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Published:
2025-06-03
Updated:
2026-03-31
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2/?
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Ashes to Green

Summary:

After Jason's revival in the Lazarus Pit, he wakes up falling through the roof of a house belonging to a man and his family he doesn't know. He says his name is Clint Barton?

or

Jason in MCU

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

The ringing in Jason’s ears was a persistent, mocking hum, a counterpoint to the Joker’s cackling laughter. Each peal of the clown’s mirth was a fresh stab, sharper than the dull ache that had settled deep in his bones. He tasted blood, metallic and thick, coating his tongue. His left eye was swollen shut, the right barely a slit, but through it, he could see the rusted crowbar glinting under the single, bare bulb that swayed precariously above.

“Oh, Little Bird,” the Joker crooned, his voice a grotesque parody of affection, “you just don’t learn, do you? Always flying too close to the sun. And what happens then, hmm? Feathers singed, wings broken, a pathetic little splat on the pavement!”

Another laugh, high-pitched and manic, echoed off the grimy walls of the abandoned warehouse. Jason tried to pull against the ropes binding him to the support beam, but his muscles screamed in protest, already shredded and bruised beyond recognition. He was fifteen and a half, a kid who’d thought he could take on the world, take on him. He’d been so stupid. So arrogant.

The crowbar descended again, a sickening thud against his ribs. He gasped, a ragged, involuntary sound, but refused to scream. He wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Not now, not ever. Batman would come. He had to. Even if Jason was just a distraction, a pawn, he knew Bruce would be coming. That thought, a desperate, flickering ember, was the only thing keeping him from succumbing to the blackness nibbling at the edges of his vision.

“Still fighting, eh?” the Joker mused, his voice suddenly closer, a hot, fetid breath against Jason’s cheek. “Such a spirited little Robin. Almost makes me regret… nah.”

A searing pain erupted on his right cheek. He flinched, a guttural cry tearing from his throat despite his resolve. The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils, acrid and nauseating. He knew, instinctively, what it was. A brand. A permanent mark from the monster who was systematically dismantling him. He could feel the raised, angry skin, the shape of it. A ‘J’. For Joker. A sickening trophy.

The crowbar rose and fell. Again. And again. Each strike was a hammer blow, driving the air from his lungs, crushing his spirit bit by agonizing bit. He felt his ribs crack, then splinter. His vision swam, a kaleidoscope of pain and fading light. He could hear the Joker’s monologue, but the words were distant, muffled, like listening underwater. He was drowning in agony, in his own blood.

Bruce… The name was a silent prayer, a dying whisper in his mind. He saw flashes: the rooftops of Gotham, the thrill of the chase, the rare, fleeting smiles from his mentor. He saw Alfred’s kind eyes, heard his gentle scolding. He saw the Bat-Signal, a beacon of hope in the darkness. But the darkness was winning. It was consuming him.

Then, a new sound cut through the ringing: a frantic beeping. The Joker looked up, his painted smile twisting into a snarl. “Oh, look at the time! Gotta run, birdie! Don’t want to be late for my next appointment. Boom!”

The last word was a taunt, a promise. Jason’s eyes, wide with terror, fixed on the small, ticking device taped to a gas canister across the room. He saw the numbers count down. Three. Two. One.

The world exploded. A deafening roar, a blinding flash of orange and red, then a crushing wave of heat and force. The warehouse shrieked, metal tearing, wood splintering. Jason felt himself ripped from the beam, thrown through the air like a ragdoll. There was a final, agonizing jolt, a sensation of being torn apart, and then… nothing. Only cold, silent, absolute blackness.

The blackness was not absolute. It was a suffocating, churning void, filled with echoes of pain and a primal, burning rage. He was aware, yet not. A consciousness adrift in a sea of torment. Then, a sensation. Not pain, not pleasure, but an overwhelming wrongness. Like being submerged in liquid fire, yet not burning. It was a cold fire, a green fire.

He gasped, a sound that ripped through his throat, raw and desperate. His eyes snapped open, but all he saw was a swirling, emerald green. He was in water, thick and viscous, that hummed with an unnatural energy. It burned, yes, but it also healed, knitted, rebuilt. Every damaged cell, every shattered bone, every torn muscle fiber was being violently, excruciatingly reassembled. It was agony and ecstasy intertwined. He felt the heavy, sodden fabric of a black suit clinging to his skin, a grim reminder of the coffin his body had been taken from.

He thrashed, instinct taking over, but the green liquid clung to him, refusing to release its hold. His body was being reborn, but his mind was still a maelstrom of fragmented memories and blinding fury. Joker. Crowbar. Explosion. Batman. Betrayal. The rage pulsed, a hot, suffocating blanket. He needed to find him. He needed to make him pay.

His hands, clenching and unclenching, felt stronger, faster. He could feel the raw power thrumming beneath his skin, a violent symphony of renewed life. He could feel the J-brand on his cheek, a stark, angry red against his skin, but in his frenzied state, he didn't notice the stark white streak that now cut through the raven black of his hair, nor the startling, vibrant green that had replaced the blue of his eyes.

He was alive. But this wasn't life as he knew it. This was something else. Something monstrous.

Before he could even fully process the thought, a strange sensation seized him. It wasn't the pain of the pit, nor the familiar ache of his old injuries. It was a sudden, violent wrenching, as if the very fabric of reality was being torn around him. The cavern, the green glow, the echoes of his own screams – they blurred, stretched, and then dissolved into a kaleidoscope of impossible colors and shapes. He felt himself being pulled, stretched thin, through a non-space, a void that was neither here nor there. It was disorienting, nauseating, and utterly terrifying.

