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Jason has plenty of time to think while the Team flies to the Watchtower. He's been having a mostly terrible day, and it hasn’t exactly lent itself to letting Jason process anything.
So. Bad news and good news.
Bad news: Jason was kidnapped by the Joker and nearly beaten to death.
Good news: Flamebird rescued him, the Joker is dead, and Jason is safe.
Bad news: Flamebird is a killer, and he’s Jason.
Good — albeit incredibly weird — news: Flamebird isn't an evil future version of him. He's an undead alternate universe counterpart to Jason. Who is older than him.
Bad news: Jason could have died the same way Flamebird did. Would have died like Flamebird. Murdered by the Joker, but with no guarantee that Flamebird's method of coming back to life existed in this world, too.
No do overs, no second chances. He would have just been...dead. That would suck, obviously, but worse than that...
It would crush Dick. It would crush B.
Good news, the news he’s going to keep reminding himself of: he is alive.
Flamebird rescued him.
"Thank you," Jason tells his counterpart.
Flamebird is sticking close to the Bats; they’re all huddled the back of the Bioship where Batman tucked him carefully into one of the Bioship’s seats, Flamebird’s jacket still around his shoulders. They don’t have much they can use to treat any of Jason’s injuries on the ship, so they have to wait until they reach the Watchtower, which is predictably making Bruce hover, and seems to mildly unnerve Flamebird.
Part of that might be because Flamebird has disarmed himself further; he hadn’t fully stripped himself of weapons on the surface, but he handed more of them over without complaint once on the Bioship.
Jason doesn’t believe for a minute that Flamebird’s given them everything. There have got to be more still hidden on his person; Jason wouldn’t give up everything to people he doesn’t trust, and Flamebird is a version of him. Disarming this much is a gesture of trust and cooperation on Flamebird’s part, so none of the Team members are saying anything about whatever he still has, and they won’t until and unless it becomes an issue.
Batman has probably already created several plans for that exact scenario
"What?" Flamebird asks.
"Thank you," Jason repeats. "I didn't tell you earlier. You saved my life."
Flamebird shifts uncomfortably. "You would have done the same thing."
No, Jason wouldn't. Flamebird killed the Joker. Jason isn't mourning the fact that he's dead, but if he — as he was right now, not as the man Flamebird had grown into — had been in the same situation, he wouldn't have killed the Joker.
He told Batman about the Joker's death when he arrived, while Jason was still held safely in Kid Flash's grasp, because he wasn’t sure if Nightwing had already passed that information along. Maybe knowing a version of Jason killed someone is what made Batman be so hard on Flamebird. Maybe that's what made him layer disapproval heavy in his voice, until Flamebird snapped and screamed at him.
And then—
Robin died. I'm just what crawled out of his grave, Flamebird said, and that was almost worse than the screaming, because he didn't even sound angry as he said it. Not like he had when talking about the Joker.
He said it like it was fact. Like it was truth — a truth universally acknowledged.
Jason doesn't want to be Flamebird. He does kind of want to yell at some people in Flamebird’s home dimension, if that’s how Flamebird thinks of himself. If no one has corrected him on that.
"It's kind of our job," Jason says, grinning at Flamebird, keeping those heavy thoughts to himself. "But...you didn't know it was an alternate universe when you rescued me. You could have erased yourself. So thank you."
Flamebird is going to accept Jason's gratitude for that, no matter how much it makes him squirm. It’s strange watching that make him so uncomfortable — Jason knows how to accept gratitude from civilians because of his Robin training, which means Flamebird should know how to do it, too. He definitely pulled out the Robin voice on Jason earlier.
Maybe it's that Flamebird is technically being thanked by himself here. Jason can see how that would be discomfiting.
"...You're welcome," Flamebird mutters.
Nightwing decides that's a perfect time to join the conversation. "Robin," he says with a wide smile. "Am I allowed to revisit the Flamebird conversation now?"
