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When he wakes up, Jason is lying on a cot.
He's staring at a ceiling made of glass, the view beyond it of rough rock, like the inside of a cave. There's a quiet beeping from somewhere to his right—the papery blanket beneath him rustles as he turns his head from left to right, squinting against the bright fluorescence. His lungs are tight, the air sterile. He swallows, wincing at the dryness of his throat and the slight taste of copper on his tongue. Despite the aching of his muscles, he sits up.
He's in a room he's unfamiliar with—there are monitors and medical equipment atop the counters, small vials filled with various liquids lining the shelves. There is one exit, a door on the far left side of the room. He absently reaches over to itch his arm, whipping his head around as his fingers meet tape and the metallic IV stuck into his skin. There's a clear liquid being pumped into his veins, and he curls his lip in disgust.
Next to his cot, there is a side table with gauze and antiseptic within reach. He snatches the gauze, rips the IV out in one swift motion, and wraps the point of entry in a messy layer of bandage. He doesn’t have time to worry about the neatness of the bandage or the pulsing in his head or where his god damn shoes are, what the fuck.
His fingers bunch in the blanket that's thrown over him, readying to throw it off of him, when a wave of violent panic crashes within his chest. It comes out of nowhere. It feels like a bucket of ice water has been thrown across his skin, like he’s been burned with a hot iron. He's suddenly keenly aware of the pounding in his skull, of the shortness of his breath, of the way his nerves feel shot and fried as if electrocuted.
His heart is hammering in his chest, his mouth dry. He hears himself hyperventilating and pushes himself off the cot to stumbling feet, vertigo washing over him instantly. It causes him to teeter to the side, and he nearly crashes back onto the cot before managing to catch himself, both palms pressed firmly into the mattress. He breathes then, staring a hole into the thin blanket, dragging deep breaths in and out. He feels vaguely lightheaded, blinks hard against the dryness of his eyes. After a minute of sucking in breaths, Jason is able to stand upright.
Jason’s eyes dart from wall to wall, taking in everything he can, finding what he can use. He’s never been in this room before—he's not even sure how he got here. He cant conjure a single relevant thought or guess, he just… doesn’t remember. What he was doing before waking in this room, where he had been prior to now, or… who he even was. His breathing quickens and he swallows hard. He must be concussed, his brain damaged somehow, but… he glances around the room once more. It’s no hospital room, no regular medical facility. There’s something unnerving about this place, something which sets him on edge.
He attempts to reign in the panic at this thought, choosing instead to screw his eyes shut and think hard. His name is Jason. Jason... T. Something with a T. Thompson? He shakes his head. No, that’s not right. But it’s definitely close. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood as he thinks circles around who the fuck he is.
Something is very wrong, he's just... not sure what.
His name is Jason. He knows that much.
He likes... the color red? He shakes his head, his temples pulsing in pain.
Jason presses his palms to his eyes, taking in a shuddering breath as he tries to recall what led him here. As he does, the arm he tore the IV from pulses, the spot of entry agitated. He glances down at the bandage, presses his lips together in a frown as he sees spots of blood seeping through. He rubs at his eyes again, trying to focus and coming up entirely short.
He strides across the room to peer into the glass of the cabinets, barely able to make out his facial features. He lifts an arm to block the glare of the overhead light, and only then does he notice the collection of faded scars covering his arms. Small and large, different shapes and sizes, seemingly inflicted a while ago. He frowns, turning his hands over as he examines the state of his body. He turns back to the glass, turning his head right and left, only able to distinguish a streak of white hair amongst a mop of black and two bright green eyes. Unnaturally green, almost. He jerks away from the cabinets, his breaths coming out short and frantic. His gut twists at the sight of that green, and he’s overtaken with the urge to vomit.
After a moment, it’s clear the urge is more of an impending reality, and he drops to his knees beside a small trash bin. He dry heaves into the bin for a few minutes, only able to produce a thin string of saliva and bile. It’s then that he realizes he’s absolutely famished, his stomach rumbling and tightening painfully. Tears prick at his eyes, frustration and anger beginning to override the panic.
He stumbles to his feet, shaky hands fumbling with the sink until it’s producing a cool stream of water. He pushes his face beneath the faucet, washing out his mouth with the water and using his hands to scrub at his face. He turns the water off, uses his shirt to dry his face, and steels himself. He needs to get out of here. And he needs to leave now. His skin itches uncomfortably, crawling with the urge to be rid of the sterile white walls around him.
He turns towards the door—it’s a large metal thing with no visible handles. He brushes his hands against the metal surface, searching for a hidden handle or button. He comes up short and only barely resists the urge to pound on the door, his hands pushing against the metal fruitlessly. He’s about to step back and body slam the door out of desperation and an ever-rising panic, but to his surprise, the door slides open easily, beeping pleasantly.
On the other side is… a child. A child? He pulls back, alarmed and confused at the sight of the—12? 11? A strange and pervasive rage boiled in his gut, panic still stringing through his thoughts as he attempted to discern the boys age, why he was here, who he even was. He had no reason to feel so enraged, so confused, so panicked, but the sensations pervaded his every sense.
