Chapter Text
The first thing he noticed was how dark it was.
The second thing he noticed was the smell of wet dirt.
The third thing he noticed was that he couldn’t move.
All at once, these things came together in an instantly overwhelming feeling of fear. He tried to move, and all he could feel was hard wood lined with silk. He tried to scream but no sound returned. At first he thought he was dead, then he realized he wasn’t, which turned out to be the problem.
He should be dead. He felt it to his very core. But he wasn’t. He was breathing. He was moving. He was-
The warehouse-
Laughter
The crowbar-
Laughter
The pain-
LAUGHTER
The FIRE-
LAUGHTER
His hands were bleeding. He was covered in mud, shaking from the adrenaline mixed with the cold wind against his soaked body in the pouring rain. His mind was racing with flashbacks of the past mixed with the present problems, causing wave after wave of anxiety and fear. What is going on? How did I get here? What happened? What do I do?
“Call Bruce.” He whispered aloud. “Call Bruce, and everything will be fine.” His voice was raspy. If from unuse or from whatever happened, he was unsure. All that mattered was to call Bruce.
After what feels like miles of walking, he makes it to a pay phone. He pats himself down, only to realize he has no money.
“Shit…” he mutters to himself. It was then that he realized he was wearing a nice suit. When did he put this on?
“Um…” he rounds on the sudden voice to find an older woman standing not too far from the payphone. “Do you need help, young man?” She asked cautiously.
He blinks once, twice, until the words finally compute past the unintelligible sounds in his head. He perks up, newfound hope in his chest. “Yes!” He says, maybe — definitely — too loudly, and the woman startles. He corrects himself. “-Um, yes, I, uh, need a quarter. To call someone. Please?” He doesn’t care that the desperation seeps into his voice, as long as he can call Bruce.
The woman reaches into her purse, and he feels himself tense up, and she hands him two quarters. He resists the urge to grab them as fast as he can and book it, something which probably comes from his days on the street, and accepts the coins with what he hopes is a grateful smile. The woman looks at him with pity, but doesn’t say anything and walks off.
He turns back to the payphone and enters a quarter. His hands shake violently as he puts in the number, and he’s internally grateful the woman gave him two quarters if his shaking hands dial the wrong number.
He holds his breath as the phone in his hand rings until he hears the phone click with an answer.
“Hello, this is Bruce Wayne. Who am I speaking with?” The familiar deep baritone of his father’s voice seems to break the dam on his emotions, as he devolves into a shaking, sobbing mess, leaning on the payphone box for support when his legs feel as though they want to give out.
He can’t muster words. He clutched the phone like letting go would kill him. He feels relief and sorrow and so much pain, and the worst part is he doesn’t know why.
“Hello?” Comes from the other line. “Hello, who is this?” The voice sounds stern, and he doesn’t like that. He needs to let him know. He needs-
“Bruce.” He manages. “I need- I need-“ he tries, but he can’t seem to get ahold of himself.
“Who is this?” Bruce says, still stern, but he can hear the concern in his voice. And he- he doesn’t know- what was his-? Oh-
“Jason.” He rasps out. “It’s Jason. Please, I need- I need-”
“Stop.” Bruce says, all emotion replaced with clear resentment. “Don’t even start. Do not contact me again.”
Jason feels like the world just collapsed on top of him for a second time. What is he saying? Why is he mad? What did Jason do wrong? “But- But I need-“ Jason starts, but is cut off.
“I don’t care what you need. Do. Not. Contact me.” Bruce says, before Jason hears the click and tone of the line going dead.
Jason stays there for a while, the buzz of the dead line the only thing keeping him from getting lost in the ocean of emotions crashing over him. By the time he resurfaces, he feels a strange sort of numbness. Not the nice, floaty kind of numbness, but the hollowed pit kind of numbness. It hurts with no pain, and he can’t bring himself to care about the loose tears streaming down his face.
In a last attempt for help, he calls the only person whose number he remembers.
“Y’ello?” The familiar cheery voice answers. Jason takes a deep breath. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up. This is your last shot, DON’T FUCK THIS UP-
“Hey Dick…” he says. His voice is not as raspy as before, but his tone is more emotionless than ever. “It’s Jason. I need help.”
The other line goes dead quiet, and Jason feels the pit in his chest fill with anxiety. Please. Please. Whatever I did I won’t do it again, just don’t leave me PLEASE-
“What do you need help with, Jason?” Dick responds, and Jason sucks in a shuttering breath. Maybe he hadn’t fucked this up! He did note, however, that Dick’s voice had a strange tone. It was oddly airy and soft, a tone Jason had never heard from the older boy before.
“Um. Can I- um- stay with you? I don’t think B wants to see me, and I- um- don’t have anywhere to go.” He mutters. “I won’t get in your way, I promise, just- please. I-I need help, Dick.” Tears began rolling down Jason’s face again, as he begged his last hope for help. He feels helpless, like he’s still a little kid on the streets, praying for anyone to help him.
“‘Course, Jay. Where are you?” Dick responds, still in that soft, airy tone, but Jason can’t find it in him to care. He jumps up and looks around for any landmarks that might tell him where he is.
“Um, the payphone on the street across from the Gotham Cemetery!” He rushed out.
Jason hears a soft exhale on the other line. “Of course you are.” Dick mutters, barely audible. “I’ll be there in an hour and a half. Can you wait for me?” He asks.
Jason vigorously nods his head, despite knowing Dick can’t see it. “Yeah! Yes, yes, I can wait.” He say, eagerly.
Dick sighs on the other line. “Alright. See you soon. Love you, Jay.” Dick says, and Jason notes an odd hint of sadness in the bizarre sign off.
“Um, yeah, love you too?” He responds, confused, before the line goes dead.
Jason puts the phone back, and sits down under the phone, using the payphone box as shelter from the outside rain. He pulls his knees up to his chest, and looks down at his hands.
They’re covered in dirt and blood, with cuts on his fingertips and knuckles. His fingernails are chipped and, in some cases, almost torn off from the fingernail bed. It’s now that Jason realizes just how much it hurts. He hopes that Dick has a med kit that he can borrow. Well, obviously he will, but he hopes Dick will let him use it.
After everything that has happened, Jason feels a wave of exhaustion wash over him. Listening to the patter of the rain, he managed to drift off slightly as he waited for Dick to arrive.