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They figure out the drug thing a few months after Red Hood starts patrolling with the Bats.
It’s not even anything serious that tips them off, just the first thing bad enough to warrant anything heavier than ibuprofen and a nap. He takes a bad hit to the leg that ends with a dislocated knee, and although he argues that he’s reduced plenty of dislocated joints on his own before and has been absolutely fine, thank you, no help needed, jackass by choice here, Alfred looks so damn sad at the idea of him going through any more pain at all that Jason gives in and begrudgingly agrees to knock back a few painkillers.
However, it doesn’t take long to figure out that the painkillers just— don’t fucking work. It’s like Jason had swallowed a handful of Pez and called it a day, instead of taking the heavy prescription drugs they keep on hand for situations like these.
Alfred looks apologetic and grim and says that it’s his new metabolism.
Bruce sets his knee and, after Jason has caught his breath, gently says that it’s a problem they’re going to solve.
As soon as Jason graduates past the knee brace, the trial period begins to create a drug strong enough to bypass his newfound resistances and hopefully knock him out for at least long enough to perform surgery when needed, ideally without knocking him out permanently in the context of overdose or outright death.
(A casual side note, really.)
It’s a delicate dance that leads to more testing than Jason cares for, a lot of fucking weird side effects, and a whole new layer to Jason’s existing grudge against drugs while also achieving zero actual pain relief.
Jason’s spent enough time stuck in the cave with FDA disapproved drugs circulating through his system and his hand dunked in ice water to testify to that directly.
Tim and Leslie work together with Bruce and Alfred’s help, and they source advice and drug formulas from the other enhanced folks they know, but it turns out that Jason’s enhanced anatomy is different from most— which is to be expected, honestly, but is still a fucking wrench in the plans. The Pit’s just a whole other beast. Therefore, the majority of the formulas they gather from the Tower and the Titans end up not doing shit, and they’re left starting mostly from scratch.
Progress is slow, but eventually, they get somewhere with creating drugs that can actually make an impact on him. They start making small strides. Briefly, it’s a win.
Quickly, it’s not.
The first time they actually manage to sedate him, he gets kicked into fight mode by an aggressive reaction that leads to him breaking a few thousands worth of surrounding medical equipment before going down, and then wakes up to spend the rest of the day alternating between puking and passing out. He doesn’t remember most of it. He’s told that’s for the better.
The second time they try a sedative, this time with a new and improved formula meant to be used as an emergency tranquilizer, they accidentally overdose him.
He wakes up shaking against Bruce’s side in a hospital bed in Leslie’s clinic, Bruce’s arm tight around his shoulders, Dick holding his hand, and Tim watching him with red-rimmed eyes, guilt wracked and looking like he’s already three breakdowns deep and heading fast towards a fourth.
Bruce ends the project.
No one argues.
They made enough progress before then to end up with three drugs. The first is a mild painkiller that doesn’t do much but can take the edge off of the worst of it when used in copious quantities, which is quickly added to the team’s medical kits and fully stocked in the med bay. The second is the sedative with the side effects from hell, which is avoided but effective and could be useful in an emergency. The last is the second formula that was dangerous with the amount they gave him, but was admittedly effective in briefly knocking him out before they caught the overdose. That one is a last ditch option, but even Bruce agrees that it’s still an option— just only viable in the worst case scenarios, and with a much lower concentration. The oh-shit choice, if you will.
It’s not the success they were looking for, but it’s something.
After that, Jason avoids hospitals at all costs and gets good at patching himself up in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. When things get really bad, he goes to Alfred, but even those situations are far and in between. Pain relief is avoided, anesthesia is outright refused, and Jason’s pain tolerance builds with experience.
They make it work for longer than Jason ever thought the grace period would last.
In the end, it’s his fucking wisdom teeth that get him.
***
Leslie tells him that his wisdom teeth are impacted while he sits in her clinic with his dental x-rays in one hand and an ice pack in the other, face throbbing after one well placed punch from some goon during patrol had him folding like a fucking lawn chair. The vague ache had developed a few weeks ago, but it was never this bad until that fucker decided to go for the jaw and got lucky.
