Chapter Text
It wasn't like Jason had forgotten about the Joker even after a year, it was just the everyday worries worked their way into the forefront of his mind; things like keeping up his straight As, training for when he would be able to join the Justice League when he got his permit, and learning how to ride a goddamn skateboard.
The skateboard that the Joker had run over had been beyond repair, much to Tim’s disappointment. Though Jason was able to fix it enough with glue where Tim could hang it above their bunkbed.
Even when Jason looked at it, the first memory wasn't of the Joker, it was of Bruce vaulting over the couch as he saw Jason and Tim walk into the bedroom with the barely glued together skateboard, a hammer, a saw and a box of nails.
The face Bruce made was hilarious. Though, in the end, he had helped put it up, letting Jason put in the nails after he had found the studs.
But in other moments, Bruce’s voice came back to him, making him promise to run. Jason had wondered if he had made Dick make that promise too.
Jason had gotten his answer on a Friday night.
It was just Jason and Tim in the ‘Batcave’, which was in the back of the auto shop where all the training equipment and other League items were held. Alfred had finally let them be in the Cave by themselves.
Tim wasn't interested in training any longer than he already had that day, and mostly just was fiddling with a broken box TV, trying to fix it.
But Jason had to train, he was almost fourteen, almost ready to join the Justice League and get his own bike and patch when he turned fifteen.
Jason gave the punching bag another good kick. Dick would be going to college soon and Jason was the one who was gonna watch Bruce’s back, though Barabra had joined and helped occasionally. He needed to be ready.
The bag swung back and Jason was about to go for a punch, when a singular motorcycle engine, Bruce’s by the sound of it, rolled into the driveway. Both Tim and Jason looked at each other for a moment, it was barely ten, if they were back now it wasn't a good sign.
Without hesitation, both boys bolted from their activities and flew through the shop to the front door. Jason got there first and whipped it open to see Bruce get off his bike cradling a sobbing Dick in his arms.
Blood poured from Dick’s shoulder. Blood splattered on his leather cut. Blood on his face, his broken nose, his teeth.
Dick wasn't supposed to be this pale.
There wasn't supposed to be a gapping bullet wound in his shoulder either.
“Get Alfred and Leslie!” Bruce ordered as he sprinted to the house. “Get them into the dining room. I’m gonna start by stopping the bleeding."
Jason unfroze and ran into the office for Alfred’s house key, pulling out his phone to hit the contact for Dr. Thompkins.
It rang three times before she had picked up, Jason was already bounding to give Tim the keys. Tim shot off.
“Hello? Jason?” Her voice was scratchy from sleep.
“Dick’s been shot!”
“Where are they? I'm gonna call 911." Dr. Thompkins was making a lot of noise in the background.
"No! Bruce said you need to come here! You gotta come to the shop and save him!" Pleading, begging, he would do anything. “He’s bleeding so much-” a sob ripped out of him.
"Jason-"
"Please—just please." Jason wiped away tears, "Come save Dick."
"Okay. I'll be there in five." And she hung up, leaving Jason to scramble up the stairs of the porch where Alfred and Tim ran inside the house, following the red trail.
Bruce had put Dick on the dining room table, everything originally on it swept to the floor. Dick was still crying, his tears mixed with the blood from his clearly broken nose, as he clutched a cloth to his shoulder. The fabric was already sopping wet.
It wasn't the blood that made Jason want to throw up, it was the fear.
“Oh god,” Alfred exclaimed before rushing to Bruce’s side where Bruce unsheathed his knife and was cutting Dick’s shirt and leather.
Bruce was barking orders as if he knew what he was doing. Sometimes Jason forgot that Bruce had gone to med school, but it gave little comfort to him now as he saw the bruises, welts, cuts that not only marred Dick’s face but his whole body.
Like someone had tried to kill him.
Dick just kept crying, words slurred and screamed as Bruce and Alfred tried their hardest to keep him alive.
Dick wasn't supposed to cry, he wasn't supposed to be scared, he was not supposed to be this bleeding, hurt kid on their dining room table. Jason’s brother was supposed to be stupidly perfect and untouchable.
