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Jason’s chest tightens agonisingly as he gasps for oxygen, clutching his shirt, knuckles rapidly turning white. His heart races uncontrollably, the thumping so loud he can hear it in his ringing ears, beads of cold sweat trickling down his forehead as a wave of nausea overwhelms him, black and white bangs now plastered to his skin.
“This isn’t punishment, Jason,”
He gags, sinking to the ground, both hands now tugging at his own shirt, just above his heart. Panic sets in as he struggles to catch his breath, mind racing with fear and uncertainty, because–
“I love you.”
Another gag, loud.
And he tries, he desperately tries to call out for help, but his voice catches in his throat– the pain’s sharp, piercing, radiating down his numb left arm and oh, fuck, please, please someone help, I can’t breathe, I can’t–
His vision blurs, teal eyes glazed over.
“You’re a bull in a china shop,” Bruce had said, not caring of how Jason laid slumped against the wall, chest heaving, “and I go round after round with you, trying to figure out how to help make you a better man, to heal you–”
Jason screams– he thinks.
He feels lightheaded and dizzy and scared, fear gripping at his soul, no matter how desperately he fights to not give in to the fear that’s eating him alive. But the pain is relentless, unyielding in its intensity–
“This is a gift any way you look at it.”
Another scream, choked. Jason inadvertently slides to the side, falling on the floor in a heap, head smacking against the concrete.
“I love you.”
Jason thrashes, one hand leaving his chest to clutch at his head, clawing at it, nails digging into the flesh, drawing blood.
“I love you.”
He gasps and gags and–
“I love you.”
Watery bile spews from chapped lips.
“I love you.”
Jason coughs, eyes wide and teary.
“I love you.”
The clammy hand that’s clawing at his skull digs deeper.
“I love you.”
Blood stains his nails.
“I love you.”
Jason’s vision blurs.
He desperately tries to scramble, to flee, but as soon as he’s on his knees, Jason stumbles forward, arms failing to hold him upwards as he collapses once again, face down.
The room spins, and the world suddenly seems– quiet, quieter, drowned out by his own thundering heart. Darkness begins to close in around him.
Jason wishes he could say he’s surprised, he wishes he could pretend that none of this is really happening, but he knows this feeling, he knows– he’s dying.
Again.
And this time– this time he knows that Bruce’s abandonment is fully-intentional, and even that Bruce is not going to regret being too late, because he’s not coming, he’s not coming to save Jason.
Because– why would he try to save Jason from what he himself has done to his son?
“This is me saving you from yourself, Jason.”
Jason keeps his eyes tightly shut, so tight that it hurts, so tight that angry, white spots dancing across his vision.
A familiar sense of resignation washes over him, the same way it had done when, at the warehouse, the timer was down to five seconds, and Bruce was nowhere in sight. Jason exhales, shaky.
“M’goin’ to die.” and it’s barely a whisper, vocal cords vibrating only imperceptibly.
He knows there is nothing more he can do to fight off the inevitable, he knows his heart’s racing towards failure.
But he can’t stop, he can’t stop being scared, he can’t stop being scared because he’s never stopped being scared, not after the warehouse, not after witnessing that his murderer was still alive, not after hearing Bruce’s words on the matter, not after drinking himself to sleep to those exact same words echoing in his concussed head.
So Jason just– allows the darkness to take him, heart still trying to break through his ribcage, all feeling in his limbs gone, copper on his tongue.
At least this time nobody’s going to interrupt his rest.
He hopes.
And Jason– he should be used to his hopes never coming true.
He should have learnt by now that Willis isn’t going to avoid beating him to a pulp with his belt every chance he gets, he should have learnt that Catherine isn’t going to wake up, he should have learnt that Sheila isn’t really going to rethink selling him, he should have learnt that Bruce isn’t going to drag him out of the warehouse before it’s too late, nor avenge his death.
Jason should have learnt that, when he wants to rest, the world isn’t actually going to let him.
“...sy, easy.” a voice calls from above the surface– gentle, warm. “We got you, we got you, Little WIng.”
A hand is carding through his damp locks, and he slowly realises that his head’s resting on someone’s lap– he’s on his side, upper leg bent at the hip and knee for support and, oh, recovery position.
Recovery.
Recovery as in, still alive.
Jason blinks warily, squinting at the bright, cold light from the leds above– he whines before he can help himself, his free hand moving to rest on his eyes.
“Little Wing?” the voice from above calls, “Jason?”
A pained moan escapes his lips. He slowly blinks his eyes open again, tentative, immediately groaning as he feels the throbbing pain in his head.
