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The world felt like it was tilting.
Not in a way that gravity could explain; no, this was wrong, this was personal. Like the Earth had decided it hated him specifically and was slowly, deliberately rolling sideways just to see how long he could keep his feet.
Jason stumbled, boots scraping against cracked concrete, knees barely bending right, like his joints had forgotten what bones were for. The air around him pulsed, thick and syrupy, every breath like dragging in steam and smoke and static. His balance was shot, ears ringing with a low whine that swelled and popped like pressure behind his eardrums.
It felt like someone had taken a crowbar to his equilibrium and pried it loose.
He blinked hard. Again. Again. Every flutter of his lashes smeared the world further, like someone had dipped the skyline in oil and gasoline. Gotham shimmered and bent, neon signs bleeding colour into the shadows, streetlights stretching into impossible lines like they were screaming into the fog. He wasn’t walking; he was lurching, like a man trying to move through a nightmare he hadn't agreed to have.
His mask itched like it was glued to his skin, each breath trapped inside it coming back hotter, wetter, almost suffocating.
The air under his helmet clung to him like a wet rag, his own breath reeking of copper and bile. His jacket felt like it weighed a hundred pounds; soaked in heat, in sweat, in blood that might’ve been his, might not. Every movement was molasses-slow and razor-sharp all at once. His nerves were alive in the worst way, like every step scraped against frayed wire inside his skin.
He didn't even remember crossing half the block, but his hands found rusted metal, the bottom rung of a fire escape. It groaned under him like even it knew he shouldn’t be climbing it. But he hauled himself up, muscles screaming, heartbeat thudding behind his teeth like a war drum.
One floor. Then another. He didn’t look down. He couldn’t.
His head swam, body drenched in a heat that felt chemical, wrong. Like the world was boiling him alive from the inside. The rooftop air hit him like a slap, cold and stinging, but it barely registered. He collapsed forward, hands braced against the gravel and tar. Gulped down breath after breath like he could breathe the poison out of his own bloodstream.
There was no fucking way he was letting some punk-ass gutter thug catch him like this. Not when the world was spiralling around him, not when the skyline looked like it was breathing.
Not when he didn’t even know if he was awake.
Jason's hands trembled as he pushed against the rooftop, gravel biting into his palms, tar smearing beneath his gloves. His arms nearly buckled once- twice, before he forced them straight, forcing his body upright like dragging his corpse out of mud again. He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw popped, the sound a sharp crack in the otherwise suffocating stillness.
“Get up,” he rasped. The words were barely more than a groan, gravel-edged and wet, torn from a throat that felt flayed raw. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, thick and metallic, like he’d been chewing pennies. “Get the fuck up, Todd.”
His legs screamed protest as he staggered to his feet, knees knocking like loose bolts in a busted frame. His vision pitched sideways; left, right, no, forward, the horizon dragging like it was smeared across glass. The wind caught him then, cold and sharp, slicing into the heat that still boiled off his skin in waves. He swayed, toes brushing dangerously close to the ledge, a single misstep from tumbling down into Gotham's waiting maw.
He blinked again, slower this time, trying to focus. The city lights below stretched and split like broken glass; fractals of red and gold and green that pulsed with each beat of his heart. He felt weightless and heavy all at once, like gravity couldn’t decide whether to hold him down or throw him off.
“Fuckin’— c’mon,” he grunted, shaking his head like it might rattle the haze loose. “Pull it together, you dumb bastard…”
His fingers curled and uncurled at his sides, twitching like they wanted to grab something- anything, just to anchor him. The rooftop swam beneath his boots, waves of dizziness rolling through his spine like aftershocks.
Jason spat to the side after prying off his helmet, the glob thick, stringy, tinged dark. His breath stuttered out of him in sharp, uneven bursts, chest jerking with every inhale like it took effort to remember how lungs worked. His heart was jackhammering, trying to punch its way out of his ribcage.
“You’ve had worse,” he snarled to no one, voice hoarse and slurred. “C’mere— get your shit together, man. Not now.”
Another step forward. Another misstep. His heel slid on a patch of loose grit and his arms flailed instinctively, catching air, heart lurching up his throat as the world tilted again; closer this time, closer to that yawning edge.
He staggered back, knees half-bent, sucking in a breath that felt like knives.
“Goddammit,” he gasped. “Get— get out of your fuckin’ head-”
Every curse was a desperate tether, every grunt a lifeline thrown into the storm of his body rebelling against itself. He wasn’t going down. Not like this. Not because his own body picked now to glitch out like a busted machine.
If he could just breathe. Just breathe, and remember who the hell he was.
Jason didn’t know what was wrong. Only that something had gone sideways in his head, something boiling and black and clawing its way up through his brainstem, wrapping around his thoughts like barbed wire.
Jason clutched at his skull, nails digging through the sweat-slick leather of his gloves like he could peel the pressure away. The city was gone— or no, it was still there, just... warped, curving in on itself like a broken lens, lines bending, sky bleeding purple and red, a bruised sunset that pulsed with every throb of his skull.
