{the broken bird}

-In such cases the question of life and death is balanced thus: if the wave carries the vessel on the rock, she breaks on it and is lost; if the billow retires before the ship has touched, she is carried back, she is saved-

There were worms crawling out of his mouth. He stood in front of a mirror, which was grimy and old, its reflection a haze of fog and wisp. He was naked and small, all bones and flimsy skin, and there was no light in the bathroom but for a candlestick dwindled to a stub, with a flickering flame so weak and lifeless, it could sputter out of existence at any given moment. There was something behind him, but he could only see the dim outline of his own face, gaunt and sunken and dead.

His mouth was parted, and his knuckles were white against the stained, scummy sink. He gripped the edge as he gagged, insects scratching at his throat, fluttering and squirming, dropping into the sink with the pattering of droplets. Blood slid from his tongue, plop plop plop, glistening in the firelight. He was breathing heavily, heaving as he puked up worms and dead things, moth wings caught in his windpipe, spitting into a basin with flecks of red. He coughed, and blood splattered across the grimy glass, flecking his pallid face like a dance of bloody freckles.

He was thin white skin and protruding bones. He was no different from the scum sticking to the sink he clung to, and he trembled as he stared, bleary eyed, spitting squirming, dancing insects into the pit below him. He shuddered, and rasped, and he felt fingers trailing down his spine. Cold fingers, icy trails that stung and bit at his paper-thin flesh. He stretched his body, legs and flailing, squirming organisms dangling from his mouth.

"Where to start?" a voice whispered against his skin.

He objected, but there were worms in his mouth.

He was laid onto his back, blinded and squirming, and there were worms in his mouth. He choked, and he twisted, fighting at the darkness and coughing, blood and fire and pain stretching out and consuming him. He felt fire writhing inside him, and it felt like being torn apart. It was a disgusting pain, a searing flight of flame and fancy.

There was a manic laughter that hissed through the darkness, the acoustics so beautifully horrible, it echoed and echoed, a trail of forever laughs that stretched and yawned and mingled with the hiss and spit of and explosion, of grunts and wet noises and screams. He was being kissed by death, and his body was convulsing, blood running down his right thigh and bursting into flame. He tried to scream, but there were worms in his mouth.

The agony was ecstasy, and the ecstasy agony. Life and death danced around him, two glowing forms of hate and love and spitting fire and smoking ice. They locked and wed and split apart, dancing a forever dance and clawing at each other fighting with elongated teeth and fingers dragging across his chest, laying down their claim to him.

He was in a thrumming cage of pure pain, and he wanted to cry, to scream and thrash, and he tried, and tried, but there were worms in his mouth and he spat, but they crawled across his skin, and more erupted from his throat. He wanted death, and he wanted life, and he wished they would quit their game of love and hate, quit teasing and tearing and kissing and just do what they came to do to him.

He felt like he was being tugged in all directions, wanted everywhere, but wanted by no one. He hissed and gurgled, spitting worms and choking on screams that never made it out. He was breathing, but that was all. His leg was on fire. And then it was on ice. And then it was numbed completely, and it was numb forever and ever and ever.

Something whizzed past him, his instincts going wild as the screeched for him to run, and something clicked inside him.

Faces were blurring into each other, and he was in a feverish spasm, reaching and hoping and begging, because he only wanted to see one person, and he knew he had to be somewhere. The world was nothing, just an expansive stage of darkness, a screen of black. He was reaching and spitting, worms caught in his throat, and he felt tears in his eyes. The fire was a faded memory. There was a light somewhere, and he felt the love and the hate, the laughter fading and bursting into soft, lulling beep-beep-beeping, and life devoured death before him. He felt itching claws yanking at his ribcage, and he rasped, swallowing worms.

There was a face in his head, and it disappeared.

He gurgled, and his body felt stiff and numb. His lips were unyielding, puffy and tingling. There was nothing crawling from them, though. There were no more worms. And it was a relief unlike any other. He felt a tickle in his throat, and in panic he released it, thinking it was a squirming insect ready to burst forth into the abyss.

"Bruce…"

It was a choking whisper, his own voice cracking miserably. He saw nothing, but he felt air moving into his lungs. And he wondered. Had he really just spoken?

There was a flutter of motion. He listened, and he heard nothing. His fingers twitched, and his eyes did too. He wanted someone. He wanted to see his face, and he was so scared and desperate, he shook his head, feeling something soft press against his hand. Soft, gentle, like a downy cloth washing away the grime and the blood, and the fire guttered out.

His eyelids peeled back stubbornly. They immediately snapped shut, and he flinched, his heart thundering against his chest as pure white stung his vision, stinging tears into his eyes. There was a buzzing inside his ears that he couldn't get rid of, but he could hear beeping.

He opened his eyes again, and this time he saw a blurry silhouette amongst the white.

