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violetsmoak · 4 years

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Philtatos [13/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101543/chapters/47690671

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: During a patrol where Red Hood and Red Robin cross paths, Jason is infected with the blood of the Eros, the ancient God of Love, who informs them that they must track down his missing bow and arrows, or Jason will go slowly mad with an obsessive desire–for Tim. Though overwhelmed by the sudden attention being paid to him, Tim sets to work trying to solve the case, before Jason succumbs to madness. In the meantime, Jason discovers that there’s more than godlike powers at work here, as well as a legacy that reaches back through the sands of time.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Beta Reader: None at the moment.

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #fatal flaw #secrets #riddle #fate #revenge #oracle #betrayal #prophecy #jealousy

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

Tim feels a little bad about using Jason’s skin hunger against him but only for a moment. Any concern about that vanishes when he peeks back at Jason as they walk, and observes the color returning to the other man’s cheeks. The hand clasped in his own stops shaking the longer they touch.

Tim has never been one to enjoy holding hands—often he’s felt uncomfortable or self-conscious, worrying about sweaty fingers or whether the other person might consider it lame—but this doesn’t feel like that.

This feels right.

It’s actually concerning how right it feels, especially in light of his recent discussion with Steph.

Stop it. This isn’t about you. It’s about putting Jason at ease.

They return to the containment unit to find Barbara facing down Eros—an impressive feat considering she’s in a wheelchair and he’s the one looking down on her. Her face is drawn in irritation, and he’s gratified to see that Eros seems put-out about something.

“Took you long enough. Cherry here says she’s got a bonafide prophecy from the Oracle of Delphi and wouldn’t share it until you got back.” He eyes their entwined hands and leers. “I take it the domestics are going well?”

“Get bent,” Tim snaps in irritation as Jason tugs his hand back so fast he might as well have been burned.

“Only if you do the honors, pretty boy.”

Jason growls and makes a move for his gun, but Tim reaches out to stop him.

“Can you not tease him?” he demands of Eros. “Especially when the only reason he’s like this is because of you.”

“Oh, if only you knew…”

Before Tim can comment on that, Jason interrupts.

“What’s the feathered freak talkin’ about?” he snaps, radiating tension. “What prophecy?”

“The one Signal was able to recover from the girl that was killed,” Barbara says coolly. “He transcribed it and sent it along. Do you want to hear it, or do you want to keep acting like a child?”

This she directs at Eros, who actually does look chastised a beat, before gracing her with a cool smile.

“I guess it is apropos if you do the honors, darlin’,” Eros says with a cool smile. “Is it ironic or coincidental if someone who stole the title of oracle interprets a prophecy from the actual Oracle of Delphi?”

“Who cares? This whole situation is making me hate both irony and coincidence,” Tim says.

“It’s making me wonder if there are any coincidences,” Jason mutters, eyes fixed on Eros in intense dislike.

Barbara offers him an identical look, before thumbing the screen of her phone and opening her incoming messages.

Then she begins to read:

“The Unseen darkness cannot keep its captive thrice for mortal masks the divine that seeks its reward in the city where dark nights conceal the greatest of secrets.

“Crossed beneath the stars when the Rager’s Moon is full, eternal freedom is neigh upon the eleventh moment of the small hour.The sacrifice of the virgin gifts triumph to the prisoner and that which drowned in Lethe’s tears is reborn.

“But take heed, for the winged scion of Cythera, willingly blinded by the veil of vengeance revealed by Discord’s most cursed boon, awakens the warrior guided by the Physicians heir.

“Fury dooms the fair, heralding the return of magnificent Alexandros and one whose name is painted in blood and stone.

“Greatest of loves, damned by the gleam of a golden barb, torn asunder by jealousy and parted by cruel death, they will stand against Strife.

“Titans will rise and one who Death names hero, betrayed yet shielded by love, will sunder the chains of Aidoneus and avenge the victim of grievance. One will be born anew, the other bound eternally to Stygian Darkness.”

There is silence as she puts the phone down, eyebrows drawn together in thought.

“What?” Tim says.

“I see your ‘what’ and raise you a ‘the fuck’,” Jason adds. “Does any of that make sense to anyone else? Because it don't make sense to me.”

“Blame my uncle,” Eros says, apparently annoyed.

“What? Why?” Tim wants to know. “Which one’s he?”

“Apollo,” Barbara says, still considering the puzzling words on the screen. “Aside from being a sun god, he was also the god of prophecy.”

“Talking in riddles is his favorite pastime,” Eros agrees. “It’s a pain in the ass.”

“I’ll bet,” Tim agrees. “We’ve got someone like that here in Gotham.”

“Yeah, and he’s a frequent guest of Arkham, so what’s that tell you?” Jason grumbles.

“That people who come up with riddles have too much time on their hands.”

“There’s a reason the Oracles of Delphi didn’t put their predictions into simple words,” Barbara points out. ”If you give people information about what’s coming, how do you know you’re not ensuring it will or won’t come to pass? It was important for them to be seen as the medium of the message and not an agent.

“By keeping information vague, it would seem like they were allowing a querant the chance to defy fate, while at the same time allowing fate to take its natural course, whatever that might be,” Eros agrees. “Ans it was good insurance. Even Oracles needed to cover their asses. You were less likely to get your head lopped off by a visiting king that received news he didn’t want to hear. And whatever the outcome, they could still say, ‘we told you so’.” He considers Barbara. “You know, I don’t usually find brainy sexy, but you might just turn me.”

“I’m thrilled,” she deadpans.

“So what’s all this supposed to mean, anyway?” Tim asks, trying to bring the discussion back to the matter at hand.

“It could mean anything. Though to start with, that bit about ‘unseen darkness’, that’s an epithet for the Underworld in old Hellenic documents.”

“We called it that in the old days,” Eros confirms.

“And then there’s the part about someone captive in Hades.”

“I thought Hades was a person?” Tim says.

“It is. But it’s also a place.” Jason tells him.

“It depends on what story and what source you’re drawing from,” Barbara elaborates. “And what translation.”

“What about the next bit? About mortal maskin' the divine?”

“Could that mean whoever’s possessing Carrie Cutter?” Tim suggests. “We’ve already established she’s got help from a god, and if they’re inhabiting her body even for short amounts of time, it’s a pretty effective mask.”

“No doubt,” Eros agrees. “Not so sure about that part with dark nights, but I guess it’s referring to this cesspool you people call a city.”

Tim, Jason and Barbara exchange glances, knowing exactly how dark nights and secrets relate to their city.

Maybe Duke misheard. It might not be dark ‘nights’ so much as dark ‘knights’. Which makes sense, considering Bruce and Dick both have that title depending on the day.

“Safe to say it’s Gotham,” Tim confirms. “So all that begs the question, do you have any idea who’s locked in the Underworld trying to get out?”

Eros snorts. “The better question is who isn’t locked in the Underworld.”

Jason is glaring furiously at Eros, clearly growing tired of his evasive and snarky answers. The way his fists clench, Tim suspects he’s close to throwing a punch at the glass in frustration. Not something Tim wants to see, especially given Jason’s injuries from their altercation with Carrie Cutter and Dick haven’t even been seen to yet.

God, it feels like it was days ago but it was only hours. He probably came right here to confront Eros without even looking after himself.

He has to put that out of his mind for now. Deciphering any clues in the prophecy takes momentary precedence.

“…. A lot of myths end with someone displeasing a god and getting sent to Tartarus, so he has a point,” Barbara is saying, her thumbs busily texting something on her phone.

“So that’s not going to tell us anything,” Tim decides. “What about the ‘crossed beneath the stars’ part?”

“More of the same in terms of pinpointing when everything is supposed to happen,” Eros says.

“Which is when?”

“November twenty-third,” Barbara says, frowning at the small screen in her hand.

Jason looks askance. “How d’you know?”

“'Moon’ equates to month, and another name for Zeus was the Rager,” she replies. “So, Zeus’s month. According to the Athenian calendars we still have access to, Zeus’s month was Maimakterion—which in modern times would fall somewhere between November and December. And the next full moon—” She holds up her phone, showing a lunar calendar for the month, “—falls on November twenty-third. It’s the only full moon that falls during Maimakterion.”

Eros nods along in approval. “What she said.”

“And the small hour?”

“Midnight.”

“So, whatever’s supposed to happen is going to happen eleven minutes after midnight…assuming that’s what moment means,” Tim muses, glancing at his own phone calendar. “That’s this Friday.”

“Five days from now,” Jason agrees, and side-eyes Tim. “We’ve all had shorter deadlines.”

“That’s not necessarily referring to your deadline, sweet cheeks,” Eros reminds him. “I figure you have about half that.”

“No thanks to you.”

“You know, the last Jason I knew wasn’t this whiny.”

“Children,” Barbara says sharply. “Let’s stay focused, shall we? I’m concerned about this virgin sacrifice part—specifically the part where it ensures success for someone we probably don’t want to succeed.”

“Cutter did kill that girl,” Tim reminds them. “Maybe it was some kind of offering, so she’d be successful at whatever she’s trying to do.”

“It’s a good an explanation as anything else,” Eros agrees, examining his nails. “We always did love our human sacrifices. And a virgin does increase the likelihood of something working out to your advantage.”

“You’re a piece of shit,” Jason growls. “That’s a kid you’re talking about!”

“And as an Oracle of Delphi she’s entitled to an eternity of bliss once she enters the Underworld,” Eros dismisses. “It’s a better end than some people are entitled to.”

Jason’s eyes blaze as if that’s a personal insult. Tim can certainly empathize.

“What about the second part?” he prompts. “What’s Lethe?”

“The Lethe was the river the souls drank from to forget their previous lives before being reincarnated,” Barbara explains.

“The Ancient Greeks believed in reincarnation? But I thought that was something from the Far East?”