"Todd!" The child's voice is sharp and commanding, loud enough that it causes Jason to flinch. Todd. Jason Todd. Yes, that was definitely right. "What are you doing? Where is the--oh." The child leans around him to spy the IV lying abandoned on the ground, and then levels Jason with a disapproving frown. “Father will not be pleased, Todd.”
Jason would never hit a child, but he certainly isn't against locking one in a strange and unfamiliar medical bay. Especially not right now, when his innards are twisting like the blocks of a Rubik’s cube, his mind muddled and whirring dizzyingly. He reaches out and grabs the boy's collar, shoving him into the room, ignoring the shout of surprise that cuts off as the door slides closed. While the inside had no handle, the outside certainly does—a handle, which he promptly slides into the locked position. The boy shouts about a Bruce and an Alfred and something about him being a dickhead? Jason isn't sure. His brain hurts. He spins around.
Behind him is… he's not sure what it is, exactly. It's a large room, the roof rocky and jagged as if it’s been built straight into a cave. There's a wall of monitors in the center of the room with a large chair and what appears to be a keyboard of sorts. He can see what seems to be a training room, with dumbbells and soft mats, and a large, winding staircase leading up to a wooden door. There's a T-Rex, too, but his brain hurts to much to begin to process the sight.
To his right is a long tunnel. The exit, most likely. A breeze ghosts through and brushes against Jason’s cheeks, cooling him ever so slightly. He feels the pull—that is his way out. He doesn’t know how, or why, but he knows it to be true. He begins to run.
The tunnel is dark, save for a few lights on the asphalt—it’s a road, he realizes as he runs. A road for… what? Some sort of vehicle, surely. His brain hurts, a sharp spike of pain causing him to stumble before he regains his pace. He's running for at least a mile before he comes upon large, bay doors. He isn't sure what type of facility he's found himself in, for it to be equipped with everything he's seen, but his skin itches. He doesn't know why, but he knows he needs to leave, as soon as possible. He's not comfortable here. He's not supposed to be here.
Jason jogs towards the only control panel on the wall, flipping it open and peering at the keypad. There's a space to enter a code, as well as a fingerprint scanner. He peers closely at the numbers, hoping to glean often used numbers by smudges and faded paint. Before he can make out much of anything, he's blinded by a light coming from a circular lens at the top of the control panel. His eyes are wide as they look up at the lens, his movements belated as he stumbles back. He rubs at his eyes, glaring at the panel. Fuck. What the—
"Personnel verification complete. Jason Todd. What is your command?"
A robotic voice floats from the ceiling. Jason whips his head upwards, looking open-mouthed for the speaker. He can't make anything out, but this machine has clearly spoken directly to him. It must have been a retina scan, the blinding light, and it... it recognized him. Jason swallows, wincing at the pain of it, at the pain of his mind trying to wrap around the implications of it knowing him.
"Uh... Open door?" Jason tries. Impossibly, the groan of metal and the sliding of gears met his request as the bay doors open up before him. Cool air wafts into the tunnel, dispersing the stale air he'd been breathing. It’s night time, the trees beyond the doors swaying in a gentle breeze. The sky is clear, stars peppering the navy darkness, and he can make out the distant glow of a city above the canopies. Jason takes a step forward but flinches when a voice wafts through the overhead speaker.
“Jason.” The voice is stern, commanding. It drives a spike of panic through his gut. “Jason, stop. We're coming to help you, stay where you are."
"The fuck?" Jason says aloud. His face contorts in a mixture of confusion and anger. He steps towards the open bay doors, places himself just outside of them, wanting freedom at his back rather than the dark tunnel and confusing cave room and sterile medical bay. “Why the hell would I do that?"
"You are injured and unwell, Jason. Please, remain where you are,” the voice insists. Jason lets out a panicked, jittery laugh at such a drastic understatement. He hears a distant rumble echo through the cave, squinting into the darkness before he registers it as a motorbike. It’s gaining on him fast, and he can just barely make out two passengers riding atop it. Anger and panic flare in tandem within him. That won't do.
"Yeah, I don't know who you are, but I'm getting the fuck out of here. Sayonara, freaks." Jason moves to leave, then pauses. The figures are drawing closer, but he peers up at the ceiling. "By the way, there's a kid locked in the medical room."
“Wha—no, Jason, don't--"
Jason doesn’t wait for the voice to lull him into complacency, instead breaking into a full sprint. He runs from the tunnel and down the dirt path leading out from it. He hears the sound of the motorcycles grow louder and ducks behind the trunk of a nearby tree, turning his head just in time to see two cyclists exit the tunnel. He’s far enough down the path that they don’t immediately see him, and he watches for a moment as their heads swivel and they shout his name. Jason scowls—he’s unsure who they are or why he’s woken up here, but something in his gut tells him without question that he is not supposed to be here.
