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Jason woke to his head pounding and intense, burning pain in his abdomen. He felt hot and dizzy and sick. He couldn't stifle a groan as he shifted.
"Hood?" A familiar growl—close and tense but surprisingly gentle—said, and Jason tensed. He had no idea where he was, but that voice...he knew it far too well. He tried to open his eyes, and after a few moments he managed to blink them open to slits. Sure enough, he could dimly see Bruce looming over him, his jaw tense with worry beneath the cowl.
"—What?" Jason croaked, starting at how hoarse he sounded, how hard it felt to draw breath.
"Lie still," Bruce ordered, and Jason froze. It ticked him off when Bruce ordered him around as if he were still Robin, but the concealed fear in Bruce's voice combined with the pain—and having no memory of how he wound up here—made him listen. His gaze flitted from Bruce to the metal surrounding them, enclosing them from all sides. His pulse sped up without his consent.
"Where...what happened?" He demanded weakly, his eyes snapping back to Bruce.
Bruce exhaled quietly. "How much do you remember?"
Jason tried to think. His head was swimming with pain—and it wasn't helped by the swaying all around them. Shit, they were in a truck, Jason realized. One of those maintenance trucks with a rig on the back for carrying supplies. He swallowed hard, his stomach churning threateningly. He remembered something about drugs and something about weapons and something about Black Mask...and then pain and nothing. He had no idea when Bruce had shown up.
"I..." He stammered. "I don't..."
Bruce frowned. He scooted forward—Jason squirmed back a bit on reflex, and Bruce froze for a moment—before he reached out and grasped Jason's chin in a surprisingly gentle hold, tilting his face up. There was suddenly a blinding, unbearably bright light in his eyes. Jason gasped and closed his eyes quickly, sputtering in pain and anger.
A grunt. It sounded vaguely concerned. The gloved hand tilted Jason's head in the other direction—Jason tried hard not to throw up—and he could feel Bruce's leather-clad fingers carefully probing something that hurt like hell. "You definitely have a concussion," Bruce said.
"No shit," Jason gritted out, swallowing again and trying to breathe slowly and deeply. Bruce clicked off the light and very gently eased Jason's head back down to lay on the floor. Jason didn't bother to stifle the little inhale of relief—being still and lying down felt a bit better.
"I've been tracking weapons shipments into Gotham for the past several weeks," Bruce said. "I went to the designated location, and you were there. So were Penguin and Black Mask."
Oh, now Jason remembered. Mask had been getting new shipments of weapons from somewhere; machine guns. They'd been trying to take out a rival enterprise. Jason had been intervening for the past few weeks. He'd weeded out locations himself, destroyed new shipments of the weapons, shot up a few of Mask's locations just to prove his point. More had kept coming. So he finally decided to follow Mask's minions around and see where they went and who was supplying them.
"When you saw Mask, you attacked and were holding your own. I joined in, and you." Bruce swallowed. "You froze, and one of the henchmen shot you, and then one of the closer thugs knocked your helmet off and hit you with his gun."
Oh. Jason glanced down at his stomach. Bruce had patched it up with a square of adhesive gauze which was already blood-soaked. "Through and through?" Jason croaked hoarsely, flinching.
Bruce shook his head. "It's still there. I don't know where."
Jason closed his eyes and laid his head back down, drawing deep breaths through his nose in an attempt to calm down some. It was hard; it was dark and close and hot in here. Far too similar to another situation for his liking.
But he wasn't alone this time. Bruce was here.
Jason wrinkled an eyebrow. Wait. Why was Bruce here?
He opened one eye to a slit, glancing at his former mentor. Bruce was watching him, his lips pressed tightly together, jaw working. "Is there a particular reason why you're still here?" Why didn't you leave, why didn't you call the others for help, why didn't you...