“Many ancient cultures had a concept of reincarnation beyond the Hindu and Buddhist mythos,” Barbara explains. “Just look at the belief systems of the indigenous peoples of North America and you’ll see countless examples. And they didn’t have any contact with the civilizations of Asia during the time when those faiths were evolving.”

Beside Tim, Jason is as stiff as a board and appears to be having trouble breathing. Automatically, Tim edges closer to him, and though he doesn’t outright take his hand—he leans into him, nudging him with his shoulder.

Jason’s eyes dart to him for a moment, and he relaxes incrementally.

“How does that relate here though?” Barbara wants to know.

“Maybe the prisoner forgot something,” Eros suggests, not sounding very interested.

“Or maybe whoever’s tryin' to escape Hades as made to forget something,” Jason counters darkly.

“Only mortals can be made to forget by drinking from the Lethe,” Barbara says. “The prisoner could have been human. Salmoneus or Tantalus or one of the Dainads.”

Tim doesn’t even get a chance to question who they are before Eros interrupts. “Actually, it’s a little broader than just mortals. More like mortals, demigods that haven’t consumed ambrosia, giants, hybrids—”

“So again, we’re back to a broad spectrum of people it could be talkin' about,” Jason complains. “Great. Is there anyone or anything in this stupid prophecy that isn’t doublespeak?”

“Well, the next verse is pretty self-explanatory. Obviously, we’re talking about yours truly,” Eros says, pointing at himself. “What other 'winged son' do you know from mythology?”

“A case could be made for Pegasus.”

“No, it’s Eros,” Tim says. “Cythera’s another name for Aphrodite.” Everyone looks at him in surprise.

“How do you know that?” Jason asks, but where the emphasis ought to suggest incredulity, he sounds impressed.

Tim tries not to bask in that.

“My parents used to visit the island of Cythera a lot when they weren’t on business trips, especially before I was born. It was their favorite vacation destination. Full of history, not touristy—they didn’t like having to socialize with people when they were on vacation.”

Tim falls silent then, remembering sitting in his living room with his parents, pouring over their vacation photos of the Mediterranean island while they told stories. They’d always promised to take him one day…

He glances up and notices the others are watching him now—Eros with a sharp, calculating gaze while Jason appears concerned. As for Barbara, she seems to sense his discomfort, because she navigates them past the lull. “Okay, so if it’s Eros, what are you wanting revenge for? It’s not exactly your M-O.”

“I can think of a few people who have it coming,” Eros answers. “Starting with my mother.”

“What’d she do?” Tim asks.

“Do you have a few centuries worth of couch time?”

“Isn’t she the reason your wife died?” Barbara wants to know. “In the myth, she survived, but Tim told me that's not what happened in reality.”

Eros expression goes cold.

“That’s right,” Tim remembers; he and Eros had this conversation a few days ago, didn’t they? “Aphrodite is the one who sent Psyche to the underworld.”

Eros bares his teeth. “One of her many sins, but not the only one.”

“Then couldn’t the prophecy maybe be referring to her? Psyche, I mean? Maybe she’s the prisoner.”

“Are you implying my wife is the one behind your Cupid’s actions?” Eros growls. “Because that’s impossible.”

“How would you know? It could be—”

“Because she died a mortal! Her soul is mortal and wouldn’t have the power to escape the Underworld in any capacity! Furthermore, Psyche would never kill or arrange the death of anyone! She was good and pure of soul and that’s why I fell in love with her.”

“That’s not what I read,” Barbra says. “Didn’t you prick yourself on one of your golden arrows while watching her?”

“I pricked myself because I fell in love with her,” he snaps. “I’ve already told Jason here that the arrows only work to magnify emotions that are already there.”

“That makes no sense. You liked her before you made yourself fall in love with her?”

“Look, you know the story: Psyche was beautiful. So much so, that the idiots in her kingdom started treating her like a living goddess, bringing the gifts meant for my mother to this human princess. You can guess how well that went over.”

“Right. She sent you to make her fall in love with a horrible beast.”

“Yeah, one of Diomedes mares. Gorgeous animals—people would stop and stare at them for hours. Also, vicious, flesh-eating beasts. Just getting to close to one of those and it would have ripped her to shreds—and she would have stood there and let it.” Eros’ expression becomes soft, eyes faraway at the memory. “If she had been some arrogant, selfish royal I would have let it happen. But I watched her for days while I tried to put her in the path of that thing. And everything she did was just good and kind. I had never seen as pure a soul like hers.” He shakes his head. “The idea of a girl like that being sent to her death just because a bunch of idiot humans had the audacity to praise her alongside my mother didn’t seem fair.”

“And you’re all about fair, aren’t you?” Jason sneers.

Tim has to agree; if Eros cared about fair, he would have been a lot more helpful about curing Jason and wouldn’t have demanded they find his diviners beforehand.

“I was young and stupid, and I didn’t realize the world didn’t work that way,” Eros dismisses. “Even for gods. I thought my mother would never want to harm me—and so if I put Psyche under my protection, she couldn’t hurt her. And if I could show my mother what a good wife Psyche was, even if she was unable to see me, it would prove the point.” He snorts. “It didn’t exactly go my way.”

“And there’s no way her soul could have somehow been corrupted when she died?”

“The Underworld is stagnant. There’s no such thing as change or time there. Everything occurs both in one moment and in all moments there.”

“So you’re saying a soul going in would remain in the same state as it was when it died,” Barbara posits.

“Exactly. How else do you expect the judges to judge souls if they kept changing after death? It’d be a headache.

“Then if it’s not Psyche, who else can you think of that it might be?”

“It might be more than one person,” Tim suggests. “That line about 'greatest of loves'—what if that’s why Carrie’s been targeting couples? She hears the prophecy—or whoever’s riding along inside her hears the prophecy—and thinks there’s a couple out there that’s going to stand against her. She could be trying to eliminate potential threats to her end goal.”

“If so, we need to decipher her criteria for choosing her victims. You already said it didn’t seem like they had anything in common.”

“We’ll have to check again. Maybe now that we’ve got this prophecy, something new will jump out.”

“We skipped a whole verse,” Jason points out. “The ‘warrior guided by the physician’s heir’. Any ideas?”

Eros shrugs. “Since the rest of the prophecy involves me, I’d say it’s me.”

“How do you figure?”

“The Physician is another name for Apollo.”

“So?”

“So, who do you think taught me archery? Next to him, I’m the greatest archer among the Olympians.”

“Or it could be Jason,” Tim ponders.

Jason seems to go pale, almost panicked. “What?”

“I mean, assuming you’re interpreting ‘awaken’ by activating the way you do with a sleeper agent. You infected him with your blood however accidentally and then pressed him into doing your dirty work.”

“I resent your tone, boy,” Eros grumbles, but Jason interjects, “And the other bit?”

“The other bit is just really literal,” Barbara catches on. “Jason, you were trained by Batman. Who was the heir to an actual physician. The M.D. kind.”

Thomas Wayne.

Jason looks like he doesn’t know what to do with that information. “Shit.”

Eros watches Jason, inscrutable eyes considering; Jason glares back at him as if waiting for him to make a comment.

“But if it’s Jason, the next bit wouldn’t make sense,” Barbara says after a moment. “‘Magnificent Alexandros’. The only Alexandros I can think of off the top of my head if Alexander of Macedon. But that doesn’t really track with the rest of the verse. He was a historical figure, not mythological.”

“That’s offensive, you know,” Eros drawls. “All those stories you call mythology actually happened.”

“Then why don’t we have an archaeological record for them?”

“Because screw you, that’s why.”

“If it is talking about Alexander the Great, Robin will be happy,” Tim says with a rueful smirk.

Jason is perplexed. “Why?”

“Apparently he was on the list of the kid’s League-approved childhood heroes. Mother-son bonding time seems to have included traveling in his footsteps as preparation for world domination.”

Jason looks surprised and amused. “Really?”

“Is it that surprising?”

“No, it’s just…” Jason shakes his head. “Never mind.” He clears his throat. “So, back to the prophecy. It talks about the Titans—are we talkin' the creatures the Olympian gods overthrew?”

“Well, whenever one of us mention the Titans, it is usually those bottom feeders rotting in Tartarus, yes,” Eros says dryly, inscrutable focussed on Jason. “Them going free is never a good thing. Don’t believe me, read the Titanomachy. Hesiod got it pretty close to right.”

“Could be the goal, could be the result,” Tim suggests.

“Which brings us back to possibly being on the lookout for more than one prisoner escaping Hades,” Barbara says.

“And all of that leads us to the typical ‘one shall live and one shall die’ device,” Eros concludes.

“Only we don’t know who either of those is.”

“I can tell you now if it’s a prophecy involving me, I have no intention of dying."

“If it’s even about you. It’s not really an exact science, interpreting this sort of thing,” Barbara warns. “Even an Olympian like you can misunderstand—there’s evidence of that in the myths. In fact, I’m sure we’re missing more than is good for us. It will take some time to decipher it and we need more information.”

“At least we have something,” Tim maintains. “The exact date when it’s going to happen and where. We can begin preparing for that.”

“It’s a whole hell of a lot to think about,” Jason agrees.

“Which you can do back at the Cave. We only came here to see if Eros could shed some light on the prophecy or see the arrows.”

“What arrows?”

“Wonder Girl told us that to reverse what’s been done to Nightwing is to remove the arrow that Carrie stabbed him with.”

“Uh, there is no arrow,” Jason says. “Cupid took it with her, remember?”

“I guess that answers that question,” Barbara sighs. “You can’t see them.”

“Of course he can’t,” Eros says. “I’m the only one that can see the wounds caused by my arrows. Even this pseudo-Cupid wouldn’t be able to see them.”

