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Jason al Ghul can’t breathe.
His hands, drenched in the blood of his baby brother, Damian al Ghul, claw at the ground. Damian’s golden-bronze skin is pale in death. His cutting green eyes are dull and lifeless and wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong!
“No, no, no!” Jason starts refusing reality at a whisper and ends in a scream.
This can’t— It isn’t—
“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up!” Jason begs, pleading for his brother to come back to life.
If this happened while they were at home in Nanda Parbat — it never would have happened in Nanda Parbat; Jason would have been at Damian’s back to take the blow — then Jason could have put Damian in the Lazarus Pit before Damian succumbed to the infection in the wound in his back. Damian would … Damian would still be alive if they were at home.
But they aren’t. And he’s not.
Jason screams so loudly that it feels like his vocal cords are going to shred in his throat. He hasn’t yelled with such intense pain since he was bound in a warehouse in Ethiopia, a victim of the Joker’s non-existent mercy. Not that it matters. What does it matter if Jason destroys his voice when he won’t be long for this world?
A world without Damian isn’t a world worth living in.
“I’m sorry, Habibi. I’m so sorry,” Jason sobs before burying his face in his hands. They’re tacky with Damian’s drying blood. The scent of iron is a familiar smell that doesn’t bother Jason anymore and hasn’t for years. It’s the fact that it’s his baby brother’s blood on his hands, his skin, his face, that has Jason turning his head to the side and spewing everything in his stomach.
Jason never should have let Damian live in Wayne Manor without his presence. He never should have allowed Damian to patrol as Robin. He never should have trusted Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson to keep Jason’s most precious person safe and alive when they couldn’t even keep Jason himself safe and alive.
“H-Habibi, I … I …”
Why does the universe hate Jason? Why does it rip everything he loves away from him? Why can’t it just let him be happy?
“What did I do?” he screams up at the universe. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”
He doesn’t expect an answer. He doesn’t get one.
Jason strokes Damian’s black hair like he does after Damian has a nightmare. Except … except it’s not the same at all. Because Damian’s hair has blood drying in it in clumps. And he’s— Jason swallows down bile and collapses in on himself.
Damian isn’t sleeping. He’s—
“Winds do not blow as the vessels wish,” Jason rasps out, the Arabic proverb never hurting more than in this moment.
Jason knows. He’s been intimately aware of the fact that people don’t always get their heart’s desires since he was a homeless orphan living in the slums of Gotham. But … but.
“You brought m-me back,” Jason sobs through the viscera in his decimated chest. His heart is a pulpy mess inside his rib cage. His lungs are shredded into ribbons, wheezing with every breath he doesn’t want to take in a world that doesn’t have his baby brother in it. “Give h-him back to m-me.”
It’s been years since Jason was resurrected in his coffin and clawed his way out of it, out of his grave, through mud and dirt, back to the surface. He still has no idea how he was brought back to life in that coffin. Talia and Ra’s al Ghul never managed to figure it out either. So Jason has no idea how to bring Damian back to life.
Does he have to petition some deity? Does he have to grovel and beg and debase himself? Because he will. He will. He will do anything at all — anything, regardless of the cost — if it will bring Damian back to life.
The sight of the scar of their sworn blood-brother bond on his large palm is like a knife carving out his organs without anesthesia. Jason vowed to watch Damian’s back, to guard his baby brother. For years, he kept his word. After everything they’ve been through, after everything they have suffered, after Caracus and Nepal and Mogadishu — to name but a few of the circumstances they managed to escape despite being in mortal danger — a wound to the back that Damian received in Gotham while on patrol as Robin is what killed him.
Because Jason wasn’t there.
Because Batman doesn’t trust the Red Hood.
So Damian is— He’s— It’s Jason’s fault.
He should have liberated Damian from Wayne Manor as soon as Jason established a secure enough home for the two of them in Gotham. He should have sat down with Damian and explained to him why Robin is a curse. He should have—
“Death is the end of life,” Jason recites in Arabic by rote. He, of all people, knows exactly how that proverb is absolutely true and completely false at the same time.
Jason died, yes. But he also came back to life.
“My life for his,” Jason rasps, his shaking fingers smearing sticky blood on Damian’s soft cheek. “Please. My life for his,” Jason begs.
If the universe, some deity, a cosmic power, whatever is listening, Jason is willing to bargain.
There is no price that Jason won’t pay to bring his little brother back to life.
If Jason’s life is forfeit, so be it. If Jason has to kill a hundred people as some kind of blood sacrifice, he’ll do it as quickly as he possibly can. If he has to find an obscure magical item, then he will. Whatever he has to do, whatever he has to say, whatever he has to promise … he will do it.