Bruce just looked at him, an indiscernible emotion on his face. Jason groaned. It was pretty obvious why Bruce was still here. Because of him. He'd been solidly out after getting whacked over the head; he could almost imagine a henchman holding a gun to his head, threatening to kill him if Bruce didn't come along quietly. Jason wanted the ground to swallow him. It was bad enough that he was in this situation in the first place, but even worse that Bruce was here to witness him screwing up, to silently—or not-so-silently—judge him for working alone, for his methods, for...well, everything. "Damnit," he gritted out, his eyes closed.
"Hood?" Bruce asked, concerned. Damn him and his concern, Jason thought irritatedly. He squelched the familiar feelings of rage and bitterness back down into their well-kept corner of his brain, reserved for times when he didn't have to get along in order to survive. He forced his eyes back open and glared at Bruce as much as he could, trying hard to stay aware. Looking angry was better than looking pained. It would get Bruce off his case—or at least back on it in a way he could handle.
"Who has us?" He demanded. "Mask or Penguin?"
Bruce looked vaguely surprised and even a bit startled at Jason's ferocity, but replied, "Mask."
Great. More ammo against Jason. Mask was for the most part his responsibility nowadays; unspoken, of course, but Jason had taken it upon himself to be a thorn in the bastard's side, and Bruce had for the most part left him to it. And now here he was, a perfect audience to watch Jason bite the dust just because he was sloppy. Jason swallowed hard, the already present nausea increased by the heat and the head wound and the jerking of the truck on top of the frustration.
"You could have left, you know," he bit out harshly, brain-to-mouth filter nearly killed by the circumstances. "God forbid you should prevent me from learning my lesson."
He flinched almost the instant the words left his mouth, as Bruce stiffened. Great job, genius, he thought, really wanting to throw up now.
"Jason," Bruce's voice was barely audible...which Jason understood—they were being held captive in close proximity to criminals, he was already shocked enough that Bruce was using his name—but what he didn't understand was the choked tone to Bruce's voice, how it seemed he was forcing the words out and yet startled to hear them at the same time. Bruce leaned closer unconsciously, and Jason squirmed back very consciously, a little afraid of what he'd say.
Bruce swallowed hard, his eyes unobscured by lenses. It was too dark to see much of him, but the familiar grey eyes seemed to glow in the dark trunk. "After what Mask did to..." his breath caught, "...to Stephanie. I will not leave any of you with him for any more length of time than is necessary. Never."
Jason stared. Bruce stared right back, the grey eyes never wavering, with the fire in them that Jason had seen so many times, the fire that terrified bad people and gave strength to the good. Jason, being neither, particularly, had no idea what they did for him. He attempted licking his lips, intending to try and respond...but thankfully their captors chose that moment to bring the truck to a stop. Jason was seriously considering hugging Mask for getting him out of that one.
Bruce immediately positioned himself in front of Jason, crouching into a deceptively relaxed stance that Jason knew was just the starting point for him to leap into action if necessary. Jason flopped his head back against the rusty metal with a groan.
Nothing. No door opening, no sound, no action for the longest time. Jason really didn't care much, but his stupid heart wasn't cooperating with his ambivalence, and was doing very strange things as he lay there wondering what the hell was going on.
Finally, there was a sigh outside the door. "Bats, pal. I know you're probably on the other side of this door waiting for me to open it up so you can trash my henchmen."
Bruce didn't move, and Jason found the entire situation vaguely funny. He had to stifle a giggle, which told him exactly how bad off he was.
"However," Jason stiffened slightly on the floor, listening carefully, "I happen to need your help with somethin', and it involves your buddy Hood, there. I would be perfectly willing to put at least three bullets in his brain for all the trouble he's caused me, buuuut..." Mask's voice dipped, turned menacing, "if you really want to keep him alive, I think you'll stand down and let us talk. You get me?"
Jason eyed Bruce nervously. His mentor looked frozen, barely moving at all.
"You get me?" Mask repeated, a bit louder, with more trepidation.