"Try again in a couple years," Jason shoots back. He likes being Robin. He liked being Bluejay before that, back when he was still training and only visiting Mount Justice. He would have been fine keeping Bluejay as his hero name, but Dick offered Robin to Jason. Robin, and the legacy attached to it. He couldn't say no.
He still can't say no to the lure of it. He isn't ready to stop being Robin yet.
Robin gives him magic.
"But Robin," Nightwing wheedles, and gestures at Flamebird. Jason gets a sudden bad feeling. "He chose Flamebird too! Surely that's a solid recommendation—”
Oh no, Jason realizes. Nightwing wasn't there to hear that part.
The part where Flamebird very obviously drew a codename out of thin air.
"I fucking knew I was going to regret that," Flamebird groans. "Flamebird isn't actually my codename, you idiot."
"Oh," Nightwing says, looking disappointed.
"What is?" Batman asks. He sounds like he already knows.
Flamebird exhales slowly. “When I —” He pauses. Seems to consider what to say. Restarts. “When I took up the name, I was trying to draw out the Joker. I was trying to make him mad.” He jerks his head toward the front of the Bioship, where his red helmet is in Kid Flash’s custody for the trip to the Watchtower.
Yeah. Jason called it.
"Red Hood," Nightwing says. It’s not a guess.
Flamebird — Hood? — nods.
Jason knew he was lying about Flamebird, but the fact that his codename exists to wave a literal red taunt in the Joker’s direction is horrifying.
(Jason is also well aware that there’s something his counterpart is glossing over. Something he isn’t willing to discuss yet.
Such as: why was he trying to draw the Joker’s attention? And, given that it couldn’t have taken long, what happened when he got it?)
”You should keep Flamebird," Jason says impulsively. "Joker's dead. Let everything about him stay that way."
Flamebird looks like he's about to say something; Nightwing gets there first.
"What about you?" he asks. He doesn't sound disappointed, only thoughtful. “You’ll outgrow Robin someday.”
"I can always go back to Bluejay," Jason says, shrugging.
Flamebird snorts. He's Jason, too, so of course he gets the joke. But the way he laughs at it kind of makes it seem like—
"Did you never go by Bluejay?" Jason asks.
"No," Flamebird says. "It was always Robin for me." A shadow passes over his face. He shakes it off and adds, "There's a Bluebird back home. No relation to us. That's as close as it gets."
"What about when you visited Mount Justice with Nightwing?" Jason presses.
Flamebird doesn't say anything for a long minute.
"Nightwing and I were never close before I died," he says eventually. "We didn't really do that kind of thing. Not more than a couple of times, anyway."
That's — they weren't close? Jason loves having a brother. He loves having Dick as a brother. Sure, they had to get used to each other during those first few months, given they were both only children up until that point, but they got there.
They’re brothers.
Flamebird never had that?
"Oh," Jason says.
That’s it. He hates Flamebird's universe. He hates the entire concept of a universe where they aren’t brothers.
"You're officially Flamebird here," Nightwing declares, evidently making similar leaps of logic. "No take-backsies."
"What are you, five?" Flamebird asks, but a small smile makes its way onto his face.
"Hey, wait," Nightwing says, with a note of dawning realization. "This means I have two baby brothers for the price of one!"
"Excuse the hell outta you, I'm twenty-two," Flamebird says. "You're, what, twenty?"
"Uh, eighteen," Nightwing says.
"Shit, really?" Flamebird says, peering closely at him. "My Nightwing is twenty-eight." He looks between Nightwing and Jason. "You're closer in age here."
That's interesting to know, but there's something more important that just came out of that discussion. Jason elbows Nightwing in the ribs.
"This means you're the middle child now," he informs his older brother cheerfully.
"But — I like being the oldest!" Nightwing protests.
Flamebird laughs.
It’s bright and amused, nothing mocking to it. It’s the first time Jason has heard his counterpart laugh and — it’s Jason’s laugh.