And then he saw him.
That laugh.
Sharp. Piercing. Too close.
It rang through his head like a serrated bell; sliding between his ears, crackling in the air like static, wrong, so fucking wrong.
“Robin…”
Jason staggered back a step, boots skidding. That voice— oh god, that voice; smoothed out like oil over gravel. Joker’s face peeled itself into his vision from the edges, from the corners where shadows shouldn’t have teeth. Eyes too wide, pupils pinprick black, skin too white, stretching over bone like it didn’t fit anymore. His smile cut across his face, too deep, too bright, gums bloody, lips cracked.
Jason blinked, but it didn’t go away. If anything, it multiplied.
There were dozens of them now. Joker after Joker, laughing, screaming, singing that guttural, high-pitched giggle like it was his own fucking funeral dirge—
And Jason was watching it happen. Again.
Blow after blow.
Crowbar kissing his ribs, his spine, his skull.
He felt it. He felt it.
His body flinched with every phantom strike, his back arching as pain that wasn’t real ripped through flesh that remembered. A crack of bone. A pop in his knee. The shuddering heat of his breath knocked out of him, forced out by impact after brutal impact as he dropped to his knees, gasping, vision flickering.
“Please, please—” He didn’t know if he was saying it, or hearing it, or remembering it; didn’t know whose voice it was, small and shaking and broken.
The warehouse walls folded in. The explosion happened behind his eyes. The fire ate the air. He burned.
Again.
And then again.
Jason screamed; but it was cut off, caught in his throat like it couldn’t escape. He clutched at his chest, felt the thud of his heart misfire, stagger, trip like it was going to stop.
He choked out curses, barely audible, desperate:
“F-Fuck—no—not real, not real, it’s not—”
But it felt real. God, it felt real.
He could smell him; cologne and copper and the reek of gasoline. He could hear his own bones breaking, feel the blood warm and thick and dripping. Could feel his body convulsing on a dirty floor, surrounded by laughter that never stopped.
The rooftop spun in a cyclone of color and motion, distorted buildings yawning and swaying like they were leaning in to watch.
He clawed at his helmet; ripped it off, gasping like he was underwater, like fresh air would fix it—
But the second it was off, he saw Joker’s face right in front of him again, nose to nose, breath like rot, grin like a wound.
“You really thought you got away, didn’t you?”
Jason fell to his knees, retching. Acid clawed up his throat but nothing came. Just dry heaves, curses, breathless sobs masked by rage. He punched the rooftop beside him; once, twice, until his knuckles split under the glove. The pain grounded him barely, a pinprick against the flood.
And still the visions came.
Still Joker laughed.
Still he died.
Again. And again. And again.
Jason was unravelling.
The world wasn’t just spinning now, it was breaking. Splintering like a windshield punched through with a sledgehammer. Shards of light and colour refracted in his eyes, pulsing neon red, bile yellow, slick black. Every breath scraped like glass down his throat. The air was thick, dense, heavy like wet cement poured into his lungs.
The helmet rolled as his boot made contact with it. It CLANGED on the rooftop like a death knell, bouncing once, then rolling, rolling, teetering, spinning like his thoughts. He barely registered it, too focused on the pounding behind his eyes, the fear toxin chewing through his veins. His hands scrabbled against his face, clawing at his cheeks, like if he tore hard enough he could RIP the visions out.
“Get outta my fuckin’ head!” he screamed, but the wind ate the words. Or maybe he never said them at all. Maybe it was Joker who said them, mimicking him like a sick puppet show.
And there he was.
Again.
Joker’s shadow bloomed from the corner of his vision, lips slathered red, eyes glowing with inhuman glee. His laugh wasn't just sound anymore; it was texture, it scraped across Jason’s nerves like rusty nails on exposed bone.
WHACK.
Jason jerked back, arms thrown up over his face. But there was no crowbar there.
Just memory.
But it landed. Over and over.
His ribs caved in on themselves. He could feel them bending, breaking, grinding. The phantom pain shot through him so hard he coughed, and when he did, he tasted iron—thick, coppery, hot.
“No—no—no—” He was trying to crawl now, scraping across gravel that tore into his jacket, into the skin beneath. His fingers twitched, digging in as if he could hold onto something; anything. But the roof kept shifting beneath him, melting, the tar bubbling like it was boiling flesh.
And behind him, the laughter rose. Echoed. Multiplied.
Jason looked back.
The skyline was burning.
The buildings twisted into shapes they were never meant to take like bones that had been snapped and forced to heal wrong. In the flames stood silhouettes; himself, tied, broken, kneeling— surrounded by a gallery of Joker's, clapping, laughing, pointing. A theater of his worst moment replayed in gruesome, endless detail.
His vision blurred.
Not from tears.
From terror.
“Please—” the word rasped out of him unbidden, small, so fucking small.
Joker’s face bloomed directly in front of him again; just a foot away.
Smiling.
