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Green.
A thick liquid surrounds him, and Jason fights to reach the surface, but after many attempts, he wonders if the green is consuming him alive.
Alive? No. How? Hadn’t he been-
Hands reach into the pool and drag him out, his body scraping against the rocky stairs. The sudden air should be helpful, but Jason finds himself unable to breathe it in, his lungs already full of slime.
The smell surrounding him is foul, like death warmed over and infected with mold. As he tries to catch his breath, his throat and nostrils burn, almost trying to reject the stench invading them.
A hand touches his arm, and suddenly Jason is shooting up from the ground where he’d been laid, mindlessly attacking. He’s eight, fighting off a mugger. He’s thirteen, taking down Killer Croc. He’s five, trying to defend himself against his father. He’s fifteen, fighting the Joker.
No. He hadn’t done that. He’d been on the ground, brutally beaten, the doors blocked by henchmen, crowbar striking him over and over and over. Where was his mother? Where was Sheila and her cigarette, where was the smoke filling the warehouse? Where was the bomb, ticking away to signal his doom?
“Hush, Jason. You are safe now.”
That wasn’t Sheila’s voice. Mum? Catherine? No. She was dead. Jason had been dead too, buried in the ground, surrounded by wood so tough he could still feel his fingernails scraping against it.
“Shhh. You are alive, Jason. You’re here. I am here.”
Talia.
Jason blinks, and the world clears. Gone is the green, the crowbar, the hands on him. He’s…
“You, Jason Todd, are a miracle.” She laughs, but she doesn’t, because Talia is too put together for that. She gives him a smile, far fonder than Jason has ever seen on her. Except, that wasn’t true. Hadn’t she smiled at him just last night, on the cliff, her hands on his cheek, wiping away the tears.
“Wha-” He tries to speak, but all he can do is cough. Water splashes on the floor, and he cowers away from it. The reflection in the puddle is wrong, so unlike him, he cannot stomach it.
The Lazarus Pit.
Talia is speaking, but he doesn’t listen, her words cloudy and far away.
He was alive. He’d been thrown in the Pit. An ‘honor’ reserved for Ra’s himself. How lucky, Jason thinks, to share this privilege. Killed by a maniac with green hair, received by a maniac cloaked in the same colour.
She seems to realise Jason’s still freaking out, because her speech stops. Then, Jason’s being dragged away, her hand grasping his (it should hurt, why didn’t it hurt, hadn’t his arms been burnt in the blast, where were his scars, why-). The robes he’s wearing are tight around him, too small and too thin for the coldness running through his bones.
She brings him to the cliff and they’re stood on the edge, the salty water reeks but he breathes it in anyways because it reminds him of home. Jason can feel the rocks digging into his feet, jagged and sharp, not a hint of smoothness in any of them. Perhaps not even pebbles are allowed in the League of Assassins. Even the rocks must be cold, hard, and unfeeling.
“...You are not ready to return to Gotham, are you?”
He is. Please. He wants to go home.
He thinks of school, of the upcoming play he’d wanted to audition for. He thinks of freshly brewed tea and painstakingly iced cookies. He thinks of stuffy noses and missed patrols and cuddles on the couch.
“You will stay here, for now. Father won’t be pleased, but once you have recovered, we will figure things out. Now you are cognizant, you will explain to him how you were revived.” She says, and her hand runs through his hair, so gentle that he can almost pretend she’s someone else. “Your answers will placate him, at least long enough for you to regain your bearings.”
Jason whines as they walk away from the cliffside, the familiar scent fading, only the stinging pain in his feet left as proof of where they’d been. She hushes him, but he doesn’t need to verbalise his sorrow for it to be real.
He had been dead. Now, he was alive. God, it was so painful.
When he wakes in the morning, shooting out of bed and landing on the floor, Jason’s far more aware of his surroundings.
Sure, he’s still dreadfully confused, but Batman’s training finally kicks in. Compartmentalise, he thinks. Focus, the grouchy voice in his head says, what do you see?
So, Jason looks around. The room is large, with beautiful sculptures in the corners and plants sprawling across the walls. He can count at least three different breeds of flowers, though their names allude him. The bed sheets are silk, adorned with golden thread, and Jason reaches out to run his fingers against it. The soft, shimmery fabric helps soothe him further.
Jason shifts on the ground, moving to a more comfortable position, but something still feels wrong. He grips the bedsheets in his hand with such strength he almost yanks them out of place. When he looks at his hand, he falters. Gone are his callouses, chewed up nails, and dainty hands. In their place are large, sprawling digits, unblemished, unlived.
“What..”
He scrambles upwards in search of a mirror, desperate to see himself. Of course, in this room, they do not risk giving him something that can so easily be shattered and reused as a weapon. Instead, he runs back to the bed, peering at himself in the knobs of the bedframe. There, reflected in the white metal, is the face of his father.
Jason screams, and the reflection does too. It’s squished, and colourless, but still terrifying. He does not want to grow to be a rough man like Willis, so hurt by the world he feels a need to hurt it back. He doesn’t want his hands to be used for crime, when they could be used to hold books or cook.
He stumbles back, falling against the wall. What do you see? A monster, Bruce. Dying in prison wasn’t enough, Willis had come back to haunt and mutilate Jason’s body, twisting it in his image like he had all those years ago.
“If you’re serious about this whole boy thing, then you’ll commit. No more crying, men don’t get that luxury.”
“A real man provides for his family, no matter what. Learn to run faster, your innocent face won’t help you if you’re caught with someone’s tires in hand.”
“Take care of your mother, you hear me? You’re the man of the house now.”
A victim of the world. Like father, like son, twisted by fate and beings bigger than themselves. A magical pit, a corrupt city, two feathers from the same bird.
Jason howls, clawing at the face. It is not his, it is not his father’s, it is a disgusting mixture, one forced upon him. Something he should adore, the body he’d always wished for, given to him without permission, without thought, without care.
Just like there is no scar from his death, there are no scars from his new life. He is a blank canvas. Not empty, no, there are layers upon layers of his life, but they have been scraped off and coated with a thick white paint. A clean slate, his mind mocks.
Had he not wished for this for years? Had Jason not asked for it in every prayer, on every lucky penny, to every shooting star? Had he not been waiting to fix himself? All this time hoping, only to cower away once he’d been blessed.
Jason crawls forward, staring at his reflection once more. The bloody scratches on his face seem to fade away, along with Willis’ eyes and chin. In its place, he sees another man. His other father.
“Fuck no..” He whispers, shaking his head.
“Save me..” He pleads, his hands tightening in prayer.
“Bruce, please..” He cries, falling to the floor.
He lays there for hours, clawing at his own body, for while it is the body he’s always wished for, it is not his. He had not chosen this body, just like he had not chosen his at birth. Again, comfort has been taken from him, and twisted to mimic someone else.
Jason is not good enough to be his own person, the green agrees. He must be someone else.