A/N: hey Batfam fandom! this fic is a cross-post from my work at AO3. just wanted to share this with my fam since is my first ever platform for fanfic reading/writing. also I'm fond of my penname here haha.
i wrote this fic for the Batfam Big Bang 2020 on Tumblr. i worked with several artists and betas on this together and they were such lovely people. anyway, hope you enjoy! xx
Soft, rapping noises fill the tiny room. The size of the room is hilarious considering how broad-shouldered and big-bodied they both are, and Jason would be laughing if he were alone, but it was too stifling and too hot to do anything besides stare out the single window they've been pinned to for the past ninety-six hours. The rapping noise sounds again and Jason turns sharply to his accomplice.
"Will you quit that?" he hisses.
Bruce startles as if he weren't aware he was the one making the noise. He curls his idling hand into a fist and rests it against his thigh. "Sorry," he says curtly after a beat.
Almost relieved to have been forced to speak after so many hours, Jason sighs and rakes a hand through his sweat-matted hair, feeling thoroughly unclean. In this tropical country, all they seem to be getting is heat and humidity. Although summers in Gotham City are hot enough to guarantee a heat stroke if you stand under the sun for too long, it was mostly dry. Jason had never felt so sticky and disgusted with the heat like this before. The humidity was appalling, it made his body combat suit cling to his skin uncomfortably, and wearing the helmet had been too much, even with its state-of-the-art air filters. Well, technically his state-of-the-art, which is definitely not Bat-standard. Of course Bruce had offered countless times to remake his helmet – "or better yet, wear a domino instead, like your brothers," a response at which he scoffed at – he's grown too fond of the red, battered helmet.
Case in point – Jason is feeling right about sick and done with staying still and quiet in a tiny room with nothing but a fan. And to make it even worse, it was with the one person he never thought he'd be left alone with, Bruce-motherfucking-Wayne. He remembers their argument back at home when he fought to set out on his own for the mission.
"No," A cold voice spoke out from behind him, and Jason jumped, his arm jostling against the surgical tray on the table.
Bruce appeared from behind Alfred, his cowl removed but his face still looking blank and stoic as it usually does when his words are an order. Jason stiffened in his seat, unable to move away with Alfred still stitching the wound on his shoulder.
"Why the fuck not? This is my case," he said as calmly as he could, his unhurt hand already curling into a fist trying to reign in his enmity at the thought that Bruce could do whatever the hell he wanted just because Jason was present in his Batcave.
"Language, Master Jason," Alfred murmured next to him. Jason took a deep breath and turned his head away from Batman.
"It's too dangerous," the older man said simply, as if the words ended the conversation.
Jason choked out a bitter laugh. "What are you talking about? Our entire lives are nothing but danger. That word lost meaning when you decided to put us in that traffic light colored clown costume five years ago. Which, in case you forgot, led me to my death before, so what's your fucking point, Bruce?"
There was a beat of silence as Alfred paused his stitching. Jason noticed the butler's hands shaking slightly from the corner of his eye and he winced internally, knowing that Alfred isn't too acclimated with being at the end of his morbid being-dead jokes unlike the rest of the family. He hung his head, pulling away his shoulder from the table, the thread still inside hanging loose.
"I'm fine Alfred, I'll finish this myself," he mumbled.
Bruce's steel-toed combat boots stepped into view and Jason wanted to fold into his chair. He didn't have the energy to deal with this tonight, not so soon after they had just compromised to stay civil in no uncertain terms. The older man stepped up to take Alfred's place to resume the stitching, his hands a quick blur as he finished it swiftly.
"You're not going alone," Bruce said softly. "You have your brothers and me to look out for you, so why go alone?"
"Because it's unnecessary, I can do it myself," Jason responded automatically. "You know that apart from Tim, whose missing spleen prevents him from traveling too far and too long, I am the only one who's dealt with one of Black Mask's gangs before. I did it once, I can do it again. If you think you're worried that I'd be off killing people again, then just throw me in Arkham again, why don't you?"
Suddenly, he was in front of Jason, his hard, blue eyes searching for something in his face, his mouth a thin line. For some reason, Jason's hands started shaking slightly in his lap as he tried to avoid his gaze.
"I know you're entirely capable of taking down an army or two," rumbled Bruce in his deep voice. "I'm not doubting your skills, Jason and I'm not going to put you in Arkham." He raised his hand and stilled his son's trembling one, encasing it with warmth. "I –" He paused, and tightened his grip as if he was afraid of wording it wrong. "I would feel better if I came with you to make sure you don't get hurt."
Unbelieving, Jason made to pull away his hand and retort back when Bruce hastily spoke. "I trust you Jason, of course I do. But I can't let you go alone this time, not when we've just got you back. Got you home. Please." He took in a deep shuddering breath. "Please, son."
The words quivered in the air, and Jason's heart thudded in his chest. The same feeling he had felt over the past two weeks, when he was in company with the rest of the family, overwhelmed him. He didn't know what to call it, but it felt soft and calm and enveloped his chest like a warm blanket.
The first time he felt it, he was terrified. He had called Leslie in a haze of terror at 3 AM in the morning, after Bruce had personally insisted to drop him off even though he insisted he's fine taking the bus, and the older man had left with a slight smile and ruffled his hair. Leslie had listened to his ramblings, at first in panic but then sighed on the other end when he finished, and told him that there was nothing at all wrong with him and that he should let her go back to sleep after a 12-hour shift.
He still couldn't give the feeling a name, but he remembered feeling it in copious amounts back when he was Robin. It would come when Bruce came home earlier on patrol during school days, and he would pretend to be asleep because he knew Bruce would come in his room to check on him, but he would always be caught because his feet were cold and jutted out of the covers haphazardly.
He felt it when Dick came to visit Gotham, months after getting over his shock of seeing another Robin dressed in his colours, and bought him a Bludhaven Brawlers cap and glove despite his arguing with Bruce. "Us Robins have to stick together," Dick had said, winking at him. "Especially against the big, bad Bat."
He remembered feeling so full of it, with Alfred a constant presence in the massive, lonely mansion when Bruce went off world with the League. The old butler was never too far away; he was there when Jason woke up. He was there when Jason took the butterscotch candies he knew Alfred kept in the cupboard by the sink when he thought he was being sneaky. He was there when night terrors struck him awake in bed sweating and shaking, a comforting hand and a warm glass of milk at the ready.
He remembered vividly, the feeling swooping in and taking hold of him for an entire night, when Bruce abandoned his patrol and pending cases to stay in and watch movies with him when he was sick, even though he knew that the older man would have to work twice the hours to catch up later.
