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It’s as Jason’s returning to his safe house that he hears it.
”Argh-!”
A shout. One of considerable pain, if the pitch is anything to go by. And while shouts aren’t exactly a rare thing to hear at night in Gotham, Jason feels himself pause.
Because he knows that shout, knows who it belongs to. He’s heard it from beneath his own hands before, knows what the boy sounds like when he’s beaten and terrified.
Plans of returning to his safe house for a well deserved binge-session of Avatar: The Last Airbender are cut short as he turns on the spot.
Tim needs his help.
He leaps from rooftop to rooftop, heading back to the general location of the cry. His eyes scan the alleyways below him, searching for blood- or less favorably, for a body.
He finds neither. Instead, after a moment more of looking, he hears it again. A sharp cry, followed by a few grunts of pain. The latter wasn’t from Tim, and didn’t seem to come from just one person either.
The kid probably took on more than he can chew, Jason thinks with annoyance. Though, his annoyance is just a thinly veiled cover for his concern.
He runs across the final roof, ducking beneath an oversized, half-lit neon sign as he gazes into the alleyway below him.
As excepted, Tim is out numbered, and he’s fairing about as well as Jason expected. His left arm hangs limp at his side as he dances around his assailants, his bo staff clutched tightly in his right hand as he does his best to dodge their attacks. Occasionally he manages to get a hit in, but it’s clear that his arm is a problem.
Shit.
Jason glances around, his eyes scanning for the Bat, or perhaps his demon son. Neither are visible.
Why am I not surprised? Jason thinks to himself as he pulls out his two favorite pistols, flipping off the safety and loading bullets into the chambers. He wonders if it’s more plausible that Tim truly went in alone, or if he and the Bat briefly split up.
The first option would require a lengthy lecture that he doesn’t feel qualified to give, and the second one fills him with unease. He’d rather not brush elbows with Bruce tonight.
The thought almost has him retreat.
But then Tim cries out again as someone lands a hit, and Jason’s mind is made up.
He jumps into the alley.
“Hood?!” Tim whips his head around as Jason lands on the gravel beside him, immediately firing a round of bullets into the air, the sound alone scaring quite a few off.
“What’re you doing here!?”
The men regain their bearings, immediately charging back in with snarls on their mouths, their ugly yellow teeth bared.
Jason shrugs, turning to slam the butt of his gun into the first thugs face, rendering him unconscious. He falls to the alley floor with a thud.
“I was in the area,” He says easily, turning to plant his fist in the next man’s gut. He knocks him out with a blow to the back of his head. “Figured I’d stop by.”
Tim scowls, which seems awfully lofty to Jason, given how hopelessly outnumbered Tim had been a moment before. Still, he gives Tim a bit of grace on account of the kid’s pride, and doesn’t mention it.
“Get behind me,“ Jason commands instead, noting how Tim struggles to effectively wield his staff. Up close, it’s clear that his arm is broken- there’s an unnatural bend visible just below his elbow. Even at a glance, Jason knows it’s bad.
“I don’t need your help-“
Tim is cut off as he ducks suddenly, another man having swung at him with a crowbar. Jason has just a moment to mentally compliment his weapon of choice before he’s twisting, putting a bullet in the man’s foot before smacking him across the face with his gun. The man doesn’t even have time to scream- he crumbles to the ground in a heap, the crowbar clanging onto the gravel beside him.
“As you were saying?” Jason asks. Tim huffs, but moves behind him. Their backs meet, and Jason assesses the remaining goons.
“Batman?,” Tim hisses into his com. “We could use assistance.”
So the Bat is hanging around, Jason thinks. He feels a prickle of unease at the thought, but he quickly pushes it from his mind, focusing back on the task at hand.
The remaining seven men hang back, their faces snarling and their weapons ready. One or two hold guns, though they make no move to fire with Jason’s own barrels pointed out. They all seem to be at a standstill, like they’re waiting for someone else’s orders.
Jason doesn’t like the look of it.
“What were you doing with these guys?” he hisses back at Tim as he slowly turns his guns on each of the men, letting the unspoken threat hang in the air.
“Uh- fighting them?” Tim hisses back. Jason almost snorts at the sarcasm, but he catches himself.