He pushes through brambles and stumbles over fallen logs, his hands coming up to swat away twigs and branches. He hasn’t heard any cars, hasn’t seen a true road, and isn’t sure how long it would be until he happened upon a populated area. Whatever this place is, it's clearly meant to be isolated. He jumps over tree roots and streams, ducking between bushes and vaulting fallen trees. Distantly, he hears the motorcycles revving and taking off down the dirt road. He ducks into the brush until the sound of the engines fades, continuing to make his way through the vegetation.
He doesn’t slow, even with the fading sounds of motorcycle engines in the distance. He finds the road and keeps a steady pace, running alongside the white line. He's not sure what he does or who he is, but he's certain now that he stays fit doing it. He’s been running for a while now, careening through uneven turf and vaulting over fallen tree trunks, and he’s only slightly out of breath.
The further away he gets from the tunnel, though, the shallower his breaths and the quicker his thoughts begin to race. The darkness of the night is just as oppressive as the sterile walls and the cave tunnel, and every small sound causes him to startle, jerking his head whiplash-quick towards the source. His heart refuses to calm, even as he pauses beside a large oak, his forehead pressed into its bark. He breathes hard, his mind racing.
His emotions are television static inside of him, are the boiling of a kettle or the bubble of hot magma. He feels so angry, so full of rage. Surprising the birds in the canopy above him and even himself, Jason balls his hands into fists and thrusts them towards the tree trunk. He throws a series of punches, which he suspects could knock out a fully grown man if the crack of the bark is any indication, and lets out a low noise of aggravation when it doesn’t help ease his discontent.
He makes his way down the road once more, following the white strip on the asphalt and silently thanking the moon’s illumination. Had it not been a particularly bright night, he could be stumbling around in the dark—as it was, the moonlight guided his path down… wherever he was going. His mind whirrs as he walks, a series of snapshots passing through his mind at the speed of bullets. He pictures a raging fire, a clownish cackle, the sight of a countdown on a digital clock. He envisions the swing of a crowbar and hears the crunch of bone, his breathing quickening as his skin crawls and jumps at the sensation. He tries to calm, but when he closes his eyes all he can see is green—green water, green acid, green slicked-back hair. He feels his throat closing in panic as his lungs react to the images, even has to pause with his hands on his knees for a few moments before continuing onward at a quick clip.
Eventually, he breaks from the forest and is able to locate a bus stop, but it’s a far ways out from where he’s come. He isn’t sure how long it’s been since he broke from the cavern with the tunnel and the boy and the strangely familiar voice but, if the moon’s progress across the night sky was any indication, it’s likely been a few hours. He staggers towards the bus stop, checking his pockets and coming up with a few dollars cash. Though he spends the time anxiously checking over his shoulder, his eyes raking the dark woods distrustfully, it isn’t long before the bus rolls to a stop in front of him. He presents the three dollars to the driver like an offering and the driver, an older woman with a cap hanging low over her eyes, shoots him a bemused frown before pointing towards the cash acceptor. He obediently slides the bills into the acceptor and then stumbles to the first available seat.
Only then, as the bus pulls away from the stop and lurches forward, does he take stock of himself. He glances to the window at his left—the light inside of the bus wars with the dark outside to present a mirror image of Jason. His eyes are wide, panicked even, and his hair, a mop of dark black hair with a thin streak of white towards the front, is disheveled. His chest is rising and falling rapidly in an effort to breathe, to center, to calm. He’s wearing… black latex, it seems, with a brown jacket overtop the black t-shirt and pants.
He runs a hand through his hair and presses fingertips to his eyes, willing his breathing to calm and his heartbeat to quiet. He can feel the few eyes in the bus trained on him, whether out of concern for him or themselves he’s not sure. He’s running his hands across his arms and legs in an effort to convince himself that he’s real, that this is not a dream, when he becomes aware of the absurd number of pockets on his person. He checks them all, grunting at the chapstick in one and raising his brows at the thick wallet in another, while attempting to be discreet. He flips the wallet open and searches it with shaking fingers—he finds a card which reads ‘Iceberg Lounge’, another card featuring a cartoon penguin and the words ‘Club Penguin’, a Bludhaven Police Department card with the name ‘Dick Grayson’ above a phone number, and a keycard with “SH #4” scrawled on the back. He lingers for a moment on the BPD card before sifting further, through small bills, until he finds what he’s seeking—an Identification Card.
It shows his own picture, to his immense relief, and details who, exactly, he is. He’s Jason Todd, 6 foot 1, black hair, blue eyes. He’s an organ donor, he notes with a dry laugh. The address listed is unfamiliar to him, but when he glances up at the stops cycling through the digital screen at the front of the bus, he recognizes the names scrolling by. When he looks around, the other occupants of the bus have gotten off at various stops, and it’s only him and the driver. He moves towards the front, leaning forward in his seat even as the driver flicks disapproving eyes towards him.
“‘Scuse me, ma’am,” Jason starts, but it takes him a few tries through the gravel in his throat. “Where does this bus stop?”
“Hampton and Argent,” the driver replies simply. Jason waits a moment, expecting a bit more, and glances out the front window.
“I’m… not sure where I’m going.”
“You and the rest of the world, kid,” the woman snorts.