He knew it had something to do with feeling safe. But he had forgotten. When you have had the rug pulled out violently from underneath you, you just don't get back to feeling the same way again. Not like before.
It petrified him to the core to have it resurface after experiencing such a deathly nosedive.
Jason had the urge to pull away, not wanting to have to deal with this. It's too much. But he promised. Not just with the others, but with himself. He wanted to get better at this. He wanted to have a fair chance at life again, even when life gobbled him raw and spat him back up. He deserved this much, and if it meant having Bruce tag him along on a single-day seemingly-no-fuss mission, then what's the hurt in that?
"Alright," Jason whispered, staring at his hand that Bruce was still holding tightly. "Alright."
The initial plan leaves little room for failure. Get in, beat up some bad guys, get out. Simple. Straight-forward. That's why Jason still feels Bruce resorting to escorting him is an overreaction. Granted, the mission is being held in a country 9000 miles away from home, but Jason has been overseas countless times before. He has safehouses and underground contacts almost everywhere, which is how he caught onto this lead in the first place. Except that it's never that easy.
During the entire flight to the foreign country, Bruce hadn't spoken a word except to hum his affirmation to the stewardess on whether he'd like a Mandarin oriental roast chicken over a beef rendang. He had seemed deeply preoccupied with something else, Jason had noticed it out of the corner of his eye as he dug into the first-class airline meal. Obviously, Batman would brood over his missions, what with his contingency plans for his contingency plans, but this was a simple mission. They didn't have to stay for more than one day as they already knew the details of the location.
After they'd landed, there hadn't been much conversation either in the ride back to the hotel that one David Brent was staying at, one of Bruce's many pseudonyms. Which is weird because Jason knew for a fact that the older man had been trying to talk to him for the past week while he was staying in Wayne Manor. The awkward throat-clearing he does when he wants to talk about things other than business, the inexplicable but very obviously newly bought copy of The Great Gatsby by his bedside and the insufferable text messages Jason received on his burner phone that he thought no one knew about.
That and the fact that the older man had been so adamant on escorting Jason on this mission. Jason knows that there are other pending cases at home which need attention, and Bruce never really left Gotham City unless he is needed on important off-world missions with the League. He always prefers to have the other League members to tend to missions that are out of his area. His relationship with Gotham really does run deep – the city can't survive without Batman, and Batman can't survive without her.
When they had that discussion in the Batcave, when Bruce was practically begging with him to be let in on the mission, Jason had felt… He had felt like he was needed. With Replacement and the Demon Brat now in the picture, that feeling didn't come very often. Not at all, in fact. How could he when he knew Bruce could depend on three amazing Robins who didn't disobey direct orders and hadn't gotten themselves killed?
Jason is confused as to how he should react to this strange behaviour – this odd pushing and pulling Bruce seemed to be doing to his emotions. In truth, he was terrified. Terrified of having the rug yanked from under him again, with no safety net to fall back on. He had nothing but his thoughts to be occupied in, and these terrifying thoughts swim around in his head. Being stuck in a tiny room for nearly three days with nothing for entertainment but the window outside just made it worse. So Jason dealt with it with the only way he knew best.
"What the fuck are you doing, Bruce?" he growls quietly, looking at the man sitting on the rattan chair beside him.
Bruce looks up wearily, his eyes crusted from lack of sleep and his forehead shining with sweat. "What do you mean?" he replies slowly, noticing Jason's rigid form.
"This – you, staying quiet as fuck, after all the stunts you pulled back ho- back in Gotham," he snaps back, glaring at him.
The older man looks back at him, his blue eyes resigned. "I'm trying to stay focused on the mission."
"Oh yeah? You haven't said a single word to me since we got on the plane. Just what are you playing at, Bruce?"
Bruce blinks at him looking almost surprised. "I'm not playing any game, Jason. I'm doing what I thought you wanted."
"And what the hell would that be?" he retorts. "How would you know what I want?"
"Space, Jason," Bruce replies calmly. "I'm giving you space. I thought that being with me for more than a day would irritate you so I folded in and tried to give you space."
Somehow, that pisses Jason off even more. "Don't lie to me!" he hisses, trying to stay quiet despite his anger flaring in his gut. "I've been wanting space for months, and you choose this time to fulfill that? Bullshit. You're planning something, aren't you?"
Bruce sighs and slowly stands up, overwhelmingly tall in the small, dim room. "Let me take those before you crush them. We only have one pair of binoculars."
Jason pauses and notices then that he was slowly crushing the device in his burst of anger. He stops and tosses it over to him, resigned. "This is useless. I want to get out there and fight and get it over with."
Bruce scrutinizes him from the corner of his eye, taking note of his still-tense shoulders and stance. He sees through the small window with the binoculars. As though on cue, the doors of the warehouse that they have been watching for so long finally open.
"Well, I think you've got your wish. Time to move out."
Jason startles, and picks up his helmet. "Fucking finally." He'll settle whatever this was later. It's time to kick ass.
Jason jumps down stealthily over the gate, both relieved and fired up now that he has room for action, his heartbeat elevating at the sweet adrenaline of danger.
Bruce had banned firearms from the Bats' weaponry, so Jason could not get access to any for the mission. But he isn't particularly bothered, he is just as skilled, if not better, with daggers and swords.
They have gone over this dozens of times, having nothing else to do but plan ahead. The lead that Jason's underground contacts have spilled was incredibly valuable to putting a stop to Black Mask's drug trafficking. The thing is, when it comes to gangs, it wouldn't do to just cut down the flower bud – they need to destroy the root itself. Their sources led them to a warehouse just outside the capital city, often called the industrial side of town. The warehouse looks like any old normal run-down building, but cheap laborers come to work on producing these Red Ice drugs. The drugs would then be transported to cities across the world, including Gotham, where street orphans get recruited as drug mules. Ahead of the two vigilantes, the men walked out of the building, tugging along crates that they are loading into a truck just by the road. It is just past 2AM, and the streets and neighborhood is quiet and still. Bruce climbs up on the roof without a sound and Jason steps into position. He scans the yard to get a headcount.
Twenty. Seems like an overkill to just load up a truck, but this is their motherlode.
Patting down his sleeve and the sides of his armor to make sure his daggers are in the right places, he straightens. The plan was simple – Bruce will distract the men when they have finished loading the truckload and Jason is to rush inside, plant explosives and get out before it detonates. Explosions and bombs – totally Jason's idea. Bruce had previously been against it – if they can resolve this without any fire set to the building, it would be better. But after having seen the building, it would be impossible to destroy the drugs without obliterating everything with it. Bruce had agreed to do it, only after they agreed to call the fire department to make sure the fire doesn't run rampant.