“Who do they work for,” he asks instead. His eyes focus in on one particular man who sneakily starts to edge his hand into his pocket. Jason fires, watching the man scream as a bullet blows apart his fingers.
“We aren’t positive,” Tim answers, less moodily this time. “But we were thinking-“
He’s cut off as a bang sounds at the end of the alleyway. Jason whips his aim to the source of the sound, and in that moment, one of the thugs must shoot, because his thigh explodes with pain.
“Red-!” He shouts, turning to fire at the men. Everyone begins to scramble, and an odd sort of smoke begins to fill the alley. It’s thick and tinted green, and when it creeps it’s way towards Jason’s face, his eyes start to burn, even with the protection of his helmet.
Bodies press in on him from all sides. He swings his arms blindly, holding off with firing since the range is so close. His fist connects with flesh. He hears the unmistakable crunch of bone. Men cry out, and the smoke grows thicker.
“Damnit- Red!” He shouts again, but the body behind him is gone. In fact, all the bodies around him seem to have vanished, as though the smoke has cleared the alleyway of the remaining thugs.
Perhaps they ran. Perhaps the smoke didn’t come from their own, or perhaps it was their method of escape.
His breath grows ragged. The smoke doesn’t let up, just swirls around him, choking him, suffocating him. His helmet begins to feel too small and much too tight, and against his better judgment, he pulls it off. It thuds to the ground beside him.
He staggers around in a circle, unable to make a single thing out. His heart begins to pound in his chest, quickening in pace until he feels as though it might explode. His skin crawls, and icy tendrils creep their way down his back, making gooseflesh cover his arms.
He whips around, his guns raised. His arms are shaking.
“Show yourself!” He shouts into the alley, but there’s no reply. His breath comes out in short pants, and his eyes dart around.
A figure appears in the smoke, hazy at first, then growing sharper as it steps closer. Four more figures appear then, two on either side of the first. All five creep closer and closer to Jason. He takes an involuntary step back, then another, until his heel hits the brick wall behind him.
He aims his guns at the form in the middle.
“Who are you?” He’d tried to growl it, had tried to sound threatening, but the words came out pitiful and weak. A trickle of sweat runs down his forehead.
The smoke begins to clear away, and the first form becomes clear- It’s Batman, judging by the shape of the shoulders and the cowl. Jason lets out a sigh of relief.
“Thank God- B, I’ve lost Red Robin, and-“
The form emerges fully from the smoke, and Jason’s blood runs cold. Fear wraps it’s shriveled hand around his heart, squeezing and squeezing until he’s certain it’s killed him.
For the figure is certainly Batman- he wears the cape and the Bat insignia, and his face is decidedly Bruce’s- but instead of his usual cowl, his face is painted with the Joker’s cruel smile, the colors swimming in Jason’s eyes.
The other four figures emerge. Jason whips his guns from figure to figure, his whole body trembling. Dick, Tim, Cass, Damian. Like Bruce, they all wear the Joker’s trademark, their mouths curved into that too familiar cruel smile.
“Stop this,” Jason demands, to everyone and no one. His family continues walking towards him, their gait almost zombie like. He presses himself against the wall, training his gun on Bruce. “I’ll shoot,” he says, but his voice cracks, calling his own bluff.
“Gotham scum,” Bruce hisses, creeping up to Jason’s side. His breath brushes his ear, as cold as a winter’s night. ”Look at what you’ve become.”
Jason turns to shoot, but the form is gone.
”You never did belong.”
Jason whips around to find Dick standing behind him, his gentle face marred by the Joker’s smile. Jason turns his gun on him, trembling as he prepares to shoot.
“I belong as much as you,” Jason snarls at Dick, his grip fumbling on the trigger.
”Lies,” Tim scoffs. ”Why do you think Bruce got me?”
Damian grins, his teeth sharp and pointed. ”Don’t feel bad. You never could amount to much- it’s in your breeding.”
Jason whirls around, his heart racing, his body itching to run. The air around him turns frigid, and his body starts to shiver.
”You were a mistake to take in,” Bruce hisses, his voice soft as he reappears behind Jason. ”I see that now, if I didn’t then.”