“I can’t breathe.” he moans, airy. “D-Dick, I ca-can’t–”
Fuck, everything hurts. His muscles ache and he struggles to sit up, feeling disoriented and confused– two foreign fingers are wrapped around his wrist, but he’s too dizzy to make out the blurry figures around him, he can’t–
“You should stay down for a moment.” someone– their voice is different, he notices– says, firm but gentle.
He doesn’t register his own head nodding, nor his body moving back to lie down, this time supine, an arm protectively slung across his eyes and nose. He tries to take a few deep breaths, to inhale, hold, and exhale like he was taught– it’s almost a reflex– but his gasps for air are ragged, hiccupping.
A lingering sense of exhaustion and dizziness washes over him, and for a moment he prays that they pull him under again, but the incessant pain in his chest and the throbbing migraine threatening to split his skull open gradually force him to feel more alert, much to his own chagrin.
The hand in his hair shakes. Violently.
“Dick–” a voice calls, hesitant, “hey, you need to breathe.”
“He did this to him.” and, oh, Jason hasn’t heard that tone being used by that person in a long, long time.
A pause. “I know.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Grayson–”
“Shut– shut up.” Dick grits out, and it sounds like he’s– crying. “Who would– who in their right mind would do this to their son?”
The comforting hand leaves his hair, and Jason almost whines at the loss. He lets one eye crack open, barely past a slit, and–
Oh.
Please, no.
He wishes he hadn’t looked.
Because he hates seeing Dick cry. He hates seeing Dick cry because of him.
Dick’s face is now buried in his own trembling hands, body shuddering as he hunches over. Tim is immediately at his side, wrapping his older brother in a tight hug, hushered words of comfort inaudible from Jason’s position– even if, Dick is barely letting out any sounds, now.
Damian, on his knees, scoots closer to Jason, calf purposefully pressed against the arm that Jason has lying at his side, a hand firmly pushing Jason’s chest down– because even if he’s not strong enough to get up on his own, Damian doesn’t even want him to turn around and see.
He glances at Jason, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Who– Todd, who did this to you?”
“Damian.” Tim grunts, frantic, “Stop it.”
“I need–” the youngest shakes his head, barely imperceptibly, “I need to know, to hear it from him.”
Jason looks at Damian, then at Tim– although, it’s hard from his position– and then back at Damian.
“Please.” he whispers, voice wet, frantic– and Jason doesn’t think he’s ever heard Damian, of all people, sound so little, so helpless.
Jason sighs shakily, eyes shut again.
Dick gently frees himself from Tim’s hold, still shivering hard, panic rising in his chest, “Jason, you don’t have to–”
“M’sorry, kiddo.” Jason exhales, choked up. “I’m–” a sob, broken, low, caught in his throat, “so s’rry.”
After an instant, Damian hiccups, breaking the silence. His little chest heaves.
And Jason instantly regrets this, too. His heart rate spikes, rush of adrenaline coursing through his throbbing veins. His chest tightens anew.
“Jason?” Tim calls, eyebrows knitted together.
The world is spinning again, and Jason feels like stomping his feet and throwing a damn tantrum because no, no, not again, fucking hell, stop it.
“I-I can’t bre-breathe, guys, I c-ca–” he takes a sharp inhale, ragged.
He lets out a choked gasp, which is what immediately uproots the others, who collectively rush to help Jason. Damian grasps his hand tightly, quiet, skin pale and clammy, eyes wide behind the domino.
Dick is quick to heft Jason up and hold arms, cradled tight and safe, as cold tears keep streaming down his face.
“M’sorry, m’so sorry, Little Wing,” he sobs into Jason’s hair, shaking violently.
Tim, too, shudders uncontrollably, one hand pressed against his own tear-streaked face, the other holding Jason’s hand in a tight, almost-painful grip.
And Jason hates that he’s allowing himself to admit it, he hates how his pain seems to be somehow resonating with each of them, because he never wanted this, God fucking damn it, he never wanted any of this to happen, yet his brothers are in pain and it’s his own fucking fault only.
“Dick,” Jason tries, his own voice wavering, “i’s okay, m’okay, I–”
But Dick shakes his head vigorously, face still buries into Jason’s scalp, his heart hammering almost as fast as Jason’s.
“M’sorry, Jason. I’ll stop him. I’ll– I’ll stop him.” Dick echoes obsessively, rocking back and forth with his brother still cradled in his arms. “I promise, I promise.”
The weight of grief and disbelief is crushing. Jason lets the pain take him, blissfully suffocating.