Chapter Text
They see each other at the pharmacy. It's not a planned meet. They don't even know why the other is there. But that's where they see each other: the dilapidated CVS on Elmsworth.
“Uh-” Jason doesn't know what to say. He wants to cover his face. Turn around and run away and pretend that nothing happened. But he also has the worst cold. If he doesn't get some sudafed soon, he’s pretty sure he's gonna die.
“Fuck,” Dick says, earning himself a harsh glare from the mother standing nearby, who now has a small horde of children at her ankles echoing, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” and pulling each other's hair. Dick doesn't care; he's clearly lost his mind. In fact, he considers, in that very moment, dialing 911 and getting himself admitted.
Maybe, Jason thinks, I can pretend I’m someone else. Yep, nothing to see here, just someone who looks a lot like your dead…
Well. They're not brothers. Dick isn't Bruce’s son. And honestly, Jason doesn't consider himself Bruce's son anymore either. (But maybe they're brothers from those facts alone.)
But it doesn't matter what Jason intended to do, because Dick shakes his head, grabs an economy-sized bottle of extra-strength Tylenol, and breezes right past him. Like he's not even there. (Because for Dick, he absolutely isn't.)
And this… This bothers Jason. More than he’d ever like to admit. Had he truly been so forgettable, taken up such little space in Dick’s mind that he doesn't even have the decency to remember him?? (Well… he had missed his funeral…)
But Dick keeps moving. He’d sprint away, but that's never worked before. He just needs to keep his head down. Block it out. Maybe take his psychiatrist up on that antipsychotic prescription.
“Hey!” Jason shouts after him. “You dick!”
The mother, still rocking an inconsolable infant and ignoring the herd of children who have just learned their new favorite word, looks at him with desperation in her eyes. “Please,” she says, meek but clearly pushed past her limits. “There are kids.”
Jason's face goes red. “Ah, fuck- I mean… That's his… ah, that's his… name…”
The mother does not look convinced.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
And meanwhile, Dick (because yes, of course that's his name; English was his second language, so how could he know that the name from all those 60s shows he learned English from was a modern swear word?) hears Jason’s cry clear as day. And it only serves to terrify him further. He practically sprints to the self-checkout, accidentally scans the Tylenol twice, pays the extra fifteen bucks, and runs out without waiting for the mile-long receipt to print out.
Logically, Dick knows that running won't do anything. Jason is in his head - has been for three years now - and he can't outrun his own mind. But he can damn well try.
And Jason… Jason’s just pissed. First, Dick acts like he’s not even there, and then, he accidentally teaches a poor woman’s children a new curse word, and everything sucks, and it’s Dick’s fault, the absolute dick.
So, in the only reasonable response, Jason sprints after him. It becomes a footrace through the parking lot, with Dick swearing and chucking the Tylenol at Jason’s head and Jason ducking and proceeding to tackle Dick to the ground.
Dick has seen Jason a lot in the last few years. He’s usually still that scrawny fifteen-year-old, sometimes whole and hale and sometimes burnt beyond recognition. More recently, he’s seen a different version of the ghost boy in the yellow cape: a more grown, more adult Jason with a streak of white in his dark hair. He’s always far away, always distant. Never speaks. But he’s there, and Dick hates it every time because he knows Jason never got to grow up. He never got to be the spectre in the corner of Dick’s eye.
But Dick will admit: being tackled by an adult Jason Todd is a completely new type of hallucination for him. It solidifies his decision to call a professional and get some serious medication. He can only imagine what it looks like to the elderly couple pulling into the parking lot, seeing some dude falling on the pavement and flailing around.
Honestly, Dick may not need to call 911. Someone will probably do it for him.
“Quit it!” Jason hisses as Dick attempts to push him off. And it’s interesting, because Dick looks concerned but not… haunted. He’s not shocked to see Jason. He’s nervous, not surprised, like someone going to their hometown and seeing their ex. Not unexpected, but wholly unwelcome all the same.
It only makes Jason angrier.
