Chapter Text
Jason Todd grew up with a fundamental fear of being seen. Not in the sense of shyness, but in the sense of shame. He supposed, if he wished to contemplate the fear’s origins, he might start where most tragedies do.
The house he grew up in.
Where the act of wanting was as good as a death sentence to that desire.
He supposed he might even make an argument for the statement “people become what they are called”. He thinks that might have some merit, looking back.
What he fears most, (like most other people), is how obvious it is to others. The fear itself.
He wonders if they can see it.
And some days, when he’s filled with enough fear to desire connection, he wants them to.
He wants to rip his chest open and surgically remove everything behind his ribs— lay it all out bare on a table and have people poke and prod at his rotting organs. Sometimes he wishes he could look as physically sick as he feels inside. So that it might be given a name. A diagnosis. Something he can seek treatment for without it being this deeply personal surgical navigation of his soul.
Maybe, part of the fear is knowing that no one in their right mind would ever look at him and care enough to pick up a scalpel to dissect all the mold inside of him. No one wants to stick their hand into maggots and grave dirt if they can avoid it. No one wants to touch a corpse.
It was a botched patrol that led to this silent, unspoken truth being fully realized.
It started with a dual patrol with the bats. One in which they all had a singular goal: to catch Gotham’s latest meta rogue.
A rogue who seemed to have sprung forth from the earth with a taste of anarchy. His personal manifesto (discovered in the early days of the investigation into his life) claimed himself to be a philanthropist– ‘ I’m not invading people’s pasts to exploit them. I’m merely trying to help them connect with themselves and one another. I am a therapist, my job is to heal invisible wounds. By what other means would I accomplish that but by luring my clients into their own psyches?’
Total nut job if you asked Jason. The rogue’s real name was Daryl, and he was nothing special if his photo in the back of his therapist pamphlet was anything to go by. He was round-faced, bustle-moustached, and wore circular glasses. Not exactly the poster child for a meta. But, the man had been putting people into random comas, whose duration varied from person to person. Victims had reported having a god-like view over their own lives, from childhood to the present day– like watching a movie they couldn’t press pause on. Like reading a book about themselves in third person omniscient. Some of the victims reported feeling better than they had before the experience. Other’s… well they were currently undergoing psyche evaluations with Arkham Asylum’s psychiatrists.
Turns out there’s a few kinks in Daryl’s methods of ‘helping people’. He might have even been able to use his powers for good if his ego wasn’t so wrapped up in it all.
Currently, Jason stood on a rooftop near the docks, and the languid hum of the harbour was faint and somewhat soothing; like a quiet whisper in his ears. That was, for the five seconds his comms stayed quiet.
“All clear on my route.” Tim’s voice rang out, he sounded out of breath, like he’d been running. “Chased someone’s loose dog back to the owner just now.” Well, that explained that.
Dick chuckled right as Damian asked, voice full of obvious curiosity and intrigue, “What breed was it?”
“Dunno.” Tim replied.
“TT. Leave it to Drake to not know basic dog breeds.”
“Someone sounds jealous.” Stephanie sing-songed, her following laugh cracking through the comms so loud that Jason flinched like it might get him away from the sound.
“I am not jealous.” Damian shot back, indignant. “It just speaks to Drake’s general incompetencies that–”
“Hey! I got the dog, didn’t I? It’s safe, and with its owner. Which is all that matters.” Tim defended. “If you’re done with your route, you could come say hi to it.”
“It’s still with you?” Damian’s voice had taken on a barely concealed, hopeful quality.
“Yeah, but it won’t be in five minutes. Hurry up! I told the owner my brother was coming with treats… you have those right?”
Clipped, came the answer, “I never leave so unprepared to not have animal treats on my person, Drake. What do you take me for?”
And Jason found himself grinning under his helmet. He remembered how fun ‘animal rescues’ had been as robin (hell, they were still fun). And Damian, he wasn’t openly passionate about much, so his love and territory over ‘all things animal related’ was well protected and nurtured by the rest of the bats.
“My routes are clear.” Cass announced, her voice crossing with Damian’s as the young boy asked, “Batman, may I go?”
Jason liked being on the comms. Contrary to popular belief since he never spoke on them, unless it was to announce an ETA or some new development in the plan. But he liked the way all of their voices seemed to wrap themselves around his head. Here’s the thing: Jason… doesn’t get out much. His human contact is pretty much limited to the bats, and although none of them particularly like him, and he doesn’t really like them… they’re familiar. Especially Dick and Bruce.
And well, it’s been proven time and time again that the three of them are prone to sticking their foot in their mouths and batarangs into necks (courtesy of Batman) before even attempting peace with each other.
Comms were one thing. A physical, watchful presence? That was another. That made Jason’s neck hot and his bones creak with years old memories.
He only tried to talk casually over the comms one time in the past. And Jason honestly doesn’t remember the context so much as the reaction. He’d said something snarky to Tim– didn’t remember what. But it was a joke . And Tim had said something equally as snarky to him to begin with. Anyway, the laughter on the comms from Tim’s comment snuffed out into dead, ringing silence. And it mirrored the hollowness now taking place in his own chest. Then– then Dick had said, in a tone he never used except in very serious interrogations: “Not cool, hood.”