Jason turns, finding the Bat looming behind him. His face is distorted and cruel, his teeth elongated and dripping with blood. His eyes are entirely black. Startled, Jason turns back to the others, finding them just as grotesque in appearance, with talons extending from their fingers, and flesh peeling from their bones.
Spooked, Jason squeezes his eyes shut and finally fires. The forms hiss and scream, and when he opens his eyes he finds them writhing around, clawing themselves apart before they vaporize, turning back into the shadows that still linger on the edges of the alley.
Jason collapses to the floor in a heap. He puts his head in his hands, desperately trying to calm his breathing.
“Jason?”
He doesn’t look up, even as he hears footsteps grow closer. “Jason, what have you done…”
At that he raises his head, his vision blurry through his tears. He startles to find Bruce- the real Bruce- standing before him. His face is twisted with shock and grief, and there’s blood on his otherwise immaculate button up shirt.
The shadows whoosh back to reveal Tim, laying on the floor in a pool of blood.
No-
“I didn’t mean to,” Jason starts feebly. He struggles to get to his feet as Bruce steps closer. Jason shoves past him, falling to his knees beside Tim’s limp form.
“No no no-“
He reaches out a shaky hand and presses his fingers onto Tim’s neck. There’s no pulse. But how could he expect one, what with all the blood? It flows from a hole in his chest, soaking his Robin uniform and staining Jason’s hands.
“How could you do this?”
Jason turns back to find Bruce looming over him, his expression dark and empty. Jason feels tears slip down his face.
“I didn’t mean to- please, I didn’t-“
Bruce strikes him hard, and Jason falls to the floor. His cheek burns where he’d been hit, and he can feel a bruise forming.
“I never should’ve welcomed you back,” Bruce hisses, his foot connecting with Jason’s ribs. Grief and fear crush Jason’s being from the inside out, freezing him in place and preventing him from fighting back. “You were better off dead.”
Jason feels his shoulders shake as his chest begins to heave with his sobs. “I’m sorry,” he pleads, his body quivering. There’s a thwick as Bruce whips out a batarang, and his shadow covers Jason.
“Sorry can’t bring him back. Sorry can’t bring back my son.”
A hand slams Jason’s throat into the ground, and a knee digs into his shoulder. His fingers claw on at the hand around his neck, which tightens its grip, cutting off his breath. There’s a glint of the batarang, the metal shining in the moonlight, before it’s lowered to Jason’s face.
Fear drips from Jason’s tears as he cries, oozes from his screams as the metal cuts into his skin. His terror bleeds from his heart like oil as the metal drags across his eyes, rips into his cheeks, slices up his nose. His body thrashes and kicks and desperately tries to throw Bruce off, but the man suddenly feels as though he’s made of metal, and Jason’s own limbs seem to be made of lead. He can’t hope to throw him off, can’t hope to save himself.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, and it’s the last sound he makes before Bruce is digging into his neck, slicing up his throat and cutting away his vocal chords.
I’m so sorry, Jason pleads to the world, and then everything goes black.
——
The darkness doesn’t suffocate him. It doesn’t choke everything out. Instead, it leaves him just conscious enough to feel it all- the pain that makes its home in his whole body, the fear and terror that cage his heart, the panic that seeps into his bones.
He doesn’t know how long he lays there. Long enough that the dig of the knife grows dull and achy instead of sharp and biting. Long enough that his sobs turn to hiccups.
Long enough that he wishes first that he’d never been born, then wishes instead he’d never been reborn.
“-ok Jason. You’re ok.”
The voice sounds impossibly far away and yet somehow so close. Jason tries to open his eyes, but finds he no longer has any to open- they’ve been carved right out of his skull, sentencing him to an eternity of darkness.
“-Safe.”
He’s not safe. He never was, never has been, never will be. He longs to cry out to whatever is feeding him such lies, but the words get lost on the way from his brain to his lips, and what passes from his tongue instead is just, “I’m sorry.”
He says it again, just because he can, his voice blabbering now. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
There’s a warmth on his forehead. A soothing touch that pushes the hair off his face. It mingles with the feel of the knife in his skin, the conflicting sensations making his head spin.
