"Look out!" was the command that came just too late.

Jason felt the needle of a dart bury itself in his shoulder - right between the Kevlar plates and through his under armour. Shit, Crane's aim is getting better. He reached around and ripped it out, but it was useless. Almost immediately, everything began to blur and sway. His skin started to prickled and suddenly, it was too bright, too loud, too much.

Fuck, it had to be a new strain or something - if it was affecting him like this.

Somewhere to his left, he could hear Bruce approaching him and he could kinda see the shadow of Batman stalking across the rooftop. Though, it wasn't until he felt Bruce's hand grab his shoulder that he actually registered who it was. Instinctively, he recoiled against the touch - already feeling the paranoia settling in - and Bruce stepped back.

"Hood," came Tim's voice from somewhere behind him. It was soft and low, like Jason was a startled animal - although he supposed that wasn't an entirely unfair analogy. As much as he was fighting it, he could feel it taking over and quickly too. There were shadows flickering in his peripherals and there was this noise in the back of his head that sounded too much like a cackle for Jason's comfort. "It's just me."

He staggered forward a little, feeling himself getting more and more disorientated. Someone reached out and grazed his arm, and he spun around suddenly. "Get the fuck away from me. All of you need to back the fuck up."

He really didn't want to wake up and find out that he'd killed one of them because they'd gotten too handsy. A blur of black and blue moved back and he could feel his breathing becoming more ragged. Everything was fully swaying now and it was becoming impossibly claustrophobic inside his helmet.

"He's gonna fall," came a voice that he was sure was Steph. Or maybe Barbara? He couldn't tell anymore.

Whoever it was, they were right because his knees almost immediately gave out. He felt Bruce catch him and he weakly struggled against it. Bruce carefully lowered him into the wet concrete of the rooftop and then stepped away. "Helmet," he managed to croak, his chest constricting painfully. "Off."

The latches on the sides were undone and then it slipped off. He had to ground himself, he thought. Focus on something, anything. Fight it off for as long as he could. He knew the places that the toxin would take him and it'd have to drag him there kicking and screaming.

The air was cold and so was the concrete. It was almost painful - the sensation of it pressed to his face. If he moved, there were little pieces of gravel on the ground that scratched against his skin. There was still the comforting weight of his gear on his body. He could see the stars.

Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she peeped into the book that her sister reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, 'and what is the use of a book,' thought Alice, 'without pictures or conversation?'

His left boot was laced up a little tighter than his right one. When he breathed, a little cloud of vapour appeared in front of his face. He could feel the ridges of the lock picks that were hidden in the hem of his under armour.

It is a universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

He shifted his right foot in his boot and felt the outline of the credit card knife that he'd stashed in his sole. The packet of nicotine gum in his jacket pocket dug into his side a little when he moved. The air smelled like rain - what was the word for it? Pet... Petrichor? Yeah, that was it. The air smelled like petrichor.

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east and Juliet is the sun. Arise fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thous her maid art more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green-

His entire body jolted and he could feel himself being taken into the dark recesses of his mind. Fuck.

Everything went black and then, it was painfully bright. He recognised it as the shitty fluorescent lightbulbs of his childhood home - well, apartment, anyway. It was quiet and dread set into his stomach like lead.

He felt something strike the side of his head, and he fell back, hand moving up to shield himself. His fingertips grazed blood and broken glass. He was hit again and again and again - his back felt like it was covered in welts and cuts, and he felt small. He could barely hear Willis's voice over the sound of his own whimpers.

Then, it stopped and that was somehow so much worse.

It went black again for a few moments and suddenly, he was in an alleyway. He felt his skin being burned by cigarettes, fingernails digging into his arms, his hair being yanked at - he felt violated and dirty. The smell of cheap liquor and sweat settled into the air around him and he couldn't breathe.

He knew that it was just in his head, but that did little to stop the onslaught of tears.

It grew dark again and Jason was thankful for the relief. Until his vision focused again. He was in the bathroom, clutching his mother. His entire body shook with anguished sobs. Her skin was cold and damp against his. Her eyes stared up at him, wide and lifeless. He was alone.