Obviously they’re the same person, but Jason can really see it now. It’s strange, this funhouse mirror reflection of him, and yet. There’s something fascinating about it, too.
“Don’t worry, Nightwing,” Flamebird says, still laughing a bit. “You’ll get plenty more chances.”
“What does that mean?” Nightwing asks. Flamebird smirks at him. “Flamebird, what does that mean?”
“Oh, look like we’ve arrived,” Flamebird says casually.
“Flamebird,” Nightwing complains, but he’s right. They’re docking at the Watchtower, and Flamebird takes his chance to duck away from Nightwing. He trails along behind Kid Flash, exiting the Bioship with the speedster.
Exiting without Nightwing, and without Batman, who is helping Jason lever himself to his feet. Jason has to clutch Batman’s arm after he manages to stand; everything goes briefly fuzzy, and Jason sways in place.
“I’ve got you, Jay,” Batman says, for his ears alone. Jason leans his weight onto him and lets Batman help him. B isn’t going to let anything else happen to him.
Flamebird is waiting for them when they hobble out of the Bioship. Nightwing stands next to him; he’s not needling Flamebird for any more information right now, instead tucking away all that lighthearted ease to focus on the mission again. Jason is just about as safe as he can be now, which means it’s time to deal with Flamebird.
They have protocols for a reason. They can’t simply take Flamebird at his word, not when they’ve been burned before. Jason knows that; regrets sits heavy in his stomach anyway. He knows Flamebird understands this, too, but—
“Come break me out of the infirmary after your debrief?” Jason asks.
“Robin,” Batman says, not managing to disguise the fondness in his voice.
“Sure,” Flamebird says. He looks at Batman. Jason doesn’t think he’s imagining the hesitance in Flamebird’s voice when he asks, “You need a blood draw first?”
Batman nods.
They make their way to the infirmary all together. B helps Jason strip his armor off, leaving only soft, dark undergarments. Now that they’re at the infirmary, Batman can give Jason a much more thorough examination. He can wrap Jason’s ribs, get him cold packs for shoulders strained by being cuffed behind his back, check him for the concussion Flamebird was so concerned about.
“Kal is on his way,” Batman says. “He’ll check you for any other internal injuries.”
They have an x-ray on the Watchtower, but B has to know that Jason is exhausted. The adrenaline has all faded, Jason is safe, and more than anything, he wants to go to sleep. Batman sets Jason up with an IV, ruffles his hair, and then turns to accept the vial of blood Nightwing has pulled from Flamebird while B was busy with Jason. They step slightly away from Jason and have a whispered conversation.
While they do that, Jason crawls under the sheets of the bed he’s on. He feels himself losing his battle with consciousness.
It doesn’t take long for Batman and Nightwing’s little conference to break up. Nightwing goes back to Flamebird; Batman returns to Jason.
“I’ll see you later,” Jason says to Flamebird. He spreads the vigilante’s coat — which he still has — over the bed’s sheets so that it covers his shoulders and torso, another layer against the chill of the Watchtower.
“Later, kid,” Flamebird says as he exits the infirmary with Nightwing.
Batman sits next to Jason’s bedside. Jason sneaks a hand out from beneath the sheets. B meets him halfway, holding onto his hand.
Jason closes his eyes and lets himself drift away.
Jason waits a few corridors before asking, “Is the kid going to be all right?” B and Nightwing had a brief consultation before he and Nightwing left, so he knows Dick is up to date.
Nightwing seems a little surprised by the question. “Yeah,” he says.
“No head trauma?” he asks, aiming for casual.
He misses, if the way Nightwing eyes him as he shakes his head is any indication. “A minor concussion,” he says. “No lasting harm.”
Yeah, I hope so, Jason thinks.
“You seem kind of preoccupied by that,” Nightwing observes, not quite neutrally.
Jason grimaces.
“Is it something we need to watch out for with Robin?” Nightwing presses, stopping in the middle of the hallway.