"No unnecessary risks," Bruce repeats over the comms. Jason is about to reply when he sees the signal – multiple smoke bombs fall out scattered across the yard where the men were just finishing loading the last of the crates in the truck. Fucking drama queen. Jason runs through the smoke, activating his thermal scans in his lenses. The men had run haphazardly across the field due to the smoke. He rams his elbow into an unsuspecting thug who crumples onto the floor at his feet. They don't seem to be carrying any weapons, apart from the same type of dagger that Jason himself had, sheathed up his sleeve.
That will make this easy enough.
He reflexively sidesteps a punch aimed at his face, grabs the hand and twists it. The man screams and falls to his knees, just before Jason lands an expert strike across the back of his neck. Another spots Jason and lunges forward with their keris dagger, unbalanced slightly because of his limited vision. Jason instinctively pushes away the offending hand and slams a fist in his stomach. Using the momentum of the force, he kicks away the thug's left leg and they land hard on the ground, unconscious. Turning his body back to the warehouse, he runs across the yard, dodges a couple of knives and random blows, and reaches the building.
The radio in his helmet catches onto some other signal, and tunes in automatically. He recognizes it as the men's comm link. The one in charge barks orders around in Bahasa, and although Jason's use of the language is very limited, he understands enough to know that the men are still in the dark on where their enemy was.
He creeps inside the main building and sizes up the space. The entire building has been structured hollow on the inside, with multiple work tables and boxes littered all around. The place is empty – the laborers have gone home and are exempted from having to watch the delivery and distribution of the drugs. Thermal imaging from his lenses brought up zero warm signatures, and he almost laughs at how easy this is.
He scans the area and spots the pile of crates filled with flammable chemicals, sitting unattended. He grins and removes the small package from his jacket. He works quickly, sticking a small but powerful explosive charge on each crate and setting the timers to three minutes. If it was up to him, he would have set it to twenty seconds – preferring to be far away just enough to see and feel the heat from the explosives. But Bruce, already displeased at the idea of having to blow up something, threatens Jason to have it set to at least three minutes – enough time for both of them to bring the fight far enough a distance from the warehouse when it explodes.
"Batman, bombs are in place. Three minutes," Jason says on the comms as he sets the final timer onto the last crate. He hears scuffling on the other end of the line and heavy breathing as Bruce answers after a beat. "Hood, target's not here."
Jason stands rigidly in place. Target meaning that the big boss wasn't around. That's a problem. They were planning to subdue him if he was fighting amongst his men.
"Impossible. I heard him barking orders to his minions just seconds ago. If he's not here…" He thinks fast. They have scanned the rooftop areas with main vantage points on the warehouse just before they launched into plan. One other place that would make sense is that they would have still been hiding in the building. "I'll check the rest of the building."
"Negative. You said three minutes. Get out of there, now," Batman barks on the line. Jason almost laughs out loud at the remark. He could walk away from the warehouse blindfolded if he wanted to in that timeframe.
"I'm ending this tonight," he growls back at Batman, already pulling up thermal scans on his visor. "No more children as drug mules. I'll be back."
"Hood–"
Jason deactivates his comms line. He'll deal with that later.
The building must have been equipped with some sort of optic deflection material because the scans still pick up nothing. He stands up and is just about to turn to the nearest doorway when his helmet's sensitive auditory senses picks up a quiet pop from behind him. A little too late to react, a bullet collides into his shoulder half a second later, the impact throwing him off his feet and he lands hard on the ground, groaning.
"Don't fucking move," a voice speaks out from behind him. "One move and I'll make sure the next shot is through your heart."
Jason opens his eyes and sees the owner of the voice approaching from behind a steel pillar, toting a Desert Eagle. The first firearm Jason has seen so far in the fight. Also, a caliber of that size in this range will no doubt go through his heart, even if the armor managed to slow it down enough, it will still kill him within seconds.
The man reaches Jason and kicks him, hitting right in his shoulder where the bullet dug in. Furious, Jason struggles not to wince at the pain, not wanting to give his enemy the satisfaction.
"I admit, I'm surprised to see him here," the man answers, lighting up a cigarette. "I didn't think he'd show up. Guess the clown was telling the truth."
The word made Jason bristle, his hackles rising. "What the hell do you mean?" he growls back. He needs to buy some time, and the number one way to do it is to keep the bad guy talking. He needs just enough time to imperceptibly shake off the holster holding the dagger up his sleeve. The visor in his helmet showed the timer on 2 minutes and 30 seconds. His heart clenches with panic at the possible idea of being stuck in the warehouse with explosives, yet again.
The man smiles at him, pressing a heavy booted foot on top of Jason's armor. "Don't tell me. Your dear father didn't tell you about this? Of fucking course he didn't. "
Jason's eyes narrow behind his helmet, bristling at the word father. "I still don't know what the fuck you mean, but if you're here for him, I'm no longer related to any of his problems."
The man snickers, and then laughs harder. Jason watches as the man's laughter grew even louder, the sound reverberating eerily in the empty warehouse. The visor in his helmet zooms in and suddenly he picks up familiar blue-green veins that pop up strikingly against the man's strange pale face on the edges of his eyes.
The man suddenly stops laughing, the sound dying in his throat as sudden as it came. He crouches slowly to the ground, his gun still trained to Jason's forehead.
"Oh it's your problem alright. You really want to know why?" he says in front of Jason's face, and then abruptly stands to lift his foot and grinds it into the wound on top of his shoulder, the movement jarring the release of the dagger up his sleeve. Jason gasps, the edges of his vision growing black for a second as hot searing pain racks his entire left arm.
"She was fucking alive! Sheila was alive when he dug you out!" the man roars, his foot digging harshly into the wound.
Jason's heart nearly stops beating at the mention of her name, and panic blooms across his chest, threatening to constrict his breathing. The pain in his shoulder intensifies, blood gushing freely out of the wound. Suddenly he feels nauseous to the stomach, even though he's had much worse before.
"Yeah I bet that's a real shocker for you, huh?" the man snickers scornfully. "She was alive when even fucking nature chose you to die. She laid there in the rubble, half her body already crushed but still breathing. And you know the craziest part?"
At this point, Jason was struggling to breathe, from the pain and from the overwhelming stream of information about the one thing that he didn't want to be reminded of ever since his death. His palms are cold and clammy, and he could feel his body starting to shake from tremor.
