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Jason manages to make out the faint end of a steel beam through the darkness before he hears a rustle and grunt. He closes his eyes, head tilted back, and listens to Bruce catalogue himself and the area around them. It’s quiet. Would be completely silent if not for the encompassing silence around them that makes every extraneous sound gunshot-loud. Jason doesn’t move from where he’s leaning against a broken slab of concrete. He can’t move, actually, but he’s not going to say that out loud. Not until he’s asked – and maybe not even then.
He scrunches his nose as Bruce shifts, cape whispering against the ground, the sound of blood bubbling and squelching up, the soft pants of the painfully injured but trying not to show it. And he feels – bitter maybe? Hurt? Dunno. He feels something because he remembers a time when Bruce didn’t hide his injuries. Once upon a time, when Jason wore red, green, and yellow, Bruce didn’t showcase them or anything, but he never hid them like he does now, like he’s so terrified of showing even the slightest hint of weakness. And he hates –
Jason breathes out slowly and hitches too soon into it. His head lolls to the side, cheek resting on his shoulder, and he finally opens his eyes to see the faint outline of Batman. Outlines are good , he has to remind himself. The reason why is a little lost on him right now, the thoughts hazy and flitting away like hummingbirds. Hm, has he ever seen a hummingbird in real life?
All of this – from the moment Bruce started to stir to musing about hummingbirds – takes only a couple minutes, but even then, he jumps when Bruce calls his name. No. Not his name. He calls out Hood .
Jason attempts to suck in a sharp breath, pain paralyzing his chest. When he finally gets it, he lets it out in a rasping, bitter laugh. “Christ, B,” he says, angry and frustrated and hurt and so, so, so tired . “We’re at the – bottom of a fucking – sinkhole – and you – .” His throat closes up, his lungs seize – and then he’s coughing, choking on air. Choking, choking on blood, bubbling in the back of his throat, flooding his mouth.
“ Jason ,” Bruce says – and his voice echoes and bounces and it just. It just amplifies the concern, the fear, the – the – Jason grits his teeth and wrestles his coughing under control. “Status report.”
He thunks his head back. Once, twice, leaves it there, throat working as he swallows back blood. This is a terrible angle, what is he doing? This is – huh. Status.
“You first,” Jason rasps out.
There’s a moment of wavering silence. A moment of is he actually – and then Bruce grunts and seems to settle.
“Tibia is broken,” he starts with. Jason is strangely relieved by that. His leg is broken, that’s why…that’s why he’s not moving closer. That’s the only reason. There can’t be any other reason, right? Jason blinks back the burning in his eyes. “At least two ribs are cracked. Concussion. I…” He trails off, swallows thickly. “Jason, status.”
Jason rolls his head back and forth, almost like a no but more of a mindless action to wake his brain up. “Hurts to breathe,” he says. “Hurts to move.” And normally he could rattle off this and that and what and where, like a good little soldier trained by the best, but…but he just…he’s tired, okay? Shaky. Cold.
Blood loss or shock? Both? Jason laughs. Or just Gotham’s fucked up weather. It’s July and two days ago the humidity made it feel like you were trying to breathe through soup, but last night Mister Freeze fucked with something, and it started snowing . So maybe he’s cold because of that.
“ – son. Jason. Jaylad .”
He jerks back to awareness with a painful groan. “ Fuck .”
“No kidding,” and Bruce sounds amused under all that worry and pain. “I need you to – stay awake.”
He groans again, this time in annoyance. “I knooww ,” he whines, sounding like a child being told to go to sleep but claiming he’s not tired despite literally falling asleep right then and there. “Leave me…alone.”
“No can do, Jaylad. You need – .”
“Why…do you call me that?”
This time it’s Bruce who inhales sharply, and it’s not because of physical pain. “Jason…”
Jason rests his cheek on his shoulder again – his head is heavy ; his neck has no strength. He just wants to lie down and, and never get up again -- and blinks rapidly like it’s gonna do something about the lack of light. He wishes he could see Bruce.
He'd like to say he’s been holding on remarkably well since the ground gave out under them and brought an entire building down with it. No panic attacks. No bouts of fear or terror or anything like that. His chest feels like it’s been caved in, his left hand is completely shattered, his face hurts – but it’s not hot. It’s not burning. And –
And he’s not alone.
So, none of that is what makes his eyes sting and his throat close up. Not this time. He sniffs loudly – too goddamn loud – and he doesn’t have the energy to press his hand to his face as the first tear falls. Fuck. Damnit. This isn’t the time.
Bruce makes a noise in the back of his throat. Something…pityingly? Fuck that. He doesn’t need pity . He should’ve kept his goddamn mouth shut.
The words spill out anyway, thick and wavering –
“I’m not – I’m not that kid a-anymore. You – You said so…yourself.” His voice catches around a sob. “Stop lying .”
“Jay – .”
Jason gropes blindly for his broken helmet and launches it in Bruce’s general direction. It clangs uselessly against something metal before it thuds to the ground, tick-tick-ticking as it rolls over stone pebbles until it stops completely. The action jars his chest and Jason can’t help but scream, loud and guttural. He falls forward, wheezing, not getting enough air, blood oozing from his lips to drip onto his lap. Bruce calls his name over and over again, pitching higher and louder the longer Jason remains unresponsive.
“Don’t wanna – fight – fight you,” Jason mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. “ Please – don’t wanna.”
“We don’t… have to,” Bruce says, he sounds desperate. “I’ve never wanted, wanted to…fight you.”
