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Jason can’t remember the last time he woke up and wasn’t in some sort of physical pain. Whether it was waking up on a rooftop, in the bathtub or the comfort of his own bed, it didn’t really matter.
He was always in some degree of physical and emotional pain.
Most of the time, he can easily work through the pain, he’d been doing it his whole life- it was really the exhaustion that was getting to him. No matter how many days he took off, how much he slept, he was always so tired.
He got tired from patrol sure, it had always worn him out even before everything, but now he couldn’t even make it through the grocery department without wanting to pass out.
Roy had been swinging by with groceries every couple weeks and he hadn’t really made the effort to go to the manor. Things had been a little bit better with the whole family thing, but that didn’t mean he wanted them to see him during a flare up.
Or watch him almost pass out from exhaustion after climbing a set of stairs, which he was sure at this point was going to happen eventually.
He is trying to wash the dishes and really it shouldn’t be that big a deal. It’s been a few days since he’s even attempted so here he is, standing across from his apartment sink, gripping the metal tightly, weighing his options.
His leg is killing him, specifically the one that- no, he shakes his head, certain that thinking about anything like that will just make it so much worse. All his joints are on fire and he’s sure that if he lets go of the edge of the sink, he might just collapse from it all.
Sometimes it feels like the pit really just rearranged him and shoved pieces together that didn’t really fit. Like he healed and came back but he didn’t come back the same. Not that there was any way to come back from the dead the same as you left life.
He eyes the bar stools across the counter, holding their gaze like they’re staring right at him somehow, taunting him.
He glances from the bar stool, back to the sink. The stool, the sink.
Then for some reason, he glances at the door, like someone might walk in and catch him. Like it would matter for some reason, like he wouldn’t just shoot them dead where they stood and instead he would be.. What would he be?
He swallows and painfully wraps his way around the bar, loudly dragging the bar stool to the sink where he once stood.
He swallows.
He sits.
He pauses.
He exhales a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. How long had he been holding his breath?
The pain doesn’t recede exactly, but it’s less sharp. He’s no longer wasting the energy to hold himself up. This has to be somewhere in his top five best ideas ever actually.
Jason finishes the dishes for the first time this week.
The next task Jason has to tackle is showering, which half the time he skips not really out of a resistance and more so because it just takes so much effort to wash his body, then wash his hair, to put in product and moisturize curls and set them and - and it’s really a lot. Especially if he wasn’t planning on having any company.
He decides to apply the bar stool method once again. It wasn’t like he could drag his kitchen stool into the shower though, so he has to get a little creative.
Five minutes later, he’s dragged two plastic totes into the shower. He’s stacked them to each other because he’s certain one really wouldn’t be able to support his weight on its own and he really didn’t feel like dealing with the personal embarrassment of trying to pull himself out of a plastic box naked.
It’s not ideal, the height is a little off but it beats sitting at the bottom of a tub he hasn’t really had the energy to clean in a long time. It’ll work for now he supposes.
In the end he’s able to wash himself better than he has in a while, cutting through grime and dried blood and some kind of crust he’s not really sure what it is… the hair washing is a little more time consuming, but he pulls through.
He emerges from the shower with enough energy to put a little bit of curl cream in his hair, some fancy product dick had sent him for some birthday or holiday or something.
For the first time in a while, Jason stares at his reflection in the foggy bathroom mirror. It’s something he usually avoids if he can help it, skin tight in certain places, one nauseating letter carved faintly into his skin and the scar he knows runs across his chest and down his abdomen-the kind of scar no one in the world living would share with him.
Despite the turn of his stomach at the sight of himself, at least he looks a little bit less like he’s walking a tightrope with death.
His eye bags are prominent, but he’s clean and he smells like soap and product and if he closes his eyes for a second it’s like he’s that kid again back at the manor, getting to shower in warm water for the first time with a plethora of products to choose from and Alfred gently telling him how to use them all and what would work best for his hair type.
He opens his eyes again and gently pushes himself away from the sink.