"He knew," the man spits out, emphasizing the word with another harsh pressure on Jason's shoulder. "He knew she was alive when he dug you out. She called for help, and he just up and left her. Fucking hell, it took me ten minutes to get there and by then it was too late. I stayed with her until her dying breath."
"You're fucking lying," Jason chokes out through gritted teeth, trying his hardest not to betray the tremor that is slowly enveloping his body.
He laughs bitterly again. "I should just fucking shoot you right here, right now! Why the hell would I lie about this? Jesus – she could have – she could have lived. She was everything to me!"
Desperately trying not to hyperventilate, Jason opts for a grounding technique, reciting his favorite poem by Pablo Neruda.
If you think it long and mad,
The-the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
decide – to leave me..
leave me - Fuck. This is not good.
He's never been good with compartmentalizing, but he's had practice with Bruce for the last couple of weeks. Damn, Bruce. He will not be pleased with this outcome. Attempting to calm his nerves he breathes in sharply, clutching the dagger in his hand. "I don't know how you're related to that woman, but I know for sure that I'm ending this now."
Taking advantage of the foot still on top of his armor, he violently stabs the dagger into his leg. The man screams, the pain making him ease the pressure on his shoulder. Seeing his chance, Jason grabs the leg and yanks it down with all his strength, his wounded shoulder groaning in the effort. The man wasn't very large – taller than Jason but is lacking in the muscle department, and unbalanced, he topples onto the ground. Jason jumps to his feet as the man slowly stands, already aiming at him with the Desert Eagle. With the visor now flashing 1:50 on the timer, Jason twirls the blade with his good hand.
Get a fucking move on, you idiot.
He lunges forward and the man shoots, the pain in his thigh causing his aim to be unsteady and the bullet whizzes past Jason harmlessly. Now in front of him, Jason delivers a roundhouse kick that knocks away the gun from the man's grasp. Following with a punch, the man dodges away. Ten seconds fly past excruciatingly slow as they exchange blows, with Jason growing more panicked as the time on his visor slowly counts down. With the apparent bleeding from his shoulder, it becomes obvious that the man is using the combat to his advantage by landing more blows on his injured shoulder. Jason grits his teeth and expertly tosses the blade in his other hand, aims a kick to his groin and manages to stab the thug's arm multiple times in the leeway.
The goon screams and leaps a couple feet away, clutching at his arm, blood oozing from the gaping wounds. He then suddenly barks out a maniacal laugh, stopping Jason in his tracks.
"You! You were dead too!" he snarls. "How the fuck are you alive and not her?"
Jason catches his breath, his good hand pressing on his shoulder, trying to staunch the flow of blood that has been freely pouring out during the fight. "Well I guess now we know who's the good guy between the two of us. She was a terrible mother."
"Fuck you!" He takes out a grenade and pulls out the ring with his teeth. Jason's eyes widen, his thought processing running a mile a second. Grenades usually take two to six seconds to explode, and it will be too late and too dangerous to try and attempt to throw the grenade elsewhere. A decision forming in a microsecond, he presses his release mechanism on his helmet, yanks it off, and throws in his weight as he brings the helmet to envelop the small incendiary device.
Even with his helmet absorbing the impact and fragmentation of the grenade, the explosion is still deafening and violent. The helmet cracks and breaks in a flurry of white light and both Jason and the man is thrown backward from the shock wave. The earlier impact with the helmet already knocking Jason unconscious, his head and body slams onto the ground with a sickening crunch.
….I'll be back."
The second the words traveled to Bruce's ears, he understood that Jason was about to do something reckless. He could hear the rash, hot-headedness laced in them, and fear gripped his heart in an icy-cold clad. His body thrumming with the adrenaline, he swings his kicks harder and faster, not bothering to pull in his punches this time. He cannot afford to lose any more time.
Not a second later, a gunshot rings from the warehouse, and his stomach clenches in fear.
The thugs around him fall like bowling pins, one after another, as Batman directs his focus on the fight more ruthlessly than ever before. His moves blur, ducking and avoiding their attacks like a whirlwind, throwing electric-laced batarangs left and right. He can feel his heart thundering in the heat of the moment, dangerous thoughts filling his head. But he's Batman; he compartmentalizes. He focuses on the present – that's what helped him survive until now. The what-ifs always come floating in when the crises involve his children in any way, threatening to consume him. But he files these thoughts away, keeping them under lock and key, in the only way he knew how to continue to operate in battle.
Right now, Jason needs Batman, and Batman he'll be.
It bothers him as well that the target was not here. They have scoured every inch of the vantage points during the stakeout – and double checked the areas to make sure, before they set out to launch into the mission. His comm had also latched onto the goons' signal earlier, recognizing the commanding bark of their targets' voice, ordering his men to take down the intruders.
The target's name – Viktor Pierce. Ex-military from the States, who had retired to work for refugee camps in the Middle East. When Jason had mentioned his name during his report, Bruce had immediately searched it up on the Batcomputer's database. Having read the word 'refugee camps', something in Bruce's gut had compelled him to do more digging into the man's past. He took an entire day off as Bruce Wayne and visited the town where he grew up in, a small city nearby Gotham, under the pretense of a business trip. His investigations led him to a tiny Council Hall, where he learned from a copy of an old faded registrar that Viktor had married someone in secret under a pseudonym. A woman named Sheila Haywood.
His fist collides into the face of the last standing thug, and they crumple to the ground, groaning. Just as Batman finishes him off, a terrible sound engulfs the otherwise quiet night. His heart plummets like lead to his feet.
"Red Hood!" Bruce yells at the top of his lungs, the cowl further amplifying the anguish already present in his voice.
The dangerous thoughts pound against the lock and key and his mind scrambles to keep them under control as he rushes to the warehouse.
Not again not again not again not again not again I'm too late I'm too late I'm too late. His heart thrums the words like a mantra.
Batman crashes through doors of the warehouse, his eyes frantically searching for his son's face, his thoughts growing louder by the second, like a rushing waterfall of terrible impending doom. The explosion didn't seem to be as destructive as he thought it was – it left a trail of some destruction in its wake, but the warehouse isn't engulfed in flames.
He also notices the mound of crates on the far end of the warehouse and the explosive charges set carefully upon each one. His lenses zoom in and notice the numbers 1:00 on the screen of the device. So it hadn't been the explosives Jason had set up.
Something obstructed its explosion, cushioned its impact. Something, or someone. The thoughts nearly blind him with agony as he notices red metallic fragments he recognized as Jason's helmet. His breath quickens with every sweeping gaze he casts over the trail of destruction, trying desperately to find his familiar face.
