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"Jason, please," Bruce says, cutting Jason's argument short.
Jason sighs and swallows his protests. Bruce is right; the wound is going to be a pain to dress by himself. "Fine. I'll go to the cave."
"Thank you." At least Bruce recognizes it for the concession it is.
The Batmobile feels cramped in a way it never did when Jason was still Robin. He can't tell if it's his new height or the taste of ashes in his mouth from all those burned dreams that never came true.
The light shift of the car as Bruce slides in behind the wheel and closes the door sends a sharp stab of agony down the right side of Jason's body, stealing away his breath. Jason bites his lips and swallows the whimper that wants to escape. The world spins around him, and his head pounds.
He needs to get his act together and make it to the cave without passing out or Bruce is going to be a nightmare to deal with. "All handled?" he forces himself to ask, stomping the pain down by sheer force of will. His voice comes out firm and rough, definitely stronger than how Jason feels.
"Yes," Bruce answers. "Black Bat is taking your bike with her, and Spoiler will handle the police when they arrive. Oracle already called them."
"Good." Jason wants to add something witty about what he'd do to Bruce if Cass scratches his baby, but he hurts too much to bother.
"How are you holding on?" Bruce asks, lurching the car forward.
The initial burst of speed presses Jason against the seat. He bites the inside of his cheeks and digs his fingers into the upholstery, breathing through the pain until the pressure eases and the agony ebbs into something bearable.
"I'll live," he grunts once he trusts his voice not to shake. "No need for a second gaudy glass case." He's quite proud of himself when he manages to add, "What'd you write this time? Red Hood — a terrible soldier?"
"Please don't," Bruce says.
There it is. That please again. It shuts Jason up. He closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing. In and out. In and out. The seconds blur into minutes as he falls into the familiar, meditative trance that helps him deal with pain.
Bruce places a hand on Jason's thigh and squeezes softly, snapping him back into awareness. "We're here. Let me help you out."
Blearily, Jason opens his eyes and takes in his surroundings. The car is already parked inside the cave. Bruce steps out, opens the passenger door for him and offers Jason a hand.
Jason desperately wants to swat it off, but his vision is filled with ominous black spots and the world keeps whirling around him. He isn't sure if he'll be able to get out by himself. Refusing Bruce's help will probably end with Jason eating dirt and Bruce lecturing him about pride going before a fall and what not.
He grabs Bruce's proffered hand and reluctantly accepts the help. It's a good thing because the adrenaline has worn off during the trip and Jason's body has cooled down. Getting out of the much-too-low car hurts like a bitch, and it's Bruce who ends up doing most of the lifting because Jason's body refuses to cooperate.
"Note to self," Jason pants through flares of pain, resting his weight on Bruce's arm, "Avoid getting stabbed." This time there's no hiding how out of it he is. His voice comes out shaky and weak, but he's too busy fighting a sudden wave of nausea to bother with masking the pain.
"Avoid getting stabbed is a standing order," Bruce says drily.
"I'm a terrible soldier, remember?" Jason quips back. He might be in agony, but he's not going to let such an opening go. "Not good at following orders, especially when they come from you."
Bruce's lips twitch. "If I ordered you to get stabbed, would you stop doing it then?"
"Reverse psychology," Jason snorts and regrets it immediately when his side flares up with sharp, bright pain. "Think that'll get you far, do you?" he wheezes.
"Worth a try." Bruce guides Jason to the medical table. He quickly strips off his cape, cowl and gauntlets, mindlessly letting them fall to the floor. It's odd to see Bruce being so careless, but he just kicks the cape out of the way and hurries back to Jason. "Let me help you up."
Jason doesn't even entertain the thought of refusing. Between the two of them, they manage to get Jason sitting on the medical table. Slowly, Bruce unzips Jason's leather jacket, being mindful not to pull on the wound. Bruce's hand slides between the jacket's collar and Jason's t-shirt carefully, peeling the right sleeve free without jolting Jason's injured side.
