Chapter Text
Jason didn't really want to open his eyes, his head hurting, his vision blurring at the edges as he moved to his side.
He was in bed, the sheets rustling beneath him, as he sat up and immediately Bruce was at his side.
"Jason," Bruce’s voice was a low murmur, calm but laced with that underlying tension Jason had come to recognize all too well. Worry. The kind Bruce always tried to hide but never quite could.
"What happened?"
Jason shook, his head dropping to the scar, it wasn't throbbing anymore, as if learning the truth had let it all go numb.
The truth--
No, that isn't the truth...
The truth is that he injured himself while cooking, nothing more because he couldn't...He wouldn't...
He just wouldn't.
He’d been having a rough couple of days, his mind was playing tricks on him, making things up and he did feel a bit feverish. Stress. He’d been stressed out, running himself ragged, and his brain had just decided to… twist things. That’s all. That had to be it.
Right?
No. No question. No hesitation. That didn’t happen. He didn’t—
Jason cut off the thought, a shudder running through him as he squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn’t real. None of this was real. The memories, the flashes of pain and fear, the confusion—they were just… figments. His mind had created them, made him believe things that hadn’t happened, things he would never—
He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t.
“What happened?” Bruce asked again, his voice softer now, like he was trying not to spook a wounded animal. Jason hated it, hated the way Bruce looked at him, like he was fragile, breakable.
“I—” Jason started, his throat tight, the words tangled and twisted. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to explain the mess of thoughts and emotions swirling inside him.
"I think I have a fever," He says, because that would explain it. He hallucinated in the bathroom, none of that actually happened.
Bruce blinked but there was this sense of relief as he placed the back of his palm against Jason’s forehead, the coolness of Bruce’s touch soothing even though Jason felt a flush of embarrassment. It was so simple, wasn’t it? A fever, just a fever.
“You do feel warm,” Bruce murmured, his brow furrowing as he shifted to sit on the edge of the bed.
"Duke, can you get Jason's thermometer? It's in the bathroom cabinet," He called, feeling Jason's cheeks as well.
"Yeah you're warm," Bruce continued, his voice steady but still carrying that undercurrent of worry. “Let’s just make sure it’s not too high.” He glanced over his shoulder as Duke disappeared down the hall.
Duke reappeared, the thermometer in hand. “Got it,” he said, handing it over to Bruce. He hovered nearby, clearly concerned but trying to keep a casual demeanor.
Bruce held the thermometer out. “Under the tongue, Jay,” he instructed softly, and Jason took it and...
102.9
He has never been so thankful for a fever. He's not going crazy--he's sick, he hallucinated because he is sick.
But that didn't explain the sudden sadness, the times he feels unmotivated, doesn't feel like a person...
But that was because of the head injury...
Nothing was wrong.
But--
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
_~~_
Jason bounced back, his healing factor a big thanks to that.
Bruce stayed of course, was overprotective, of course and he spent his sick days playing video games with Duke.
The feeling of sadness passed, he's not sure how long he'll get relief but for now, things felt... manageable.
Later in the week he had to discuss a case with Dick and...he doesn't know how to explain it but he doesn't like Dick's place at all.
It makes him nauseous, like the walls are closing in, and the air is too thick to breathe. Jason steps into the apartment, the familiar scent of worn leather and sweat mixing with something sharper, something that digs at the back of his mind. He tries to shake it off, blaming it on the lingering effects of his illness, but the discomfort lingers, settling deep in his gut.
Dick is at the desk, flipping through papers, his brow furrowed with concentration. He doesn’t notice Jason's unease at first, too focused on the case they’re supposed to be discussing. Jason forces himself to move forward, trying to focus on the task at hand, but every step feels heavier than the last.
“Jay,” Dick says without looking up, “I’ve got some leads we need to go over. You good to dive into this now?”
Jason nods, though he doesn’t feel like he’s fully here. He feels off. It’s the apartment—too many reminders of things he can’t name.
“Yeah,” Jason mumbles, but his voice lacks conviction. He can feel Dick’s eyes on him now, studying him, probably picking up on something Jason thought he was hiding better.
“You okay,?” Dick’s voice is careful, cautious in that way he gets when he’s genuinely concerned but trying not to push too hard. “You seem... I don’t know, out of it.”
Jason opens his mouth to say something, maybe brush it off, but the words get stuck in his throat. He feels that same weight he’s been trying to ignore pressing down on him again—the one that makes him feel small, disconnected from everything. He’s not sure how to explain it. Doesn’t even want to try.
“I’m fine,” Jason mutters, looking away, trying to refocus on the case files, but unable to.
"Actually, I'm going to get some water,"
Jason muttered, already turning away before Dick could say anything more. He felt the heaviness in his limbs, the tightness in his chest, the nagging feeling that something was wrong but just out of reach. Maybe the fever hadn’t entirely cleared. Or maybe it wasn’t the fever at all.
As he passed the living room the unease only grew. Dick had remodeled that room a few months ago, that orange couch replaced with a sky blue one, the carpet white and fluffy, it still smelled of mint, Dick's favorite scent and flavor.