His thigh still burns, and somehow that pain feels more concrete then the pain on his face.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” the voice replies. It sounds sad. Mournful.
Tim, Jason’s mind counters. Everything. My existence.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again. He chokes out a sob. “I’m so sorry.”
The voice doesn’t dispute him again, and Jason is glad of it.
The hand on his forehead suddenly moves to his hair, softly carding through the strands. It causes tears to form in his eyes again, even though he’d never really stopped crying. When was the last time he’d been touched like this? He can’t remember. Certainly not since he’d resurrected, that’s for sure.
The hand continues, carefully running through his hair, soothing him in a way he’d forgotten anything could. He does his best to focus on the warmth that it brings him instead of the feel of the batarang on his skin, of the fear in his heart.
——
He registers moving at some point. Or rather, he registers being moved. There’s a jostling that feels like a vehicle, or perhaps a helicopter. And then everything grows hazy and fuzzy, but the hand remains in his hair, and that’s all that matters.
The other thing he registers is a lack of pain. His neck and his face still burn a bit, but not nearly as horridly as they had before. Now it’s more like a dull ache, all the sharpness of the knife and it’s cuts gone.
His thigh aches, but that too is dulled. But where the knife wounds only feel like a dream, this one feels like a memory. Still there, but distant.
He wonders if he’s dead again, but quickly dismisses the thought. He hadn’t been so… aware last time.
“-brave Jaylad. So strong.”
That voice… It’s more familiar than Jason had initially thought. He struggles to place it, but his head aches and he lets it go.
There are arms around him. He can feel that much now. Someone is holding him close, their embrace warm and safe. Jason’s body begins to shake with sobs and he lets himself be held, lets himself be safe. His chest still aches with grief, but the terror is gone, as is the cold.
A little while later he opens his eyes.
The room he’s in is white and blinding. He squints his eyes and blinks, slowly turning to try and see more.
Machines beep around him. There’s something hooked up to his arm, to his chest. His thigh is bandaged, and something keeps his wrists tied together. His neck burns, but not terribly.
“Jason- can you hear me?”
Jason turns to the voice, finding it belongs to the form holding him.
Bruce.
Groggily he nods, wincing as the motion sends a stabbing pain through his head.
“Oh thank God- You’re ok Jason, you’re ok-“
Bruce pulls away for a moment, fumbling with something beside him. There’s a clicking and then the bonds around his wrists release him. Arms wrap around him again and almost crush him as Bruce pulls him close once more. Jason’s brain takes a moment to catch up, and when it does, his heart skips a beat.
Bruce. The batarang. The alley. Tim.
“Is Tim- Where is he-?”
“He’s ok,” Bruce soothes, and Jason feels relief crash through his body, making his skin tingle and his limbs grow heavy, even if he can’t comprehend things.
“How?” He asks, his voice hoarse.
“It was fear toxin,” Bruce explains, and all at once, it starts to make sense. “Tim managed to hold his breath and get his mask on in time, but you got a full dose of it. I got there shortly after, but you were…” Bruce’s voice trails off, and Jason can’t help but note the waver in it. He wonders what Bruce had seen, wonders how Jason had looked. “I’m so sorry,” Bruce finishes, his voice somber
Jason shudders as he remembers the fury in hallucination-Bruce’s face. He remembers the bite of the batarang on his skin, remembers the grief and horror of losing Tim.
Tears slip down his cheeks. His body starts to shudder, and on an old instinct buried deep in his soul, he turns his face into Bruce’s chest. He wraps his arms around his old mentor, desperate to hold on to something as sobs wrack his body.
Bruce’s hand runs up and down his back as he weeps. “It’s alright Jaylad, you’re ok. You’re safe.” The words feel useless, meaningless, but Jason knows they’re true. Somewhat.
Moments bleed into minutes, which Jason soon loses track of. After a while though, his sobs turn into sniffles, and his face dries of tears. He pulls back from his father after a while longer, wincing at the care he finds etched into Bruce’s expression, even as his heart warms.
“Why was I tied up?” He croaks out, just to have something to say. He thinks he already knows the answer.
“You were clawing at your neck and face,” Bruce explains carefully. “You didn’t do too much damage, but you got a few gashes in.”
That explains the burn in his neck then. Jason nods weakly.