“After she stabbed Jason she seemed to be looking for something, so I’m not sure about that,” Tim argues.

“She can’t see them. Though it may be possible her divine passenger might. I don't know. Never had another god take my diviners before."

“Speaking of being stabbed,” Tim goes on, nodding at the bruises coming out on his face. There are likely more hidden by the leather jacket and gear. “You should get those looked at.”

“I didn’t physically get stabbed, you know. Magic wounds don’t need to be looked at.”

“You went toe-to-toe with an enhanced fighter and Batman. You could have internal bleeding for all we know.”

“If you think a little tussle with that dick is going to do lastin' damage—”

Tim cuts off his indignation. “I don’t, but you haven’t been eating or sleeping properly, and your system is already compromised, so how do you know what damage was or wasn’t done? You didn’t stay to get treated at the Cave.”

Their eyes meet, remembering exactly why that is, and Tim’s cheeks darken. Jason is the first to look away, though.

“It’s nothin'. I can patch myself up whenever.”

“I can help—”

“I’m good.”

“Jason—”

“I’m an adult and I’ve been treatin' myself without help for years now,” Jason interrupts tensely. When Tim can’t stop himself from flinching, Jason’s eyes flash with dismay. “I mean…” He flounders like he’s trying to take it back, and instead changes the subject. “Didn’t you say somethin' about a list? Maybe get started on that and I’ll do an injury check myself.”

It’s a clear cop-out, and if they were alone, Tim would be calling him on it.

“I’ll ask for help if I need any,” he adds, awkwardly, like it’s been a long time since anyone actually cared about his injuries being treated.

Barbara glances between the two of them, obviously sensing the undertone, but not commenting on it. Instead, she says, “I don’t mind helping Jason. Besides, Red Robin needs to contact the Family and let them know what we know.”

“And I need food,” Eros says. “I haven’t eaten since before you went on your little reconnaissance mission. Can’t you see? I’m wasting away.”

“If only,” Jason mutters.

Tim is torn, wanting to argue that he can help Jason, but at the same time trying to respect the other man’s obvious need for distance.

At last, he nods.

“Okay,” he says, feeling a little defeated. “Let’s take a break. I’ll make a food run…you get yourself fixed up.”

“Whatever you say, babybird.”

⁂

Once Tim vanishes, Barbie indicates with a jerk of her head that Jason should follow her upstairs to the Nest medbay. He knows better than to think it’s just her wanting to take a look at his injuries—like him, she’s probably looking for some privacy.

They take the elevator up in silence, and Jason wonders vaguely when the last time was, he was this close to Barbara Gordon.

I don’t think I have been, actually. We both avoid the manor unless there’s no choice. And we both have good reasons for it. And when we are there together, there’s usually about six to ten feet of distance between us.

They were never what he would call close before she was paralyzed and he died. Barbie was Dick’s girl and Jason’s occasional babysitter until the Joker ruined her life. And then she wasn’t around at all. Jason wasn’t alive to watch her painstakingly drag herself up and pull it together again, so he never got the chance to interact with the Barbara Gordon that became Oracle.

Since returning to Gotham he’s kept her at a distance as much as he did the rest of the Family, so it’s somewhat surprising to him that she’s here now and working to help him.

Probably it’s on account of Tim.

Still silent, they enter the surgically pristine room of the Nest’s medical wing—and Jason is a little jealous of the supplies here. It makes the kits he has in his safehouses about as sophisticated as a needle and threat.

Barbie watches him, framed in the doorway.

“Well? Spit it out,” he grunts, deciding to get whatever reprimands are forthcoming out of the way.

Her look turns sharp before she reaches into her jacket pocket for something; Jason can’t help tensing up, even though she knows the likelihood of her pulling a weapon on him are slim to none.

That suspicion is confirmed when she instead draws out a device and turns it on; there’s a high-pitched background whir that Jason recognizes as a listening device scrambler.

Clearly we’re both aware of what a paranoid freak Timbers can be.

“Okay, Jason, what’s going on?” she asks without preamble. “You know Tim only wants to help you.”

“Yeah, at his own expense,” he retorts sourly.

Barbies raises an eyebrow as if waiting for him to continue, and when he doesn’t, she presses, “You’re being cagey. And it’s more than just worrying about losing control around Tim, I can tell.”

“Oh you can, can you?” he challenges.

“I’ve known you since you were still desperately trying to live up to Dick while pretending like you didn’t care. I know when you’re hiding something,” she folds her arms. “Believe it or not, Jason, you’re a terrible liar when it comes to things that matter.”

It’s reflex to want to say something caustic to that, but he stops himself in time. He needs Barbara’s help and pissing her off isn’t going to make his life any easier.

“I need a favor,” he admits after a beat.

“Another one?” she repeats, sounding like she doesn’t believe him. “You’re going to owe me a lot.”

“Yeah, well, now would be the time to collect on those debts while I still can.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means everyone else is tiptoein' around the subject, but at some point, I’m gonna need to be put under,” he says, erring on the side of just enough truth to keep her from questioning him further. “We both know what I’m talkin' about here.”

As expected, Barbara only just keeps herself from visibly recoiling; she’s already ready with an argument. “You don’t know we won’t find something before that happens.”

“I’m already feelin' like I’m livin' in someone else’s skin—” Literally, in a way. “—I’m not gonna get any better than I am right now. We’ve already seen what it looks like when I dip toward worse. So while I’m still lucid, let me make my decisions. And my decision is, I’d rather go under while I’m still me instead of violent, mindless…reaver.”

Barbara does a minor double-take. “Did you just make a Firefly reference?”

“It’s the last series I was watching before I died,” Jason says, a little defensive.

“I’m not judging, just surprised. Dick and Tim are usually the ones making pop-culture references to deflect. I’m not used to it from you.”

“And I’m not used to you stallin',” he counters. “You’re different from the other Bats, O. You know how to cut your losses, and you know how to make decisions when no one else wants to think about it. You get makin' the hard calls. So, I’m gonna ask you: when it comes down to a choice between me and Tim—and I mean when, not if—who do you save?”

Something like pain passes over her face, and then resolve hardens her face. “Tim.”

“Exactly,” he approves. “Because unlike me, he’s good. And smart.”

“You’re both of those things, even if you pretend like you’re not,” she protests.

“And he hasn’t committed multiple murders,” Jason continues, acting like he didn’t hear her. “Not that what I’ve done wasn’t justified. It wasn’t good, but I don’t regret it because I will go to my grave believin' sometimes that line needs to be crossed. Again. But it’s still a line Tim’s been lucky enough not to have to cross.”

She doesn’t argue with him, instead inclines her head.

“More people will miss him if he were gone then they would me,” Jason concludes. “I’m not supposed to be here anyway.”

There’s a long beat of measuring silence. Then, Barbara sighs. “What is it you need, Jason?”

He tilts his chin in gratitude.

“I didn’t just come here to yell at Eros,” he admits. “If Wonder Woman doesn’t show up, he’s the only one I know who has access to the stuff I need.”

“The Stygian Sleep.”

“Yeah. But it’s probably in GCPD lock-up.” He gives her a quick run-down of events, minus anything about Eros’ intentional plan to infect him. Babs listens, jaw set and eyes narrowed; given what she just said about him, she likely knows he’s not being completely truthful, but his explanation clearly holds enough water that she doesn’t call him on it.

“I’ll get someone to look into it,” she decides at last.

Which, even though he’s relieved about, he’s also suspicious.

“And by ‘look into’ you mean grab hold of and perform a million tests on it before handin' it over,” he posits.

“Just because you’re hellbent on using something that’s effectively going to kill you doesn’t mean I don’t want to know everything about it first,” she says, unapologetic. “Like the prophecy, it might have clues about how to circumvent it.”

“Yeah, because we’re having so much luck with that.”

“Also, when Bruce comes to me later in a righteous fury for letting his son die a second time, I’ll be able to assure him we knew everything we did about it before making an informed decision.”

Jason doesn’t pretend to believe that’s the end of it. Barbara might be willing to humor Jason a little more than Bruce, or even Dick when he’s not compromised—she might even be a little more objective in considering things, but she’s not going to trust Jason’s plan to be the only plan. She’ll have her own contingencies, the same as any Bat.

The only difference with Babs is that once it’s over and done with, and it becomes clear there’s no saving him, she’ll have an easier time getting over it than Bruce will. And she won’t let it compromise her work.

Tim’s told Jason what Bruce and Dick were like after he died the first time, and if it happens again, Gotham needs someone competent in keeping things in check.

And Tim…

Jason’s heart thuds with guilt.

This time, Tim won’t just be sweeping in to pick up the broken pieces of Batman and Nightwing as he did as a kid. He won’t be watching it from the sidelines.

The memory hits him then. To his surprise, it’s not from Achilleus or Alexandros.

Jason hates Wayne Charity galas.

People are always staring at him, murmuring through pasted-on smiles that even if he couldn’t read lips, he would be able to hear the judgment dripping from their words. These people are so achingly dry and genteel, their teeth don’t even unclench around their vowels.

Bruce doesn’t make him come to all that many of these shindigs, thankfully; only the ones involving children’s advocacy and the like. Jason doesn’t mind those too much, considering their purpose. He just hates that even at those—like the one tonight—he’s the only kid that has to parade around in the straitjacket Alfred calls a tux.

He gets it, of course; he’s the poster-boy, the success story, a means of showing the rich snobs how well a dirty Crime Alley orphan can clean up so that they’ll open their checkbooks.

It doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Except for tonight, for the first time, he noticed another kid that’s been dragged along. A tiny boy whose meticulously fitted tux still manages to look too big for him.

A man and woman who must be his parents are chatting with another couple, seemingly oblivious to the way their son is staring into the distance, a neutrally polite expression fixed on his face. He might as well be sleeping standing up, and Jason has the odd suspicion that’s by design.