He stood there a while, frozen. He didn't know what had kept him here or why it felt like the air was getting heavier with each second that passed. His stomach twisted, the nausea coming back in full force as he stood in front of the living room, his eyes locked on the couch. The blue was too bright, too new—it clashed with everything in his mind, unsettling in a way that made his skin crawl. The minty scent that used to feel familiar now made him dizzy, like it was suffocating him.
Jason tried to swallow down the discomfort, but it wouldn’t leave. He could hear the quiet rustle of papers from Dick’s desk in the other room, the soft tapping of fingers against the surface as Dick worked. Normally, that would ground him, but today, everything just felt... wrong.
Then he heard...
He heard a gunshot.
He didn't know why this gunshot had made him jolt, made him cry because he practices shooting, works with guns, gets shot at on the daily.
But this feeling, it was despair, fear, sadness...
And his hands felt sticky...They had blood them.
And it wasn't his. He didn't know why he knew that but he just knew it wasn't his.
"Jason,"
Dick’s voice broke through the haze, but Jason couldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot, staring at the couch, at the blue fabric that his mind kept telling him was orange, and...It was bloodstained.
Matter of fact, the blood was everywhere on the windows, the carpet--It wasn't white at the time but a light brown and...
His gun, he felt his KWA 1911, but it was in someone's hand.
Their lifeless, pale, no pulse, hand.
"Jason!"
Dick's voice cut through the fog again, sharper this time, and Jason felt a jolt of panic shoot through him. He turned, finally meeting Dick's concerned gaze.
“What’s wrong?” Dick asked, standing up now, his eyes wide with alarm.
The words caught in Jason's throat. “I... I heard a...,” he stammered, the reality of the moment crashing down around him. “I thought...”
“Thought what?” Dick pressed, his brow furrowed in confusion and worry.
“That it was—” Jason couldn't finish. All he could see was the blood, the horror, the way the blue couch seemed to absorb it all.
“Jason, breathe,” Dick said, taking a step closer, his voice low and steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re just having a moment. Focus on me.”
But it was hard to focus when everything felt so wrong. Jason’s heart raced as he fought to push the images away. “I can’t… I'm sorry, I haven't been sleeping and with work and everything, I guess I'm overwhelmed,"
Jason’s voice was shaky, not at all convincing, but it was the best excuse he could manage in the moment. Dick didn’t seem convinced either, his expression softening with worry, the way it always did when Jason’s walls started to crack. He could see the way Dick’s mouth opened, like he was about to press further, but then he hesitated.
“You don’t need to apologize, Jay,” Dick finally said, his voice quieter now, more gentle. “If you’re not okay, you’re not okay. It happens.”
Jason shook his head, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “No, I’m fine. I just—I don’t know what that was.” He looked away, his gaze dropping back to the floor as he tried to ground himself. He couldn’t afford to unravel, not here, not in front of Dick. “I’m good. Let’s just get back to the case.”
But even as he said it, Jason felt that weight in his chest again, heavy and unyielding, and the image of blood—so much blood—still lingered at the edges of his mind. His stomach churned, but he forced himself to take a breath, to focus.
Dick didn’t move, watching him closely. Jason could feel it, the way Dick’s concern hung in the air like a question, but he didn’t say anything else. He just nodded, though his eyes betrayed how little he believed Jason’s words.
“Alright,” Dick said, though the hesitation in his voice was obvious. “If you’re sure…”
Jason wasn’t sure. Not at all. But he forced a nod, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Let’s just... get this done.”
They worked in silence after that, the usual ease between them replaced with an uncomfortable tension that neither of them addressed. Jason tried to focus on the case files, on the details in front of him, but the images wouldn’t leave him alone. The gunshot, the blood, the weight of that cold, lifeless hand—it was too vivid, too real.
He glanced at Dick out of the corner of his eye, wondering if he noticed how Jason’s hands were trembling slightly, how he was gripping the papers just a little too tightly. Dick seemed focused on his own work now, though his gaze flicked up every now and then, checking on Jason like he was waiting for him to crack again.
Jason hated it. Hated the way Dick always seemed to know when something was wrong, even when Jason tried to hide it. But right now, he didn’t have the energy to pretend. He was too tired, too worn down by the images that refused to leave him alone.
“Jay,” Dick said quietly after a while, breaking the silence between them. Jason didn’t look up, but he could hear the concern in his brother’s voice. “You don’t have to push yourself like this. If you need to take a break, just say the word.”
“I’m fine,” Jason said again, the words automatic now, even though they felt like a lie. He didn’t know how to explain what was happening in his head, how everything felt twisted and wrong. He didn’t even know where to start.
Dick didn’t push, but Jason could feel the weight of his concern, heavy in the air between them.
“Okay,” Dick said softly, though Jason could tell he didn’t believe him. “Just... let me know if you need anything.” He said brushing the top of his hand soothingly.
And that's when it all clicked.
The blood, the hand that held no pulse,
It was Dick's touch.
Dick's blood.