AN: Thanks to my beta, White Courtain. The title comes from a poem by Charles Bukowski, which partly inspired this fic.

No one ever sees the things you see.

Ghosts, all these dead people with blood on themselves, all those suicides, murders, car crashes, all those awful deaths, and you can see the victims. No one can see them but you. The blood staining their wrists, rope burns on their necks after they ended their lives, those scars and burn marks on their skin, the bullet holes through their heads and chest.

You're five years old and you can see all of this.

Their skin is blue and grey and green, not white like in the movies. They look like they're decaying, and you can smell them.

Smelling the dead is almost as bad as seeing them.

You scream when you see them for the first time in the street, scream so loud your mom scoops you up in her arms, her hand rubbing your back, trying to calm you as you cling to her. You scream and cry when you see them, trying to point them out to her.
She always looks to where you're pointing, furrows her brows, saying, What baby? What are you pointing at, Jason?

You shake so bad your mom worries and takes you home. The other times you see them, you scream and cry too, the dead looking at you with empty eyes.

That night when they show up in your house, you scream, clinging to your mom's leg, tears in your eyes, begging her not to step into the living room where the lady is in. There's a murdered woman there, slashes all over her body, blood all over her sundress along with a man with a hole in his chest. They're just standing there, in your house, just a yard from your mom. Your mom runs her fingers through your hair, telling you, There's nothing there baby.

You squeeze your eyes shut, but when you open them, they are still there.

You've never believed in God, not after everything you've seen. Sometimes you wish you could, just so you could pray for everything to go away.

All those people, and they always followed you around, tried to talk to you because they couldn't talk to anyone else. They follow you around, some in chilly silence, some rambling about how they died. You don't want to hear it; you don't want to see them.

You used to try talking about it, but after too many people said they didn't see anything, looking at you like you're crazy, you stopped. Your mom used to think you were a boy with an overactive imagination when you were a kid.

When you didn't grow out of it, didn't stop talking about what you could see, didn't stop drawing all the dead people you saw, using up all your red crayons to draw the blood, showing it to your mom so she can see what you see, your mom began to look at you oddly as well.

You used to try to protect her from them, used to tell her not to go into the bathroom because there was an old man there with rope burns around his neck. Told her not to go into the kitchen because there was a little girl there, her hair wet and clinging to her face, finger marks around her throat, her skin blue and purple, smelling like a wet dog. When you realized they couldn't hurt her, when you realized you should just shut up, when you heard your mom crying into her pillow at night because she was so worried about you, you stopped telling her.

You held onto your shouts, bit back your terrified screams every time they showed up.

You got real quiet after that.

Even when you saw that man, with half his face missing from when he blew his brains out and you could see the inside of his head, even when you saw that woman with blood on her hands, her kids that she murdered standing loyally by her side, even when you saw that boy with bruises on his face and hands, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth, you never said a thing to anyone.

Your dad told you that if you close your eyes when you see something bad, when you open them it would be gone. Your old man, a washed up alcoholic, all those lies he told you, you wished he hadn't lied about that.

They never go away, even when your hug your knees to your chest, shaking, your muscles bunched tight and tense until they hurt, whispering, begging them to go away. They never do. They're always there, wherever you go.

Your poor mom, she tried to help you, tried to fight your demons for you. She worried about you until the day she died.

You hope maybe there's such a thing as a heaven, hope she's there.

You hoped that you would able to see her when she died, but you never did.

Maybe things wouldn't be so bad if you could see her. Then, at least she would believe you; know that you weren't crazy. But she never came to you, you never saw her after she passed. Of all the dead people you've seen, she was the only one you would have wanted to be there.

Every time you see a dead woman, you hope it's her, just so you can talk to her one more time, and every time you're hit with disappointment.

After a while you stop hoping; mutely clinging to your despair.

You end your life at sixteen.

You cut yourself up in the bathroom. Your mom's been dead for years, you don't know where the fuck your dad is, you've been living on your own ever since you ran away after you were institutionalized, and really, no one will miss you.

Really, you just wanted it all to stop.

Drugs and alcohol didn't make any of it go away, didn't make it better. You were never able to find anything to make it stop. You gave up your search long ago. Really, you know deep down inside it won't go away, not ever.