He spots a fading heat signature from the far end of the room, and his lenses pick up his facial features. Viktor. The man had been crushed by a heavy-looking metal machinery that Bruce reckoned was used to pour in liquid chemicals for the drugs.
Finally, his lenses zero in on a brown-jacket clad body, lying still and motionless behind a fragmented mound of crates. Just like the scenes he's witnessed in his dreams too many times for him to care. Another part of him wants to think that it is a dream, that he will wake up with a violent start, cold sweat making his clothes stick to his body uncomfortably, heart thundering in his ears but after a while remembers that Jason is actually safe, that he's sleeping a few bedrooms across from him. But the sight feels too real for his brain to dismiss it as a dream. The wrenching pain in his chest felt too fucking real.
The thoughts now already free out of its cage, it whirls around and around in his head, making his stomach churn. He felt like his heart is about to beat out of his chest. His body seems to move on autopilot, legs carrying him to the inert body of his son.
He can see Jason fully now, sprawled on the ground. His face is filled with scratches, bleeding from the fragments that dig into his skin, narrowly avoiding his eyes. Bruce drops to his knees, his cape billowing behind him and grabs a wrist to check for a pulse, praying praying praying for the tiniest beat to be present.
It's there, beating faster than it should be, but it's there. The breath that Bruce did not know he was holding, leaves his body in a rush of silent gratitude and choking relief. Not wanting to tempt fate into thinking he's wrong, his hands brush across the surface of his head but finding no open wounds, he forces open Jason's eyelids and shines a light into them. Jason's pupils constrict in the harsh light, and Bruce could feel his fears ebbing away slowly.
"Jason," he whispers, his voice shaking. Noticing the bleeding wound on his shoulder, he snaps out from his reverie. I have to get him out of here.
Still aware of the explosives mounted on the crates counting down, he carefully picks up his son's body from the ground with renewed strength and vigor. Jason's body is awkwardly bigger than his – but as the older man cradles Jason's neck carefully and adjusts his grip under his ankles, Bruce cannot help but marvel at how much he's grown. The last time Bruce has held him in his arms felt eons ago – another uncannily similar time when he dug out the still, motionless form from the rubble, his heart already weighing a ton before Bruce could get to him.
Not this time. I won't allow it.
He clutches Jason close to his chest as if he were still the scrawny little Crime Alley boy, who lost his world but gained another – whether or not for the better, until now he cannot tell.
As of recently, Jason's dreams weren't as violent as before. There were good nights where he could really feel his weary bones rest fully – these nights were usually preceded by Alfred baking him his favorite triple chocolate cake, a movie night with his brothers that ended with minimum damage to the theatre, and his meditation sessions in the cave with Bruce. These nights were good – and although they were seldom to come, the nightmares weren't as vicious.
This night however, had different plans for Jason.
It began slow and blurry, his environment morphing into existence in front of his eyes. He looks down and noticed that he's wearing a dinner suit. A waiter taps his arm, and Jason looks up to meet Alfred's warm brown eyes. He relaxes.
"Master Jason, you haven't finished your tomato soup, feeling knackered already? I have prepared your pajamas then," Alfred says, lifting open a cloche and revealing a set of black-and-white striped jumpsuit.
Before Jason can react, someone's hand covers his own and he looks away from Alfred. In front of him, his mother and father sat, both wearing the jumpsuit that Alfred presented.
"What's wrong, honey?" says Catherine, with a worried look on her face, gripping his hand.
"Quit it, the boy's just angry he didn't get to meet his mother," says Willis next to her, smoking a pipe.
"W-What are you doing here?" says Jason, pulling away his hand from his mother's grip. "You're supposed to be in prison!"
His parents look at each other and laughs. "And you? You're supposed to be dead!" Willis thunders, a knife suddenly in his hands. He drills it into Jason's shoulder, pinning him to the chair, blood gushing out from his wound like a relentless waterfall.
Jason screams, the blood splattered against the faces of his laughing parents, and slowly they melt into the ground, their laughter echoing in the darkness. In their place, Sheila takes form in front of him, wearing the clothes Jason remembered seeing her wear for the first time. The pain still searing in his shoulder, she reaches out and pulls out the knife.
Looking at the woman whom had occupied his mind for the first few months since he crawled out from his grave, he pales, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. She puts down the knife and caresses his cheek with the other hand, her manicured fingers grazing lightly against his eyelashes.
"G-Get away from me!" he screams, wanting to push her away but found that he's frozen in place. Sheila smiles.
"Jason, is that you?" Her voice seems distorted, ringing uneasily in his ears. Jason watches in horror as the pretty face of Sheila contort into an ear-splitting grin, the smile unnatural and eerie.
"Oh baby bird, why didn't you save me?" the unmistakable voice of the Joker comes out from Sheila's lips, the grin still fixed in place.
"Jason, why didn't you save me! You don't deserve a second life! You didn't deserve it and you never will!" Sheila screeches with the clown's voice, a familiar crowbar in her hands. She lifts it up and Jason yells with all his might, thrashing around.
The world goes dark just as Sheila brandishes the crowbar above his head and the vision melts away into the darkness. Heavy silence presses and surrounds him, dampening his vision and hearing. Pain still lanced through his shoulder, the raw feeling biting into his arm and he hobbles in the darkness blindly.
…son! Jason!
Jason spins around in haste, recognizing the faint voice that floats through the black void. "Bruce?" he calls out, clutching at his shoulder and moving towards the direction he hoped the voice came from.
I'm right here.
The voice seems clearer this time and Jason quickens his steps. His blood still rushing by his ears from seeing his mother – the accursed clown – he tries to get a sense of where he's heading but the pain on his shoulder hurts too much. He needs to – he needs to rest for a bit.
The heaviness presses into him even more as he stands still, and he struggles to breathe under the pressure. He collapses into a heap on the cold floorless void.
What is this? Jason feels like a heavy mass of tangled limbs all together. His ears hurt and his head is throbbing. His shoulder feels like lead. He vaguely remembers something similar happening to him once upon a time. What was it? It feels like the aftermath of… a fire? An explosion? That must be it. He…he must still be in Ethiopia and God is punishing his sins by making him go through the same memory again. Jason almost stops breathing at the thought of being caught in limbo in the one place he never wanted to set foot again.
"Bruce – " he gasps. "Bruce! Help –"
I've got you, Jason.
This time the words ring clearly in his ear, and as the world shifts and jolts into reality, light breaks through the darkness and pierces into his eyelids as his brain scrambles to take control of his balance.