For the first time in a week, he is clean.
Between patrols and cases, Jason tries to avoid thinking about his current problem. He had really just accepted the fact that there were some things he just couldn’t do sometimes. That when he felt okay, he’d have to do everything he needed to because there were going to be days where he couldn’t.
He also knew he’d rather die than ask for help from someone else.
So he doesn’t know why he’s hovering over a contact he’d had in his phone for a long time.
Longer than almost anyone actually.
LT
-Require medical attention. NOT URGENT.
CA, BF 6:00-
He doesn’t respond, just keeps staring at the door like someone was going to walk in and do something, say something about his current situation.
3 messages from dick face
2 messages from roy
He doesn’t respond, like somehow they could see him through the phone.
He doesn’t stop to unpack his thoughts or do anything besides grab a novel off the shelf and wait for 6:00pm
Like clockwork, Jason is on time. He’s not wearing the hood, just a leather jacket thrown over a deep red hoodie, pulled tightly around his face, hands in his pockets as he waits outside the door.
There’s a kid leaving, barefoot but otherwise seemingly doing better than when had arrived. There’s a pregnant woman hobbling her way out, back to the alley and just as he’s about to tail her and make sure she gets home okay, she gets into a vehicle seemingly safe and he swallows.
It’s just him now and Leslie. She comes around the corner, arms crossed.
“So what have you gotten yourself into now, red?” It would have been affectionate if he trusted anyone with that kind of familiarity, but he doesn’t let it get through his exterior.
He follows her down a hall and into what is always a more sterile area, meant for emergency treatments and such. Here he was about to complain about knee pain.
Jason swallows, unsure how to start.
He goes professional, like a debrief from a mission. It’s easier to be vulnerable when he's seemingly detached from himself.
“Constant joint pain. Centered around previous injuries, but constant all over. Knees, back, neck, shoulders, wrists, ankles. Constant debilitating exhaustion. Can’t stand for more than a few hours without experiencing flare ups or needing to sit down for an extended period of time to recover. Greatly affecting quality of life and ability to perform basic functions.”
Leslie looks him up and down, taking note of his crossed arms and posture despite his efforts to appear indifferent.
“And this is you we’re talking about, correct?” she raises and eyebrow, it’d be teasing if she wasn’t as concerned.
“Yes.” he provides no other information, just starts to glance around the room, heavily leaning on his left leg for the time being.
Leslie grabs a stool and pushes it in his direction. He stares at it for a moment before sitting, like it was something to ponder and not just do.
“Let’s draw some blood. I’ve got a few theories based on your personal history, but without familial medical records we gotta test for some more stuff than we usually do.” She says, easily drawing blood, as she speaks.
“Test for what?” He asks, trying to ignore the pain in his voice. He swallows and she continues.
“Well, considering your line of work it’s not uncommon for there to be pain post injury, especially ones like yours. Nerve damage, etc. However your little dip in the pond very well should have physically corrected things like that. How long have you been experiencing pain like this? Give me a timeline.” She asks, attaching another vial.
“I don’t know. I’ve always had some pain, even as a kid but I never really thought much about it. But ever since I came back, it’s just been worse. I can survive but it’s not exactly an enjoyable experience…” he grits his teeth in frustration.
“So I'm going to do some labs, look for some internal inflammation and such. Look for certain types of autoimmune disorders and arthritis. I’ll run what I can, but I have a feeling we won’t find anything if I'm being honest with you, red. Your labs always come back clean, the only thing that’s a little high is usually the heart rate, but you’re a little different now. Human but a little to the left if you know what I mean.” She finishes
Yeah, he knows exactly what she means. He hasn’t felt human in a long time.
“So what, you don’t find anything and I just keep living like this?” He knows the pain meds don’t work, at least not the kind he’d be willing to take. He’d seen enough abuse and addiction in his life to avoid anything other than some Tylenol and that stuff didn’t do shit for him now. It never really did.