“I don’t know,” Jason says grudgingly. “Just…keep an eye on him, I guess. This isn’t exactly familiar ground to me.”
Nightwing backs off at that. He starts walking again; Jason follows, flexing his hands. He’s not looking for any sort of fight, not when the fight he started on the surface ended so poorly, but his hands ache with the remembered pain of broken fingers, splinters jammed under his nails, mud caked on his skin and in his mouth.
Most of that year is still one massive blur. He wishes digging himself out wasn’t so clear.
Nightwing leads Jason to one of the League’s smaller conference rooms. Jason sits on one side of the table; Nightwing sits on the other.
If there’s ever a good reason to stay out of League business, it’s this. Jason hates having to deal with all the trappings of civility and cooperation that the League demands. He doesn’t want strangers in his business. All he wants is to take care of his little corner of the world, and do it his way.
Unfortunately, he’s stuck with the Justice League for now. At least he is if he wants to find his way home. Their resources are his best bet.
The debrief is relatively painless, as far as it goes. Jason has given countless similar debriefs over the years; this is nothing new for him. It’s a familiar practice for Nightwing, too — though he’s a little tense when Jason tells him about killing the Joker.
Jason had expected that. He almost wishes it wasn’t a Bat that was debriefing him. At least some of the other League members understand killing. The Bats never will.
Jason knows that from personal experience.
The problem isn’t the debrief. The problem is what comes after it.
“There are a few other tests we’d like to do,” Nightwing says.
“Like what?” Jason asks. They’ve already got his blood, and Batman has to have the results by now. Personally, Jason’s a little curious if his blood type matches his counterpart’s, even though they’re from a different universe. They certainly look the same, so maybe there are more similarities.
Jason figures whatever test Nightwing is going to suggest will, at most, be some kind of information game, with Nightwing asking Jason questions and diagnosing the similarities and differences between their worlds.
It’s an unpleasant shock when Nightwing says carefully, “We’d like to take a peek inside your mind.”
Immediately, Jason is drowning. Nightwing’s lips are still moving, but Jason can’t hear a word he’s saying.
“No one is messing with my head,” Jason grinds out. He doesn’t really hear himself say it. He’s too busy trying to control the Pit, which is telling him that he should kill Nightwing now and make a run for it before anyone else gets the bright idea to fuck with him.
Jason breathes shallowly. He isn’t going to hurt Nightwing; that will make everything so much harder. Plus, he’s been trying so hard to repair his relationship with the family, and—
And this Nightwing isn’t his brother. He’s not Jason’s Nightwing. He doesn’t know what he’s asking.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Jason drags himself back.
Hearing filters back in first.
“Jay,” Nightwing is saying. “You’re on the Watchtower. It’s 11:38 on April 27 th , and you’re in an alternate universe. Your name is Jason—”
“Stop talking,” Jason says. He knows all that. He also knows Nightwing is only trying to ground him in the present circumstances.
Nightwing shuts his mouth. He glances down at Jason’s side of the table — no, toward Jason’s hands, where they’re gripping the edge of the table. Jason has no doubt that under his gloves, his fingers are white with the pressure he’s exerting.
Achingly, he loosens his grip. He takes several more deep breaths.
Think, Talia’s voice chides him. Even years later, it’s still her that he hears in his mind. Think logically.
There are too many reasons why they might want access to his mind. He can try to figure them all out on his own, ranking from plausible to paranoid —
Or he can ask.
If Dick lies to him, then Jason has some protections he can arm in his mind thanks to his time both as Robin and as a member of the All-Caste. If those fail, he can always set the Pit loose on whoever is in his head.
The Lazarus Pit is not fun when it’s being weaponized against you.
Okay. Okay. Jason has a plan. As long as he has a plan, he can do this.
First thing’s first.
“Why?” he asks Nightwing. “What will you be looking for?”