Jason is silent for a few moments, allows a few stops to pass by, before a name drifts through his mind, so quick he nearly misses it. “Iris?”
The driver grunts in confusion, clearly deeming Jason’s company not worth much more.
Jason repeats himself, more confidently. “Iris—is that a stop?”
“Cole and Iris,” the driver confirms with a nod. “It’s a far ways off, but it’s on this route. Settle in, it’ll be a while.”
And so Jason does. He moves back towards his seat, leaning back into the plastic covering and watching the city go by as his leg bounces in a consistent motion. They’ve strayed from the dark, quiet forests he’d found himself in before and are entering busy boroughs alight with neon signs and bright streets. The bus crawls through the city for another forty-five minutes before the driver puts her hand up to him in a signal—he’s still the only person on the bus, the only other passengers having come and gone. He glances towards the clock on the bus dashboard—3.27 AM. He pulls the rubber string to his left and the bus announces the stop’s request. The driver veers towards it, nodding once at him as he lifts a hand and leaves.
When he steps off the bus, he’s hit with the smell of gasoline and sewer smoke protruding from a nearby, askew manhole. He grimaces and hurries along the sidewalk, not quite sure where he’s going—the feeling in his gut, however, guides him along more confidently than perhaps he should be. He makes his way through alleys and empty blocks, wandering around the quieter stretch of city he’s found himself in until he comes upon a tall apartment building. He enters, nodding towards the doorman who lifts a hand and calls “good evening, sir” before allowing him access to the higher floors.
Jason steps into the elevator, his heart thundering in his chest as he slips the keycard out of the wallet. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but the voice from earlier comes back to him—‘you’re not well’ and ‘you’re injured’ being the primary echoes. Adrenaline is still flowing through him, a result of not recognizing his surroundings despite this bizarre assurance that he’s going the right direction, but he’s growing exhausted. He can feel the soreness between his shoulders, the tension he’s holding in his back, the discomfort in his ankles and calves. As the elevator ascends towards what appears, unbelievably, to be the top floor, Jason paces. He circles the perimeter of the elevator, electricity rushing through his veins. Despite the clear exhaustion of his body, he can’t fathom the thought of sitting down, of standing still, of settling in wherever he’s going.
The elevator’s ding is jarring in the relative silence of the confined space and the dizzy noise of Jason’s brain. He jerks his head up as the doors open, and he steps out uncertainly. There are only two doors on this floor and somehow, disturbingly, Jason knows exactly which one to head towards. He steps up to the door on his right and presses the keycard to the industrial-looking lock on the door, releasing a breath as it emits a green light and beeps. He pushes into the apartment and closes the door swiftly behind him, pressing his back to it and only just catching himself from sliding down towards the floor.
From his position against the door, Jason’s eyes trail over the apartment—the penthouse, really. It’s luxurious and expansive, with dark hardwood flooring, pine-green walls, and warm lighting scattered around. It looks lived-in, with the lights on and a blanket haphazardly thrown across the back of a black couch in the living room. He remains still for a moment, realizing with a jolt that he might not, in fact, be the only occupant of this apartment.
Silence reigns for a few long moments before he creeps further, his eyes darting back and forth at every new door and entryway. On the left is a kitchen with beige tiled flooring and a well-stocked tea set, with an array of chamomile tea, ginger tea, and a variety of spiced licorice tea. On the right is the living room with the black couch and the soft blanket and a bookshelf simply teeming with Jane Austen, Shakespeare, and Dostoevsky. Directly in front of him is a dark green door, closed to the rest of the apartment.
Jason holds his breath as he nudges the door open, noting with relief a lack of creaking as would certainly happen if he were in a low-grade horror film. He peeks into the room tentatively before releasing a tense exhale when he sees the bed empty, the bathroom door open and unoccupied, and the remainder of the room entirely vacant of another. He steps inside and flicks the light-switch by the door, wincing as it comes on. His head is pounding, has been steadily worsening since he got off the bus earlier, and now it has climbed to an insufferable, thrumming pain. He cracks his neck, wincing when a sharp pain lances through a spot around the base of his neck, and grumbles in agitation. He pushes into the bathroom, his boots heavy on the tile, and rifles through the cabinets and drawers until he finds a bottle of painkillers, dumping three of them into his hand and taking them dry.
Jason does a lap around the apartment, ensuring every single window and the front door is locked and secure, before returning to the bathroom and stripping, dropping his heavy clothes onto the tile. It takes a laughable amount of time to extract himself from his clothing—beneath his jacket he is strapped with holsters and a belt containing knives, tasers, and, alarmingly, a gun. He places the gun warily on the counter, and movement in the mirror causes his eyes to dart up and meet his reflection’s gaze. Jason freezes, swallowing hard.