Jason snorts and it’s bloody – everything’s bloody – and painful – everything’s painful. They’ve been fighting for so long he doesn’t even know who throws the first punch anymore. Even though they fight less and less with every passing month, with every cooperation, with every case solved when the entire family puts their heads together – no one makes him angry like Bruce does.
“All we …ever do is fight,” Jason breathes out, a dribble of blood follows. It’s all he tastes. All he smells. Metallic and sharp.
Bruce grunts, shifts. “That’s not true,” his voice is equally quiet and soft. Breathless. “Jaylad, you – you died. And so much of me…went with you. But – even at my lowest – you’re still, still my son.”
“What about my lowest?”
He’s silent for a long moment – long enough Jason can hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance. Jason doesn’t bother lifting his head to see if he can spot lights. Even if there were Bats up there, it’s nearly impossible to get down without some heavy equipment.
Time stretches for long enough Jason decides he doesn’t want to hear the answer. He doesn’t want to know – and he feels that familiar bubble of anger, sluggish and weak, but still there. A straight answer. All he wants is a straight answer. For all that they can work together on cases and eat dinner at the same table and stand to stay in the same room as each for more than a couple hours, they never actually addressed the elephant in the room.
He says now that Jason is still his son. But is he? Was he always?
– and suddenly it occurs to Jason that…
This moment has gone on for too long.
“Bruce.”
No response.
Jason grits his teeth. “ Bruce .” Panic and pain makes it shaky. He blinks away the weird spots in his vision, straining to hear anything . “Bruce, c-c’mon. Don’t – D-Don’t – Bruce, please .”
His breathing is too loud, too ragged, too panicky. He can’t hear anything above the blood roaring in his ears, beyond the sound of his own breathing. Fuck . Move – he has to – he has to move .
He braces his hands against the slab of concrete behind him and pushes , not even bothering to muffle the pain-filled scream that tears through his chest – the awful squelch of rebar sliding through his skin kinda makes it – It’s one or the other, and he’d rather himself scream than hear the sound of metal and blood. He pitches forward, collapsing completely, forehead pressed against sharp rocks, dust kicking up with every breath.
Agony – pure agony is dragging himself in the vague direction he knows Bruce is. Breathing is getting harder. Moving is getting harder. Everything – everything is getting harder. He has to stop not even a foot from his starting point, sobbing loudly for a long, breathless second, minute, hour, day , before he, before he – Suck it up, Todd.
“B-Bruce,” he begs when he thinks he has the voice for it. It fizzles and fades, but he tries again. “B-Bruce.”
Cape, under his hand, rough and reinforced. He crumbles it in a fist, uses his elbows to pull himself closer. Hand to face – no cowl – drifting down to his neck. There’s a faint heartbeat. Slow and growing slower. The rough, soft breaths of someone not having the strength for something stronger. Bruce doesn’t stir at his touch. Doesn’t grunt or groan or grumble. Jason’s head bows, another strangled sob trapped in his throat.
“Fuck – you,” Jason murmurs. Status report, my ass .
It’s too dark to see injuries and – let’s be honest – Jason can do jackshit to help. So, he –
Bruce is a ragdoll as Jason maneuvers him. He doesn’t know what’s compelling him to do this, he just feels like it’s right as he lifts Bruce despite the blood gushing from his own chest, lungs continuously filling with blood, only the Pit enhancements and spite keeping him alive at this point he knows.
Jason slides his legs under Bruce, heaves him up into his arms. Bruce’s head falls back over his arm, Jason bumps his elbow to put it at a better angle. He’s heavy. He’s – Jason’s an inch taller than him these days. Bruce is broader. But Jason is taller and – he swallows thickly. When did that happen? How did he – never notice that?
He cradles his dad in his arms and lets his head hang. This is so backwards. The last time. Jason thinks he was alive when Bruce found him in that warehouse. He likes to pretend he was alive. That he managed to see his dad one last time. That he got to – that he got to know that Bruce did come for him. That he really was just too late instead of all the nightmare scenarios that chase him every now and then.
Jason can’t cry. Not like how he wants. Tears slide down his cheeks and blood curtains his chin. “’m – sorry,” he says. “For – everything.” And the words slur and mush together, barely audible.
Breaths across his face. Jason feels displaced air. A mouth – moving. Bruce’s chest heaving and stuttering. Jason chokes on a sob.
“N-no. You – don’t – have…have to. I-I know. I – know,” he tries to say, tries to assure him. I’m your son. You’re my dad. We can fight all we want; it doesn’t change that . But he can’t – he doesn’t have the air, doesn’t have the strength, doesn’t have – “Rest. Just – You, you can – rest .”
It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. Lies. Rotten, awful lies, but he remembers a hand in his hair, painful against burns and a cracked skull, lips on his hairline, and a broken voice murmurs you’re okay, you’re okay, it’s over, just rest now.
Bruce breathes in as deep as he can and breathes out, “ Jaylad ,” and goes limp, his breaths slowing even if they don’t stop. They’re going to stop. Eventually. Jason clutches him closer, just wanting, wanting the comfort of his dad . Wanting to comfort his dad.
His own grip loosens as he closes his eyes. His fingers are numb. His chest is – hollow. It should be hurting. It doesn’t.
We’re together at least , he thinks as he curls over his dad’s chest. Tired. He’s so tired. Together. One last time together … as it should be .
(Is that his name being called? Not Hood, but Jason ? A trick. That’s the blood loss talking, Jason’s sure. No one’s coming. They’re too late. Everyone’s always too late.)