"Jason? It's alright, I'm here," Bruce's deep voice helps Jason anchor his senses back to reality, and he blinks in the scene in front of him. They were in the hotel suite, the strange yet familiar space calming down his stuttering heart. He's sweating but freezing at the same time. The pain in his shoulder is still throbbing, but nowhere as painful as the dream made it out to be. An intravenous drip snakes from his left hand.
"B?" Jason asks just to be sure – just to be sure he's really there and not stuck in limbo like he thought it was.
"I'm right here," the older man murmurs gently, and reaches out to run a hand through Jason's sweat-matted hair, the motion calming him down effectively. "I'm glad you're alright."
Unconsciously, Jason leans into the touch in relief. It was just a dream.
As his heart rate slows down, memories of the previous hours – days? – rushes in through his head.
"That bast-" Jason starts, remembering the man who pulled out a hand grenade mere metres away from him, before his voice caught in his throat and he violently coughs.
"Here, drink," Bruce says, bringing a cup of water to his dry mouth. Jason gulps down the cool liquid in relief.
"How do you feel?" Bruce asks as he puts down the empty glass. Jason turns in the bed and notices how pale the older man looked. His face is ashen, and his hands fidget in his lap as he checks Jason's vitals. Jason stares despite having just woken up from an explosion. Bruce never fidgets.
"You were out for six hours. Managed to dig out the bullet and stitch up the wound on your shoulder before you bled out. We need to get you through a CT scan as soon as you're out of bed to make sure there are no -"
"I'm – I'm fine," Jason croaks back. And he did feel fine. Apart from a slight twinge on the left side of his head, the wound on his shoulder didn't hurt that much anymore. The room around him seemed really bright though - the sort of brightness that pressed on his eyelids uncomfortably. He felt strangely jumpy and his attention is everywhere, as if he's had a gallon of coffee. "That bastard –"
"He's dead. The explosion knocked him into a machinery and it collapsed on top of him. The mission is over," Bruce replies back quietly.
Jason sighs and leans back into the pillows, suddenly out of breath. He feels incredibly exhausted. He didn't really know how to process all this. He felt relieved that the man was dead and that the mission was a success. But still he felt troubled by the facts that had unearthed during the fight. He didn't know if he could believe it.
Despite all his training and his experience, he certainly didn't expect anyone from his mother's past to come hurtling back into his path. Not like this. Not when he's just beginning to recover from his wounds.
The fact that Bruce might have had something to do with her death - it doesn't sit right with Jason. The man had no reason to lie - but why would Bruce, who refused to kill the Joker, let someone like his mother die? The twinge grows into a headache, pounding like drums inside his head.
"That man," Jason rasps, his throat still sore from breathing in the debris from the explosion. "He knew Mu – he knew my mother." The memories from his previous dream, still fresh in his mind, didn't help with the tremors that threaten to shake his body. Even in his dreams, his mother still tried to wipe him off the face of the bloody Earth.
Bruce did not make any sound of affirmation. Gathering courage that Jason didn't know what for, he looks up and notices that Bruce is now looking at him fiercely, his hands clenched at his sides.
"You disobeyed a direct order," he says quietly, his voice taking over Batman's deep baritones. "I told you to get out of the warehouse."
Jason stares back at Bruce, unbelieving. "Didn't you hear what I said? That bastard knew my mother!"
"You went after him on your own. You could have died!" Batman growls unrelentingly, his hands now gripping the sides of the expensive wooden chair in the effort to reel in his anger. "You can't do this anymore, Jason. The part where you ignore everything I say. I'm going to –"
Appalled and furious by the fact that Bruce didn't seem to acknowledge what he said, Jason cuts him off harshly. "You're going to what? You're not in charge of me anymore. I'm not Robin, Bruce – Robin died in that warehouse! Because of that fucking clown you refused to kill!"
Jason's hands shake, his heart pounding in pace with his head. He doesn't need this again. He doesn't want to be angry at Bruce, to have everything he's built for himself get undone again. He's terrified of it ever happening – it's the sole reason why he's kept everyone at bay. He's tired of being expected to do things past Jason would do – that Jason died along with Robin during the explosion. He died when he protected his mother from the blast even though she betrayed him, even though she led them to their death. This Jason – this version of Jason just wants to make himself a priority because no one else would do that. Not his brothers. Not Bruce. Especially Bruce.
The older man looks at him with an expression so pained, that Jason struggles not to punch him in the face, barely holding it in. The migraine didn't help at all with the thoughts that swirl in his head. His mind flashes back to the incident in the Cave before the mission happens and something whirs and clicks into place.
"You knew, didn't you?" Jason says brusquely, his voice loud and seemingly worsening the headache. "You knew this had something to do with my mother. That's why you were so adamant to come." He looks up from the bed, meeting Bruce's blue eyes swimming in guilt. "You fucking asshole!"
"I was only trying to protect you!" Bruce snaps back, his eyes now a stern, dark storm. "If you just listened to me and did what I say – you wouldn't have – "
"That man told me something else," Jason interrupts sharply, hanging his head and notes his shaking hands gripping the sheets. "I didn't want to believe it but now you gave me a reason to."
Hearing this, Bruce's heart skips a beat.
Jason's head snaps back up and stares at him with a challenging look in his eyes. "He told me that Sheila was alive. You knew she was alive and you left her to die."
"And you believe this thug?" Bruce says quietly after a short pause. "You'll believe him over me?"
"I don't know what to believe anymore!" Jason retaliates in frustration. "How can I, Bruce? With all your secrets, I never know if I can trust you! But with the way you've been acting lately, I guess, yes, I believe he's telling the truth!"
"He tried to kill you! He popped a grenade right in your face – "
Green flashes in Jason's eyes. "Fuck! I'm getting sick of this shit!" He pulls out the IV drip from his hand and clambers out of bed.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Bruce says roughly, grabbing Jason by the shoulder.
"Getting the hell away from you," Jason snarls, pulling away forcefully and nearly losing his balance. He stands, his feet still adjusting to his weight after being in bed for a long time. He wobbles over to his suitcase lying on the floor.
"With that condition? You just lost a lot of blood Jason!" Bruce splutters and reaches out to grab Jason.
Already anticipating the movement, Jason whirls around and clasps his hand around the older man's neck tightly.
"Don't you fucking touch me," Jason threatens. Trying to cover up the fact that he's shaking, he tightens the hold around his neck. He looks straight into Bruce's clear blue eyes, eyes that are so practiced in shielding emotions, desperately trying to find the truth. "I can't - I can't deal with this right now."