His grip on her body tightened and he felt her dissolve in his arm. When he realised where he was this time, he let out a strangled cry that half-caught in his throat. His hands were pinned behind his back and the rope cut into the raw flesh of his wrists. The laughter that still haunted him permeated the air. He felt his bones break, and his skin cut and burned. Forehand or backhand, birdy? He felt his own blood trickle down his skin, mingling with months of dirt and sweat.

This wasn't the worst thing that he'd have to face. It was definitely one of them but wasn't the worst.

Then there was the bleeping of the timer, and his body froze. There was sobbing in his ear, though not his own - a woman's - and he felt the dampness of her tears soaking into the back of his suit. She didn't deserve to be remembered as his mother, so she wasn't. Her name was Sheila Haywood, and all she became was another figure in his tragedy of a life. He wanted to hate her for what she did to him, but he couldn't. And he hated himself for being so weak.

The blast came and the heat of fire licked at his skin, leaving a burning numbness. His lungs flooded with smoke and soot, and he coughed and spluttered, yearning for air. He was dead.

When he woke again, he couldn't move - everything was just too close. His hands shot out, hitting the lining of his coffin, and his heartbeat staggered in his chest. He cried out, begged, until his voice shattered and then, he sobbed until he couldn't breathe.

He clawed his way out, fuelled by desperation and sheer grit. His hands were bloody and raw, and his entire body trembled. He staggered a few feet before his legs buckled. Jason Todd was alive, and that was only the start of his problems.

This time, the black faded out faster. His lungs burned as he drowned, and he reached out, looking for the surface. He was submerged for what seemed like an eternity.

He knew exactly what was going to come next.

He felt the punches - his face going through porcelain and lodging shards into his wounds. That was what broke him, though. It was that moment on the rooftop, all those years ago. He had a gun to that fucker's head, and he had won, goddammit. Then he felt something sharp hit his throat, and he choked and gurgled, feeling his warm blood spill out over his hands. The flames of another explosion echoed in his head and he lied there, hoping that he would just die.

He didn't.

He was dragged out of the rubble and tossed into the back of a jet. He felt Talia's fingers comb through his hair - slowly pushing him under her manipulative thumb. The next two years of his life were worse than hell.

He would never submit, though. No matter how much they tortured or drugged or beat him. They'd managed little more than to desensitise him to the sound of his own bones snapping and the feeling of agony flaring through his veins from a syringe. If he hadn't been able to crack Jason, Ra's Al Ghul sure as fuck wasn't going to.

Not that Talia would have allowed him to get that far - as cold and cruel as she was, she protected him, cared him even; stopped her father from having Jason's throat slit every time Jason told him to fuck off; tended to his wounds after he'd antagonised his teachers into attacking

That didn't mean he didn't suffer, because god only knew how much they made him hurt. She always saw it as making him stronger, and although he resented her for toying with him, he had to agree. His teachers and training made him better than he had been before - that they were. It almost took away the sting of being replaced, of being forgotten like they couldn't wait to get rid of him, of having his entire existence reduced to nothing more than a cautionary tale.

He felt himself coming back and regaining control over his body. The rooftop was cold against the bare skin of his face. He forced himself to sit up. There was some vague movement around him, but he ignored it, focusing on trying to orientate himself.

"Breathe." Bruce's voice was commanding - as it always was when he wore the cowl - but it was also patient, soothing nearly. "Just breathe, Jason."

He obeyed, taking long, deliberate breaths and leaning into Bruce. Bruce began to quietly count, even and slow, until Jason's breathing steadied enough for everything to come back to reality.

"Shit," he mumbled, drawing his knees up to his chest. God, his throat felt like it was made of sandpaper. He glanced around; besides himself and Bruce, the rooftop was empty. "How long was I..."

Bruce didn't respond and that gave Jason a good enough estimate. He tried to stand, but his legs couldn't quite manage to support him. Bruce reached out to hold him up. "You should rest."

Jason shook his head. "Wanna go home. Sleep."

Bruce adjusted them so that he was supporting more of Jason's weight, and began walking them across the rooftop. "Which one of your safehouses is closest?"

Jason frowned, trying to get his thoughts in line long enough for him to answer. "Park Row. Twenty-six. Third floor. Balcony's on the north side."

It was one of the shittier ones, but it was only ten minutes away and Jason probably could've fallen asleep right there and then, on the concrete, anyway.

