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In Jason's defense, he didn't fire the first shot.
He sure as hell fired the first one, but not the last one.
He was just minding his business (no he wasn't), doing some recon, rescuing some kids from a trafficking ring (seriously, don't people know the kids of Gotham were under his protection? Sure, he focused his efforts in Crime Alley and the Bowery, but everyone knew he would protect a kid no matter where they came from…) and showing them out the door as quickly as he could. They needed somewhere safe, and he was nothing if not a charitable host.
He swore all the guys he took down were down. Not dead– not if he wanted to operate freely under Batman's watchful gaze– but injured enough that they should know not to get back up.
Apparently one guy didn't get the memo.
The last kid had just run out the door when a resounding gunshot was heard echoing out of the warehouse door, a sharp, burning impact hitting Jason's armored shoulder that sent him stumbling out of the doorway. In the next moment when he swings around there's another gunshot, and then three more.
The first was from the warehouse, hitting Jason somewhere vaguely in his abdomen despite the armor.
The next three were from Jason, all landing, though he can't be sure where exactly. All he cares about is that the guy stops moving.
At least if B asks, he had the excuse of protecting kids and self defense. Speaking of–
“Mr. Hood are you okay?” One of the lingering kids runs up to him, eyes wide. Jason waves a hand dismissively, holstering his gun with his uninjured arm. He sports a Robin-like grin under his half mask, but it only shows in the crinkled lenses of his domino.
“Mr. Hood was my father, kid,” he chuckles, refusing to cut it off even with how it hurts. “I'm fine. Just get to the shelter I told you all about. You'll see me around, don't you worry.”
He ruffles the kid's hair, and he beams tentatively. “Now get going, little dude. Scram.”
The kid runs off with a laugh, a hopeful sound in an otherwise brutal night for Jason. One that just got a whole lot worse in the past five minutes.
Jason can already feel the warmth slipping down his shoulder, seeping into his armored short-sleeve and cropped hooded vest. The other gunshot somewhere in his abdomen– his hip, more accurately– burns consistently, annoyingly, and makes something grind every time he takes a step.
He's not stupid enough to finish the last hour or so of patrol in the state he's in, so he resolves himself to head back to his closest safehouse, which is–
“Hood? You're needed at the Monolith Square,” Barbara, or rather, Oracle, cuts off his plan of. Yknow. Treating his two bullet wounds.
“Am I though? I'm uh, kinda in the middle of something.”
“Yes. I wouldn't be calling you if it wasn't. Batman, Nightwing, Red Robin, and Robin are already on scene. Black Bat and Spoiler are on their way to help with evacuating civilians, but they need you.”
Jason blinks, his steps faltering at the admittance. He glances down at his hand that was pressing against the gunshot in his hip that had made it through a gap in his armor, then at the blood dripping down his arm, then at a random point vaguely off to the side like he's in an episode of The Office. He throws his head back with a sharp sigh, though it comes out as more of a mechanized grunt with the voice changer.
“What's the situation?”
“Scarecrow has set up explosives with fear gas throughout the Square, but the main detonation point is below it. If you can defuse that, the others will be rendered useless.” Jason catalogue his supplies from the night while Oracle talks; a measly few clips of bullets for his pistols, a few spare smoke grenades, his plentiful stash of knives, he crowbar and sword strapped to the back of his red vest… and no bandages.
Fuck.
He hums to let Babs know he's still listening, already starting to run through his mental map. Based on what she's saying, he needs to be there, like, a half hour ago. Which means all his safehouses are out of the question, they're all at least fifteen minutes in the opposite direction, ten if he rushes. Still too long, because he's another illegal 15 minutes from the Square where he is currently.
Alright, clinics. There are no free ones nearby, he's too close to the edge of the Bowery. Anything else would ask too many questions and would be too much of a hassle to break into to simply steal supplies.
He could find the nearest CVS or something but–
His train of thought stops when his gaze lands on a Home Depot. Closed, which is good for him. He doesn't know exactly where the nearest pharmacy is, just the general area, so he supposes this will have to do.
“Black Bat will come find you once she's done. The nearest entrance to the sewer where Red Robin thinks the bomb is is down the street, just a block away. The area should be cleared by the time you get there. There might be some of his henchmen down there, but I can't confirm.”
“I'll figure it out when I get there, Barbie,” Jason mutters, using his crowbar to kick in the glass window that's really far too low for any sort of store in Gotham. They've got that big corporation insurance, it's fine. “Do we have a timer on that bomb?”
“Not that I know of, but that doesn't mean there isn't.”
“Cool, cool. I'll be there…” Jason's voice trails off as he sees the duct tape section. Duct tape is close enough to bandages, right?
Yeah, they're close enough.
“Give me like, twenty minutes.”