Jason breathes shallowly as Bruce moves him this way and that. Black spots continue to dance before his eyes, and he has to rest his forehead on Bruce's chest when a new wave of nausea crashes over him. He closes his eyes as he wrestles down the need to throw up while the room sways underneath his feet.
"I think the knife was laced with something," he groans against Bruce's chest. "Stab wounds have never made me this dizzy."
"I'll do a bloodwork once we've seen to the wound," Bruce says. "You didn't say you were dizzy." He places his hand over the back of Jason's head, holding him close.
Jason's reply turns into a strangled whimper of pain.
"Let me see," Bruce says, peeling back the cloth of Jason's red hood to expose his head. He trails his fingers softly through Jason's sweaty hair, palpating the skull. "The dizziness probably comes from this one," he says, as his fingers graze against a big lump at the back of Jason's head.
A new flash of pain renders Jason helpless. He clutches at Bruce's arms and presses his forehead against the older man's chest while he waits for the pain to settle. "I don't remember getting that one."
"The hood soaked up the blood, which is why we didn't notice it before. It won't need stitches, though." He releases the mechanism keeping Jason's domino and face mask in place and takes them off. Warm, tender fingers tilt Jason's head.
"Given the dizziness, you probably have a concussion," Bruce adds needlessly. Jason already figured out that much. "You're coherent, though, and speaking clearly. Those are good signs. Look at me."
Bruce leans closer and peers at Jason's pupils, blue eyes filled with worry. It's hard for Jason to focus on him. The ceiling lights on the cave hurt his eyes and he has to close them.
"I know," Bruce soothes him. "Just a moment longer, Jay. Can you open your eyes for me, please?"
It's so unfair that Bruce suddenly learned to use the word please after half a decade of ignoring its existence. Jason's powerless against it. He obeys.
Bruce shines a pen light into Jason's eyes and makes him follow it. "Definitely a concussion," he says, turning off the light and tucking the back into the utility belt. "Nothing a couple of days rest won't heal. You can't drive back to your place tonight, though." He says the last part belligerently, bracing for a fight.
Jason doesn't want to stay in the Manor, but concussions can become dangerous if not treated properly. He'd make do somehow—he's been taking care of himself for years now—but the prospect of going back to his cold, empty safehouse is even less appealing than a night dealing with Bruce and the memories the Manor always brings.
"I'm not staying in my old room," Jason warns. That frozen-in-time mausoleum to a boy who died is more than he's willing to stomach, concussion or not.
"There are plenty of other rooms," Bruce agrees immediately. "You should stay here for the next three days until we're sure the concussion is healed."
Jason doesn't have the energy to argue with Bruce right now. He'll cross that bridge when the time comes. He sighs out, exhausted. "Whatever."
Bruce sighs, too. "All right," he agrees, aware that the argument has only been tabled. "We'll ice your head once you're in bed. Let's see to the stab wound." He moves away to gather the supplies he needs, before he returns to the medical table.
Bruce spreads Jason's knees open and steps between his legs, crouching down to get better access to Jason's lower ribs. "There's no rescuing this," he says, pulling the hem of Jason's t-shirt out of his pants. "I'm going to cut it open. Better than pulling it off."
He cuts through the cotton with a pair of medical scissors easily, and the tatters of Jason's black t-shirt fall to the table. Bruce lifts Jason's right arm carefully to inspect the damage. "The under-armor will have to go as well. It's ruined."
It's a special fabric—Fox's design—created for maximum protection without compromising mobility. It's expensive as fuck, but since it was Bruce who gave it to him, and it got ruined while Jason was saving Bruce's stupid life, he's not going to protest its destruction.
Bruce has to use custom-made scissors this time, made of a special metal specifically designed to cut through the protective fabric. When the light of the ceiling hits the scissors, the metal gleams in the exact same shade the assassins' knives did.
"The knives were made with the same metal," Jason points out to Bruce. "Did you bring any of them with you?"
"All of them," Bruce says. "Too dangerous to leave lying around." He frowns, glancing at the scissors. "You're probably right; I'll test it afterwards. Your wound first. The knives will keep."
