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His hands are trembling. That’s not good. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
This was supposed to be a simple mission, damn it. Get in, get the two kidnapped boys out, blow some fucking heads if he had the chance. But the sick fuck had a canister of fear gas, and he got away while Jason was busy getting the kids out through the window and into Nightwing’s waiting arms. His rebreather and helmet both went to the two boys, leaving him with a cracked rebreather that he’d promised himself he’d fix before he left his apartment tonight and he never fucking did.
Okay. Okay, no panicking, he’s going to get through this. He grits his teeth, swallows the bitter taste in his mouth and presses the comm in his ear.
“Hey, B?” He calls. Sweat breaks on the back of his neck. The bitter taste in his mouth might be the gas, now that he thinks about it. Batman responds almost immediately. Of course he does.
“Red Hood?”
He swallows again, takes a shaky breath that he’s sure the comm picks up. He looks at the four story drop, and realizes that with his swarming vision, his grappling gun is going to be of no use to him. He’s trapped.
“I need help.” His voice shakes, it’s fucking humiliating.
“Where are you? Oracle, get me Red Hood’s coordinates, now. ”
“There was a canister of fear gas.” The words rush out of Jason’s mouth. His hands are trembling, it’s getting a little harder to breathe. “I have a rebreather, but it’s cracked and I gave my helmet to one of the kids and I’m-“ his voice breaks. Fuck this gas, honestly.
“What kids?”
Jason wants to respond, he does, but anxiety is churning his gut and he’s scared he’s going to throw up if he opens his mouth. Batman’s voice grows insistent.
“Hood? Hood, talk to me.”
“Nightwing,” he manages to gasp out. “He has them.”
“Nightwing?” Batman calls. There’s a click and suddenly Jason hears rustling and tiny voices.
“I have the kids, taking them home now, Oracle already dispatched a couple of officers to meet us there.” His voice turns sharp. “Red, you said you were getting out.”
Yeah, that was before he’d started hearing the sound of metal scratching cement, before he could hear a manic laugh and his legs turned to stone.
Jason opens his mouth to say as much, but his stomach wins the battle and he hunches over, vomit splattering the ground and his boots. There are voices in his ear, urgent and growing louder, but Jason can’t respond. His entire body is trembling now, his legs numb and his skin crawling.
“Fuck,” he gasps, heaving breath after breath. For a moment he’s aware he’s dropped the cracked mask. That’s wrong. He was supposed to keep it on, wasn’t he? He doesn’t get to think about it too hard, because suddenly there’s a storm outside, he can hear the rain drops, the thunder drowning out his own cries as he claws his way out of the dirt-
“Red Hood, are you still with us? Red Hood, sound off .” Batman is calling him. And when Batman calls, Robin responds.
“I’m here,” he sobs. There’s a sound behind him. He flinches, the spasm so strong he falls on his back. He scrambles backwards until his back hits the wall. He’s barely aware of hyperventilating, but everything is fuzzy over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears.
“-not real, Jason, you’re okay.”
He’s okay, he’s okay. B says so. But if he’s okay, then why can he hear laughing? No. No. That’s the fear toxin. He’s okay, he’s hallucinating. He can beat this. He can.
He can he can he can he can he can-
“ Where are you going, little bird?” A voice whispers in his ear. He can feel the Joker’s breath on his neck. He flinches again, his head hits the wall. God, please no. Anything but this.
“Help me,” he calls weakly. He can’t even feel embarrassed now, not with the weight on his chest that keeps him from drawing a full breath.
“We’re coming, Jay. I’m coming, just hold on.”
B sounds worried. Of course he’s worried, the Joker has Jason. They’ve done this song and dance before. Bruce’s not going to make it. The realization makes his eyes widen in horror. Batman won’t save him.
“ Please,” he whines. He doesn’t want to die again. He doesn’t want to, not like this, not for a long time. “No. No no no, not this. Dad, PLEASE-“
It’s the phantom pain between his shoulder blades.