Suddenly, Dr. Thompkins rushed through the door, taking over from where Bruce was trying to put pressure on the gunshot wound.
Then she started yelling orders to get things from the bag she had brung. Jason wasn't paying attention to the words only to the sound of the blood that had started to slide from on the table onto the tile below in a steady stream of plip-plops.
Dick screamed again, and Jason had to fight the urge to cover his ears.
Someone behind him hid their face in his back as if that could block any of it. It was Tim, who was crying a wet spot on Jasn’s t-shirt.
Tim didn't need to see this. Ten-year-olds shouldn't see this much blood. But Tim already had seen this much. Too much.
Jason spun around, finally unfrozen, grabbed Tim and lifted him up. Tim put his head against Jason’s chest and let him be dragged to their room. The weight grounded him as they rounded the corner.
With a thud, Jason closed the door behind them. It was solid wood and muffled the intensity of everything, still though Dick’s sobs came through from the space beneath the door.
Sliding down to the floor, back against the door, Jason held Tim tight. It was hard to breathe and Jason couldn't tell if he was crying or not.
Tim put his hands over his ears and wiped his tears on Jason’s shirt. The arms around Tim held clenched as if that could shield him.
“Is he going to be okay?” Tim’s voice was barely a whisper, he probably didn’t even hear his own words.
Jason leaned down and pressed the side of his face next to Tim’s and replied just as softly. “Of course. He’s-he’s Dick, nothing can get him.”
Tim was too smart to believe Jason.
Time passed in ways that couldn't be measured, but eventually, Dick had stopped crying.
He had stopped- stopped.
Jason had to see. To see if Dick-
“Stay here.” Jason snapped through newly sprung tears, he tried to wiggle out of Tim’s hold which somehow had wrapped around Jason like a vice.
Between harsh breaths, Tim exclaimed “I’m coming too.” He was too stubborn for his own good.
Jason didn't have time for this and pulled both of them up, opening the door. With a not-so-gentle hand, Jason covered Tim’s eyes. Tim jerked his head to try and get it off, but Jason wouldn't budge.
“Just fucking-” Jason was about to yell even more profanities but the sound of a slap broke him from his tirade.
Both of them scrambled to the corner to peer around to see Dr. Thompkins crowding Bruce while he stood ramrod straight, emotion only betrayed by how pale and sickly his skin was. Except the red mark on his cheek.
“You're lucky he didn't die Bruce!” Dr. Thompkins yelled. She never yelled. “Count your miracles that the Joker hadn’t fucking killed him the moment he shot him! Or that didn't bleed out to death because you didn't call an ambulance.”
“The hospital isn't safe.”
“And here is?! What if he had followed and killed your other kids? What were you thinking?”
Bruce doesn't answer, but he doesn’t take his eyes of Dick.
“After this I’m done! Take him to an actual hospital next time.” Dr. Thompkins threw open the door. “I will not have a boy’s blood on my hands because of your paranoia.” And she slammed it behind her.
“There's not going to be a next time.” Bruce’s voice held so much certainty, as if he could mold the world to his whim.
Jason wanted to believe him with everything in his being. He looked to Dick who was still laid out on the table, asleep. And breathing. He was breathing and suddenly so could Jason.
Bruce walked over to Dick, pulling up his chair that usually sat at the head of the table to sit near Dick head. Dick’s breathing was steady, though it all came through his mouth since his nose seemed to be broken by the bandages on it, he was missing a tooth too.
Shaking hands carded through Dick’s hair, so light as if it could break him. Bruce stared at the mangled bandages that covered his son. Still bloodstained.
Ever so gently, Bruce leaned over and pressed a kiss to Dick’s hairline. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, squeezed his eyes shut. “This never should have happened.”
Bruce was about to put his hand on Dick’s cheek but stopped at the purple bruising. Instead, he dropped both hands to his side as he stood.
“This will never happen again.” Bruce said this as if it were a promise.