Teeth rotted and jagged, breath a furnace of rotting meat. His eyes gleamed green like antifreeze; like poison.
“You die so beautifully. Every time just a little bit better.”
Jason screamed. A raw, animal thing. He grabbed the nearest chunk of debris; a broken antenna or pipe or just a rusted piece of steel, he didn’t know, and SWUNG.
But there was nothing there. The steel passed through smoke.
He spun. Joker was behind him now. And behind him again.
Laughter everywhere.
Pain everywhere.
Reality nowhere.
He curled in on himself, arms locked over his head, teeth clenched so tight they ached. His whole body trembled like he was going into shock, nerves firing in wild, brutal chaos. Sweat poured off him, soaking through his shirt, burning in his eyes. His heart was going to explode, he knew it. It was hammering at his ribs like it wanted out, wanted to flee the body that had become a prison.
The fear was primal.
Visceral.
Inescapable.
Death wasn’t coming.
It already had.
And it was just taking its time this round.
Jason’s world was a kaleidoscope of agony and fire, a pulsing smear of red and static that refused to stop. He couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. Every heartbeat was a landmine in his chest, every breath dragged in through teeth clenched so hard he thought his jaw would snap.
The rooftop spun. The Joker was everywhere; his face stretching across the buildings, grinning out of the clouds, giggling from the cracks in the tar beneath Jason’s knees.
“You think this ends, child? You think I ever really left?”
Jason let out a snarl, half-choked, half-sob, as he swung again at the shadow in front of him with a rusted piece of rebar, fingers blistering around the metal. He screamed. SCREAMED; like it could tear the hallucination in half, like maybe if he was loud enough, the laughter would stop. But it just echoed louder. Higher. More shrill.
“SHUT UP!”
He staggered to his feet again; barely, shoulders hunched, breath hitching and stuttering. His whole body trembled, sweat pouring down his spine, muscles twitching like something was inside him trying to claw its way out. His fingers fumbled at his belt, too numb, too fast; he didn’t even think-
And then the gun was in his hand.
He didn’t remember grabbing it. Didn’t care.
His vision narrowed into a blood-red tunnel. There were shadows coming. Shapes. Him. He had to stop it. Had to end it this time.
So he turned.
Gun raised.
Safety off.
Finger twitching on the trigger.
—and Nightwing landed on the rooftop with the brutal grace of someone terrified of what they’d find.
“Jason! Jay!”
Jason saw the shadow and fired.
Twice.
Dick rolled, asphalt spraying in sharp flecks. “Shit—Jason, STOP! It’s me!”
But Jason didn’t hear him. All he saw was white. Teeth. Laughter.
“You’re not real,” he growled, voice wrecked, full of blood and gravel and panic. “You’re not- YOU’RE DEAD!”
He lunged, full-force, like a cornered animal. Tackled Dick with the weight of fear and fury, fists already flying before they hit the ground. Knuckles cracked against kevlar and cheekbone, knees driving in wild and brutal.
“I watched you burn!” Jason roared, face twisted, eyes wild with tears and rage. “I watched you fucking kill me!”
Dick grunted under the blows, blocking as many as he could, the rest tearing into him with reckless strength. He didn’t swing back. Not yet.
“It’s not him, Jason! It’s the toxin, you’re drugged—!”
But Jason wasn’t there. He was fifteen, again. Trapped. Bleeding. Screaming in a warehouse that smelled like gasoline and rot. Joker’s shadow over him, forever.
So he reached for the gun again.
Dick saw it coming a second too late. Jason’s hand snapped to his holster with terrifying instinct, fingers curling around the grip as he twisted violently in the struggle. The muzzle scraped against Dick’s side, too close-
“NO—!”
Dick slammed his elbow into Jason’s wrist, knocking it wide. The shot went off. A deafening thundercrack in the night. Flash of fire. Burn of powder.
Then the two of them were wrestling for it, snarling, grunting—Jason a beast, mouth open in a silent scream, and Dick fighting not just for the gun, but for Jason himself.
“You have to fight it!” Dick yelled, grabbing the barrel, twisting it up and away. Jason’s finger was still on the trigger, convulsing. Another round went off into the sky.
“Jason, look at me! Look at my face!”
He slammed the gun down against the rooftop with both hands. Jason screamed; raw, shattering, and still fought for it, clawing, nails tearing through gloves.
“I’m not him! You’re not there! You're safe! You’re not alone; Jason, I’m your brother!”
Jason was feral.
He didn’t feel the blood running down his cheek from where his head had cracked against the rooftop. Didn’t register the way his knuckles split open on Dick’s armour, skin tearing, bone nearly showing. The only thing he could feel was the white-hot static roaring in his skull; the weightless, panicked sense that he was drowning in a nightmare with no bottom.
He had to get the gun.
His hands scrambled for it, clawing through broken gravel and shattered glass from a busted floodlight, fingers slick with sweat and blood. The steel was there; right there, his salvation, his escape, his anchor in the shrieking chaos, and his fingers brushed it before a black-gloved hand slammed his wrist down with punishing force.
