The glint of moonlight on steel is the only warning he gets before the cold, merciless metal curves through the dark and slices into the soft tissue of his neck, cutting him off mid-shout.
A gasp of pain is the last vocal sound he makes as the missile his father sent sailing toward him hits its mark, slicing through skin and something else with a surgeon's precision, making his grip on both deranged hostage and weapon slip upon impact, allowing one to slither from his grip with a howl of laughter and the other to clatter to the ground, forgotten in favor of lifting a hand to the damage inflicted.
It's more surprise than actual hurt that sends him to his knees, collapsing onto the wet pavement as the Bat yells something from far away and warm liquid suddenly mingles with the rain water on his throat.
He barely has a second to realize he's bleeding before the pain registers and his hands press hard against the wound, breath wheezing out in a soundless cry as he falls forward onto his face, not even noticing the gravel pressing against his cheek as fiery needles dig into the flesh around the injury, stinging pain and the numbing ice of the water seeping into the wound mingling to create an intense, searing agony right across the middle of his neck.
He chokes on a mouthful of blood, spits it up with a wet cough, gritting his teeth at such a weak display in front of the two people he least wanted to see before a deeper spike of torment makes him mewl pathetically as he presses both hands to the slick red line across his neck.
Or rather, he would have mewled pathetically, if any noise could actually make it past his throat.
He doesn't have the time to dwell on the lack of sound – this is still a fight, regardless of his apparent defeat; no way in hell is he letting Batman get the Joker away to safety again.
He tries to lever himself up on one elbow, teeth grinding together as his wound throbs in protest, but there's no time for him to even sit up:
One second, he's face down on the rooftop, slumped over like a limp, bloody noodle.
The next, there's a flash, a deafening, familiar boom! and he's suddenly airborne.
'Well, fuck.' The C4. It must've gone off, or rather, been set off by a certain clown, and now the rather tattered apartment building he'd been using as a home-base has gone up in flames and who the hell even knows where the bastard is right now-
His back hits brick wall, and all the air in his lungs goes out in a whoosh!
He doesn't cry out, though; there's no sound at all from his mouth despite the loud gasp, but his ears are still ringing so that doesn't matter.
What matters is the several heart-stopping seconds where he tumbles downward toward the ground, his hit with the wall doing very little to slow his descent.
He lands in a pile of garbage bags – typical – and his body has gained new aches and pains, from the blistered red skin across his arms from the blast to the surely darkening bruises underneath his Kevlar suit, but the worst is still his throat, is still the wound Bruce – his father – had inflicted himself.
It's deep, he can feel that, he doesn't need to be a doctor to know it's deeper than it should be for a nonlethal wound; the second he's able to, he'd going to find Batman and shoot him full of holes because no killing my ass, you fucking hypocrite, you know how easily I could have died if it went in deeper!
And isn't that a gigantic middle finger to the Batman; for all his bullshit rules about killing and claims to care about Jason's wellbeing, nothing could chance the fact that Bruce would rather potentially murder his own 'son' than let him kill a mass-murdering psychopath.
The rush of fury and anguish and hatehatehate that swirls through his head is quickly shoved aside as a fresh mouthful of blood is spat out, and his ringing ears and aching body can't disguise the fact that he needs to move. Now.
Get somewhere safe. Patch himself up, possibly find a doctor; would Leslie look after him, after everything the Red Hood has done? He doubts it.
He actually manages to lift himself up on one elbow, teeth grinding together and eyes squeezed shut and throat burning in a terrible foreign way that leaves him breathless and bloody all at once.
Sitting up is a chore; actually getting to his feet is an endeavor that he wishes never to repeat, taking nearly half an hour of pained gasps and a steady stream of curses circling his head.
Eventually, though, he is on his feet again, and pain keeps pulsing steadily through his entire body and blood has already soaked through his gloves and jacket, staining the dark material faintly.
There is a lot of blood – too much, really – and his brain has gotten the fuzzy, muddled effect he recognizes as blood loss, and he's running out of time; Leslie's clinic isn't far from here, but with his head spinning and the Bats' whereabouts unknown, who knew how long it would take for him to get there undetected.
'Just my luck,' he thinks flatly. He meant to complain aloud, but his neck really fucking hurts right now; making it move unnecessarily doesn't sound like the best idea.
So, with one hand to the alley wall to steady himself and another pressed to his weeping wound to staunch the blood flow as much as possible, he begins making his wobbly way in the general direction of Leslie's clinic, hoping against hope his little airborne tumble into the trash hadn't gotten him too turned around.
It doesn't really occur to his scrambled brain that he hasn't made a sound the entire time.
A/N: And now for something completely different. I saw this headcanon/AU for mute!Jason on tumblr and I- I couldn't ignore it. It was too good, oh my God. I'm not entirely sure when I'll add more to this verse, but you can be sure I will at some point!
~Persephone