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Jason knows he’s in for a shitty day when he wakes up to black clouds and rain lashing his windows with a vengeance. He stares then blinks blearily, groaning as he sits up out of bed. This is what he gets for not stretching last night after patrol. His body helpfully reminds him of every single injury he’s ever gained, there’s even the dull throb of phantom pains from before – from, from the Joker. His throat aches. His fingers are numb. His head feels like it’s been bashed in by a crowbar. Oh wait.
He swings his legs over the edge and cradles his face in his hands, shoulders curling towards his ears until he realizes, shit, that hurts too. Like a fissure of fire crackling down his spine. At least the rain will be a good enough excuse to not go out on patrol. A storm this bad means crime will be at an all time low, even for the most stubborn fools. He presses the heel of his palms against his eye sockets and tries to remember how to breathe properly.
Fuck me, he thinks. Jason sighs and shuffles out of his bedroom, keeping one hand on the wall as a strange, clinging vertigo makes the world twist. It’s a little after mid-day yet it looks like dusk outside due to the storm. He flips on a switch and hisses, closing his eyes. Okay, bad idea. He turns it off. That’s fine, he can manage in the dark.
Jason keeps his eyes closed for a little while longer as he fumbles his way into making a cup of tea. Mint to wash away the thick, earthy taste of mud caught between his teeth. Then a softer chamomile to actually do the job of soothing away his hurts – in a perfect world he’d finish a cup and be able to stand up straight without being in pain, but this is not a perfect world. He’s very, very aware of how not perfect this goddamn world is.
He waits long enough before he resigns himself to the painful chore of actually stretching. Enough procrastination. If he doesn’t do it now, then he won’t be walking tomorrow. The weather has already been hell, let’s not give more reason for his body to finally give out on him. He’s lived, died, through too much for that to happen.
His hands shake as he downs pain meds from orange pharmacy bottles. He cracks the curtains to let the meager grey light in to give him something to see by then sets out a yoga mat. It’s purple with pink flowers and it’s presence is entirely Stephanie’s fault. He swears a new purple thing shows up every time she visits and she’s doing it on purpose, waiting to see how long it will take him to crack.
Well, jokes on her. He’s fucking unbreakable.
…Mostly.
He gets through one stretch, and he already wants to cry. He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, carefully forcing himself through the motions, breathing slowly through his nose. Apparently, today was already going to be a bad day and the weather capitalized on that. That’s the only reasonable explanation for how bad off he is. He stretches his hamstring, making sure not to hold his breath, and nearly whines when he releases the tension. It barely extends to its normal reach.
Jason lays there on the ground for a long moment, staring at the ceiling. He wonders if he still has a crutch somewhere around here from the last time he fucked up a leg. The side of his face is starting to throb, a steady beat that’s off rhythm from his heart, spreading down his neck to wrap around the base of his skull. He closes his eyes, miserable.
Back to bed, he thinks. Because he’s not going to get anything done. If the rain stops, he’ll just have to ask Cass or Steph to cover his territory for the next couple nights. There’s no way he’s going to be out on the streets like this. Even if he’s mobile tomorrow, he’s going to be recovering for a while from this one singular bad day. Fuck.
He shifts up to his feet, the world spinning. Jason pauses, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. Nausea rises, bile burning in the back of his throat. He barely makes it to the bathroom in time to drop to his knees and vomit into the toilet. He clings to the edges, gasping around the pain radiating throughout his body.
He presses his clammy forehead against his arm then slides away from the bowl altogether as the smell smacks him in the face and makes his stomach lurch. Blindly, he hits the lever and the water swirls. The sound of it makes the pain spike and he groans, curling his arms over his head.
The floor is cool against his overheated skin. Jason swallows, grimacing at the taste in his mouth. It makes his nausea worse but the idea of getting up to rinse it out makes him cringe. Maybe he can just lay here for a while – fuck, he knows he can’t. This is the exact opposite of where he should fall asleep.