“Jason— don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking do it!” Dick grunted, nearly breathless, wrestling him back down as they skidded across the gravel. His grip was bruising, his voice sharp, desperate; not out of anger. Out of fear.
But Jason didn’t hear him. Not really. His ears were ringing. The Joker’s laughter spun in his head like a carousel from hell, distorted and echoing, stretching over itself until it was a shriek.
“GET OFF ME—” Jason howled, saliva flying from his mouth as he threw an elbow up into Dick’s jaw, snapping his head back with a sick crack. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you again!”
His voice didn’t sound like his own. It was shattered, warped by venomous hysteria and blind terror.
He thrashed violently, heels kicking, body jerking like a live wire. His nails raked at Dick’s arms, desperate for leverage, for something, as if tearing into flesh could end the hallucinations bleeding into every corner of his vision.
Buildings leaned. The sky boiled. Joker's face leered out of the stars, bloated and massive, red mouth stretching open wide like a wound in the sky, laughing so loud it made Jason want to scream until he bled.
He jerked again; twisted hard, one leg free, and he kicked. A wild, savage strike to Dick’s ribs.
Dick grunted and nearly lost his hold. “You’re not seeing straight! Jay. Listen to me- you’re not there!”
“Shut up-SHUT UP-YOU’RE DEAD!”
Another punch. Jason’s whole body convulsed with the motion. He wasn’t pulling anything. Didn’t care what broke. Didn’t care if he broke. Because none of it was real. Nothing was real except the need to end it; end the noise, the fire, the shadows, the grin seared into the backs of his eyelids.
And still, Dick held on.
Blood trickled from his lip. His arms shook under Jason’s brute force, but he didn’t let go. Not once. Not even as Jason smashed his head back into his collarbone, trying to dislocate his shoulder.
“Jay, please. I’m here. I’m real. I’m right fucking here!” Dick snarled, eyes wide, pain flashing across his face, but his voice never cracked. “It’s me, it’s Grayson! You’re not in that warehouse. You’re not with him. You’re with me.”
Jason shrieked like an animal; high, raw, desperate, and heaved his body sideways, nearly breaking their grip. His hands closed around the grip of the gun. He felt the chill of the steel, tasted the blood in his mouth, his own or not, he didn’t care.
Dick’s grip was unrelenting, his body pressed hard into Jason’s, sweat and blood slick against each other. Jason fought like a rabid animal, thrashing with desperate energy, his mind twisted and bent under the weight of the toxin’s grip. His whole being was a blur of rage and fear, instinct pushing him to break free, to kill the one thing that was trying to stop him; his own brother.
But Dick wasn’t stopping. He couldn’t. Jason had the gun. He had to get it out of his hands.
In one brutal, calculated motion, Dick SLAMMED Jason’s wrist down against the jagged edge of the rooftop.
The sound was sickening— a wet cRACK, a horrible, hollow POP, as bone splintered and cartilage snapped, all the way down through the wrist, the sickening spiral of a fracture. The skin didn’t tear, not yet, but it stretched tight, pulled against the brutal force. The jagged shards of bone dug deep into flesh, split muscle, shredded tendons.
Jason’s scream split the night—inhuman, an animalistic, high-pitched wail that rattled up from deep in his chest, raw and guttural, ripped from the core of his terror. His entire body locked up in a moment of white-hot pain, the shock radiating out from his wrist to every inch of his skin, every nerve screaming in agony. Blood pooled around his wrist, thick and warm, trickling down his forearm.
The gun slipped from his fingers like it was no longer part of him; he could feel it leave, his hand going numb, every part of his body feeling like it was shutting down. But the pain didn’t stop. It only worsened.
He jerked and writhed, the excruciating burn of his snapped wrist shooting all the way up his arm, radiating through his chest, flooding his skull with a haze of pain, nausea, and adrenaline.
“FUCK—!” Jason gasped through clenched teeth, his voice barely recognisable. It was half a sob, half a howl, struggling to escape the crush of agony as his body tried to process the pain. But there was no time to think. No space to escape. He was still locked in the fight, his muscles twitching, his head spinning, drowning in the pressure of it all. His vision swam, and the world tilted like it was about to swallow him whole.
Dick held him down, breath ragged, jaw tight with the exertion of the struggle. He knew the pain, knew that Jason couldn’t think straight through it; couldn’t feel anything except the excruciating fire of the injury.
“Jason, listen to me! You’re not dying, you’re not—” Dick began, but his words were lost in Jason’s relentless scream.
Jason writhed beneath him, his wrist twisted at an unnatural angle, muscle and bone still protesting the violence. The blood slicked his skin. He tried to tear free, clawing at Dick’s arms, his shirt; anything to pull himself from the pain, from the feeling of his own body breaking.
This was his nightmare. It was real. It was happening again.
Blood trickled from his mouth now, hot and bitter, a result of biting too hard on his tongue while fighting through the screaming pain.
“You fucking broke it...” he gasped, barely able to get the words out, his voice trembling with rage and agony. “You... broke it, you bastard...”