"Shit," Jason whispered, blinking rapidly. "Ow."

His voice felt like a long thread of hair being pulled excruciatingly slowly from his throat, tickling his insides with discomfort and panic. His eyes flickered blindly, and he felt pressure on his fingers, so he yanked his hand back. He looked around, and he shakily felt around, his eyes widening as he felt wires protruding from his arms.

"No," he mumbled, his eyes squeezed shut as he yanked the wires out. Something went wild inside the room. He was laying in a bed, and he felt a growl in his throat, he shoved and struggled, feeling someone grab him. "Let go!" he snarled, his vision becoming clearer. Hospital, he thought with a pang in his heart. Oh fuck me.

He pushed back his blanket, and he flung his legs over the side of the bed, jumping to his feet.

He shrieked as he toppled over, his entire body crashing to the floor in a heap of aches and tangled limbs. He blinked fast, and he could feel his left leg shaking. His right leg felt numb. He felt someone rush to his side as he pushed himself to his knees, and toppled over once again into the arms of whoever the fuck decided to grace him with their presence.

He took one glance at his leg, and felt his stomach turn to ice. "My…" he whispered, clinging pitifully to the shirt of the boy who was trying to pacify him. "My…"

"It's okay," the boy said, his voice soft and lulling.

"No," he gasped, unable to tear his gaze away. "My leg."

"I swear it's gonna be okay," the boy said, gripping him by the shoulders. "Someone— Nurse! Anyone, come on, nur—"

"No!" Jason's head snapped back to the boy, whose face was still sort of blurry. Jason's voice was raw, and it trembled as he hissed. "Get me out of here!"

"Wha…?"

"Get me the fuck out of here!" Jason glanced around fast. "Now!"

"Okay." The boy scooped him up as if he was nothing, and ran out of the room. Holy shit, that was easy. Jason hadn't expected that.

Some nurses noticed, but the boy dodged them easily, and deposited Jason into a wheelchair. He was then pushed rather roughly down the hall, and at one point the boy gave him a sharp shove, sending him flying down the hall as he dealt with pushing away some rowdy nurses. Jason was dizzy when he was yanked to a stop, but he didn't object. He was sort of half-asleep, trying to understand what the fuck was happening.

Somehow, by some strange witchcraft, the boy had fucking done it. Jason was in awe by him, and so thankful he couldn't even really believe it himself. "Shit," Jason breathed, squeezing his eyes shut as the boy pushed him through a park. "What the fuck just happened?"

"I don't know, Jay," the boy said, giving him a weak smile as he looked around. He was a tall boy, and the clearer his face became, the more Jason had this nagging feeling he knew him. God, who the fuck drugged me up this bad, I need to punch them out. "You wanted out. I didn't know what else to do."

"Right," Jason said, feeling dazed. There were children playing not so far away. Three of them, a blonde, a redhead, and a brunette. They were playing soccer with a beaten up ball, and Jason watched as it rolled in front of them. Jason bent to pick it up, and a dark skinned girl with big brown eyes and a mess of brown curls ran to retrieve it. When Jason handed it over, she took it and stared at him. "What?" he asked, his eyes narrowing at her.

She blinked, her eyes widening. The early morning sun glinted against her round, sweet looking face, and he knew she couldn't be more than ten. She gave him a big smile, her teeth white and a little crooked. "Thanks!" she chirped, spinning and rushing back to her friends, who were watching him with an eerie sort of interest.

"Cute," the boy behind him said, pushing him forward.

"Creepy," Jason corrected.

The boy sounded amused as he said, "Well, you are wearing a hospital gown, dude."

Jason looked down at himself, and he grimaced. "I'm also missing a leg, dude," he snapped.

"I'm sorry," the boy said. He sounded earnest, and it made Jason uncomfortable. Their stroll was becoming sort of unnerving, and Jason just wanted to go home already. "I'm sure you'll get a really badass prosthetic that has like, a cannon in its kneecap or something."

"That," Jason said, his mind abuzz with clearing fog, "sounds really cool, actually. Tell me more."

"Hm." The boy turned, and they took a backroad alley. That made him uncomfortable. "Let's go to my place. I need to call Red so I don't get arrested for uh… kidnapping you."

"Red?"

"Oracle."

"Oracle?" Jason's mind was truly beginning to clear, and he groaned, clutching his head. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Oh." The boy sighed, and Jason craned his neck to try and get a better look at his face. "Right. Sorry, I'm… forgetting. You missed a lot."

"Well shit," Jason said, scowling ahead of him. "That's a huge goddamn surprise. Explain, you piece of shit!"

"Sorry!" the boy squeaked. Now that sounded familiar. Jason froze, and he stared blankly ahead of him for a few moments as the boy rattled off an explanation that made no sense at all. Tim, he thought numbly. Wait, when the fuck did bitty Catlad grow up?