Jason rubs his thumb across the blood-brother scar on Damian’s limp hand. It looks so small in comparison to his own. He places his forehead against Damian’s palm and wails.
This isn’t— They came to Gotham to be safe. They’re here to hide until Ra’s’ sanity recovers, and then they’re going to go home and be with their loving Mother and Grandfather in Nanda Parbat. They’re supposed to be safe!
But … but—
“I-I wasn’t t-there, Habibi. I’m so f—” Jason’s vocal cords fail as he chokes on his grief.
The scent of blood intensifies. It gets stronger and thicker, permeating the air so pungently that Jason can almost taste it on his tongue. He shakes and sobs and drowns in the scent of his baby brother’s death and— It’s too much. It’s— Jason can’t—
“Akhi!” Damian says.
Jason jerks and stares down at his brother’s corpse. Damian’s lips are bloodless and unmoving. His green eyes are even duller than they were earlier.
“Akhi!” Damian says.
The sound that rips itself from Jason’s throat is a bastardized mash-up of a wail of grief and unhinged laughter. Ah, so he’s snapped, has he? He’s lost the few marbles he managed to recover after his Talia-induced visit to the Lazarus Pit. Because Damian’s corpse isn’t even cold yet, and Jason’s already hallucinating his brother’s voice.
“H-Habibi, I—”
What is Jason supposed to say? What do you say to your baby brother who’s dead because you failed to protect him? How could any words, in any language, be sufficient? How?
“Akhi, wake up!” Damian says, lips unmoving.
Wake up? Wake … up?
A small hand grabs Jason’s, slick fingers twining with his, and yanks.
Jason shoots up in bed, blankets tumbling to his lap. His chest heaves for air. He can breathe. He can breathe, but the taste and scent of blood aren’t gone. What—?
“All is well, Akhi. I’m right here,” Damian says.
Jason’s head snaps to the left. He nearly swallows his tongue when he sees Damian standing at his bedside, covered head-to-toe in blood. Damian’s skin is full of color and life, all golden-bronze, not sickly pale. His eyes are sharp and bright green and cutting as he looks Jason over for injuries, not dull and pale green.
“H-Habibi?” Jason asks, reaching for Damian with his free hand. He hesitates, though. Because if his hand passes through Damian right now, after he’s seemingly woken from a dream, a nightmare, a night terror — a gruesome flashback of what he saw while under the influence of fear toxin three weeks ago — then the last thread of Jason’s sanity is going to snap.
It felt so real.
If it was, then … then this—
Jason swallows and shudders and stares at his baby brother.
Damian grabs Jason’s outstretched hand and presses it against his chest, over his heart. He breathes deeply. Once, twice, a third time.
Jason’s fingers curl against Damian’s chest. “Alive?” he asks tentatively. It’s something he hasn’t asked Damian in years, not since Jason conquered the Pit Madness.
“Alive,” Damian assures him immediately.
When the tears come this time, they’re accompanied by a flood of relief. It bursts through Jason like a dam giving way. He sobs, hands desperately scrabbling at his little brother.
“Shh. I’m here,” Damian says, arms fiercely embracing Jason. “I’m right here.”
Jason leans his head against Damian’s chest, uncaring of the blood it will get all over him. Damian would have said something if the blood was his. Especially given Jason’s precarious state of mind over the past few weeks. Damian wouldn’t hide an injury from Jason, not even just for long enough to ease Jason out of a night terror and assure Jason he’s alive.
“If the Shadows hadn’t killed Scarecrow, I would gladly kill him for subjecting you to his fear toxin,” Damian states, protective rage in his voice.
“I know,” Jason answers. The fierce well of love that’s entirely for his younger brother somehow fills even more inside of him.
Because Damian is nothing like Bruce and Dick.
Damian has already taken vengeance on Jason’s behalf twice. He willingly bloodied his hands to protect and avenge Jason. He’s stated more than once that he considers it an honor to defend his older brother.
So Jason doesn’t doubt for a second that if Scarecrow had managed to evade their Shadows that night three weeks past, Damian would have hunted Scarecrow down and eviscerated him.
“What—?” Jason clears his throat noisily and leans back as much as he can in Damian’s tight hold. It’s comforting how solid and strong Damian’s grip is; it’s almost like he believes he can hold Jason together through sheer force of will. “What’s with the blood?”
Damian’s green eyes narrow, a calculating light in them as he slowly peruses Jason’s features. It’s not a look Jason sees on his brother’s face often. It’s rare for Damian to mentally weigh if he thinks Jason can handle knowing about something.
At the same time, it’s not entirely surprising given how fragile Jason’s been mentally and emotionally since the fear toxin attack.
