Chapter Text
To say that Roy regrets this mission… it’s an understatement, for sure. Certified, bona fide, officially-recognized-and-stamped-with-an-authentic-wax-seal sort of understatement. In fact, he’d probably go so far as to say that he’s never regretted anything more in his entire life. Except, you know, all the things he does. What can he say—he’s got a long list of regrets.
…He’s getting ahead of himself, here.
The thing is, he didn’t start off regretting the mission. Three hours ago, he was convinced this mission was going to be easy-peasy. A piece of cake. A walk in the park. Cake walk, if you will. He thinks he actually said that, as they were being strip-searched at the entrance to the North cell block of Belle Reve. Jason had been side-eyeing him like crazy at the time, a look he’s been giving Roy a lot these last few weeks—ever since the billboard, really. Roy had chosen to ignore it on the grounds that they need the money, and, as previously stated, it was going to be an easy mission.
In hindsight, Jason was probably right to be wary. The warden of Belle Reve, Waller, is no slouch—she’s a logistical genius, and utterly ruthless to boot. She’s known across the country as a blackmail gladiator, champion of the blackmail ring; rumor has it that she can get anyone to do anything for the low, low price of desperation. The only reason she isn’t ruling the world is because the higher-ups who pay her bills have her on a leash short enough to hang herself, and she spends most of her time battling the Powers That Be.
Still a damn scary woman, though. If it were Roy on his own, he wouldn’t have dared to step foot into her territory.
Thankfully, Jason is a bat by trade. Bats don’t get yanked around easily—as far as Roy can figure, it’s a combination of meticulous planning, an incredible sense of perception that borders on actual meta precognition, and a hell of a lot of paranoia that makes it nearly impossible to get one over on any of the Batman’s protegees, present or former. When push comes to shove, the bat almost always wins.
Keyword: almost.
It takes a hell of a lot of luck to win against a bat, is what Roy is getting at here. A lot of good luck for the enemy, or a lot of really, truly terrible luck for the bat in question.
It doesn’t happen often. Generally speaking, luck can only get you so far—the kind of luck required to beat a bat is hilariously unlikely. Was it overconfidence, to assume the two of them together could get in, deliver a message, and get out again unscathed? Yeah, definitely. But was it unearned overconfidence? Not at all. They earned that shit fair and square. And barring a lot of bad luck or an actual, literal curse or something, there was no real reason to think things would get so dire. They had this shit in the bag.
Or so Roy assumed.
Three hours ago.
Before it was too late to turn back.
…Guess what kind of luck they’re having now. Just take a wild fucking guess.
It started half an hour into their stay. Roy had been pacing—not really anxious but kind of keyed up, talking just to relieve the pressure of anticipation a little as he passed each of the bunks and the plastic bucket he could only assume was there for sanitation reasons, seeing as there was no commode. He wasn’t really paying attention to what was coming out of his mouth—and neither was Jason, apparently, because he didn’t even bother to apologize when he cut Roy off with a low groan, right in the middle of a sentence.
Lips turning down in a frown, Roy turned a suspicious eye toward his partner. “Oy,” he called across the cell. It wasn’t that big, all things considered, but Waller was the kind of person who knew how to leverage relative luxury when she wanted to. Scratch her back and she’d scratch yours, that kind of thing. Roy glanced around the bare walls, taking in the carefully concealed cameras embedded between the bricks, before he stretched and sidled a few steps closer to Jason, lowering his voice.
“What’s up with you?” he asked. “Don’t feel like expounding upon the complexities of children’s television?”
Jason shook his head, lips pressed together. He’d been awfully quiet since they got to the cell, come to think of it. He hadn’t said a word in response in at least ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Roy had figured he was keeping an ear out for Harley but now he was starting to second guess himself. Jason wasn’t the kind of guy who filled every silence, but he was quippy and witty and fun to banter with. When he got quiet for no discernible reason, it was usually because things were about to get intense.
Feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, Roy internally cursed, surreptitiously looking around for whatever hell was about to rain down on them. What had Jason spotted that he hadn’t? Was Waller coming? Was Bruce? They weren’t THAT close to Gotham, but hell, Batman was a Justice Leaguer. Belle Reve was well within his jurisdiction.