Jason uses the edge of the bathtub to stand, his knees buckling, his vision wavering. His teeth water and he swallows back more bile. He transfers his grip to the edge of the sink, staggering when he tries to walk, and he tilts sideways. The vision in his right eye flickers black and comes back in pieces, everything filtered through static. He frowns, brows furrowing. That’s not – what is that?
He tries to shuffle out of the bathroom, but this sudden vertigo throws his sense of balance outta whack and his shoulder clips the door jam and he’s hitting the ground hard. Jason muffles a shout of surprise then pain, the shock of it keeping him sprawled on the floor. His head lolls but it barely feels like its moving, numbness crawling up the side of his face.
Jason thinks about moving. Then he doesn’t and lets his eyes flutter close again. He’ll sleep. Just for a minute. Maybe when he wakes up the worst will be over, and he can down some more meds before he collapses in bed.
—
No. The worst is very much not over.
Pain chases him from a dreamless sleep, and he wakes up gasping. He holds his body still, some childish thought telling him that if he’s still enough then the pain won’t see him and just pass him right over. He’s too hot, sweat making his clothes cling to him, his hair plastered to his forehead, like he’s sick or something. His head pounds like a thousand and one jackhammers have decided to do work directly against his skull.
He curls up on his side, pressing his forehead against the baseboard. It gives him only a second of coolness before warming to match his body temperature. Jason groans then instantly regrets it. The vibrations shudder up his nerves to add more to the construction work in his head. His body aches from laying on the floor too long, but he doesn’t think he can stand with the way his head hurts.
It suddenly occurs to him that this is more than just a bad day in a long string of not-okay days. He’s used to the chronic pain; most vigilantes have chronic pain. It’s, unfortunately, a part of the job no matter how careful out there they are, and he definitely was not careful for a good chunk of his life. Very much not careful. No matter how much care he takes now will erase the damage that’s already done. He can make it easier; he can accommodate, he can nurse his flare ups, but he can’t erase them.
But this? This isn’t normal for him. He’s gotten headaches, but this is beyond that. This is – migraine, his mind finally supplies with. Jason grits his teeth. Of course. Head trauma. He’s had so much head trauma in his life he’s honestly surprised it’s taken this long for him to have a migraine.
Or, well, a migraine bad enough to knock him flat on his ass. He wonders about previous headaches, the ones that edged past his pain threshold inch by inch, but he never really thought too much about. They didn’t slam into him like this one did.
He should call of help, he realizes. Nothing he has is going to be enough to ease the pain. Not with his tolerance, for both drugs and pain.
Jason should call for help, but…his phone is in his bedroom. Tears sting the corner of his eyes and he’s helpless to stop them just like he’s helpless to do anything right now. Fuck. This can’t be happening. This isn’t a wound he can stitch up or slap some butterfly bandages on, this isn’t Ivy’s pollen or Crane’s gas or even the goddamn Joker’s venom where he can down the antidote and sleep it off. He can take care of himself, he always has – he, fuck, he needs help.
But he can’t stand.
Maybe he can crawl? And isn’t that just peachy and totally fucking dignified and good for his ego.
Jason painstakingly, slowly climbs to his hands and knees, keeping his eyes shut. His head hangs, too heavy to lift, and he breathes through his nose. He sinks to his elbows for a second. Just for a second. His whole-body trembles with exertion and pain. Then he props back on his hands. The hallways stretches before him in his mind’s eye – stretches and stretches and stretches, miles of wood taunting him.
He gags then whimpers when his head spikes with pain all over again. He can’t stop the tears trickling down his cheeks. There’s a time for stoicism and a time to just fucking cry – this is the time to cry because it fucking hurts.
The – The bedroom is too far away. This is…He know the migraine will eventually fade. He’s been through worse, yeah? He’s died before, beaten bloody, betrayed, blown up all in one awful night. This is just one measly headache.