"Yes." Jason jumped a little at the sound; it was a gravelly, low thing, burning with rage. Of course, his little jump ignited a sharp burn that stabbed his stomach and swelled through the rest of him, and he let his head thunk back against the floor again, clenching his eyes shut and breathing harshly through his teeth. He barely heard the creak of the door opening—though he was vaguely aware of more light leaking in. He felt Bruce move around behind him. Jason forced himself to blink his eyes open, cursing the fact that he didn't have his helmet to hide his face. Mask stood a ways back, flanked in the front by fifteen grunts, most of them big and all of them packing and aiming securely at Bruce and Jason. Great. No chance of escaping cleanly then, since Bruce was apparently playing the wait card.
Mask smirked—as well as he was able with the aforementioned face hardware, at least. "Alrighty, then, out you come."
Three of the men stepped forward at Mask's nod, marching towards Jason—Jason tensed and scrambled backwards as much as he was able, cringing at the stab of pain the motion lit in his abdomen.
"Enough." Bruce growled lowly, stepping forward and crouching down next to Jason. To Jason's embarrassment, he slid an arm beneath Jason's back and knees and hefted him up off the floor of the truck, somehow managing to avoid hurting him. That didn't stop his face from flushing bright red—not for the first time, Jason cursed his fair complexion. He really wished he had his helmet. Except there would probably be very little difference in color between the helmet and his face at this point. He clenched his eyes shut when Mask burst into loud, obnoxious laughter, echoed by his thugs.
"Awww, isn't he sweet?" Mask crooned, sickeningly sugary. It sounded wrong through the voice modulation. "Are you two fucking in between crime fighting, or what?”
If it was possible, Jason burned even redder. He couldn't quite stifle the full-body shudder that happened involuntarily upon hearing Mask's taunt. He considered kicking his way out of Bruce's grasp and pounding Mask into the asphalt, bullet wound or no bullet wound.
Unfortunately, Bruce had not forgotten Jason's tendencies, because his arm beneath Jason's back hefted him up so that he was leaning against Bruce's collarbone, the Bat on his chest rough and scraped-up beneath Jason's cheek.
"Ignore them," Bruce said, so quietly that Jason glanced back up, wondering if he was hearing things. But no. At this distance, he could see through the lenses, and Bruce was eyeing him with a look that was firm, but not without sympathy. Jason swallowed hard and let himself go limp once more, closing his eyes. It made sense to try and pull himself together while he had a break. Bruce would deal with them.
By the time Jason felt up to blinking his eyes open again, they were inside a very familiar warehouse. He barely stifled a groan. He had driven Crane's people out of this warehouse less than a month ago. Why the hell did he even try?
Bruce was walking quickly—Jason could feel how tense he was in his tight grip on Jason's back and knees—and Mask's soldiers were right behind them. Jason glanced hazily up at Bruce and tried to make eye contact with him, but Bruce's eyes were fixed firmly ahead. He marched straight over to one of the outside walls of the warehouse and carefully eased Jason down so that he was half-sitting, half-lying propped against the wall. Jason forced himself to keep his features impassive despite the sharp pain in his stomach at the motion.
When he managed to open his eyes again, Bruce was close beside him, on one knee, carefully probing the wound, his face beneath the cowl tight with concern. Jason chanced a glance down and saw that the adhesive gauze was nearly black with blood gathering behind it and soaking through it. He quickly closed his eyes again and tried to think of anything but the deep, intense burning that throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He drew a sharp breath through his teeth before forcing himself to inhale slowly through his nose and exhale as calmly as he could manage. He'd hated learning the lamaze techniques as a kid—it always felt awkward—but he had to admit that they did somewhat help.
"Okay, Bats, time to back away," Jason heard faintly, and his eyes snapped open. Six of Mask's foot soldiers were aiming their guns at Bruce, and Bruce slowly stood up and stepped away from Jason, face like a thundercloud. Jason swallowed, trying his best not to look apprehensive.