“Proof,” Nightwing says slowly, waiting to see if that’s going to set Jason off again. “Maybe we can look at your memory of that patrol, try to figure out how to send you home. And…”
Jason gestures impatiently at Nightwing when he seems reluctant to continue.
“Red Arrow had triggers and commands buried in his subconscious,” Nightwing says. “He nearly took out the whole League. And the Team.”
Shit.
Superboy’s suspicion toward him skews in an entirely different direction. Jason’s been a bit distracted, but he should have put it together earlier. No one clones a hero for shits and giggles. Of course there was a plan.
What better way to take out heroes than to use one of their own?
It was exactly what Jason had capitalized on when he came back to Gotham. He knew Gotham, knew the Bats and their methods, and he’d used that against them to devastating effect.
He’d attacked Tim in Titans Tower, one of the places where he was supposed to be safe, because Jason had that inside access to use against him.
That had all been deliberate on Jason’s part. What Nightwing’s saying here — Roy didn’t know. He was taken and cloned and used and he hadn’t known.
The League — the Team — dealt with it. They’re both still here, after all.
Jason doesn’t know how Roy is dealing with that. Either of them.
(He refuses to consider the implications of clones right now. Of how having two Roy Harpers running around would have ruined the whole gambit.
He is going to operate under the assumption that they are both safely out of the hands of supervillains. If he’s wrong —
If he’s wrong, he’s going to be very busy soon.)
Jason is pissed of on the Roys’ behalf. If they haven’t already gotten their revenge, Jason is going to offer his assistance with breaking some faces. He’s pretty good at that.
Bloody revenge can wait, though. There’s no way they’re going to let him near Roy if he doesn’t clear himself of suspicion.
If he doesn’t let someone in his mind.
Jason does not like people in his mind. He hates making himself vulnerable like that, opening himself up so that someone could rearrange him if they wanted. He has enough problems because of the Pit; there’s no need to invite someone else to fuck with the fragile equilibrium he’s acquired.
It’s not really looking like he has much of a choice here.
“What would this little test entail?” Jason asks.
“Making sure you’re not a clone, and whether or not you are, making sure there’s no hidden commands in your subconscious,” Nightwing answers promptly. “As far as proof—” He hesitates.
“Patrol last night not enough?”Jason asks, throwing it out like a challenge. “I was with you.” And Robin, not that Nightwing has ever met the Demon Brat. Jason’s keeping that close to his chest for as long as he can.
“Maybe,” Nightwing says, grimacing. “We can start with the commands and patrol and go from there. B and I don’t always see eye to eye; he might ask you for more.”
Right. Why should Jason have expected anything else?
However, that brings up an important point. Batman isn’t the only factor here.
“Who’s going to be getting in my head?” Jason wants to know.
“Martian Manhunter undid Red Arrow’s programming,” Nightwing says. “But if you’d feel more comfortable with someone closer to your age, Miss Martian—”
“No,” Jason says.
He’s had J’onn in his head before. He’d helped Jason set up his mental defenses as Robin. More than that, J’onn is an adult, and he’s an experienced telepath. Jason doesn’t know or trust Miss Martian or her abilities, and he doesn’t have any guess as to what her reactions will be to anything she sees inside his head.
Or how she’ll be able to handle anything dangerous she might run up against.
Nightwing doesn’t know about the Pit. Jason was banking on that if it turned out Nightwing was lying to him, but if he knew, he never would have suggested his little friend.
He seems like he’s been honest about this so far, which means Jason needs to warn them.
(If they betray him anyway — he’ll figure something out. He always does.)
“It has to be J’onn,” Jason says.
“…Why?”
“You have any mask solvent?” Jason asks. It’s not meant as a deflection. It’s meant as proof.
He could just say it, he could just wait for the lab work on his blood that will no doubt display the Lazarus waters still running through his veins—
But Jason is well aware of how disturbing his eyes are to people who knew him before. They always expect clear blue, and neither that nor the boy those eyes belonged to are coming back.
