Chapter Text
His senses came flooding in slowly; sound being the first— everything was vaguely muffled, like there was beeswax in his ears, but he could make out a distant beeping and a quiet, constant hum. His head felt like it was on fire. What happened? Where was he? With all the skills of a bat-trained vigilante and then some, he remained perfectly calm, keeping his breathing and heart rate steady as he analyzed his environment.
He heard vastly younger Batman in the back of his mind,
“Pretend to sleep. Gather as much information as possible. Focus on what you know.”
What did he know? He knew he felt hot, like the room was at least 90º and increasing. He could feel a sticky layer of sweat covering his entire body. He knew he had a massive headache, and everything seemed fuzzy—not quite real—likely a concussion. There was a dull, throbbing pain in his ribs, tingling ever so slightly with each breath—that was definitely broken. He felt floaty; he felt wrong. He forced his panic down as he realized the IV in his arm—he was very much drugged. A wave of dread washed over him, memories hitting like a truck. His mom, cold, lying lifeless on her back as the needle stuck out of her arm—
Focus. He needed to focus. Where was he? He felt an almost nonexistent pain in his back and sucked in a small breath of air. A strong smell of antiseptic lingered in his nose—ah, he was in a medbay. His helmet was still on, but his neck hurt, so someone was probably tugging on it to get it off, and he felt a heavy metal on his wrist—handcuffs—he was definitely not in the Batcave.
Okay. He’s injured, drugged, and cuffed in an unknown environment, and with no idea how he got there. Think. What happened? He couldn’t remember, no matter how hard he thought. It was just outside his reach in his brain. Ugh.
He finally forced his eyelids open, flinching at the blinding lights. Taking as much of a look around as he could, he took notice of a camera in the corner of the room, watching him. They didn’t even try to hide it. He recognized the layout of this room—a medbay oddly familiar to his father’s—ah. The Watchtower. The memories came flooding back, increasing the floaty headache he already had. Fuck. He was NOT going to make it in time for dinner. FUCK. Roy is looking for him. How long was he out? He probably had an hour before the whole crew arrived. Hopefully, he can rest a bit before then. At least Roy will be with them.
He made the very wise decision to sit upright and regretted this choice instantly. A wave of nausea rushed over him, his body felt hot and detached, and he had to physically will the vomit back down so he wouldn’t ruin his helmet. Tim just updated this one. Tim wouldn’t mind, but Jason sure would. His arm tugged at the handcuff to his side, and he let his body fall back down, all the strength leaving him as his helmet smacked back into the cot. Everything was so heavy, like he was moving through a pool of Jelly, and his eyelids kept fluttering shut. A pained groan involuntarily escaped his lips, cutting back and forth between a heavily mechanical sound and his natural voice due to the now broken modulator. Well, he guesses Tim will have to fix that later.
There was a hand on his chest, ensuring he stayed down, not that he needed it there for that. When had someone gotten there? He thought he was alone. He tried pushing the hand off his chest, but was reminded of the IV in his arm. He could feel someone fiddling with it, trying to give him another dose of whatever they had him on. He reached his free hand over and pulled it out, forcing his eyes open to make out the figure in front of him. It was a man in a weird red suit. Flash, it seemed. That explains how he got here so fast. He was saying something, looking like he had seen a ghost, trying to stop Jason from moving more, but it still felt like there was cotton in Jason’s ears. After a second, he began to hear what he was saying more clearly,
“How are you—? Hey! You need that!” His hands were on Jason’s arm, too slow to stop him from yanking the IV out, but still attempting to get across the message. Jason shifted his arm slightly, pathetically.
“I’m sorry, dude,” he began to prepare a new needle,
“—but you are REALLY sick—” Jason thinks he was explaining something more, but he couldn’t hear him. The thought of a needle in his arm—the thought of his mother with a needle in her arm—unconscious and unresponsive, Jason begging her to wake up, shaking her to no avail—
“No!” Loud and broken with a newfound strength, he shoved Flash off, and his voice shook, the modulator breaking in and out between an emotionless, mechanical voice and a trembling, almost young-sounding voice. Flash quickly got up, raising his hands in a placating manner. The man in front of him was shaking, whether out of sickness or fear, he could not tell. He didn’t seem like a cold-blooded killer the league needed to keep its eyes on; he seemed small—scared.
“No—no needles,” he stuttered out, holding his arm close to his chest. The brief burst of energy seemed to have left, leaving him feeling weak and exhausted. Flash felt a small bit of pity before he remembered who was on the cot in front of him. A crime lord. A sick, scared man—but a crime lord nonetheless. He took a deep breath and placed the supplies on the cart next to him before stepping closer.