"So. Here's the deal." Mask said. "The next shipment of weapons is coming in tonight, and I've already tipped Two-Face off to its location." Jason's eyes widened. Two-Face? Since when was he involved? Why was Mask tipping him off to a weapons shipment? "You're going to come along and take my boys down, as ya do," Mask continued, voice turning dark, "and be very thorough in doing so. You do that, you can take Hoodsie back to wherever the hell you two come from and patch that rip in his gut. You don't, I settle my score with the bastard once and for all. We get each other?"
"What's in the shipment?" Bruce snarled, voicing Jason's concern. "Why are you trying so hard to make sure Dent gets it?"
"It's nothing that'd hurt you, Batsy," Mask chuckled. "In fact, you'd probably like it. They don't work after the first few test shots. No better'n Daisy rifles after that point."
Jason's mind raced. There had to be something Mask wasn't telling them. If he was trying to manipulate Dent's men into taking sabotaged arms, he must be planning to ambush Dent's operation soon, and that could spell big trouble for all of them. Bruce shouldn’t cooperate with this, he really shouldn’t….but Jason knew he was going to.
Maybe it wouldn’t matter. Maybe Bruce would figure out some way to tip Two-Face off while he was there—after all, he did have a history with Harvey. But Jason couldn’t help but feel like shit about all this. He didn’t want to be used as a bargaining chip against Batman. He wished there wasn’t a hole in him, both because it sucked and because he wished he could go, wished he didn’t have to sit trapped in a warehouse with Black Mask while Bruce took on Two-Face alone.
Black Mask exaggeratedly glanced at his watch. “Time’s a ticking here, buddy. I’d get going if I was you.”
Bruce shot a glare at the criminal that would have withered grass. Mask, being Mask, didn’t recoil and took the whole thing almost wearily. It would have been funny under any other circumstance.
Okay. It was funny. Jason just wasn’t quite in the shape to attempt laughing.
Bruce crouched down in front of him, his back to Mask and the thugs, mostly blocking their view. “I’ll be back for you,” he said.
Jason bit his tongue on an 'I’ve heard that one before,’ and just nodded. He was surprised when Bruce grabbed his face, but it was gentle, just taking his chin and looking in his eyes. “Will you be alright?” he asked, and the seriousness in his voice made Jason pause.
“Shit, I hope so,” he said, and snorted at himself. He wasn’t the most eloquent person in the world, but he meant it.
But the blunt response seemed to reassure Bruce, though he only released Jason’s face so he could squeeze his shoulder. “I’ll be back,” he repeated again, and somehow, though he appreciated the sentiment, Jason really wished he wouldn’t say that. It sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
Bruce stood up and took two steps still facing Jason, then turned back to Mask. “Alright. I’ll play your game, Mask.”
“Wise choice,” Mask rolled his eyes. “Anyway, get going. I want this to look good and if you rode in the convoy with my guys the dullest jackass on the street wouldn’t buy it.”
Bruce ducked his head slightly in acknowledgement, and with a final glance at Jason over his shoulder, he left the warehouse. Jason watched him go and tried to ignore the sinking in his stomach that had nothing to do with the blood rapidly leaking out of it.
“You boys better head off then,” Mask addressed his goons. “I don’t want him beating you there. Though I suppose it don’t really matter either way, does it?”
Jason said nothing but perked his ears up and determined if he was going to be stuck here he was going to listen the whole damn way and find out every piece of information he could about this whole clusterfuck. He leaned wearily back and shut his eyes, feigning exhaustion and semi-consciousness—which was fine because his head did actually hurt pretty fuckin’ bad. The retreating heavy footsteps of the goons faded away, and then stifled conversation drifted over to him from some distance. He opened one eye a slit and saw Sionis standing a ways off with his assistant lady and another lieutenant, some dorky kid in a suit he probably couldn’t afford.
“What’s taking them so long?”