These days, his eyes have settled to a baseline teal, the closest they’ll ever return to the pure blue they were before. The first several years after the Pit, they’d been constantly green — the bright, artificial color of a Lazarus Pit.
A baseline is a baseline for a reason. A baseline implies change.
Kaleidoscope eyes, Roy has jokingly called them more than once. Jason threatened to shoot him if he ever called them mood ring eyes, even if Roy can suss out Jason’s moods by checking the color.
This close to the aftermath of a Pit episode, Jason’s eyes aren’t going to be teal. They’re not going to be anywhere near blue.
Nightwing tosses some solvent across the table to him. Jason catches the bottle, quickly applying it with practiced motions.
“It has to be J’onn,” Jason says, pulling off his domino and meeting Nightwing’s eyes with his own. “Because I was dunked in a Lazarus Pit.”
His eyes are wrong.
It’s a stupid thought. Dick is already 85% convinced that Flamebird is telling the truth that he’s from another dimension, so why should it be a surprise that this Jason’s eyes are a different color? Maybe that’s just how it is in Flamebird’s dimension.
Except.
“I was dunked in a Lazarus Pit.”
Those eyes are absolutely, indisputably the glowing green of a Lazarus Pit. They might literally be glowing; if they’re not, there’s still something unnatural about them, something that pings his hindbrain as wrong.
It’s the same feeling Dick gets whenever he and B come face-to-face with Ra’s al Ghul.
(On the one hand, it’s kind of interesting to know that Lazarus Pits are behind that unease. Some of it, at least; Ra’s is intimidating in his own right.
On the other hand, it’s heartbreaking to look at a version of his little brother and have his mind scream WRONG.)
Flamebird hasn’t said anything. Dick’s pretty sure he hasn’t even blinked, keeping that eerie stare directed at Dick.
Dick hasn’t fully had time to parse everything that happened down on the surface. He hadn’t had time to wonder how Flamebird had come back from his death, other than believe Flamebird wasn’t speaking in metaphors about it.
A Lazarus Pit neatly answers the question Dick hadn’t even thought to ask yet.
“The Pit is how…?”
Flamebird finally looks away.
“No,” he says. “Told you, right? I crawled out. On my own.”
Okay, see, Dick had believed Flamebird about his death, but he’d assumed that little statement had been metaphorical when Flamebird originally said it. If Dick thinks about it too hard he’s going to lose his last tenuous grip on his self-control and have a breakdown. Right here. He’s trying to save that until he can talk to Batman and/or Black Canary, so he is pointedly ignoring that for now.
He still has to take a moment before continuing. Not incidentally, it gives him a moment to think.
If it wasn’t a Lazarus Pit that brought this Jason back, if he came back some other way…
“Then why were you in a Lazarus Pit?” Dick completes the thought out loud. There’s something missing here, something he feels like he should be able to figure out—
“The Joker beat me to death,” Flamebird says, quiet. “I came back. I didn’t come back fixed.”
No head trauma?
You seem kind of preoccupied by that.
Dick’s eyes dart to that curl of white in Flamebird’s hair. Flamebird sees it, since Dick doesn’t do anything to disguise the motion, and he touches it almost self-consciously.
“Not an aesthetic choice then,” Dick says.
“No,” Flamebird says. “Dye doesn’t stick. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
That’s…weird. It certainly implies the loss of color was caused by the magic of the Pit, rather than by scarring or by the trauma of — of what happened in the warehouse. (Or anything that followed it, which Dick still isn’t thinking about.) Or maybe it’s some mix of reasons, all of it combining to be an irreversible reminder of what had happened.
Dick is going to cry.
His next therapy session with Dinah is going to be a lot.
Until then: repression! One of the best tools in a Bat’s arsenal!
Dinah’s definitely going to be disappointed in him, but that’s a problem for future Dick.