That makes his mouth twitch; maybe rich kids get bored with this kind of thing too.

Jason keeps staring across the manor ballroom until the strange kid senses his gaze and looks up. He grins when the boy’s eyes widen—their color is startling, even from across the room, and they take up practically his whole face—and wonders at the sudden flood of color in his cheeks.

He’s about to motion the boy over to the edge of the reception area—hanging out with another kid, even a little one, will definitely break up the monotony of the evening—when Bruce’s hand falls hard on his shoulder.

“Time to make an exit, son,” he says, voice quiet and intense and incongruent with the false smile he’s still beaming at everyone within a ten-foot radius. From the distracted note in his words, Jason doesn’t even need to look out the window to see the signal lighting up the sky.

They meet Felipe Garzonas that night, and he doesn’t think of the boy again.

Jason shudders as the technicolor recollection fades out, his stomach twisting angrily.

He’s never made the connection between Tim and the boy at the fundraiser before. It occurs to him how stupid that was—at the same time it occurs to him that if not for that case that night, he might not have been on the outs with Bruce. He might have endured more Wayne event galas instead of limiting whatever time he was with Bruce to being Robin by night. He might have gotten to know Tim in this life, instead of dying.

He might not be in this damned predicament right now.

“Jason?”

He looks up, realizes that Barbie is watching him with concern. He is quick to revisit their conversation and mutters, “Yeah, fine. Just make sure the stuff actually makes it to me before my brain dribbles out of my head, okay?”

“Stop being so dramatic,” she replies, reaching out to turn off the scrambler device, though she continues to exude suspicion.

“All Bats are dramatic, or have you forgotten?” he quips back, offering an irreverent smirk to cover up.

“Hard to forget something you live with every day,” she returns dryly. “Now get over here and let me check you over.”

“You don’t need to,” he points out. “I’ve had worse than this, you know.”

“Yes, yes, we’re all aware you’ve died and come back, who hasn’t these days?” she returns. “Now, shirt off, or I’m telling Tim you didn’t do what you said you would.”

Jason glares. “This is going to become a thing, isn’t it? You people using Tim to make me do things.”

“Things that are for your own good, yes. Now strip, Todd.”

“Yes, mother…”

“You wish your mother was as cool as me.”

Which Jason can’t argue with, because she’s right; he’s had a total of three mother figures in his life (two of which he’s not sure even qualify because of how messed up they were), and none of them have been as capable or decent as Barbara Gordon.

Once he’s shrugged his top half out of the body armor and leather, she reaches for him.

Jason experiences a nauseous swoop in his stomach at the idea of anyone but Tim putting hands on him. Instantly, his hand snaps up and knocks hers back.

“Don’t touch me!” he snarls.

Barbara pulls away, watching him with a raised eyebrow and instantly Jason is overwhelmed with shame.

“Sorry,” he bites out. “I didn’t mean…”

“We can wait for Tim to get back,” she suggests, instantly understanding.

Alarms blare in his head at the thought; he shakes his head. “No. No, I’m…I’m good. Now that I’m expectin' it.”

She considers him several beats longer and then makes the next attempt to check his injuries. This time he concentrates on forcing the sick feeling away and tries to ignore how it feels like someone is rubbing sandpaper across his skin.

That’s a new symptom. Great. Because it wasn’t enough that I’ve been trying to claw my skin of myself, now other people get to do it too…

Barbara checks him over with quiet efficiency, evaluating the shallow slash between his arm and shoulder which his armor didn’t cover, as well the bruising along his hips, elbows and lower back.

“It could be worse,” she decides eventually, considering the mottled purpling across his chest. “Ribs are bruised, not broken.”

“I could've told you that…”

“And were you going to tell me about that?” she points at his shoulder and the spiderweb of gold leeching out around the long-healed-over bullet wound. From the way he’s been itching at it this past day, he doesn’t need a mirror to know it’s beginning to creep up his neck as well. “How long has it been growing like that?”

“Pretty much since I got it,” he replies.

She reaches up, brow furrowed and reaches toward one of the raised lines winding toward his chest. Again, he braces himself for the pain of the touch his body doesn’t want.

Thankfully, she barely grazes that. “You haven’t been keeping better track, have you? It might give us a more specific idea of how much time you have.”

“How so?”

“The same as any poison, I would guess. The closer it gets to your heart, the less time you have.”

He frowns. “At this point, I don’t think it even matters.”

Movement outside of the med bay window draws his attention, and he across the floor to see Tim climbing the stairs from the ground floor.

Jason is quick to grab his shirt and tug it on; it’s not something he wants to discuss with Tim just yet.

Barbara watches him, lips pursed in worry and disapproval, but he could care less about the latter. She knows his thoughts on this, and she’ll respect them.

Tim strides in and then slows like he’s wondering if he’s supposed to knock or not.

“How are you doing?” he asks, hesitant like he’s afraid expressing concern will set Jason off like a bomb.

Guilt hits him at that, but he forces himself to remain calm and blank-faced. “Fine.”

“I have to go,” Barbie announces, maneuvering her chair toward the door. “I need to go back to the Cave and check on Dick’s condition. I don’t know how long it will be before he tries to escape or pull something to keep from going nuts.”

“Also, it’d be nice if this month was one of the ones where Alfred doesn’t get knocked out,” Tim suggests with false levity.

“Or lose a hand,” Jason mutters darkly.

“Exactly. And whether he knows it or not, Feathers downstairs gave me some ideas about how to remove the arrow,” Barbie says as they leave the med bay.

“I should come with you.”

“No.” Both Barbara and Tim speak at the same time, but she’s the one that keeps talking. “You should stay here.”

“Not sure that’s the best idea.”

“I think it is,” Tim counters. “It will keep us out of everyone’s hair and they’ll know where we are.” His tone is reasonable—too reasonable; clearly Timmy has some ulterior motives.

Whether those motives are to circumvent Bruce or Jason’s plans, he doesn’t care. But one thing is for sure. “They can know where we are if we’re at the manor.”

And isn’t that a reversal—Jason being the one to insist on that?

I need to have people around because I don’t trust myself right now.

The mutinous expression is back on Tim’s face, before he visibly switches tactics.

“Okay, how about this,” he suggests, tone only a shade off exasperated. “Why don’t you go lie down somewhere and try to catch a few hours' sleep? If you’re sleeping, you’re not doing anything else, right? And then we’ll either go back to the Cave or see if anyone can be spared to chaperone here.”

“There’s no need for that,” a voice says, and they all look up to see Damian stride in still in full Robin-gear.

Tim scowls. “How did you get in here?”

“It was fairly simple,” the kid snorts. “A fish tank, Drake? Really?”

Tim looks like he wants to protest, but Jason chuckles. “It was kind of obvious, babybird.”

“You can barely take care of yourself, and you expect someone with a brain to believe you have the patience to care for fish?” the boy continues. “Exactly who do you think has been feeding them when you forget?”

Tim gapes. “You…break into my apartment…to feed my fish?”

Jason can’t help the loud guffaw that escapes at that, earning two equally unimpressed glares in return. He doesn’t care—that might be the funniest thing he’s heard in days.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Barbara says and wheels out of the room. “Try not to kill each other, boys. Alfred would be unhappy about it.”

“Luckily, we are standing in a well-stocked room with several methods for resuscitating a dead body,” Damian replies easily.

“Don’t you have school?” Tim grumbles.

“It’s Sunday, Drake.”

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“I have been sent to babysit you two and put Todd down with extreme prejudice should he try anything.

Which Tim gapes and, while Jason is…kind of relieved about.

“Aw, Dami, I knew you cared,” he teases.

“Don’t address me with that infantile drivel!”

Tim sighs.

“Just don’t set anything on fire while you’re here…”

⁂⁂⁂

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violetsmoak · 4 years

Text

Philtatos [11/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101543/chapters/47690671

Blanket Disclaimer

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Beta Reader: None at the moment.

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #amnesia #underworld #betrayal #gods in disguise

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

It takes Tim ten seconds longer than he’ll ever admit before he understands what’s going on.

Even then, he almost allows himself to get lost in the moment as his awareness floods with unexpected sensation: the brush of lips against his, warm and unexpectedly soft, the scratch of day-old stubble against his chin, weird, but good weird; the smell of motor oil and smoke and generic shampoo.

His pulse thunders in his ears, lungs burning because he doesn’t trust himself to exhale. It takes everything he has to fight against the reflex to lean forward into Jason. He has to remind himself why this is the worst possible idea right now.

While his words remain locked in his throat, his lack of reaction must still speak volumes. Or maybe it’s just Jason’s own wits returning to him. Either way, he jerks back from Tim, expression morphing through several iterations—horror, confusion, and guilt.

“Shit,” he says, voice hoarse. He takes a step back, eyes wide with panic. “Shit. You don’t…you don’t want this.”

His wild gaze darts around, everywhere but Tim’s face, before settling on something behind him that makes the color drain from his face. He takes another stumbling step backward.

Tim whips around, hoping to hell it’s not Bruce behind them, and only feels a modicum less dismay to find Steph there instead. She’s frozen in mid-step, arm in a sling and mouth gaping at what she’s just walked in on.

“What the…?”

“Steph,” Tim warns, trying to ignore the way his own cheeks become warm and his voice mimics a croak.

There’s a muffled clatter behind him as Jason drops his helmet and practically trips over his boots backing away.

“I have to go,” he chokes, still refusing to look at Tim.

He’s already taken off by the time Tim manages to form the syllables of his name.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Steph calls after him as Jason vanishes into the garage. “You can’t leave!”

The only answer is a bike engine roaring to life, and the squeal of tires as Jason peels out of the Cave.

“Jason, no—!” Tim tries, knows it’s a bad idea for some reason, but he’s having trouble getting his thoughts to really connect. He can’t make himself move, legs seemingly bolted to the stone floor.