At least, that’s what he tells himself to justify crawling back into his bathroom. He clicks the door shut with his heel and it echoes like a gunshot. Jason hunches in on himself, breathing heavily, for the responding pain to fade. It just merges with the rest of it, leaving him shaking and gasping wetly. Every breath crackles in his head, breaks waves down his spine.
In the blessed dark, he blindly fumbles for the edge of the tub, already cold on his fingertips, and heaves himself over the lip. The cheap material is cold, glorious and a good kinda pain on his overheated body. He tucks his large frame into as small of a ball as he can before he reaches to yank his hanging towels off the rack. Jason tucks one under his head, relieving the pressure there, and bundles the other one until it covers his eyes, blocking out the thin sliver of light from under the door.
—
Cassandra uses the door. A novel concept for a vigilante, especially a Bat, but the rain is pouring down harder, and she doesn’t want to stand on the fire escape while she dismantles Jason’s tricks and traps. She shakes out her Robin-themed umbrella – Damian’s Robin, he gets this little pleased look whenever he sees it even though he tries to pretend he’s annoyed – and leans it against the wall in the hallway. There’s a dotting of umbrellas in similar situations, including a Spoiler-purple one resting next to hers.
Her phone buzzes before she can knock, and she doesn’t have to look to know it’s the group chat. She checks anyway and there’s a long string of messages from everyone.
Everyone except Jason.
Normally he engages in the group chat at least once a day, normally around noon. When Duke noticed his usual time had come and gone, Tim put out a baiting remark about Sense and Sensibility that never fails to get Jason on a rant that could last for an hour if they weren’t careful. Cass had already been half-way out the door with Duke’s realization and then they collectively realized that Jason wasn’t responded to that either. She’s the closest, having been caught in the storm and willing to wait it out in one of the safehouses.
If Jason is in trouble, well –
No one answers when she knocks the door. Cass waits patiently, chewing on her bottom lip. She knocks again just to make sure and when she doesn’t hear the tell-tale signs of a Bat on the other side, she slides out her lock picks. It’s nothing to unlock the door and even less to dismantle Jason’s traps. There are less of them on his door than his window, which is expected.
What’s not expected is the apartment being so dark when she finally enters.
Immediately, Cass goes on high alert, walking on the balls of her feet. It’s early evening, outside is as dark of midnight, there is no reason for the lights to be off. She catalogues everything from the half-finished tea sitting on the side table to the purple yoga mat in front of the television. Jason is not in the kitchen nor his bedroom. No signs of a struggle, nothing to indicate he left in a hurry. There are no shadows in the corners, no one lying in wait.
Cassandra frowns and flicks on a light. She checks the nearby closet first then turns to the bathroom; the only room left she hasn’t checked. Still prepared for an attack, she wraps her hand around the knob and slowly opens it, the light cutting through the pitch black.
A mass of shadow in the bathtub recoils and there’s a pained whine. Cass startles, lurching into the bathroom before she can even think about it.
“Turn it off. Turn it off. Turn it off,” Jason gasps out, voice barely more than a breath. She snaps the door shut quickly and he groans then whimpers.
Cass uses her foot to tell where obstacles are as she comes closer. “Jason?” she says. He hisses. “Jason, what is wrong?”
“Shhh.”
She kneels down next to the tub and reaches out to touch his shoulder. He flinches and curls impossibly tighter. She follows the limb upward until she hits his hands clutched around his head. There are towels in the way, cushioned between his face and his palms. His shirt clings to him, his breathing is fast and ragged. She can feel him tremble under her touch.
Cassandra sits there for a long moment, patiently waiting for Jason to calm. He does, bit by bit. Still tense, but slowly relaxing as she stays quiet and still. Her body casts a shadow over him, blocking the bright light from under the door.
Carefully, she curls her hand around his fingers, tugging them away from his face. He doesn’t have the energy to resist, and he allows her to take his limp hand. She rubs his knuckles soothingly with her thumb.