Jason's acutely aware of Bruce's body between his thighs, brow furrowed in concentration as he cuts through the under-armor, careful not to scratch Jason's skin with the sharp tips of the scissors. It takes longer this time for him to get through the fabric as he fights his way through the natural resistance of the under-armor.
Jason shivers when the last bit of cloth is gone and the cold, damp air of the cave brushes against his naked torso. Bruce notices it immediately. He picks up his cape from the floor and places it over Jason's shoulders, enveloping him in its warmth the same way he used to do when Jason was still Robin.
Bruce drenches a clean tissue with disinfectant and crouches between Jason's legs to clean the stab wound. "This will hurt," he warns.
"I'm not thirteen any more, B," Jason grouses, pulling the cape tighter around his body. "I know it'll hurt." He bites his lower lip and breathes shallowly while Bruce cleans the wound with careful, precise strokes.
"It'll need stitches."
"One more scar for the collection," Jason says through gritted teeth, doing his best to ride the waves of pain. He digs his fingers into Bruce's shoulders to keep himself steady.
"This one is on me," Bruce says. "If you hadn't come when you did, I might not have made it."
Most of them are on you, Jason doesn't say. He'll never blame Bruce for teaching him how to fight back. Even if they no longer agree on the how, Jason will never forget that it was Bruce who first taught him how to stop being a victim of circumstance. Despite the long-term costs of those lessons, Jason is a better man for them.
"I wasn't gonna let a swarm of overpaid assassins kill you," Jason says instead. "If I don't get to do it, no one else does."
Bruce's eyes crinkle with easy amusement as he looks up at Jason with a barely disguised grin. "Very reassuring."
"I knew you'd appreciate it," Jason says with an answering grin.
"Stitches now," Bruce says, putting aside the bloodied tissue and picking the needle and thread.
The prickle of the needle against Jason's skin is oddly soothing in its steady rhythm. Jason watches Bruce's face while the older man works on him. There's a small furrow of concentration between Bruce's brows. He bites the left corner of his lower lip when he presses the tip of the needle in and releases it when he pulls it out.
Later, Jason will blame it on the dizziness making him loopy. The next time Bruce bites his lip, Jason brushes his thumb against it and Bruce stops mid motion.
Blue eyes search Jason's green ones, and their gazes lock. The room spins again, but Jason isn't sure if the concussion is to blame. Bruce's pupils are like black holes, dragging Jason in. Hot, wet puffs of breath tickle against Jason's lower abs.
This is the beginning of ten thousand fantasies Jason forbade himself to have when he was fifteen and terrified to realize that he could only get himself off to the image of his adoptive father pinning him down to the training mat and fucking him. He sometimes wonders if it was that fear what made him run away, more than the desire to find a mother who had abandoned him at birth. Most times, Jason still forbids himself to dwell on it.
He pulls his hand away, acutely aware of the wet patch of Bruce's spit on the tip of his glove. "Are you done?" he asks, voice rough. Of course he isn't. Jason interrupted him.
The apple of Bruce's throat bobbles when he swallows, gaze still fixed on Jason's. "Three more stitches to go."
"All right." Jason forces himself to let go of Bruce's shoulder and leans back, clutching the edge of the medical table instead.
He desperately wishes he could put more distance between them. Bruce is still there, crouching between Jason's thighs, his breath tickling Jason's abs, hot and wet, watching Jason watch him. The silence stretches.
"Keep going," Jason says after a moment, voice rough.
It's different this time. The air is charged when Bruce brings the needle to Jason's skin. Bruce's eyes keep darting back to Jason's before going back to the wound.
He'll blame it on the pain, Jason decides. Or on the concussion. Jason wouldn't be here if it weren't for them. Bruce wouldn't be touching him if it weren't for them. Jason wouldn't have been so stupid if it weren't for them.
Bruce finishes the stitches and applies a thin layer of antibiotic cream, coating Jason's skin thoroughly. The soft touch of his fingers feels like a caress and Jason has to close his eyes against the intensity of it.
"All done," Bruce says an eternity later, fixing the adhesive dressing in place to protect the wound.