He’d been dismissing it as stress.
The seriousness in Leslie’s expression as she explains the surgery they’re going to have to do to solve the problem makes him wish it was that fucking simple.
God, he’d do anything to fix this with some eucalyptus essential oil. He’d take a hot bath over this shit any day, fucking hell. Bruce’s hand is steady on his shoulder as they both take in Leslie’s explanation, but for all he’s keeping calm, Jason’s thinking the feeling is mutual.
In the end, Leslie refers them to an oral surgeon she knows— someone good, who knows better than to ask questions. They decide to use their main sedative as the primary anesthetic during the procedure, further tweaked to hopefully avoid the worst of the previous side effects and monitored carefully. The mild painkiller can be used during recovery.
The second formula —the one with the worst track record that almost sent Jason right back into the ground— is going to be heavily adjusted and kept on hand during the surgery, just in case they need it, just in case shit goes south with an adverse reaction or ineffective anesthesia or some other unexpected plot twist from hell. It’s a necessary precaution, Jason knows, at least for the staff’s safety if not his own. It probably won’t be used. It’s just there for the worst case scenario. Besides, considering how Leslie’s pretty sure they’re going to have to break the teeth in order to extract them, it’s not like Jason’s revving for the chance to experience it all awake.
But— still.
Bruce’s hand tightens on his shoulder, and Jason’s never been good at optimism.
***
They’ve been here for ten minutes and the tape around the IV is already itching.
Jason resists the urge to mess with it, hands braced around the armrests of the dental chair as the surgeon prepares her supplies, an oxygen cannula already settled under his nose and cardiac monitor connected. Bruce and Dick are seated on either side of him after inviting themselves without his input, mostly there for moral support while Jason’s going under and coming up from sedation, partially there in case help is needed during surgery and their medical training comes in handy. Jason’s situation has led to top secrecy and a small skeleton crew of surgical staff, so the extra hands might be necessary.
There’s still too many fucking people here in Jason’s opinion. He’s trying not to get antsy about it.
“Whoops.” The surgeon frowns at the anesthesia recommendation pulled up on her computer, Leslie’s signature scrawled across the bottom of the PDF. “Looks like your specialist made a typo here. This dosage is way too high.”
Bruce glances at the monitor she’s studying. “No, that’s correct.”
“Damned redhead genes, you know,” Jason offers. “Always a fucking pain in the ass.”
Bruce frowns, but Dick is snorting and something loosens a bit behind Jason’s sternum.
“Hmm.” The surgeon casts a dubious look at Jason’s dark hair, eyes narrowed at the white forelock, but doesn’t push the issue beyond making a note in the file. Her silent compliance is something to be grateful for, at the very least. If nothing else, Leslie does know her people.
She turns away to ready the medication, and simultaneously, Dick and Bruce draw closer. They go about it casually, without mentioning it and purposefully without making eye contact with Jason or each other, but crowd in all the same, getting right up and cozy on either side of the dental chair and both of them within arm's reach of Jason.
Bruce’s hand is already curled around his wrist. On his other side, Dick’s hand inconspicuously rests palm up on the knee closest to Jason, a silent offer assumedly in case Jason decides to let loose on what remains of his pride and go straight for clinging.
Jason looks pointedly from Dick to his hand and back again, eyebrow raised. Dick makes grabby hands.
Mother hens, the both of them. God.
“Okay, party time.” The surgeon screws a full syringe into the IV port and alright, shit’s getting real. Jason takes a breath. “Pushing the sedation now,” she says, slowly depressing the plunger home. “It shouldn’t take long to take effect.”
Here fucking goes.
He swallows hard and forces himself to look away before he’s tempted to bat the syringe out of her hands. An aching burn starts to thread its way up his arm and into his shoulder as she disconnects the now empty canister from his IV port, the progression slow, gradual, but impossible to stop now that it’s been started. No going back. Point of no return. All aboard the shitty time train.
Quietly, the first tick of anxiety starts up in his chest.
Bruce squeezes his wrist, unspoken understanding and deep seated comfort all wrapped into an emotionally constipated package, and begrudgingly, Jason’s glad they’re here.