Bruce nodded and brought them to the edge of the rooftop, where the fire-escape was. They began descending and Jason stumbled on a few of the steps. Bruce's grip on him tightened and he was now completely holding Jason up.

Bruce helped him into the batmobile and then, he must have blacked out because the journey there seemed faster than it should have been. He was barely even lucid when they got to the apartment complex. "We're going to have to grapple up. Hold on, okay?"

He gave a weak nod and gripped onto Bruce's cape, right where it met with his shoulder. He felt the rush of cold through his hair and a little wave of nausea, and then, they were on solid ground again. "Keys?"

It took a moment for him to process what Bruce was asking for, and another moment to wake his body up enough to react.

"Inside pocket," he murmured, his voice beginning to slur. He gave a tiny gesture towards his jacket pocket and then felt Bruce rifling through his pockets before fishing out a ring of keys. Bruce began to sort through them and the light clanging of metal went straight through him. "Number 6."

Bruce nodded and the door unlocked with a quiet click. They walked inside and Jason's foot caught a little on the edge of the door frame. It was a small, two-room apartment. There were three pieces of furniture in the bedroom: a mattress, an armchair, and a chest of drawers.

Jason staggered away from Bruce and all but collapsed onto the mattress with a small groan. His eyes fell shut and his body went limp.

Bruce stood there for a moment, watching Jason sleep. If it weren't for the costume and the brand, he'd look just like any other kid his age. He cautiously approached Jason, wary of waking him - though he doubted that Jason would be waking up anytime soon.

He knelt down beside him, feeling for a pulse. It was stronger and steadier than it had been before and that made him relax a little. Then, he went to work, slowly prying off Jason's boots, jacket, Kevlar until he was just in his under armour. He placed Jason's covers over his body and the way that he instantly curled up under them made his chest tighten.

He stepped back and sat down in the armchair in the corner.

'Hey,' came Barbara's voice through the comms. 'How is he?'

"Better," Bruce said quietly. "He's asleep. I think I'll stay here to keep an eye on him."

'Okay. See you later. Night.'

"Goodnight."

He settled further into the chair, the leather creaking slightly as he did. Silence settled over the room and all that was left was the soft sound of Jason's breathing and Bruce's own thoughts.

At the best of times, Bruce was a glutton for punishment, and, when it came to Jason, there was no shortage of things to punish himself for. It didn't help that he could practically track what Jason had experienced - every memory that Jason had been forced to relive.

His heart had started to crack when Jason had gone through his death again - when Jason had woken up in his coffin and screamed Bruce's name until his voice broke. And then, it had shattered into a million fucking pieces when Jason had grasped at his throat and gargled like it had been slit. It was a horrible, awful noise that he was certain would be keeping him up at night.

It hurt him even more, however, to know that he had done that to Jason. To his own son.

Jason stirred a little in his sleep, whimpering, and Bruce tensed. The noises grew louder and more erratic until Jason was crying and heaving so hard that Bruce wasn't sure he was still breathing.

Bruce panicked for a moment and his blood stilled in his veins. Then he moved, crouching down beside Jason and carefully resting a hand on Jason's forehead. The second that he made contact, Jason's fist flew out and hit Bruce square in the face.

He fell back, stunned by the blow, and was suddenly reminded of how strong Jason was. He was easily bigger than Bruce now, and god knows what the Lazarus Pit did to him. He also remembered how jumpy Jason could get sometimes and decided to change tactic.

"Jason." His voice was low and authoritative. Jason reacted to it. "Jason, it's Bruce."

Jason reacted to it again, tensing and turning towards him. Bruce wasn't entirely sure that it was positive, but at least it was working.

"Jason. I need you to breathe." Jason shook his head frantically, muttering. "You need to breathe. Please. Can you do that for me? You need to breathe, Jason."

Jason's body trembled as he forced himself to take a deep breath. He took another and another and another, and Bruce began counting as he had on the rooftop. Eventually, Jason slipped back into a slightly less fitful slumber.

He stirred a few more times during the night, though nothing as bad as the first time. Bruce jolted upright every single time he moved, every time he took a breath that was just a little too sharp. The sun was starting to rise now, and sunlight was beginning to stream through the balcony windows.

Jason woke up, sprawling out over the mattress. He laid there for a while, crying silently. Bruce was long since gone, but Jason knew that he had been there.