The manor had finally started to feel normal again.

Hospital monitors were gone, replaced by the quiet ticking of grandfather clocks. Bandages disappeared, bruises faded, and the doctors finally agreed Jason was physically recovered enough to return to a mostly normal life.

Bruce had expected the hard part to start much sooner.

He had braced for nightmares, panic attacks, refusal to be left alone—something. Alfred stocked calming teas. Dick practically moved into the manor for weeks, determined to be there if Jason needed him.

But nothing happened.

Jason complained about physical therapy, argued with Bruce over patrol restrictions, rolled his eyes at Dick’s fussing, and even managed a few sarcastic jokes. If anything, he seemed eager to prove he was fine.

Too fine.

Bruce noticed, though he couldn’t explain why. Jason never spoke about the warehouse.

Not once.

Any mention of the Joker was met with an immediate subject change. Questions about how he was feeling got the same answer every time.

“I’m okay.”

Eventually, life settled into something like routine. Bruce worked at Wayne Enterprises by day and patrolled as Batman by night. Dick split his time between college, Titans business, and checking in whenever he could. Jason, finally trusted to move around Gotham on his own again, insisted he didn’t need anyone hovering over him.

For a few days, everything seemed normal.

Then Alfred called.

“Master Bruce,” he said carefully, “Master Jason appears rather distressed.”

Bruce’s stomach dropped. “What happened?”

“I found him sitting on the kitchen floor.”

“Is he injured?”

“No, sir.”

A pause.

“He simply looked frightened.”

Bruce was home in less than twenty minutes.

By then, Jason had already pulled himself together. He sat at the kitchen table with untouched hot chocolate, acting as if nothing had happened.

His hands, however, were shaking.

“It’s nothing,” Jason muttered before Bruce could ask. “Dropped a plate. Startled me.”

Bruce didn’t believe him.

Neither did Dick, who arrived shortly after. It wasn’t a one-time thing. Over the next few weeks, the signs piled up.

Jason flinched whenever someone came up behind him. He couldn’t stay in dark, enclosed rooms for long. Some days he barely ate; other days he ate too fast, like the food might vanish. Dick caught him stuffing packaged snacks into his jacket pockets.

Just in case.

Loud noises—a slammed door, dropped books, thunder—made Jason freeze for several seconds before forcing himself to move again. He stopped sleeping through the night. Bruce often found him in the library or living room after three in the morning, curled in an armchair because his bedroom felt worse.

The nightmares had come.

Only they weren’t staying in his sleep.

Sometimes Jason would simply go still. His breathing would hitch, his eyes would lose focus, and he’d stare at nothing with open terror. It didn’t matter who spoke to him—Bruce, Dick, Alfred—he wouldn’t answer for nearly a minute before blinking back into the room, disoriented and exhausted.

Flashbacks.

Bruce recognized them immediately. Dick did too. Neither of them said anything at first. Jason was proud, stubborn, and if they pushed too soon, he’d only retreat further behind the walls he’d built.

But when Dick found him one evening on the floor of his bedroom, knees pulled to his chest, staring at the locked door as if he wasn’t seeing Wayne Manor at all, they knew they couldn’t wait any longer.

Later that night, Bruce knocked on Jason’s door instead of walking in.

“Jay?” he asked softly.

There was a long pause.

“…Yeah?”

Bruce glanced at Dick beside him. Neither of them looked angry. Neither looked disappointed. Only worried.

“We’re not here to lecture you,” Bruce said gently.

Dick gave Jason a small, reassuring smile. “We just want to know what’s been happening.”