Chapter Text
The thing about the Lazarus Pit that people got wrong was the healing. All anyone ever talked about was the healing. How the body would be made anew. Broken bones remembered how they were meant to sit. Blood returned to its proper place. Organs replaced under skin that stitched closed like careful surgeons had worked for hours instead of seconds.
But the Pit didn’t heal. Not really.
The Pit stared the afterlife in the eye, stole the soul back, and refused to hand it over. And for that? It demanded a debt be repaid for the sin of defying death.
Ra’s had explained it to Jason once, fresh from the Pit and in his fugue-like state. Had taken him aside and described it with notable seriousness, like a man describing the aftermath of war.
“You must give it a purpose,” he’d said, standing with his hands clasped behind his back while green light rippled across the cavern walls. “Otherwise it will attempt to reclaim what it has restored.”
Ra’s had gone onto explain that his purpose was the League, the very organisation beneath their feet. Centuries of war and ideology and legacy. Of loyalty and betrayal. Of strength and numbers and family. The League of Assassins wasn’t just an army to him. It was a direction. A purpose that burned so bright the Pit barely touched him, even with how many times he took a dip in those emerald waters.
Then, the first time Jason had encountered Dusan, he had cautiously asked the man nearly as old as Ra’s what his purpose was, wondering what magical reason had stopped the Pit Madness that the other assassins murmured about.
The man had turned his head like the thought of saying it made him embarrassed, simply said, “Analysis.” What Dusan meant, Jason later found out through Talia, was that he had fully immersed himself into everything new. Any piece of tech made, languages spoken, chemicals and cures being founded: Dusan was there, breaking it apart and remaking it until he understood it. His purpose was learning.
Later, before he left for Gotham, Nyssa had told Jason, late at night over tea that tasted like bitter leaves and smoke, “I almost didn’t survive my first resurrection.” It was said so casually, he had choked on his sip. “I nearly shattered completely.”
“What changed?” Jason had asked, when the coughing had stopped.
She’d looked down at her cup, smiling faintly. “I learned I was pregnant.”
The purpose of family, of protection and love.
Jason had thought it was mystical bullshit at the time. Something Ra’s said, and the family all agreed to go along with, because he didn’t want Jason to waste his new lease of life. The idea of death calling to him, wanting his soul back, seemed too crazy, even for someone whose adoptive father dressed as a bat and punched people in back alleys. He couldn’t grasp that if he didn’t give it something to hold onto - something strong enough to anchor him to the living - eventually the gravity of the grave won.
Now, though, years later from that idle comment, he understood.
The Pit didn’t drag you back physically. It didn’t need to. It gnawed. It whispered. It chipped away at the mind.
And in what felt like random moments, that soon became a pattern, Jason found himself in more and more worrying situations. Looking over a bridge here. Leaning into a hit there. Not checking the safety on his guns. Sharpening his knives to the point of drawing blood from a light touch.
After the umpteenth time of patrol ending with him broken and bleeding - his healing may have improved because of the Pit, but it still hurt - he knew he had to truly ask himself: what was his purpose?
Well, wasn’t that the big fucking question.
At the start, for a while, he thought it was vengeance. Batman and the Joker and the fact he died and came back.
Then he thought it was Gotham. Helping the civilians, sorting out the gangs, ensuring he was at the top of the food chain to protect his people.
Then he thought it was proving something to Batman. No more killing, no more severely maiming, just following his rules.
Then he thought it was proving something to himself. Proving that he was more than just a killer, a criminal, a crime boss; proving he could care and love and be better than what people naturally assumed of him.
Turns out purpose wasn’t something that could be spun around like a carousal, or tried on for size like a new suit.
The Pit didn’t like half-arsed attempts to the debt owed. No matter what he tried, the Pit lingered, and the grave still whispered to him, like an annoyingly persistent summoner.
With that horrific thought, he passed out atop his bedcovers, still healing and bleeding, and fearing how much more he could take of the whispering, the unsubtle calls of the void. Jason was a strong man, in both body and mind, but he wasn’t strong enough to handle a mystical force begging for his death.
And found himself waking to the sound of someone stamping through his apartment. As he blinked his eyes open, he was assaulted by the morning sun slamming through his windows, into the dusty, stale air, as said person opened his blinds.