When he was done speaking, all Jason could choke out was, "Your voice is different."

Tim gave a short, sharp laugh, and even that sounded different. Deeper, somehow. How long had Jason been in the hospital for? He tried to get a grasp on whatever the boy had said, but he just couldn't sort it out. "Yeah, I guess four years does that."

That struck Jason like a blow to the stomach. "Four years?!" he cried, gripping the armrests of his wheelchair tightly. "What the fuck?"

Tim gave him an apologetic smile. They reached a nicer street, and the boy sighed. "You didn't listen to anything I just said, did you?"

"What is going on?"

"You were in a coma," Tim said, stopping before a ratty apartment building. "You don't remember the explosion?"

"Do I look like a dude who remembers anything right now?" Jason groaned, his head falling into his hands. It was pounding, and the headache was growing into a migraine. He wanted to sleep, but fuck that, he's been asleep for four fucking years, what the fuck, oh my god.

"I'm really sorry."

"Stop apologizing!" Jason pinched his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "Stop talking, stop explaining! I don't want to hear it!"

"Okay." Tim opened the door, maneuvering the wheelchair up and through the door. "Sorry, the building isn't wheelchair friendly."

"I don't care."

Jason heard Tim inhale sharply, as if he was about to say something but decided against it. They took the elevator to Tim's floor, which Jason was thankful for. He kept staring at the stump of his leg, wondering what explosion had stolen it from him. Four years. A chunk of his life, gone in an instant. It was horrifying.

"Selina!" Tim called, pushing Jason through the door to the apartment. Jason had never been there before, nor had Tim ever been to the manor. It was sad, now that he thought about it. The living room was a disheveled mess, but homey all the same. Tim tossed his keys into a dish, and looked around, pushing Jason one-handedly into the den. "She must not be home."

Jason did not reply. He was staring at the stump with disdain.

"I'm really glad you woke up," Tim said, flicking at his cellphone. "Some crazy stuff has been happening lately. I'm just glad that you're okay. Like, you don't seem to have gone out of your mind while asleep, so thank god for that."

"I'm missing a leg," Jason said dully.

"I know," Tim sighed. He pressed his phone to his ear, and gave Jason a small smile. "Don't worry too much."

"I'm missing my fucking leg, you bastard."

"Red!" Tim's eyes narrowed at Jason in warning, and he ignored it. "Hey, yeah, that was me. I stole him."

"You didn't steal anything." Jason scowled, folding his arms across his chest. "You politely got me the hell out of that pisspot of a hospital."

"Politely," Tim repeated, smirking. "Yes, I think that's a great word for it. I politely removed him from the hospital."

"Who is that?" Jason rolled himself closer to the boy. "Is it Bruce?"

"No," Tim said, shaking his head. "It's… yes, Red, he's awake! I know, I don't know how it happened, he just woke up all of a sudden. Maybe the attack just triggered something? I don't know, but he's pretty okay. I mean, okay enough to insult me. I think that's pretty okay, you know?"

"I don't," Jason said.

"Shh." Tim was much taller now, his shoulders broader, and his face slimmer. He wasn't a giant or anything, but from where Jason was sitting he looked pretty damn tall. The boy had always had a sweet face, an open book of emotions laying in his eyes. That was no longer the case. Jason could not see the world of wonder that had always clung to the boy's gaze. Instead it was replaced with layers of masks and lies, and it was confusing and harsh, and Jason felt uneasy. "I know I should have alerted you right away, but I wanted to get home first. It's hard to move him around, so maybe you can have someone come pick him up and take him to you? I mean, you've got a Kryptonian, an Amazon, and half a robot— Oh."

"What?" Jason asked, not even bothering to think about anything he'd just said.

Tim glanced at him, and he gave him a genuinely bright smile. "Hey, Red, can I talk to Cyborg?"

"Who?" Jason knew who Cyborg was, of course, it was just a shock to hear his name.

Tim gave him an offhanded wave, and Jason found himself fuming. "You little shit," Jason hissed, rolling forward, trying to aim a kick at Tim's legs. He was too fast, though.

"Hey, so I know you don't seem to like me much," Tim said, balancing his phone between his ear and shoulder as he fended Jason off. "But how do you feel about maybe whipping up a prosthetic leg?"

"Whoa, wait." That caught Jason's attention and he straightened up reaching up at the phone, but Tim swatted his hands away. "Did you say prosthetic? Like, for me?"

Tim shot him a glower that confirmed it. Jason settled down, smiling in contentment. "Cool," Jason murmured, folding his arms across his chest. He stared at his stump for a moment, and he realized something. "Fuck, it's going to take forever to learn to walk again, isn't it?"