And… what the fuck?
Jason was only thankful he was all the way in Crime Alley at the time and not in front of any of them, because the way his whole body recoiled at Dick’s admonishment would have been downright humiliating. More humiliating than the whole verbal interaction by itself.
He had ripped his comm out of his ear and stuffed it in his pocket.
The comms hadn’t heard his voice for anything not case related since.
He wonders, briefly, if any of them remember it. If any of the world's greatest detectives realized the domino effect that minute interaction had made.
So, now, he just listens. Listens to their voices, and their casual ease with each other. He imagines saying something in reply to something else– teasing and making jabs like the others do. And in this fantasy, he says it with the right tone and inflection so they have no reason to get upset at him. No reason to misinterpret it as malice or cruelty.
“Hood?” Bruce’s stern voice growled through the comms. Jason jumped.
Somewhere between the dog conversation and his thoughts, the topic had totally changed. Why was Bruce addressing him?
“Uh– yeah?” He replied, tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth.
“I asked you to report. Twice. Where are you?” Did he sound annoyed? Yes, Jason decided. He could practically picture the tick in Bruce’s jaw paired with the tone.
“By the harbor. Been’s clear so far. Are we even sure our little meta rogue is out and about tonight?”
“Well, you’re a tragic one, aren’t you, hoodsy?” An unfamiliar voice rang out. Jason spun around, unholstering one of his pistols as he did.
Spoke too soon. Sure enough, there was Daryl.
Jason shrugged, leveling his pistol at the guy. “You’re the therapist. You tell me.”
“ Hood .” Batman’s voice was full of warning over the comms. “Do not engage.”
Jason huffed out a humorous laugh. In what world did he have the option to not engage right now? It was impolite to not reply to someone who spoke directly to you.
His laugh didn’t go over well with the bats.
“Don’t be reckless like usual, Todd.”
“Jason, come on–”
“ Hood .”
“ETA five minutes.” That last one was Dickwing. Nice to know the golden boy was on his way to corral the Red Hood, Gotham’s resident loose cannon. The family’s most prodigal.
Can you be considered the prodigal son if you aren’t considered family?
He left the thought to boil somewhere in the back of his brain as he cocked his head at the meta.
“I could shoot you, ya know?” He said. “You move– you die. My manifesto’s quite straightforward. Unlike yours, full of loopholes and bad faith medicine. How the fuck did you get your license anyway?”
“You read my manifesto?” Daryl asked.
“ That’s what you took from that?”
“Well, I just don’t see how you can read it and not be on my side. I’m helping suffering people.”
“Oh yeah? Like who? Last I checked, inconsistent results with clients and patients means your procedures aren’t working. Scientific method, and all that shit. Not credible.”
“Like you.”
“The fuck you know about me?”
“ETA three minutes.” Dick said. But his words faded to white noise with what Daryl said next.
“I know everything about you. Jason Tood, street rat of park row, the second of Batman’s robins. The one who was murdered. The one who clawed his way out of his grave screaming for a dad who never showed. How’s that for sufficient evidence?”
Someone made a wounded noise over the comms. Which made him remember that the bats… they were all hearing this. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and his mouth went dry. His body was rigid as his brain scrambled through a sudden fog for words to reply.
“You really are a nut job.” He found himself saying after way too long of a pause.
“Oh, I got adjectives for you too, kid. To list a few: Lonely, terrified, used, ashamed, dirty, sad, unsafe, longing. That’s just a few.” The words were like spears straight through Jason’s abdomen. And he felt his hand falter, where the pistol shook in it, dipping down– down— “Here’s the thing about me, Jason, I was given the ability to see people’s suffering like a beacon. You, kid, are a fucking cry for help. Your soul is exhausting to be around, it’s rotting straight through your skin– but you don’t need me to tell you that. So, here’s my proposition: allow me to fix it.”
Jason didn’t know why, but he found the pistol lowered down to his side. A tremble had overtaken his entire body and… fix it. The words repeated themselves in his brain over and over and over. Like a broken record stuck in a loop. Hadn’t some of Darly’s victims recovered claiming they were healed? Better? Fixed ?
He wants to be fixed. He wants all the words Daryl said to go away. He wants them to not be true.
The thought burns like childhood.
Nobody wants broken things.
“I’m just trying to help.” Darly’s voice was a low buzz in the back of Jason’s brain. Suddenly, the guy’s eyes lit up a brilliant white. Like headlights. “Pick quick, kid, cause the first boy Wonder’s on the fire escapes. He’ll be on the roof in 5…4…”
“Fix it.” Jason heard himself whisper. His voice sounded raw and desperate, even through his modulator. A cracked, broken thing.
Protests, loud and jarring, rang out over the comms. But they are drowned out by the stone in his throat and the burning behind his eyes. And besides, what the fuck are the bats protesting? They already think he’s fucked beyond repair.
It’s not like Jason has anything to return to if this doesn’t work out.
He took two quick strides towards Daryl on legs that felt like lead.
“Jason!” Dick all but screamed, just as Daryl’s hand met Jason’s shoulder.
A feeling like cold water shot through his body.
He saw the hulking figure of Batman right as the world vanished.