Jason kissed him.

It’s s something he’s only ever allowed himself to image in the farthest recesses of his mind, the place his thoughts wander just before he falls asleep and can’t control their destination.

If this had happened three weeks ago, Tim would have been elated. Surprised and flustered, no doubt, but cautiously thrilled at the idea of Jason returning any kind of interest in him.

The hard truth is that he doesn’t.

The kiss wasn’t the result of Jason liking him, or even wanting to kiss him at all. It’s the result of a poison swimming through his bloodstream, stealing his will and his judgment and forcing some pale imitation desire for Tim.

And Tim—

Tim is still revisiting the moment in his brain, committing to memory the sensation of Jason’s mouth on his. His heart is still racing, the way it always does after a first kiss. He’s had enough of them to recognize the feeling, but that’s normally followed by warmth and relief and happiness.

Right now, all he feels are the competing urges to either sob or vomit. It’s strong enough that he stumbles toward the stairs, past Steph’s shocked and questioning gaze, and Bruce who stands at the head of the stairs.

“What’s going on?” he demands.

Tim meets his gaze, wondering how he’s supposed to answer that. On the one hand, they need to know Jason’s condition may have progressed, but on the other, some part of him wants to keep what just happened as private as possible.

He shoots Steph a pleading look, and though she seems confused for a moment, it’s barely noticeable.

“Jason left,” she says.

“After all that, you allowed Todd to leave?” Damian demands, marching down to lurk behind Bruce.

“He didn’t like being benched,” Steph supplies. “Probably needed to go sulk.”

“If his condition is as serious as you all seem to think, he should not be driving,” Bruce warns. “I’m going after him, before he—”

“Oh, just let him go,” a voice interrupts, voice exaggerating boredom. They all turn to the containment unit, where Dick is standing in his underwear, arms crossed. “He probably won’t get himself killed. And hey, if he does, chances are he’ll come back again. Evil doesn’t stay dead.”

Bruce’s brows furrow. “Dick.”

“Bruce. Are you going to let me out, or am I supposed to freeze my ass here in my underwear the rest of the night?”

“Do you still have the sudden urge to kill us all?” Damian challenges, trying for bravado but unable to completely hide his real unease.

“’' 'Sudden’?” Dick replies. “You talk like it’s something I haven’t dreamed about since Bruce stuck some new brat in my family’s colors.”

Damian clenches his fists, and Bruce says, “There’s your answer.”

“Oh, come on,” the first Robin groans. “Like you haven’t thought about it once or twice. How much easier your life would be if it was just like old times. Me and you and Babs.”

The words hurt, but it’s dulled somehow, both by the fact Tim knows this isn’t Dick—not really—and by his own overwhelmed exhaustion. This whole situation is hitting him all over again and he’s just…

Done.

He doesn’t bother with explanations or excuses as he strides toward the rarely used elevator. He needs time. And space. To think.

Or not think, as it were.

Somehow, his thoughts remain blissfully empty and blank as he heads upstairs, tossing his gear on the ground once he’s in his room. He gets in the shower, turns it on as hot as it can go and just stands in the spray for a while.

As the aches ease from his body, he carefully allows his thoughts to trickle back in, and to look at the situation objectively.

Jason kissed him, true.

But he didn’t do it to hurt him, either intentionally—by doing so without his consent—or unintentionally—because he has no idea about Tim’s feelings. Probably, he’s out there somewhere panicking. Most likely there will be some time period spent self-flagellating before he tries to do something about the situation.

Hopefully, Bruce or Damian or someone has gone after him by now. If not, Tim will have to do it.

Just as soon as he eases a little more exhaustion from his bones and muscles.

When was the last time I slept? It might be going on two days now.

No wonder he was taken by surprise. Maybe if he had been well-rested, if his body wasn’t a giant bruise from their ill-fated encounter with Cupid, his reaction time would have been better. He could have cut Jason off before he did anything, and he’d still be here.

He needs to go find him. Needs to venture back down to the Batcave, might even have to have another argument with Bruce about his fitness to be involved in the case.

Finding the confidence for that—to even fake for that—takes longer than he’d like.

By the time he finally gets out of the shower and into some civilian clothes, a half-hour has passed.

He’s unsurprised to find Steph loitering against his bedroom door when he opens it, expression of determined concern on her face. He half-expected it to be Bruce—wonders how she convinced him to stay downstairs.

“I’m fine,” he tells her automatically, hating how it sounds like it’s being dragged from the depths of his throat.

“You’re not fine. This whole situation is the definition of ‘not fine’.”

“We’re all doing the best we can.”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t be hiding up here. He’s really messing you up, isn’t he?”

“It’s not Dick’s fault.”

“I’m not talking about Dick.” Steph pushes off the walls, arms crossed. “I know it’s been weird for all of us seeing the big bad Red Hood’s recent personality change, but it’s obviously different with him being so fixated on you. And now that it’s getting physical—”

“It’s not getting physical, that was just…”

He can’t find the words to explain.

“You weren’t expecting it,” she suggests. “It’s okay. Honestly, I don’t think he was expecting to do that either, considering how fast he ran out of there. But if that’s happening now, he’s only going to get worse.”

“It’s not Jason’s fault either.”

“I know that. But clearly things are escalating. I’m not always Batman’s biggest fan, but I think he’s right about this one.”

“Steph…”

“Or, at least sit down as a group and figure out what to do, instead of you two butting heads the whole time.”

“This is happening to Jason and it’s happening to me. We’re the ones who should get the final say on how to handle it, and it’s been working so far.”

“Yeah? Then why do you look like someone just kicked you in the guts repeatedly? I know you want to help him, but you don’t have to force yourself to be okay with everything. No one would blame you if you needed to take a step back.”

“I don’t need to take a step back.”

“Are you sure about that? From what I heard, this whole thing has been a gamble from the start. I’m still shocked Bruce let it go on as long as it has. It’s not fair to either of you.”

“Bruce isn’t letting anything happen,” Tim snaps with unexpected venom, irritation washing over him. “This is my choice and as much of Jason’s choice as it can be right now. What you saw was just a…a momentary lapse. I’ll—we’ll adjust.”

But there’s a painful lump in his throat as he says that, and his thoughts flicker through images of Jason at his worst, at his most hateful—and contrast them with the easy-going, open and semi-flirtatious man he’s gotten to see in the past few days.

The stark difference between the violent, brutal ways they’ve fought one another in the past, and the gentle slide of Jason’s fingers against his cheek when he kissed him.

How do I adjust after that?

“I’ve haven’t seen this much denial from you since Bruce’s not-death,” Steph says, narrowing her eyes at him. “Is there something else going on here that you’re not telling us?”

“No,” Tim says shortly and starts down the hall. “I’ve got stuff to do, so—”

“Oh, no you don’t, I’m not buying the whole stoic-wannabe-Batman routine for a second!” she trails him down the hallway. “You only get like this when you’re trying to keep people from noticing you’re hurting. And I get the situation is confusing and all—”

“Leave it alone, Steph!”

“—but why the hell would Jason kissing you hurt? It’d be weird, sure, but it shouldn’t bother you at all.”

“Steph—”

“You’re the one insisting it’s not his fault, that he doesn’t…really…feel…” Tim tries to keep walking, but then he’s being spun around by the shoulder, and forced to look into wide, shocked blue eyes. “Are you hurting because it’s not real?”

Tim clenches his jaw shut and does his best to meet her gaze—avoidance would just be a confirmation—but Steph’s always been intuitive about things like this.

“Tim, you’re not…you don’t actually have feelings for Jason, do you?” she practically whispers, like she’s afraid to say it too loud. As if that makes it real.

Story of my life there.

It would be so easy to deny it, to brush it off and tell Steph that she’s reading too much into things. To pretend like it’s just the situation that has him off his game. But today, he’s exhausted, and mustering up the energy required to sell the story seems like too much.

Against his will, his eyes lower, and Steph releases him with a gasp.

He closes his eyes, waiting for judgment.

Instead, he feels her move closer, linking her fingers through his and tugging them until he looks up at her. The only thing on her face is concern.

“Tim,” she begins, careful, “I know this is a bit of a head-trip, Jason being nice to everyone and all. Even I’m starting to like the guy a bit. But…”

“It’s not like that.”

“Okay then. What’s it like?”

Still no judgment, just Stephanie expecting Tim to explain it to her in a way she can understand. They used to have so many arguments that he withheld information from her, and in the end of them, he was doing his best to get in the habit of walking her through his thought process—even if he failed most of the time.

Just as he’s failing now in the oppressive silence between them.

He opens his mouth, tries to come up with the words, then closes it again because—honestly—he can’t even explain it to himself sometimes.

There’s a sharp intake of breath.

“Jesus.” Steph presses her fingers to her lips in agitation. “I don’t…I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“Don’t say anything,” Tim suggests, tired. “I’m well aware of the status quo and hoping for things to be different is a waste of time.”

“But, Tim—”

“No,” he cuts her off, and ducks away from her, suddenly needing to be away from the boxed-in feeling of her closeness. “It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is saving Jason. Not just for me. This is—we have to save him, Steph. I can’t—we can’t lose him in his head again. Bruce can’t.”

And now Steph’s expression is no longer telegraphing shock, but also pain and pity. Obviously, she knows that everything Tim just said is true.

“Tim…”

“Let’s save the comments for after this mess is figured out, okay?” he suggests, trying for mild. He halfway manages it.

Steph looks like she’d like to protest, but instead nods. “Okay. I’m just worried.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“Bull. Whatever our issues, you’ve always been in my corner. I’ll never stop worrying about you.”

And that’s actually comforting.

He shoots her a tight smile of gratitude. “Come on. Enough moping, we’ve got two Bats that need to be helped now.”