That's what you tell yourself when you sit in the tub, shivering as the cold spray hits your back. You can see a dead lady sitting on the toilet, her skin blotchy and purple, rotting, a dead little boy standing near the sink, his skin charred and black from the fire he died in. They're both staring at you as you put the blade to your wrist. You can smell them. They smell so awful.

"Get the fuck away from me!" you scream, your throat burning.

You're crying like a pussy, warm tears flowing down your cold cheeks. You want it all to end, doesn't mean you're happy about ending your life at sixteen.

It doesn't mean you once had dreams about your life, where it would go, the things you would accomplish. It doesn't mean you didn't imagine yourself one day getting past your fears and learning to live your life. You're going to put all those things aside, because the pain is too much, and yeah, some people might say you were a coward, but you can't bring yourself to care.

You're angry and bitter about this, the whole thing. But you don't want to think about that anymore, you just touch the blade to your wrist and slice, the blood pouring down your arms, dripping down to the tub, turning all the water pink. Your grip on the knife slacks, and you let it go, dropping it in the tub next to your leg, jeans wet and heavy on your thighs.

You lay back, close your eyes, feeling the pain overwhelm your body, waiting for all of it to be over.

It doesn't stop.

You don't go to hell or heaven –not that you were expecting heaven- and you're still on earth. Only now, you're a ghost, and you're the one wandering around like all those other lost souls you saw. You're one of those suicides you used to see as a child, the ones that scared you, the blood on them even in death.

All those people who never saw the things you saw, now it's you they can't see.

Now the dead know your name, and you're one of them. You walk around, red staining your wrists from when you cut yourself. It doesn't hurt, not anymore, but it makes you uncomfortable to look at it.

You walk around like a curse on the earth, your own hand couldn't save you from the pain you felt, the pain you feel.

You walk around, anger building inside you. You're just so pissed about how fucked up your life was, how fucked up it is when you're dead. You hated living, but you hate being dead just as much.

All you wanted was rest, just to sleep.

You're dead, you've been dead for a while, but there's this boy, small and fragile looking, staring right at you.

Sometimes, the living look like they're looking right at you, but then a person will walk right through you and you realize they were looking at them, not you. You turn around, but there's no one there.

The boy, he continues to stare. It's just the two of you; he's sitting outside the library, sitting on the steps, a book in his lap, but his eyes are on you. You think maybe he's just thinking, lost in his own head, but he says, "I can see you."

You don't say anything. No one has ever seen you before.

He smiles a sad smile. "I can see you," he says again.

You sit closer, still quiet, not wanting to give your hopes up. But, it shouldn't be surprising. Surely you couldn't be the only one to see dead people. Billions of people on the planet, it never even occurred to you there must have been another person who could see the things you see.

"Can you really?" you ask, waving your hand in the air, inches from his face.

"Yes, stop that." He says, lifting his hand to smack yours away. His fingers slip through your wrist.

"How?" you want to know.

All this time, you thought you were alone. You were so stupid, you realize. There's a boy right here, and he can see you, but still, you don't want to get too excited just yet, so you ask, waiting for his answer.

That same smile is on his face, looking at you with eyes too old for his face. "I just do. I've always seen the dead, ever since I can remember."

You haven't smiled in years, even when you were alive, but still, you know your lips are curling up.

He's fourteen and he learned long ago not to mention what he sees to other people. Tim is smart, book smart, he sees all these things, but he never mentions it to anyone.

I know what I'll sound like, he said. My mom died, my best friend too, they'll think I snapped. They'll think I'm crazy.

Tim Drake isn't fragile like you thought he was when you first met him. He's stronger than that, stronger than you.

He sees all these bad things, all these dead people, but he doesn't let it get to him. He sees all these things, and it scares him, but he doesn't let the fear control him. Tim never flinches or turns away from how gruesome you look. Pale skin, bright red blood on your wrists, the flesh looking meaty; it feels wet there, all the time, the blood clinging to you.

You would feel scared if you had to see that, but Tim doesn't look away from it, he smiles at you, his eyes on you, and he never brings up your suicide. You never have to tell him why or how you did it.

Sometimes there are ghosts around when you see him, but you notice there's a blonde teenage girl and a little boy with a permanent frown on his face that seem to be there more often than the others. You learn their names are Stephanie and Damian, and Tim has no idea what they want, even after he tried talking to them, they just like being there with him, even if Damian looks like he hates Tim.