“Make it ten. They need you.”
Yeah, and I need a bottle of whiskey and probably an ER, but we don't all get what we want, do we?
“But I like showing up fashionably late, and how am I supposed to do that if I show up when I'm needed?” Jason whines his words to cover up the actual whine he wants to let out when he unzips his upper body armor so he can get at the bullet wounds in his hip and shoulder better. His hooded vest and half mask are already on the ground, the right shoulder of the vest soaked with blood. At least it blends in.
“Hood.”
“Fine, fine. I'll let you know when I'm on my way.” He hears Oracle click off the comm line, and finally lets out the more shaky breath he had been holding while he was maneuvering his around to hang around his waistband.
He grimaces down at the steadily bleeding wound, gently feeling around his lower back. No exit wound.
Must be why he feels his bones grinding and crunching every time he takes a step.
He manages to rip a roll of duct tape open with his teeth, using his fang (or as Bruce stubbornly liked to call it, his “elongated canine”) to find the edge of the roll. He takes the edge of the fabric between his teeth and pulls back, making a blegh sound when his tongue touches it.
Fun fact: duct tape doesn't taste good. It's also easy as fuck to get off your mouth, you just lick it and it loses its adhesive.
To avoid that issue, he sticks the edge of it to the top of his shoulder where there isn't any blood to make it slide off, and starts painstakingly rolling it around his shoulder. Once, twice, three times, before the fourth is pulled as taut as he can get it. He repeats the wrap around his chest to secure it more thoroughly, then a couple more times back around his shoulder and under his arm to top it off.
His hip isn't nearly as complicated, just a smattering of layers of duct tape around his lower abdomen. They're pulled taut, with heavy, controlled breaths keeping Jason's hands steady through it all.
Finally, he's gotten it as good as it's going to be, gets his suit back in place covering it all up, and he's walking (not limping) resolutely back out to his bike, swinging his leg over it, and heading to Monolith Square.
He clicks into the Bats’ open comm line as he speeds towards them, weaving through the few cars that are actually on the road.
“How's it lookin’?” Jason asks, leaning further down so he isn't fighting against the wind quite so much.
“Not great. Scarecrow's got more help this time around,” Red Robin replies tersely.
“Black Bat and I are here,” Steph answers, the sounds of yelling in the background.
“Good. Nightwing, eyes on Robin?” Batman's voice is gruff, with an undercurrent of worry. It makes Jason press harder on the throttle, because B is never that readable. Something must have happened.
“I am fine, father,” Damian grouses.
“Yeah, I've got eyes, don't worry about us, B. Focus on finding Scarecrow. I'll meet up with you soon.” Dick's voice is chipper despite the situation.
“ETA is about ten minutes, give or take.” Jason takes a corner sharp, grinding his teeth to prevent a sound from escaping while his back tire skids in a puddle of water before taking off again through an alley shortcut.
“We may need you faster than that,” Red Robin responds. “The main detonator is under the Square, but I think that's just the failsafe in case we get Scarecrow. That one probably has a timer, and somehow I doubt it's for very long.”
“Yeah, I got the rundown, baby bird. Just keep the trouble off my tail, I need to be able to focus once I get there.”
“Black Bat, head down as soon as you're finished to spot Hood.”
“Affirmative.”
The chatter over comms dissolves into background noise as Hood speeds through alleys and streets with the confidence only a bat or bird can have. Each bump, pothole, or turn in the road has his hip and shoulder screaming, but he keeps his jaw clamped firmly shut. He's done more with worse, he can disarm a measly bomb with a couple gunshot wounds.
So, scratch that, he may be able to disarm a bomb with a couple gunshot wounds, but he didn't take into account all his other injuries that had yet to heal, the goons he'd have to fight on his way in, or the bloodless he'd be suffering from due to his… less than carefully applied “bandages”, but sue him, he was in a hurry.
Now, he's crouched in front of a complicatedly put together bomb with five minutes left on its clock.
“Scarecrow has been apprehended. Hood, status?” Batman growls. Jason flips his hood down so he can rake a hand through his hair, tracing the wires with his eyes.
“Five minutes left on the timer. It's… well, Gotham is known for her special brand of crazy. Why shouldn't the bombs be the same,” Jason sighs. He unclips his half mask, setting it aside in favor of being able to breathe easier. He scrubs his eyes, then wipes his hands on his pants when they come away with sweat that had beaded there.
“I am almost there,” Cass’ voice comes through, its toneless quality making him shiver. Or maybe that was just a draft in the tunnel. Or blood loss. Take your pick.
“Yeah, but that doesn't help me with this clusterfuck of a bomb design. I mean, who even puts together this shit?” Most of this is muttered under his breath as he carefully picks through the wires and switches and lights and computer chips and is that a fucking rubber chicken how did he not see this before.