Seeing his reflection through the fog of a scuffed-up bus window was confusing and strange; seeing his reflection two feet away from a clean mirror is jarring and striking. His eyes are wide and green, the color of jade held to sunlight, and his hair is jet-black, the slim white streak mussed with the rest of his hair. All he’s wearing now is the black spandex shirt and the black cargo pants, with their infinite pockets, and his heart pounds in his ribcage as his eyes trail across the array of scars not only covering his face and neck but also his forearms and biceps. Thin, pale streaks of skin betray a history Jason can’t remember, doesn’t understand—he’s so confused, his mind races, his head pounds against his skull punishingly.
He stumbles back from the mirror, colliding with the bathroom wall and careening to the left in a haze of panic. He reaches for the shower knob and turns it jerkily, his arms and hands and sensibility shaken. The water rains down in a lukewarm rainstorm and he doesn’t wait, doesn’t remove the rest of his clothing before pushing himself up on trembling limbs and into the tub. He can barely stand, tries once and nearly tips right into the side of the shower, so he settles for sitting, for wrapping his arms around knees pulled up to his chest and pressing his face into them.
He’s shaking, he can’t breathe, he can’t understand. The scars were faded enough that they certainly hadn’t been put there recently, but he can’t fathom who he is, what he is, to have earned such an array of violence etched across his skin. His chest hurts, his lungs straining with the effort of such erratic breathing, but he can’t stop, can’t reason, can’t process any of this. His breathing hitches and he feels warmth trailing down his cheeks, and he realizes he’s crying.
The sound of boots on hardwood halts his panicked, downward spiral in its tracks. His head jerks towards the open bathroom door and he presses his body, now soaked through, against the wall of the shower. He looks around quickly for anything to protect himself and curses his own foolishness for leaving the holstered weapons so far out of reach. Before he can make the decision to bolt forward for the gun, a person steps into view.
The man is dressed in a full black latex unitard with a blue bird stretching across the chest, a mask concealing his eyes. His brows are drawn upward in concern and, the moment he sees Jason pressed and shaking against the tile of the shower wall, he releases a commiserating breath and says, “Oh, Jay.”
Jason swallows hard, panic clouding all reason as he barks, “Get the fuck out.”
The man stays where he is, clearly sizing Jason and his situation up—his eyes travel from Jason’s form to the discarded equipment on the bathroom floor to Jason’s face. Whatever he sees there has him adopting an expression of extreme sympathy, and instead of proceeding forward the man lowers himself to the floor, just outside of the bathroom threshold.
“Hi, Jason,” the man says warmly, holding his hands up, palms-out. “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe. But you’re confused, right?”
Jason says nothing, his heavy breathing and the din of the shower the only sound between them for a few long moments.
The man nods. “Yeah, I would be, too. But it’s alright—I promise you, I’m here to help.”
“Help me,” Jason repeats, the words coming out dry and cracked.
“Yes,” the man’s smile remains on his face, soft and understanding. “I’m here to help you. Can I come in?”
Jason retorts, before he can think, “Who am I? Who—“ his voice falters, his mind whirring back into a panic, “who are you? What is—“ he feels warm water falling against his cheeks again, his frustration translating into furious tears, “what’s happening?”
“Oh, Jay,” the man says again. “You’re Jason Todd. Ward of Bruce Wayne, and—“ a minute hesitation, a decisive choice, “and my brother.”
Jason’s eyes go wide. His head feels as if it’s being run through by a long, sharp spike, his throat is tight, and the panic roiling through his chest won’t cease. But something about that settles something in him, and he opens and closes his mouth, unsure of what to say.
“Can I come in, Jason?” the man asks again. He still looks sympathetic, looks as if he wants to push off the ground and come towards Jason, but he remains where he is. “I just want to make sure you’re alright.”
Jason’s mind is going thousands of miles a minute. His first instinct is to trust this man, but he’s also, unquestionably, agitated by his presence. His chest is tight with distrust and though half of him is extremely averse to it, he nods.
The man is quick to move on the granted permission, proceeding forward with his hands out until he is kneeling beside the tub. He reaches with slow, deliberate movements and turns the shower off. He smiles at Jason then, his brows upturned. “That’s better, huh?”
Jason’s brows furrow, the distrust still heavy in the put of his stomach. His voice shakes, though from fear or anger he isn’t sure, when he next speaks. “Who are you?”
“I’m—“ he falters for a moment, as if considering. “I’m Nightwing, but my name is Dick.”
“Dick,” Jason repeats, nonplussed.
Dick rolls his eyes. “You and Steph—our sister—have already made every dick joke known to man, so I’d recommend not even trying.”
Sister? Jason’s head spins, and he presses his palms against his eyes, momentarily trying to block out the fluorescent bathroom light and the persistent pounding in his skull. His muscles are sore, tired, and the thought of standing is near-debilitating.
“Jason.”
The serious tone in Dick’s voice prompts Jason to look up, but he winces as he does so. Dick reaches for him but aborts the motion when Jason jerks back, eyes wide.
“Jason, what happened to you is… complicated,” Dick frowns as he attempts to explain. “It may be more confusing for me to explain it all to you, but what you should know is you’ve been… well. There are toxins in your system, and you were in a fight—your arm is sore, yeah?”
Jason nods slowly. His arm does hurt, and his right side is painfully sore.