His body jerked again, desperate to throw Dick off, but it was useless. He was held down. His wrist was shattered. And there was no escape.
And still he kept fighting. Kicked. Clawed. Swung. He’d tear his own skin off if it meant escaping the echo chamber in his head, the cackling ghosts dancing through the blood behind his eyes.
“I’ll kill you!” he spat, voice breaking, veins bulging in his neck. “I’ll fucking KILL YOU—”
“Then kill me!” Dick roared back suddenly, the sound sharp enough to cut through the chaos.
Jason froze. For half a second, his body locked.
Dick was above him now, pinning his wrists, their foreheads nearly touching. His chest heaved. His lip was split. His voice trembled; but not with fear. With heartbreak.
“Kill me if that’s what it takes,” Dick said, quieter now. “If that’s what you think this is. But I’m not gonna let you fall again. I’m not letting him win. You hear me, Jason? Not this time. I can't.. I can't lose you again.”
Jason’s mouth opened, breath catching. His eyes flicked, wild and unfocused; one moment Dick’s face, the next Joker’s, flickering in and out like a broken projection.
“Get out..get outta my head..” he whispered, brokenly, his voice cracking. “I can’t.. I can’t-”
He started sobbing, violently, hands trembling under Dick’s grip, still trying to fight even as his strength gave out; until finally, his body collapsed. Not unconscious. Just done. Rigid and shuddering like a coiled spring that finally snapped.
And Dick didn’t say anything.
He just let go of his wrists slowly, cautiously; and held him.
Held him tight as Jason broke apart in his arms.
Dick’s breath came in harsh, ragged bursts as he knelt beside Jason, struggling with the weight of what he had just done. He could feel the crackling tension in the air, the raw burn of the broken wrist still hot under his hand, the way Jason’s fingers flopped at an unnatural angle like ragged, twisted limbs of a puppet no one had cared to fix. The wrist was grotesquely swollen, skin stretched tight and pale where the bone had snapped, protruding like something that should never have been exposed to the air. The bruising was already starting to form; dark splotches that stained the soft tissue, like ink bleeding out from under skin.
Jason’s hand hung limply at his side, the wrist a mangled mess of bone and flesh, and Dick grimaced, pushing aside the immediate surge of guilt to focus on the bigger problem.
He had to get Jason out of here. Now.
Jason’s chest heaved with every ragged breath, his face a mixture of rage and agony, but Dick couldn’t give him the time he needed to think it through. The toxin still had him, his eyes unfocused, shifting, a dark whirlwind trapped in them. He couldn’t just leave him to stumble through it alone, not when the world seemed ready to eat him alive.
With a sharp grunt, Dick forced Jason’s limp body upright. The pain in his wrist flared, a bone-deep throb that made Jason hiss through clenched teeth, but Dick didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The adrenaline was pushing him forward, the weight of responsibility dragging him through the sickening guilt.
Dick glanced down at Jason’s wrist once more; the way the jagged, swollen bones jutted out grotesquely from his forearm. It wasn’t just broken. It was disfigured. A sickening mess of torn skin, dislocated joints, and ruptured veins. It looked wrong. Like it was never meant to bend that way, like the very fabric of his body had rebelled against the violent force Dick had inflicted on it. The blood, the bruising, the way Jason’s skin was pulled taut over mangled bone— it hurt to look at.
Jason groaned lowly, his entire body trembling as Dick hauled him up, throwing his own arm around his shoulder to keep him steady. His legs buckled once, but Dick gritted his teeth and shoved harder, pulling him upward, dragging him like a dead weight. The staggering pain from the injury alone was enough to leave Jason disoriented, but the fear toxin still had him locked in that delirium, his body fighting Dick as much as anything else.
“God, this is gonna be so much fun to explain,” Dick muttered, the sarcasm dripping from his voice as he grunted and hoisted Jason onto his shoulder. The effort strained his back, his arm burning under the weight, but he wasn’t stopping. He couldn’t. The night was still alive with sirens and the distant glow of Gotham's fires, and he wasn’t going to let his little brother slip through his hands again.
Jason’s head lolled forward, and the broken wrist jerked out of place, sending another shock of pain through his body, making him howl in response, ragged and wild.
“Shut up, Jay,” Dick snapped, his voice sharper than intended as he shifted the weight more comfortably, adjusting Jason’s limp body. “We’ll fix it. Just stay with me, goddamn it.”
The struggle to move was maddening. Dick had to force Jason’s limbs to follow, half-dragging him across the rooftop, each step feeling like it could be the one that would break him down completely. The grimace on Dick’s face was permanent now; he was pushing his brother toward the edge of exhaustion, toward the point where he’d have no more fight left. But the guilt surged in waves.
I broke him. I did this. I hurt him; but there was no room to dwell on it. He had to get them out of here.
With a final, strained shove, Dick cleared the rooftop, moving them to the edge where the fire escape ladder was barely visible in the harsh streetlight. Jason was dead weight in his arms, his breath shallow and staggered.