“We’re not sure, sir. Last contact was over fifteen minutes ago. We’re trying—“
“I don’t want trying for fuck’s sake! This whole thing depends on timing and everyone being lined out! Right place right time or it won’t work!”
“I’ve been calling them,” the lady’s voice. “Sterling says they can’t get it to work.”
“What do you mean it won’t work? That thing cost me ten million!”
“It’s a complicated piece of machinery—“
“It better be for ten fucking million dollars!”
Jason didn’t like the sound of this at all. Any sort of machinery in Gotham made him nervous, but for Sionis to be so hot under the collar about it? This wasn’t his modus operandi, which somehow made it worse. Very slowly, he started checking his devices. His main comm had been lost with his helmet, but he had a few backups. The locator wasn’t his favorite, but he had consented to carry one just in case of emergencies, reassured that he’d have to activate it for it to track him. It was somewhere on the back of his neck, and he subtly felt for it, fighting off a sudden wave of dizziness. Great. Wonderful. How could this get any…
“Hey!” Mask’s voice cracked, and Jason froze. Shit. The smarmy fuck was stalking over towards him. It would be stupid to pretend he wasn’t doing anything, so he stayed in the same position, finger hovering over the button, which he prayed was unseen by Sionis.
“I don’t know what sort of situation you and Bats have, but this goes both ways you know.” Mask told him, getting right in his face. “He’s doing what I told him cause he knows what I’d be happy to do to you if he doesn’t. Well, you know I’d be more than happy to blow him to kingdom come along with you. So you just play along, alright kiddo?” Mask poked him sharply, once in the shoulder and once in the gauze. Jason crumpled very slightly with pain and grabbed his stomach with both hands, wheezing. When he could move he glared up at Mask as viciously as he could manage and hissed a ‘fuck you,’ in his direction.
“There he is,” Mask snorted, backing up. “Glad we understand each other, pal,” he said over his shoulder as he walked off. Jason breathed raggedly and clutched at his stomach, but smirked. He’d hit the button just before Mask jabbed him. He didn’t know who was around to help out, but hopefully they’d know he never called the cavalry out and put two and two together.
“They’ve got it working,” drifted over from the assistant lady. “Fifteen minutes out.”
“Alright! Back in business!” Mask slapped the other dude on the back so hard he nearly knocked him over and strode over towards a luxury cooler. “Who wants libations?”
Now what the fuck was he so happy about? This was skeeving Jason out worse every second. He started looking around at the exits and considering what could be managed.
“To good old Harv and his goons getting barbecued!” Mask toasted enthusiastically, popping a can open and turning it bottoms up as it fizzed everywhere.
Oh no. Jason suddenly put two and two together himself. About a year ago someone had stolen an experimental device from a shipment to Wayne Tech where it was going for preemptive testing. It was some sort of ecological management invention that was supposed to be able to be set up to instantly vaporize sporadic brush for wildfire management. But jerry-rigged, it might be able to do it to people.
This wasn’t about tricking Two-Face. This was about luring him in to kill him, and his entire crew, too. And if Bruce got caught in the middle of that shit—
Nope. Not happening. Jason had to warn him. The only problem was he’d have to sneak past Mask and his lieutenants to do so. And mobility was not his friend with the gut wound. But there wasn’t a choice. He got his arm underneath himself and slowly, painfully pulled himself to his feet. He guessed there was a God, because Mask had his back to him, and his two cronies weren’t looking, either. Jason would have to move fast and be quiet and hope for good luck. He spotted a section of metal piping discarded in the floor and snatched it up, ignoring the pain from bending. Holding his breath, he focused all his energy on watching Sionis like a hawk and staying quiet. Inhale—pain he really shouldn’t be doing this fuck fuck—exhale, quiet. He knew how to become a shadow, and he was going to put it to good use.
He got within about ten feet of them before the dorky dude happened to glance around and saw him. Fuck. Now he had to be fast. The dude didn’t even shout a warning really, just squawked, and the lady shrieked and covered her head, while Mask, who was three or four chugged cans deep by Jason’s count, spun rather clumsily, drink still in hand. But his other hand was going to the inner pocket of his coat.