“I’m not arguing with him,” Dick mutters under his breath. “I’m not talking to him. I will not start talking to-”
“You better fuckin’ well talk to me, you heartless bastard,” Jason seethes. “Do you know who I am?” And he knows the answer already. Why else would Dick have tensed up when he saw him? Why else would he have run out of the store?
But Dick turns his head. Tries to push himself up like Jason doesn’t have a knee on his chest, pinning him down. And something closer to panic sparks in his eyes.
“Why-?” Dick mumbles, swiping at his chest. His eyes widen when his hand hits Jason’s leg. “Oh. Oh, fuck.”
Dick has absolutely lost it. He thought he was fine - thought that the therapy was working and he was doing a decent job taking care of himself for once in his life - but now he realizes just how fucked he is.
Dick’s psychologist explained the types of hallucinations with him a year back. She talked about the kinds he described to her: auditory - hearing voices, catching Jason’s scream and the clunk of a metal crowbar against the boy’s ribs - and visual - seeing things, watching as a decaying child wearing the tattered remains of the Robin costume (Dick’s costume) chokes on his own blood. She described a few other types: smell and touch and the like. The fact that Dick rarely experienced more than one type of hallucination at a time, she had explained, is a positive thing. It makes it easier to differentiate between reality and the misfiring neurons in his brain.
But Dick has to wonder what this means now. Auditory and visual hallucinations, he’s dealt with, but being able to touch a vision? To be tackled by it? This has… never happened before. It’s possible - absolutely it’s possible - but Dick doesn’t know what to do about it.
“It’s not real,” Dick mumbles to himself, trying again and again to sit up, but the weight crushing his chest never feels any less real. He knows it’s fake, so how does he convince his body of that?
“Dude, have you lost it?” Jason wonders. He’s… He’s furious at Dick for the absolute audacity to not care that Jason is alive, but the guy is also talking to himself and staring out at nothing and continually trying to sit up when Jason very clearly won’t let him do that. He’s acting… strangely to say the least.
“I’m not talking to him,” Dick says again.
“Then I’m not moving,” Jason decides.
And it occurs to Dick that, despite what his psychologist advised, perhaps he should play along with the hallucination. Maybe if he can convince the part of his mind pretending to be Jason to get off him, he’ll physically be able to move again.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Dick sighs, hands up in peace. “What do you want?”
Jason stares at Dick. Looks him dead in his cold, unfeeling eyes and comes to an unfortunate conclusion: Dick doesn’t feel a goddamn thing. He doesn’t care that Jason is back. There’s no shock. No relief. Not even anger. Just resignation.
“I want you to give a shit,” Jason growls. “I’m back, and you’re acting like it’s fucking Tuesday!”
“Well… I see you a lot, so…” Dick shrugs as best he can while pinned to the blacktop.
“You’ve known?” Jason roars. “You knew I was back, and you never tried to contact me??”
“I’m… not supposed to talk to you,” Dick says, looking away. “Sarah says it gives credence to a false narrative.”
“What? Who the fuck is Sarah? What the hell are you talking about??”
“She’s-” Dick shakes his head, trying once again to nudge Jason off. But Jason is even less willing to move now. “Doesn’t matter. This was stupid. I shouldn’t’ve tried to…” He stares at a cigarette butt next to his head. “Fuck. I miss him.”
Jason blinks. “Come again?”
“Goddamn it. I should not be-” Dick huffs out a breath. “Fuck, dude. I wish you were real, okay? I wish you were actually here. And apparently, I would rather live in this delusion than have to keep going like… like… Fuck.”
Jason doesn't know what he's talking about. Not even a little.
“Dick, it's Jason.”
Dick buries his face in his hands. “No, you're not.” He wants to scream. He really does. Because it's bad enough convincing yourself that a very real-looking, real-sounding, real-feeling hallucination of your brother is all in your head, but now he has to explain to said hallucination that he's actually dead and just a figment of Dick’s imagination. A misfiring pathway in his brain.