"Maybe?" Tim ran his fingers through his hair, pulling the phone from his ear. Jason could hear Cyborg talking. "I don't know, Jay. We'll see. For right now, we need to get you to a safer place than my apartment."

"Why not, say, I don't know." Jason glared up at the boy, contentment sliding away and replacing with resentment. "Home?"

Tim looked apologetic, and Jason took a deep breath, wheeling himself around and pushing himself toward the apartment's kitchen. "I want to talk to Bruce," Jason announced, hearing Tim follow him. "Call him."

"I can't." When Jason turned his head to look at him, he quickly tried to amend himself. "He's not here! I don't know how to get in touch with the Justice League. Selina might, but I don't know where she went off to."

Jason felt bitter and enraged, and he rolled away so he wouldn't have to respond to the fucker. Of course he'd be gone, Jason thought, glaring at his stump of a leg. Why would he stick around for me, anyway? The world's so much more important. When Tim set a glass of water in front of him, Jason hurled it at the wall, wheeling himself away before it even shattered. He didn't respond when Tim asked him if he was okay, because of course he wasn't. Was the boy stupid? Of course he wasn't okay.

"I want to go home," Jason said, glaring ahead of him. He shoved Tim away when the boy reached out to touch him, and he directed his glare at him, feeling rage and pain and a crippling sickness build inside him. "Just take me home, I don't get it, what's the big fucking deal?"

"I'm so sorry," Tim said, his eyes widening. "I know this is really hard—"

"You have no idea what this is like!" Jason felt tears prickling his eyes, and he forced them back. He didn't know if they were tears of rage or sorrow or pain. "I don't know what's going on! I just woke up, and— and I'm missing four years and a leg and Bruce, and I can't deal with this, okay? Just take me home!"

"I'll call Alfred," Tim said. Hearing the butler's name soothed Jason's anger a little, and he quieted down enough to stare up at Tim with a dead gaze. He pulled out his phone, and he flicked through his contacts. "I can't take you home, though."

"Why?" Jason felt exasperated and exhausted. He was a hundred and ten percent done with this bullshit, and he wanted home more than he wanted his leg back. He just wanted to go home.

"It's not safe," Tim said, pressing his phone to his ear.

"The manor is like, the safest place there is!" Jason's teeth cracked against each other as he gritted them.

"Untrue," Tim said. "It's your home. If someone wanted to kill you, they'd look for you there."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

"Here." Tim shoved the cellphone in his face, and Jason grabbed it, pressing it to his ear.

"Alfred?" Jason asked, his voice sounding pitiful and weak. He took a deep breath, and glared up at Tim again. God, I hate this kid, he thought bitterly. There was nothing true about it, though. There was a lengthy pause, and that made Jason uncomfortable. "Um, Alfie? Hello?"

"Master Jason?" The disbelief in Alfred's voice sent a chill through Jason's bones. He swallowed thickly, turning his face away. "You... I was aware that you had been… discharged from the hospital, but—"

"I'm a hundred and ten percent awake," Jason said. "And pissed. And confused. What's going on? What happened to me?"

He heard Alfred take a deep breath. Alfred's upset, Jason thought, his heart pounding in his ears. His migraine was getting worse. Oh god, what did I do?

"Master Jason, there was an accident. I… I think perhaps it might be better if I told you face to face."

"Yeah, if only Catlad would let me go," Jason hissed, glowering at the boy. He was looking somewhere else, his eyes sharp, alert.

"Shh," Tim said, holding up a finger. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Jason blinked.

"Shh!"

"Sir, if you tell me where you—" Alfred was cut off by the sound of something whooshing through the air. Tim had obviously seen it, because he gave a sharp shout, ripping Jason from the wheelchair and slamming him against the ground. Jason pushed at him furiously, listening to fabric ripping apart, and the sound of something sharp hitting something wooden.

Tim kicked the ruined wheelchair hard, and Jason watched it go flying, its backrest nothing now but seven wisps of green cloth. The chair toppled over, its wheels still whirring, screeching in objection as they rolled at nothing. Jason found himself gripping Tim suddenly, his eyes widening as he was shoved beneath the kitchen table.

"Stay here," Tim whispered, grabbing a block of knives, sliding a cleaver from it and shoving its handle in Jason's palm.

"What the hell am I going to use this for?" Jason hissed, holding up the cleaver incredulously. "I'm not a butcher, I can't chop a person to death!"

But Tim was already gone. Jason listened, and his eyes widened as he heard the boy gasp, and the haunting sound of a body hitting the ground had Jason clutching the cleaver for dear life.


Note: Okay, Jason's awake, so that's all great and shit. Sadly, all Jason wants is Bruce. And like that's gonna happen, lbr.

Cred to Victor Hugo. I'm p sure he's talking about a ship in this quote, but to be honest I can't remember so ha ha, read the book.