“Clearly, someone who wants to essentially drop a bioweapon on the city,” Stephanie answers dryly.
“Thank you so much for your input, Narrows. Very helpful,” Jason replies equally sarcastically. He'd roll his eyes if he wasn't trying to stay focused.
The numbers steadily tick down, with Jason working to isolate which wires he absolutely shouldn't cut, which ones just feed into each other, which ones are decoys, and which ones are the ones that will shut everything off. The mess of wires resembles a pile of wired earbuds that got all tangled up with each other, which just makes his life that much harder when the time ticks to three minutes and the fucking chicken starts wailing.
Green creeps into the edges of his vision.
“Hood, what the fuck is that sound?” Dick asks very politely.
“Is that a rubber chicken??” And of course Tim can place it.
Jason takes a deep breath.
“Yes, it's a rubber chicken. And if it doesn't stop I'm going to fucking. Lose it.”
“Deep breaths, little wing. You got this.”
Jason doesn't respond, but he appreciates the words more than he's willing to admit to anyone other than himself, and even then, barely.
Okay.
Focus, Jason.
The chicken is connected to a device that sucks the air in and out so it can keep making its annoying screeching noise. That device is connected to a yellow, red, and white wire. The yellow wire is connected to a chip, which connects into everything else. The red goes to a light. The white goes to a different light, then a switch, tangles through another smattering of colored wires, and finally to some of the canisters Jason is willing to bet contain fear gas. The explosives are kept next to the fear gas canisters, but only the white wire seems to be a constant.
Blue, green, and purple wires are the main colors used between the explosives, canisters, and lights. All of them tangle through the chip, switches, and lights.
Jason slips his knife under the yellow wire between the chip and the device and pulls up, letting out a breath when the wailing stops.
“Told ya little wing.” Dick's smile is evident through his tone, but it doesn't reassure him.
“Not yet, Dickhead. Three minutes and counting.” He turns his attention to the explosives and gas canisters.
At least, until muffled metal clattering across the cement echoes past Jason's ears, alerting him to another presence nearby. He whips his gun out (with his uninjured arm) in less than half a second, squinting into the darkness. He knows he could fire blind and hit his target, but he needs to be sure of whether it's ally or enemy.
His question is answered when Black Bat's form melts out of the shadows. He sighs, reholstering his gun to turn back to the bomb.
Cass pads up to his side, looking over his shoulder to gaze down at the ticking bomb.
“Complicated,” she hums quietly. Jason scoffs.
“One word for it. I'd go with fucking insane myself.” There's a small chorus of chuckles over the comms that just makes Jason put his head in his hands, pressing his palms against his eyes. A light hand rests on his uninjured shoulder, and he's vaguely aware of her saying something, but all he can hear is a foggy buzzing sound in his ears, a vague ringing behind it.
He raises his head, ignores it, ignores her, and keeps working.
At least it manages to block out that god forsaken beeping.
“White, red, green, blue, purple,” Jason murmurs. The comms go quiet. The timer ticks down. He slices a blue wire between a light and a canister. A purple wire between a switch and a piece of dynamite. A white one between a light and a switch.
One of the lights clicks off.
The ticking speeds up.
“Oh for fucks sake,” Jason hisses, dragging a hand down his sweaty face before focusing back in on the wiring.
“What happened?”
“Hood, report.”
“Little wing, what–”
“A minute,” Jason says instead of answering.
“But it has only been forty seconds since your last update?” Damian questions. Someone sucks in a breath, probably Tim.
“The timer sped up. We need to go.”
“I'm not leaving without them,” Dick argues immediately.
“Neither am I,” Steph agrees, her tone firm and leaving no room for argument.
“We cannot risk all of us getting injured–”
“I need you all to shut the fuck up, please,” Jason finally snaps, his exhaustion and pain finally leaking into his voice. The comms are quiet after that.
Red or green… one of the wires needs to be cut all the way through, every single one of them. And one needs to not be cut at all. That's just how these games are played when it comes to the Rogues.
It would be just like Scarecrow to think that the obvious wire to cut would be avoided, because the normal person would think exactly that, but in reality make that the exact wire that needs to be eliminated from the equation.
Then again, he could've just been stupid and obvious and that's totally possible because frankly the Rogus can and are fucking idiotic sometimes and it drives Jason up a fucking wall because how are they still around when doing shit like this should be putting them away for life but nOoOooOo Arkham is a fucking revolving door that let's people out all the god damn time no matter what they've done to deserve it and despite this Batman refuses to do anything permanent about it because apparently he's not fucking worth it–
Cass’ hand squeezes his shoulder, small, but firm.
