far-away thing where he seems to be experiencing an additional level of sensory awareness. “If you want me to, I’ll make it happen. But I don’t know that your father—”
“You saved my son,” Bruce rumbles, closing his eyes. “No matter how—I—You rescued him when we didn’t even know he needed rescuing.”
“Yeah, ‘kay. I get it.” Ichigo takes a few faux-casual steps forward and taps Jason on the nose like he’s five years old. Like he’s not taller and broader than Ichigo by a fair bit. “Nobody is leaving, kid. You’ll go home and drink some water and take a nice, long shower, and we’ll all be there with you.”
Upsettingly, whatever burst of panic and adrenaline that kept Jason going through that first stretch fades away as soon as his feet touch Wayne grounds. Awareness flickers in and out, only really solidifying during moments of brightness. Alfred’s tears. A hug from Dick. B’s rumbling voice and always, always, Ichigo nearby, quiet but immovable.
In hindsight, that month of dissociation was absolutely for the best, because he doesn’t know how he’d have taken the sight of the new kid. Hard, probably. Jason’s imposter syndrome was a gift that kept on giving and the thought of being replaced by a newer, shinier model would have been a hard truth to grapple with.
As it is, since Jason is barely more coherent than a houseplant for most of June and July, he half-digests his presence before he has the faculties to understand what’s going on. By that point, the kid already spent weeks sitting by his bedside, reading out loud for hours in a high, innocent voice he’s subconsciously come to connect with feelings of gratitude and warmth.
Ichigo’s presence, however, is more challenging. Nobody tried to address it, as far as he knows, and he’s a polite enough house guest, especially since Jason starts losing his shit the moment he so much as steps outside of his field of vision, never mind go back wherever he came from. It’s putting a strain on his family, he can see. Bats are an intensely private bunch, and having a strange man in the manor goes against every instinct they have. On top of that—Well. Jason is out of it, but he can pick up on the vibes. Whoever Ichigo is, he is strong and unpredictable and improbably caring of Jason.
Six weeks into his convalescence, he manages to bring himself to speak.
“What happened?”
Tim fumbles with the Nabokov book he was reading and almost jerks right out of his chair. “Jason.”
The note of awe is uncomfortable. Especially now that he’s skinny, neurotic and brain-damaged. “Yeah. Tim, right? Sorry, I’m—” He tries making a vague gesture and grimaces when he, again, underestimates the size of his limbs. “A mess.”
“You resurrected,” Tim says. “That buys you a lot of disorientation.”
“No shit?” He swallows. “We sure about that.”
Tim shrugs. “I mean. How sure can you be about these things? You were dead.”
“Can confirm,” Ichigo says suddenly. “That’s, sort of, why I’m here.” He smiles a memorable little smile, sideways and bitter and endlessly patient. He’s never looked less human. “Or how I got here, at least. I would’ve left if you hadn’t asked me to stay.”
Jason huffs a weak laugh, but Tim—
“This sounds like a family conversation,” he says. “Do you—Jay—”
He grimaces. “I don’t know, kid. My mind is like a sieve right now. I don’t know if it’s dissociation or what, but—Yeah.”
Tim’s lips press into a tight, stressed-out line. “B and Dick are—Looking for someone,” he says, visibly troubled. “A woman in the League that, B suspects, was in contact with you while you were there.”
Oh. “And the baby,” he says. “There was a baby. Toddler. Child. I don’t know. She gave him to me at some point.”
“Oh, thank Christ.” Tim’s exhale sounds all sorts of relieved. “We thought—Well, you—I mean, you were there long enough. It—It was possible. You only said baby.”
Jason blinks. “You thought it was mine?”
“Jace, you rose from the dead, from what we can tell. You were thrown into a Lazarus Pit by late Ra’s Al Ghul, a workably immortal sorcerer assassin who was hundreds of years old. You were rescued by a man nobody has ever seen or heard of who killed the aforementioned immortal sorcerer. A baby would be a picnic.”
So says you, Jason thinks. It wouldn’t be your mindless body used for reproductive purposes. Did they think they strapped him to a breeding bench like a prized bull?
“I guess that answers a few questions,” he says, fighting through the fog. He’s not got much time left. “Ichigo? You were—Involved in my death?”
The man’s kind eyes crinkle. “No, kid. I am what you can call a Shinigami. A god of Death. Small g, there’s many of us. I got here because wacky shit was happening to your immortal soul.”
He can taste Tim’s scepticism, but— “Is that why your soul can exit your body and kill living people with giant magical swords?”
“That’s precisely why, bud,” Ichigo says. “I’m not alive in the traditional sense. The skin you see is artificial. A construct we use when we want to interact with humanity.”
Well. “Cool,” he says eyes unfocusing. “Tell me later—”