But as Dick moved to climb down with his brother practically draped over his shoulder, something in the back of his mind clicked; Wayne Manor.
It’s closer.
It was a few blocks away. Just far enough that he could get them there without attracting attention. He wasn’t sure what kind of reaction Bruce would have, or if Alfred would be able to keep his cool. Jason’s wrist was a mess, and the fear toxin was still boiling in his veins. The worst part was, no one would be able to fix him until he came down from the high.
Dick grumbled under his breath again. “What the hell did I get myself into…”
But there was no time for second-guessing. No time to question whether he was going to get himself killed the second they stepped into the manor.
He just had to get Jason there.
And pray that Bruce had a goddamn solution to fix what he’d broken.
Dick’s back was on fire from the weight of Jason, his muscles screaming for mercy with each step he took, but he didn’t stop. Every part of him burned with the effort to get Jason to safety, but the fear; and the blood, kept him moving.
Gotham’s night felt heavier now. The shadowed streets that had once been a comfort were now oppressive, the constant hum of the city like a distant, muted reminder of everything wrong with the world. Jason’s body sagged against his, his head lolling and his disfigured wrist hanging limply, an abomination of bone and muscle. The blood soaked through the torn sleeve of his jacket, dripping in slow, red rivulets down his arm. His skin was pale, damp with sweat, but his body was still wracked with the tremors of fear, the hallucinations pulling him under.
Dick’s breath came in harsh bursts, the weight of his brother nearly suffocating him, but he kept pushing forward. The manor was within sight now, the familiar looming architecture of Wayne Manor flickering through the haze of the night.
He made it to the door.
The security system clicked open with a hiss, the massive door groaning as it swung inward, and Dick barely made it through before the weight of Jason nearly brought him to his knees. He staggered forward, breathing through the strain in his chest, his teeth gritted. Jason’s ragged breath wheezed in his ear, and every time the younger man twitched or groaned, it sent a new wave of guilt crashing into Dick. This is my fault. I did this to him.
But there was no time to think about that now.
“Alfred! Barbara!” Dick bellowed, his voice sharp and frantic as he dragged Jason through the grand halls, ignoring the stunned silence of the mansion’s interior. The floorboards creaked under his boots, and the faint scent of antiseptic filled the air as he made his way toward the medical wing, where he’d spent so many nights himself; his own injuries a forgotten memory now.
Alfred and Barbara were already there, their eyes wide as they took in the state of both men. Jason’s face was a wreck of bruises, sweat, and blood, his eyes still wide and unfocused, fluttering between hallucinations, while his broken wrist swung awkwardly, unnaturally. The bone had pierced the skin in places, and the blood was soaking through the ruined fabric of his jacket.
“What happened?” Barbara gasped, her voice tight as she took in the mangled wrist, the broken body of her friend, her voice shaking with urgency.
“Fear toxin,” Dick ground out through clenched teeth. He didn’t bother explaining. They didn’t need to hear it. Not now. Not with Jason’s body still trembling and fighting against invisible horrors. “Get the antidote. Now. I can handle the rest.”
Alfred’s face was set in stone as he moved quickly, his hands already going for the necessary vials, his mind clicking into action. Barbara moved to Jason’s other side, her fingers already tapping into her portable console to get the latest dosage readings.
Jason’s body jerked, his head flopping back as he let out a strangled cry. His wrist, mangled and dislocated, caught on the fabric of his own clothing, sending another fresh wave of blood dribbling down his arm, the bone grinding against its ruined socket. The very sight of it made Dick’s stomach churn, but there was no time for weakness. No time to collapse under the weight of the horror.
“Jason…” Dick said, his voice low, trying to pull his brother back from the brink. “Come on, Jay. You’ve gotta hold on. Focus on me. You’re gonna be okay.”
Jason’s eyes rolled, bloodshot, glazed over with fear and confusion. His teeth ground together, and he snapped, the rage coming back with force as his broken wrist twitched, trying to push Dick off. “Get off me, you bastard…” Jason’s voice was hoarse, raw, jagged as his body fought against the reality that was being thrust back into him.
“Stop fighting, damn it,” Dick barked, forcing his brother’s body into a more upright position, holding him against his chest. He could feel the heat of Jason’s body against his own, the sweat and blood seeping between them like the very life force was bleeding out of him. “Just hold on. Don’t make this worse for yourself.”
Jason’s body spasmed in his arms, his entire frame locking up as if trying to escape an invisible cage. His mangled wrist jerked with every movement, the skin around it ripped and shredded as the muscles strained. The blood oozed from the wound, streaking down his arm and dripping onto the pristine white floor of the medical wing. The stench of iron and death clung to the air as if the very life in Jason was draining away.
Barbara looked at Dick, her eyes narrowed as she processed the data in front of her. “The toxin’s still too strong,” she said, her voice strained with the weight of urgency. “We need to get the antidote into him, now. The longer we wait, the worse it’s going to get.”