“Your leg isn’t as bad as it could’ve been,” Bruce goes on. “The bullet only grazed the outer flesh, so it should heal quickly.”
Jason nods again. “And Tim?” He asks hoarsely. “His arm?”
Bruce sighs. “Busted up pretty good, but he’ll live. He’s more concerned with how long he’ll have to be benched.”
Jason snorts faintly at the thought, which makes perfect sense coming from Tim. “I can help out, if you need anyone to fill in,” he offers quietly.
Bruce smiles, his expression soft. “I’d appreciate that.”
The two of them fall into silence after that, the weight of everything unspoken resting between them. Jason doesn’t like the hurt that rests in Bruce’s face, doesn’t like the haunted look in his eyes. He can’t remember everything he’d said when he’d been doped up on fear gas, and he doesn’t want to know what Bruce had heard.
“I’m sorry for whatever you saw,” Bruce says after a heavy moment. Jason winces.
“It wasn’t your fault. It’s no one’s fault, except for Crane’s I guess.”
Bruce frowns. “Even still. I’m sorry. I know his fear toxin is meant to make you terrified, but…” He trails off, his eyes pained. “I’d never seen it work so well.”
The batarang slicing through his lips. Bruce’s face being the last thing he could see. Tim’s body bleeding out-.
“It’s ok,” Jason answers softly. He shivers suddenly, and he wonders if it’s the natural chill of the Batcave, or something else.
“Here,” Bruce says, as he drapes a thin medical-grade blanket over his shoulders. Jason nods weakly, accepting the kindness where he’d usually reject it.
He stares at a blinking machine across the room, waiting for Bruce to either say something else or get up. When he does neither, Jason decides to, if only to soften the maddening silence.
“I never meant to-“ His voice catches. He swallows and tries again. “I mean, I’d never want to-“
He thinks of Tim, bleeding out. Of the times he’d wanted him dead. Of the times he’d been willing to make it happen.
“I don’t wanna hurt you guys,” Jason whispers. “Not anymore.”
Tears prick the corners of his eyes, and his throat burns. He tries willing it away, so sick and tired of crying, but his body seems to have other ideas.
“Oh Jaylad,” Bruce soothes, reaching out to pull him close again. “I know. I know.”
Jason screws his eyes shut and lets his head flop onto Bruce’s chest once again. A few tears manage to slip down his cheeks, but he doesn’t sob this time.
This sort of grief is silent, this sort of ache less loud. He shudders in a breath.
“You’re a good man, Jason,” Bruce says, his hand rubbing up and down his back. Jason’s heart clenches at his words.
“I’m not.”
“You are. I’m sorry for ever making you doubt it.”
His words bounce around Jason’s skull, making his chest ache and burn. A few more tears slide down his cheeks as he buries his face deeper into Bruce’s warmth.
He’s tired. So, so tired. His exhaustion weighs down on him like a curse, his bones aching with it, his chest burning.
“Can I stay here tonight?” he asks weakly. He hates the part of him that longs to stay every night, that longs to reclaim this hollow place as his home.
“Of course,” Bruce agrees easily, so easily that Jason feels a knife twist in his chest, even as he feels relief flood his body. “You can stay as many nights as you like.”
His words fill Jason with a deep aching want. He hates how much he wishes to stay, hates how much he wishes he’d never have to leave. And usually, he’d be out the door at the first sign of those thoughts in his mind- but for once, he gives in to the desire.
Just one night, he thinks to himself. His thigh aches, reminding him that it’s not a terrible decision to stay. They have more supplies here than he has at his safe house, and Alfred is the best doc he knows.
And with that thought easing his mind, he allows himself to sag into his father’s arms, his body aching, his chest pounding. He huddles himself even closer, his eyes screwing shut as- for once- he allows himself to be comforted.
They stay that way for a long while, the only sound being Jason’s rough breathing, the only thing he feels besides the ache in his thigh being the feel of Bruce’s hand on his back. He’d forgotten how nice it felt to be held, how soothing it felt to know that someone was there. That someone cared.
Two nights here wouldn’t kill me, is the last thing he thinks before he drifts off into sleep, his body finally relaxing, his mind finally going blank.