When Jason opens his eyes again, Bruces is already standing, looming over Jason, close enough to touch. Jason's eyes are level with the bat symbol on Bruce's chest. Bruce's right hand goes to Jason's left shoulder and he squeezes once, before he steps away.
Jason pulls the cape around himself, feeling strangely vulnerable. Bruce knows. He knew back then, too. He felt Jason's budding hardness whenever they sparred, embarrassingly obvious for all they both pretended it wasn't there.
When Bruce turns away, ignoring Jason's lapse of judgment the same way he did when Jason was fifteen, it doesn't hurt as much. These days, Jason's used to the taste of Bruce's rejection. It's no longer a seismic event of catastrophic proportions. He's survived before; he'll survive it again.
"Take these," Bruce says, offering two white pills to Jason. "Antibiotics for the wound and a painkiller," he clarifies at Jason's inquiring eyebrow. "I know you don't like the painkillers, but—"
Jason takes the pills and swallows them dry, stopping Bruce's tirade. Bruce frowns as though Jason's easy compliance is yet another thing for him to worry about.
"I'm not putting you in the guest wing." Bruce says decisively. It's his I-know-you-won't-like-this-but-we-will-do-what-I-say-anyway tone. "The concussion," he goes on, before Jason can protest. "I'll need to check on you through the night. The guest wing is too far away. If you don't want your old room, we'll use the suite adjacent to the master bedroom."
"Your mom's room?" Jason asks disbelievingly. Jason's old childhood's room isn't the only mausoleum to someone who died in the Manor.
"I redecorated it," Bruce says blandly.
Jason gapes. "You did what?!" What has been Bruce up to since Alfred's death?
Bruce purses his lips, his expression becoming pinched. "I paid an interior designer to do it."
"Oh, no," Jason groans. "If it's that ugly, sterile, minimalist bullshit they keep selling to people with more money than taste, I'll call a taxi and sleep under a bridge. Forewarned is forearmed."
Bruce levels a flat glare at him. "It's four o'clock in the morning. You have a concussion and a stab wound that will need redressing in the morning. You're not going anywhere, Jason."
Jason huffs out a laugh even though his ribs aren't as amused as he is. "Oh my god! You paid for an ugly, minimalist design. Bruce! How much did you pay for it?" he demands to know.
"Stop laughing," Bruce says with a fond, resigned expression. "You're going to pull the stitches. I'm not telling you how much I paid. It's trendy, or so I've been told."
"Trendy," Jason snorts. "Your taste sucks, B. Admit it."
Bruce's expression softens. "I have excellent taste," he says, and strokes Jason's cheek softly with the back of his fingers. "I just can't indulge it, Jaylad."
Jason's laughter dies and the tension rises between them. Jason's cheeks burn where Bruce's fingers are brushing against them. "Why?" Jason asks, licking too dry lips.
Bruce's eyes drop to Jason's lips and stare. "You were fifteen, Jason."
"I'm not fifteen anymore." Jason doesn't recognize his own voice.
"We..." Bruce stops. He blinks and shakes his head, forcing his attention up, away from Jason's mouth. "You and I aren't known for our ability to compromise."
"Speak for yourself," Jason protests. "All I've ever done when it comes to you is compromise. I wouldn't be here today otherwise."
"I don't want to lose you again," Bruce says.
"You barely have me, B," Jason points out. "What's there for you to lose?"
"Plenty. More than I can afford. I'm a coward, Jason," Bruce says.
"So sayeth the Batman."
"A terrible coward," Bruce insists.
Jason clasps his hand over Bruce's and squeezes once, before he reluctantly drags Bruce's hand away from his cheek and places it on Bruce's chest, over the bat symbol. "Then you'll have to decide, B, if this is something worth facing your fears for." He gives Bruce a tired smile and lets go.
"If I give into this, you'll end up getting hurt, Jason. I'll hurt you," Bruce warns him.
Jason shrugs with his left shoulder, ignoring the brief flare of pain the movement brings. The painkillers are starting to work. "I've gotten hurt before. You've hurt me before. Chances are that you'll do it again, regardless. We're good at that, you and I, hurting each other. Sometimes we mean it; sometimes we don't. Don't use my pain as your excuse, B. It's bullshit and you know it."