“Not exactly. We can discuss it in more detail in a few minutes when your labs are done, but I have a feeling it’s probably more of a psychological issue.” She slides the vials into a machine and starts typing away at her computer.
Twenty minutes pass in silence.
“Alright,” She spins around in her chair after looking over his chart on the computer, “let’s see..”
Jason swallows.
“No inflammation, negative for lupus, MS… blood sugar is a little low but i'm going to assume you haven’t eaten today?” she prompts and Jason rolls his eyes, a rude but silent confirmation that she is correct.
“My diagnosis? Probably fibromyalgia.” They stare at each other for a moment and Jason waits for her elaboration.
“Currently, it's a diagnosis of exclusion. We don’t really know what else it is or what it does but it's not as uncommon as you might think. I see it a lot in kids around this area, but pretty much anyone can get it. It’s usually triggered by some kind of extreme physical or emotional trauma, but that’s not always the case. It tends to run in families too, but we can’t say for sure unless you’ve heard someone related to you having it?”
He shakes his head. Not that he could remember at least, he barely knew his bio family anyway.
“So uh, what is it really then?” He asks, trying to avoid eye contact.
“The data is really new, but the main running theory right now is that somehow your brain is affected by it, whether it be some kind of nerve damage or signal lapse, and your pain signals are overactive. Usually caused by repeated injury- in your case it may be more so that the pain center of your brain is conditioned to be overactive due to repeated injury. But like I said, there isn’t really a way to tell right now. It’s a newer study.” She says, waiting for his response.
“Fucking figures. I die, come back to life, try to recover and then have some bullshit diagnosis.” He crosses his arms and bites his lip in frustration. Leslie ignores the self pity spiel and continues with her work.
“Do you ever experience some form of brain fog? Difficulty remembering things that are seemingly important, difficulty holding conversation for extended periods? Difficulty concentrating?”
Jason pauses for a moment, considering this. He’d never really forgotten things for a mission or in the field, but when it came to family dinners, Roy's little get-togethers and small stuff- yeah he’d been forgetting most of it.
It’s probably one of the leading reasons most of the people in his life thought he was an asshole, you know, besides the fact that he was kind of an asshole.
“Yeah, a little bit maybe.” he bites the inside of his cheek and Leslie can tell without him really confirming that it’s probably more than ‘a little bit’.
“I’m sticking with Fibromyalgia then. It fits with what we have right now. But I want you back in three months to do some more labs if I don’t see you before then. I don’t want to miss anything, labs can change or some things might be too low to be detectable right now.” She adds, gathering her things and deleting his lab work, starting to wipe everything clean for the next patient that might pop in.
“So what? I just keep doing this? Forever? No meds or some magic pill or uh some kind of weird diet I can try?” He isn’t really sure what he’d supposed to do or say at this point. He just feels angry that this was a waste of his time. He never should have come here in the first place.
“There isn’t really anything I can give you or do for you. They recommend light exercise, good sleep and a healthy diet, but knowing your lifestyle, that isn't always an option. I would suggest looking into mobility aids for your days off and doing some of your own research. There are plenty of online communities where disabled people share their methods and such. I don’t have much else to suggest, sorry red.” Her face is always stern, like she’d just told someone they have testicular cancer, but he never liked her because of her empathy.
He liked her because she was honest and a constant in his life somehow throughout everything.
Her and Alfred were in his top three.
“Thanks Leslie. I’ll contact you in a few months.” he waves his hand and pulls his jacket around himself tightly before getting on his bike.
Mobility aid? Disabled? Finding a community?
He shakes his head and makes his way back to his apartment. He’d worry about it tomorrow.
Later that week, between stalking a potential serial killer and trying to avoid Dick’s calls, Jason finds himself at pretty much the only medical supply store on this side of town.
It’s got bars on the windows and you have to buzz to get in. It makes sense, plenty of people couldn’t afford stuff like this, so break ins and theft were probably pretty common.
“Hey, how can we help?” A young woman behind the counter greets him with a warm smile and he swallows whatever anxiety he’s feeling.
