It’s the middle of the night, but Jason can’t even make out the time on the bedside clock. The room spins around him, and he hears that damn laugh—that twisted laugh from the man who got him into this mess.

The Joker doesn’t just taunt Jason in real life, but in his dreams, too. He wakes up in a cold sweat, skin clammy as if he’s still trapped in that hellhole. Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he’s right back there—locked in that sterile room in Arkham, the walls closing in. Then the crowbar. Every time, he feels it—the impact to his chest, the searing pain that leaves him gasping. It’s a memory that never fades.

Tonight, it’s different. The nightmares usually stay away when he’s with you—when he’s next to you, everything feels grounded. Safe. But not tonight.

Jason’s heart hammers in his chest, frantic and loud. Sweat beads on his forehead, soaking his hairline. He can’t breathe. His lungs constrict, each shallow breath a struggle. His body trembles, hands clutching the sheets, then his chest, trying to hold himself together.

Why now? Why tonight? He’s been fine for months—months—since the last nightmare, but the fear rises, sharp and sudden. His throat tightens, making it harder to swallow, harder to think.

The sound of your breathing nearby should comfort him, but it only makes the silence feel louder, the space around him more suffocating. The nightmare should be over, but it feels like it’s just beginning.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice hoarse. His hand claws at his chest, gasping for air that won’t come. He hears you stir beside him, your presence pulling him back, but the panic is overwhelming.

“C-can’t breathe. Damn it.”