The two of them look at each other for a moment, and then Bruce moves away, busying himself with some made-up task on the computer none of them believe. Jason isn't surprised. Bruce is a coward.
It's out there now. Jason opened a door that was ajar as wide open as he could. Bruce can either step through it or close it forever; the choice is his. Jason's strangely at peace with it all either way.
"Show me your ugly room, then," he says, and stands up—or tries to. His knees give up underneath him and the floor lurches away as the walls of the cave whirl nauseatingly around him.
Miraculously, he manages to hold onto the medical table until Bruce hurries back to him. He grabs Jason's elbow with a strong, steady grip and helps him up. "Careful," Bruce admonishes.
Jason is too busy trying to not throw up to tell Bruce where to shove it. He clutches Bruce's forearm with a death grip while he fights the waves of nausea battering him.
"Maybe I'll just stay here and skip going upstairs," he gasps. It sounds like a brilliant idea.
"It's all right," Bruce says. "I've got you." Before Jason can't protest, Bruce picks him up and hefts him like a bride as if Jason weighs nothing.
The sudden shift exacerbates Jason's dizziness and he clings to Bruce, feeling too miserable to complain. "I'm going to be sick." He just wants his head to stop pounding. Even the pain from the stab wound pales in comparison.
"Hush," Bruce shushes him, "Close your eyes and concentrate on breathing. It'll only be a moment. Rest your head on my shoulder."
"I'm not a damsel in distress, you know?" Jason says, valiantly keeping his head up, mostly because he doesn't want to give Bruce the satisfaction of obeying.
"I know," Bruce reassures him, taking the stairs with ease. Jason feels oddly small in his arms. It reminds him of his early Robin days, when he'd been too tired after patrol to make it upstairs and Bruce had to carry him. "You did the rescuing today. Damsels wouldn't be able to do that."
"Not sure about that," Jason counters. "Artemis would've totally wiped the floor with those assassins without breaking a sweat or getting stabbed."
Bruce chuckles. "I don't count Amazons as damsels. Diana would murder me where I stand and Clark wouldn't be able to stop her."
Jason grins against Bruce's shoulder, remembering why Diana continues to be his favorite.
"We're here," Bruce says, leaning forward to place Jason carefully on the floor. He holds Jason by the upper arm until he can find his feet again.
"Bruce!" Jason groans, appalled. "It's worse than I'd thought it'd be." The modern style is completely at war with the barocco architecture of the Manor. Jason's sure that most Wayne ancestors are rolling in their graves in a justified fit of pique.
Bruce laughs. "Dick and Tim told me they liked it."
"They lied to you!" Jason insists. "Please let them be lying." He says, theatrically raising his hands towards heaven.
"You could sleep in my room, if this one offends your sensibilities so much," Bruce offers. "I could keep a better eye on you that way if something happens... with the concussion," he finishes lamely.
Jason squints at him. "Are you offering what I think you're offering?" he asks, because his head hurts too much even with the painkillers. He feels much too woozy to translate Bruce into English.
"Not tonight," Bruce says, cheeks flushing pink. "Maybe not even tomorrow. After you heal… if you haven't changed your mind?"
It's not Jason who'll change his mind. "Kiss me," Jason demands brazenly. He wants the kiss now, injury be damned. If Bruce backpedals later on, he'll still have this.
A part of him must have been expecting Bruce to refuse, because Jason's heart jumps like a spooked horse when Bruce frames Jason's face between his hands as though Jason is the most fragile, precious thing he's ever held.
Jason's breath is ragged as Bruce lowers his head towards him. Bruce stops before their lips can touch, hovering on the edge, as though afraid to close the gossamer distance still separating them.
Their breaths mingle tantalizingly. Jason's eyes flutter closed and he sighs, opening himself, yielding. He clutches Bruce's back, needing something to steady himself while Bruce's wet, hot breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of his lips, oh so close, and yet still not close enough.