It’s the numbness of his legs.
It’s the way his hands move on their own, they’re racking up and down his arms, scratching, digging for something to hold on to. It’s the breathless, desperate thought of I want to go home, someone take me home please dad take me home.
It’s the emptiness in his chest, the darkness that seems to suck all the air out of his lungs when he realizes there’s no home to go to. There’s no place he feels safe in, no dad to come rescue him in time. It aches, this hole in his chest, the emptiness inside him. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore, he can’t do this anymore.
It’s what makes him scream, wordless and broken, trying to drown out that fucking laughter. It’s not working. He’s ten years old again, clutching his mother’s lifeless hand, with that helpless feeling of knowing there’s no one coming for you, but still wishing with all your might that someone will.
He grips his arms, claws at his ears, anything for the laughter to go away.
“ You can’t hide, birdie.”
“FUCK OFF,” he snarls, roars into the dark corners of the room, looking around for the source of that fucking voice-
There he is. Crouched down to his right, the crowbar in his hand already bloody. Did he hit him already? Is that why he can’t move? Is that why his fingers are bloody?
“But the show has just started,” he says, grinning like he’s a kid in the circus, “and you’re the main event-“ He doesn’t get to finish, because Jason grabs his gun from its holster at his hip and fires bullet after bullet into the Joker’s skull. When there are no more bullets, he closes his eyes, tries to breathe through the panic. A finger pokes his left shoulder, and he turns his head on instinct.
When he opens his eyes, the Joker grins at him, his head a mess of broken bone and brain matter and blood. His right eye is a bloody, empty socket.
“Missed me.”
Jason grabs his ears, ducks his head and screams. The second gun in his leg is heavy.
…
The only reason why Bruce isn’t riding the batmobile at full speed right now is because the streets are narrow and the corners sharp, and if he gets into an accident now he’ll never forgive himself. Still, he’s not going slowly. The engine roars as he takes another sharp turn. The leather of his gloves creaks from his grip on the wheel. His son is muttering in his ear, too low for the comm to pick up. What it does pick up is the whimper and the gasped ‘help me’ that makes him step on the gas a little harder, damn the risk.
“We’re coming, Jay, you’re okay.” He says, helpless to do anything else.
His mind keeps trying to drag memories to the surface, memories that Bruce can’t afford to lose himself in right now. Still, they try so hard to drown him.
The roar of his bike as he approaches the warehouse. The explosion and the dawning horror of knowing full well his boy is in there. Jason’s broken body in his arms-
No. No. Fuck no. Not now. Later. He can let himself drown in the memories later, but right now his son needs him.
“ Please, ” Jason sounds so small. It hurts. Broken bones have hurt less than this. “No. No no no, not this, Dad, PLEASE- “
And then Jason starts screaming.
“Oracle, cut off Jason’s comm from everyone but me,” he barks, gritting his teeth.
“Done.” Barbara sounds shaken, he makes a mental note to check on her after this.
Bruce is about to thank her but she calls out first,
“He’s on the next building, third floor.”
The car has barely stopped and Bruce is already out, running as fast as he can. Jason is still screaming.
“ FUCK OFF. ”
Bruce can hear the shout in his comm and in real life, far away and muffled.
“What’s going on?” Dick demands, voice laced with worry and no small amount of fear. “B, what-“
“I found him, I’m disconnecting the comm. Get back to the cave, make sure the med bay is ready when we get there.”
“B, don’t-“ with a click, Dick’s voice disappears.
And just in time too, because a second later, shots are fired, every one of them making Bruce’s heart stutter.
There’s a moment of terrifying silence as Bruce climbs the last steps. The door is closed. That won’t stop him.
Jason screams again, Bruce can’t help but feel earth shattering relief. That only lasts until he opens the door.
Jason is curled up against the wall, shaking. A couple of steps in front of him is the vomit they heard earlier. Bruce can hear him muttering.