“Still feeling okay?” Dick asks. He reaches out, grabby hands forgotten, and gently fixes Jason’s oxygen cannula where it loops over his ear, adjusting it so it sits more comfortably. Jason lets him— Dick’s always been touchy when he’s worried, and the years have taught him that resistance is futile. “Nothing weird yet?”
“Only you.” At Dick’s unamused look, Jason sighs. “No. Just stings.”
“That’s normal,” the surgeon says. “Give it a minute.” She’s fussing with the equipment now, her body angled away from them, busying herself to give them some semblance of privacy while still remaining close in case things decide to lurch sideways. She stays in reach of the covered tray tucked behind the heart monitor.
The second formula —the emergency tranquilizer— is hidden there.
Bruce catches him eyeing it and shifts to block his view, quietly understanding and firm all in one. “Easy, Jay.”
The burning is getting worse.
The medicated exhaustion is beginning to pull at him, dragging down his limbs, weighing heavy on his chest. Letting his head thud back against the padded chair is less of a choice and more of an involuntary response to his skull suddenly weighing a hundred pounds.
And fuck, he hates this.
Reluctantly, he fumbles for Dick with the hand not currently being held hostage by Bruce, needing another point of contact, pride be damned. Dick immediately understands, catching his hand and holding on. “Okay, Little Wing,” he says. “You’re okay.”
Jason knows that. Logically, he knows that. Still, this fucking sucks.
“Yeah,” he says. Then, “Hold tighter.”
Obligingly, both of their grips become firmer— grounding, present.
God, he fucking hates this. Hates this weakness, hates the helplessness, hates the forced exhaustion— hates how vulnerable it makes him feel. But Dick moves with him as he begins to slump, keeping his big head right where Jason can see him, and Bruce finds a way to somehow ease even closer, letting Jason keep track of them both at a glance. Neither of them leave.
His thoughts are becoming sluggish now, harder to hold onto. Things are dulling.
Bruce’s thumb moves in a slow, repetitive sweep over the pulse point in his wrist. “Still doing okay?”
“Tired,” Jason manages, barely. His voice comes slow. Dick squeezes his hand.
“Looking good so far,” the surgeon says. She’s still watching the monitors, standing closer to him than Jason would like, but he doesn’t currently have the energy to do anything about it. “The dose should be kicking in right about now.”
Understatement. He’s slipping fucking fast.
Bruce glances her way but doesn’t remove his hand from Jason’s arm. As always, he’s so warm. It’s something that feels important right now, hazy as Jason is— Bruce is always so warm. The heat seeps. “No agitation yet,” he says. “This formula seems promising.”
Dick is close enough that his knees are pressed up against the side of the dental chair by Jason’s hip, warm through Jason’s sweatpants. Like father, Jason thinks distantly. “Look at you, playing nice on the playground,” he says. “Proud of you, Jay.”
Jason can barely keep his eyes open. Somehow, he still finds it in him to glare, pissy enough by default to justify spending the energy.
He’s about thirty seconds and a sigh from unconsciousness when the uneasiness spikes.
It’s startling, the random jolt of nerves that hits him despite the tiredness still tugging at his mind. The exhaustion suddenly halts, tide retreating from shore, tsunami drawback. His eyes blink open.
Dick sits up. “You alright?”
“Wrong,” Jason gets out. “Something— something’s wrong.”
Bruce is already reaching for him when the adrenaline hits.
The first wave of it crashes into Jason in the same instant he hears the monitor speed up, beeps coming quicker, an alarm beginning to sound. Numbness sweeps him as his heart starts pounding like it’s trying to tear right through his chest.
“Woah,” Dick says, watching the monitor, “woah, hey, Jason—”
Then comes the anger.
Panic explodes alongside fear alongside senseless rage like gas catching on a match, bursting from behind his ribs, forcing him into motion as he scrambles to sit up despite the impossible weight on his chest and his shoulders and his limbs. Fierce resistance surges even as the exhaustion stays, the crushing heaviness immediately countered by a desperate energy so sharp it steals the breath from his lungs, steals the composure from his head.