She takes the towel off his head, setting it to the side. Her eyes are adjusting to the darkness, and she can make out the sharp lines of his face, the sheen of tears on his cheeks. His eyes are squeezed shut, his jaw clenched with tension and pain. Cass brushes some curls off his face, his eyebrows twitching. She wants to assure him, comfort him in some way, but she knows that’s just going to make it worse.
Cass stands and turns on the sink, just a trickle. Jason whines quietly at the sound, but it’s not nearly as awful as before. She runs the towel under the cold water then wrings it out. He sighs when she places it back on his head, some of the excess water sliding down his neck to the collar of his shirt. She squeezes his shoulder and gently touches the towel over his eyes in warning.
She opens the door the least amount she can get away with and slips through into the rest of the apartment. Every sound is amplified as she breaks out of the void of darkness and silence. His refrigerator ticks, the rain is a drumbeat, even his television makes a humming noise. It almost makes her want to go back into the bathroom with Jason. But she doesn’t. She takes a moment for herself then pulls out her phone.
C: found him.
Within seconds the chat is buzzing as message after message comes through. Damian with his snarky remarks that attempt to hide his worry. Dick and Bruce’s naked concern. Barbara demanding to know what happened. Stephanie offering to come over even without knowing what’s going on. Duke’s comment on how he doesn’t like how cryptic she’s being that covers what he’s really asking. Alfred’s own quiet questioning. All worried about Jason. She bites back a smile then remembers no one is around and lets the smile out.
Even if there were other people around, she’s allowed to smile. That’s a thing she has to remember.
Migraine, she tells them. Today is a bad day. Because she recognizes the signs, the tea, the mat, the way his bed isn’t made. I will stay.
B: keep us updated?
C: of course
She is not a caretaker. That’s not what she was made to be. It’s not something that comes naturally to her. But she does her best every time.
Cass rolls his mat back up, tucking it away. She cleans his mug, checks his fridge for anything to prepare. There’s groceries, of course, but nothing he’ll be able to stomach when the migraine’s run its course. She texts Alfred a private message requesting some sort of soup or light stew. The older man agrees instantly, promising to stop by in a few hours when, hopefully, the intensity of the migraine has lessened. She grabs a handful of water bottles and a couple post-exercise drinks with light flavors.
His comforter, a few blankets. A couple pillows. No music, no books. She grabs his phone and turns it off but tucks it into her pocket anyway. She stops, thinking, then heads back to the kitchen, checking his cabinets until she finds orange bottles all prescribed by Dr. Thompkins. She pushes past them until she finds the anti-nausea bottle all the way in the back. Good, that means he hasn’t taken them yet. They should help. She checks the dosages and times on the other bottles, grabs one then opens them both to stuff paper towels in them, so the pills don’t rattle.
Maybe it’s overkill, but she’s not taking any chances.
Before she opens the bathroom door again, she closes the curtains, turns off the lights, and turns the thermostat a little cooler. Then she hefts her goodies and quietly enters the bathroom. She hears ragged breathing first, hitching every other inhale, but it doesn’t seem he’s taken a turn for the worst.
She sets the drinks and the medications on the sink counter, tucked in the furthest corner from where they are. She keeps a pillow and a blanket for herself and then carefully starts arranging the rest around Jason in a little nest. He lets her gently maneuver him to her liking until she’s got the perfect set up then he sighs, sinking into the blankets. She left just enough room that he can easily adjust if he gets too hot.
Cass settles between the toilet and the tub, arm slung over the edge until her fingertips brush Jason’s shoulder. She rests her cheek on her arm, watching him through the darkness as some of the tension around his mouth smooths out. He takes her hand with a shaking one of his and she squeezes it.
Jason squeezes back, his fingers tapping on her palm. Thank you, he says without a word. She grins into her arm and taps back on his forearm with her other hand.
Any time.