It helps to have Damian at his side again, living in the same house, absent only for as long as the school requires Damian’s physical presence. It helps to be able to reach out and touch his brother’s shoulder. It helps to be able to hear Damian’s voice. It helps to be able to see Damian’s chest rise and fall with each breath he takes, proving that Damian is alive and not—
“I didn’t intend to show you before I finished,” Damian states, his gaze evaluative. “However, I do not believe you will let me out of your sight any time soon.”
“Not for anything,” Jason says quickly. Because it would be just his luck for his mind to convince itself that this is the dream and he will wake up to Damian’s corpse if his baby brother leaves his sight.
“Tt.” Damian huffs and pulls Jason to his feet with a small glare. “You always ruin my surprises.”
Jason’s laugh is hoarse and rusty, but sincere. “I do, don’t I.”
“Tt.”
Damian marches out of Jason’s bedroom, his hand clasped firmly around Jason’s wrist, and leads him right past the Shadow standing guard. Down the hallway, down the stairs to the main floor, past the entryway, through the kitchen, down to the basement.
Fifteen of their Shadows are standing guard with their weapons drawn, covering every possible avenue of escape.
“Habibi?” Jason asks, caution edging its way into his voice as not a single guard bows or acknowledges their presence. What is so dangerous that they are forgoing a courtesy that is ingrained in League culture? Jason has seen Shadows stop in the middle of torturing someone to acknowledge him when he enters a room. Yet, none of the fifteen spare him so much as a glance.
Damian leads Jason to the sound-proofed room that bisects the basement. He turns the doorknob, pauses, glances over his shoulder to say, “I cut his tongue out first, Akhi,” and then opens the door.
Jason staggers at the sight of the Joker bound and bleeding on the floor. He flinches, waiting for the laughter that haunts him day and night. The insidious “HA-HA-HA!” that echoes in his mind without warning, regardless of where he is or what he’s doing.
It doesn’t come. All that spills from the Joker’s lips is blood, spittle, and a pathetic gurgle.
Oh. Damian—
I cut his tongue out first, Akhi.
Of course, he did. Of course.
Jason loves his brother with a ferocity that would terrify the average person. It’s a love that doesn’t have limits. He will do anything for his brother. Anything at all. Where the average person’s conscience would say, “Stop. This is too far. This is torture! This is murder! This isn’t moral!” Jason and Damian aren’t hampered by such whispers. Instead, their honor says, “This is just.”
What is murder when compared to his baby brother’s mental, physical, and emotional well-being? Nothing. It’s nothing at all.
Jason is unspeakably blessed that al Ghuls love just as fiercely, that Damian considers Jason worthy and deserving of his brotherhood and love.
“Surprise, Akhi!” Damian purrs with pride and dark relish.
“You always give me the best presents, Habibi,” Jason rasps out.
Leaning against the wall beside the door is a crowbar. Blood drips down it, forming a small puddle where it rests. Damian grabs it with a vicious grin on his face and says, “I’ve yet to finish inflicting every wound he gave you in Ethiopia into his flesh. It was my intention to … well, perhaps this is better,” Damian muses. He grins up at Jason and asks, “Would you like to watch, Akhi, as I take vengeance for every cruelty and indignity this monster forced upon you.”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Habibi,” Jason answers in al Ghul League Dialect.
“It’s my honor to avenge you, Akhi,” Damian says as three more Shadows enter the basement.
The first bows and places a large, plush floor pillow on the ground. Once Jason sits down, the second Shadow bows and sets a tray table before Jason. It has a bowl of warm water with soap and a heated towel on it. Once Jason finishes cleaning off the blood that Damian transferred to his skin, it’s taken away. The third bows and places a larger tray table before Jason. It bears a teapot of babooneh tea, two teacups, and a light breakfast.
“Save me some tea,” Damian says as he stalks toward the Joker, crowbar in hand.
There’s panic in the Joker’s eyes. A wild, animal, feral understanding that he’s trapped with no way out. That there’s no escape. That there’s no coming back. That this time Batman isn’t here to save the Joker from the consequences of his actions.
The bands that crush Jason’s lungs whenever he’s in the Joker’s presence don’t appear. The laughter that haunts his mind stays silent. The aches of remembered agony in his flesh and bones don’t surface. He feels—
In Damian’s hand, the crowbar flies. Blood sprays across the floor.
Jason drinks his tea, eats his breakfast, and doesn’t look away until the show ends. A death rattle sounds in the air. The Joker stops breathing; his heart quits beating.
Damian, his baby brother, has claimed vengeance on Jason’s behalf against the Joker.
And, finally, Jason feels … free.