Jason pounded forward despite the agony, and blessed adrenaline took over. Mask had his gun in hand, but before he got the chance to point it Jason swung the pipe, and his aim and the force behind it was deadly. The crunch as Mask’s hand shattered echoed through the warehouse, and his scream of pain was intensely satisfying. Jason didn’t pause and brought the pipe to bear against that metal head of his, and one swing had him laid out on the floor. The dork was fumbling for a gun as well but pivoted into throwing himself at Jason, but Jason flicked the switch on his wrist and threw himself against him in a body slam, and his chest taser shocked the moron into unconsciousness. The lady had the most sense of any of them. She was gone by the time Jason looked up. But it was very possible she was running off to cause more trouble from a safer location.
Jason only paused for a second, trying to breathe. But the moment he stopped, the pain started to close in again, so he decided it would be best if he were to just keep going until he couldn’t. Striding past the two he’d laid out, he couldn’t quite resist grabbing Sionis by the skull as he passed and heaving him up just enough to hiss, “Two can play along, Mask. Hope you understand that.” He threw him back to the floor and staggered out of the warehouse. There’d be hell to pay later, no doubt, but right now he was busy praying there’d be some way he could get to Bruce to warn him.
When he got outside the warehouse, he could have screamed. Not a vehicle in sight. He guessed the assistant lady had taken Mask’s sports car. He looked this way and that before stupidly running towards the next warehouse, scanning each side of the road for anything he could find. His legs were starting to feel numb underneath him and he almost fell at least three times. Great.
Finally he spotted a big delivery van. Not the fastest wheels but they’d have to do. He broke the window out with his elbow and scrambled in over the glass. The keys were in the visor. Huh. Must have been from out of town. He started it up and threw it into gear.
Of course now he had to confront the fact that he had no idea where Bruce had gone, where the meet was, and where the weapon was. There were a few different haunts where they usually did weapons drops, and it could be any one of them. But he didn’t have time to check them all—and didn’t have gas either, now that he looked at the gauge. He decided to drive to the closest one and go from there and hope it wasn’t at the furthest location. He blinked the sandy, heavy feeling out of his eyes and went to turn the wheel, but had to fight the shaking in his fingers. This was not advisable. None of this was advisable. He was driving by instinct, only knowing the turns because he knew the area. He was speeding, and probably weaving all over the road, but at this point he’d welcome a GCPD cruiser pulling him over. He could use the help. He was almost to the first drop site…
And out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a giant armored semi and he could have screamed again. That was the weapon! And it rapidly disappeared down around a corner. He threw the van into reverse and spun it around, hitting the gas in a desperate attempt to catch up. He didn’t see it ahead at first, and he wondered if he’d taken the wrong turn.
But then he saw it again, two streets down, just passing into view through a parking garage. He pivoted to pursue. His vision was getting bleary around the edges, so he focused on the semi. He had to catch it.
Suddenly something slammed into the right side of the van, and he barely kept it on the road. He glanced in the mirror and saw the sports car. No fucking way, he thought. Sure enough, the assistant lady was driving, and pointing an AK out the window. He had to hand it to her. She was dedicated. Unfortunately for her, his vehicle outweighed hers. He rammed her back, and the car veered off wildly before plowing across the sidewalk and two or three curbs before coming to a stop against a light pole.
Jason glanced back to the semi, and realized suddenly that he didn’t know what he was going to do if he did manage to catch up with them. He had no gun, no weapon. Mask had taken all his shit. At least if he’d brought the pipe he could have thrown it into a tire or something. As it was, he had jack. And he could barely see, and his hands were shaking, and he was shaking. And his jacket was soaked through and cold with blood.
