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he can’t remember the last time it hurt, is sure that’s not a good thing. he’s pretty sure it’s supposed to hurt, pretty sure this means he’s dying. it hurt so much at first. the swing, the crunch, that disgusting wet sound that he finally figures out is him, the smell- the smell. acrid, metal, it sticks to him. in his nose, on his tongue, spreading slowly across the concrete below him.
he doesn’t even notice when it stops, when he’s lifted from the ground by hands that hold him like he’s glass, like a gift from god himself. barely registers a voice and now he’s sure he’s dying because it’s bruce.
but it’s not, it’s wrong. his mind has fucked up his voice in his last moments, because bruce sounds scared and he’s never scared. he’s batman, he doesn't fear anything. but this voice, this wrong version of bruce is scared and the wrongness is so strange that jason doesn’t even realize what he’s saying. it’s his name, over and over, trembling like an earthquake and barely a whisper. a prayer.
and if he can hear this wrong bruce maybe they can hear jason too so he cracks his lips with strength he doesn't know he still has. his voice sounds wrong too, broken and young in a way he hasn't sounded since he was on the streets.
“tell my dad i’m sorry.”