His heartbeat is like a drum in his ears. His hands travel down the sharp, perfectly sculpted shape of Bruce's shoulder blades to the small of Bruce's back. He pulls Bruce closer and shudders when their chests align. The pain of his wound is just a distant echo adding another note to the hundred sensations capsizing him.
It's Bruce who gasps this time, teetering on the edge of surrender. He slides his fingers through Jason's hair and tugs him softly away, just a quarter of an inch.
"Jason," Bruce pants his name like a curse or benediction, fear and craving both battling for the upper hand.
Jason could close the distance between them. It'd be so easy. Bruce is too far gone to fight his own desire, but Jason wants Bruce to choose. He wants Bruce to give in. Jason already chose. It's Bruce who needs to prove that he chooses, too.
Bruce smells of sweat and leather, of disinfectant and the familiar, hard-to-describe scent of the under-armor. He smells like Batman. Jason whimpers with need when Bruce's lips finally meet his, dry and chapped. Bruce trails the tip of his tongue over Jason's lower lip, seeking entrance, but when Jason opens his mouth, Bruce retreats again.
He teases desperate, needy sounds out of Jason as he kisses the corner of Jason's mouth instead, the edge of his cheekbones, his eyes and forehead, the tip of his nose.
"B," Jason whines, pulling Bruce's hips closer and arching his back, offering himself. "Come on."
"Don't move," Bruce rasps against the corner of Jason's mouth. "You'll hurt yourself."
"B," Jason repeats, digging his nails into Bruce's back as much as the protective barrier of the suit allows him to.
"Say it again," Bruce whispers against Jason's cheek. "Ask me."
"I already asked you," Jason protests.
"Say it again, Jason," Bruce insists, and then adds, "Please."
Jason is stupidly helpless against it. "Kiss me, Bruce. Do it. Do it right. Come on. Please."
It's Bruce who lurches forward this time, pulling Jason tight against him. He closes the distance between them and their lips finally clash against each other. Bruce's tongue isn't as demanding as Jason had imagined it to be. He explores Jason's mouth almost delicately, savoring each of Jason's moans, taking his time, undoing Jason and remaking him again.
Jason is drunk with desire. Bruce's touch on his face is like a brand burning itself into Jason's very soul. Whatever happens next, however it all ends, Jason will carry the memory of this kiss with him forever. Undeletable.
No regrets, Jason tells himself, as he kisses back, exploring Bruce's mouth, memorizing the taste of him, the feel of Bruce's hands pulling at Jason's hair to guide his head exactly where he wants it. It hurts, but Jason is too far gone, too desperate with need to care about it. The pain is meaningless.
The world narrows down to the two of them. Two tidal waves crashing against each other with equal force, mindless of the consequences. There's no turning back from this.
No regrets, Jason promises himself one last time, before Bruce steals even that thought away from him. He can't think; he can only feel and taste, drown and die, only to be reborn.
They break apart, panting against each other. Bruce rests his forehead on Jason's as the two of them catch their breath. Bruce's hands keep trailing up and down Jason's back, as though he can't bring himself to stop touching him. Jason rests his body on him, glad for Bruce's strong, steady frame.
His head is pounding worse than before, and maybe this wasn't Jason's brightest idea, but he'll do it again without a single second’s hesitation.
"Let's get you to bed, shall we?" Bruce says, sounding oddly British for a moment, some of Alfred's mannerisms coming into play without him being aware of it.
"As long as it's not that ugly monstrosity of a bed," Jason teases him.
Bruce's pull back slightly, eyes crinkling with amusement. He brushes Jason's white bangs away and smiles. "I was thinking of my own bed, provided it fulfills your high standards."
"Show me and find out," Jason answers with a grin, too proud to admit the truth. As long as Bruce is there with him, Jason is willing to compromise on everything.
"As his Majesty commands," Bruce says, and hefts Jason up once more.
Jason laughs and his side flares up, a painful reminder that not all is well yet. He has some healing to do—both of them do— and the worse wounds aren't visible. Still, for at least this night, Jason will allow himself the optimism of believing they'll heal well.
No regrets, he thinks, rests his head on Bruce's shoulder and lets Bruce carry him.