He didn’t trust Mask, as well he shouldn’t. With him sabotaging the machine, or his lackeys, he highly doubted it was guaranteed not to just combust. It could kill a lot of innocent people. Most people would assume he didn’t care about that, but he did. He wasn’t a monster for crying out loud.
Of course that wasn’t really his reason for doing all this. He didn’t care what his reason was, particularly. But he did know his job when he saw it.
He peeled off at the next light and went around the block, and floored it. He saw the cab of the semi cross the intersection, and knew his timing had been right. Good for me, was the last thought that crossed his mind before the impact. And then everything was metal and glass and fire and his mind went blessedly blank, but not before the irony quickly crossed it that Bruce hadn’t made it in time for him, but he’d made it just in time. And the bastard wasn’t even around to appreciate it. Time management…
___
Fortunately he wasn’t dead. But unfortunately, he woke up quickly.
He was hanging upside down in the cab of the truck, and blood was dripping into his eyes and his hair, and he wasn’t sure where it was all from. There was glass all over the place and smoke was filling the cab. Coughing was agony, and then he couldn’t breathe.
Faintly he heard sirens, still a long ways off, and then he heard fisticuffs nearby. Well, if anyone came up he was as good as dead, though frankly he was surprised he wasn’t already.
Someone slammed into the side of the cab. He blacked out. Someone had him by the arm. They pulled him. He blacked out again. He was on the hot asphalt and he couldn’t open his eyes. There was pressure on either side of his face and wetness dripping down his nose. “Jay lad, why? Why did you do that?”
Bruce. He tried to reply, say something, but he couldn’t. He went into tremors.
He was strapped down and felt like a weight was crushing him to the earth, but at the same time like he was floating five feet above his body. For a split second he had the sense he was looking down on himself being loaded into the back of an ambulance, and he was vaguely shocked he wasn’t already covered over with a sheet. Then he slipped away again and didn’t come back.
___
He didn’t really wake up for a long time. There were flashes where he could hear snatches of conversation, wake up enough just to get a glimpse of someone before slipping under again. Mostly it was just the sounds that pierced the silence. Folding chairs squeaking under the weight of a person shifting, the gentle clink of a teacup hitting a saucer, fingernails tapping nervously on a tabletop, quiet snoring, stifled crying.
As far as he was concerned, he hurt. It wasn’t that he enjoyed being unaware, but the quiet was nice in a way. And he did want to know what was going on, but he was exhausted. Attempts to drag himself to the surface failed often after only moments. But when he finally did manage to wake up and stay awake for any amount of time, he furrowed a brow weakly at the unfamiliar figure in the chair across the room. Somehow he had expected Bruce, but something in the shape told him it wasn’t him.
Sure enough, the figure seemed to sense his attention and stirred, raising his face from his arm sleepily. Ah. Dick. Things must have been bad.
How bad became obvious when Dick met his gaze. He didn’t openly react, but Jason could see him freeze, and there was a look in his eyes. Almost like Jason were a wild animal he was eyeing, waiting to see if he would run away and disappear forever.
“Wh’t.” Jason swallowed hard, licking dried lips with a dry tongue. “Wh’t day is it?”
Dick shifted with a slight wince that told Jason he’d been sitting in that chair for a long while. “July tenth.”
Shit. It had been somewhere in late June last he’d known. He tried to clear his throat again, but it didn’t help. Dick scooted his chair over and fumbled with something at the bedside, then held a straw to his lips. Jason gratefully drank down water, fast at first, but before Dick could scold him to slow down he did so. They made eye contact, and Jason resisted the urge to squirm under that…that desperate edge in Dick’s gaze.
Now that he wasn’t parched almost to death, he managed to clear his throat. “Br’ce?” he asked.
“Sent him home for a while,” Dick said. “He’s pissed, by the way.”
Jason sputtered. “For what?” he croaked. “For saving his stupid life? I swear, that asshole…”
“For going off on your own like that. You know you could have died?” Fuck, Jason could hear Dick gritting his teeth. He was pissed, too.