“Okay. Okay. No needles.”
A small pause. Jason let out a breath of air he didn’t know he was holding. He felt so out of it. Everything felt so wrong. It seemed muffled but loud at the same time. He felt scared; a feeling he wasn’t used to anymore. Whatever they put him on was strong, and he did NOT like it. His mind wasn’t his own right now, and that usually wouldn’t scare him as much as it was.
“—but you NEED to take something. You shouldn’t be alive right now with a fever that high, let alone conscious.”
Jason grunted, letting the voice bring him back to reality, acknowledging he heard what was said, but not agreeing or disagreeing with the terms. It felt oddly familiar to Barry. Batman probably wouldn’t like how he found him similar to a wanted killer, though, so he shoved it to the back of his mind for later. Right now, he had to make sure this wanted killer didn’t die, and he was making it much harder than he needed to by refusing the IV meds. Maybe he’ll take something by mouth; the helmet wouldn’t come off earlier, but now he’s awake and can take it off himself. Okay, sounds like a plan. He began looking around for the bottle of medication and a water bottle when Jason spoke again, much quieter but steadier than earlier,
“Who’s here?”
“What?”
“Batman's off-world. You’re here. Who else is here?” he was calm, sure of himself, despite the modulator making his voice sound distorted. It threw Barry off balance a bit. How did he know Batman was off-world?
“How did yo—” he cut himself off, not wanting to confirm that the vigilante who dealt with Gotham threats such as Hood was unavailable.
“Me, Green Lantern, Wonder Woman, and Green Arrow. Batman is on his way.”
Jason scoffed. Liar. Well, maybe he is on his way, but Barry didn’t know that. And of course, Olliver is here, that annoying mother fucker,
“Fuckin Olliver,” he muttered low, almost petulant, the modulator still cutting in and out, making it almost impossible to decipher. Barry froze for a moment, just for a microsecond. What did he say? He must be hearing things. The modulator cutting in and out was making it difficult to understand.
Jason reached for his helmet, and Barry was almost certain he was going to take it off to drink some water, but instead, he fiddled with a panel on the side until there was a small click. There was a huff followed by a defeated sigh,
“Fucking piece of shit,” though he’d never tell Tim he said that. He was angry and sick, and he was allowed to be mad at his helmet. This time, his voice came out hoarse, young, and completely human. It was weird to hear. Barry was admittedly shocked at how young he sounded without the modulator—the league had guessed he was in his early thirties when they first heard about him a few years ago.
There was some more movement, some ruffling, and Barry could see Jason moving around, trying to sit up again, despite the pain he was obviously in. In a flash, the Flash was at his side, putting a hand back on his chest, desperately trying to keep him down. His patient was basically trying to kill himself with how irresponsible he was being. God, he wished the man were unconscious again just so he could get that fever down.
“Listen—” Barry reprimanded,
“I get that you are a meta, but the dampening cuffs slow down meta healing a bit. You need to sit down and rest.”
He got no response from the man. Just his helmet staring at him and a small scoff,
“I’m not a meta.”
The silence was loud. Barry looked at this man as if he had 3 heads. What could he possibly mean by he’s not a meta?? Everyone in the league had assumed he was. Wonder Woman even mentioned his strength. No non-meta man could be strong enough to impress Wonder Woman. After a moment, Barry concluded,
“If you weren’t a meta, you’d be dead. Your temperature is 105, and that is after we got it down.”
A fever. That makes sense. No wonder he had been feeling like shit. 105. That wasn’t too bad; he usually ran around 108 when he was sick these days. Ever since the Lazerous, his body tried to absolutely incinerate anything that tried to plague it.
He let out a chuckle. It was a solid conclusion the League came to. He would have assumed so, too, had he not known he took a dip in a green goo bath. His chuckle quickly got caught in his throat, though, leaving him coughing and unable to breathe. The fit ended as quickly as it started, but left him heaving by the end of it, feeling disgusting and like the medication was slowly starting to wear off. God, he hated being sick. Barry cringed at his coughing and spoke up again,
“Take that off. We got as many layers off as we could, but the helmet wouldn’t budge. It’s just heating you up.”
“It’s not meant to come off,” he choked out in response, still catching his breath. He suddenly felt harrowingly cold. He looked down at himself and realized he was indeed stripped to his barest clothes. He was left in his black undershirt— stained with blood and cut open on the side, revealing pristine bandages wrapping his ribs— and his cargos. They had stripped him of all his weapons, even taking the lockpick hidden in his shoe.