Alfred, too, was moving swiftly now, the needle already in hand, prepared to inject Jason with the antidote. The moment the liquid touched Jason’s skin, his body tensed violently, every muscle locking as if rejecting the antidote. The scream that tore out of him was raw, savage, the sound of a man being ripped apart from the inside, as his body fought to accept the poison trying to undo the chaos in his veins.
Dick held him tighter, cradling his brother against his chest as the world seemed to spin around them, the raw, guttural cries of Jason mixing with the sterile scent of the room and the pulse of the antidote working its way through his bloodstream. Jason’s body jerked once more, the intensity of the hallucinations trying to force its way through, but finally, slowly, the trembling in his limbs began to subside. His breath came in shallow bursts, his face twisted in agony, but at least for now, the toxin’s grip began to loosen.
And Dick couldn’t help but feel it; a weight lifting, but only slightly. The war wasn’t over, but at least Jason was still there, still alive for now.
But this was far from over. And as Jason’s bloodied body sagged in his arms, Dick knew this was only the beginning of the hell they would both have to endure.
Barbara’s hands were steady; mechanical, but no less gentle, as she worked her fingers through the wreckage of Jason’s body. The table beneath him was already slick with blood, smearing in a grotesque halo beneath his back.
The broken wrist was the worst of it. The bone had split the skin in two jagged places, leaving a gaping rupture that oozed thick, black-red blood in time with Jason’s slowing pulse. She'd cleaned it as best she could with antiseptic and gauze, but the damage was deep; muscle shredded, tendons twisted and exposed like fraying ropes beneath translucent skin. Every time she touched it, Jason flinched and murmured nonsense through clenched teeth, the remnants of the fear toxin still dragging him back into hell.
His body was a mural of trauma; dark, blooming bruises spilled across his ribs, old scars reopened from their violent scuffle. She peeled his shirt off with surgical precision, revealing the mess beneath: deep gashes along his side, one shoulder dislocated from where he’d hit the fire escape, road rash scraping raw and angry across his spine. He was pale, too pale. His body twitched unconsciously under her care, muscles tightening as if they still expected to fight.
“Hold still, Jay,” she muttered, her voice tight as she carefully inserted the IV, her gloves already soaked crimson.
Behind her, Alfred had turned toward Dick; and froze. His expression went hard in that quiet, dangerous way only Alfred could manage.
“You need to sit, Master Grayson.” he said flatly, pointing to the cot across the room. “Now, would be good, sir.”
Dick didn’t even respond at first. He was still standing there like a statue carved from guilt and exhaustion, his eyes pinned on Jason’s mangled form as if he could will the damage away. His jaw clenched. He was covered in blood that wasn’t entirely Jason’s. It stuck to his skin in thick streaks, drying in patches along his neck, soaked into the Kevlar where it had torn. One shoulder was lower than the other, his posture uneven; not from weariness, but from damage.
“Master Richard,” Alfred snapped again, his voice sharp enough to cut. “You are bleeding. Sit down.”
Dick blinked. His body swayed slightly, then he looked down.
There was blood seeping through his suit; not just from his brother. His own torso was soaked down the right side. A bloom of crimson radiated from his ribs, steadily expanding from beneath torn armour. As if noticing it for the first time, his hand came up, fingers touching the wound, and when they came away slick, he stared at them in dull surprise.
“Oh,” he muttered hoarsely.
Then his knees gave out, and Alfred caught him before he hit the floor.
“You bloody stubborn idiot,” Alfred muttered, maneuvering Dick to the cot with a practiced ease that came from a lifetime of patching up the broken Wayne family.
As soon as Dick was seated, the adrenaline ebbed, and pain came rushing in; white-hot and immediate. It ripped through his side like a serrated knife. Alfred stripped the damaged suit aside, cutting through the hardened fabric to expose the full mess beneath. A bullet wound; deep, ragged, had torn just beneath his ribs. It wasn’t clean; the bullet had grazed a bone on its way in, and blood was pouring out, soaking the gauze before Alfred could even apply pressure.
There were others.
A long, shallow gash ran along his thigh, muscle carved open like meat. Another puncture wound bloomed over his upper left shoulder, already crusted black. His knuckles were split raw, fingernails broken and caked with grime and flecks of Jason’s blood. Bruises bloomed dark across his arms and chest, and his breathing was hitched and shallow, the wound in his side making each inhale feel like a blade dragging across his lungs.
Alfred’s hands were merciless as he pressed gauze to the wound, forcing Dick to jerk and hiss between clenched teeth.
“You didn’t even realise, did you,” Alfred said, more a statement than a question, his voice a furious whisper. “You damn fool.”
“Didn’t matter,” Dick grunted. “Jason— he..he was worse.”
“Yes, he was worse, but if you go into shock and bleed out on my floor, what good are you to anyone?”
Dick bit down on a groan as Alfred pressed the next strip of gauze deeper, trying to stanch the bleeding. The bullet had to come out, but Alfred needed to stabilise him first.