“My thoughts exactly,” a gruff voice says behind them, and Tim winces, because he really should have expected Bruce to show up eventually.

Looks like Steph only managed to delay him a bit. God, did he hear any of that?

He starts to feel sick again.

“Lurk much?” Steph snaps.

“Stephanie, could you give us a few minutes?”

She makes a face and then shrugs. “You’ve got three before I go get Alfred.”

She disappears.

Tim and Bruce regard each other for a few seconds, both tense.

“How long have you been standing there?” Tim asks, trying not to sound as nervous as he feels.

“About thirty seconds,” Bruce replies, and Tim mentally revisits his conversation with Steph. He doesn’t think he said anything too incriminating. His stomach unclenches a bit. “Your concentration isn’t up to your usual standards.”

Tim’s mouth thins.

So, it’s time for the not so constructive criticism, is it?

But to his surprise, Bruce suddenly looks apologetic.

“Sorry. Given your concern for Jason…for me, I can understand it. I know you’re only trying to help as best you can. And I…” he hesitates, clearly chewing on something that’s difficult for him, “…could have handled my earlier reaction better.”

“You think?” Tim can’t help needling.

Bruce simply nods, doesn’t elaborate.

Of course, that’s as far as he’ll go. Still, for Batman, that’s a lot.

“Thanks,” Tim says after a beat. “And if you heard what I said—I meant it. I won’t let us lose Jason again. Or Dick.”

Bruce nods again and then squares his shoulders. “Barbara is on her way here.”

Awesome segue, Bruce…

Outwardly, he simply remarks, “That’s rare.”

“I contacted her. Since she wasn’t there when Dick was hit by Cupid’s arrow, he should have no problem with her. Chances are she can work with him to try to figure out a solution while we focus on Jason.”

“I bet she loved being relegated to babysitting her ex.”

“I would do it, but I need to keep Damian occupied,” Bruce says. “He’s taking Dick’s...current attitude…harder than he’d like to pretend.”

I get that. It’s not a great feeling when the mentor you’ve been low-key hero-worshipping looks at you like you’re dirt.

“She wouldn’t have agreed, but she has some information for Jason and can’t get in contact with him.”

Tim frowns. “His comms are off, then?”

“Yes. And he seems to have found and destroyed all my trackers. Do you have any on him?”

“No. It…felt like another breach of privacy, given the circumstances,” Tim murmurs, trying not to see the exasperation Bruce tries to hide.

“Trackers or no, Jason’s always had a tendency—or rather a talent—for avoiding Batman when he wants to,” he says after a moment. “Given his condition, he may not actively try to hide from you.”

It’s a reversal from what he was saying before, but Tim gets the sense that Bruce is trying here. Trying to trust him, despite his earlier misgivings.

What’s going on with Dick must be getting to him. He’s used to Jason being the one he has to worry about, but not anyone else.

Tim considers this. “Then I’ll find him.”

“In the meantime, we can hear what Barbara has to say.”

Tim doesn’t point out that the information was for Jason because on the off chance it helps Jason, it’s better to learn sooner than later.

Another thought occurs to him.

“Did Diana ever get back to you? When you were on your way back you said she hadn’t yet, but…?”

“No.” Bruce’s expression becomes shadowed. “I’m starting to think there’s a reason for it.”

“You think that’s tied in?”

“We’re dealing one Olympian god—possibly two. Of course, it has something to do with it.”

“Are Clark or any of the other League members dealing with wayward gods?”

“Nothing from what I’ve found out. The Titans?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did you get in contact with Wonder Girl?”

“No. Not yet. I can do that now. Maybe she’s got some ideas about helping Dick, too.”

“Hm.” Bruce nods, and heads back downstairs. He pauses, then turns to Tim with an indecipherable expression. “I realize we haven’t been the closest in the past few months. But I…am available to you if you ever need to talk. About anything.”

“Uh. Okay?”

Bruce watches him another five seconds and then descends the stairs.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Tim really doesn’t want to think too closely about that right now, he has enough anxiety-inducing thoughts beating around his skull. Instead, he reaches for his phone and speed-dials her, flipping the phone around to face him.

“Hey, stranger,” she says as she picks up on the fourth ring. The screen wavers as she seemingly props it up on something, allowing her to keep eating; apparently he caught her in the middle of supper.

Breakfast? What time is it even?

“I thought you’d dropped off the face of the planet. Did you finally finish up that issue with Eros?”

“Not even close,” Tim sighs, scraping his hand down his face. He’s going to need to shave soon.

“Uh-oh. Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this?”

“You probably won’t. Please hold all well-deserved scolding until the end.”

“What happened.”

“So, we tried to get the bow and arrows back…”

“And it didn’t go as planned?”

“Worse. Nightwing kind of…got tagged.”

“You’re kidding,” Cassie groans. “Which arrow? Though either one has the potential to be horrible.”

Tim snorts. “As uncomfortable as it would have been, I think we’d all rather deal with overly amorous Dick Grayson than the asshole that’s down in the containment unit.”

“That’s the trouble when it’s someone you care about,” she agrees. “They always know exactly where to twist the knife. Or arrow, in this case. Speaking of, that’s what this is.”

“Huh?”

“The arrow he got stuck with? It has to be removed.”

“There is no arrow.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be able to see it. It exists on a different plane. Only Eros, or the person wielding his bow and arrow, would be able to see or touch it. It’s why even the gods could never stop him from making them fall in or out of love with someone unless they convinced him to do it.”

“That’s not encouraging. Only Eros…” Tim trails off, thinking of the winged terror in his base, and of the trouble he’s caused.

Of Jason moving into his personal space, pressing his mouth against his—

“What about someone infected with Eros blood?” he blurts out, shaking his face in an attempt to get his cheeks to cool off.

“I mean, maybe, no one’s ever tried, but—” Cassie cuts off and narrows her eyes at Tim. “What do you mean someone infected by Eros blood? Are you going to bring some civilian in and try to get them to fix Nightwing? Because that will only get someone hurt.”

Tim shifts, uncomfortable. “Okay, so…remember how I didn’t really tell you who it was?”

“Yes…”

“It…might have been Red Hood.”

Cassie lets out a string of curse words, some of which may actually be Kryptonian.

Looks like Kon’s rubbing off on her…

“Just because Batman doesn’t tell his team all the details until he’s ready, doesn’t mean you get to do the same thing!” she hisses. “This is serious!”

“I realize that.”

“No, you don’t!” That guy’s crazy!”

“It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?! I’ve seen the footage, Tim! When he came back and did his rounds messing with everyone in your family, he almost killed you! He injured and incapacitated our friends!”

“I’m not disputing that.”

“He doesn’t show restraint, just throws himself into things without caring about the consequences—”

“Debatable.”

“—and has already shown obsessive tendencies. I don’t even want to imagine what he’s like now that he’s been infected with…with erotic obsession for someone!”

“I don’t have to imagine, and it’s fine, we’re handling it.”

“You mean protecting some poor civilian from their brand new murderous stalker?”

“There aren’t any civilians involved, so you can relax.”

“No civi—you mean it’s a cape he’s obsessed with?” Her voice becomes suspicion. “Is it one of you?” When he still doesn’t reply, the suspicion turns to something dangerous. “Tim…Tim, please tell me that it’s not you that he’s focused on.”

“It’s not his fault—” he begins.

“That’s it!” Cassie throws up her hands. “I’m rounding everyone up and we’re coming to you.”

“No, you’re not!” Tim protests, panicking a little because he’s already got Steph who’s going to be watching him like something about to break. The Titans known him just as well, they’re going to figure out the truth just as fast, and he doesn’t want them preemptively crippling Jason.

Unless he can stop her, he’s going to have a lot of explaining to do—and not just to her.

⁂

Jason isn’t entirely sure how he gets out of the Cave, let alone without being tailed by anyone. His normally stellar senses are clogged instead by overwhelming guilt and shame, thoughts seesawing back and away from the fact he just kissed Tim Drake.

He had tasted like coffee and blood from a split lip, and damn it, Jason shouldn’t have done that when he was hurt—

I shouldn’t have done it at all!

The bike beneath him wobbles in a way it shouldn’t as he speeds down the deserted road without an actual destination in mind, just the persistent need to be somewhere that’s elsewhere.

The world around him flickers, substituting the damp and gritty pavement with a dark room then sand-swept stone walls and then an angry, roiling ocean and then a sunlit field. His head pounds with the high-pitched cackle of his nightmares, which morphs into the cheering of hundreds of voices and then screaming.

He feels the strain of his muscles as he swings a sword, the press of his armored back against that belonging to the man who is an extension of himself, tastes blood and dirt in his mouth and the furious joy of a good fight.

Bristol’s gloomy darkness flashes back and forth to a battlefield, bodies, and steel colliding, to the inside of a canvas tent and his hand is on Tim’s cheek, the same as it was in the Batcave.

“Noble son of Menoetius, man after my own heart,” he says, and Tim wraps his own fingers around his hand, brings Jason’s palm to his lips.

No, not Tim. That wasn’t his name, it was—

Jason only just comes back to himself in time to pull over on the shoulder of the road instead of plowing into an oncoming red pickup truck. He staggers from the bike, ignoring the thunk as it falls to the ground, has to put his head between his legs.

“Hey, buddy—you okay? You just came out of nowhere—”

“’m fine!” Jason gasps, backing away from whoever is trying to talk to him. His vision continues to blur and double, juxtaposing night with the day, present with the dream he can’t escape.

Moonlight over the city, the colorless adobe buildings illuminated in its path. Sounds of raucous laughter and music from the inside palace, but outside on the balcony, it is calm and he is at peace.

“I conquer everything, and it would mean nothing without you. In this world, you alone are the one I trust.”