I can't deal with you right now.
Barely acknowledging the pain on his neck, Bruce looks into his son's eyes and deflates when he hears the subtle tremor in his voice. He nods slowly and Jason releases his hold and steps back.
"I'll leave. I won't – Please just – just don't go anywhere. You've lost a lot of blood and you've hit your head pretty bad. I - Please Jason – I'm sorry," Bruce whispers, tripping over his words.
The green anger leaves Jason in a rush of breath and he sways in the air, the pounding in his head suddenly intensifying. Bruce rushes forward in an attempt to steady him, but Jason holds him at bay with an outstretched hand.
"Just go," he croaks. "Leave."
Bruce relents and steps back again. "I'll be in my room if you need me," he says softly. He walks to the door and closes it behind him without another word.
Jason's hands are still shaking by the time he's reached his bed. He feels drained after having to fight with Bruce like this as it proves just one more reason that this...this family thing just won't work. He's tired of having to rebuild again and again just to watch it burn back down.
Are we just so different that this will never work?
He rubs his face miserably and sits down on the bed, the thoughts making the headache turn into a full on migraine. His thoughts turn to his mother - the woman whom he thought would change his life forever when he met her. The yearning to want to be part of someone's family. The simple desire of having someone whom he can rely on - whom he can call family.
For a long time during his Robin years, when he thinks of family, Bruce is the one person that comes to mind. The total stranger who took a little boy home - a thief who tried to steal the Batmobile's tires. The evil bad Bat taking in a broken-winged robin and nursing him into someone who fought for the sake of the good. To protect the weak. To make sure that not one kid shared the same fate as he did. As they both did.
His heart squeezes in unhappiness as his thoughts stray into reminiscence. Jason didn't like lingering in the good thoughts - they made him feel all wrong. It makes him crave for the closeness that they used to share that will never return to them again as changed people. That's why he prefers to revel in the bad memories, memories that he can redirect as anger to keep people away for the sake of his sanity. Bad memories to keep the past away.
Bad memories...one of them being his death. His mother leading him to his own death. His hands grow cold. Did..did his mother hate him for not looking for her sooner? Was she just looking to kill him for money that Joker promised? Jason's witnessed a lot of horrific things growing up on the street, but somehow it feels a lot worse coming from someone whom he's related to by blood. He remembered the way he wore his heart on his sleeve the second she confirmed her name, hugging her tight with a heart about to burst and feeling that he might at last belong to a real family. Then...the way she looked at him during the betrayal. The shock already striking him cold and still long before the Joker could lay a hand on him. Then the feeling of the crowbar hitting flesh and bone, the sound growing wetter as blood slowly spilled out from him.
His breathing quickens rapidly as he relives the unsolicited memories, his body trembling slightly.
"Fuck," he swears, feeling the familiar tightness wrap round his throat, another symptom of an oncoming panic attack. The relentless pound in his head is starting to make small movements nauseous. He clenches and unclenches his cold clammy fists, trying to regain control before his panic attack could fully bloom into something he couldn't control.
Breathe, you useless fucker.
Somehow, the effort of reciting the poem in his head this time seems harder with the pulsating hammering in his skull, than having a 210lbs thug step into your wounded shoulder. He grabs onto the side table beside the bed trying to find something to anchor himself back to reality, and in the process knocks over a plate of food that Bruce has undoubtedly left for him for when he woke up. The plate crashes to the ground - the tomato soup and crackers a splattering mess on the hotel suite floor. The sight and smell of it makes his stomach churn.
Without warning, he lurches from the bed and reaches the bathroom in a single stride before emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet. The first comes out in brown murky bits smelling so much of vomit that makes him heave for the second and third time. The third upheaval just comes out as clear liquid. Tears leak from his eyes as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Groaning, he struggles to stand up and almost slips. The bright bathroom light pierces his eyelids like nails and he hobbles over to the sink. He turns on the faucet with shaking hands and splashes his face with tepid water furiously, as if the water can wash away the pain.
"What's the matter, baby bird?" A chillingly familiar voice whispers against the white noise of the running water behind him.
With wide eyes, Jason swings around, his heart beating hard in his chest. Nothing. The abrupt movement almost makes him lose balance. His stomach churns again and he gulps down saliva, feeling his throat burn from the regurgitated stomach acid. Water. I need water.
Barely remembering that tap water isn't fit to drink in the country, he starts to limp away from the bathroom, holding onto the sides of the walls as if his legs couldn't hold him straight. The room spins.
"Shit," Jason slurs, as he loses balance and stumbles, barely catching himself on the floor with his hands to protect his face. The hammering in his head distracting him more than the flaring wound on his shoulder, he struggles to prop himself up on his elbows. The pain in his head is starting to get behind his eyes and he hisses through his teeth, pressing his palms into his eyelids at an attempt to ease the pain.
Somehow the movement makes his head throb even more, and abandoning the effort, he puts a hand on the table and starts to blindly search for the cup of water on the side of the table. He feels achingly cold and hot at the same time, and he knows that his temperature must be sky high. Right now, he needs water to soothe his bone-dry mouth and throat that is still burning from all the retching.
His hand finally grasps around the cup, and he downs the lukewarm contents, water dribbling down his chin in rivulets. He wipes his mouth and takes in a shuddering breath to ride out the wave of nausea that seems to overcome him after consuming the water so fast. Jason lies there on the floor, clenching his eyes shut because the room is starting to spin even with the dormant position.
On a bone deep level, Jason knows this is bad. Well, bad would be an understatement. He's been plenty sick and hurt before - being in this line of work it's hard not to - but he's never felt so...wrong before. He's been shot, cut, burned, electrocuted, tortured and beaten, and yet the pain feels more raw coming from his own being. His body feels foreign to him, almost as if it's attacking itself from within.
It hurts everywhere. Trying to catch his breath, he tries to focus on the nothingness so his senses could relax, but to no avail. The room feels too cold even though Jason knew for a fact that this country didn't do cold.
Almost as if the pain coaxed it out, an unbidden name bursts out from his lips. "Bruce," he starts weakly, the sound quiet and alarmingly still in the giant suite room. With another deep breath, he steels himself and pushes off the floor with herculean effort to a standing position.
Alright, just a few steps to the door. Trying not to gag at the spinning room, he opens his eyes to pinpoint which way he should be going towards. Reaching the door, he fumbles with the handle, leaning his body onto it so much so that when the door opens he falls onto the floor yet again with a mighty crash, this time not bothering to brace himself with his arms.