Across the room, Barbara continued to work silently, the suction of fluid and soft hiss of disinfectant underscoring the chaos. Jason twitched and whimpered, breath rattling in his throat as he wrestled unseen demons. The raw wound at his wrist pulsed, the bone visible beneath carefully peeled-back muscle, the skin around it taut and discoloured. Barbara didn’t flinch. She was already stitching along the worst of the muscle tears, her gloves so soaked in red it looked like she’d dipped her hands into paint.
Dick looked over, barely able to keep his head up. “Is he—?”
“He’s stable. You, on the other hand…” Alfred muttered, lifting a needle. “This will hurt.”
He didn’t wait for approval.
The needle bit deep, and fire bloomed in Dick’s side, dragging a broken gasp out of him. His fingers clenched around the cot's edge hard enough to splinter the wood.
But he didn’t fight it.
He just turned his head, eyes locked on Jason, who trembled through another hallucination, lips whispering something broken and lost.
I’ve got you, Dick thought.
Even if it kills me, I’ve got you.
And then everything blurred. The pain, the blood, the stink of antiseptic and steel and the memory of fear toxin and fractured bones; all of it swam together as Alfred barked more orders and tried to stitch him back into something whole.
Barbara didn’t see Dick sway at first; her eyes were locked on the mangled puzzle of Jason’s wrist, her fingers stitching through muscle and skin that had been shredded like wet tissue paper. The surgical thread dragged through torn flesh with a wet, sticky SHHK as she tied the next knot. Blood clung thick to her gloves, and the stink of iron was soaking into the air, saturating it with the coppery scent of damage.
Then she heard the gasp.
Too soft.
Dick’s breath caught—wet, sharp—and when she looked up, she saw it: the slack tilt of his shoulders, the blood-soaked gauze slipping from Alfred’s hand, and Dick’s eyes fluttering half-shut, unfocused. His lips moved, but no sound came.
“Shit—!”
Barbara threw her chair into motion, muscles bunching in her arms as she pushed forward with the full force of her strength. The wheels squealed on the tile floor as she veered toward him, grabbing Dick by the shoulder just as his knees buckled.
His weight slammed into her like a dam. Hot blood soaked into her sleeves. Her chair jerked forward violently from the momentum, the front casters lifting off the ground with a jolt that made her stomach lurch. She caught her breath in her chest as the frame pitched forward—dangerously close to toppling. The edge of the medical bed jabbed into her ribs.
No, no—focus!
Alfred’s hand gripped the back of her chair with sharp precision, grounding her just in time. The wheels screeched as they hit the floor again, stabilizing under her. Without a word, Barbara grit her teeth and hauled Dick’s torso up, the muscles in her back shrieking. Her gloves, slick with Jason’s blood, slipped once on his kevlar, but she corrected fast, throwing her shoulder into the lift. She couldn’t lift him fully—he was dead weight now, unconscious, blood-slick and burning hot—but she could get him onto the damn bed.
With Alfred’s help, they eased him down onto the gurney, his chest rising shallowly, faint and trembling.
“Keep his airway clear,” she barked, tearing her gloves off with a snap that splattered blood against her chest. “He’s in shock, maybe hemorrhaging. Get a unit of O-neg and push fluids now.”
Alfred didn’t argue. His face was tight, grim as he moved toward the crash cart.
Barbara exhaled shakily, sweat starting to bead along her hairline. Her heart was still hammering from the sudden surge of adrenaline, and her wheelchair creaked beneath her as she leaned back for a second, regaining her balance. But there was no time to sit still.
Jason groaned.
That horrible, low sound—wet, full of pain.
She turned back.
Blood was running anew down his side. The stitches she'd made along his ribs had torn slightly in his last hallucination-induced spasm, and the jagged tear was pulsing again, leaking red that pooled beneath him in a growing puddle. His pulse monitor was picking up arrhythmias—erratic spikes that threw static through the screen.
Barbara didn’t even bother wiping the sweat from her brow as she yanked fresh gloves on. The latex snapped around her wrists, sealing her back into the moment. She moved fast, wheeling back up to Jason and grabbing fresh gauze and antiseptic.
“Alfred,” she said through clenched teeth as she applied pressure to the wound, blood squelching beneath her palm, “I don’t care what you have to do— keep Dick breathing. He got shot in the ribs, at least one’s deep, maybe nicked a lung. But Jason’s fighting death with his teeth right now. I’ve got him. You get the other idiot through this.”
Alfred, already prepping a transfusion for Dick, gave the smallest nod, jaw tight as stone.
“Understood.”
Jason twitched again beneath her hands, his broken wrist giving a pathetic jerk, smearing more blood across the sheets.
Barbara tightened the clamp on the wound and leaned close to his ear.
“Stay with me, Todd. You’re not dying on this table. Not while I’m still breathing.”
The room smelled like metal, sweat, burning antiseptic and blood—too much blood. But her hands never stopped moving. Not until the bleeding slowed. Not until Jason stopped hallucinating.
Not until both of her brothers were still breathing.