Chapter Text
He remembers it all so vividly.
He remembers the sound of the crowbar scraping across the floor. The whistle of it whipping through the air. The forehand swing, and the feeling of the ends tearing through his skin, too sharp to merely bruise but too dull to leave a clean cut. The backhand swing, and the feeling of the blunt neck of the tool hitting bone with such clarity that you’d swear there was no muscle or skin in the way. Jason remembers everything it was used to do. He remembers trying to stifle his own voice, to suffer as quietly as possible, to rob his attacker of the pleasure of hearing him cry out.
He remembers every punch and kick connecting, and every time his hair was grabbed by the fistful to shove him face-first into the floor, over and over again until his nose was broken and his lips were split. He remembers wheezing, and feeling his head start to feel light. He remembers trying to inhale as deeply as he could, breath after ragged breath, even as his lungs refused to fill.
He remembers dragging himself across the warehouse floor, wrists still bound in the handcuffs, the sound of their edges clinking against the concrete. He fought desperately for every inch. His right leg was broken-- the shin, just below his kneecap. He felt the bone shift in his leg, sending a sharp jolt of pain through his nerves every time he moved. He grit his teeth and tried to see through the damage in his left eye in concert with his right. His eyes were stung by tears, dripping down to the edge of his nose and falling onto the floor, disappearing into the blood spatter beneath him. He tried to focus on the door ahead of him. He shivered against the cold and exhaled another shaky breath, and it became a small fog in front of him. His bare feet were nearly completely numb now, and they shook as he tried to use them to push himself along.
He remembers the beeping-- the timer ticking down. He’d noticed at eight seconds left, and by zero he’d cleared his mind. There was no time to think about what was happening. Only time to relax his body in defeat and wait.
He remembers the world collapsing around him. The room lit up in orange and red, his ears were overwhelmed by solid noise, and his skin was seared by heat that rose in intensity as fast as the explosion consumed him, as fast as the flames wrapped around his body, as fast as the smoke stifled whatever breath he had left. There was too much of everything, and then there was less than nothing.
A lot has happened since then. A lot has changed. Jason’s changed. Again and again, for the better. If he were on his own, he might not believe that, but he hasn’t been alone for a very long time. He knows he’s come a long way. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore.
He’s found himself hanging out in the manor a lot again. He likes it here. It feels safe. He’s missed feeling safe.
Bruce is different now. He seems happier. Every time Jason enters the room, Bruce smiles. It’s genuine. It’s everything Jason wanted to see in the past, and everything he wanted to crush before he got better.
Bruce doesn’t just smile for him. The kid, Damian-- Bruce smiles, and lets him know that he doesn’t have to live up to anybody else’s legacy. He gets to make his own. Jason has no idea what a feral yet practiced kid like that is going to have for a legacy, but he wants to stick around to find out. Jason remembers being an angry kid; in a lot of ways, he still is one. Sometimes he feels like he’s the only one who understands Damian.
That’s why they’re hanging out now, in Jason’s room, looking at a video essay on a motorcycle company’s history. Well, it’s half of why, anyway. The other half is that Damian barged in, accusing Jason of eating his sandwich, before catching sight of Jason’s laptop and deciding to ask if he could watch the video as well. Jason likes watching it with him. The kid’s so interested, Jason can practically see him trying to both pay attention and mentally customize his own future motorcycle at the same time.
It’s weird, though-- despite the fact that Batman, Nightwing, and he himself all ride motorcycles, it’s... kind of the last thing that Jason wants Damian to do. He’s seen people get shredded in motorcycle accidents. Sometimes helmets and body armor aren’t enough. For a second, his mind goes rogue and an image forces its way in: a thirteen-year-old’s bloodied, twisted little body lying dead in the street. He shakes his head with a tight frown, struggling against the currents of his own mind, trying to stop thinking like that for even two seconds.
Ground yourself here. Focus on the kid, he tells himself, as Damian’s head turns slightly in silent notice under Jason’s shift in gaze. Actually, don’t do that. He’s gonna notice if you stare at him. Watch the video. They’re about to get into the manufacturing scandal from the eighties.
They sit there in relative silence, occasionally stopping the video so that Damian can ask Jason about a stupid business decision the company in the video makes, or so Jason can explain how the design they’re going over now would eventually evolve into the one he currently rides.
“It is a sturdy goddamn bike. Love their stuff.” Jason says, in reference to the picture he’s pulled up on his phone.
“It is not as sturdy as Father’s motorcycle.” Damian stares at the image on the screen, probably picking apart the design in his head.
Jason rolls his eyes. “It’s made to be fast. It’s not supposed to be a tank.”
Damian shrugs. “The Batcycle can do both.”
“Yeah, well, the company that made my motorcycle wasn’t run by Lucius Fox, kid.”
“Clearly. Fox would never mismanage a company to such a pitiful degree.”
Jason sighs, then chuckles. Kid has a point there.
Rain patters against the window. It’s a hell of a downpour out there today. Pretty dark for this time of day, too. Jason’s always sort of liked that about Gotham, though. Better to be cold and put on layers than roasting even after you’ve taken off your shirt. Plus, it’s a lot easier for body armor to go unnoticed if the weather itself already calls for the thickest coat you’ve got.