And oh god, oh god, because suddenly—
Suddenly, this feels familiar.
“Jason,” Bruce says, and he’s already pressing Jason to lay back again, gentle but firm, “hey, Jaylad, you’re okay—”
“No,” Jason says, shaking him off. He’s suddenly short of breath like he’s in the middle of a fight gone bad, blind fury warring with blinding fear and both emotions are so fucking sudden and so fucking big that they’re drowning everything else out. “No, it’s—”
They’re both ready when Jason tries to rip out the IV, their grips on both of his hands going from comforting to restraining in an instant.
Dick already has his free palm slapped over the IV site, trapping his arm and providing an added layer of protection in case Jason is able to get a hand free. Someone pins his legs before he even thinks to kick and his skin is fucking crawling—
Someone yells for the second formula.
“Stop,” Jason gasps. A nurse reaches for the displaced oxygen cannula and Jason wrenches his face away before she can make contact, caught between fight or flight as every instinct he has goes haywire, a new wave of wild adrenaline crashing through him to bury every new wave of exhaustion. The monitor alarms are so goddamn loud and Jason can barely fucking hear them through the ringing in his ears. “No— don’t—”
“Hey, hey.” Dick’s thumb rubs circles into the back of Jason’s hand, startlingly gentle while he’s still pinning Jason to the goddamn chair. He’s half on top of him with his knee bruising his goddamn spleen and Jason can’t fucking move— “Just breathe, kiddo, you’re alright.”
—and Christ, Jason wishes it was that fucking easy. His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it bursting in his temples.
“You’re safe, Jay,” Bruce says, quiet, gentle. Jason jerks again, desperate, pissed, but Bruce holds fast. “Everything’s okay.”
“The Pit,” Jason chokes out, panting. “Pit rage. It feels— this is the same, B, please, I can’t— fuck, please—”
Dick’s eyes cut to Bruce, instantaneously wrecked, but Bruce is moving before Dick can.
“Jason, look at me,” he says. “Look at me, honey.”
“I can’t—”
”Jason.”
It’s a battle to force his attention towards anything other than the crushing sense of danger exploding from his chest, but he does. Bruce is so fucking close to him. Jason cannot fucking breathe.
“It's not Pit rage,” Bruce says, firm, resolute, a warm hand pressed to Jason’s sternum hard enough to ground him, hard enough to feel, unwavering even as Jason’s chest heaves. “You are not losing control. You are not in danger. It’s only the sedation triggering an adverse reaction. We’re here, and you’re safe.”
Fight or flight.
Jason locks eyes with him for three seconds, four, before breaking the hold and attempting to bolt.
His knees are buckling before he can run and Bruce is catching him before he can fall and the emergency sedative is stabbed into his arm to a soundtrack of shouting nurses and screaming monitors and then Jason is—
***
Jason wakes up wrong.
Jason wakes up screaming.
He’s in the Pit and he’s in the coffin and he’s in the warehouse and he’s in the Tower and he’s out of control and he’s hurt and he’s panicking and he’s alone and he’s burning and he’s dangerous and he’s dying again and he’s dying again and he’s dying again—
“Jason!”
—and he’s dying again—
“Jay, it’s okay—”
And— and—
“Hey, hey, Little Wing, you’re safe—”
“He needs to calm down—”
“—don’t!”
—and someone grabs his arm and he’s swinging and he’s making contact and oh god he’s not safe they’re not safe—
He’s out of the chair and across the room before he can process the decision to move.
Jason hits the wall hard and immediately slides the to the floor, scrabbling to get his back to the corner, to defend himself, to throw out a desperate hand warding off the figures that threaten to follow him down, keeping himself safe from them and keeping them safe from him—
“Hey, Jaylad.”
—and he can’t even fucking think—
“Jay, it’s Dick. It’s just me and Bruce. You’re okay.”
—and there are hands on his shoulders and blood in his mouth and he can’t he can’t oh god please he can’t do this again—
“Jason, sweetheart, breathe.”
—and there are hands on his face and Jason fucking can’t.