“Right,” Dick smiles encouragingly. “What you were given has messed with your memory. Can you remember anything?”
A spike of cold alarm shoots through him at the mention of memory issues. Dick would only know about his foggy memory if he were either there with him when it happened or… if he were the perpetrator himself. A sudden sense of distrustful panic overtakes him like a tidal wave as he remembers the cave, the confusion, sprinting through the dark forest in an effort to escape. He begins to shake his head, forcing himself into a standing position. His muscles ache like they hadn’t before—sitting down has tricked them into a state of relaxation that he struggles to shake off as he gets to his feet.
Dick’s eyes remain on him and, though his expression hasn’t changed much, Jason can feel the masked man scrutinizing him. For a moment they just watch each other warily, with only the edge of the bathtub between them. After what feels like an hour, Jason steps over the tub so he’s standing beside Dick on the tile. Dick smiles, but Jason notes the tension in his muscles, as if he’s poised to move at any moment. Jason takes a step away from Dick, towards the bathroom door and to where his equipment is lying on the floor.
Suddenly Dick’s fingers, three black and two blue, wrap around his wrist, holding him still. Jason freezes, flicking a glower at Dick before grinding out, “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Dick releases his wrist as asked, but moves quicker than Jason anticipates and scoops up his holsters and belt, swiping his gun from the counter. Jason makes a noise of objection, darting forward to grab them and making a sharp noise of agitation as Dick jumps back through the doorway and into the bedroom. Jason follows him, a scowl on his face as Dick flits through the bedroom and back out to the living room.
“Give me my fucking shit!” Jason snaps, too dizzy at such sudden, quick movement to string together anything more eloquent than a cursed demand. He wobbles to one side and only just rights himself before careening with the coffee table as Dick circles the living room, a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Sorry, Jay, can’t do that!” Dick intones, strapping his belt and holsters to himself and tucking the gun into one of the empty slots. He does a turn around the kitchen before Jason is forced to stop, one hand on the counter to keep him upright as he gasps for breath. His body is worse for wear than he realized, his lungs heaving with the exertion as his muscles burn.
“I’m gonna…” Jason drags in a breath, “fucking kill you... you dickhead.”
It’s immensely confusing when Dick’s brows turn upward and his lips pout in an ‘oh, how adorable’ expression. He backs up towards the center of the living room and hums wistfully. “Memory or not, you’re still the same, Jay.”
Jason drags in breath after breath against the kitchen counter. His arm is aching, his lungs are doing their best, and the pain in his head has grown from a painful throb to a debilitating agitation. It feels as if some force is tearing his brain node from node inside of his skull, and for a moment, he loses time completely.
When he opens his eyes again, he’s sitting propped against the counter, blinking blearily up at Dick. Dick’s expression has lost all of its playfulness—his brows are drawn low over striking blue eyes, his mouth screwed into a frown. His hands are holding Jason’s head up, one of them cupping his cheek to guide his face up and the other feeling his forehead, massaging his temple, checking his pulse. His eyes meet Jason’s and he gives a hesitant smile.
“Hey, little wing,” Dick keeps one hand on Jason’s cheek, the other carding through his hair, pressing on different spots. Checking for injury, Jason realizes distantly. “You okay?”
Jason blinks rapidly, trying to clear himself of the dizzy haze. Though he isn’t completely sure who this man is, isn’t completely sure he can trust him, he murmurs, “M’head.”
Dick is quick to act on the olive branch. “Your head hurts? Where does it hurt?”
“Inside,” Jason manages, squinting at the now too-bright kitchen lights. Dick frowns, murmuring to him to hold still as he opens Jason’s left and then right eyes and examining them under the light. Jason feels as if he’s swimming through consciousness, barely able to hang onto the concerned words Dick’s speaking.
“Jason,” Dick is saying seriously, “stay with me, now. You’ll be alright, we just—we gotta get you back to the cave. Tim’s downstairs, I’ll—“ He turns, one hand still propping Jason’s head up while the other fishes a cell phone from a discreet pocket, “let me call him.”
Jason’s eyes flutter closed as Dick presses the phone to his ear. In the relative silence, Jason can hear the phone ringing dully until a voice on the other end answers with a tense, “You alright, Dick?”
“Yeah, Tim, I’m good—but we need to get him back to the cave, he’s...”
Jason stops listening, unable to focus on the words being spoken through the painful din in his mind. His temples pulse, the space behind his eyes hot and painful. It’s as if a series of small bombs have been lodged inside of his skull, going off continuously behind the rest of his senses. It makes him nauseous, makes his stomach turn with the debilitating discomfort of it all. He must make some sort of pitiful noise, because Dick’s tone becomes syrupy and sympathetic, and suddenly there’s a warmth beside him, a hand guiding his head onto a shoulder. Were he more in control of his faculties, Jason may have been mortified to feel warm tears trailing down his face, to hear the murmured words of comfort from this random asshole who broke into his apartment and stole his shit. He’s so confused, still, after so many hours, and he feels wrung out and beat down. He’s not sure if he’s ever felt pain like this, though something tells him he has, and despite it all, he wonders if he’s going to die.