Dick is not going to be pressing for any more information about Flamebird’s past right now. B can ask later, but Dick’s little brother was almost murdered today. If Flamebird hadn’t been there, he would be dead. Dick can’t really handle hearing about how it happened in another world.
“Okay,” Dick says. “J’onn. You’re probably ready to be done with all this, so I’m just gonna—” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, pointing toward the door.
“Sure,” Flamebird says. He doesn’t sound particularly enthused, but at least it’s not the teeth-gritting panic attack he’d had earlier. Dick will take what he can get.
He’ll make sure to mention to J’onn to try to be as surface level about his scan as possible. B’s training tells him that maybe that’s what Flamebird is counting on — but J’onn will be inside his head. He won’t be able to hide it if he’s truly working against them.
The door clicks shut behind Dick. He exhales heavily and runs a hand through his hair. Then he starts down the hallway, mentally calling out to M’gann to ask where her uncle currently is.
He is so ready for this day to be over.
Jason eyes J’onn warily when Nightwing returns with him.
“Let’s get this over with,” Jason says.
“You do not have anything to fear from me,” J’onn says.
I don’t like anyone in my head, Jason bites back, and knows that J’onn likely heard it anyway. It was a loud thought.
“Just do it,” Jason snaps, which isn’t a very good start. He needs to be calm. He needs to keep control of the Pit.
“Just do it,” he says again, softer.
J’onn pulls a chair to Jason’s side of the table. He lays two cool hands on Jason’s temples.
Jason breathes.
“I have been in your mind previously,” J’onn notes after a moment. He must be saying it aloud for Nightwing’s benefit.
“B wanted—” Jason starts, but he chokes on it. He can’t complete the thought.
Are things better between him and Bruce now?
Yes. Significantly.
Is Bruce still the best person to upset Jason’s hold on the Pit?
Also yes.
Everything is too tangled together. Love and rage and grief, betrayal and joy and Robin, a Gordian knot made of a thread that is named Bruce Wayne.
J’onn has to feel that messy surge of emotion. Has to feel the way the Pit swells before Jason clamps down on it.
B wanted us to be safe.
He did everything he could to keep them safe while they were out on the streets. He did everything he could to protect them.
He didn’t do enough.
Not against the Joker.
( What hurts more? A? Or B? Forehand? Or backhand?
Tell the big man I said hello!)
It’s different here. Jason made it different.
That doesn’t erase what happened to Jason.
He is not thinking about that while J’onn is in his head. He’ll lose it. He needs — he needs something innocuous. Something to hold his attention while J’onn checks for non-existent programming.
I had a dream, which was not all a dream, Jason thinks deliberately. The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars / Did wander darkling in the eternal space…
Jason spent several years traveling and filling his head with all sorts of information. It was only fair that some of that headspace was devoted to memorizing poetry.
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh…
He’d already had several Shakespearian sonnets and monologues memorized due to Alfred; he had brushed up on them, refusing to let them fade from his mind, but likewise refusing to let the bittersweet memories of learning them interfere with his mission.
…the world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay…
He had switched poets and carried on. He had learned lists of poisons alongside Byron, constructed bombs while reviewing Tennyson. Talia hadn’t commented on it, but he occasionally found a few slim volumes of poetry in among the supplies she gave him.
Jason jerks his mind away from that thought, tripping over the next lines of the poem as he tries not to think about Talia al Ghul. A lost cause, no doubt. He’s already damned himself with the thought.
The tides were— He’s lost his rhythm. The tides were in their grave— The same way this other Jason wasn’t (don’t think about digging your way out) and would never be.
Jason changed it.
He. Changed. It.
J’onn does the telepathic equivalent of tapping on that thought, a request for a memory. He must be done with the sweep for any hidden commands.
This request isn’t for another debrief; it’s a second perspective on what happened. It’s Nightwing’s proof.
Jason lets his mind fall back to patrol. To Nightwing and Robin, consulting with him about strange happenings throughout the Bowery and edging towards Robbinsville. To Oracle pointing them in the direction of their target. To swinging through the streets—
—and then to Jason opening his mouth and pissing off their interloping witch.