Bruce is crouched in front of him, face creased and concerned with his hands gentle against Jason’s jaw, holding him steady. “Breathe, honey,” he says and Jason is choking on air and choking on blood but Bruce is here and Bruce’s hands are so warm that it’s startling (cold ground cold skin burning warehouse) and Jason is so fucking confused and so fucking lost—
Bruce’s thumbs sweep under his eyes and come back wet. “You’re panicking. Take a few deep breaths. It’ll help.”
Jason manages one ragged inhale before he’s gagging.
Dick thrusts an emesis bin under his chin in the same instant Jason starts heaving in earnest, just in time to catch the blood.
“Okay, it’s okay,” Dick says, holding the bin steady because Jason’s hands won’t work. “Shh, kiddo. You’re safe. It’s alright.”
Bruce has shifted to his side, an arm secure around Jason’s back, holding him up as he pukes and hyperventilates and shakes like the goddamn world is ending. The room is spinning and monitors are alarming and Jason’s face is wet and he doesn’t feel real—
“I’m sorry,” he gasps out when he has enough air for it, not even sure what he’s apologizing for but so twisted up and frantic and wrong that he’s sure there’s fucking something that needs forgiveness. “I’m so s-sorry—”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Bruce murmurs. A slow hand is moving between Jason’s shoulder blades, reassuring, heavy. “Just breathe.”
The cycle repeats for a while, he thinks.
***
Jason drifts.
***
He phases back in when he’s sitting in the backseat of one of Bruce’s more inconspicuous cars, gauze resting heavy in his mouth and his head fucking pounding.
And god, he should have appreciated the pain relief while he had it, side effects aside, because fucking hell, ow.
Right. Wisdom teeth. Deeply inconvenient little fuckers, those.
And god, the fucking drugs.
“You back with us?” Dick says, his voice vibrating from where Jason’s slumped against his side. Dick’s arm is around his shoulders, keeping him upright, an emesis bag held open and ready in his free hand. “Blink twice for yes, puke again for no.”
“Yeah,” Jason croaks, slurred around the gauze. His jaw throbs at the motion. “Wish I wasn’t.”
“I bet you don’t. You’ve had a hell of a few hours.”
Jason’s memories of today are patchy at best, but he remembers enough to know that Dick is understating things by a fucking long shot. He frowns, aching and sick and so tired that the exhaustion feels like a physical weight on his chest, keeping him down. “How bad?”
Dick sighs. “Have you seen those videos of pugs waking up screaming after surgery?”
That explains the hoarseness, at least.
He suppresses a shudder that Dick must feel anyway, because he wastes no time tugging him closer, all octopus arms and zero personal space. Jason lets himself tilt.
“What happened?”
“You had a bad reaction to the drugs. They had to use the second formula. Not a fun time for anybody, but least of all you— we’ll fill you in on the rest later.”
Adds up with the shattered memories he has. He remembers enough to know that the drugs pulled up some old shit for him he wasn’t expecting— catching him in the soft places where he hadn’t thought to guard until he felt the blood start to run. God, he feels like hell. “Did I hurt anybody?”
“Nah. One nurse might be sporting a nice shiner for a few days, but he’s okay, and learned his lesson about grabbing people without warning. Don’t worry about it.”
“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks from behind the wheel, eyes soft in the reflection of the rear view mirror. “We’ll be home in a few minutes, but the surgeon gave us some supplies for the road if you need anything.”
Dick waves the emesis bag invitingly in Jason’s line of sight. “It’s like a souvenir.”
Jason swallows down the remaining nausea and shakes his head, the world still swimming. “I’m fine.”
He feels more than sees Dick and Bruce share a look over his head.
And oh, fucking joy. They’ve schemed.
“You’re not, but you will be,” Dick says. “We’ve got some stuff to talk about later. If nothing else, the physical part of everything is going to be kicking your ass for a while. The drugs seem to be wearing off, but don’t just brush past this— today sucked for you. It’s okay to feel wiped.”
Jason opens his mouth to answer —protest, push him away, something— but Bruce beats him to it.