He shifted, trying to warm himself with his own body heat and failing miserably. He was shaking now; the room felt as if it had dropped 10 degrees in a matter of seconds. He felt his heart drop in his chest, suddenly feeling just as hot as he was cold. His hands reached for his jacket out of habit, finding nothing. He needed his jacket, a blanket, anything. He was so cold. Sweat began to pool at his eyebrows, falling down his face. What little skin he could see looked clammy and drained of color. Wrapping his arms around himself, he looked up at Barry—about to request a blanket—before he realized his throat was dry, and he couldn’t quite form the words. His emotionless helmet met Barry’s eyes; he looked worried, concerned even.
The steady beeping of the heart monitor sped up, and Jason’s body went slack against the cot. Another pained groan—this time so quiet it was almost impossible to hear—left his lips. He turned his head to look at Barry again,
“Where’s… my—” a pause as he caught his breath,
“—jacket?” he grit out, voice weaker with every second.
“We took it. You were overheating. Then we found it full of weapons.”
“M’cold,” he was still shivering, but he was a little louder this time. He started shifting again despite Barry’s insistence that he rest. He sits fully upright, moving his free, swollen wrist around.
“We were focusing on the fever. Since it should have killed you.”
He grunted in acknowledgement once again and took a closer look at his wrist. It was definitely dislocated. He sighed, moved his injured wrist to his cuffed one, and popped it back into place with a loud pop. He cringed at the pain. Something in there was definitely shattered. It would take a while to heal. At least they were in the semi-right place now. There wasn’t anything that could be done about the fever besides medication and waiting it out. He’ll wait till he’s back with his family to do that. He doesn’t trust anyone here, and the drugs they’ve already given him are making him feel weak—scared. After a few deep breaths, analyzing the damage to his ribs, he began pulling at the bandages to get a look underneath. Flash must have read his intentions because he pulled Jason’s hand away and informed him,
“Two are broken. There are deep abrasions from the impact against the brick. It’s best to leave the bandages.”
“Hn.”
Another familiar grunt. Acknowledgement. Barry began to wonder if everyone from Gotham was like that.
Jason finally let his body fully give in, falling back on the cot with no intention of getting up this time. He’ll be fine. The League will want to interrogate him when he gets better, but he’ll get out before they even get the chance. He needed to rest before his family arrived. It would take so much energy to deal with the Hell they were going to wreak. A small, imperceptible smile tugged at his lips at the thought. At least he’ll be entertained while he is bed-bound. His shivers had subsided, but they came back twice fold as he began to speak,
“Don’t give me anything,” he said once again, painfully quiet. Barry had to strain to hear him clearly.
“You’re going to die if we don’t help you.” Barry realized he might not have said that, but he needed his patient to understand the severity of it, which he clearly didn’t.
“Wouldn't be the first time,” he waved his hand in dismissal, energy entirely gone.
“What??” This man must be delirious. Barry needed to help him immediately. He ran over to the side table, preparing an IV and some fluids, before gently shaking Jason.
“Hello?”
When there was no response, he tried to wrap the tourniquet on Jason’s arm, to which he was met with violent swatting.
“I said ‘don’t’,” He said it with so much conviction, so much authority, it stopped Barry right in his tracks.
“I’ll b’fine,” he slurred out, trying to reassure him. Barry wasn’t convinced. He needed someone more familiar with the law here. He was pretty sure legally he had to obey his wishes, but if he did, he was absolutely going to die. It was a miracle already that he wasn’t dead right then. He couldn’t let the kid die—without the modulator, he sounded so, so young, it tugged at his conscience.
He will at least die comfortably. Or as comfortable as he will let Barry make him. Barry grabbed a medical blanket and went to place it on the shivering man. As he got closer, he got a better look at Jason. The doctor had gotten a close look at him to treat his wounds, of course, but Barry had just been babysitting once she left. The man had lots of minor scars across his arms and abdomen, par for the course of being a crime lord—but there was one scar that caught Barry’s attention—a deep, raised scar across the side of his neck. It had looked like someone had tried to slit his throat wide open. A rage simmered in his stomach as he thought about someone being so mad at a kid, but he tried to push it down. He hadn’t even realized he was this young till an hour ago. He placed the blanket over Jason, watching as his shivers slowly eased, and took a seat across from him. Maybe he’ll play some soothing music or something.