“No,” Dick’s voice is firm when he speaks, cutting briefly through the haze, “you’re not. Jason, I promise you, you are not going to die.”
Dick’s thumbs brush a few of the tears away, and Jason is able only to make a small, distressed sound before darkness cuts him off from the overwhelming, dizzying pain.
The first sensation that pulls Jason towards wakefulness is the slow rubbing of circles into his left hand. He knits his brows as pressure circles his palm, slowing and pressing down on the heel of his palm and between the fingers. Whoever it is must feel him tense on instinct, because they pause for a few seconds before gently resuming. Jason keeps his eyes closed for a few moments, sorting through a plethora of muddled thoughts.
He thinks back, remembers going out for patrol, remembers the quiet evening which eventually brought him to the north edge of Crime Alley. Dick had found him at some point, sitting with his legs over the side of one of the taller buildings in the area and sipping on a bottle of root beer he’d picked up at one of the nearby corner stores. He remembered the employee’s utter shock, his mouth curving upwards at the mental image of the young man’s wide-eyed, slack jawed stare.
“Something funny?” A muted voice slid between the recollection and the present, and Jason’s eyes blinked open. He turned his face to the left, his eyes meeting the dark, watchful gaze of Cassandra Cain.
“Cass,” Jason croaks, his throat surprisingly dry. He swallows in an effort to ease the discomfort, but even that causes him to cough briefly. The coughs send pulses of discomfort down his side and when he opens his eyes again, Cass is there, holding a glass of water with a metal straw up to his lips.
Jason grimaces, about to decline due to the sheer embarrassment of being fed anything, even water, but Cass levels him with a knowing stare. “Drink.”
So Jason drinks. He drinks the glass nearly empty before Cassandra pulls it back and places it on the metal table beside his cot.
“The hell happened?” Jason manages to ask, glancing around at the cave’s medical bay as if a clue could be lying on a counter or taped to the wall.
“Arkham.” Cassandra offers, and when Jason glances back at her she’s grimacing. “Scarecrow, toxin… a new strain.”
He winces as memories flood in as if escaping through a crack in a dam. He recalls an Arkham breakout, recalls Batman urging all available bats to assist and being roped in by Nightwing. He remembers, vaguely, coming upon Scarecrow in a depository at the wharf, being fooled by a decoy and feeling the sharp pain of a syringe in his neck. His hand comes up to massage the muscle there, his face screwing up at the immediate pulse of pain.
“That bastard got me,” Jason huffs, annoyed.
Cass smiles, standing up and patting Jason’s head affectionately.
“Silly,” she says fondly, then turns and leaves the room.
The metal door of the med bay slides closed behind her and Jason relaxes back onto the cot, sliding down from his sitting position to lay flat and stare at the ceiling. He’s growing clearer by every passing moment—images flash through his mind as if playing out a movie. Jason stumbling around the docks, panicked and jumping at everything that moved. Jason tripping over something in his wired state, his arm taking the brunt of the fall as he crashed onto the hard wood of the dock. Jason being hauled to his feet by Spoiler, her voice ringing in his ears as she called their location to the other bats.
They must have brought him back to the cave, Jason thinks. He remembers waking up, remembers not remembering, and suddenly he’s leaning over the side of the cot, dry heaving.
At that very moment, the med bay doors slide open, and Dick’s voice rings out.
“Jason!”
He feels more than sees Dick crouch beside him, placing a hand on his back and rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. His eyes have welled up with the sensation of heaving, and nothing but a thin string of saliva and tears drop onto the cement below them. Jason coughs, dragging in a shaking breath, before he’s righted by Dick’s hands on his upper arms.
He looks up at him blearily, frowning as Dick reaches out to wipe away the wetness on his cheeks with a look that tells Jason that he is deep in his feelings.
Before he’s able to expound upon that, Jason points a shaky finger at Dick and croaks, “You stole my shit.”
Dick laughs, and if it’s a bit wet neither of them remark on it. “You would have shot me! Or tried to. You were shaking like a baby deer.”
“Say that again,” Jason challenges, but his voice holds no real threat.
“You alright now, little wing?” Dick says after a moment. He lifts a hand and pushes it into Jason’s hair, hesitating momentarily to allow Jason to shove him off and continuing with a pleased smile when he doesn’t.
“Yeah,” Jason answers. “Did you book the freak?”
Dick nods. “Yeah, Tim and Damian found him as he was running from where he got you. You gave him a concussion, he’s been in medical in Arkham since that night.”
The words drag a memory up from the depths of his mind, of Jason being ambushed from behind and then shoving at Crane hard enough to send the man into a nearby pillar. He does remember hearing the crack of his head colliding with the concrete, now that Dick mentions it.
Jason averts his eyes, scowling down at his hands. “And now you’re here to lecture me. I’d like to unsubscribe from the Ted Talk, cross my name off the mailing list, take me off the—“
“Jason,” Dick’s voice is serious enough that Jason cuts off and looks up at him. Dick is smiling reassuringly, the hand in his hair dropping down to sit gently on Jason’s shoulder. “I'll never tell you to apologize for defending yourself. I’m glad you did.”