“Dick’s right,” he says. “You need to recover. The extraction went fine but absolutely nothing else went to plan. Don’t push yourself to be okay until you are.”
His immediate reaction is to bristle. Embarrassment sparks deep and sharp, ticking between residual irritation and just enough misery from this entire goddamn experience that he just wants to be left the fuck alone. Absolutely no part of him is in the mood for homegrown therapy in the back of Bruce’s BMW and especially not right now.
Dick’s arm tightens around him, just barely. His hand is chafing up and down his upper arm, gentle, grounding. His breathing is steady.
But fuck, because they’ve got a point.
Today did fucking suck. Jason feels like actual shit. He’s in pain and the drugs that were supposed to help make this whole process easier just made everything so much fucking worse. He feels emotionally wrung out and goddamn fragile, curled against Dick like a kid while Bruce drives them home, hoarse and bleeding and still just fuzzy enough from the anesthesia to make him feel untethered. His vision still won’t focus and he can’t tell if it’s from the tears or the drugs or the exhaustion or the strain.
He’s not okay.
Judging from how the two of them are acting, the drugs made him do a shit job at hiding it.
The damage is done. They’re worried. No fighting off their concern now.
And god, Jason’s tired.
“Okay,” he says. It feels the way a sigh does, unconscious release, deflated tension, drained and just— done. He’s done. “Yeah, okay.”
“Good,” Dick says. “We’ve always got you, Little Wing. You just gotta let us.”
Easier said than done, granted.
But at this point, Jason’s options are limited. He’ll work with what he’s got.
***
The family room is already set up when they get back to the manor, 2005 Pride and Prejudice cued up on the TV. Alfred has the coffee table in front of the big couch equipped with a variety of soft foods. The rest of the bats are scattered across the furniture, blankets already handed out, everyone in comfortable clothes and looking for all the world like a full blown, pre-planned viewing party is about to commence.
Jason stops in the doorway. “What the fuck.”
“Family movie night,” Dick says far too brightly, a steadying arm still looped around Jason’s waist. “You get absolutely no say in this, so don’t even bother. Couch is all yours.”
It takes coercion and no small amount of guilting from Alfred before Jason settles, too damn beat to put up much of a fight beyond the initial rejection.
He’s too wired to sleep but gets coaxed into laying down anyway, head near Bruce’s hip, feet in Cass’s lap. Dick sits on the floor in front of the couch, clean basin held in his lap for any repeat performances. Tim and Steph are sprawled across the loveseat with Duke on the floor nearby. Damian sets up camp beside Dick and keeps sneaking subtle pulse checks from Jason’s nearest wrist, eyes never leaving the screen and stoically refusing to admit it, but still keeping track— which lines up with the little freak’s brand of caring. Even Alfred spares some time to settle into the armchair and join them for a while.
It’s— nice.
The movie is familiar enough for Jason to watch without really focusing, but it gives the rest of the bats a distraction and keeps attention off of him, which he’s grateful for. Bruce has one hand resting over the ice pack against Jason’s jaw, keeping it in place while the drugs finish wearing off and Jason’s coordination comes back online, and the contact is grounding despite himself. The weighted blanket they’ve got him bundled in helps.
There's a deep seated and growing sense of disappointment that these drugs ended up being a bust, feeling more like regression in the project than anything resembling progress. He doesn't want to think about what will happen the next time he needs sedation. He's not sure what the next step is after this. Probably more testing, hopefully more updates. But it sucks that they still don't have anything to work from.
Sucks that this whole problem exists in the first place.
And he’s still just fucking miserable in general, to be clear. The pain relief aspect of the drugs isn’t nearly as strong as the knock out factor, and now that he’s awake, they’re not doing much beyond making him feel strange, the underlying sense of wrongness still simmering beside the lingering discomfort and frustration. He’s tired but strung out, exhaustion pairing with wariness and leaving him weary. His head pounds.
Bruce’s thumb sweeps back and forth against the side of the neck, steadying and mindless.
He’s still struggling.
But, hey. At least he’s got backup, unwanted as they generally are, present all the same.
And yeah, he’ll be okay.