Jason tries to focus on the video again, but gradually, something starts to feel... off. From there, it only gets worse.
Something’s wrong.
It feels like paranoia, crawling up his back and seeping into his spine. It feels like terror, draining the blood from his veins and infecting his mind. It rises steadily inside him, and he doesn't even notice everything around him fading away as he tries to search his mind for what the problem could be.
Something’s wrong.
"Todd?"
Whatever is happening to him, it becomes jagged at the edges, and it scrapes at the corners of his mind, and it digs its claws in until panic starts to take hold. His lungs refuse to fill.
"...Todd."
Something’s wrong.
“Jason...?”
Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.
“Jason!” Damian brings him back, firmly grabbing his shoulders with both hands. His chair has been spun around, it seems-- Jason is facing his bedroom’s other wall, and Damian is looking at him, brows furrowed. There’s no frustration there, amazingly-- just worry. Damian relaxes when Jason looks at him instead of through him. “Jason. Breathe.”
He does. His lungs are, to his surprise and his relief, just fine. He takes a few deep breaths and tries to steady his heartbeat. Something still feels horribly wrong. His body feels light in the wrong sort of way, like he's been starved.
"Jason. Talk to me.”
“Ghh-- Damian.” He shakes his head, but the horrid feeling stays latched onto his mind.
“Tell me where you are right now.”
“Bedroom... My bedroom.”
“What building are you in?”
Jason looks up to the ceiling and sees the gilding on the ceiling lamp.
“Wayne Manor. We were watching the video. Motorcycles.” Distantly, he’s aware the video has been paused, and it’s at a further point than he remembers watching to.
Damian pauses for a moment, seemingly giving Jason one last look-over before pulling his hands away from his shoulders and stepping back. “Okay. Good.” He sidesteps Jason and shuts his laptop. “Go to bed, Todd. You need rest.”
Jason glances toward the window for a second and realizes Damian isn’t just telling him to take a nap. It’s dark out already.
“Didn’t...” he trails off, his wit leaving him for a moment. “Didn’t realize you’re my nanny now.”
Damian scoffs. “No, Todd. That would be Pennyworth. I’ll be sending him up later to make sure you’re actually sleeping.”
“Shoving the nanny duties off on someone else? You’re a shitty babysitter,” Jason quips back, and stands up to maybe make another wisecrack before realizing he stood up way too fast. He ends up sitting down on his bed a little harder than he meant to.
“I may be a ‘shitty babysitter’, Todd, but at least I have manners. Don’t go to bed with your shoes on.”
Jason looks down. Sure enough, he’s still in his street clothes, head to toe.
“Damian.”
The kid stops at the door and looks back at Jason for a second. “Yes?”
“Thanks. For looking out for me.”
Damian looks almost surprised for a moment before a subdued smile crosses his lips.
“You have done the same for me. I will stand up for you. That’s what brothers do.”
Damian shuts the door, and Jason can’t help his dumbfounded look. Brothers. They’re brothers.
He’d been an only child, once. Now he has brothers again. He has a dad again.
He realizes he's missed this.
Two hours after insisting that Jason get some rest, Damian is shaking him awake. Jason, for his part, manages to realize what's going on before he punches Damian-- not out of malice, but out of instinct. He's still getting used to feeling safe while sleeping. The weighted blanket helps, somehow.
"Todd," Damian says, and he is so unflinching in his resolve to get Jason awake that it looks like he expected to get punched but didn't care. "Todd, get up now. "
"I'm awake, I'm awake!" Jason says, and realizes that there's a fire in Damian's eyes and connects it with the urgency in his voice.
"What's happened?"
"Grayson needs to meet us. Right now."
Jason's already out of bed, pulling on his clothes, body armor, and jacket. His mind races as he grabs his helmet and shoves his feet into his boots.
"We are taking your motorcycle. Immediately. Tricorner. Oracle has already sent you the coordinates."
They're running through the manor halls and into the Batcave, headed for the garage.
Jason glances at his phone as they run. One missed call from Dick, and no voicemail. He must've called Damian immediately after he couldn't get ahold of Jason.
This is bad. He shoves his phone in his pocket and instead opens the comm line in his helmet as he gets on his bike, Robin hopping onto the seat behind him. They tear out into the night as Red Hood starts to talk.
"Nightwing, it's me. Robin and I are en route. Tell me what's going on."
"It's Tim," is all he says.
Oh god.
Jason's never heard this tone from Dick before. Not in his own or anyone else's darkest moments has Red Hood heard Nightwing's voice shake like this.
No.
"Is he alive?!" The motorcycle revs, and Red Hood's blood starts to boil in his veins. He doesn't even know who he's angry at yet, but his mind is already burning white-hot.
"He's not here. His cape, there's blood-- his blood. I tested it. God, I--" For what feels like the first time in his life, Red Hood hears Nightwing's voice falter. "Jason..."
No. No. No.
"Jason, it was him."
He stays silent and listens. Nothing he could say would change what Nightwing would say next.
"The Joker took him."