Only… there was nothing there. Nothing to see, nothing to hear. Unless Jason was working off intuition or just straight up developing psychic powers, there was nothing of interest going on anywhere nearby. Well, there was the guy with the face tats in the cell next to them apparently sneaking a cigarette, if the smell was anything to go by. Other than that, however…
Frown deepening, Roy turned his attention back to Jason. He was sitting on the bunk pushed up against the left-hand side of the room, back to the wall and his legs crossed, elbows propped on his knees. The lighting from the fluorescent bulb overhead—encased in bulletproof glass just because—was making his skin look paler than normal, the black of his hair stark against his temples, white streak mussed. He wasn’t looking at Roy—his eyes were kind of unfocused, a slight frown line forming between his brows. As Roy watched, he shifted just slightly, adam’s apple bobbing.
“Okay, what’s up with you?” Roy asked. Jason didn’t appear to hear, still looking off somewhere in the distance. He made no move to acknowledge the question.
Roy shifted, the energy in his limbs dampening suddenly as the heavy weight of worry settled in, like a stone dropping into water. “Jason,” he tried, taking a step closer. When that got him more nothing, he tried again, louder this time. “Hey, Jason. Jason?”
No dice. He was at the foot of the bunk now, barely a foot and a half away—a dangerous distance should Jason choose to attack for some reason. Roy had been knee-capped so many times from this distance during sparring sessions that he was already instinctively bracing himself for it. But, on the flip side, he was close enough now to see a light sheen of sweat on Jason’s upper lip.
It was that, and also the fact that it was impossible to mistake the pallor for the lighting from this distance, that clued Roy in to the fact that their luck might have taken a turn for the worse. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t good. Jason was strong—hell, maybe the strongest person Roy knew—but even he couldn’t hold all his demons at bay forever. It was either something in his past catching up, or something else unforeseen was very, very wrong.
Watching intently for stray fists, Roy settled into a crouch at Jason’s side. He took a deep breath, tensed his thighs, and then, with the kind of caution that people usually save for backing away from bear cubs before mama bear comes knocking, slowly reached a hand out toward Jason’s shoulder.
He honestly thought that he’d get a black eye for his trouble. Instead, Jason shuddered, blinking as if he’d just stepped out into the sun. His blue eyes darted around the cell, taking in every detail, before they settled on Roy in confusion.
“When did you get there?” he asked.
“A few minutes ago,” Roy said. “I think you zoned out.”
“Nng. Sorry.”
Well, that wasn’t concerning at all. “It’s okay, Jay,” Roy said, leaning in to catch Jason’s gaze, which had gone slightly unfocused again. “Just… are you having…” Hm. How to phrase this. He bit the inside of his cheek, turning a few different sentences over in his mind before settling on, “second thoughts?”
“Second thoughts?” Jason asked, blinking himself back. His brows were drawn down under his bangs, lip curled downward, an expression that Roy used to mistake for anger. It wasn’t, though—it was just Jason trying to process something that wasn’t lining up right in his head. A loading screen, if you will.
Taking pity on him, Roy leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “Look, I know I kind of shoved it at you, but Ivy is good for the money. And it’s not like we need to kill anyone, even, right? All we’re doing is delivering a love note to—“
Jason cut him off, the ‘loading’ expression loosening up as he rolled his eyes. “No, it’s not… I think I’ve got a fever, you dumbass. Jeez, way to give up all the details.”
Oh. “Oooh,” Roy said, the symptoms suddenly clicking into place. Jay always got spacey when he was sick—Roy had never asked exactly why, but he knew Jason preferred to shut himself away in his quarters on the ship and ride it out alone whenever he got the sniffles. Roy had chalked it up to Jason getting too prickly and vulnerable to be around people when he wasn’t feeling well, but hell, it could certainly be a result of past demons come calling.
Whatever the reason, it was a bad sign that Jason was admitting that he wasn’t feeling so hot. “Shit, Jaybird,” Roy breathed, leaning in to press his palm to the back of Jason’s neck, trying not to act too suspicious in front of the cameras. “How bad?”
Jason shrugged, ducking his face down into one upturned palm. There was a spot of color high on the cheek that Roy could still see, a light flush under his glassy eyes. He took a moment to run his hand up through his hair, exposing the sweat-damp roots, before he hummed and said, “Not too bad. Setting in slow, I think.”
Not the worst possible answer, but not the best, either. “Are you hurt?” Roy asked next, resisting the urge to start checking Jason for hidden wounds despite the fact that Jason hadn’t been in a fight in at least three days. They didn’t even get roughed up on the way into the prison—clearly Waller had bigger fish to fry than dealing with two Outlaws. Or maybe she just had something more important in store for them? It was hard to say. All Roy knew was that Jason shouldn’t be hurting.
And yet. “…I wasn’t injured,” Jason said slowly, that little frown line between his brows pinching again.