“And you are everything I care for,” the dark-eyed man beside him replies.

“No, his eyes are blue,” Jason murmurs.

“What was that? Hey man, did you hit your head?”

He stares across the manor ballroom until it catches the strange kid’s attention, grinning when the boy’s eyes widen at him. Their color is startling, and they take up practically his whole face.

Jason’s about to motion for him to the edge of the reception area—hanging out with another kid, even a little one, would break up the monotony of the evening—when Bruce’s hand falls hard on his shoulder.

“Time to make an exit, son,” he says, and from the distracted way he’s talking, Jason doesn’t even need to look out the window to see the sky.

Jason gasps, clutching at his head as it throbs like it’s been trapped in a vice. There’s burning pain, not unlike being emerged in a Lazarus pit like something is being forced into him. Only this time, it’s not life, but—

A green dale, unnaturally green and clean, with flowers more vibrant than anything he has ever seen. Birds sing in harmonious tones, fly against the sky that is impossibly blue, perfect wispy clouds gathered around alpine mountains in the distance.

Sitting against a tree, familiar form cradled against his chest. He feels a wistful sigh. “I would spend eternity with you if I could.”

“I’m going to call for an ambulance,” the stranger says, and somehow that cuts through the whirlwind of emotion and image crowding Jason’s head right then.

“No,” he says, straightens up. “No…I’m okay…”

This time he manages to push back the influx of thoughts, seizing on every bit of training he’s ever had in clearing his mind. The images are still coming, but Jason can think around them now.

Not sure how long for, though.

He squints at the man, trying to assess how much trouble it will be if he has to knock him out and run.

Athletic build, blond hair in a brush cut, red tattoos all up his arms of sun and flames, which Jason can see because he’s standing there in nothing but a wife-beater in mid-November. In fact, he kind of looks like someone waiting around for the next Burning Man.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine,” Jason snaps and starts for his bike.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing?” the guy demands. “You can’t just get back up on that thing, not if you’ve got a head injury or something.”

“No…”

“You’re in a bad way, man, take the help.”

“Listen, pal, if you don’t back off—”

Jason hears a motor revving up in the distance and tenses, visions of being followed by the other Bats. He destroyed the tracker on the bike before he took it, but that’s never a guarantee.

“Never mind,” he switches tacks. “You’re right. I need to go.”

He intends to go on foot, to disappear into the shadows and tree line, but the guy is pointing at his truck.

“I can drive you to the hospital if you don’t want to wait for an ambulance.”

“No hospital,” Jason replies, then forces himself to think past the blurring visions in his mind. “But…there’s somewhere I can get help.”

It’s the last place he wants to go, but he also knows it’s the only place he stands a chance of getting some answers. Even if there will be a lot of smug posturing beforehand.

“I need to get to the East End.”

“Hop in,” the guy says.

“Fine. But you try anything—”

“Relax, dude, you’re not my type.”

“Still. Full disclosure: if you try anything on me, I’ll stab you in the neck,” Jason says—or thinks he says. Everything has a decidedly dreamlike quality right now.

“Fair,” the stranger laughs. His sunny disposition should be raising flags right now, but Jason gets the feeling that’s genuine. “So, were you on your way to a costume party or something?”

Jason blinks, looks down at himself, and realizes he’s still in his gear, minus the helmet he left on the floor of the cave. The red bat seems larger, more menacing than it should be.

Instantly recognizable to the average Gothamite.

He pauses, one foot in the truck, narrows his eyes. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Nope,” is the cheerful reply. “Drove up from Florida to visit some family.”

“Right.”

“No offense, but so far I’m not impressed,” he goes on as Jason slowly eases into the passenger seat. “The sun doesn’t really show up here much, does it?”

“You want sun, go to Metropolis,” Jason mutters, as always a bit defensive about his city.

“Oh, I’ve been there. Big Superman fan.”

“Of course you are…”

“I’m Paul, by the way.”

“Good for you. Can we get going?”

“Point the way.”

As it turns out, he doesn’t actually do much pointing. Paul apparently has an uncanny sense of direction, because Jason doesn’t recall giving him any directions. Although to be fair, he doesn’t recall very much of the drive because the minute he’s sitting down and the scenery is flying past, his mind goes back to assaulting him with images and sounds and feelings he can’t explain.

Before, the dreams were like the distant recollection of feeling and sensation, but now they images won’t leave his mind.

“In life, I sought your heart and won—I followed you into battle, and into death—I follow wherever you will go here in this place that is no place. Do you truly believe that in any life, I would not find you? That I would not be drawn to you? That I would not love you?”

It’s him, he knows that much, and that’s Tim, but at the same time, it’s not. It’s like watching from behind someone else’s eyes and yet like long-buried childhood memories suddenly making an appearance.

Paul is humming beside him, unaware of the tumult in Jason’s mind. Something about all this should be sending alarms blaring in Jason’s head, but it just doesn’t register.

“Should the time come where the gods decree we return to the land of the living, it won’t matter if we return at opposite sides of the world, as a lowly servant to the stately king, as warriors from enemy kingdoms. We will always be reunited. And we will always be ourselves. And that is enough to make me confident we would be worthy of Elysium again and again.”

“We’re about to enter the Bowery,” Paul announces. “Least that’s what the sign says. I assume that means something to you.”

“Yeah,” Jason says, looking around in confusion. “That’s a lot faster than I expected.”

“What can I say? I got some powerful horses under the hood of this thing,” the other man says, patting the dash.

Jason finds himself nodding.

He has Paul drop him off a block or two away from Tim’s apartment, waves away any attempts to go with him, and at his first opportunity disappears into the familiar alleyways without a backward glance.

He doesn’t want to risk anyone knowing where Tim lives.

Normally he’s not bothered too much by anyone possibly recognizing him—no civilian identity means he doesn’t have to worry about his enemies tracking him down that way—but Tim’s been under public scrutiny enough in the past year or so without a known vigilante showing up at his front door.

It’s just the scoop old Vicki would kill for.

His lips curl in disgust, and he briefly entertains the thought of tracking the reporter down and teaching her a lesson about messing with his—

“Stop it,” he orders himself.

He finds his way into Tim’s place the same way as he did before, barely notices the trip down into the depths of chrome and computer. His fingers itch, wanting to reach for someone who isn’t there, and his mouth still tastes like Tim.

Or does it?

He’s not sure if this is from now, or from the—

Memories? Is that what they are? And if so, whose?

He shakes that off. All that matters is getting to the person that can answer his question, that can tell him what’s happening to him.

Eros is sitting cross-legged in his cell, using an empty Big Belly Burger cup to play Quarters with a gold coin. He glances up when Jason appears in front of him, and his eyes widen in appreciation.

“Oh, you are handsome under that ugly red monstrosity,” he purrs, gaze roving over Jason’s features without apology.

He ignores it, instead growls out, “Something’s happening to me.”

Eros freezes.

“It’s different from before, from the…from fixating on Tim. I’m seeing—I hear whispers, it’s like I’m remembering something. Another life. Lives. But they’re not mine.”

“Fucking finally,” Eros groans in unquestionable relief. He puffs his cheeks out in irritation, “I thought you were never going to wake up.”

“Wake up? What the hell do you mean?”

“I mean, welcome back to the land of the living, your highness. You took your sweet-ass time about it.”

Jason gapes, confused for a half-second and then hit with sudden clarity.

“Peleides.”

“I have to admit, for being the work of the only sculptor the king has ever trusted with his likeness—“

“All of us who stand here are kings and the vassals of kings—"

“You know that bastard Darius is holed up across the Euphrates trying to dictate to me?”

“Peleides.”

“—it doesn’t look a thing like him.”

“I was king,” he realizes dimly. “I was…”Achilleus. Alexandros. “…basileus.”

“Knew you’d get there eventually,” Eros nods.

It takes longer than Jason would like for him to navigate through the onslaught of memories, to parse what the winged-man is saying.

“You. You were expecting me to wake up?”

“Expecting? Darlin’, I orchestrated it,” Eros replies smugly. “You think getting tagged with my blood was an accident? That took exact planning and timing on my part.”

What.

“When my warehouse got broken into by those Russian ruffians and then you two muttonheads dropped in, I recognized your souls right away.”

“Right, because you’re a god,” Jason deadpans.

“That’s one reason,” Eros admits. “The other is that I was the one that brought you two together the first time around.”

“…What?”

“You really think the golden-haired, princeling son of a goddess would even look at some minor frontier king’s cast-off son without a push? It took preparation to put him in your path—and then, because you’re both always stubborn assholes about it, I had to bring out the arrows.”

“I thought you said people don’t need your help,” Jason says tightly.

“They don’t, normally. But with explosive chemistry like Achilleus and Patroklus, it would end up one of two ways: bitterest of rivals or greatest of lovers.”

And that…that tracks, actually. It doesn’t make it easier to process.

“And why the hell do you get to choose how that goes?” Jason demands. Somehow, it feels less like a violation being fated to be enemies with a person than to be in love with them.

“You know why. There were big things in the making. Things Achilleus had to be alive for, and if Patroklus became his greatest enemy, he wouldn’t have made it out of Phthia.”

“Bullshit.”

“Is it really?” Eros simpers. “Are you going to tell me if Patroklus—or whatever he’s called today—didn’t take it in his head to take you out, you wouldn’t be dead six ways from Sunday?”

Jason opens his mouth to tell him just that, and then pauses.

Because…

Tim was already a planner before he became Robin if everything Talia told him is true. He tangles with people like Cluemaster and fucking Ra’s al Ghul on the same level; the latter even puts his intellect and detective skills on the same level as Batman.

Hell, Damian’s been sulking for a while about some kind of hit-list for heroes and rogues alike.

If he didn’t religiously toe Bruce’s line, Tim could probably be as cold as Amanda Waller.