“Umm my doctor recommended a mobility aid for uh, chronic pain and exhaustion I guess…” he trails off, not really sure what else to say.
“Alright, did they say what kind or did you know what type you are looking for? What kind of price range are you working with?” She asks, pulling out a ringed notebook and flipping through some pages.
“Not really, Uh i guess I probably should have done some research before I came…and price isn’t really an issue.” he trails off again and the girl smiles, unphased.
“Don’t worry, Here-” she points to the book across from him, “this is a list of the different types of stuff we carry and how it can support you. Feel free to try anything out and if you have questions or need help with anything let me know.”
He studies the pages and lands on the rollator. It’s good for support and balance, but the main thing he’s attracted to is the ability to sit down pretty much anywhere. That’s the real selling point for him. He makes his way over to the area where he sees a few that match the picture.
He’s sure he looks a little lost, because the girl at the counter rolls over towards him.
“I’ll give you a heads up, since you’re a little bit uhh built I guess..” she struggles to find the right way to tell him he’s fucking jacked and probably weighs around 250 pounds, “you’re probably going to need this one right here. It’s designed for taller and heavier people. It’s a little more durable too so it’ll probably last you a good while depending on how much you might need it.” Jason smiles a little, just enough to reassure he she hadn’t offended him in the slightest.
“Thanks, uh I think I’ll go for this one.” He points and she smiles. She shows him how to line it up with his wrists and adjust the height and after tossing out a black card its all his.
Now, he’s not really sure what to do. Realistically, he knows he’s supposed to walk out with it, firmly grip the handles and let some of his weight redistribute, but for some reason he just-
He can’t.
He gives the cashier one last grin, pulls his hood over his face and collapses the rollator instead of using it, carrying it out like some kind of awkwardly sized bowling bag.
He doesn’t look back to catch the solemn look in the cashier’s eyes, just keeps moving forward like its not meant for him, like it won’t help him but it will help somebody.
Somebody else.
Anybody else.
He carries it for three blocks till there’s no one else in sight, save a stray dog and piles of garbage.
Then he slows, glances around one last time and opens the mobility aid, clicking it into place softly.
Jason swallows.
Then he takes the first step-what feels like the first one he’s taken since he clawed his way out of the dirt.
When he makes it back to the apartment, he parks it carefully next to the door. A staring contest ensues for a few moments, before he grits his teeth.
What is he doing? Who gives a fuck if he needs a fucking rollator? Or crutches or a wheelchair or -or anything?
It didn’t make him weak. No matter how much pain he was in, he’d still be able to bash someone’s skull in, jump across buildings and shoot straight with his eyes closed.
And the truth was, even if he couldn’t do that stuff anymore, he still wouldn’t be weak.
He’d still just be Jason.
Fuck everyone else, since when had he given a shit what other people thought anyway?
He spares it one last glance before pulling out his phone for the first time that night.
ROY: hey, we should hang soon, pizza night?
ROY: i can tell you’re going through something right now, just reach out if you need something, you know i’ve got your back always
Jason smirks, sometimes he forgets he’s missed, that he exists in other people’s lives, that they think about him to some extent even when he’s not there.
He shoots back a quick text, a loose confirmation that they’ll do something next week when his schedule clears up a bit.
Dickface: jayyyyyyy
Dickface: i know you’re ignoring me and i wont push buuuut I miss you and wanna see your stupid face around the manor. Sunday dinner?
Dickface: P.S. Alfred is making your favorite <3
A quick glance at the calendar tells him it’s already Sunday, that the week had somehow passed between appointments and steak outs.
He glances at time, considers his options.
He could ignore it, like he usually does, blame it on the job, the flashbacks, the sleep schedule… But the truth is, he doesn’t really want to. As much as he would hate to admit it, he misses his brothers, despite everything.
Seeing their stupid little faces around the place he used to call home doesn’t make his stomach flip like it used to.
Besides… Alfred making his favorite? Well, that is a special occasion that just can’t be missed.