(In the moment before the spell hits, Jason is unspeakably thankful that the Demon Brat always sticks to Nightwing like glue during their patrols. Jason barely managed to make their witch mad before Robin would have, the prickly little shit. The spell is aimed at Jason instead of Robin, and there’s no two-for-once special on annoyances.
It only hits Jason.)
Everything goes sideway and Jason is falling, falling—
—landing hard on sand, but with the presence of mind to roll the way he’s been taught, dispersing the force.
It takes a moment for I’m not dead to filter into his mind. A moment for him to catch the breath that’s been knocked out of him.
A moment for him to hear a faint laugh through the walls of the warehouse he’s fetched up against.
He recognizes that laugh.
Warehouse, desert, Joker — he can’t be surprised when he creeps into the warehouse and sees the scene from his every nightmare, this time from an outsider’s perspective.
No consequences matter.
He flicks the safety off his gun. Stalks forward.
“Knock, knock,” he says.
J’onn pulls out of the memory, moves his hands away from Jason’s head. Jason blinks back to the present; Nightwing has shifted, leaning against the wall now, arms crossed as he waits.
“I have found no evidence of the Light’s tampering,” J’onn says. The Light? Jason wonders. “He is who he says he is.”
Tension leaves Jason. It leaves Nightwing, too, an almost unnoticeable loosening of his shoulders.
“Thanks, J’onn,” Nightwing says.
J’onn nods. He looks between Jason and Nightwing. “I believe the Team might benefit from the precautions Batman’s counterpart put in place. It would not be ill-advised to devise mental protections for yourself.”
Nightwing looks considering at that. “Could M’gann help us do that? I mean — has she ever done anything like that before?”
“No, she has not,” J’onn says. “I will teach her. The both of us will assist those members who agree to such protection.”
“I’ll talk it over with the Team,” Nightwing says.
“Very well.” J’onn stands. He inclines his head to each of them. “Nightwing. Red Hood.”
Wow, Jason is glad he already came clean about that.
“…Flamebird,” J’onn corrects, with a glance at Nightwing. Jason wonders what, exactly, is going on without him being able to hear.
It can’t have been this easy.
“’S fine,” Jason says.
J’onn doesn’t say anything to that. Not out loud.
Your defenses need more upkeep than you give them. The Lazarus Pit bleeds against them and wears them down.
Should you need any assistance, I am available.
Good luck.
He leaves before Jason has to muster a response.
“All right,” Nightwing says. He pushes off the wall, stretches his arms. “Uh…you hungry, Jay? It’s been a longer night for you than us, I’m pretty sure.”
Jason will have to consider J’onn’s offer some other time.
“Maybe time-wise,” Jason allows, because he’d been on patrol for several hours already before getting booted out of his dimension. Nightwing, however, has had a long night for a different reason. “I’m pretty sure you’re asking more for your benefit than mine, though.”
Jason’s willing to indulge him. If he wants to sit down and eat something, Jason will go along with it.
“Maybe so,” Nightwing says ruefully. “You want to see this universe’s Watchtower cafeteria?”
Actually, no. He doesn’t. What Jason really wants is a cup of Alfred’s tea.
And if they’re going back to the Cave…
“Better idea,” Jason says. “I’m keeping my promise first and then we’re all leaving the Watchtower to get some real food.”
Nightwing blinks, computing that, and says, “Wait, you’re not actually going to—”
“No one likes sleeping in the infirmary, birdbrain,” Jason says. “He’ll feel better in his own bed.” Nightwing visibly wavers. “And Agent A is probably out of his mind with worry,” Jason adds, playing his trump card ruthlessly.
Nightwing crumbles. “Fine,” he says. “But you’re explaining getting tossed into a different dimension to him.”
“Whatever you say, ‘Wing,” Jason says. He grins. “Let’s go.”