Damian. Huh. Made sense.
He tilted his head, spying the alarm clock on his bedside table past the bloody bandages, gun, cigarette packets and stray books. Six o’clock in the fucking morning. This kid.
“Jesus—” Jason groaned and shoved his arm over his face.
Damian stood beside his bed like an accusatory gargoyle. “You were supposed to be awake, Ahki.”
Jason’s voice came out muffled. “S’early.”
“It is six.”
“Time is a social construct.”
Damian did not laugh.
Jason slowly peeled his arm off his face and squinted at the kid.
Fourteen years old and already built like a weapon. Dark hair, green eyes, posture straight enough to make a drill sergeant seethe with jealousy. He crossed his arms and glared at Jason, who simply rolled his eyes at the unimpressed look.
“You missed patrol.”
Jason pushed himself upright with a groan. He didn’t miss patrol, in fact he was sure he did his own patrol—
He checked the alarm clock again. Ah. It was Thursday. He had slept for nearly two days. Whoops.
“I miss lots of things.” He said, sighing.
For a moment neither of them spoke. Jason took the pause to rub at his eyes, feeling that familiar sluggish heaviness in his chest. The Pit again. Probably. Or maybe just brain chemistry. Hard to tell. Jason was, and had always been, more than a little fucked up.
Damian walked away from him, and deeper into the apartment, like he owned the place. Which, considering where he found himself, Jason wouldn’t be surprised if Talia had money in half his safe houses, either keeping the heating running or buying the whole building. Sometimes she took her protectiveness too far. Sometimes, though he would never admit it, Jason liked it. Felt safe under her watchful gaze.
Jason dragged himself up, shucked off his clothing - dried with blood - and replaced it with a band t-shirt he stole from Dick and a pair of sweats he was pretty sure were Bruce’s. He ignored the healing wounds on his body - the bruises, the cuts, and the bullet wounds - and followed after Damian to his living room, which looked like the aftermath of a minor hurricane. Pizza boxes. A half-cleaned handgun. Motorcycle gloves. A stack of books that Jason had started reading during one of his maybe I’ll try self-improvement phases.
He was usually better at normal self-care, and had rarely been messy, but with his brain like it was…
Damian opened the fridge. Tutted. “You have nothing but beer.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “And some,” He checked the fridge contents himself, “half-eaten ham. Look at that! Balanced diet.”
“You are an idiot.” Damian shut the fridge and turned around. “I brought breakfast.” He nodded to the paper bag on the counter and commanded, “Eat.”
Jason stared at it. Then at Damian. Joked, emptily, “Is this a hostage situation?”
Damian gave him an unimpressed stare that fully threatened violence. “If necessary.”
Jason snorted softly and opened the box. Perfectly cooked rice. The smell of orange and saffron. Coconut milk and almonds. League cooking. He grabbed a fork and took a bite and yep, still warm.
“Your mom send you?” Jason asked, around a mouthful.
“No.” Damian huffed.
Jason took another bite. “Your mom absolutely sent you.”
Damian ignored that. “You have not been answering messages,” he said. When all Jason did was shrug, he sighed and added, with emphasis, “Our mother worries.”
The silent, “as do I”, lingered.
Jason hummed, non-committally, even as guilt built in his gut, making him wince internally.
“You also stopped attending therapy.”
Jason nearly choked on his food. “How the fuck—?” He snapped.
Damian gave him a dark smile. “I checked the CCTV footage and admin files of attendance.”
Jason stared at him. Sometimes he forgot his little brother was a League assassin with al Ghul blood. “You’re fourteen.”
“I am efficient.”
Jason rubbed a hand down his face. Damian shouldn’t feel the need to be efficient when it came to ensuring Jason was okay. Damian should be experiencing life the way any other fourteen year old would: schoolwork, breaking rules, getting into relationships, falling out of them. The kid deserved more than this. Deserved a better older brother than Jason. “Kid…”
“You promised,” Damian whispered, tone dropping in fury. He was shaking and when Jason met his eyes, he turned abruptly away, hiding his emotion.
Jason ached. “I promise a lotta things.”
Damian’s shoulders drew up his ears, and then he made the overtly obvious choice to lower them, and turn back around. He said, in a softer voice, “You are… dipping again.”