“Stop it stop it stop it please -“
“Jason,” Bruce calls. He approaches with caution, even if all he wants to do is grab his kid and get the hell out of here. But Jason is a survivor, he’s lived in the streets of Crime Alley and has been trained by the league of villains and Batman. If he feels threatened, he’ll attack, even half out of his mind with fear. The muttering continues, his hands gripping his hair even as they spasm sporadically. The skin around his ears is bloody, torn into by Jason’s own fingernails. He has a couple of scratches on his cheekbones, his arms as well, not as deep, thank God. Bruce has seen victims of fear gas attempt to gauge their own eyes out.
“Jason, I’m here-“
“He’s not taking me again,” the broken whisper stops him in his tracks. His eyes are wide and unseeing, pupils incredibly dilated. His irises are blue, though, not a hint of green in sight. “I don’t want to go back, please don’t make me go back.”
Bruce doesn’t get a chance to respond, because Jason grabs his second gun and presses it against his temple. His hand is shaking. Bruce lounges before he can even think about it.
He grabs at the gun as he hits the floor next to his son, pushing the muzzle up to the ceiling. The shot leaves his ears ringing, and it startles Jason enough that his grip slackens for a moment. It’s enough for Bruce to wrench the weapon from him. He throws it as far as he can, it hits the opposite wall with a thump. It’s not far enough. Jason throws a punch blindly, clipping him on the jaw. Bruce grunts but doesn’t back off. He grabs Jason’s shoulders, twisting him around so that his back is pressed against his chest. His legs wrap around his son’s, tightening his hold as Jason tries to buck and twist away. Bruce wraps his arms around him, pinning his arms to his chest. It’s not easy. Jason is almost as big as he is, their strength is matched, but Bruce has the advantage of a clear mind.
Jason shouts wordlessly like Bruce’s touch is acid, he twists his head violently in an attempt to headbutt him.
“ JUST LET ME DIE,” he bellows, voice hoarse but still loud and angry, so angry. “LET ME GO, LET ME DIE, PLEASE DON’T TAKE ME BACK I-“ he sucks in a breath that comes out as a sob, “don’t make me go back. ”
He dissolves into helpless sobs, not even bothering to struggle in Bruce’s grip anymore. There’s a knife twisting in Bruce’s chest. He’s going to hear echoes of those screams for the rest of his life, he knows. He presses his cheek to the top of Jason’s sweaty curls, holds on tighter.
“You’re okay, Jay, you’re okay. Jason, kid, my son. ”
“Bruce,” Jason gasps. It takes him by surprise, it lights something akin to hope in his chest. “ You didn’t come. Why didn’t you save me? What did I do? ”
The words crush him. God, anything but this. Please, anything but this.
“I came,” he says, desperate to be heard and knowing fully well he won’t be. “I’m here, I’m with you, Jay-bird.”
Of course, the words don’t seem to register, because Jason’s breathing picks up again. His sobs seem to echo in the room.
Making sure he keeps his arm firmly pressed against his son, Bruce’s hand slips into his utility belt. He grabs the pre-charged syringe, praying that it’s not a new batch of fear toxin, that the antidote he has will do its job. The moment the needle plunges into Jason’s bicep, the boy starts struggling again, whining like a terrified animal. Bruce mutters useless comforts, pulling out the needle once he’s sure the entire antidote enters his bloodstream.
Jason continues to struggle, but he’s growing weaker in Bruce’s arms, until there’s nothing left but a twitch here and there. Only when he’s completely still does Bruce dare to untangle himself from him. Still, he holds his son, pulls him into his lap, rocking them back and forward. He pushes Jason’s sweaty fringe from his forehead and presses his trembling lips to it. It’s feverish.
He stays there for a few minutes, his fingers pressed to the side of his son’s neck in a feeble attempt to stay grounded to the present. His boy’s body is not broken in his arms, his heart is not still. He got here in time.
He tells himself that as he waits for his eyes to dry, for the unmeasurable weight to lift off his chest.
His eyes dry. Jason sleeps. The weight doesn’t leave.