Work Text:
“Let him go,” Bruce growls. “Now.” In the cowl he’s menacing—he knows he is—but at the same time, his heart is pounding so hard that he’s sure it will break through his suit’s kevlar any second now. Batman isn’t supposed to be afraid. He’s supposed to make the criminals fear him, not the other way around. But right now, Bruce is terrified.
“Oh, I see how it is,” Riddler says. “So when I try to kill your kid it’s ‘inhumane’ and ‘evil,’ but when you put my favorite henchman in a coma for setting a few detonators I wanted in the mayor’s office, that’s perfectly fine?” He looks over his shoulder at his captive. “Are you hearing this, kid? Because it sounds pretty fucking hypocritical to me.”
Jason’s glare, despite being hidden behind his Robin mask, could melt ice caps with its intensity. Of course he doesn’t respond, bound and gagged as he is, but it's clear he's thinking the worst obscenities he can come up with. Nygma has got him tied to a large shipping crate which teeters dangerously close to the edge of the pier, threatening to drown him in minutes. Bruce has no idea what’s in the crate, but it has to be heavy if Nygma is so confident that it can drag Jason’s weight down without a problem.
Nygma taps the crate with his foot, nudging it an inch closer to the point of no return. Bruce’s heart gallops. “Here’s a riddle for you, Batman: What can walk and fly, but can’t swim?" He gets too impatient to wait for an answer. "A robin!”
Jason rolls his eyes.
“Let. Him. Go,” Bruce grounds out. He wants to cross the gap between them and punch Riddler’s teeth out, but one step and Jason is as good as gone. He’s powerless if he wants to keep Nygma from pushing Jason into the freezing water.
“Or what, you’ll kill me?” Nygma laughs. “Face it, Bats. Your bark is worse than your bite. Lucky for me, I don't have that problem." He kicks the crate a little further. Jason looks down at the rushing black water awaiting him, his eyes wide.
Bruce tries to calculate it all in his head. If Riddler pushes him in, how long will Bruce have to save him? The water at this part of the harbor goes deeper than it looks, and it would take almost no time at all for the crate to drag Jason to the bottom. How long will he have then, a minute? Two? What if Bruce can’t reach him in time? What if he takes too long cutting through the ropes? He can’t risk it.
Jason manages to spit out the gag so it falls around his neck. “Batman,” he calls, voice wavering. He’s scared. Desperate for Bruce to save him.
Bruce looks him in the eye. “It’s going to be okay, Robin.”
“You sound awfully sure about that,” Nygma says. “Now, would you like to hear my demands before or after I drown your sidekick? Because I’ve got a list, you know.” He digs out a notebook from his jacket pocket and clears his throat. “First, I want two thousand dollars’ worth of dynamite for reasons that I would prefer to keep to myself. I also demand a chaise lounge in my cell at Arkham. Those mattresses are killing my back, and I know I’m not the only one. And while we’re on the subject, I have some complaints about the—oops.” He must have been trying to lean on the crate while he listed his idiotic demands, but instead his weight pushed it the final inch over the edge, taking Jason with it.
“No!” Bruce yells.
Jason only gets out a choked-off scream before he’s disappearing over the edge of the pier, into the water with a splash.
Nygma watches him go down, his fingertips covering his mouth in shock. “Yikes. My bad.”
Bruce bolts after Jason, his mind a useless, panicked jumble. He doesn’t even bother taking a breath before he’s diving into the shock of freezing water, fueled by pure adrenaline. He swims down, straining to see through the clouded darkness, searching for a yellow cape and green boots.
He swims, deeper and deeper, until—there.
Jason is all the way at the water’s bottom, struggling to free himself from his bonds. His movements are sluggish, but Bruce can’t tell if it’s from being underwater or a sign that he’s losing air. How much oxygen does he have left? When Bruce finally reaches him, Jason’s eyes widen with a mix of fear and relief.
Bruce whips out a knife and works on the ropes, sawing through each layer as fast as he can. Jason thrashes, trying to loosen them in vain, and all Bruce can think is, hold on, hold on, don’t drown, hold on.
After half a minute, Jason’s movements turn sluggish until they stop completely. Still sawing through the ropes like his life depends on it, Bruce checks Jason’s face and he swears his heart stops. The boy is unconscious, his breath leaving in little bubbles.
As soon as he cuts through the last rope, Bruce grabs Jason and propels them both to the dock as fast as he can. They break the surface, Bruce gasping for air and holding Jason’s head above the water. It takes no time at all for him to reach the pier. He hauls himself and Jason up and over the edge, collapsing onto the wood with heaving pants.
And then Bruce is back up, leaning over Jason and checking for a pulse with trembling fingers. He finds it after a moment, and it’s terrifyingly slow but it’s there.
He taps Jason’s cheek. “Jason?” He doesn’t even care that he’s using his real name. “Jason, come on.” There’s no response, not even an inhale, and Bruce doesn’t hesitate before starting CPR. He knows the drill well by now—thirty chest compressions, two breaths. Over and over.
Come back to me. Thirty compressions. Don’t die. Not now, not ever. Two breaths. Please. Please, please, please, please.
On the fourth round of compressions, there’s a cough. Bruce jerks up, pushing away the wet hair plastered to Jason’s forehead, silently pleading. “Robin?”
Jason takes a quick breath but chokes on it, his chest jerking. His eyes fly open and then he’s rolling onto his side, violently coughing up seawater.
The relief washes over Bruce so heavily that his vision swims for a moment. "Oh, thank god." He puts a hand on Jason’s back and feels the boy shiver under his touch. “It's okay, Robin. You're okay. Just breathe.”
It takes forever for Jason to stop choking on the water in his lungs. He flops onto his back, panting. “Behind you,” he croaks.
Bruce turns just in time to catch the plank of wood that Riddler swings at his head. He uses the momentum to swing it right back, sweeping Nygma’s feet out from under him. He goes down like a tree, grunting as his back hits the hard wood of the pier. He groans. “Why do you hate me?"
Bruce doesn’t pay him any attention. “Are you okay?” he asks Jason, wrapping his cape around the kid's shivering form.
“I’m f-fucking freezing,” Jason chatters out breathlessly, “but I’ll be okay.” His skin is cold as ice, no doubt from the hypothermia setting in. He should get Jason to the Batmobile and in front of a heating vent as soon as possible. But first...
Bruce pulls Jason close against his chest, and he tells himself that it’s because the kid is freezing. Not because he's so relieved that he could cry, or because he needs to feel Jason in his arms just to reassure himself that he's real, he's okay, he's alive. Then he lays a kiss on top of black curls, and he’s sure he can find a way to justify that with the temperature as well. “I'm glad you're okay," he says.
"Thanks for the b-backup. Drowning's a p-pretty lame way to go."
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't die at all."
"Get me to a sauna and you've g-got yourself a deal." His gaze darts over to where Riddler lies on his back beside them, humming to himself as he waits for his chariot to Arkham. "After we get th-this fuckface put away."
Bruce chuckles, his breath fogging in the cold air. "Okay, chum. Let's go home."