Jason froze. Looked down at the pilaf. Put his fork down and scrubbed his eyes with his hands. The word sat between them: dipping. League slang for when the Lazarus Pit waters called for your soul back, like dipping a toe back into a pool, only to get tugged in.
Jason took his hands away from his face, forced a smile, even with the knowledge that it wouldn’t do him any good. “I’m fine,” he insisted. Based on the raised eyebrow, Damian did not believe him. Not that Jason was trying very hard. Not when it was clear Damian knew the signs.
Jason picked up his fork and shoved another bite of food into his mouth and changed the subject, ignoring how the rice now tasted like ash. “You got homework?”
Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he let it go. A mercy Jason wasn’t sure he earned. He nodded, said, “For mathematics.”
“Gross,” Jason commented and Damian snorted. The tension in the room dissipated immediately.
“It is basic algebra,” he said with an eye roll, and pulled a notebook from the bag Jason now noticed was resting against his cabinets, dropping it on the table.
Jason sighed dramatically. “You’re exploiting me? And it couldn’t even be for Lit?”
“Yes,” Damian responded with a tiny smirk.
“Child labour laws exist, ya know.”
“You are not a child, Akhi.”
Jason gasped, dramatically, and Damian scoffed. Together, while Jason ate the rest of his pilaf, they spent the next twenty minutes arguing about algebra. Jason exaggerated his confusion - he, unfortunately, did like school and dying and becoming a crime boss vigilante didn’t stop his love of learning, nor did it make him forget what he had previously learnt - just to watch Damian get increasingly annoyed.
It was the closest thing to peace he’d felt all week. No whispering in his head, no tugging of his body to the fire escape. He felt he could breathe easier: no sudden pressure on his chest or lungs.
As Damian packed away his notebook and pen, he murmured, “This fortnight, you have missed patrol three times.”
Jason sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, walked over to his sink and washed his fork. “Taking after Tim, I see, with your newfound stalker ways. You keeping a spreadsheet?”
Even the dig about being Tim didn’t make Damian back down. He simply gave Jason a pointed look, which Jason ignored as he put his fork away.
“You also missed dinner at the manor.”
Jason shrugged, leant against his counter. “Busy.”
“You were not busy,” Damian said, confidently.
Jason didn’t answer. He couldn’t because Damian wasn’t wrong and lying, consistently and constantly, to him gave Jason hives.
Down below, sirens wailed in the distance. Gotham’s familiar song. Oh, how he loved his city. Oh, how it made him ache.
Damian spoke again, quietly. “You should come tomorrow.”
Jason looked out of the window.
“Father will be gone,” Damian said, like it was a board meeting negotiation and not a discussion of a family meal.
Jason snorted. “Space again?” Damian nodded. Jason asked, “The rest of the brood?”
“Grayson is with him so Brown and Cain are covering Bludhaven’s patrols. Drake is with his colleagues. Thomas will be there if he is not patrolling.”
Jason leaned back on his hands. He could do it, considering it would be a smaller affair than he was used to. He could… but he couldn’t promise Damian anything.
“Be safe, Akhi.” Damian said, and took his leave out of the window, not waiting for Jason’s answer. Jason didn’t know whether to feel relieved at that, that he didn’t need to formulate a response, or guilt, that his brother had already accepted that Jason wasn’t coming.
And then three days later, Jason stood on a rooftop, getting drenched in the rain, overlooking the bridge to Arkham. He could smell the sewage treatment plant, and the natural rusty, damp scent Gotham naturally carried. Only, he also smelt the thick, metallic scent of his own blood. Could hear the echoes of his own screams, the ticking of the bomb.
Because once again, Joker had broken out.
A new psychologist, the news were broadcasting. Someone believing he could be rehabilitated. Twenty-five, fresh from a Wayne Industries apprenticeship, and found dead in Joker’s cell, Glasgow smile on their lips, their throat slit. Badge and clothes stolen and used to escape.
Again.
Jason sat down, heavily, on the edge. Ran a wet hand through his hair. Ignored the buzzing coming from his helmet beside him which indicated that the others were probably trying to get hold of him.
It wouldn’t be long before Babs hacked his signal, narrowed his coordinates down. Then it would be minutes before Dick would show up, because it was always Dick when there was an Arkham breakdown.
