Written for day one of Jaybabs Week 2014. The prompt was "Lazarus Pit." Note: trigger warnings for PTSD and major trauma anxiety.

"Did it hurt?"

"Wuzzah?" Jason lifted his head from the pillow.

"Shit, were you asleep?" Barbara asked, her head tilting up from his bare chest to look at him.

"Sort of," he muttered, "In that I think I fell asleep, yes."

"Damn it, sorry, I just … I thought you were awake," she said.

"It's okay," he said with a yawn, "You were asking me something?"

"No, it's … forget it," Barbara said, shifting to her other side.

"Wait, what was it?" Jason said, clarity coming through his mind as he felt the cooler air from the open window touch his chest in her absence. The summer night in Gotham meant murky warmth even when the sun was down, but he still preferred Barbara's naked body on his over practically anything.

"It's late," she said, still turned away from him, "And we need our sleep."

"Look, now I'm just curious. And I'm awake now anyway."

He waited for her to respond, maybe offhandedly thinking to himself that the way he could see the curve of her waist into her hip even in the dark was one of the most amazing things about sleeping with her. She turned to face him.

"I was … just asking if it hurt," Barbara repeated, then added, "When you were in the Pit."

Oh.

"Oh," Jason managed.

"Sorry," Barbara said, starting to backtrack, "It just came into my head. And I know I hate it when random people ask me insensitive questions about the wheelchair and what I must have done to get into it and—"

"You're not a random person, Barbie," he said firmly, pulling her back to face him and into his arms. "You're the opposite of a random person." You're THE person, he thought, even if he wasn't sure what he meant by it.

Barbara relaxed more into his touch, letting her head fully set back on his chest.

"Still," she said, "I shouldn't have asked out of nowhere. It just kind of came into my head and … sometimes I just want to know what you've been through."

"You might not want to know, beautiful." It came out as a hush more than anything.

She shrugged. "Not knowing might be worse."

Jason thought about every time in the few months that they'd begun to care for each other when he wondered what happened to her the night she was shot. In some ways he wanted to know, wanted to know the details. Wanted to know that everything his damaged brain conjured for him about what happened to her was far worse than what actually happened. But he was more terrified that he underestimated the monster that did this to both of them, that what she survived was far worse than he could have imagine. And here she was, this amazing woman he was starting to love — there, he said it — wanting to hear what no one else wanted to know.

"I … some of it I don't remember. Not well."

She let him get his thoughts together, her hand rubbing gentle, soothing circles on his upper torso.

"I remember darkness. After the explosion. It really was like a deep sleep, but so deep that you don't dream. Just rest. It felt like rest." He shook his head and rubbed his face. God, I must sound like a jackass rambling like this.

"Go on," Barbara said quietly, "If you want to."

"And then," he exhaled, "the Pit, it was like acid. Like electrical acid that rips your skin apart like you're made of seams and seeps in and gets into your eyeballs and your lungs and you just feel everything. You feel everything all at once and it's too much! Fuck, it's all too much!"

It all escalated to panic so quickly. He hadn't even realized he was on his side, turned away from Barbara. His hands were in his face and he was rubbing, rubbing his blood pulsing face with his clammy hands as if it could rub away the memories. Later he'd remember screaming, shouting random obscenities his brain could produce, the sound muffled by his body curled over and his mouth halfway against his pillow. He hated his body and he hated that Pit and he hated the bastard that did this to him and did that to Barbie and he just wanted to keep screaming until his body dissolved into nothing so he could just be nothing! It was only when he felt familiar arms wrapped around him and that familiar body pressed against his back that his rage turned to wet, pathetic sobbing.

"It's okay, Jason," Barbara said against his back, kissing his left shoulder blade. "You're here now. Take a deep breath."

He did as he was told, feeling the air pass through his now sore throat into his lungs. It was so strange, to feel his lungs. They shouldn't work, he thought. None of me should work.

"I don't care if they shouldn't work," she said, anger creeping into her voice, "They do work."

In any other moment, he would have pointed out that he didn't mean to say that bit out-loud. He wondered what else he said out-loud.

"Sorry," he muttered, his voice still wavering like he was on the verge of crying again.

"Don't," she said, her voice now stern and bitter, "Don't say you're sorry. Don't you dare. You wouldn't let me say I'm sorry. You better know I won't let you say it, either."

He laughed, somehow. "I guess it would be hypocritical to hold you to such high standards if I can't do it myself, right?"

She didn't respond. Finally he got up the nerve—

"Are you still glad you asked?"

He felt her nod. Thank god she nodded.

"I'd still rather know."

"I don't … I don't think I can talk about this again. Not for a while."

"I know," she whispered against his skin, "I get it."

And she did, didn't she?

Somehow he'd managed to get onto his back again, with Barbara curled around him. It was still his favorite place to be.