“Along with sending you off your head for bird boy, my blood also nixes that pesky little side-effect of you not being able to remember your previous lives,” Eros continues.

“But why?”

“I chose to wake you because of who you were. The strongest warrior of old. Determined. Reckless when it comes to the one you love. Those qualities don’t disappear when you're born into a new body, you know.”

“And obviously you want something.”

Eros’s entire demeanor shifts in an instant, going from smug pain in the ass to cold and dangerous. “I want my wife returned to me.”

Whatever Jason was expecting, it wasn’t that. There’s a beat where he repeats it again in his head, trying to make sure he heard right and momentarily thinking it’s such an easy request.

Until he remembers.

“You said she was dead.”

“In the technical sense, yes. The insecure drama queen that is my mother sent her on a quest to collect a container of beauty from the Queen of the Underworld. Someone replaced it with Stygian Sleep, which consigned her soul to the darkest, loneliest part of the Underworld.”

Jason stares, once again wondering if he heard right. “Are you shittin’ me?”

“I shit you not.”

“How the hell do you expect me to do that?”

“Funny you should mention ‘hell’,” Eros says with an unkind smile. “Obviously, you have to die first. A particular kind of dead. The kind that, under certain conditions, can be reversible.”

Conversations from the past days flicker in Jason’s memory and a particular sticking point that the Family has been very divided on.

“Stygian Sleep,” he guesses, a pit forming in his stomach.

“Exactly. And here I thought the pretty bird was the smart half of your little duo.”

Jason grits his teeth at the reference to Tim, the infection in his blood and a few millennia’s worth of latent and now remembered possessiveness boiling within him. He toys briefly with the idea of opening the damn cage and exorcising his frustrations on Eros.

The smug bastard must sense the intent because his smirk grows larger. “I’m game for a tumble if you are, sweetheart. But neither of us really has time for a quickie right now.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jason bites out, breathing through his nose until he can get his focus back on target. The idea of messing around with Eros helps, actually; the raw disgust at being with anyone other than Tim is like a bucket of ice water, dampening his fury. “So, how does me dying bring your wife back?”

“Being exposed to the Sleep will bind you to the same corner of the Underworld as her. With the right talisman in your possession, you can switch places with her.”

“I switch places with her? Or my soul switches places with her?”

Eros honest to fucking god claps his hands in delight. “Hah! You catch on quick. Yes, she’ll need a body, since hers is long gone. With your soul no longer taking up space, the swap will be easy.”

The implication hangs in the air. Jason isn’t about to just leave it.

“And I wouldn’t be coming back.”

Eros shrugs. “Nope.”

“Then I’m not doing it. There’s no benefit for anyone else but you, and I don’t just do shit for free.”

“Ah, but you see, this is why I needed you to be awake,” Eros purrs. “Because the meathead you are now might not have anything he’d be willing to sacrifice his own soul for…but the meathead you were definitely does.”

Jason’s gut pulls tight; he suddenly knows where this is going.

“If you do this favor for me, a god, I can ensure that your beloved is guaranteed an eternity of bliss once he dies. Hades owes me a favor I’ve never cashed in.”

“If he owes you a favor, why don’t you get him to get your wife back,” Jason growls.

“You don’t think I tried that? Even the god of Death is bound by the Styx.”

Jason thinks that’s awfully convenient, but he also knows it to be true. His mother—no, Achilleus’ mother—taught him the strength and unyielding nature of the River. Even the gods are unable to break oaths sworn by that flowing water and considering the power they have—considering they can influence where a soul ends up after their human death—that limits them considerably.

Jason swallows.

“And if I still say no?”

The cold, forbidding glint is back in his eyes. “Oh, the possibilities are endless. Maybe I’ll weaken the bonds between the two of you and send your love into the arms of an enemy.”

Jason is hit by a rather chilling, nauseating image of Tim sitting at the knee of Ra’s al Ghul.

“I told you all I need is a certain chemistry between two people,” Eros goes on, “and I’m sure there’s someone out there that would be happy to take and twist Patroklus or Hephaestion or whatever he’s called now until he’s so sullied he’ll be sent straight to Tartarus. And there’s no reincarnating from there. So he’ll be in Tartarus and you’ll be pining away in the Mourning Fields.” He pretends to consider it. “Of course, maybe you guys won’t find my diviners before then. In which case, things get messy. Assuming the world doesn’t descend into a frenzy of fucking, I may just use him until the flesh falls from his bones and he’s too exhausted to take another breath.”

Jason slams his fist into the glass. “You touch him, I’ll fucking rip your head off.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll be dead by this point. And he still won’t end up in the same place as you when you both die.”

“If I kill you now, it won’t really matter.”

“Killing a god…another one-way trip to Tartarus, and you still don’t save him any pain. Face it, Helmet Head, I’ve got you by the proverbial balls. At least if you cooperate, you get something out of it instead of royally shafted.”

Jason’s hands twitch toward his gun holster, rage blurring his vision for a moment at both the implicit and veiled threats.

He’s stuck, and he knows it,

Either Jason accepts this, thus guaranteeing Tim a peaceful afterlife—which, given the amount of shit he’s gone through would be a hell of a reward—or Jason can tell the entitled god of Love to fuck off.

And then die an agonizing death from going mad or taking the easy way out by shooting myself. Neither of which is a good death, if there can be such a thing.

Neither option ends with Jason’s afterlife being anything resembling peaceful.

Not that he ever expected anything like that, even the first time he died.

Or third time, I guess.

If all of this only involved him, it would be an easy decision to make. He’s never had an issue with throwing himself off the deep end of a bad situation—in any life—but it’s not just about him.

“If we’re going to be separated anyhow, it’s no different if it’s in paradise or rotting on the side of the Styx,” he says dully.

“Well, if that’s what you want to consign yourselves to,” Eros allows. “Or rather, what you want to consign your lover to. Imagine, fair Patroklus wasting away his eternity as a shade, crowding for space along the river, his only highlight when some wet-behind-the-ears comes looking for council. Lapping up blood from the dirt like a dog.”

The metaphorical knife twists and Jason has to fight down the urge to vomit.

“No.”

“Then, there you have it. Easy choice then.”

Jason swallows.

Tim is innocent in all of this, in that he doesn’t remember any other life but this one. He doesn’t know what they once were. But when his life ends, whether in the pursuit of Batman’s never-ending crusade, or eighty years old lying in bed, he’s going to wake up in the Underworld and remember everything.

If Jason doesn’t help Eros, he’s in for an eternity of misery.

Imagining the destroyed expression on his face—on Hephaestion, on Patroklus—makes Jason feel as if someone has shoved a knife into his own heart. Neither of them wanted to be separated; an eternity together was the whole point of making their pact, of trying to achieve Elysium three times.

It’s a huge decision.

Thousands of years of a pact to be together, and he’s contemplating breaking it. He can’t just decide this for both of them without Tim—without Patroklus—knowing the stakes, and without hearing his advice.

“Is there a way to wake him, too?” he asks roughly. “To get his memories back?”

“Same way as you,” Eros replies. “Mix blood—you’ve got me in your veins now, so you can even do that yourself if it’s one of your kinks.”

Jason shudders, at the implication and the information. That would just put Tim in the same boat as Jason, losing his mind and bound for a grisly death.

“Screw that. I’ll just tell him,” he decides. “He’s heard stranger things than that. I’ll explain it all to him.”

It won’t be exactly like telling Patroklus, but they’re the same person deep down.

“Sure, that’ll work,” Eros muses. “Or he might think you’re so far gone into your obsession with him that you’ve become delusional. He might even lock you up in digs like this, and then you can be useless to everyone.” He shrugs. “He’ll still be of use to me, though. So do whatever you want. Wake him up, don’t wake him up, I’ll still have someone to offer my deal to.”

Jason’s stomach sinks, because it’s true.

Patroklus—Hephaestion—Tim; he’s always been a self-sacrificing little shit, especially when it comes to him. If he thinks it will save Jason—save Achilleus or Alexandros—he’ll throw himself on the metaphorical sword.

And Tim’s been stabbed enough for one lifetime.

The men Jason was before would hate him for doing this. He thinks they would fight the gods themselves, bank on pride and anger to enact their will. They were heroes in their own mind, not fearing mortal challengers or death itself.

It’s the fundamental difference between them; Jason didn’t grow up as a king that was never given limits. He was born in the dirt and has been kicked back there repeatedly in his life. It’s taught him exactly what situations are worth it—whether the collateral damage is worth it—and when to regroup, or retreat.

He can’t see a way of winning this one. And only one scenario has a half-way acceptable outcome.

“I don’t give a shit about what Achilleus or Alexandros want, because I ain’t them,” Jason snarls. “Barring a few surround-sound memories, they’re about as real to me as the kid I was before I died. A memory, that's it.”

Eros bares his teeth. “That your final answer?”

“I’ll do it,” Jason tells him at last. “I put that kid through enough. I owe him. At least if he checks out of this life early like I did, I’ll know he’s going somewhere better.”

Even if it is without me.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, darlin’,” Eros replies, striding over to the drawer where he’s been getting his food. He opens it, tosses something inside with a clatter. “Keep this on you. It has to be on you when you succumb to the Sleep, otherwise, you and Psyche will both be trapped there and everyone’s fucked. And not in the good way.”

Warily, Jason opens the drawer on the outside and picks up the small, flat gold coin.

“What is this? Drachma for the ferryman?”

He's only being a little sarcastic; at this point, he wouldn't be surprised.

“Sort of the opposite. Too complicated for your monkey brain to understand,” Eros dismisses. “Just don’t lose it. For your boyfriend’s sake.”

Jason’s fist closes around the coin.

He tries not to wonder if Tim, or the men he was before, will forgive him for this.

⁂⁂⁂

________________________________________________________________

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