Tim and his long black hair that gets in his eyes, bright blue eyes, the dimples that show themselves when you make him smile. You think the dimples are pretty cute. He talks to you whenever you visit him, and you love it. You haven't had anyone to talk to since you died.

"Hey Jason," he says, every time he sees you.

No one has said your name in a long time. All those years living by yourself, alone on the streets, there wasn't anyone there to say your name like your mom did, no one had run their fingers through your hair like she did. You were never greeted when you got home, it's not like you had friends either. Hearing it on someone's lips sounds so good, and you used to take simple greetings for granted.

You step closer, always asking him to say your name again.

"Jason," he says again.

He says your name as many times as you ask him too. He never cares about the number of times you ask, he just says your name over and over, his smile growing when he does. "Hi Jason. Jason Peter Todd."

Tim understands you. He can see the dead, exactly the way you were able to when you were alive. He feels scared when he sees them too. You ask him why he isn't afraid of you. He smiles, says, "I don't know, I just feel safe around you."

You wish you had met him before you killed yourself.

You're in love, and it's just so goddamn funny. You would fall in love when you're dead.

Tim and his small smiles; his blue eyes that soften when he talks to you, it's what started it, what got you hooked. It's the way he says your name, it's the way you wonder what his skin would feel like under your hands.

It's all so dumb. Falling in love with someone you can't have. The living have it easy. At least they have a chance.

Maybe you're just so fucking lonely. He always smiles when he sees you, like you're old friends, like he's happy to see you. Says, I wish you were alive, his hands reaching out for you, same as yours, but you can't feel him. But it's more than that. He gets you. Tim knows you better than anyone, not that anyone ever knew you.

You don't feel so angry and sad when you're around him.

Not for the first time since you killed yourself, you wish you were alive too, just so you can be with Tim.

Tim is stronger than you. He can handle seeing the dead better than you ever could.

Still.

There are some days when you go to visit him, and you find him curled in on himself, the way you curled yourself when you were small, when things were just too much. You find him like that, tears running down his pink cheeks, body shaking with tremors. You know a bad day when you see one.

The water is running in Tim's sink and in the shower, and you remember turning on the TV, running all the water in the house so your mom couldn't hear your cries. You sit next to him on the tiled floor. You would reach out and hug him, rub his back like your mom used to do for you, but you can't. You listen to his hoarse whispers, his broken voice as he says, "Maybe I am crazy. Maybe it is all in my head?"

You know what that felt like. Sometimes you wished you were crazy. Then at least you could be hopped up on drugs and the dead would go away, but you already know drugs and alcohol don't work.

Lips blue and purple, you whisper, "Tim, I'm here. Tell me what happened."

You don't say it's okay, because it's not. Tim cries harder, tells you about how he saw a boy who looked like his friend, the one who died. Tim thought it was him, but it wasn't, but the boy he saw had parts of his head missing when he blew his brains out, but he looked just like his friend, and it was too much.

Stephanie and Damian stand next to you, their blue eyes empty as they look at Tim.

Tim cries until he can't anymore, his body shaking, and he looks right at you. "Why can't I have your arms around me?"

You try to hold him, settle your ghostly dead around his shoulders, Tim slowly brings his arms around you, careful to stop before his arms go right through your chest, and you both pretend to hug, and it gets Tim to stop shaking.

Somehow, you're standing in front of him, and when he reaches out for you, he actually touches you.

"H-how are you alive?" he asks, skinny fingers on your cheek.

You don't know how you're back. All you know is that you woke up in your coffin and you dug yourself out of your own grave.
Some of your fingernails are broken; others are missing from when you crawled through the dirt. You honestly don't even care how you're back. All you care about is that Tim's hands are on you; you can finally touch him and have him touch you.

You place your hands over his, and you feel warm for the first time in years. You smile wide, looking down at him. He's still short, even at age sixteen, the age you were when you killed yourself. He didn't really grow, and you think maybe he won't get any taller than the height he is now.

You don't know how you're back, but you're here, with Tim, and it's all you can ask for.

You're just happy your wrists aren't bright red anymore; happy that Tim's hands don't go right through you when he reaches out.
Happy that Stephanie is smiling since the first time you saw her. Damian makes a face as Tim presses close to you. It's the first time you've seen expressions on their dead faces.

His lips are on yours, whispering, "Jason, Jason, Jason."

You feel alive for the first time since you came back.