Roy resisted the urge to sigh at him. Despite both his and Kori’s best efforts, they had not yet managed to break Jason of his habit of being hella evasive about his feelings, physical and emotional. It just couldn’t be helped—it was ingrained in him too deep to dig out.
“Could you try not to be cryptic right now?” Roy asked anyway, shifting his hand so it was pressing against Jason’s shoulder. “I know you can’t help it and I’m not gonna judge but this is not a good time.”
“Sorry,” Jason muttered. Then he took a deep breath and said, “It’s just… my stomach hurts.”
…Well, shit. “Like in an internal bleeding way? A poison way?” Roy asked, his brain kicking into high gear. They had a plan to break out, but it relied on one key ingredient: time. If it was something fast acting—
Jason shook his head at the questions, though. “Neither, really,” he said. “I just feel… sick.”
Roy watched, concerned, as Jason swallowed, his lips pressed in a line. He cast his mind back, trying to think of the last time he saw Jason eat anything. Was it breakfast this morning? A quick lunch before they left? Roy himself had snagged some protein bars just before they left, but try as he might he couldn’t remember Jason doing the same.
He frowned, leaning toward his partner. “What have you eaten?” he asked. He wasn’t sure if he was hoping for food poisoning or not—if it was food poisoning, it would cross ‘actual poison’ off the list, at least. Not that food poisoning would be pleasant in Belle fucking Reve, but it wouldn’t be life threatening. Probably.
Alas, Jason threw a wrench in that one pretty fast. “Nothing. Not since we got the instructions,” he said. “Wasn’t hungry.”
Biting his lip, Roy cast a discrete glance around the room. Was this a ploy? Was Waller pulling strings behind the scenes? What the hell could be causing Jason to feel sick?
“Water, maybe?” he asked after a moment. “You drink anything, Jaybird?”
But Jason shook his head at that, too. “Nope. And I’m breathing the same air you’ve got. If you’re not feeling it I doubt it’s environmental.”
Roy’s shoulders slumped. “So, what? You’ve got a bug?”
He watched as Jay shifted, his head dropping for a moment as the hand that had previously been propping it up curled instead around his stomach. He was quiet for a moment—too long, honestly, for a conversation so important, but Roy knew by now not to push him when he felt bad. It would only get him to lock down, clam himself up, and withdraw, and then absolutely no one would be getting anywhere. Best to give him space to come forward of his own accord.
And yet. When he did finally answer, it was lackluster. “Maybe?” was all he said, blowing out through pursed lips.
Roy squinted, waiting for more. “You’re not telling me something,” he decided, when none came.
No response.
“Jaybird. Out with it.”
Still no response.
“Jason, tell me.”
Still nothing, but he could see the muscle in Jason’s jaw ticking just slightly.
God, fuck this, and fuck waiting. With a huff, Roy leaned closer, lowering his voice to hiss, “Man, if you don’t spit it out in the next ten seconds I’m gonna start singing the fucking Barney song, and that is something you very much do not want to hear, I swear to god—”
“Alright, alright. Chill,” Jason hissed back, raising his head back up. A bead of sweat ran down his temple as he swallowed again. “It’s just… the pain’s not centered. It’s moved to the right. Lower right.”
Roy blinked, squinting one eye as he struggled to remember the anatomy lessons Ollie taught him while he was Speedy. He was, unfortunately for all of them, pretty deep in his drug habit during that time. Heroin wasn’t exactly great for recall. Though it was pretty great for learning how to locate veins, so…
He was getting off topic. “And that means…?” he asked, a low thrum of unease coiling in his stomach.
Jason didn’t pause to tease Roy about knowing more about robots than he did about the human body, a bad sign if Roy had ever seen one. He just took a deep, steadying breath, visibly rallying himself, and said, “Could be appendicitis.”
Oh, shit. “How sure are you?” Roy asked, leaning in closer to catch Jason’s gaze as it slipped toward the other side of the cell again.
Jason’s adam’s apple bobbed, his lips pressing together as he forced himself to focus. “Not sure. But it… just… it feels like it did the first time I got it. And since I’m pretty sure the Pit regrew my appendix…”
Roy felt his heart kick up a gear in his chest. “…Please tell me you’re joking,” he said. No, begged.
But Jason shook his head, dashing Roy’s distant hopes on the ground. “I’m not. I’m really… really not.”