“No, Dick, that hadn’t occurred to me,” Jason seethed hoarsely, enunciating his brother’s name with gusto. “I’m just out here skipping along like a little sunflower with no—“ he broke off to cough, “—no fucking clue of what consequences are, apparently. Nevermind I’m the one who actually died!” Dick flinched. “Nevermind that I’m the one who has—“ his gaze went down to his body, which was a mess of casts, wires, bandages, stitches. “—What’s wrong with me now?”
Dick shook his head, like it wasn’t even worth responding. That riled Jason up even more. If Dick was gonna be a little prick about it, fuck him. “God forbid I inconvenience you with my fucking—“ he flapped an elbow and immediately regretted it. Pain lanced up his shoulder and he was breathing hard with his eyes closed until it receded.
When he managed to blink his eyes open again there were tears in them despite himself. Dick was still looking at him and Jason hated him for it. He looked away, angry, and pretended the tears weren’t there and were completely under his control.
When Dick spoke, it was barely audible, but it still almost made Jason jump. “Broken arm, broken collarbone, fractured hip, God knows how many lacerations, smoke inhalation, plus the bullet wound in your stomach and the concussion you already had. You left a trail of blood from the warehouse all the way down the road, that was the only way we could even trace what the hell happened and where you went when Tim tried to piece it together later.”
Shit. He felt every bit of that, but somehow it still was surprising. He supposed he was lucky to be alive. But it hadn’t really crossed his mind.
Well. That was a lie. Of course he was fucking terrified of dying again. But, well.
“I didn’t have a choice,” he pleaded, and Dick flinched again. He hated how desperate and weak his voice sounded. “I had to warn him.”
Dick’s jaw worked, and Jason lay back, suddenly exhausted. “The worst part about it is I would have done the same thing,” his brother said, and the bitterness in his voice was palpable.
Somehow that put Jason at his limit. He felt like there wasn’t enough air in the room, and all the pain suddenly overwhelmed him. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he vaguely felt someone dry it off. He heard tense conversation, but was too wrapped up in not drowning in his own suffering, until finally pain meds started to kick in and he drifted off into the peaceful silence again.
___
When he woke the next time he somehow felt so much worse. It felt like gravity was pushing him down and if it let its weight fall on him much further he would sink right through the bed. He was sweltering and shifted uncomfortably under the thin sheet. A low whine escaped him.
Once again consciousness was off and on, and he heard snatches of a quiet but sharp conversation again.
“You can see by looking at him he—“
“I have him on antibiotics already. These things happen when— left for hours. Of course if his fever gets any worse—“
“He—“
“It’s—good right now. I don’t like it any more than you but he needs—“
Then it went quiet and he exhaled in relief. Somehow silence made the pain easier to bear.
As if from a long way away, he heard someone’s shoes walk off, and a door quietly shut. Then another set of shoes walked somewhere. He drifted off again. He only awoke because someone was drying the sweat off his face with a cool cloth.
His vision was fuzzy, but of course it was Bruce sitting there doing it, he knew even through the haze. He met his eyes and saw the anger there for himself, and Jason recoiled just slightly in the hospital bed despite everything. There was something about Bruce’s anger that made it seem so much worse than anyone else’s, and it was because it was so….quiet. He didn’t yell or rage generally when he was mad, but boy would you know, because you could feel it. It lanced off him like electricity.
But the instant he pulled back the anger softened and Bruce went from looking like a thundercloud to looking very tired and stricken and like he just wanted to be home in bed and Jason felt vaguely guilty for keeping him from it. Though, he really did feel like shit, he reasoned, shutting his eyes. So he was glad he was here.
He could tell maybe Bruce wanted to say something. The anger’s replacement was desperation. The question was in his eyes— why?
But when Jason managed to crack his eyes open to meet them, Bruce must have seen the answer there, because he swallowed hard and instead said nothing, and just sat with him through the fever instead.