Wait. Fuck. No, he doesn't. He doesn't have to say shit.
“Get off me,” Dick orders, trying to push Halluci-Jason off him.
“If I’m not Jason, then who the fuck do you think I am?”
“You aren't,” Dick hisses. “You're a poorly managed mental illness, okay? Get off me.”
Jason sits back on his heels, letting Dick go. “Huh.” He scratches the back of his head. That's a… new one. He's heard plenty of insults in his life and the one before that, but he's never been called a…
Jason helps Dick sit up. “You're… You are Dick, right? Dick Grayson? I didn't just… tackle some stranger, right?”
Dick digs his fingers in his hair, nails sharp on his scalp. Considering they feel just as real as the fake Jason Todd, it does nothing to ground him. “I should not,” he tells himself. “I’m not going to. I won't.”
Fuck. How is he going to explain this to Sarah?
“You-?” Jason places a gentle hand on Dick’s shoulder. Dick thinks it feels like lava. Jason thinks it feels like his brother isn't eating enough. “Dude, you seriously… You're mentally… fucked. What happened? You couldn't handle being replaced a second time? Did Babs break up with you for good? Or-?”
Dick grabs the collar of Jason’s jacket. The leather is soft in his hand. “YOU DIED!” he shrieks, giving up on any guise of sanity. He's been lying in a parking lot for how long now? If someone's going to call the cops, they already have. “That's what happened! God-fucking-dammit, Jay! You DIED! And ever since, all I see is you! Every-fucking-where! The kids we help on patrol all have your face. Every towel on a clothesline is your cape. Each person I fail to save is you! It's your fucking body cold on the ground, and considering you are just a fucking hallucination, I don't know why you're making me explain it!”
Jason’s stomach drops to his feet. Dick looks at him with the intensity of an Olympic archer going for the gold. His eyes crack and bleed with a hopeless desperation, like he’s still clinging to a hazy fantasy world where Jason never died. His hands shake, expression far beyond grief, beyond desolation.
This is real for him. He really, truly believes Jason is still dead.
Jason almost feels bad. His sudden appearance has made the Golden Boy go crazy? Made him think he's seeing things? It's… pathetic, really.
As if to prove Jason’s point, Dick lets go of the jacket, hugs his own legs, and presses his face to his knees. “Just… please leave me alone. I can't do this anymore.”
He should be mad. Dick had missed Jason’s funeral. He was furious when Bruce replaced him. He resented that Jason was adopted and he wasn't. Jason has no reason to pity this guy who pretended to be his brother.
And yet…
And yet, here he is, pitying him anyway.
“Dick,” Jason says, voice softening to something kinder than his usual bark. “I’m not a-”
There's a siren approaching. Dick stiffens, head shooting up, red eyes panicked as he looks past Jason. (Past Not-Jason, Dick reminds himself. This isn't actually Jason.)
Red and blue lights shine down the road. A middle-aged woman with a bob and a bad hair dye watches Dick from the CVS entrance, a phone against her ear and a comically large pair of sunglasses perched on her nose.
“Shit,” Dick and Jason say in unison. (Well… Dick says it. The hallucination is just another part of him, so it's not like he's saying anything in unison with anyone.)
“Damn,” Jason mutters, wondering how good of a look the woman got of his face. Would she be able to give the cops a description?
Either way, Jason needs to get out. He climbs to his feet and holds out a hand to Dick. But Dick just stares at it. Stares through it.
“C’mon, man,” Jason urges. “You're not going to prison for something as stupid as this.”
But this isn't stupid. This is serious. Dick shakes his head. “I’m crazy, Jay. I’ve been rolling around on the pavement and talking to myself. I could… I could be dangerous, and I don't even… I don't know what's real anymore. Hell, I’m talking to you, and I said I-”
“Fuck that,” Jason interrupts. He grabs Dick’s arms and drags him up. “Come on; we're getting out of here.”
And, arguably inadvisably, Dick lets himself be pulled down an alley and into the depths of the Gotham streets.