“Shit,” Roy hissed. Then, as his brain began to calculate how astronomically bad their luck had just turned, “Shit.” He forced himself to take a breath, pressing his hands together in front of his face for a long moment in an attempt to calm the thoughts that were starting to race through his mind. “Okay. Okay. Let’s think about this. Maybe it’s not as bad as we think it is, yeah? We can rule out everything else first, and then, if it really is what we think it is, we’ll figure out how to deal with it. Right? Right. So, symptoms. You’ve got the fever and nausea, abdominal pain on the lower right side… what else?”
With a flourish, he extended a hand toward Jason, urging him to follow the thought and expand on his symptoms. Jason, starting to look downright pallid now, didn’t answer. Instead, he swallowed again, closing his eyes.
“…I think I’m gonna be sick,” he managed after a too-long moment, voice thick.
Roy cursed again, eyes going wide as he quickly searched the room for supplies that he knew he wasn’t going to find. The only thing within reach was the bucket—waiting, innocuous, in the far corner.
Better than nothing, he decided, darting across the cell to grab it. By the time he got back to Jason’s side, Jason had uncurled from his sitting position, half off the bunk with one hand pressed to the right side of his stomach and the other cupped over his mouth. He was breathing heavily through his nose, eyes closed—Roy shoved the bucket under his chin as he lurched forward with a retch.
Not good. Not fucking good. Because of the probable appendicitis, yeah, but also because Jason Todd had Batman-esque control of his body, nigh unparalleled except for that of the Dark Knight’s, himself. For him to have reached a point where he couldn’t push through the urge to vomit… his body physically overriding the impossibly tight leash he kept it on… they were in far deeper shit than Roy had dared hope. He could only wince as Jason retched again, hunching down over the bucket.
It took a moment, Jason’s breath a little too quick, before he heaved for the third time, this one bringing up a bit of something much too watery to have been solid food. He coughed, his stomach forcing up a thicker stream before he could catch his breath. He wavered where he was half-standing, half-kneeling, fingers digging into his side.
Worried he was going to topple over, Roy took him by the elbow, guiding him forward until he could push him down to sit on the edge of the bunk. Jason allowed himself to be moved, all but collapsing there, his head buried in the bucket.
“Breathe,” Roy said, sitting down next to him. He pressed his free hand to Jason’s fever-hot back, running his palm up and down the rough fabric of the distinctive Belle Reve jumpsuit. He could feel Jason lurch under his fingers with each heave, his back muscles tightening and relaxing in turns.
It took a few minutes for the heaves to taper off. By the time Jason emerged from the bucket, he’d sweat straight through the orange jumpsuit, pits and collar damp. He sat back, running a hand through his hair. The other still hadn’t moved from his side.
“Other symptoms,” he said, pausing to spit, “…puking.”
“Guess we’re not looking good on the maybe-it’s-not-actually-appendicitis front, huh?” Roy said, aiming for lighthearted and landing solidly on worried as hell.
Jason shook his head, wincing a little and pushing the bucket away.
“So what now?” Roy asked, setting it down near enough to grab. You know, just in case. “We’ve got another three days here, man. I might have slept through most of high school, but even I know we probably don’t have that much time if it’s really appendicitis.”
Pursing his lips, Jason slumped backwards until he was lying sideways on the cot, his lower legs hanging off. He stared upward past Roy, eyes glassy. “Do a rebound test,” he said after a moment of thought.
“A what?”
Jason slow blinked, dragging his gaze off the ceiling to meet Roy’s eyes. “’S a diagnostic tool. If it’s appendicitis, the pain will get worse after you press down and then quickly remove your hand. Leslie taught me when I was helping at the clinic as a kid.”
“I never knew you helped the doc,” Roy said, mostly to occupy Jason as he climbed onto the bunk beside him and prepared to press down. He gently guided Jason’s hand away, replacing it with his own fingers.
“Yeah, B thought it would help balance out my training,” Jason said, his voice rough with anticipation. He didn’t squirm away as Roy slowly felt the area on his side that he’d been guarding, but his breath did pick up a little, eyes narrowing.
“Sorry,” Roy said, feeling the tense muscles under his hand as he pressed down. “You ready?”
“Get it over with,” Jason grunted, and Roy pulled back his hand.
The effect was immediate. Jason didn’t let out a cry, but his breath stuttered, brows drawing together as he gritted his teeth. His hand jerked to the spot again, his fingers curling into the jumpsuit as he carefully breathed out through his nose.
“Bad news,” he said, after a few moments spent concentrating on his breathing. “Think we’re gonna have to push aside our original agenda.”
“No kidding,” Roy said.
Remember when he said Belle Reve would be a cake walk? Well, watch him eat those words.