Jason stares at Dick for a moment, unsure of what to say, but settles for a weak, “Oh. Well… good.”
“He injected you with a new strain—it’s…” Dick shakes his head, his expression stormy, “it induces panic so quickly that the brain is sent into recovery mode, which caused you to experience slight amnesia. We weren’t sure how the strain would affect you until Bruce got it out of Crane, and by the time we realized—”
“I was gone,” Jason finishes for him, and Dick gives a sheepish smile.
“You woke up right as I went upstairs to get Damian, who was going to watch over you. We think the remaining panic combined with the memory loss were just too much.”
“How did you find me, later?” Jason quirks a brow.
“Oh,” Dick laughs, shaking his head, “because Oracle managed to gain access to footage from different businesses in Crime Alley, since they’re all armed to the teeth with video cameras due to the high theft and all, and around four in the morning she spotted you stumbling into your safe house on Iris. I just showed up, jimmied the lock, and found you in the tub.”
“‘Jimmied the lock’,” Jason echoes sardonically. “You can’t jimmy my locks. My locks are fool proof.”
“Well, to be accurate, I didn’t,” Dick shrugs. “Tim did.”
Jason’s brows drops low over his eyes, frowning. “I don’t remember Tim being there.”
“He came up and helped with the lock, but we figured too many unfamiliar faces at once might send you back into panic-mode, so he went back downstairs to wait us out.”
Jason hums, thinking on the night’s events. Recalling oneself in a state of amnesia-induced panic is an experience Jason is not eager to revisit. His stomach twists as ghostly echoes of panic threaten to disturb his relative stability and he closes his eyes, cycling through a series of deep inhales and exhales.
“They were worried about you,” Dick mumbles. He lifts the now-empty glass of water from the side table and refills it in the sink before returning it.
Jason watches his movements, frowning. “Who?”
“Tim,” Dick sits gingerly on the edge of the cot, taking care not to crowd Jason. “Cass, Steph. Bruce.”
Jason looks down at his hands.
“Bruce wants you to stay for dinner,” Dick offers, his tone deceptively light. Jason huffs and directs his gaze to the far side of the room. “You can sleep here, too, if you want.”
The ‘if you’re willing’ goes unsaid.
“Sure he does,” Jason retorts. Dick sighs.
“He does, little wing.”
“Where is he, then?” Jason gestures around the medical bay. “If he’s so concerned, where was he this whole time?”
Dick’s expression is clouded with frustration for a few long moments of silence, but when he glances up his eyes are imploring. “Jay, he stayed down here all night. We kept telling him to leave, but he wanted to make sure you were alright. The only reason he isn’t still here right now is because we forced him to go take a nap.”
Jason searches Dick's face for the hesitation, for the lie, but his brother's face is earnest and clear.
Dick gestures to the door of the med bay. “He didn’t even leave the cave. He’s out there right now, snoring in that damn chair.”
To both of their surprise, Jason laughs. The image of Bruce, slumped in that massive chair by the screens and the keyboards, in perfect view of the medical bay. Close enough, Jason realizes with a start, to initiate a lockdown in case what happened the other night happens again, in case Jason wakes up in a delirious panic. Jason closes his eyes for a moment, focusing on breathing.
“Will you stay?” Dick prompts, after a few minutes of silence.
Jason meets Dick’s gaze and ponders what to do for a few long, quiet moments before he heaves a sigh. “Oh my—fine, I’ll stay. Put the damn puppy dog eyes away.”
When Jason turns his head, Dick is staring at him with a smile so gentle and approving that Jason nearly smacks him. He stands from the cot, bringing a hand up to muss Jason’s hair gently.
“Jason,” Dick says, and his voice has such a tentative note to it that Jason looks up in surprise. “I…”
Jason quirks a brow.
“You’re safe here,” Dick says meaningfully, “you know that, right?”
“Sure,” Jason shrugs a shoulder. Dick stares at him, unsatisfied.
“Whenever you need me—us. We’ll come. Every time.” Dick leans down so they’re eye-to-eye, and Jason is momentarily speechless. “Okay, little wing?”
Jason’s throat is suddenly thick with emotion, and he curses Dick for surprise-attacking him when he’s so exhausted and wrung-out.
“Yeah,” Jason croaks, “okay.”
Dick smiles warmly, all sunshine, and leaves Jason in the med bay to go inform Alfred that Jason is ready for medical attention and to set an additional seat at the dinner table. Jason lays back down, tipping his head back and closing his eyes against the sudden sting of emotion. He thinks of Tim jimmying his lock; Dick kneeling beside the tub; Barbara pouring over video footage until finding him, lost and stumbling through the dark. He thinks of Bruce, head tilted to the side and snoring as he waits for Jason to wake up, no matter what state he may be in.
In the brief moments he’s alone in the med bay between Dick's departure and Alfred's arrival, through the sudden and overwhelming gratitude for this family he's found warming his chest, Jason breathes.