Mostly because Jason stopped shooting at him when he showed up, whilst Bruce ended up taking the whole clip.
Cold wind brushed his face. The city, his city, trying to often comfort, to wipe the tears, hidden by the rain, on his cheeks.
He felt… empty. Not angry, not anymore. Not sad. Not even heartbroken. Just hollow. Numb. Like the Pit had carved something out, something vital, and forgotten to fill the space back in. His ribs were cracked open and his heart was beating but was he really alive? Or was he just a poor excuse for a walking corpse.
He thought about all the purposes he’d tried. The ways he’d hoped to find a way to exist.
Therapy. Meditation. Crime lord. Vigilante. Church, once, where he sobbed at the pews, begging to know what he did so wrong that warranted this existence. But God remained silent, and the stained glass windows reminded him too much of his broken self, and so he left, heavier than before.
None of them stuck. None of them were strong enough. Or maybe, the sick truth was that he, himself, just wasn’t strong enough. Maybe Jason Todd was always meant to die, and was meant to stay dead.
The thought landed heavy in his chest.
Below him, Arkham was lit up with flashing security lights and the ever-growing sound of inmates screaming. Jason stood, turned, not even feeling terrified at the prospect of Joker being out. He instead stared out across Gotham. The stretching skyline. Dirty. Chaotic. Beautiful.
Home.
And he realised, as Joker rampaged through the city streets, as the varying Bats tried to locate him and put him back to the revolving door of the Asylum, as a twenty-five year old’s parents were told they should probably have a closed casket, he couldn’t keep doing this.
Not like this. It wasn’t sustainable. He was going nowhere. He was nothing. Nothing but a blip. A zombie, with grave-dirt still in his pockets, and a head not screwed on right. A dead son, and a dead soldier, and nothing but memories.
The Pit wasn’t loud tonight. It didn’t need to be.
Jason already knew.
The decision had been made.
He picked up his helmet. Looked at it. Sighed. Set it back down. “No point,” he muttered and then pulled his phone out. Removed the tracker Bruce had slipped into the casing. Snapped it in half and watched the tiny chip shattering onto the rooftop.
He took the second tracker out of his jacket. Then the third from his boot. Dropped them onto the rooftop. Living in a household with Willis Todd, Mr. Paranoia himself Batman, and then the League had left it’s mark on just how much surveillance a person could survive under.
Gotham hummed quietly around him. He knew what she was asking. He shook his head and the wind rustled his hair, even as the rain fell harder, the air growing colder. Not pleased by his answer but accepting it.
“Help me,” he said, quietly.
Then he started walking. Across rooftops. Down fire escapes. Through empty streets: Gothamites knowing better than to be out with the threat of Joker. He went back to his territory. The Narrows. Bowery. Crime Alley. Pressed his head to brick. Ran his hand across the concrete. Gave his home one last pat goodbye.
Then he turned away. Kept walking. No Bats to be found on the way, so maybe she really was helping him, hiding him. Eventually the buildings thinned. He hit the highway, started crossing the bridge out of Gotham.
Half-way across, he murmured, “Goodbye, Gotham. I would do it here but… I don’t want to crawl out of another grave. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to stay.”
Another rustle of his hair from the wind, then a stronger push. In the rising sunlight of dawn, all reds and golds, Jason gave her one last smile, shoved his hands into his pockets and turned around. Started walking out of the city.
He didn’t notice he’d forgotten the bike until ten miles later. By then it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He didn’t have a place or person in mind. He just kept walking.
And walking.
And walking.
Until Gotham was just a shadow behind him.
Jason had been walking for what must’ve been hours when his phone rang with a different ringtone. See, the Bats all had the default but when Jason was with the Outlaws, Roy demanded a personalised ringtone.
We Didn’t Start the Fire kept ringing out.
Jason didn’t want to answer but—
It was Roy.
“Yeah?” He said, bringing the phone to his ear, found himself walking down a highway.
Roy Harper’s voice exploded through the speaker. “Hey, Jaybird! Any idea what bedtime stories work best? Lian’s being fussy - nothing to worry about, just a cold, you know how it is - but she always sleeps for you.”
Jason found himself pausing, smiling without realising. The Pit, that had been tugging him forward for the past hours, went quiet.
And something dangerously close to a reason tugged at the edge of his chest.