“Breathe,” she commands softly, searching his gaze with those all-too-knowing eyes. He nods, blinking back black spots and gulping in a breath before letting it out as a slightly shaky exhale. Only one person could notice it, and unfortunately, that person is right fucking next to him.
Then he's cutting wires with a calm focus he really doesn't have. He decides to snip all the red wires, taking the chance that since Crane is such a psychology nerd, he would choose the one that makes him double guess the most.
Another light fizzles out when the last red wire is cut.
The beeping speeds up again.
Focus, Jason.
The clock hits one minute, but the numbers tick by faster than every second.
None of the green wires will be cut. All the red ones are. That leaves white, blue, and purple. But there's no clues to tell him which ones need to be cut.
40 seconds.
He glares at the switch, not giving him a moment to double guess himself before flipping it.
Black lights turn on around them. Jason feels Cass’ weight shift from her hand on his shoulder, looking around. But Jason is focused on the fact that now, some of the wires are red in the light.
20 seconds.
In quick succession, he's slicing all the now-red wires across the bomb and watches the numbers tick tick tick down until–
The last light blinks off just as the timer pauses on three seconds.
“Fucking hell,” Jason breathes out, finally hanging his head like he's been wanting to this whole time.
“You get it?”
“Yeah, I got it. Christ, can this happen closer to the beginning of patrol next time?” Jason jokes as he goes to stand, but Cass’ hand on his shoulder keeps him down. He squints up at her. She glances over his tense form.
“Hiding,” she murmurs, gaze flicking to his right shoulder and then down to his hip. “Hurt.”
“I'm fine, thank you. I'd like to go sleep now.” He slaps her hand away so he can stand, but then his vision is fading around the edges and gravity is really not working with him–
Cass catches him soundlessly, raising her eyebrow when he jerks away with a hitched gasp, hitting the opposite wall.
“Hurt,” she repeats pointedly.
“Hood is hurt?”
“Black Bat, Hood, report to the Cave immediately.”
“Serves him right.”
“When did you get hurt, and why didn't you tell us?”
“Damn, you disarmed that bomb while injured? Respect.”
Jason chuckles at the last one, begrudgingly letting Cass slip under his uninjured arm so she can help him walk when it's clear she won't let up.
“I'm fine, old man. Just need to get back to my safehouse that I was on my way to before I was so rudely interrupted.” There's no heat behind his words, but there is an uncharacteristic waver that gives his family teammates pause.
“Just come to the cave.”
“Whatever, dad.”
Jason rolls his eyes as he trudges into the Batcave, Cass firmly planted under his left arm to support him. Not like he really needs it, he could get to the medbay just fine on his own, but she was very stubborn and he had no doubt about her ability to lay him flat on his ass so he obliged.
Not without his complaints, of course.
“It's really nothing I can't stitch up by myself,” Jason argues for the fourth time tonight. “I've gotten by with far worse than this.”
Cass shakes her head resolutely. “Bleeding. Hurt. Need help,” she responds clearly. By now, they've gotten the attention of everyone else in the cave, which was everyone else except for Alfred, from what Jason could tell. Then again, voices were kind of melding together and his vision was a little spotty at the edges so who really knows.
“Oh my god, what happened to you?” Dick rushes forward, still in costume sans the domino. His worry is on full display, wide eyes and fluttering hands wanting to help, but hesitating.
“Nothing that I can't handle myself,” Jason nearly snaps, but manages to reign his tone into something a little less vitriolic at the last second.
“Todd, you are getting blood all over the floor,” Damian remarks pointedly, glancing up from where he's sharpening his katana. Jason glances down, finally noticing the warm, red liquid trailing down his arm to his fingertips and the slowly growing patch of dark red on his pant leg.
“Huh,” is all Jason responds with before he's tugged off to the medbay. An overbearing shadow sweeps in after him, helping Cass sit him down on one of the cots.
“Jaylad, what happened?” Bruce asks, his voice somewhere halfway between Bruce and Batman. Jason removes his mask, vest, and starts on his shirt, unable to stop the grin creeping onto his face when Bruce's eyes widen comically after seeing the duct tape.
“Is that duct tape?!” Dick screeches, which only makes the slightly feral grin grow wider.
“Well, I didn't have any bandages left on me,” Jason answers before Tim can open his mouth, “and all my safehouses were too in the opposite direction of the Square. You should all be thanking Home Depot for its sacrifice.”
Bruce looks like he wants to hide his head in his hands, but the sight of his wounded son in front of him pushes him to ignore that. He expertly cuts the tape off, frowning impossibly deeper at the sight of the gunshot.
“Jaylad, chum, sweetheart, in the future, please do not bandage gunshot wounds with duct tape.”
“... So everything else is on the table?”
Jason throws his head back with a maniacal cackle at his father's dumbfounded face.
He wishes he had a camera to capture this moment so he could frame it on his wall.