The sensation lasted only a moment, an eternity. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The impossible colors vanished, replaced by a dull, grey sky. He felt the sharp bite of wind on his face, the distinct, terrifying sensation of… falling.

He was falling. Fast.

He looked down, his eyes adjusting with unnatural speed. Below him, a vast expanse of green fields stretched out, dotted with trees and, in the distance, a cluster of buildings. One building, a farmhouse, was directly beneath him, its red roof tiles rushing up to meet him with alarming speed.

He braced himself, though for what, he didn’t know. There was no time to think, no time to react. The wind whipped around him, a cold caress against his face.

With a deafening crash, a shower of splintered wood, and a cloud of dust, Jason Todd, the boy who had died and been reborn, plummeted through the roof of Clint Barton’s family home.

Chapter 2

Notes:

I can't believe it took me almost a year to post chapter 2. Thank you/sorry to everyone who waited. Enjoy!

Chapter Text

The silence that followed the crash was louder than the impact itself.

Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight piercing through the jagged new hole in the ceiling. In the center of the living room, amidst the wreckage of a mid-century coffee table and splintered floorboards, lay a heap of black fabric and pale skin.

Clint Barton didn’t scream. He didn’t even swear. In one fluid motion, he had his back to the kitchen island, a suppressed handgun—kept in a magnetic holster under the counter for "uninvited guests"—aimed steadily at the pile of debris.

"Laura! Basement! Now!" Clint barked, his voice low and serrated.

He heard the frantic but disciplined thud of footsteps upstairs. Laura didn't ask questions; she grabbed Lila and Cooper, her hand already hovering over the baby’s crib. They knew the drill. In the Barton household, a hole in the roof wasn't an act of God—it was a tactical breach.

Clint stepped forward, boots crunching on drywall. He kept the sights of the pistol trained on the boy’s head.

The intruder was young. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. He was wearing a black suit that looked like it had been dragged through a gravel pit and then submerged in a swamp. It was a size too large, hanging off a frame that was deceptively muscular for a teenager, though currently limp.

Then, the "heap" groaned.

Jason’s world was a spinning nauseous blur of green and grey. His head felt like it had been put through a wood chipper. He tried to push himself up, but his arms felt like lead. He managed to roll onto his back, coughing out a cloud of plaster dust.

"Don't move," a voice commanded. It was calm—the kind of calm that preceded a muzzle flash.

Jason squinted. The light hurt. Everything hurt. He saw a man standing over him. Not Bruce. Not the Joker. This man was wearing a worn flannel shirt and jeans, but he held the gun like a professional.

"Where..." Jason’s voice was a dry rasp. "The green... where's the clown?"

"Wrong circus, kid," Clint said, his eyes narrowing. He took in the details. The boy’s hair had a shock of white at the temple. His eyes—when they flickered open—were a toxic, glowing green that definitely didn't belong to a baseline human. And then there was the cheek.

A raw, red, branded 'J'.

Clint’s finger didn't leave the trigger, but his jaw tightened. He’d seen a lot of ugly things in S.H.I.E.L.D., but branding a child was a specific kind of evil. Still, a victim could be just as dangerous as a victimizer.

"Who are you with?" Clint asked.

Jason didn't answer. His brain was misfiring. The Lazarus chemicals were screaming in his veins, demanding he fight, but the concussion was demanding he vomit. He looked up at the hole in the roof, then back at Clint.

"I died," Jason whispered, the realization hitting him with a fresh wave of vertigo. "I was... I was in the box. Then the water."

"Yeah, you’re definitely concussed," Clint muttered. He didn't lower the gun. He reached into his pocket with his free hand and hit a speed dial on a burner phone.

"Stark? No, actually, get me Romanoff. We have a 'Type 4' at the farm. High-altitude drop, no chute, survived. Looks like a civilian, talks like a ghost. Send a containment team and a medical unit. And tell them to bring a sedative that works on the 'enhanced' variety."

Jason heard the words "containment" and "Romanoff". They meant nothing to him. All he knew was that he was trapped again. The walls of the farmhouse started to look like the walls of the warehouse. The man with the gun started to look like a shadow of the Bat.

"Get away from me," Jason snarled. He tried to lunge, a movement that should have been lightning-fast, but his balance was gone. He stumbled, crashing into a bookshelf.

Clint didn't fire. He stepped back, maintaining the golden rule of distance. "Easy, kid. You're leaking brains on my rug. Just sit down before you pass out."

"I'm not... I'm not a kid," Jason hissed, his fingers clawing at the air as if trying to tear through the reality he was trapped in.

Jason’s legs finally gave out. He slid down the bookshelf, leaving a smear of blood and dust on the wood. He curled into himself, clutching his head, his breathing coming in ragged, terrified hitches. The "Pit Rage" was losing the battle to pure, unadulterated shock.

Clint watched him. He saw the scars on the boy's hands—old ones, jagged and numerous. He saw the way the boy flinched at the sound of a floorboard creaking. This wasn't an assassin. This was a runaway from a nightmare.

"You're in Missouri, kid," Clint said, his voice softening just a fraction, though the gun stayed level. "You fell through my roof. You're not dead, but if you keep moving, you might wish you were. Just breathe."

Jason looked up, his green eyes clouded and shimmering with involuntary tears. "Missouri?"

"Middle of nowhere," Clint confirmed. "Nowhere for anyone to hurt you. But I need you to stay exactly where you are until my friends get here."

Jason leaned his head back against the shelf, the darkness finally winning. "Shit..."

As the boy’s eyes rolled back and his chin hit his chest, Clint finally lowered the pistol, though he didn't holster it. He looked at the hole in his ceiling, then at the broken boy in the tattered suit.

"Well, this is a first," Clint muttered to the empty room.