"Bruce," he says again weakly from the floor after groaning out loud due to the fall, his bearings disoriented and confused. "B-"
As if compelled by an unseen force, the suite door from across the hall bursts open and Bruce comes rushing to his side, falling on his knees.
"Jason!" His voice feels like warm honey to Jason's ears, he almost wants to fall asleep listening to it. "Jason, what's wrong?"
"Mmf," he slurs, the words in his head not translating properly into words he can say. "Hurts… my 'ead -"
"Fuck," Bruce breathes, furious and horrified at himself all at once. "Jay, listen to me - I'm - I'm going to roll you over, alright? Then I'm going to pick you up and put you on the bed. I need you - I need you to stay awake for me."
Barely having the energy to nod, he grunts out a 'yes' that he hopes Bruce would understand. Bruce gently slips an arm underneath him and rolls Jason over slowly. His heart lodges in his throat as he notices the scorching heat emanating from his skin and the different sized pupils in Jason's dull blue eyes. The suspicion already weighing a ton on his consciousness, he wastes no time, picking his son up to carry him to the bed.
"Wait here," Bruce whispers in a rush, brushing away Jason's hair from his hot, clammy forehead with shaking hands. "I'll get - I'll get someone from the League. Shit - we should have done the CT scan right away. Jason - "
A fevered hand catches the older man's arm, stilling him into quietness. "Wait - you need to - you need to tell me why you didn't save her," Jason slurs, his eyes shut against the blaring lights and colours in the ceiling.
Bruce stares at him with wide eyes, heart thundering in his chest. "Jason, please - this is not the time -"
"Fuck, Bruce, just this one time, can't you - can't you just listen to me?" Jason hisses through his teeth.
Taking a deep breath, Jason steels himself as he opens his eyes and stares at Bruce determinedly. "I need - I need to know why you didn't save my mother that night."
Bruce meets the searching gaze, blue on blue, hyper aware of how flushed Jason's skin felt against his own and how pale his lips were turning. It hurts his heart to realize how much his eyes had hardened over the years. He knew of Jason's own troubling past, but it didn't used to look so...worn before. Jason already had to carry mountains on his shoulder way before, but when he had become Robin, he had barely complained. He always had that fire in him, egging him onwards. Now it seemed that someone had stoked the fire so much that it burned away some parts of himself.
When Jason had died, Bruce lost himself. A week after the burial, Bruce was already going to work in WE as Bruce Wayne, and every night without fail he went to beat the low-life thugs on the street and still sent villains to Arkham Asylum as Batman, but he was no longer himself.
He remembered on more occasions than he could care to count, absently knocking Jason's empty room, expecting him to holler at him before he caught himself. There were nights where he found himself sitting at the edge of Jason's bed with two cups of hot chocolate, which were left untouched and cold on the bedside table at the end of the night. Every day waking up to the fact that he will never see or hear him again. Reality didn't seem so far off from the nightmares he's dreamed of - he saw no difference between the two.
The night Bruce first saw Jason since his death, he couldn't believe his eyes. All his instincts were telling him it was a trap - that it must be a trick of the light, another one of his dreams-turn-nightmares, a new form of Scarecrow's venom or the poison from the knife wound running in his veins making him see things. Even after fighting him and listening to him speak with that hoarse familiar voice of his - a voice he'd never thought he'd listen to again but know that he would do anything to hear it - he still couldn't trust himself. He couldn't. It was another one of the universe's cruel tricks, bringing his son back alive with so much anger and hatred. But now he knows what this is.
He's been given the chance to fix this, and he will fucking fix this if it's the last thing he'll do.
Bruce holds the gaze before closing his eyes, breathing out shakily, his hands clasping Jason's fevered ones tightly. "How could I? Jason, you were dead. I couldn't think. I just knew I had to bring you home. I had to see and check for myself that you were - that you were gone. How could I possibly think of anyone else with my own son dead in my arms?"
His heart weighing heavier than lead, Bruce brings his shaking hands to cup Jason's face. His heart clenches with love and fear - fear that he might be pushing things too much and he might end up pushing Jason away for good after all his subtle attempts at trying to bring him home. But it doesn't matter anymore - he needs to know.
"Jason, you brought light to our lives. You brought life to the empty mansion when Dick left. I wanted - I wanted to take your pain too and replace it with something better. When you told me your mother was alive, I wanted nothing more than to reunite you with her. I...I just wanted what any father wants for his son. Hope. Happiness. A future of never wanting or regretting something he could never have again, because I know how that feels like, Jason."
Jason closes his eyes and mumbles something incoherent back, shifting as though he wants to sit up but too weak to complete the movement. Bruce's heart shoots up in his throat as he runs a gentle hand up Jason's arm, trying to be soothing even as he tries to push down his anxiety.
"I'm - I'm sorry I kept it away from you. But the truth is that I don't care about her. I never did. I care about you. I lost you before and for some messed-up reason that I don't think I deserved, I got you back. I'm not going to lose you again."
Jason wasn't aware of the tears leaking from his eyes until Bruce's hands wiped the wetness away. "Please let me help you. You have to - you have to let me help you, Jay. I won't lose you again, not like this."
Jason feels himself still, the pounding in his head still relentless but somehow dulled. Slowly, he nods.
"Alright, B," he whispers simply, letting the truth wash over him like a warm blanket. There is still so much between them - too much for Jason to fully comprehend when he was shaking and feverish like this. But Jason knows that at least for now, he can let himself rest for a while. Maybe...just maybe...things will be alright between them.
Bruce brings himself closer and places a gentle kiss on his brow. Then, quick as a shot, he focuses on him with a solemn look. "Listen to me, Jay. I think you're experiencing some internal bleeding in your skull from the explosion. I'm going to call Superman and have him bring you to Leslie."
As Bruce moves away from the bed for a moment to make the call, the pain reemphasizes itself in Jason's head, a dull powerful throb that makes his vision go black around the edges. He lies still on the bed, hoping that if he doesn't move maybe the pain will go away.
"Bruce?" He slurs, the name slowly unfurling from his mouth.
He hears murmuring from the far end of the room. The last thing Jason registered was a breeze, a flash of red and blue and someone lifting him off the bed as a familiar voice carries out over the creeping darkness.
"You'll be alright, son. I promise."
A/N: my artists made amazing artworks for this fic. if you'd like to see it, visit my profile on AO3 (i'm silvermoonlightlady!)
if you liked this, favs and reviews would be much appreciated ;) i'm a working "adult" now so every little review means a lot to my 9-5 life. thank you!